The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  “Wine,” he remarked with a grin. “That’s all I need and I could have a feast.”

  He was a long way from his wine cellars, though, and Jelena had probably sold all his vintages anyway. So he satisfied himself with the cheese, eating it slowly, and studied the stars blanketing the world. Back in Nar City, only the brightest stars struggled through the haze. Not so here in the Highlands. The sky was ripe with them, like a berry bush exploding with fruit. The air was fresher too, clean and full of evergreen. Biagio sucked in a deep lung-full.

  Better than wine, he decided.

  After he had eaten his fill and warmed himself by the fire, Biagio felt the pull of exhaustion again. Knowing that he had a long hike ahead of him in the morning, he decided to sleep until dawn. According to Malthrak, who had helped him plan this excursion, Stoneshire was miles away. He would need the whole day to reach it, and he didn’t relish the thought of another night in the wilderness. He only hoped that the shire had comfortable beds, and that his contact would be there waiting for him.

  Biagio awoke the next morning refreshed. Just as the sun began its ascent, he pointed himself north and headed for Stoneshire. There was no road to follow and no clear path through the woods. With only the shoreline to guide him, Biagio kept close to the water, letting the rocky beach lead him toward the village. Malthrak had been very thorough in his directions. The little Roshann agent had told his master to follow the shore until he saw two twin blue mountains in the west, joined by a natural bridge of stone. It was the only one like it, Malthrak had promised, and it would be unmistakable. From there he would head west and pick up the road to Stoneshire. The directions were difficult for Biagio, who was accustomed to having a driver take him everywhere. But this time he was on his own, and in an odd way he wanted to prove something to himself. His father had never thought him anything but a fop, and even Arkus had doubted his skills at manhood. Biagio could still hear the old emperor laughing every time he complained about the cold. It was very cold in the Highlands today.

  Biagio walked and walked, and when he was nearly exhausted he walked even farther, ignoring the burning in his legs. For the first four hours he made remarkable time, covering miles despite the rolling landscape and rocky meandering shoreline. As he walked he kept one eye westward, waiting for the mountains to part and reveal their strange, connected brothers. Soon the noonday sun fell on his head, warming him with its touch. Wildflowers reached skyward and gulls flew overhead. His feet aching, Biagio stopped for a moment by the sea, resting on a rock and pulling off his boots. Red blotches spoiled his otherwise perfect feet. He massaged them, groaning with pleasure at his own touch. In Nar City there had been slaves to massage him, beautiful men and women with sculpted muscles and hands like silk. Biagio closed his eyes, pretending he could smell the scented oils and warm, perfumed bodies. But then he opened his eyes, scolding himself for falling into such reverie.

  “Work to do,” he said. With a final swig from his water skin, he took up his gear and started off again. All around him, the land was growing gentler, flattening out into hills instead of mountains and revealing great open spaces in the gaps between the tors. Biagio smiled. For all its harshness, this was a beautiful land. It reminded him of Aramoor and parts of Talistan. It wasn’t as lovely as Crote, of course, but a man could do worse for himself. No wonder Prince Redburn never strayed.

  Finally, Biagio came to the place Malthrak had told him about. On the western horizon, the hill abruptly flattened and fell away revealing two remarkable mountains in the distance, blue and white and possessed of a strange natural light that reflected the sun as though sapphires suffused their slopes. Most telling of all was the stout bridge connecting them, a curious creation of time and weather. Biagio stopped walking and stared.

  “I made it,” he said wearily. Then he laughed. “Goddamn it, I made it!”

  On the outskirts of the village, Biagio found a road that took him directly into Stoneshire. The shire lay in the shadows of the blue mountains, tucked neatly into its folds and surrounded by green hills and pastures full of livestock. At last there were people again, riding by on horses or carts, busy with the commerce of their village. Biagio was heartened to see human faces. They were the ruddy faces of Highlanders, rosy-cheeked and set with smiles, and each man or woman that Biagio passed had a curious stare for him and a polite tip of their woolen hats. Biagio returned the greetings cordially. Ahead lay Stoneshire, meager in size yet vital, full of squat wooden structures and brick walls. According to Malthrak, the village was part of Redburn’s territory, though the prince himself was miles away. Puffs of smoke rose from the village’s stone chimneys and children played with dogs in the streets. They all wore the plaid woolen clothing favored by Redburn’s clan, looking handsome in their colorful garb. As Biagio entered the village, children stopped to stare at him. The emperor politely ignored them. He was beyond exhausted and the sun was going down. Homesteads dotted the hills around the village. Biagio needed a room quickly, before he collapsed. He decided to chance a conversation with the children.

  “You there,” he called to a group of boys and their terrier. He used a finger to summon them. “I need some assistance.”

  The boys looked at Biagio uncertainly.

  “I am a stranger here,” said Biagio. “I am looking for an inn run by a woman named Estrella. Do you know the place?”

  “Yes,” replied one of the group. He took a step closer to Biagio, studying his worn-out clothes and peculiar golden skin. “Who are you?”

  “I’m not from around here. Just show me where this inn is, will you?”

  The boys closed in around Biagio. There were three of them, all with the same delighted expressions. Apparently they didn’t get many Crotans in Stoneshire. Biagio tried not to squirm under the scrutiny; children always made him nervous. When the dog came up to sniff him, he gingerly patted its head.

  “Where you from?” asked one of the boys. “You a southerner?”

  “Yes, a southerner. And I’m very tired, young man. Tell me where the inn is, please.”

  The boy pointed over his shoulder, toward the center of the village. “That way. Want us to take you there?”

  Biagio grinned. “Ah, now you’re a businessman, eh? Is there a fee for this service?”

  “No,” said the boy indignantly. He started walking away, muttering. “Just being friendly is all. Southern trash …”

  “Stop,” said Biagio. “Take me to the inn.” He dug into his belt bag and fished out a coin, tossing it to the boys. “That’s for your troubles, and for your wounded pride. Now, lead on.”

  All the youngsters glowed at the shining coin, then hurried off toward the center of the village, waving at Biagio to follow. As he strode down the dirt road he noticed townsfolk looking at him, pondering his golden hair and foreign looks. When the boys stopped outside a small house of timber-frame and mortared rock, they directed the emperor to the door.

  “This is it,” the one boy declared. Then, reading Biagio’s disappointed expression, he added, “Not much to look at, but it’s all we’ve got for travellers like yourself. Unless you want to stay at one of the farms. My father’s got rooms.”

  “Thank you, no,” said Biagio cordially. He looked the tiny cottage up and down. “This is fine. Scoot on home now; it’s getting dark.”

  With a final look at the visitor, the boys did as Biagio ordered, disappearing into the village with their terrier chasing dutifully behind them. Biagio stepped to the door and knocked. When no one answered he knocked again, more forcefully this time, until at last he heard someone shuffling toward the portal. Slowly the door opened to reveal a stooped woman with cloud-grey hair and wrinkles like the craggy mountains. Bright eyes peered at him, friendly but suspicious.

  “Hello,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  Biagio offered her a small bow. “Madam, hello. My name is Corigido. I am travelling through Stoneshire and heard you might have a room to rent. Is this so?”

  �
��A room? Oh, yes, I have a room.” The woman tried to straighten, pleased at the prospect of business. She had a thick Highlander accent that made her hard to understand, but her soft voice was welcoming. “I only have two rooms and one is already taken. You’ll have to make do with the smaller one. Come in, we’re just having our supper. Are you hungry?”

  “Very much so, madam, and tired as well. I should be pleased to sup with you.”

  The old woman stepped aside and let Biagio enter her home. It was small but remarkably well-appointed, with a comforting hearth crackling with alder and a pair of wing-backed chairs positioned near the flames, each within easy reach of a bookcase stuffed with leather-bound volumes. The scent of home-cooking wafted from the dining area. There was a table set with food and silverware. At it sat a man Biagio had never seen before, though his identity was revealed by the scar slicing across his face. As Biagio entered the man started to rise, then quickly stopped himself when he saw the emperor’s cautioning wink.

  “Come and sit,” said the woman. “I’ll show you to your room after we’ve eaten. We don’t want it to get cold.”

  “No, indeed,” said Biagio. He laid his travelling pack on the floor and went to the table, rubbing his hands together in delight. The man with the scar smiled at him. He had one eye that was brown and another that was red and fixed in a droop. Malthrak had said he’d earned his scar in a duel and that people called him “the cyclops”—a cruel joke considering how handsome he might have been otherwise. He was a Highlander, like the old woman, and so wore the plaid of Prince Redburn’s tribe.

  “Barnabin, this is Corigido,” said the woman. “He’s just arrived and wants a room. Now we have some company! Isn’t that nice?”

  “Sit, Corigido, please,” said Barnabin. He offered Biagio the chair next to him. There was awe in his eyes that made Biagio uncomfortable, but he supposed the old lady hadn’t noticed.

  “Thank you, Barnabin,” said Biagio, taking the chair. A platter of steaming meat sat in front of him, begging to be devoured. Biagio picked up a fork and started piling his plate. “I hope you don’t mind if I help myself. I’m rather famished from the road.”

  “No, no,” chirped the old woman. “Enjoy yourself. It’s so good to have two guests here at the same time.”

  Together they ate in the glow of the hearth. Biagio and Barnabin spoke very little, occasionally trading knowing glances.

  Late that evening, Biagio settled into his small but comfortable room. Mistress Estrella, the proprietor of the inn, had brought him some tea and biscuits. The treats were a delight to Biagio, who hadn’t enjoyed a proper cup of tea since leaving the Black City. He dashed his cup with honey as he settled back into the room’s only chair, staring out the window while he waited for Barnabin to arrive.

  Biagio’s room was on the second floor of the two-story structure, affording him a view of the little shire from a small window trimmed with green draperies. Everything in the inn was immaculately clean. The emperor picked up one of the delicate biscuits and smeared it with boysenberry jam, which Mistress Estrella had provided in a tiny ceramic crock. The confection was fresh baked and delectable. Biagio was about to reach for another when he heard a knock at his door.

  “Enter,” he said.

  Barnabin slowly opened the door. His scarred face peered inside, and when he saw Biagio seated in the chair his one eye widened reverently. He had obviously bathed for the meeting, scrubbing his ruddy face and washing his hair, combing it back with oil.

  “Lord Emperor?” he whispered.

  “Come in, Barnabin, and keep your voice down.”

  Barnabin shut the door behind him, then fell to his knees at Biagio’s feet.

  “My lord, I am honored to be in your presence. I am here to serve you. Command me.”

  “Very well. Get up.”

  The man sprang to his feet but kept his gaze on the floor. Biagio picked up the plate of biscuits and offered it to Barnabin.

  “Take one.”

  Haltingly, Barnabin reached out and chose a fruit tart, but he didn’t eat it. Instead he kept it in hand, continuing to avoid Biagio’s gaze.

  “Look at me, Barnabin.”

  Barnabin raised his head. “Emperor?”

  “Eat,” commanded Biagio. “Then tell me how long you’ve been here.”

  The man hurriedly ate the biscuit. When he was done, he said, “I have been in the shire for a week now, waiting for you. I received word from Malthrak two weeks ago, telling me to meet you here.”

  “Is Barnabin your real name?”

  “Yes, my lord. I am a distant relation of Clan Redburn. I work as a shoemaker in a small town near the border with Talistan. But I am devoted to you, my master.”

  Biagio sipped his tea thoughtfully. Malthrak had told him all about Barnabin. He was supposed to be a reliable source, and had been well paid by the Roshann for keeping an eye on the Highlands. Shoemaker or not, Barnabin had become one of the Roshann’s most important informants.

  “I have questions for you, my friend,” said Biagio. “This might take some time. You should make yourself comfortable.” The emperor gestured to the bed. “Sit down.”

  Without hesitation the shoemaker sat down on the edge of the mattress, dutifully awaiting the emperor’s queries. Biagio studied him for a long moment, assessing his appearance and loyalty. He was eager to please, that was obvious. And Malthrak had vouched for his fealty. Supposedly, Roshann agents like Malthrak were beyond reproach, but that was before the defection of Simon Darquis. Now Biagio trusted no one.

  “First,” began the emperor, “let me say how it pleases me to see you. I had a difficult journey and I feared you might not be here. Because you are, I thank you.”

  Barnabin inclined his head. “I would never displease you, Lord Emperor.”

  “You are being paid well for coming here, yes?”

  “Yes, Lord Emperor. I admit that. But my word is good, and I am not a mercenary.”

  “Don’t apologize, my friend. Gold is gold. We all must eat, after all. Now, tell me what you know. How go things in Talistan? And what of Prince Redburn and the other clan leaders?”

  “It is worse now,” said Barnabin. “Talistan’s soldiers have been drilling near the border. They continue to harass Redburn. So far there has been no fighting, but rumors are growing, my lord. I have heard that Redburn is getting angry.”

  “Is he making ready to fight?”

  “I cannot say for certain. But Prince Redburn is a man of peace. He will not fight unless he must. I don’t think he understands why Talistan is harassing him.”

  “He doesn’t suspect an invasion?”

  The Highlander shrugged. “Truly, I do not know. Redburn is a bright man, but politics is not his specialty. He probably doesn’t understand what’s happening.”

  “But Gayle is provoking him. Surely he can see that.”

  “Perhaps. But I doubt he knows why.” Barnabin leaned forward, speaking in a whisper. “You will have difficulty convincing him to join you, Lord Emperor. Prince Redburn wants no quarrel with Talistan. They are too strong for him, and he knows it. He will not let them provoke a war, not if he can avoid it.”

  Biagio sat back in his chair contemplating the news over his steaming teacup. As he’d suspected, Tassis Gayle was trying to push the Highlanders into a war—giving Gayle the perfect excuse to roll his troops into the Highlands. Somehow, Biagio needed to prove that to Redburn.

  “There’s been no real fighting, is that right? No bloodshed at all?”

  “None that I know of,” said Barnabin. “Some arguing back and forth, some disputes over land, but that’s all. Petty things, but the Talistanian troops near the border are making Redburn nervous. I know, because I hear things. We Highlanders are all afraid, my lord.”

  “Then I will use that fear on Redburn. I will make him see the truth.” Biagio set down his cup and sighed. “I don’t know very much about Prince Redburn. Tell me about him. What sort of man is he?”

&nb
sp; “Very young. A scrapper. They call him the Red Stag.”

  “Red Stag?”

  Barnabin ran a hand over his scalp. “His hair; it’s red, like mine. And he commands the latapi.”

  “Exactly what is a latapi?”

  “The elk,” Barnabin explained. “That’s what they are called in Redburn’s territory.”

  “Ah, yes, the elk.” Biagio already knew about the armored elk of the Highlands. Redburn’s clan rode them instead of horses, an arrangement Biagio always thought comical. “The elk are sacred here, yes?”

  “To some, my lord. To Redburn and his kin, especially. You’ll see the latapi when we get closer.”

  “How far are we from the prince?”

  “Redburn lives in Elkhorn Castle, a two-day ride from here. Can you ride a horse, Lord Emperor?”

  “I am fully trained in the martial disciplines, Barnabin. I may not look like a fighter, but I can ride as well as anyone and handle a saber, too. Do not fret over me. Just get me to Redburn.”

  “I will. I swear it.”

  “Fine.” The emperor closed his eyes. “We will leave the day after tomorrow. I am too tired to leave any sooner. Tomorrow you will purchase horses for us and supplies for the trip. I will give you money to buy what we need. Now, please leave me, Barnabin. I need sleep. I will see you in the morning.”

  The informant left the room quickly, bidding the emperor a courteous good-night. Biagio listened to the sound of his boots trailing away down the hall. It was just past midnight and Mistress Estrella’s little inn was as silent as a tomb. For Biagio, the place was a blessing. Soon he would set off on the last leg of his journey. He would try and convince a prince that hated Naren lords to go to war with Talistan. Wearily, he picked up another of the biscuits and popped it into his mouth, savoring its delicate taste. In two days he would be a filthy traveller again, but until then he would rest and relish the inn’s simple hospitality.