The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  Jahl followed, his heart racing. Roice was never late for anything. Behind the brick wall of buildings, another man waited in the shadows, someone Jahl didn’t recognize. The stranger was supposed to take Jahl’s horse to the Tollhouse, leaving it to wait at the ready. Like Roice, he said nothing to Jahl or to Ricken as they approached. He merely waited for Jahl to stop his gelding, dismount, and take his bow and quiver from the side of the horse. Then the stranger mounted the horse himself and rode back out onto the street.

  Still atop the cart, Roice was utterly silent. He didn’t say a word as Jahl Rob, burdened by his weapons, climbed into the back of his shabby vehicle and pulled the dingy cover over himself.

  At a few minutes before noon, two soldiers from Talistan entered Del’s cell with a pair of iron manacles. They were alone, because Dinsmore was already down on the dais. The soldiers were rough with their prisoner, cuffing his wrists behind his back and pushing him toward the door. Del didn’t resist. In the last half hour of his confinement, he had come to an almost peaceful acceptance of his fate. He walked out of his cage in a fog, letting the soldiers guide him through the dingy corridors of the tower and down a flight of twisting stairs. As he walked, he tallied the steps, counting over a hundred by the time he reached the bottom. His mind seemed to seize on little things, grabbing at them for support. Yet for all the fear screaming somewhere in the recesses of his mind, his body obeyed him without the slightest hesitation, and when he was taken out into the sunlight, Del smiled.

  He heard a wave of murmurs break as if from a distance. The gathering outside the prison had swelled in number, and now they were pointing at him and talking loudly, their faces white. The dais Del had seen from his window appeared larger, and the cutaway of the oak tree was as wide around as a barrel and as high as a man’s knee. In the center of the wooden block rested a gigantic axe, its blade buried in the oaken flesh, and beside the block stood the owner of the axe, a muscular man in black trousers and formfitting shirt, whose enormous chest swelled beneath the fabric of his tight clothing. The axeman wore no hood, but instead left his bald head exposed for all to see, and when he noticed Del there was none of the expected glee in his eyes, only a resolute sense of duty.

  But the executioner wasn’t alone on the dais. With him was Dinsmore, sweating in the sun. The viscount beckoned Del closer with a finger, taunting him. Now was the moment Dinsmore had been anticipating and Del had no intention of making the experience pleasant for him. He would go to his death without a cry or a whimper.

  The soldiers guided Del up a small flight of wooden steps, pulling him onto the dais. Del looked over the crowd. He could see soldiers moving among the Aramoorians, their green and gold uniforms recognizable. There were familiar faces in the gathering, people Del had known for many years, but in his daze he couldn’t place their names. Men on horses had stopped to gape and there was a cart nearby, just to the right of the dais. Del knew the driver of the cart, and for a moment stared at him. His heart was racing and he thought he would faint; the smell of the giant axeman was in his nostrils with the stench of death. Del looked away from the cart at once.

  Roice!

  Then he heard Dinsmore talking.

  “… for his crimes against the rightful government of Aramoor province. For the treasonous speeches he has given, for the slander of our good rulers Elrad Leth and Tassis Gayle, and for his constant refusal to act for the good of Aramoor, Del Lotts will be beheaded.”

  Del’s eyes scanned the crowd. Where was Jahl? Was he here? His darting vision picked up more familiar faces. He saw Ricken standing by a horse near the cart, his face obscured by a hood that covered everything except his remarkably hooked nose. For the first time that morning, Del felt a surge of hope.

  Dinsmore stepped up, asking if he had anything to say. Earlier in his cell, Del had thought up a stirring final statement, but now he couldn’t recall a word of it. The viscount grinned.

  “Very well,” he said. “Now you die.”

  The axeman took his blade out of the block. Ricken slid his arm beneath his saddle blanket. The soldiers pushed Del toward the block, forcing his neck downward. Roice’s face began to twitch. And something in his cart began to move beneath the tarpaulin.

  “… and for his constant refusal to act for the good of Aramoor, Del Lotts will be beheaded.”

  Jahl heard Dinsmore’s speech from beneath the heavy canvas. He fixed an arrow to his bow and kept another in his teeth. Peeking out from beneath the fabric, he watched the viscount ask Del for a final statement. Del shook his head, and the executioner retrieved his axe.

  The world was soundless and in perfect focus. Everything just fell away, time slowing like treacle. Taylour and Parry were in position at the sides of the dais. Roice and his men were armed in the crowd. Ricken already had his bow out.

  Jahl pulled the tarpaulin off his back and knelt in the cart, pulling back his arrow and drawing a bead on Dinsmore. Ricken had his own bolt ready to fly, and the ring of swords being drawn stirred the air. Someone shouted in the crowd. The axeman lifted his blade.

  Then Dinsmore noticed Jahl. The viscount gave a scream, pointing at the cart and its assassin. The soldiers on the dais lost their grip on Del. The moment had come.

  “I am your instrument, Lord,” growled Jahl through gritted teeth. “Command me in all things!”

  Jahl let his arrow fly. It pierced Dinsmore’s throat. A bloom of crimson splashed from his neck as the arrow passed through him coming out the other side. Dinsmore screamed, falling to his knees and clutching his neck to stem the tide. The axeman followed him down as Ricken’s bow twanged, burying its arrow in the big man’s chest. He fell with a bellow, dropping his axe and collapsing next to Dinsmore. The soldiers on the dais panicked, looking around in horror and hurriedly drawing their blades. But Taylour and Parry were already on them, their own swords out. Del scrambled backward from the block. Everywhere throughout the crowd men drew hidden weapons and turned against the Talistanian soldiers.

  The commotion was perfect. Jahl took the second arrow from his teeth and nocked it to his bowstring. A green and gold horseman thundered toward him shouting as he brandished his sword and swooped toward the cart. Jahl closed an eye and drew back the string. The horseman cried out in rage. Jahl said a prayer and prepared to fire.

  “Though I dwell in a house of demons I drink from the cup of heaven.”

  He let the arrow go. The bolt bit into the horseman’s chest, knocking him from his galloping charger. Jahl jumped from the cart and slung his bow around his shoulders. His horse was there, saddle empty and waiting for him and the man who had taken it was on top of a nearby soldier, slicing his throat with a dagger. Jahl pulled himself onto his mount and surveyed the bedlam rising up around him. Taylour had gotten Del off the dais and was pushing him onto his horse. Still manacled, Del teetered in the saddle as he tried to right himself. Roice and his men had their weapons out and were swarming through the crowd like angry wasps, falling on the men of Talistan. Hastily Jahl rode his horse up to the dais. The two soldiers were dead. The axeman lay suffocating and gasping for air. Remarkably, Dinsmore was alive, still clutching his throat. He lay on his back at the edge of the dais, his fat face twisting when he noticed Jahl. He tried to speak, but only a gargling issued forth.

  “For Aramoor,” said Jahl, holding up his sword. He brought his horse to the very end of the dais where Dinsmore lay. Jahl lowered his blade and put its tip against Dinsmore’s chest. “Now, you die,” he said, and slowly pushed against the sword. Dinsmore shuddered, cursing and contorting as the sword pierced him. His eyes flashed and blood spewed from his lips.

  “Damn you!” he gurgled. Then his eyes dimmed, his breath slackened, and he died.

  Jahl Rob stared at the corpse. Around him, men were calling his name, urging him to flee. The crowd had scattered and only soldiers and loyal Saints were clustered around the dais, battling desperately before the Talistanian reinforcements could arrive. Taylour had Del on the back of
his horse. Roice and Ricken were shouting. Jahl Rob drew the sword from Dinsmore’s body. The viscount’s blood slicked the blade. Jahl said a silent prayer, begging forgiveness for the deed.

  With the men of Talistan decimated and a whole new group of Saints to join his army, Jahl Rob rode away from the dais, then broke into a mad gallop for the Iron Mountains.

  The Talistanians had not followed.

  It was another quiet night in the mountains and the lookouts on the surrounding cliffs reported no pursuit. After hours of patient filing, Del’s chain had been severed, but he still wore the metal bracelets around his wrists, and would until they could work the locks free. But Del was happy. He had been reunited with his brother and they were both safe now. The caverns rang with laughter and cheer, and fires had been lit to roast the birds Fin had caught while hunting. The Saints had scored an exceptional victory, publicly dispatching one of their worst enemies. Tonight, none of them brooded.

  Except for their leader.

  Jahl Rob sat on the edge of a cliff, far from the caverns he and his Saints called home. The moon was high and reflected off the icy mountaintops, making them twinkle like stars. It was a cold night, and his breath drifted off in front of him like the fog shrouding the peaks. Somewhere in the distance he heard the merry voices of his friends, laughing as they told of Dinsmore’s death. The viscount had died with the most ridiculous expression on his face. Some of the men thought it hilarious, but not Jahl. He would remember that fat face forever, cursing him even as he slipped into hell. Jahl didn’t regret having murdered Dinsmore. The viscount was a devil and a dog of Elrad Leth. He deserved his gruesome death. But killing was never easy for the priest. Life was supposed to be precious, and it seemed fitting to Jahl that he should mourn its loss.

  He picked up a handful of stones and started tossing them over the edge one by one. They disappeared into the darkness below him, then echoed when they finally hit bottom. Jahl smiled. It was like throwing stones into a well, only better. He liked the mournful echoes.

  Everything here was better. It was safer and more serene, and he was close to God, so close it seemed he only needed to reach up his hand to touch the Master’s face. Jahl emptied his palm of stones and leaned back on his elbow comfortably, glad to be alone.

  But soon a shadow approached over his shoulder. Turning, he saw Del standing alone. He smiled warmly at Jahl.

  “Am I bothering you? I can leave if I am.”

  “No,” replied Jahl. He sat up and waved his friend closer. “Come ahead.”

  Del walked to the edge where Jahl was resting and looked out over the vista. He let out a low whistle.

  “It’s beautiful up here,” he said. “So calm and peaceful. I think I could get used to it.” He glanced down at Jahl. “I want to thank you for what you did for me. It was very brave. I owe you.”

  “You owe me nothing. You’ve already given us too much to repay. And now you’re an outlaw like the rest of us, so don’t be so quick to thank me.”

  “I was an outlaw before today,” replied Del. He dropped down beside Jahl, sitting cross-legged like his brother. “I will not forget this day. Ever.”

  Jahl merely shrugged. “As you wish.”

  Del eyed him suspiciously. “You’re very pensive tonight. Why?”

  The question made Jahl uncomfortable. He didn’t want to discuss Dinsmore’s murder, and just now he wanted to be alone. But he knew Del well enough to know he wouldn’t leave until he had his answer. Del was stubborn like the rest of his family. Their bullheadedness had given them the resolve to help the Saints. Jahl rolled onto his back and stared up at the carpet of stars and told Del what was really bothering him.

  “It will be worse now,” he said. “When Leth returns, Aramoor will suffer for what we’ve done.” His eyes flicked toward Del. “Your parents, too.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? They may be arrested. Maybe even executed. And we will not be able to save them.”

  “Leth won’t harm my parents. He still needs my father’s goodwill. Don’t forget, my father still has influence with the people. Leth can’t kill him, not without risking more of an outcry.”

  “Then he will imprison him,” countered Jahl. “Your mother also.”

  “House arrest.” Del shrugged. “They expect it, I think.”

  Jahl smiled weakly. “They are very brave. I admire them. You too, Del. You’ve all been a great help to us. But I’m telling you the truth. It will be worse. Not just for Aramoor, but for us as well. What we did today …” Jahl sighed. “Leth might even come into the mountains after us.”

  For a moment Del considered the possibility, then dismissed it, saying, “I don’t think so. His men fear the lions too much. And he won’t risk offending the Triin. He thinks if they discover Talistanian soldiers in the mountains, they will attack him. He thinks they still follow Richius Vantran.”

  Vantran. The name hung between them like a curse. Del had known the Jackal for many years. They had been close friends, and their families had been allies. But that was before Vantran had betrayed them, and before the death of Del’s brother, Dinadin. Now Del shared Jahl Rob’s animosity for their vanished king. To speak his name was almost heresy.

  “Let Leth be a fool, then,” said Jahl. “And let’s pray that he still believes there are Triin here. Otherwise …”

  “If they come we will fight them,” declared Del. “Just like we fought them today.”

  “If they come, they will come in numbers to crush us,” retorted Jahl. “We will die.”

  Del was stunned by the gloomy admission. “Don’t talk like that. Not to yourself, and not to the others. They’re depending on you, Jahl. They need you to be strong.”

  “I know,” admitted Jahl wearily. It was all too much for him. Sometimes, he wished for the old days of the Vantrans. But it could never be that way again, and the truth of that was destroying him. Aramoor had changed forever the day Richius Vantran had fled. Now, no matter what happened to their Talistanian overlords, the nation would always bear their scars. Jahl looked out over the mountains toward the east and Lucel-Lor. Somewhere out there, the Jackal was hiding.

  Jahl shook his head ruefully. He wondered if the Jackal was comfortable.

  TEN

  As Kasrin had predicted, it took barely two days for the Dread Sovereign to reach the outskirts of Crote. The day was crisp and cloudy with a strong trade that brought the familiar scents of his homeland to Biagio’s nose. He had awoken early, hoping to catch the first glimpse of his beloved island. For two hours the emperor waited, scanning the empty horizon, breaking only long enough to relieve himself or share some pointless pleasantry with Kasrin, who periodically interrupted Biagio to inform him they were getting closer.

  But Biagio didn’t need the captain’s warning. Nature told him, the way the breeze blew over the deck, a little softer and more perfumed. Crote was a jewel, and Biagio adored it almost as much as the Black City. He had been raised on Crote and had inherited it from his father decades ago. He had lived there happily for years, vacationing from his numerous duties on its splendid beaches and lounging in his private villa surrounded by his priceless art and pampering slaves. A year ago he had deliberately surrendered his homeland to the Lissens, all part of his grand design to wrest the Iron Throne from Herrith. But he had missed his home sorely in that time. The Black City was stunning, but it was also mechanical and disembodied without the natural beauty so abundant on Crote. On Crote the air was clean and unpolluted, and the rivers were like the tears of God, so sweet they reminded Biagio of holy water.

  So far, the Dread Sovereign hadn’t encountered any other ships on its voyage. Biagio hadn’t expected to, either. Certainly Nicabar and the rest of the dreadnoughts were occupied around Casarhoon and the other flash points in their war against Liss. According to Roshann intelligence, the Lissen navy on Crote stayed close to the island, preparing for an anticipated invasion. The tactic was sound, Biagio supposed. Crote was strategically vit
al to Jelena and her people. It was within easy striking distance of the Naren mainland and plentiful in food and fresh water. For Jelena, holding Crote was a top priority, and Biagio hadn’t faulted her logic. And while he would have loved to retake Crote, no matter how much force would have been required, the remarkable clarity of withdrawing from the drug had changed his mind. There were far bigger priorities in Nar these days. As he leaned against the ship’s rail searching the horizon for his homeland, he wondered if he would ever rule Crote again. With the deal he was about to strike with Jelena, he very much doubted it.

  Biagio waited, growing agitated as a band of clouds rolled in and obscured the eastern sky. The idea of seeing Crote had consumed him these past few days, especially during the tedious waking hours aboard ship when all he had for recreation was his claustrophobic cabin and the unchanging view from his porthole.

  Then, as if a spirit had heard his lament, a call came from up in the masts.

  “Land ahead!” cried the lookout. Biagio’s eyes darted upward. He located the seaman in the crow’s nest, pointing ahead. The emperor followed his finger toward the barricade of clouds and squinted. There was something visible, a brown speck materializing out of the gloom. Biagio hurriedly raised the spyglass and peered through the lens. His breath caught in his throat as he focused on the unmistakable outline of his homeland.

  Crote grew slowly in the circular spot of the telescope. Biagio sighed; he was home. All around him men were shouting, relaying orders and preparing for contact, but Biagio ignored the activity. Gradually the island emerged from the mist displaying its unmistakable outlines. It wasn’t a large island—certainly it was smaller than Liss—but it was remarkable nonetheless, a paradise to those who knew it. Sometimes, Biagio wondered if the trade had been worth it.