The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  “Looks like thirty-five or forty men.” He retracted his head and sat up. “What the hell are they doing?”

  “They expect us,” surmised Alazrian. The boy had insisted on scouting with Richius and Jahl, and had done an admirable job of scaling the ridge. His face twisted as he added, “My father probably wants to protect himself. I’ll bet Biagio has started his war with Talistan.” He turned to Praxtin-Tar, and quickly explained his deduction, making an arcane connection by touching hands. As Alazrian’s words flowed into him, the warlord snorted.

  Alazrian grinned. “Praxtin-Tar says that fifty Talistanian dogs are of no concern to him. He says that we will flood them like a river.”

  The warlord looked at Richius, saying, “Kalak, foo noa conak wa’alla.” He jabbed a thumb proudly into his chest. “Eo uris ratak-ti.”

  “What did he say?” asked Jahl.

  “Praxtin-Tar doesn’t want Richius wasting himself with these weaklings,” replied Alazrian. “His words, not mine. Anyway, Richius, he thinks you should save your strength for the battle at the castle.”

  Richius peered down at the horsemen, wondering how many more they would face. Their goal was to make a lightning drive to the castle, taking control of it before Talistan could send reinforcements. That meant they had to move quickly. Regrettably, the soldiers camped at the mouth of the run had ruined any chance of surprise.

  “Richius,” whispered Jahl, “Praxtin-Tar is right. We can overwhelm them, kill them all before they can warn Leth.”

  “You mean slaughter them, don’t you, Jahl?” said Richius. “Do you hear yourself? You’re a priest, for God’s sake.”

  “This is war,” said Jahl indignantly. “And anyway, what choice do we have? We can’t let them reach the castle.”

  “No,” said Richius, shaking his head. “I won’t have a massacre. Remember, we want Leth to surrender. Once he sees how many warriors we have, he’ll have no choice.” He glanced at Alazrian. “Don’t you think?”

  Alazrian shrugged. “I don’t know. My father … Leth, I mean; he won’t care how many of his soldiers die. If he thinks my grandfather will send help, he may never surrender.”

  “And then he’ll be holed up in that castle with no way to get at him,” added Jahl. “I’m telling you, Richius, we have to get those horsemen. All of them.”

  Richius thought about the dilemma, weighing his options.

  Praxtin-Tar’s warriors could easily defeat the horsemen. But that wasn’t the homecoming Richius wanted.

  “We’ll battle it out at the castle if we have to,” he said. “And if these horsemen want a fight, we’ll give them one. Otherwise we’ll make them surrender.”

  He could tell Jahl was disappointed, but the priest acquiesced nonetheless. “All right,” agreed Jahl. “Then we’ll have to get the warriors into position, let those soldiers see what they’re up against.”

  Richius grinned. “Definitely.” He turned to Praxtin-Tar and began speaking in Triin. “Praxtin-Tar, this is what I want you to do …”

  Richius rode at the head of a column, leading Jahl and the Saints of the Sword out of the Saccenne Run and onto the soil of his homeland. A tattered Aramoorian flag blew above them held aloft by Ricken. Fifty yards away, the Talistanians milled aimlessly around their camp—until they saw the Saints emerging from the mountains.

  “Holy mother!” someone shouted.

  All at once bedlam broke out. The horsemen ran to their steeds, drawing steel. Richius led his party toward them at a leisurely trot. He didn’t bother drawing his own sword or warning his men of danger. Jahl had a wild smile on his face and his bow slung arrogantly on his back. As he trotted beside Richius, he gave his king a cocky wink.

  “Here they come …”

  “Look sharp,” said Richius. For the first time in months he felt truly alive. Once again, Aramoor was beneath him, filling his soul with the vigor of his birthright. At that moment, he could have faced an army of horsemen.

  “I wish Alazrian was here,” said Jahl. “It’s his homecoming, too.”

  “Soon enough,” said Richius. He, too, would have liked the boy as part of their group, but they were saving that particular surprise for when they faced Leth. As he watched the horsemen gathering to oppose them, he called over his shoulder, “Hold that flag high, Ricken. Let’s make sure those bastards see it!”

  Ricken responded by howling and waving the banner back and forth, a tactic that irked the horsemen. They had mounted now and were hurrying forward, determined to cut down the Aramoorians. Richius arched his back, facing them with a wicked smile.

  “You there!” he called. “Looking for us?”

  For a moment, the Talistanians didn’t know what to make of their opponents. They slowed from a gallop to a trot, then came to a circumspect stop a few yards before the Saints. Their leader, a captain by his uniform, waved his saber at Richius.

  “Halt!” he cried from behind his helmet. “Don’t move!”

  Richius stopped his horse, then ordered his company to do the same.

  “You’re on my land, Talistanian,” he said.

  The soldiers glanced at each other. The captain cocked his head at Richius. “Your land? Who the hell are you?”

  “I am Richius Vantran, King of Aramoor, and I’m here with the Saints of the Sword to take back my country.”

  The captain began laughing, an awful guffaw quickly echoed by his troops. “Vantran? I don’t believe it! The Jackal has returned.” He pointed at the tattered flag. “You think that rag gives you authority? It’s meaningless here, boy. This is Talistan now!”

  “No,” corrected Richius icily. “This is Aramoor. And it’s not our flag that gives us authority.”

  He put two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. “This does!”

  Overhead on the rocks and ledges, Praxtin-Tar’s warriors popped into view. They loomed over the Talistanians with bows drawn, a wall of white flesh creeping over the peaks. The captain tilted his head skyward, nearly falling from his steed. A groan issued from his helmet.

  “That’s a whole army of Triin warriors,” said Richius. “Now, drop your weapons, or I’ll give the order to fire.”

  The captain scowled. “Good trick, Jackal. But you can’t defeat us all.”

  “I think we can.” Jahl Rob took his own bow from his back, nocked an arrow, and closed one eye, aiming for the horseman. “You heard the king. Drop your weapons, or as God as my witness, I’ll kill you.”

  The saber trembled in the captain’s hand. A disquieted hush fell over his troops. High above, the warriors from Reen kept their arrows trained on their enemies. Richius still didn’t bother drawing his sword.

  “My fingers are getting tired!” warned Jahl. “Drop it, butcher, right now.”

  The captain let his sword fall to the ground. “All of you,” he called to his men, “drop your weapons.”

  The soldiers obeyed, tossing down their swords. Still, Jahl kept his arrow ready.

  “Now dismount,” he ordered. “Get off your horses and step aside.”

  “Do it,” Richius said. “To the left, nice and orderly.”

  As their captain dismounted, the other soldiers did the same, except for one in the rear of the company, who suddenly turned and bolted. Jahl cursed and loosed his arrow, missing the rider by inches. The captain watched his man escape, laughing.

  “Ha! He goes to warn Governor Leth.”

  “Damn it!” spat Jahl. “Richius, I’m sorry …”

  “Don’t be,” said Richius. “Now we’ve got forty more horses. We can use them.”

  “But that bastard will warn Leth!”

  Richius didn’t care. He cupped his hands to his mouth, shouting after the fleeing soldier, “Yes, run back to your master, dog! Tell him the King of Aramoor has returned!”

  In the courtyard of Aramoor castle, under the shade of a maple and the disinterested gaze of sparrows, Elrad Leth and Shinn sat at a round, wrought-iron table, playing cards. The sun was hot and hig
h, and the breeze off the yard did little to cool them. Next to Leth on the table sat an icy glass of fruit juice, the dew condensing on the glass. Except for a slave that brought the two men drinks, the courtyard was empty. Far in the distance, a company of Talistanian horsemen chased wooden balls with their lances. Leth could hear their cheers as they practiced, happy to be outside on such a fine day. Happy too, he supposed darkly, not to be in Talistan, on the border of the Eastern Highlands. There was war on the border today, but here in Aramoor they were far removed from the bloodshed, safe to play cards and sip fruit drinks. Today the governor had only one simple mission—to keep the Saints of the Sword from taking advantage of the situation in Talistan. Leth had already sent a company of horsemen to the Saccenne Run, and with their companions drilling nearby, he felt perfectly safe.

  Across the table, Shinn drew a card from the deck and studied his hand. As always, he barely spoke. Leth wondered what was going on behind his steely eyes. Shinn was an excellent bodyguard and something of a friend, but he rarely confessed his feelings. When he had learned that Tassis Gayle would be fighting the Highlanders without any help from Aramoor, the Dorian hadn’t even shrugged. But that didn’t mean he didn’t think about it.

  The governor glanced up at the sun. “Late,” he observed. “Tassis probably has the Highlanders mopped up by now.”

  Shinn merely contemplated his cards.

  “Don’t you think?” probed Leth. “Don’t you think Gayle has defeated Redburn by now?”

  The Dorian at last looked up from his cards. “It’s not that late.”

  Leth shrugged. “Gayle has them outnumbered. I’m sure he can beat them easily. Hell, the savages might even have surrendered.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Do you?”

  “It’s your turn. Do you want another card?”

  Leth took a card. Hardly glancing at it, he slipped it into his hand. He had been glad not to be involved in Tassis’ bloody campaign. The Highlanders were vicious and skillful, and he didn’t really believe they would surrender. There was a battle raging, and being far from the bloodshed pleased Leth. It also made him a bit uneasy. He laid down his cards.

  “I’m not a coward, Shinn,” he said as he displayed his hand.

  “No,” replied Shinn. The bodyguard laid down his own hand. “Just a very bad card player. You lose again.”

  Leth didn’t bother to curse. He didn’t care about the stupid game. His whole mind was occupied with thoughts of Talistan. He should have been willing to fight for his homeland, instead of being content with hiding. Telling himself that he was defending Aramoor against the Saints had done little to ease his conscience. Now, as he sat drinking fruit juice and playing cards, he actually felt guilty.

  “They don’t need us, though,” he said offhandedly. “I mean, they have Wallach and the Voskans. We’d only be in the way.”

  “If you say so.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Shinn said, “Look, I go where I’m paid to go. I don’t really care if you want me to fight or play cards. Either way, I get my money.”

  “But you wouldn’t be afraid to fight the Highlanders? Wouldn’t you rather be here, safe and out of the way?”

  “You said yourself, the Highlanders are outnumbered. They won’t defeat Gayle. So what’s to be afraid of?”

  “Shinn?” said Leth.

  “Yes?”

  “You talk too much.”

  Leth rose to stretch his legs and let out a yawn. Even beneath the shade, the heat of the day had made him weary. While Shinn gathered up the cards, Leth gazed out across the grounds. Past the drilling horsemen, another rider was approaching, galloping at desperate speed. He was yelling something.

  “Shinn …”

  “I see him,” said the Dorian, getting to his feet.

  “The Saints?”

  “Oh, they’d be crazy to try anything.”

  But crazy described Jahl Rob and his outlaws precisely. That they might try to take advantage of the chaos in Talistan didn’t surprise Leth at all. What did surprise him was the lone rider.

  “Where the hell are the rest?” asked Leth. “I sent forty men to the run!”

  After a brief stop at the drilling field, the rider continued toward the castle. This time several of his fellows joined him. He galloped up to Leth, his face drenched with sweat.

  “Governor Leth,” he cried. “They’re coming!” He dropped down from his horse, almost tumbling to the ground. “They’re not alone, Governor. There are others with them!”

  “Make sense, man,” Leth scolded. “Who’s coming?”

  “The Saints! They’re riding for the castle. But they’re not alone. Richius Vantran … Triin …”

  Exasperated, Leth grabbed the man by the shoulders. “Look at me, you idiot,” he snarled. “Are you telling me that the Jackal has a Triin army heading this way?”

  The soldier nodded quickly. “Yes, my lord, I swear. I saw them! They’re coming for the castle. Hundreds of them!”

  “And the Saints are with them?”

  “Yes!”

  Leth started sputtering, wanting to give orders but not knowing what to say. He looked at Shinn, who shrugged uselessly, then at the rider and his fellow soldiers, all of whom stared back at him blankly.

  “All right,” said Leth. “Yes, all right. Let’s not stand around here, then. We have to do something!”

  “We have to stop them,” suggested Shinn.

  “Yes, stop them,” echoed Leth. “Soldier, what happened to your company? Where are they?”

  “Captured,” replied the man. “They can’t help us.”

  Leth felt a sweat break out over his body. “God almighty. All right, the rest of you—get ready to defend the castle. We’ll hold up here until reinforcements arrive from Talistan.”

  “But Talistan is in battle!” protested Shinn.

  “Will you shut up and let me think? I need some help here!” Leth whirled on the soldiers, studying their ranks until he found a lieutenant. “You,” snapped Leth. “Gather as many men as you can. Bring them here to defend the castle.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the lieutenant. “But, Governor, there aren’t that many of us. Most are in Talistan.”

  “Then send a rider to Gayle. Tell him we need help!”

  The lieutenant wasted no time, sending one of his fellows speeding off. Then he looked at Leth.

  “Governor, it will take hours for help to reach us from Talistan.”

  “I know,” said Leth darkly. “Shinn? Ideas?”

  “We need to slow them down,” said the Dorian. “Send some horsemen to engage them.”

  Leth nodded. “You heard him, Lieutenant. How many men can you spare?”

  “None! Governor, that would be suicide. You heard yourself; there are hundreds of Triin!”

  “Yes,” agreed the rider. “My lord, they’ll be cut to pieces.”

  “It’s the only way to buy us time,” said Leth. “Lieutenant, those are my orders. If you can spare them, send thirty lancemen.”

  “But, Governor …!”

  “Do it!”

  The young officer’s face fell in shock. Slowly he turned to his comrades. “Volunteers?”

  “You, Lieutenant,” growled Leth. “You lead them. And get those men assembled, right bloody now!” He turned to his bodyguard, saying, “Shinn, we’ve got work to do,” then hurried toward the castle, shouting for his servants.

  FORTY-NINE

  My lord, we must retreat!”

  The captain stared at his king, waiting for an answer. Blood and perspiration smeared his face and he had taken a wound that made his arm dangle uselessly at his side. Tassis Gayle let his eyes linger vacantly on the soldier. He didn’t know his name. Or had he known it but simply forgotten? Things were happening so quickly. His mind tried to seize on the events but, like sand through his fingers, he couldn’t hold them.

  “My lord, are you listening to me?” asked the soldier. “We are lost! We
must retreat.”

  Gayle tried to reply, but couldn’t utter a sound. A hundred feet in front of him, his dwindling army tried to beat back the Highlanders. The Silverknife had become a graveyard choked with the bodies of men and beasts. Redburn was dead but his kin still battled on, forcing their mounts through the Talistanian infantry. The clans of Grayfin and Kellen had miraculously turned the tide, slaughtering the cavalry. Gayle’s archers stood mutely behind him, waiting for their orders. It was all coming apart, and Gayle couldn’t stop it. Worse, somewhere in the melee was Biagio—still alive, still taunting him.

  “No,” said Gayle finally. The thought of Biagio brought him back to reality. “No, we won’t retreat. Not while that demon still lives.”

  The captain stepped up to Gayle’s horse. “But, my lord, see for yourself!” He pointed toward the crumbling lines of infantry. “They’re breaking through.”

  “They cannot,” said Gayle. “I won’t have it!” He wheeled his charger to face his archers, hardly noticing their shocked expressions. Some of them were breaking rank, running for the safety of the distant hills. “Fight them,” Gayle bellowed. “Drop your bows and fight them!”

  “No,” cried the captain. “We must fall back!”

  Fury overtook Gayle. He kicked the captain, sending him sprawling. “You coward! You want to run away? You want to lose to some limp-wristed man-girl? We will stay and we will fight, and that means you!”

  The captain staggered to his feet and ran his hand over his bleeding lip. He glared at his king. “I’m calling retreat,” he threatened. “If you don’t do it yourself …”

  “You goddamn weasel, don’t you dare …”

  “Retreat!” yelled the soldier. He turned and ran toward the river, screaming and waving his arms. “Fall back and retreat!”

  “Damn it, no!”

  Alone on horseback, Gayle galloped through his remaining troops, trying to rally them. “Fight on!” he ordered. “Fight for me and Talistan! Fight for my son and daughter!”

  No one listened. The archers hurriedly disbanded, dropping their longbows and running from the field. Gayle heard the captain’s endless cry calling for retreat and begging the Highlanders for mercy. He was screaming the word “surrender” now, a term that turned Gayle’s blood to ice. As his men began falling back, the Highlanders eased their attack. The noise from the Silverknife slowly ebbed. Someone in the Highland ranks called for quarter. From atop his horse Gayle peered through the press of bodies trying to locate the source of the cry. The voice was so familiar, it had to be …