The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  Jahl said quickly, “It is no curse to heal, Alazrian. Our Lord healed the sick, and He was without sin.”

  “Heal?” blurted Nagrah. “You are a healer, Alazrian?”

  The boy shrugged. “I guess so. If I touch someone who is ill, I can heal them. I don’t know how it happens, but it does.”

  “Remarkable,” whispered Nagrah. “Perhaps I was wrong about Praxtin-Tar. Perhaps he will welcome you.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Jahl.

  “No more talk now,” said Nagrah. “Rest. In the morning, we will leave for the warlord’s camp. I will explain it to you then.”

  The next morning, as the trio rode out of the village, the cunning-man explained about Crinion, Praxtin-Tar’s son. Nagrah wasn’t even certain if Crinion was still alive. But if he was, and if Alazrian could heal him, it just might convince the warlord to spare the boy and let him see Vantran.

  Jahl Rob didn’t like the plan, but he saw no recourse. They had come hundreds of miles to find Vantran and deliver Biagio’s message, and neither of them was willing to return to Aramoor empty-handed. So Jahl had agreed, and they had left at sunrise, refreshed from a night in the Triin’s quiet home. Now, as they trotted through another of Tatterak’s canyons, Jahl considered his surroundings warily. Alazrian rode ahead, desperate to reach Praxtin-Tar.

  “Is it much farther?” Jahl asked Nagrah. The young man rode beside him at an unhurried pace, swaying on the back of a donkey.

  “We are very close now,” replied Nagrah. He pointed toward a range of craggy hills to the north. “See there? Falindar is past those mountains. From there we will see the warlord’s camp.”

  It wasn’t very far, and Jahl grew nervous. “I hope you’re right about this, priest. I’m supposed to be looking after the boy, not leading him to slaughter.”

  “You are his guardian?”

  “Well, not precisely.”

  “Then why are you here? This business with Kalak—it concerns you, too?”

  “You might say that. The Jackal was my king. I haven’t seen him in a very long time.”

  “You are angry with him,” said Nagrah. “You do not hide it well.”

  “You’re as annoyingly perceptive as the boy. Is that a Triin trait?”

  Nagrah laughed. “A Drol trait, perhaps. If the boy is touched by heaven, then he is Drol, too.”

  “Drol,” scoffed Jahl. “Such nonsense.”

  “You do not believe in heaven?”

  “Of course I do. I’m a priest myself. A real priest.”

  “You?” Nagrah seemed stunned. “This is what a priest of Nar looks like? I am not impressed.”

  “Ha! You could take lessons from me! There is only one God, Nagrah, not a collection of pagan myths.”

  “Lorris and Pris are not myths,” said Nagrah sharply. “They exist.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “Is it? Then how can you explain Tharn? Or young Alazrian, there? You say he is gifted, that he has magic. How do you know his powers have not come from Lorris and Pris?”

  Jahl thought for a moment, then decided he had no answer. “I can’t explain it,” he admitted. “It is a mystery. But God works in wondrous ways. How do you know that his powers haven’t come from my God?”

  Nagrah looked confused. “He is half Triin,” said Nagrah.

  “And half Naren.”

  “Word games,” said Nagrah. “So like a Naren to confuse things.”

  “But you can’t answer me, can you? And that bothers you, doesn’t it? Who knows—maybe I’m right?”

  Nagrah’s sour expression disappeared, and he laughed. “There is no conclusion, I confess. You have me, priest.”

  Satisfied, Jahl trotted alongside his companion for long minutes more. Soon they reached the range of hills guarding Falindar. Nagrah took the lead, taking them up a sloping road and over the rocky hills. Tall walls of granite pressed in on them obscuring the horizon. But before either of them could lose their nerve, the top of the hill was in sight. Nagrah led his donkey to the crown and stood looking out over the horizon.

  “There,” the man declared. “Falindar.”

  “Almighty God,” Jahl whispered. “Look at that.”

  Alazrian raced up to him, breathing hard—then caught his breath when he saw the citadel.

  “Holy Mother …”

  It was blindingly beautiful. Like the fallen Cathedral of the Martyrs, Falindar was miraculous. The castle of silver and brass shone on a mountain precipice proudly defying the ocean a thousand feet below. Jahl crossed himself, and a dream-like state settled over the travellers, but only for a moment. For Falindar wasn’t the only remarkable sight. Around the citadel’s mountain swarmed a mass of men and machines, flying banners and sending up smoke. Nagrah pointed at the encampment.

  “Praxtin-Tar,” he said. He looked at Alazrian. “Are you ready, boy?”

  “I’ve come a long way and been through a lot,” Alazrian replied. “I think I’m ready for anything now.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Alazrian walked toward the camp of Praxtin-Tar, his face darkened by the shadow of Falindar. A hundred pavilions of grey and white dotted the landscape; a thousand men and children spoke in a chorus of gibberish. The banners of the warlord snaked in the breeze, bearing a taloned black bird. Horses and pack animals milled in pens while a blanket of smoke lay across the encampment, coiling up from cooking fires. A siege machine rising like a cobra over the throng drew Alazrian’s attention, its design unmistakably Naren. Warriors sat in huddles throughout the crowd working their weapons with whetstones while slaves struggled with boulders and massive lengths of timbers, and horsemen sat upon muscled stallions, practicing attack runs. Alazrian peered over Nagrah’s shoulder to get a better look. The cunning-man walked slowly, his face deliberate.

  Nagrah halted just outside the camp. A Triin horseman had sighted the trio from atop his mount. For a moment he sat staring in disbelief. Then he called to his fellows and pointed. Soon they were riding forward, followed by a band of walking warriors.

  “Say nothing,” commanded Nagrah. “They know me. I will speak for us.”

  “Good idea,” said Jahl dryly. He moved closer to his horse and the bow slung along its saddle. The Triin galloped out to them, their weapons drawn, their faces fierce. Nagrah stood his ground.

  “Naren!” cried the lead horseman. “Nh’jakk na nalin jai!” He thundered up to the group and dropped down from his mount, shouting at Nagrah. Alazrian didn’t understand his verbal barrage, or Nagrah’s cool retort. Instinctively, Jahl moved in front of him. They were surrounded. The other horsemen swarmed in a circle while the warriors on foot coiled around them like a noose. Alazrian’s hand dropped to the dagger on his belt. Jahl reached out and grabbed his wrist.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he whispered. “Don’t even move.”

  While Nagrah argued, Alazrian let his eyes skip over the warriors. All wore jackets of grey tied with tar-black sashes, and all bore the same duel-bladed weapon; a jiiktar, Falger had called it. But most remarkable of all was the tattoo each of them bore on their cheeks. Burned into the face of every warrior was a black bird, the same symbol flying from the banners in the camp. A raven, Alazrian guessed. Suddenly he was sorry he had come; not only to the camp but to Lucel-Lor at all. Where was Biagio now? he wondered.

  Then another figure bolted out of the camp. This one was thinner than the others, with an emaciated, wild face and long filthy hair. The man scrambled out to them, and Alazrian realized in horror that he wasn’t Triin at all.

  “My God,” exclaimed Jahl. “Who is that?”

  “Rook,” said Nagrah. “Good. He will help us.”

  “Rook?” asked Alazrian. “Who’s he?”

  The warriors stopped arguing as the wildman shouldered past them, coming to a skidding stop in front of Jahl. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open.

  “Sweet Mother of God,” he cried. “You’re Narens!”

  Alazrian and Jahl glanced at each othe
r, bewildered.

  “Yes,” said Jahl. “We are. What are you?”

  The man fell to his knees before Jahl and snatched up his hand. Disgusted, Jahl tried to pull away from the insistent grip.

  “Take me back with you, I beg you! Get me out of here!”

  “Who the hell are you?” Jahl pulled free his hand, but the man wrapped himself around his legs.

  “Please!” he cried. “Get me away from these savages!”

  “Nagrah, who is this?” insisted Alazrian.

  “This is Rook,” repeated the cunning-man. Gently he kicked at the man, trying to dislodge him from Jahl’s leg. “Get up, dog. We have business with your master.”

  “No, please, listen!” He released Jahl’s leg and instead took hold of his belt. “You have to get me out of here. You have to take me back with you. Help me, goddamn it, please …”

  Jahl whirled on Nagrah. “What is this? Who is this man?”

  “He is Rook. A slave.”

  “Slave?” questioned Alazrian. “A Naren?”

  “Captured by the warlord during—”

  “I am Naren!” cried Rook. “I was stranded here during the war. Praxtin-Tar keeps me as his slave. But I’m not a slave. I’m a Naren!”

  “Obviously,” spat Jahl. Alazrian could see the rage building on his face. He turned to Nagrah, heedless of the warriors. “What sort of devil is this Praxtin-Tar? To enslave a man so is—”

  “Hia sar!” barked the lead warrior. He poked at Jahl with his jiiktar, silencing him. Nagrah stepped up and angrily batted at the weapon.

  “Eesay!” he hissed at the warrior. “Praxtin-Tar j’tira miko!”

  There was more back and forth between them. Rook took hold of Alazrian’s leg and listened, panting nervously. What he heard astonished him. He looked up at Alazrian in disbelief.

  “You’re looking for Praxtin-Tar?” he asked.

  “You understand them?”

  Rook nodded. “I speak their filth, or most of it. But why? You must run from here! Go now, while the cunning-man can protect you. Take me with you!”

  “We cannot,” said Jahl. “We have business with the warlord.”

  “Business?” railed Rook. “What the hell …?”

  Alazrian leaned down and whispered, “Rook, can you translate, tell me what they’re saying?”

  “Boy, this is madness. You have to leave, right now!”

  “Shhh,” urged Alazrian. The warriors were watching him. “What are they saying?”

  Exasperated, Rook took a breath and listened. “The cunning-man wants to take you to see Praxtin-Tar,” he explained. He bit his lip as he struggled to decipher the argument. “He says Praxtin-Tar has need of you, that you are very important.” Rook glanced up at Alazrian. “Are you important?”

  “Stop asking questions,” hissed Jahl. “What else are they saying?”

  “It is difficult,” said Rook. He cocked his head. “They do not trust you.”

  “Make them listen, Nagrah,” Jahl urged. “We have to see the warlord.”

  One of the warriors kicked him, sending Jahl sprawling to the dirt. Alazrian hurried over to him. Jahl spat at the warrior’s feet, about to spring into a fighting stance.

  “No!” ordered Nagrah, holding out his hand. “Do not move, Jahl Rob. Do nothing.”

  “Son of a bitch,” growled Jahl, barely holding himself back. “You want to fight, you Triin trash?”

  “Quiet!” roared Nagrah. He whirled on the warrior who’d struck Jahl, taking up fistfuls of his jacket. A burning stream of Triin curses flowed as he shook the warrior. The warrior dropped his jiiktar and held up his hands. Nagrah sneered and pushed him away. Then he turned on Rook. “You will take us to your master, slave,” he commanded. He gestured to the warriors. “And if any of these heretics try to stop us, you will tell Praxtin-Tar that they have robbed him of a great service today. Then Praxtin-Tar will kill them.” He repeated the words in Triin.

  The warriors all lowered their weapons. Alazrian helped Rook to his feet.

  “Nagrah,” he whispered uncertainly, “will they listen to you?”

  The cunning-man straightened his saffron robes. “They know me. I have some influence with the warlord.” He motioned to Rook. “You. Take us to Praxtin-Tar.”

  Rook obeyed. “This way,” he said. “Praxtin-Tar is with his men.” But when they had taken only a few paces, the slave grabbed hold of Alazrian’s arm and whispered, “Help me, boy. You must get me out of here.”

  Alazrian pulled free. “I have to speak to the warlord first.”

  “The warlord won’t listen to you! You have to help me …”

  Nagrah slapped Rook’s head. “Do not talk, Naren. We are not here for your sorry self.”

  Alazrian was mortified. Nagrah seemed to have the same disdain for Narens as the warriors. He fell back a pace, away from Rook, and walked beside Jahl as the slave took them toward the heart of the camp. The warriors on horseback rode at their flanks, looking down contemptuously, while other men and slaves stared at them as they approached. Triin children peeked out from behind their mothers’ skirts, and women with weary faces glared at them over wash basins, their grey eyes lifeless. Were these more slaves? Alazrian wondered. He had already had a taste of Praxtin-Tar’s harshness, and didn’t doubt the warlord would enslave women.

  When they came at last to a huddle of cheering men, Rook stopped and pointed. “Praxtin-Tar is there,” he said to Nagrah. “In the middle. Look.”

  Several dozen warriors were arranged in a circle, shouting at something in the center. Alazrian heard the cheers and cries, and what sounded like an animal growling. Nagrah pushed through the crowd, shoving the warriors aside. Alazrian and Jahl followed. Inside the circle was a spitting cat, as big as a tiger and as white as snow. A long snout was drawn back in a snarl, revealing rows of razor teeth. Its claws were bared and dug into the dirt as it sat back on its haunches, ready to pounce, and its yellow eyes tracked its tormentor as he circled, unarmed except for a length of weighted rope. The man moved like a dancer, slowly, hardly breathing. He wore the ash-grey of Praxtin-Tar’s warriors, but his jacket was torn to tatters, and his bare chest bore the bleeding scars from the beast’s paws.

  “That’s him,” said Rook. “Praxtin-Tar.”

  “What’s he doing?” asked Jahl.

  Rook sneered. “Proving himself.”

  Nagrah shook his head and sighed. “That is a man who wishes to die.”

  Together they watched as Praxtin-Tar stalked the swaying cat—a snow leopard, Alazrian guessed. Known as man-eaters, snow leopards were sought for their pelts by hunters and generally shunned by everyone else. Everyone, it seemed, but Praxtin-Tar. Alazrian watched as the warlord awaited the beast’s attack, moving his hands slowly back and forth. The leopard eyed him uncertainly, then its mouth opened in a hissing roar. Sweat fell from the warlord’s forehead, drenching his chest. He began swinging the rope overhead. Again the cat growled, swiping a lightning-quick paw. Praxtin-Tar backed away. The crowd of warriors laughed.

  “I don’t understand,” said Alazrian. “What’s he doing?”

  “A challenge of strength,” replied Nagrah. “Praxtin-Tar has tried for months to take Falindar, and he has failed. Perhaps he is proving himself to his men.”

  “How stupid,” said Jahl.

  “But he’ll be killed!” exclaimed Alazrian.

  Nagrah chuckled. “I doubt it.”

  Before Alazrian could reply, Praxtin-Tar made his move. He sprang for the leopard, holding the rope between both hands. The cat dodged the attack and brought up a blinding paw, raking the warlord across the arm. Praxtin-Tar howled in rage. Blood oozed from the wound, yet he kept moving. His long arms coiled out like cobras, ensnaring the cat as he barreled into it. Man and beast careened across the ring, smashing into a stand of warriors, sending them scattering. The crowd cheered; Praxtin-Tar howled. He was on his back with the cat against his chest, fighting to hold the beast as it thrashed, swiping its paws and snap
ping its fanged jaws. Praxtin-Tar rolled over, cursing and grunting as he worked the rope around the leopard’s throat. His hands fell in range of the jaws and the teeth came down, slashing his palm. More blood flew. Praxtin-Tar dropped the rope and brought his arm across the leopard’s windpipe. With all his weight he fell upon the cat, crushing it. The leopard ceased thrashing. Its eyes bulged as it struggled for breath. The warriors went wild. Bloody and exhausted, Praxtin-Tar held his choke hold, every vein in his neck swelling. But he did not kill the beast. There was no snapping of bone, no final, violent twist of its neck. Slowly, with monumental effort, the warlord waited for the beast to lose consciousness. A minute later the eyes shut. The head collapsed into the dirt; the leopard lay still.

  “Is it dead?” asked Alazrian, horrified.

  Rook scowled at Praxtin-Tar from the safety of the crowd. “Praxtin-Tar never kills them. He merely masters them.”

  “You mean he does this often?” asked Jahl. “I don’t believe it.”

  “There’s a lot here you won’t believe. You should not have come.”

  Praxtin-Tar knelt beside the unmoving leopard, grimacing as he studied his wounds. Then he tossed back his head and screamed, thrusting a fist skyward. His men stomped their feet and sang in wild praise. A few of them swarmed around the unconscious cat, fixing a collar around its neck and a muzzle over its mouth. The warlord got unsteadily to his feet. He was slick with blood and sweat, and his jacket hung in tatters from his shoulders. A series of wounds striated his chest, dripping blood down his belly and onto his thighs. He staggered forward, favoring his right leg and tucking his wounded hand beneath his armpit. Yet on his face was the most remarkable smile, as if the pain meant nothing and the adoration of his men could heal his many cuts.

  Then he saw the strangers. His brow furrowed for a moment, his eyes skipping over the group. He looked at Rook questioningly, then at Nagrah. When his gaze fell finally on Alazrian, the boy felt his soul shrivel. Praxtin-Tar’s scowl was hard and irresistible, and it bore through Alazrian like a drill. The warlord staggered forward and pointed his wounded hand, growling in Triin.

  “Nin-shasa kith?”