The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  According to the map, this was the last village they would reach before Falindar. Jahl looked out over the hills hoping to see the ocean, but it was still too far away, and the northern horizon was blocked by mountains.

  “It’s small,” observed Alazrian. “I hope they have room for us.”

  “Me too,” said Jahl wearily, but he wasn’t worried. Most of the villages they had come across had been small, and only a few had turned them away. So far, Jahl had found the folk of Tatterak generous with their meager possessions. Though almost none of them spoke the tongue of Nar, they had nevertheless been fascinated with their imperial visitors.

  “We’re getting very close now,” said Alazrian. He studied the map. “It may be different here so close to Falindar.”

  “So close, and we still can’t see the damn thing.” Frustrated, Jahl shook his head. “Let’s get down there. I don’t care if they have only a bed of nails to sleep on—I’ll take it.”

  Alazrian folded the map, stuffed it into his pocket, then took hold of Flier and led him toward the edge of the hill. Jahl, who had also dismounted, looked around for a suitable place to descend, at last finding a smooth grade flat enough for them to go down. He took the lead and started down the slope, carefully guiding his skittish horse along. His mount looked terrible, and the torturous ride showed in his coat and brown eyes. Jahl doubted that either beast could make the trip back to Aramoor, and the thought of being stranded in Lucel-Lor frightened him.

  Gradually his horse found its footing, going down the hill carefully. Flier did the same, and soon both beasts and men were safely at the foot of the hill. They could see people on the outskirts of the village tending the fields and animals. So far, no one had noticed them. Jahl wasted no time going forward. Alazrian kept pace, studying the village with his usual eagerness. He was a good boy, and days of travelling had helped to allay Jahl’s fears of Alazrian’s magic. He had even given the boy some lessons with the bow. Alazrian was a hopeless archer, but his enthusiasm was real. It was a pity that he’d been raised by Elrad Leth.

  As they drew nearer the village, Jahl said, “Let me do the talking, Alazrian, all right?”

  “You always do.”

  “And we’ve done pretty well so far, don’t you think?”

  Alazrian was diplomatically silent. He let Jahl lead them toward the village, and when the first of the Triin saw them, the priest gave a careful wave.

  “N’nakk,” he called out, a Triin word Falger had taught them meaning “friend.” So far, that little bit of language had gone a long way to making them welcome. The villagers dropped their hoes, shocked by the approaching Narens. It was the same thing every time, and Jahl was used to it now. “N’nakk,” he repeated. “Friends. Don’t be afraid.”

  The Triin called out to each other, warning the village about the strangers. A small crowd began to gather. Jahl glanced at Alazrian and saw that the boy was smiling.

  “You like this, don’t you?” he whispered.

  Alazrian shrugged. “A little.”

  They walked toward the outskirts of the village, which quickly filled with curious faces. They were like all the others Jahl and Alazrian had encountered so far—bone-white and inquisitive. In fact, the children were the worst offenders, always grabbing at their clothes and demanding attention. As if on cue, a group of boys surged forward, surrounding Jahl.

  “All right, easy there,” said Jahl, trying to smile. “You can shout all you want, but unless one of you speaks Naren, we’re out of luck.” He hurried toward the adults, spreading out his hands in friendship. “N’nakk,” he told them. “Friends. You understand, yes?”

  An old Triin with a wrinkled face stepped forward, examining Jahl intently. “Naren,” he whispered. “Vin shaka too Naren.”

  “Yes, Naren,” said Jahl. “N’nakk. We’re travellers.” With his fingers he pantomimed walking. “Travellers. Going to Falindar.”

  “Falindar?” The old man reared back, looking at his fellow farmers. He spoke to them rapidly, and when he had finished he turned back to Jahl and frowned. “Kalak? H’jau voo Kalak?”

  “He’s asking about Kalak,” said Alazrian. “Vantran.”

  The man nodded quickly. “Vantran!”

  “Yes,” said Jahl. “We’re looking for Kalak. Kalak’s in Falindar. But we need rest first. Can you help us?”

  Again the man conferred with his peers, leaving Jahl to the inquisitive children, who started going through his saddlebags. Jahl shooed them away.

  “Little beggars,” he grumbled. “Alazrian, maybe you should study Triin instead of archery. Then you can teach these whelps some manners.”

  “They’re just children, Jahl.” Alazrian himself had no trouble with the children, who seemed less interested in him than they did the priest. Jahl continued listening to the Triin, wondering what they were saying. Finally, the old man went to him again.

  “Nagrah,” he said. He took a step toward the village, then waved at Jahl to follow. “Nagrah.”

  “Nagrah?” Jahl glanced at Alazrian. “What’s that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s their word for rest.”

  “Lord, let’s hope so.”

  They followed the old man into the heart of the village where even more people came out to gape. All around them rose buildings of hide and timbers, beautifully built and maintained. Like all the Triin villages they had seen, this one was immaculate, perfectly ordered and without vermin of any kind. Jahl was impressed by its simplicity. Everything in Lucel-Lor was pointedly different from Nar.

  The old man came to a halt in the center of town. Another Triin was hurrying toward them, this one young and wearing a stunned expression. He had obviously been roused from other business, because he continued to dress as he approached, pulling on a saffron robe. The crowd noticed him and began to murmur “Nagrah.”

  “Ah, that’s Nagrah,” said Jahl, understanding. “Some sort of leader maybe, like Falger?”

  “He looks like a priest,” Alazrian observed. Then he started laughing. “Looks like you’ve found a friend here after all, Jahl.”

  As the man came forward the other Triin parted to let him approach. He was very young, not much older than Alazrian, and his golden-grey eyes probed the strangers carefully. Jahl mustered a smile.

  “Nagrah. Is that your name?”

  The man hesitated, his gaze narrowing. Then he replied, “I am Nagrah.”

  “You speak Naren?”

  “Naren. Yes.” Nagrah looked them up and down. “You are Naren. Who are you?”

  “I am Jahl Rob, of Aramoor. This is Alazrian Leth, from Talistan. We’re both from Nar. The Empire. You understand me, yes?”

  “I understand. You are travellers?”

  “Yes,” said Alazrian. “We’re friends. We just need a place to rest a while. Please. We’ll even pay. We have some gold if—”

  “You cannot stay here,” said Nagrah gruffly. “Go quickly. You are not welcome here.”

  Without thinking, Jahl retorted, “We’re not turning back. We can’t. Please, you heard the boy. All we want is a place to stay, just for the night. Tomorrow we’ll be on our way.”

  “Yes, to Falindar,” spat Nagrah. “Are you a fool? Do you not know what is in Falindar?”

  “Richius Vantran,” answered Alazrian. “That’s why we’re going; we have to find him.”

  The Triin regarded Alazrian strangely. “You have need of Kalak? Why?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Jahl. He looked around at all the staring faces. “And this really isn’t the place to talk about it.”

  Nagrah’s face grew cold. “Falindar is dangerous. You are foolish to go there. You will not reach Kalak. There is war in Falindar.”

  “We already know about the warlord,” said Jahl. “It doesn’t matter. We have to go.”

  The Triin shook his head. “You are just like Kalak. All Narens know everything. So smart, they cannot see danger.” Then he sighed, saying, “Very well. Come with me. There is a
place we can talk.”

  “You know Vantran?” asked Alazrian hopefully.

  Nagrah stalked off without answering. In clipped tones he gave orders to the other Triin, who quickly took the horses and herded the travellers after him. Jahl and Alazrian followed without question, letting the young man take them to a modest house in the center of the village near a well and a laundry line burdened with wet clothing. Here the crowd hung back.

  “My home,” Nagrah said, gesturing to the cottage.

  “We will talk here.” Then he broke into Triin again, dispersing the crowd and apparently telling the old man to look after the horses. The man nodded to Nagrah, walking away with the beasts in tow.

  “Where’s he going?” Jahl asked.

  “You have been cruel to your horses,” said Nagrah. “They look about to die. They will be watered and given feed. They need rest. So do you, it seems.”

  “We would be most grateful for it,” Jahl acknowledged. “If we can spend the night here, we’ll be on our way in the morning.”

  “On your way to Falindar,” he said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Then we have things to talk about,” said the man. “Come in.”

  He led them into a remarkably small but comfortable-looking home, with white paper walls and delicate woodwork and a shelf in the corner bearing a collection of clay statuettes. Sunlight and fresh air poured in from an un-shuttered window, festooned with flowering vines. A crimson carpet lay on the floor, threadbare but warm, along with some pillows and two hard-backed chairs. There was also a mattress tucked out of the way. It, too, lay on the floor. When Jahl saw the spartan appointments, he thought again about what Alazrian said—this really did look like a priest’s home.

  Alazrian seemed intrigued by the place. He drifted through the main chamber, reaching out to touch everything and stopping just shy. Nagrah watched him as he explored, leaving Jahl to wonder if the man had sensed the boy’s Triin blood.

  “I can use something to drink,” said Jahl. “Water or anything. We’ve been on the road some time.”

  “First talk, then drink,” said Nagrah firmly. He gestured to the floor and pillows. “Sit.”

  Jahl hesitated. Alazrian dropped to the floor and sat back on one of the pillows. Nagrah did the same, and the two looked up at Jahl, waiting for him. The pagan household made Jahl uneasy, but he sat down anyway, looking at Nagrah.

  “My friend here thinks you might be a priest,” he said, trying to break the ice. “Are you?”

  “I am a cunning-man,” replied Nagrah. “A Drol holy man. But the Naren word for it is priest, yes.”

  “Drol,” echoed Alazrian, nodding. “Yes, I read about you. When I was in the Black City there was a book—”

  “Alazrian,” interrupted Jahl, “not now.” He smiled at Nagrah. “You speak our tongue very well. I’m curious to know how you learned. Were you ever in the Empire?”

  “No,” said Nagrah. “But my former master was in Nar. He learned the tongue of Nar, and I learned it from him. He was a great teacher.”

  “What happened to him?” asked Alazrian.

  “Dead. Some time ago now.” Nagrah thought for a moment. “Two years, maybe more.”

  “Two years?” said Alazrian. “Was Tharn your master?”

  “You know Tharn?”

  “Oh yes! Everyone in Nar has heard about Tharn. He’s one of the reasons I came here, to find out about him!”

  “Alazrian …”

  “Tharn is dead,” said Nagrah. Then he touched his chest and smiled. “But he lives on, in here.”

  “Will you tell me about him? Please? I really want to know. Anything you can—”

  “Alazrian, stop,” ordered Jahl. “Just hold on for a moment, all right? There’s a lot we want to know, but this isn’t the time for a history lesson.” He turned back to the Triin, saying, “Nagrah, you wanted to speak to us privately. Why?”

  “Because you say you know Kalak,” said the priest. “How do you know him?”

  “I’m from Aramoor,” explained Jahl. “Richius Vantran was my king.”

  “He is no king, not anymore.”

  “No,” agreed Jahl. “But we must see him. It’s very urgent.”

  Nagrah gave a mocking grin. “How have you come this far and not learned the danger you are in? Falindar is at war. The warlord Praxtin-Tar lays siege to the citadel. You cannot reach Kalak.”

  “But he is there in Falindar, right?” asked Alazrian.

  “Yes, Kalak is in Falindar. But Falindar is surrounded. There is no way to reach him.”

  “But it’s important,” said Alazrian. “We must reach Vantran. If we can talk to Praxtin-Tar, maybe we can make him understand. We don’t want any part of his war. We just want to speak to Vantran.”

  “You are not hearing me,” said Nagrah. “Praxtin-Tar hates Richius Vantran. He hates all Narens. He will never let you pass. If you go to Falindar, he will kill you.”

  Jahl nodded, suddenly understanding. “That’s why you didn’t want us to stay here. Because we might endanger your village.”

  “Praxtin-Tar sends warriors here sometimes for food and supplies. If you are discovered here, the warlord might take his revenge. I am not afraid of Praxtin-Tar, but the others fear him. And you should, too. If you are found, you will certainly die.”

  “Great,” said Jahl. “You hear, Alazrian? We’ve come all this way for nothing.”

  Alazrian refused to believe it. “No, there has to be a way, Jahl. We can’t let this journey be a waste.”

  “Didn’t you hear him, boy? Falindar is surrounded by warriors.”

  “I don’t care.” Alazrian gave Nagrah an imploring look. “Please, Nagrah, you’ve got to help us. Isn’t there some way we can reach Kalak? Some way to get a message to him?”

  “What is this business you have with Kalak? What is so important?”

  Alazrian was about to speak, but Jahl snapped, “Don’t answer that. Look, clever-man, or whatever you are—I don’t want to tell you our whole life stories. We’ll go on to Falindar, whether you like it or not. We don’t need your help. So—”

  “Cunning-man,” Nagrah corrected. “I am a cunning-man. But how could you know that? You are not Triin.”

  “You’re damn right I’m not.”

  “But this one understands.” Nagrah smiled at Alazrian. “You know our words, boy, yes?”

  Both Jahl and Alazrian froze. The cunning-man rose and went to Alazrian, kneeling down before him. Then he put out his hands and touched Alazrian’s face, tracing his fingers over its contours. Alazrian stayed very still, and his eyes locked with Nagrah’s.

  “Are you Naren?” asked Nagrah. “Or are you Triin?”

  When Alazrian’s eyes widened, Nagrah nodded.

  “Yes, I knew. Your Triin blood shows, young one. In your hair, in your eyes. I can feel it when I put my hands on you.”

  Alazrian gasped. “You can feel it?”

  “That’s enough,” ordered Jahl. “Let go of him.”

  Nagrah dropped back. “Once I saw him clearly, I knew the boy had Triin blood.” He looked straight at Alazrian. “Falindar is a special place to our people. Is this why you seek it?”

  Alazrian glanced at Jahl.

  “Go ahead,” said Jahl grudgingly, “Tell him.”

  “You are right,” Alazrian confessed. “My father was a Triin. His name was Jakiras, but I never met him.”

  “I know of no one named Jakiras in Falindar,” said Nagrah.

  “No, that’s not why I came. I want to find out more about myself. Richius Vantran can help me. He knew Tharn, like you did.” Alazrian grew earnest. “I want to learn about magic.”

  Nagrah’s eyebrows rose. “Magic? What do you know of magic?”

  “Tharn was a sorcerer,” said Alazrian. “I think I have magic, too.”

  “Tharn was touched by heaven, boy. He was no sorcerer doing tricks.”

  “I know,” said Alazrian. “But I can do things, just like he did. I can
read a person’s thoughts by touching them. Here, let me show you …”

  Nagrah jumped back. “Do not show me anything.” His gaze sharpened. “This cannot be. Tharn was very special. He was chosen by Lorris and Pris. You cannot be like him.”

  “He is,” insisted Jahl. “Believe it or not, you’ve got another one on your hands, priest. That’s why Alazrian came here. He wants to find out about himself.”

  “And that is all?”

  “No,” said Jahl. “We also have a mission. We need to get to Vantran.”

  Nagrah scowled. “So you have said. But Alazrian, you have come a long way for nothing. Tharn is a mystery to me, still. He was my teacher, but I never understood him. If you think Kalak can help you understand him, you are wrong.”

  “I have to try,” said Alazrian. “If Vantran can help me learn about Tharn, then fine. But even if not, we still have need of him.” The boy reached out for Nagrah, who still wouldn’t take his hand. “Please, it’s too much to explain, but you have to believe us. We must reach Vantran. Can you help us?”

  “You said you’re not afraid of Praxtin-Tar,” pressed Jahl. “Why not?”

  “The warlord is a fool. Like you, Alazrian, he wants to solve the riddle of Tharn. That is why he lays siege to Falindar. Tharn ruled Lucel-Lor from there. Now the warlord wants to rule. But he never will, because he is not touched by heaven.”

  “Is he evil?” asked Alazrian.

  “Not evil. Just ignorant. But it makes him do cruel things. You must believe me, both of you. Praxtin-Tar hates Narens, and he will not welcome you. Unless …” Nagrah furrowed his brow. “Boy, if you are touched by heaven as you claim, Praxtin-Tar may listen to you. He seeks the same as you, it seems. He may accept you.”

  “Will you take us to him?” asked Alazrian. “Please, if we could just talk to him, I know I can convince him of my gifts.”

  Nagrah grinned. “Gifts? Is that what you call them? Tharn often referred to his powers as a curse.”

  A sad expression crossed the boy’s face. “I really don’t know what to call my powers. That’s why I agreed to this mission.”