The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  “Kasrin!” she called. She saw a wounded man staggering ashore and raced to help him. Sliding his arm over her shoulder she ferried him toward the rocks. But it wasn’t Kasrin. Desperate, she looked back out across the river.

  Then she saw him. Amazingly, Kasrin had slipped to safety while the sharks satisfied themselves with Nicabar’s crew. He swam toward her, got to his knees, then quickly collapsed against the rocks. Jelena splashed toward him.

  “Kasrin!” she called.

  Groggily he opened his eyes. She went to him and lifted his head, cradling it in her arms. His jaw was swollen and blood trickled from his mouth. His eyes had the most disturbing look to them, vacuous and dead.

  “Jelena,” he croaked. “We did it …”

  “Yes,” she said easily. “We did it. But you’re hurt …”

  “I saw Nicabar,” Kasrin gasped. “He’s dead.”

  “Shhh, don’t talk.” She put his arm around her shoulder and dragged him higher up onto the rocks. There she laid him on his back and brushed the blood from his face with the hem of her garments. “Breathe,” she urged. “Easy …”

  “My ship is ruined.”

  “Hush, Kasrin. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does!” He put his hands to his face. “I need her to get to Talistan. Don’t you see?”

  Jelena understood perfectly, but she merely stroked his head, trying to calm him. Out on the river, the Dread Sovereign was heavily damaged. Her cracked foremast had fallen into the water and her sails were nearly gone. Little fires burned along her deck, sending up ghosts of smoke. But it didn’t matter. They had defeated the Fearless. And Kasrin was safe.

  “What am I going to do?” groaned Kasrin. “Biagio needs me.”

  “You will rebuild her,” said Jelena gently. “We’ll help you.”

  Kasrin gave a bitter laugh. “Rebuild? Look at her, Jelena. It’s impossible!”

  “Nothing is impossible,” Jelena assured him. “Just like the Fearless wasn’t unsinkable.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Captain L’Rago prowled the waters off the coast of Liss, following Nicabar’s orders to protect the flotilla. It had been several hours since the Fearless and Sovereign had sailed for the Strand, and the waters around the Hundred Isles remained peaceful. The Infamous tacked south by southeast, dangerously close to the coast. She had lost sight of the rest of the armada and was about to change heading to rendezvous with the Black City and report a quiet sea.

  L’Rago didn’t like patrol duty. He didn’t like protecting Nicabar’s flank, or watching Kasrin get all the glory. So when his lookout in the crow’s nest spotted a Lissen schooner, L’Rago was glad. He remained cheerful when the lookout spotted another ship.

  But when the captain saw a dozen schooners through his spyglass, he froze. They had come flying out of an inlet like a swarm of angry bees, clearly intending to intercept the Infamous. He could see their metal rams, sharp and gleaming in the sunlight. Around him his men burst into action. L’Rago gave the only order he could.

  “Reverse course!” he cried. “Get us out of here!”

  They were miles from the rest of the fleet, and the schooners were closing in fast. Even the quick-keeled Infamous wouldn’t be able to outrun them. L’Rago ordered his gunnery officers to ready the flame cannons as the Infamous turned hard to starboard, desperately trying to change course. L’Rago closed his eyes, considering his options. If they weren’t so far south, they might have had a chance. If they had spotted the schooners sooner, they might have had a chance. But neither of those things had happened, so they had no chance at all. They couldn’t outpace the schooners, and even with their flame cannons they couldn’t outgun them.

  “We’re not going to make it,” L’Rago whispered.

  Oddly, he thought about Kasrin, and how sure the captain had been about the safety of Lissen waters. Kasrin had agreed with Nicabar, claiming that the bulk of the Lissen fleet was around Crote. For such a clever man, he had made a monstrous miscalculation.

  Hadn’t he?

  “Oh, you filthy skunk,” muttered L’Rago. He put a hand to his mouth, hating himself for being so blind. Then he ordered his first officer to break off their flight.

  “Sir?” blurted the man incredulously. “Why?”

  “We’re going to stand and fight, Dani,” said L’Rago. “And we’re going to die.”

  “Captain, we have to reach the armada!”

  L’Rago shook his head. “We can’t reach them. Even if we did it wouldn’t matter. Something tells me they have their hands full.”

  Lieutenant Dani didn’t argue with his captain. He merely stood beside him, white-faced, and waited for the Lissens to engage. The Infamous got off three good shots, crippling one of the schooners. Then her sisters joined the battle and devoured the cruiser like a school of sharks.

  TWENTY-NINE

  After days of riding, Biagio arrived at Elkhorn Castle. A strong, midday sun hung overhead, lighting the valley and exposing the castle’s ancient walls. Along the road, sheepherders moved their flocks between pastures, prodding them with dogs, which seemed to be everywhere in the Highlands. Donkeys pulled hay carts along the avenue, slowly disappearing up winding mountain roads. It was a picturesque sight and Biagio was heartened. Weary from riding and Barnabin’s stoic company, the scene gave Biagio reason to smile.

  “Finally,” he sighed. He slowed his horse and surveyed their surroundings. Elkhorn Castle was an unremarkable place. It wasn’t splendid like the Cathedral of the Martyrs, or built on a commanding perch like the Black Palace. There were no gigantic towers rimmed with gargoyles, nor anything remotely breathtaking. It was, Biagio surmised, a plain and simple place, perfect for a Highland prince.

  “Shall I ride ahead?” asked Barnabin. “Inform the prince of your arrival?”

  “You will do no such thing,” said Biagio. “I have business with the prince, and I don’t want him put off by pomp. Besides, I stink of the road. I doubt Redburn will even believe I’m the emperor. But he knows you, yes? You will convince him?”

  “I will try. Redburn is a distant relation. But if he thinks I am in league with the Roshann, he may not trust me. The prince cares little for imperials, Lord Emperor.”

  Biagio rode ahead without replying. He had already expected difficulty, and Barnabin’s suspicions were meaningless. The prince would need convincing. So Biagio trotted ahead at a brisk pace, reducing the distance between himself and the castle. He studied its simple architecture, liking the way it nestled naturally between the hills. It seemed part of the landscape, green with moss and brown with lichens, almost disappearing into the background. Redburn flew the crest of his clan from one of the battlements, a scarlet standard bearing golden antlers. Above that flew the Black Flag of Nar. Biagio supposed Redburn flew the Black Flag out of necessity, with no sense of love or loyalty. But it was a good sign nonetheless.

  As he rode, Biagio scanned his surroundings. Elkhorn was a hub of commerce, and there were many men and children on the grounds working the fields and tending to chores, and the sheep bleated loudly with the barking dogs, filling the day with the sounds of farm life. There were riders, too, sharing the wide avenue. Many were on horses, but these didn’t interest Biagio. What did interest him were the elk. Many of the Highlanders were on the backs of antlered deer—great, unusually shaped beasts that bounced as they walked. Though Biagio had seen the elk before on his travels through the Highlands, they had always struck him as odd, and he had never seen a great concentration of them before.

  “Latapi?”

  “Latapi,” Barnabin echoed. “This is their territory. You will see more elk than horses here, Lord Emperor.”

  “Big,” Biagio remarked. “And ugly.”

  “They may not be pretty, but they are swift and fierce fighters. Stronger than horses, and their antlers give them an advantage. You should see them armored for battle, my lord. I tell you, they are a sight!”

  Biagio laughed. “I believe that.” He studie
d one of the beasts as it trotted past, bearing a checker-garbed Highlander. It did indeed look more dangerous than a horse, so Biagio gave it a wide berth. The rider barely glanced at them as he passed. “They don’t seem to mind strangers,” Biagio said. “I wonder if the prince is in residence?”

  “We will find out, my lord,” said Barnabin. “Come.”

  The Highlander rode ahead of the emperor, toward the castle. Biagio followed, letting Barnabin lead him to a place where the road widened into a flat, well-travelled grassland. There were others like Barnabin here, ruddy men all wearing the plaid patchwork of Clan Redburn. The men were busy shoeing horses and elk and unloading carts, or just talking in little groups, hardly mindful of the strangers approaching. Two men were standing by a water barrel, chatting.

  “Greetings, friends,” said Barnabin. “How are you today?”

  One of the pair, a fair-haired and middle-aged fellow, glanced over the pipe in his mouth. “Good day to you,” he replied. “We’re all fine here. Yourselves?”

  Barnabin smiled. “A bit road weary, but perfectly good. We were hoping you could help us. Do you know if the prince is in residence today? We have business with him, and would like an audience.”

  “Business with the prince?” said the man. His gaze shifted between Barnabin and Biagio. “What sort of business would that be?”

  “A grave matter,” said Biagio. “For the prince’s ears only.”

  Barnabin cleared his throat. “Not dangerous, you understand. But it’s delicate and important. We think the prince would like to hear it. You wear his clan colors, I see. You are acquainted with him?”

  “Well acquainted,” said the second man. This one wore the plaid, too, but was far younger than his comrade. He had a glint in his eyes that made Biagio uneasy. He stared up at the emperor, studying him. “Who are you? What is your business with the prince?”

  Biagio didn’t like his tone. “Is the prince here? Or shall we ask someone else?”

  The young man laughed. “You’re an impertinent one! And I can tell from your dress you’re not from around here. You have the look of the southern kingdoms about you. Might you be Dahaaran?”

  “No.”

  “Crotan?”

  Biagio sighed. “It’s been a long ride, friend. And I have important business with your prince. If you don’t want him angered, I’d suggest you fetch him at once. Otherwise I will tell him how you delayed my important news.”

  “Ah,” said the man, nodding. “Very well.” He turned to his friend with the pipe. “Mingo, will you find the prince for me? This pretentious ass has business with him.”

  Biagio was aghast. “How dare you!”

  The man looked up. “I am Prince Redburn, you idiot.”

  Both Highlanders laughed. Biagio cursed. And Barnabin, who obviously hadn’t seen the clan leader in years, quickly dropped down from his horse.

  “Prince Redburn,” he said, bowing. “I beg your forgiveness. I didn’t know it was you. Lord, I am so stupid!”

  “Yes, you are,” said Biagio. He slid down from his mount and grabbed hold of Barnabin’s collar, yanking him upright. “I thought you said you knew him!”

  “I’m sorry, Lord Emperor.”

  Redburn reared back. “Lord Emperor?”

  Biagio let go of Barnabin. “My luck just keeps getting worse and worse, doesn’t it?”

  “Who are you?” demanded the older man. He stepped between his prince and Biagio. “Speak up!”

  “My lord, we have business with you,” Barnabin pleaded. “I swear, we are no danger. We only—”

  “Emperor?” asked Redburn again. Now his study of Biagio became a thorough examination. He stepped forward brushing his comrade aside, and looked at the stranger carefully. “I don’t recognize you, but I have never been to the Black City. Are you Biagio?”

  Biagio straightened. “I am.”

  The older man laughed. “Oh yes, we believe you. You look so regal, my lord!”

  “Be still,” commanded Redburn, putting up his hand.

  “Redburn, please. You can’t believe this nonsense!”

  The prince stared at Biagio. For a moment he looked deep into Biagio’s eyes, then said, “No, you can’t be. Your eyes don’t shine. They’re green, not blue.”

  “Believe it,” said Biagio. “I am no imposter.”

  “But your eyes …”

  “Redburn, stop. You and I have a lot to talk about.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Biagio and the prince were alone in Redburn’s parlor, overlooking the estate’s hills through a wide window. Biagio sat in a plush chair, resting his aching back. The long journey had wearied him, and not having seen a mirror in days, he supposed he looked atrocious. But Redburn hadn’t noticed. In fact, the young ruler had hardly said a word, even during the long walk to the parlor. Servants and siblings had looked at him questioningly, but the prince had refused to answer them. He had lost his earlier joviality, and now was austerely serious. As he prepared tea in the corner of the room, Biagio watched him, puzzled by the silence that seemed so uncharacteristic.

  Surprisingly, Redburn’s parlor was remarkably genteel. Not only did it afford a kingly view of his territory, but it was appointed with well-made furniture and an ample selection of crystal and pewter collectibles lining its shelves. Biagio recognized the handiwork of Almiron, Crote’s renowned silversmith, in the urn upon the mantle, and a portrait of a tasteful nude hung on the southern wall, catching the sunlight that streamed through the window. From its heavy palette and stout brush strokes, Biagio thought it Criisian in origin, a region known for its painters. The portrait was set off by a magnificent, handmade tapestry. As Redburn fiddled in the corner, Biagio considered the collection. These weren’t trappings he expected from a Highlander. But one thing hinted at the true nature of the young prince—the haphazard way the items were massed together. Anyone with a true eye would never have arranged such unrelated things in the same room.

  “This is quite a collection you have,” said Biagio. “I am impressed.”

  “Are you?” asked Redburn as he worked the tea machine. “That pleases me.”

  “Does it?”

  “Of course. Now you have a chance to see the truth about us. We’re not barbarians, after all.”

  Biagio smiled, finding the prince’s weakness. “What’s that you have there? Some sort of steamer?”

  Redburn stepped aside so that Biagio could see. The silver apparatus on the table rattled and hissed.

  “It’s a Dahaaran tea machine,” declared the prince proudly. “You looked weary, so I thought I’d make us some. It’s really very good. Have you ever seen one of these before?”

  Biagio had seen the odd devices many times, and even owned a few himself. But instead of admitting it, he leaned forward, saying, “No, I don’t think so. It certainly is strange looking.”

  “Let me show you how it works.” The prince lifted a lid on the machine’s main bowl. “This is where you pour the water. It’s warmed by the fire, here.” He pointed at the little flame glowing at the bottom, then at the spiraling silver pipe that dripped water into another bowl, the same size as the first. “When the water is heated, it passes through the tea leaves in this container. The process is slow and the temperature is kept perfect by the machine.”

  “Ingenious,” said Biagio. The young man’s enthusiasm was comical. “It must have been very expensive.”

  “I suppose. My father collected most of these items during his travels through the Empire. He’s dead now.”

  “And you keep his collection safe for him?”

  “Something like that. These things have value to me.”

  “Why?”

  Redburn regarded Biagio strangely. “What do you mean?”

  “These are imperial things. It seems odd that you should have them here.”

  “This is part of the Empire, Biagio. Or don’t you in the Black City remember that?”

  “I meant no offense, Prince Redburn.”


  Redburn took two cups from a cupboard and filled them with steaming tea. “I know you,” he said while he worked. “You’re Roshann. You’re trying to analyze me. Well, you can stop your mind games, Emperor. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

  “Really? Now that would be a refreshing change. I get so tired of inquisitions.”

  Redburn handed Biagio a cup and sat in a chair beside him. “My distrust of the Black City is no secret,” he said. “Not here, and not where you come from. I should think you already knew that, assuming you are who you claim.”

  “If you didn’t believe me, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you now.”

  Redburn took a sip of tea. “Try it.”

  Biagio sampled the tea and found it exquisite. “You are right,” he said, feigning surprise. “It’s excellent. But I’m right also, aren’t I, Prince Redburn? You know who I am.”

  “My father once told me about Renato Biagio. He said that Biagio had skin like the sun and hair like gold.”

  “My, how flattering.”

  “He also said that Biagio had eyes like sapphires.” The prince took another sip of tea. “So? What happened to your eyes?”

  “It is a very long story. And rather personal.”

  “Indeed? Well, this is my home, Emperor. This is my personal castle, and I’m granting you my personal time. While you are here, you are no god. I rule the Eastern Highlands—alone. Is that clear?”

  “As a bell,” said Biagio.

  “Good. Now I want some answers. And I don’t want them couched in riddles. I’m guessing that so-called Highlander you arrived with is a Roshann spy. I don’t like spies. I’ve had my fill of them lately, and frankly I’m losing my patience.”

  “I don’t take well to threats, Redburn,” warned Biagio.

  “Really? Well I don’t give a damn. We’ve done remarkably well here in the Highlands without Naren interference. We have peace, and the only thing you can possibly

  be bringing is bad news.” The young man glared at Biagio. “How’s that for analysis?”