The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  Praxtin-Tar bristled. “It is Casadah. You should hold your tongue, boy—for the spirit of the day, at least.”

  “No. I saw your pavilion. The altar, the candles—you have the trappings, Praxtin-Tar, but you do not have the heart of a Drol. The gods will not speak to you just because you weave a wreath for them. And they will not touch you with gifts just because you kill for them.”

  “Enough, holy man,” sneered Praxtin-Tar. “You have done what I ask. I give you my thanks and say good day to you.”

  Nagrah got to his feet. He was about to say more, then stopped himself. With one last look at the warlord, he started back down the hill. But before he took three paces, Praxtin-Tar called after him.

  “Cunning-man, why are they silent?”

  Nagrah paused and looked at the warlord. “What do you mean?”

  “They have been silent since Tharn died. Why?”

  The young Drol seemed saddened by the question. “Tharn was very special,” he said at last. “He was touched by heaven.”

  “So?” asked Praxtin-Tar bitterly. “Did they have to close the door on the rest of us?”

  Nagrah shook his head. “I cannot answer you. All I know is that Tharn gave us a glimpse of what truly exists. Now we must find other doors.”

  “That is what I am trying to do. But every time I open one they ignore me.”

  “Then perhaps you should try building your own doorway to heaven,” advised Nagrah, “instead of kicking in those built by others.”

  When Praxtin-Tar did not reply, Nagrah turned and left. For another hour Praxtin-Tar sat in silence, watching the sun go down. And as he sat he heard Nagrah’s final words over and over again, echoing in his head.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Queen Jelena stood in the bow of her jarl, the walls of an ancient canal rising high above her. The Serpent’s Strand had a primeval quality that harkened back to when rock and water ruled the world and mankind’s mark was yet unmade. A silent fog draped the surrounding hills, chilled by a breeze and the constant rush of the river. On both sides of Jelena’s little boat, sheer faces of stone reached skyward, blocking out the sun and darkening the passage with shadowy reflections. It was a wide waterway but it always felt claustrophobic, and as her jarl drifted through it she imagined the cliffs tumbling down on her, trapping her forever in the watery gorge. For the bloody business at hand, it was ideal.

  “There,” she said, pointing to a place high in the eastern cliffs. “That’s it. Timrin, stop the boat.”

  Timrin ordered the sailors to bring the jarl to a halt. The oarsmen retracted their blades and let the boat drift with the current. Jelena spied the eastern wall of rock, then swiveled to assess its western brother. It, too, was craggy and somber, high enough to hide them but close enough for the needed range.

  “This is where we’ll place the cannons,” she decided. “A dozen on each cliff. We’ll cover them with brush until the Fearless comes in range.”

  Timrin shielded his eyes as he looked up at the cliffs. “We can do that. But it’s going to be hard getting cannons up there. You’re talking about a lot of men, too. A dozen guns, five men per gun.” Quickly he did the math and came to the same conclusion. “Lots of men.”

  Jelena looked over the side of the jarl. The water was deep—deep enough for a dreadnought to navigate. That wasn’t a problem. But somehow they had to stop the Fearless. Otherwise she’d escape the guns.

  “How deep is the water here?” Jelena asked.

  “I don’t know for certain. Maybe thirty, thirty-five feet.”

  “Thirty-five feet,” Jelena mused. “Kasrin told me the Fearless has a draft of at least twelve feet. The Dread Sovereign maybe ten.” Again she glanced up to the cliffs. “When we start digging those gun emplacements, there’s going to be a lot of rocks.” She smiled at Timrin. “Twenty-three feet’s worth, you think?”

  “You mean to ground her?”

  “Just the Fearless, not Kasrin’s ship. He needs to be able to get away. He’ll be leading the Fearless in. If we set up a barricade, he has to be able to get through it.”

  “You’re sure of that? If Nicabar comes in first it will be a lot easier. Then Kasrin can just hang back and watch the Fearless rip her keel.”

  “No,” said Jelena. “We talked about that. Kasrin doesn’t want Nicabar getting suspicious. He’s going to be leading the way.” She went to the edge of the jarl, but from the corner of her eye she saw Timrin frown.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re thinking something, Timrin. Tell me.”

  Timrin sighed. “I think you’re putting too much trust in this Kasrin. I think he may be nothing more than a spy working for Biagio, and when he brings Nicabar here it won’t be for the reasons you think. It will be to invade us.”

  “Are you the only one who thinks this?” asked Jelena. “Or are there others?”

  Timrin shrugged. “If others are thinking it, I’m the only one who’s voiced it. I’m loyal to you, you know that. But this plan of yours is … Well, it’s just madness. I can’t believe you gave a Naren a map of the Serpent’s Strand.”

  Jelena didn’t answer. Sometimes she couldn’t believe it herself. But Kasrin was different. Somehow, she was certain of it. They had made a connection, and the whole long voyage back to Liss had been punctuated with thoughts of him.

  “Thirty-five feet,” said Jelena abruptly. “We need to sink twenty-three feet of rocks, enough to ground the Fearless. We’ll have to make sure of the depth, though.”

  “And we have to get the cannons in place. And the ammunition and manpower.”

  “And woman-power,” Jelena reminded him. “I may be queen but I’ve learned how to pull my weight. We don’t have much time before they get here, either. Maybe two weeks if we’re lucky. We’ve got to move fast.”

  Timrin agreed. Thankfully, he said nothing more about Kasrin or Nar. He surveyed the hillsides, whispering to himself and counting on his fingers, calculating their many needs. It would be difficult, and they both knew it. They had to pile enough earth and rocks into the water to stop the Fearless, and that meant backbreaking labor. As for the cannons, they would have to be cannibalized from some of the schooners, a risky move since Nicabar would no doubt arrive with escort ships. Kasrin had suspected there might be as many as a dozen ships accompanying them, but if all went well the rest of them would remain around the coast.

  Jelena smiled, remembering Kasrin’s voice. How old was he? she wondered. Older than herself, certainly. But she was queen and more mature than most girls. He had been attracted to her, she was sure. He had been clumsy and sweet around her, not at all like his emperor. Biagio was handsome, too, but in a much more frightening way.

  “Jelena?”

  “Huh?” The queen snapped from her daydream and looked at Timrin. “What is it?”

  “I asked if we should proceed to Karalon. Didn’t you hear me?”

  “Yes, I heard you,” Jelena lied. “Karalon, yes. Proceed.”

  Jelena sat down in the boat. Timrin stared at her, but only for a moment, and when he turned away she saw the hint of a smile on his face. Now she really was acting like a child. She sank her head into her hands. Sometimes this was all too much for her. Living up to expectations had become her bitter burden.

  I’m nineteen, she reminded herself. Not such a child, really.

  Yet sometimes she longed for childish things. She wanted to run through a field or eat pastries until she was sick, or have a doll collection again. She didn’t want to go back to her palace on Haran Island, either. When this was all over and the Fearless was destroyed, she wanted to be a little girl again.

  Please, just forget about me, she thought. If they would all just forget me, then I would be free.

  Not far ahead, the island of Karalon awaited her arrival. She would be there in less than an hour, tramping through its swamps and getting eaten by mosquitoes. From there she and Timrin and the others would make their base and wai
t for the Fearless. Already there were men and women on Karalon ready to help them. It would be an exhausting project, but they would work their hearts out because they were young and devoted to the cause. Everyone on Liss was young now because everyone older was dead. Like her parents.

  Without asking permission, Timrin sat down beside Jelena in the jarl. He waited a long time before speaking, watching the cliffs pass with feigned interest.

  “You are troubled,” he said softly. “Because of what I said?”

  “Not really.”

  “But you are troubled.”

  “A little, perhaps.”

  “You are queen,” Timrin said. “I was wrong to question you. Especially in front of the others.”

  “I am queen,” repeated Jelena. “Sad, but true.”

  “Don’t say that. You are a fine queen. You always have been. And if this plan of yours goes well …”

  “You say if,” Jelena reminded him. “Maybe you are right to doubt me.”

  “Men may have their doubts, but it is results that matter. So far you’ve taken Crote and held the waters all around the Empire. You are a remarkable queen, my lady. Someday you will be a legend.”

  Jelena laughed. “Oh, that would be something, wouldn’t it? There could be a statue of me. Perhaps holding up the world, yes?”

  “I’m serious,” said Timrin. “You need to know that you are a good ruler.”

  “Thank you, Timrin. I will try to remember that.”

  “And don’t fret too much. Your plan is sound. We will get the cannons in place, and the blockade of rocks into the river. We’ll stop the Fearless.”

  As the jarl took her slowly toward Karalon, Jelena thought about Kasrin again, and about their scheme. For a moment she considered the idea that Kasrin might betray them. But Jelena couldn’t believe that. For once, she had to believe in something other than herself. Too many responsibilities teetered on her young shoulders. Somewhere, somehow, there had to be another person to help bear her burdens. Suddenly, that was the most important thing in the world to her. She had faith in Blair Kasrin because if she didn’t, she would collapse under the strain.

  TWENTY-TWO

  For Biagio, employing the awful bunk aboard the Dra-Raike was like sleeping on a bed of nails. The Lissen schooner was a dreadfully small ship, single-masted with barely five feet of draft, yet somehow capable of enduring the most stomach-churning waves. There was no galley on board, just a cooking stove near the stores below deck, and there was only one real cabin, a tiny chamber that Biagio shared with Commander Golo. For the length of their long voyage to the Highlands, Biagio slept on a wooden cot crammed into the cabin, with hardly an inch of straw mattress to cushion his body. He had eaten the same food as the crew and listened to their wretched songs, and he endured the stares and questions of men who remembered him as nothing but their enemy. And the worst part of all was that he had brought this on himself—he had actually asked for a Lissen ship.

  It had been weeks since they had sailed from Crote. The emperor had said good-bye to his island home with real melancholy knowing he might never see it again. Liss would keep Crote as part of the bargain, and Biagio had been checkmated by Jelena. It was the price of peace; that’s what he kept telling himself. Yet each time he suffered a bout of seasickness he wondered if he had struck a sucker’s deal. Days at sea had turned his golden skin an unhealthy green and he was losing weight alarmingly fast, unable to keep his food down. His nerves were stretched taut and his dreams were all nightmares about dragons and sea serpents and, occasionally, Nicabar. So far they hadn’t encountered a single Naren warship, and that put Biagio at ease. Commander Golo had charted a long course to the Highlands, swinging far away from Casarhoon and brushing close to Liss. But that didn’t mean they would remain undetected. As they neared the shores of the Empire, that risk increased exponentially.

  So when they finally reached the Eastern Highlands, Biagio was relieved for a multitude of reasons. He waited above deck as the Dra-Raike slipped closer to shore, easing toward the imperial coast. Commander Golo was with Biagio on deck. Moonlight lit the inlet, and the night was blessedly quiet. Darkness obscured much of the bank. By squinting, Biagio could see the rugged outline of the Eastern Highlands, fretted with mountains and pine thickets. Somewhere in that green tangle was the village of Stoneshire. Due north, if his coordinates were correct.

  “You’re sure this is it?” Commander Golo asked. “Looks awfully deserted to me.”

  “This is it,” replied Biagio. “If your navigator knows what he’s doing.”

  “Then this is it,” said Golo with a smile.

  Biagio took his travel pack, lifting it from the deck and slinging it over his shoulder. According to Malthrak and Donhedris, it was a day’s walk from here to Stoneshire. The emperor had dressed for the trek, sporting a long coat and knee-high boots and the stubble of his golden beard. His hair was filthy because he hadn’t bathed in weeks, and he supposed he looked appropriately trampish. No one in these parts would recognize him, he was sure.

  “You’re ready, then?” Golo asked.

  Biagio nodded. Golo’s crew were preparing the launch to take him ashore, dropping the tiny rowboat over the side and waiting for their passenger.

  “Just walk north,” said Golo. He pointed. “That way.”

  “Thanks,” said Biagio dryly, “but I know which way north is.”

  “Just making sure. Don’t be surprised if your legs are a little wobbly at first. That’s normal after a long voyage.”

  Biagio nodded impatiently. “Right.”

  “If you get lost …”

  “I won’t get lost! Sweet Almighty, I’m just going to walk due north!”

  “If you do get lost,” continued Golo, “just keep walking until you find someone. They should be able to steer you toward Stoneshire.”

  It was obvious advice, but Biagio accepted it. Golo had been a decent man, and that had made the journey a bit more bearable.

  “Thank you,” said Biagio. “I am grateful for your help. But now you must leave. As soon as your men return from bringing me ashore, set sail for Liss and don’t look back. Queen Jelena will have need of you very soon.”

  “Don’t worry,” promised Golo. “We’re going to run like the wind just as soon as you’re gone.” The Lissen began laughing. “I’ve never had a royal passenger on board before. Funny that my first should be a Naren.”

  “This is an era of firsts, Commander.” Biagio put out his hand. “Take care of yourself.”

  Commander Golo took Biagio’s hand. “Good luck, Emperor.”

  Biagio went to the launch dangling over the side of the vessel. With some help from the Lissen crew, he climbed aboard. Four Lissen sailors were already in the craft waiting for him. When he was finally settled and had tucked his travel bag under his arm, Commander Golo gave the order and watched the rowboat dip into the sea.

  The craft hit the water with a bone-jarring splash. Biagio held fast to the edge of the boat, careful not to go overboard, then settled back as the men took up the oars and started rowing. There was no beach, only an imposing fence of toothy rocks jutting from the sea. Biagio peered at the looming horizon. The Eastern Highlands were remarkably vast and its people rugged, like their land. They didn’t take well to Naren lords.

  When the boat neared the shore, the sailors brought it to a skidding halt beside a range of jagged rocks. One of the sailors racked his oar and turned to the emperor.

  “This is as close as we can get you,” he said. “You’ll have to wade ashore from here.”

  Biagio considered the distance. It was only a few yards to the land, but he had a cat’s aversion to cold water. Still, he hoisted the pack around his shoulders and without hesitation splashed into the foam. Instantly he sank up to his thighs. Thankfully, no one in the rowboat laughed.

  “Get back to the ship,” Biagio ordered. “Thank Golo for me. And thanks to all of you.”

  The Lissens gave their nemesis a round of circumsp
ect smiles. Then they dipped their oars into the water and shoved off. As they retreated back into the murkiness, the awesome silence of the Highlands settled over Biagio. He glanced around at secretive pines and endless rolling hills, and for the first time in weeks realized he was truly alone.

  “Courage, Renato,” he whispered. “You can do this.”

  Avoiding the rocks, he waded ashore with his heavy pack, his legs pumping through the water. His head swam at the sensation of stable ground. The muscles in his legs trembled, and he found that he couldn’t turn his head without turning his whole body first. Nauseous, he climbed up the rocks, then fell to the mossy earth and vomited.

  Biagio slept, deeply and dreamlessly. And when he finally awakened, the first thing he saw was a carpet of milky stars. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. It was still evening, and he didn’t know how long he had slept or how close it was till morning. But his head was clearer and his pants had dried, and the awful sloshing in his skull had settled to a dull throbbing. Next to him sat his pack. The lap of the sea, the rustle of branches, the inscrutable call of night birds; all put Biagio at ease.

  “Cold,” he remarked. He rubbed his legs with his palms. “And hungry.”

  He needed food. But first he needed proper shelter, and a fire to keep away animals. That was right, wasn’t it? Not being a woodsman, Biagio wasn’t certain, though he imagined that a fire would deter bears and boars and such. He glanced around for suitable shelter, finding some beneath the shelf of a cliff, something like a tiny cave that had been dug out by a giant thumb. It was overgrown with the notorious Highland greenery and hidden from unwanted eyes. Biagio cleared away the worst of the twigs and debris, making himself at home beneath the hood of rock. Then he began rummaging through his pack. First he dug out a piece of flint to make a fire. After a twenty-minute struggle, he finally had a small blaze going. He put his hands up to the fire. Starting a fire without a servant was something he’d never done before, and the sense of accomplishment felt strange. When he was sure his fire wouldn’t wither, he settled down again and found food in his pack, more of the Lissen hardtack he so despised. But there was some cheese in the pack, and some strips of dried beef without any smell at all. Biagio sniffed the meat suspiciously. Good for long travels, he supposed. One taste told him why. It was stale and salty, like it had been desiccated a thousand years ago to accompany some dead king to the netherworld. Disgusted, Biagio sampled the cheese instead. To his delight it was better than the beef, pungent and surprisingly fresh, like the cheeses of Crote.