The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  You’re the bloody king! Jahl seethed. It’s your duty!

  “… and if I go, what good can I do? There’s no Triin army for Biagio. Aramoor would be better off without me.”

  Those final words set Jahl in motion. He sprang from the shadows, dagger in hand, and wrapped his arms about Vantran’s neck, dragging him from the stall with the blade at his throat. The horse whinnied in alarm; Vantran kicked like a madman. Jahl flexed his hold and growled, wrenching Vantran backward.

  “You’re right!” he spat. “Aramoor is better off without you!”

  Vantran fought him, trying to break the hold. He gasped for air and tried to scream, but all that came out was a scratchy rasp. Jahl put the tip of the dagger to his cheek and drew a pinpoint of blood to get his attention.

  “Stop,” he warned, “or I’ll gut you like a cat.”

  Vantran stopped his violent writhing and waited in Jahl’s grasp, his chest rising and falling in great gasps.

  “What … are you doing?”

  “Settling an old score,” said Jahl. “You won’t join us? Then you will die!”

  Jahl tightened his grasp, driving Vantran to his knees. The hold had turned the man’s face purple. Much more, and he would suffocate. But Jahl didn’t relent. Putting his lips to Vantran’s ear, he whispered, “You deserve this, traitor. You’re going to pay for what you did to Aramoor.”

  “Burn in hell, priest!” gasped Vantran.

  “Oh, I might. But you’ll be there to greet me!”

  Jahl brought the dagger to Vantran’s throat. The young man closed his eyes and fought anew, but his strength was waning. When he felt the blade against his windpipe, he tried to scream. Jahl drove downward with his weight, ready for the killing stroke—but he couldn’t make the dagger move. Remarkably, his whole body began to shake.

  “I should kill you!” he cried. “Goddamn you, I should!”

  The breakdown was all Vantran needed. He drove an elbow into Jahl’s gut, then smashed his head backward. Jahl cried out in pain and surprise, dropping the dagger to the dirt. Vantran sprang to his feet and kicked Jahl in the chest, driving him backward. But before he could strike again, Jahl rolled and sprang up like a tiger, launching a fist into Vantran’s face. The blow caught the man squarely, sending blood sluicing from a split lip. Vantran staggered briefly, then came charging forward, bellowing in rage. He barreled into Jahl, grabbing him in a wild embrace and pinning him against the stable wall. All the breath shot out from Jahl’s lungs. Vantran’s bloodied face glared at him.

  “Now you die, priest!” he roared. But Jahl wasn’t finished. Blind with rage, he dragged Richius down into the dirt, kicking and screaming and pummelling him. The two rolled over in the filth, exchanging punches, and just when Jahl thought he might best the man, Vantran’s fingers retrieved the fallen dagger. His other hand wrapped around Jahl’s throat.

  “You goddamn murderer,” Vantran seethed. “I should run you through!”

  Jahl was on his back. Beads of sweat dripped from Vantran’s brow onto Jahl’s face.

  “Do it,” Jahl croaked. “Kill me!”

  “God, I should!” said Vantran. His expression was frightful, his face torn with contusions.

  “You bloody coward,” cursed Jahl. “Kill me! Send me to God; please!”

  Vantran hovered over him uncertainly. The dagger slackened in his grasp, and his choke hold relaxed. Jahl looked in his eyes, hating him, desperate to die while he still had the courage to face it. Anything but go back to Aramoor …

  “Why?” asked Vantran. “What did I do to you?”

  Jahl closed his eyes. “How can you ask that? You’ve killed us, Vantran. You’ve ruined us.”

  Then Jahl began to weep. He didn’t know why the tears came, but he was powerless against them. Unable to control himself, he put his hands to his head and sobbed.

  “Goddamn you! Look at me! Look what you’ve done to us!”

  Jahl rolled over and buried his bloodied face in the dirt, unable to stand the sight of his king. Guilt assailed him, the imputation of broken Commandments, and the fury that had possessed him was completely gone, replaced by a brutalizing sorrow. Vantran knelt over him and gently touched his shoulder.

  “You have a right to hate me,” he said softly. “I am cursed, Jahl Rob. I have wronged you; I know that.”

  Still Jahl couldn’t answer.

  “I’m not the King of Aramoor,” Vantran continued. “You’ve come a long way for nothing.”

  “You left us,” Jahl managed. “You ruined us …”

  “I’m sorry …”

  “Sorry? Sorry doesn’t help us! The land bleeds, but you ignore it. Your people die, and you do nothing. You are a Jackal; you truly are.”

  Vantran hung his head. “You don’t understand. I can’t go back to Aramoor. Not after all that’s happened.”

  Jahl seized his hand. “You’re wrong,” he said. “You’re our only hope.”

  “But … I’m afraid.”

  “Be afraid, then. Fear is no sin. The sin comes when we do not act, when we’re too afraid to do what’s right.”

  Richius Vantran smiled ruefully. “My homeland,” he said. “Aramoor …”

  “We need you,” Jahl pleaded. He ignored his blood and tears. “Please.”

  “I have no army.”

  “We will find you one.” Jahl sat up and stared at his king. “You will lead the Saints of the Sword.”

  “They will not welcome me.”

  “They will. By God, I will make them!” Jahl put his hand on Vantran’s shoulders, and the two nearly fell into an exhausted embrace. “You are the king, my lord.”

  Children laughed and dogs barked, and Falindar’s merriment tumbled over its walls, draping the night in goodwill. Praxtin-Tar’s offer of peace had set the besieged to celebrating, and the citadel was alive with candles and torchlight. Music played in the distant courtyard, and from his place overlooking the ocean Alazrian could hear the gleeful laughter of women as they danced. Alazrian had his back to the citadel and his collar turned up against the chill. He picked up a stone and tossed it over the ledge, watching it sail endlessly downward, disappearing into the dark of the ocean.

  Richius Vantran had spurned him. He had travelled many miles for the meeting, enduring Jahl’s prejudice and Shinn’s attempted assassination, and had performed miracles to win Praxtin-Tar’s favor. All these things he had done, only to be turned away. Alazrian’s black mood soured the evening. He was pleased that Praxtin-Tar had suspended his war, but his mission was to bring peace to Nar, not Lucel-Lor. In that he had failed, and it was crushing him.

  Falindar’s shadow settled on his shoulders, pressing on him. Once, the fantastic structure had awed him, but now it was only a monument to his folly, and he wanted no part of it. He didn’t want to dance or be with the Triin—he just wanted to sulk.

  Alazrian laughed bitterly. “If only Leth could see me now. He’d say I was acting like a child.” He picked up another stone and tossed it away. “But I am a child, you idiot.”

  When he returned to Aramoor, he would face his so-called father again, this time as one of Jahl’s Saints. He would take up arms against Leth and do his best to win Biagio’s war. And though he might be killed, death suddenly meant curiously little to Alazrian. Without a mother to love him or a life that provided answers, his whole journey seemed pointless. All he wanted now was to return to Nar at the head of an army. He wanted Leth to see him there, with a sword in his hand.

  And what of his grandfather? What would Tassis Gayle think of him then? he wondered. He didn’t hate the king, not like he hated Leth. He pitied the old man. He was brainsick and grief-stricken, and his dementia had forced the emperor’s hand. In his day, Tassis Gayle had committed his share of atrocities. In fact, he probably deserved death as much as Leth. But there was a pathetic innocence to him. If he had been sane, things would have been different.

  Alazrian looked down at his hands, remembering how Vantran had scolded him. Could
he heal his grandfather? Was that even possible? His powers were considerable, but he didn’t know if they could heal a broken mind the way they could a broken body. Jahl said that the mind was the spirit, and that the spirit was the realm of God.

  “Well, I’m not a god,” said Alazrian. “But maybe …”

  His brow furrowed. Maybe he could help the old man. “Alazrian?” came a voice from the darkness. Startled, Alazrian jumped. Remarkably, it was Praxtin-Tar. The warlord was walking toward him, leaving behind Falindar’s merrymaking for the solitude of the cliffs. His face was perplexed as he studied Alazrian, and he spoke in Triin, asking questions Alazrian couldn’t understand.

  “I’m sorry,” said Alazrian. “I don’t know what you’re asking me.”

  Praxtin-Tar stopped in front of him, then gestured to the nothingness around them.

  “Oh,” said Alazrian. “You want to know what I’m doing out here.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just not in the mood to celebrate.”

  Praxtin-Tar nodded as if he understood. “Kalak higa eyido.” He grinned sardonically. “Kalak?”

  “Yes,” replied Alazrian. “Kalak. He won’t help me, Praxtin-Tar. This whole journey has been for nothing.” He looked down at his feet, feeling sorry for himself. “I shouldn’t have come here. I wasted my time.”

  Suddenly, Praxtin-Tar took hold of his chin and lifted his face so that their eyes met. The warlord’s gaze was furious. “Yamo ta!” he said. “Kkanan Kalak!”

  “I don’t understand,” said Alazrian.

  Praxtin-Tar thrust out his hands.

  “Oh, no,” Alazrian said. “That’s not a good idea.”

  But Praxtin-Tar shook his hands insistently, ordering Alazrian to take them. It was the only way for them to communicate, and they both knew it. So Alazrian relented, reaching for the warlord’s hands and looking into his eyes. A warm embrace rose up to take him, not at all violent or angry. Alazrian melted into the union, and soon heard Praxtin-Tar’s silent voice.

  “You are troubled,” said the warlord. “Do not be.”

  The voice came like a breeze, insubstantial. Alazrian focused his mind to reply.

  “I have failed,” said Alazrian. “I have wasted my time coming here.”

  “You have not! You were gifted to us, to me.”

  “No. I came for a single purpose. I came for the Jackal. But he will not listen to me.”

  With his mind alone, Alazrian imparted the story of how Vantran was supposed to lead a Triin army to Aramoor, and how Biagio was waiting for him. The mere thought of the Naren emperor made Praxtin-Tar shudder, but he held fast and listened to the wordless tale, nodding.

  “Without Kalak, there is no peace. Biagio will fail. There will be war. Do you understand, Praxtin-Tar?”

  “Praxtin-Tar understands war,” said the Triin. “But you do not need Kalak.”

  “But I do. He was to lead a Triin army. His country needs him.”

  “You are not listening. You do not need Kalak. I will come with you.”

  “What?” blurted Alazrian. “What are you saying?”

  “I will be your sword,” declared Praxtin-Tar. “I will lead my warriors in your name, and I will win this battle for you.”

  “Oh, no! You can’t do that. I’m not asking for your help, Praxtin-Tar.”

  “Do not refuse. You have need of me, and I have need of you. I will not abandon you, just as I would not abandon Tharn were he still alive.” Praxtin-Tar’s expression was grave. “You are the door to heaven, boy. You are the proof I have been seeking.”

  “Proof?”

  “That the gods exist; that Tharn was no accident or trick of fate. You are touched by heaven. You must be protected.”

  “Praxtin-Tar, I can’t let you …”

  “You cannot stop me,” said the warlord firmly. “It is my choice.” His face softened. “Before you came, I was without hope. Tharn showed me another life, then he took it away. I have fought to open that door again, but Lorris and Pris have been silent to me. Yet they speak to you. So you must be protected.”

  There was no arguing with the warlord. Alazrian could feel his conviction like a tidal wave flattening all resistance. Praxtin-Tar was pledging himself, body and soul. For him, it wasn’t friendship or the love of war. It was something holy.

  “If you do this, you could be killed,” Alazrian warned. “Your men, too. My grandfather is strong, and he has allies. Defeating him will not be easy.”

  Praxtin-Tar grinned. “Praxtin-Tar fears no Naren,” he boasted. “We will battle and we will win. I will make you king of your country.”

  “No, that’s not what I want. I’m not doing this for the throne. If I can, I might even be able to save my grandfather.”

  A disapproving rumble came from the warlord’s throat. “Do not be sentimental. To win a war, you must be ruthless.”

  “He’s my grandfather, Praxtin-Tar. I have to try.”

  Praxtin-Tar nodded. “If you must. But if you fail, I will slay him personally. You can make a trophy of his head.”

  Oh, God, thought Alazrian. He’s a butcher, too. Then he realized that Praxtin-Tar had caught the thought.

  “I’m sorry,” he offered. “I am not a warrior, I guess.”

  “Warriors are made up of sun and moon,” said the warlord. “Lorris is the strength, the anger. Pris is the compassion and the strategy. You are more like Pris.”

  Alazrian laughed. “My father would agree with you.” The warlord gave the boy a steady look. “You have saved my son, but you have also saved my soul. I will be your protector, wherever you go.”

  “No, Praxtin-Tar, I don’t need a slave.”

  “I am no man’s slave,” retorted Praxtin-Tar. “I am a servant of Lorris and Pris, as you are.” He glanced up into the starry sky. “I had thought they called me for other things, but now I see my fate.”

  “Then I accept your help, gladly,” said Alazrian. “And I give you my thanks.”

  He released the warlord’s hands, then saw another figure staggering out of the darkness. Praxtin-Tar turned in alarm, but relaxed when he realized it was Jahl Rob. The priest had an uneasy gait, like he was exhausted or drunk, and when Alazrian saw the bruises on his face, he knew something was wrong.

  “My God, Jahl,” he cried. “What happened to you?”

  “Vantran,” said Jahl through a crooked smile. “We had a bit of a tussle.”

  Alazrian pointed to the contusion on his cheek. “He did that to you?”

  “And more,” replied Jahl. To Alazrian’s shock, he didn’t seem angry. “Vantran fights like a wild boar.”

  “But what happened? Why were you fighting?”

  “It’s great news, boy,” said Jahl. His smile was wider than the ocean. “Vantran is coming with us. He’s going to join the Saints!”

  “What?” Alazrian laughed, shaking his head. “God, what a night. And now we have an army, Jahl. Praxtin-Tar is going to help us. He’s going to march his men to Aramoor, to join the battle.”

  Rob looked at the warlord in disbelief. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I mean, did he say that?”

  “He did,” said Alazrian flatly. “They’re going to be our army, Jahl. Maybe all your praying finally did some good.”

  The priest crossed himself. “Thanks be to God.” He looked up into heaven, laughing. “Thank you, Lord! I will deliver Aramoor for You, I swear it!”

  “It’s just like Biagio wanted, Jahl,” said Alazrian. “We’re his alliance now, all of us.”

  “No,” corrected Jahl. He was still gazing skyward. “We’re not Biagio’s army. We’re the Saints of the Sword.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Alazrian spent the next two days shuffling between Falindar and the camp of Praxtin-Tar. There were plans to make and supplies to gather, and all manner of questions to answer. Praxtin-Tar had delivered a stirring speech to his warriors, telling them that they were about to embark on a glorious journey. It was a war for Lorris and Pris, he told them, a struggl
e to aid their mortal ambassador, Alazrian. Praxtin-Tar did not tell his men that they were going to free Aramoor, or that the peace of Nar was at stake. He merely worked the horde like a magician, and because his men adored him, they obeyed. The warriors of Reen spent the next two days sharpening jiiktars and preparing themselves for the long march westward. Under their raven banner and the steely eyes of their warlord, they readied themselves to fight for their fickle gods.

  Surprisingly, Richius Vantran had come down from his apartment in Falindar to be with Praxtin-Tar’s warriors. The Jackal did not explain his silence to anyone, but it was agreed that he was worried for his wife and child, whom he would once again be leaving. It was said among the warriors that Vantran had never really become a Triin despite his giant efforts and that his heart truly belonged to Aramoor, no matter his claims to the contrary. At their meetings in Praxtin-Tar’s pavilion, Alazrian watched the Jackal carefully, studying his moods. Even as they discussed strategies for freeing his homeland, Vantran was a thousand miles away, fretting for his wife and daughter. Surprisingly, it was Jahl Rob who tried to comfort the king. Since convincing Vantran to join them, Jahl spent much of the time shadowing the Jackal, forcing him to smile when he didn’t want to and making bold claims about victory. Vantran endured Jahl’s company with good humor, but Alazrian knew he was hurting.

  On the evening before their departure, Alazrian went back to Falindar one last time. It was early and Vantran was still in the camp making final preparations for the long march, but Alazrian knew the Jackal would be returning for the night. Before he did, Alazrian hoped for some private time with Vantran’s wife. Seeing the Jackal with a foot in two worlds had snapped something inside him. All the travelling, all the worrying, all the planning of the past two days had buried the other part of his mission, but now Alazrian remembered his promise to his mother, and it drove him on.

  So he dressed himself in clean clothes, left the encampment without Praxtin-Tar or Jahl noticing, and rode toward the citadel of Falindar. The brass gates were still guarded but he passed through them easily, recognized by the guardians, and soon found himself in the outer ward where an eager Triin boy took care of his horse for the price of a smile. Nervous about seeing Dyana, Alazrian smoothed down his hair and considered what he would say to her. As he walked through the splendid halls, he remembered Falger, the rebellious Triin he had met in Ackle-Nye, and how he had promised the man he would give a message to Dyana. He would use that as a pretext, Alazrian decided, then ease into his questions. And Dyana Vantran seemed like such a gentle lady. Surely she wouldn’t turn him away.