The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  “God!” Jahl cried, going to Del and picking him up in his arms. Del was gasping, clutching at the air with clawed fingers as wave after wave of blood bubbled up from his throat. Far below, Jahl heard more shouting and Shinn’s triumphant laugh. The Dorian was galloping away. They had lost him.

  “Jahl …” breathed Del desperately. “Alain …”

  “Don’t talk,” Jahl ordered. He pressed his fingers around the arrow’s shaft, trying to stem the tide of blood, but each time Del breathed the wound bloomed anew, swimming around Jahl’s fingers and soaking his lap as he cradled Del’s head. Del was doomed, so Jahl didn’t shout for help. He merely brushed the hair away from Del’s eyes, holding him gently until he took his last breath.

  Down in the gully, Alazrian watched in shock as Shinn galloped away. The Dorian bodyguard had taken an arrow in the shoulder and was bleeding badly, yet he rode away with a terrible laugh. Alazrian, still on horseback, fought to still his racing fear. He was alive, a stroke of luck he couldn’t believe, but whoever had shot Shinn was still on the cliff above, and more men were shouting out in the run, the sounds of battle ringing through the mountains. Alazrian looked around, unsure what he might find. He steered Flier toward the middle of the path, coming out into the open so he could see better. He couldn’t go after Shinn. That was impossible now. He had lost his only protection and couldn’t even go home again. He was stranded. The best he could do now was hope that his attackers were Triin, and might somehow take him to Richius Vantran.

  Resolved to face whatever might be awaiting him, Alazrian waved his arms up at the cliff.

  “Hello!” he shouted. “Don’t fire, please! I surrender!”

  There was no reply from the ledge.

  “I surrender!” Alazrian repeated. “Please answer. Are you Triin?”

  Then a figure appeared at the edge of the cliff, a man in a black, blood-spattered cape. He wasn’t Triin but he was frightful looking, and when he stared down at Alazrian there was nothing but hatred in his eyes.

  “I am Jahl Rob,” he thundered. “And you, boy, shall know my wrath!”

  FOURTEEN

  Del was dead. For Jahl Rob, that was the only thing that mattered. When he looked down from his mountain perch, he didn’t see a frightened boy; he saw an accomplice to murder.

  “Don’t you move!” he barked. “Or by heaven I will kill you!”

  The boy stammered a response. He’d gone white with terror at the sound of the approaching horses, and soon Ricken and Parry were closing around him. Jahl waved at his companions from the ledge. His shoulder still bled from the grazing wound Shinn had given him, but he ignored the throbbing pain.

  “Up here,” he called. Then, his voice breaking, “Del’s dead.”

  Ricken went ashen. “Oh, no …” He turned to the boy. “Who are you?”

  “What about the others?” Jahl demanded. “Did you get them?”

  “All but Shinn,” said Parry. He too glared at the stranger. “You hear that, boy? Your companions are dead.”

  Dead. Jahl sighed in relief. That was some good news at least. But Shinn had escaped, and Jahl doubted the Dorian’s wound would slow him much. Now they had been discovered. Worse, Del was gone. How in heaven would he tell Alain?

  “Ricken, get up here,” he ordered. “I need help with Del. Parry, keep an eye on the boy.”

  Parry closed in on the intruder, drawing his sword while Ricken dismounted to scale the ledge. Soon Taylour appeared, too, looking bewildered and edgy. They both circled the boy, threatening him with their blades. Jahl watched as the youngster looked around, confused and afraid. He kept his hands up, not daring to speak. Nor did the others question him, either. Parry and Taylour simply watched him, waiting for Jahl to finish his gory business on the ledge. Jahl turned and knelt down next to Del. He reached out and gently closed Del’s eyelids.

  “Go with God, my friend,” he said. He mouthed a little prayer asking God to open the gates of heaven for a truly valiant angel. The anger that had absorbed him ebbed a little, and in its place came an awful grief. Del had been a good friend. He’d been brave and devoted, a true champion of Aramoor. Now he was dead, like his brother Dinadin.

  “Oh, no,” said Ricken. He had mounted the ledge and seen Del. Like Jahl, he knelt down next to him, reaching out to touch his forehead. “Shinn?” he asked angrily.

  Jahl nodded. “I don’t want to leave him here, Ricken. His horse is down below. Let’s take him back to the stronghold and bury him there.”

  Ricken agreed, then noticed Jahl’s wound. “Jahl, you’re hurt. Let me look at it.”

  “It’s nothing,” Jahl insisted. “It can wait till we get back to the stronghold.”

  “No, it can’t,” snapped Ricken. He reached out for Jahl’s shoulder, probing the tender flesh with a finger and peeling back the torn part of his shirt. The cape had done a good job of protecting the skin, but Jahl could see now that a deep slice cut through his shoulder, still oozing blood. He winced. The pain was stronger now.

  “Hurts,” he gasped.

  “I’m sure. Take that cape off. Let’s at least get you cleaned up.”

  “Damn it,” hissed Jahl. He began removing his cape, carefully pulling it over his throbbing shoulder. “We don’t have any water.”

  Ricken cursed, then suddenly remembered the boy down below. “I’ll bet our little stranger has some water with him,” he said. He went to the edge and called down, “You boy! Have you got any water?”

  Jahl heard the boy call back a shaky “Yes.”

  “Taylour, bring it up here. Jahl’s been hurt.”

  Jahl stripped to the waist, then with his dagger began cutting bandages from his soiled shirt. As Taylour climbed to meet them Ricken gave Jahl a mischievous grin.

  “Our captive looks like a scared rabbit,” he whispered. “Not much threat from him, I don’t think.”

  “Who the hell is he?” Jahl growled. The pain from his wound was making him irritable, and he was glad to hear the boy was uncomfortable, too. “He’s just a kid. What’s he doing with Shinn?”

  Ricken obviously had no answers, so he didn’t even take a guess. He just waited for Taylour to arrive with the water, then took the skin and doused Jahl’s wound. Jahl grit his teeth, surprised that such a small wound could hurt so much. While Ricken worked, Taylour hovered over Del’s body, stricken by the sight. Jahl kept thinking of poor Alain.

  “All right, that’s enough,” he said, pulling away from Ricken. “Let’s get it wrapped so we can get out of here.”

  He picked up one of the bandages and handed it to Ricken, lifting his arm so that his companion could wrap the wound. Ricken repeated the process three more times. Then, finally satisfied with his handiwork, he sat back and inspected the wound.

  “That should do,” he pronounced. “Just don’t ride too hard. When we get back I’ll want to wash it again and get some fresh bandages on it. Get your cape. Taylour and I will carry Del down.”

  Jahl got up and slung the cape over his shoulders. “Put Del on his horse and get ready to ride. I’ll go see our friend.”

  At the bottom of the ledge, Parry guarded their young prisoner with a drawn sword. The boy had dismounted and was standing beside his horse, and when he saw Jahl slide down the rocks to approach him, he bit his lip and took a step backward. Jahl stalked after him. Behind him, Ricken and Taylour were dragging Del’s dead body down the slope. Jahl jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the corpse.

  “You see that?” he asked the boy. “That’s a friend of mine. He’s dead now, thanks to you.”

  “I didn’t do anything!” the boy protested. “It was Shinn!”

  “Yes, and what the hell were you doing with Shinn? You want to tell me?” Jahl came very close, scrutinizing the boy. With his white hair and thin features he was peculiar looking, and almost familiar. Jahl was about to ask his name when a realization hit him.

  “Oh, Lord,” said Parry, coming at once to the same conclusion. “You’re Leth�
��s son!”

  The boy held up his hands in surrender. “Don’t be afraid, please. I’m alone. There was nobody else with us.”

  “Are you Leth’s son?” Jahl demanded. “Are you Alazrian?”

  “Yes,” admitted the boy. He squared his shoulders and returned Jahl’s glare. “And I’m not afraid of you, Jahl Rob. I know you. You’re an outlaw.”

  Jahl laughed. “An outlaw? Yes, that’s what you would call me, isn’t it? Well, let me tell you something, Alazrian Leth. You should be afraid of me. Because if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I will slit your throat from ear to ear.”

  The boldness drained from the boy’s face. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want answers,” snapped Jahl. He took a step closer to Alazrian. “You’re going to tell me what you’re doing here. But first you’re going to come with me.”

  Jahl turned and strode away from the boy, ordering his men to mount up. “Get on your horses,” he shouted. “We’re heading home. You ride with us, Alazrian Leth. And if you even try to escape …”

  He let the threat hang in the air. They all took to their mounts and Jahl Rob led the sad procession back to the stronghold. Just behind him was the horse burdened with Del’s body flanked by Parry and Ricken. Behind them rode Alazrian, with the sharp-eyed Taylour on his heels. It was a long ride back to the stronghold, but Jahl didn’t mind. It gave him time to think, to consider the best way to face Alain and to decide what to do about their young captive. Elrad Leth would certainly send troops into the mountains after his son, wouldn’t he? Jahl considered the possibility. Why then had Shinn tried to kill the boy? There were a thousand questions and no answers, and Jahl hoped Alazrian would cooperate. Otherwise …

  No, he told himself, half laughing. He would never hurt the boy. Whatever the young Leth’s role was in all this, Jahl knew he would have to discover it diplomatically, and hope that the boy’s appearance didn’t mean disaster.

  By the time they reached the outskirts of their mountain home, Jahl’s shoulder was smarting. The bandages Ricken had arranged were holding, but the blood was starting to soak through. Soon they would need changing. But there was work to do first, one particularly dreadful job. When he sighted the winding road leading to his stronghold, he noticed a young boy waiting there for him. His resolve collapsed like a waterfall.

  “Alain,” Ricken whispered.

  “Keep moving,” Jahl told them. There was no hiding from Alain now, and it was better to face Del’s brother quickly and get it done. Jahl was glad that Alazrian Leth was with them. There was a lesson in this for their captive. “Leth,” he called over his shoulder. “You see that boy ahead?”

  “Yes,” Alazrian replied.

  “That’s the brother of the man you killed.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” Alazrian protested.

  “He’s the last son of the House of Lotts. His name is Alain, and he’s twelve years old.”

  Alazrian raced forward, glowering at Jahl. “It wasn’t me,” he railed. “You saw yourself. Shinn killed your friend. I won’t let you blame me for it.”

  But Jahl was in the mood to be ruthless. “It’s all the same to me, Leth. Now I want you to see what good came of your patrol. That was it, wasn’t it? Weren’t you looking for us?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “So you found us. Congratulations.” Jahl pointed toward his keep, a collection of high peaks and caverns on the south side of the run. “You see? That’s my home. That’s what you and your father have driven us to.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Alazrian bitterly. “I’m nothing like my father.”

  Jahl wasn’t listening. He trotted his horse closer to the waiting Alain, saying, “Come along, boy. There’s bad business to attend to.”

  Alain didn’t wait for them to come to him. The youngster sprinted forward, first with a look of glee, then with a face of unspeakable dread. Jahl watched him tallying up the riders, spotting the dead body slumped over the horse and not seeing his brother anywhere. Jahl steeled himself. To his shock, Alazrian stopped his horse and dismounted, holding up a hand to Alain.

  “What are you doing?” Jahl asked, bringing his own horse to a halt. Others were gathering in the road now, fellow Saints who had seen the party arriving. Alazrian ignored them all, concentrating only on the horror-stricken Alain.

  “Alain Lotts,” he called to the boy, “my name is Alazrian Leth. Your brother is dead.”

  “Leth!” Jahl protested.

  Alazrian Leth took a step closer to Alain, who was walking slowly now, dragging his feet. Alain’s brow wrinkled; he was on the verge of tears.

  The young Leth’s tone was comforting. “He died well, defending his friends,” he told Alain. “I want you to know I had nothing to do with his dying. Please believe that.” Then he shot Jahl a glare. “No matter what you hear.”

  “Dead?” croaked Alain, slowly approaching his brother’s horse. When he reached the body he inspected it in disbelief. “No. That’s not possible …”

  “I’m sorry, Alain,” said Jahl. The priest dropped from his horse and went over to the boy, sliding an arm around his shoulders. He could feel Alain begin to tremble. “It’s no one’s fault. Least of all Del’s.”

  “Del,” Alain moaned. “Del …”

  He started to weep, great wracking sobs that came up from his chest. With both hands he grabbed at his dead brother, shaking him, trying to force him awake. Jahl took hold of Alain as gently as he could, wrapping his arms around him, letting him cry.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, kissing Alain’s head. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Who did this? Who killed Del?”

  “Easy,” Jahl soothed. “Easy …”

  “What happened?” Alain demanded. He tried to break free of Jahl’s grip, to go back to his brother and shake him awake. “Tell me who killed him!”

  Jahl Rob held on to Alain as tightly as he could, letting the boy’s wails fill his ears and his tears strike his chest. He said nothing about Shinn or the Talistanian soldiers, nor did he blame Alazrian Leth for Del’s death. It was all pointless now, anyway. As Alain dissolved into sobs, Jahl glanced at Alazrian and saw that he, too, was weeping.

  Alazrian sat alone in the corner of the cave apart from the campfire and the men gathered there. It was very late now. He could see the sky just beyond the silhouettes of his captors, dark with night. They were very high up in the mountains, in the same peaks he and Shinn had spotted earlier. A melancholy pall had settled over the stronghold. The men around the fire, at least a dozen of them, hardly spoke. None of them talked to Alazrian or offered him any of their food. They simply ignored their prisoner, leaving him relatively unguarded in the corner of the cave. Alazrian supposed they were waiting for Jahl Rob. The thought of facing the priest again didn’t leaven his mood. Jahl seemed like nothing more than a small-minded pirate, a wild brigand who might just deserve the wound Shinn had given him.

  “Shinn,” grumbled Alazrian. That bastard had tried to kill him because his so-called father had ordered it. The old hatred boiled up inside Alazrian. He imagined Leth back in Aramoor playing cards with Shinn and laughing as the Dorian explained how his “son” had been captured, and quite likely killed by the Saints. Or maybe Leth simply thought Jahl Rob would hold him hostage. That idea frightened Alazrian. It was the first time he’d considered it, but it suddenly seemed possible. Maybe Rob would try to ransom him. If so, he wouldn’t get a penny out of Elrad Leth. Alazrian wrapped his arms around his legs, drawing himself into a ball and lowering his chin to his knees. He was tired and hungry. The smells from the cooking pots made his stomach grumble. He considered asking his captors for food, then dismissed the idea. He didn’t want to appear weak. That was what they wanted.

  It wasn’t until much later that Jahl Rob reappeared. Alazrian had fallen asleep on the floor of the cave, but the entrance of the priest awakened him. The fire still crackled a few yards away, and as Alazrian opened his eyes he noticed Rob
squatting down by the fire, whispering to the handful of men who remained in the cave. The priest glanced over at Alazrian, said a few more words to his companions, then picked up a bowl and fished a ladle-full of food out of one of the pots. The thought of food immediately started Alazrian’s stomach rumbling. He sat up, supposing that Rob had ladled the stew for himself. But Jahl Rob surprised him. He left the fire and strode toward the corner where Alazrian waited, his face unreadable in the orange glow. The priest had changed his bloodied clothes and now appeared perfectly fit, as though Shinn’s arrow had never touched him. Remarkably, the men around the campfire all rose and left the cave, leaving them alone.

  “You must be hungry,” said Jahl Rob. “Here.” He handed the bowl down to Alazrian who eagerly accepted it, but he didn’t eat. Instead he looked at Rob suspiciously. The priest rolled his eyes. “It isn’t poisoned,” he snapped. “Just eat. I know you’re hungry.”

  “I am,” Alazrian admitted. He glanced down at the bowl, picked up his spoon, and took a mouthful of the stew. It was flavorless and thin, but it was also hot and remarkably welcome. Alazrian offered Rob a grateful nod. “Thank you.”

  “You must be cold.” Jahl turned and walked toward the flames. “Come and sit by the fire.”

  “I’m fine here.”

  “Well I’m not. Come on.”

  Alazrian took another two spoonfuls of stew before following Jahl. The priest sat down next to the fire, tossing a few more sticks onto it to build the blaze. The flames were warm on Alazrian’s face, a welcome respite from the hard, cold stone of his corner. He lowered himself to the ground, sitting next to Rob but not too close. Rob watched him eat. Alazrian didn’t let the intrusion spoil his meal. He emptied the bowl in a few more spoonfuls, occasionally glancing at his captor. Jahl Rob was an impressive man for a priest. He was muscular, neither young nor old, and he wore his hair loosely, as if he’d never seen a comb. Alazrian didn’t know what to think of him.