The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  “Is that what they think? Those Triin savages out there—do they think you’re something special?”

  “I am special.” Alazrian put out his hands. “Why don’t you let me show you?”

  The humor left Leth’s face. “What is this?”

  “I have Triin magic. I can read your thoughts, and I can heal people. Let me show you.”

  “Impossible.” Leth reared back. “You’re no sorcerer!”

  “Oh, but I am,” said Alazrian. “That’s why the Triin follow me, because I have magic. I can prove it to you. Just give me your hands.”

  Leth glanced at the bewildered soldiers, then back at Alazrian. Alazrian knew he was almost convinced.

  “You’re afraid,” Alazrian taunted. “Ha! Who’s the coward now?”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” sneered Leth. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “Then prove it. Take my hands. I’ll tell you what you’re thinking.”

  “All right,” snapped Leth, slapping his hands into Alazrian’s. “Go on. Tell me what I’m thinking.”

  A wall of loathing struck Alazrian like a fist. He closed his eyes, shaking his head against the shock of the connection, gripping Leth’s hands and feeling the flow of hateful energy. It was nauseating, and Alazrian’s mind flashed with pictures and bitter feelings—a great, regret-filled tide.

  “Well?” Leth demanded. “What am I thinking?”

  “I … You’re …”

  Leth began to laugh. “Oh, very good, wizard!” He tightened his grip. “What else? Tell me without stuttering for once!”

  Alazrian struggled to focus, to block out Leth’s taunts and to concentrate on the one thing he had come here to do. Quickly he searched the recesses of Leth’s mind, blowing away the dust and gazing down the twisted corridors, trying to locate his mother. Any love, any warm thought for her could have saved Leth, but when Alazrian found her she was in this bedroom. Leth was on top of her, half-naked and beating her. She was crying softly, taking his fists and his unwanted thrusts. The sight blinded Alazrian. He cried out, digging his nails into Leth’s hands.

  “You killed her!” he railed.

  Leth stood up, trying to get free. “Let go of me!”

  “You killed her, and now I’m going to kill you!”

  The vision of his mother let loose a demon inside Alazrian. His healing power was a choice, he knew, as much a weapon as a salve. He focused his mind like the strength of the sun, picturing the air shooting from Leth’s chest, imagining his lungs shrivelling. Leth let out a gurgling scream. Alazrian dug into his hands. The soldiers backed away, horrified, as Leth’s scream went on and on, building to a high-pitched wail.

  “I hate you!” Alazrian cried. “I hate what you did to us!”

  He was weeping now, unable to stop himself. Leth’s eyes bulged, begging for mercy, but Alazrian knew no mercy. The memories of a thousand beatings drove him on. Elrad Leth ceased struggling. His head fell back in a wordless howl and his throat flushed scarlet, clutched by invisible fingers. With one last gasp he hissed a silent curse. His head fell forward; spittle dripped from his mouth. Alazrian let go and watched him topple to the floor.

  Two lifeless eyes stared up at him.

  Alazrian went to his knees beside Leth, weeping without knowing why. “You killed my mother. It wasn’t cancer. It was you.”

  The soldiers gradually came forward. They looked at Alazrian in horror.

  “You … you killed him!”

  Alazrian nodded mutely. “You can’t win,” he said. “He’s dead. And the Jackal will kill you all if you don’t surrender.”

  Up on the roof of Aramoor castle, Shinn heard the shouts of Talistanian soldiers.

  “Leth is dead! Surrender!”

  The archers lowered their bows and looked at each other. In the courtyard, the cavalrymen were dropping their lances. Shinn got unsteadily to his feet. Outnumbered and leaderless, the Talistanians surrendered, leaving their bows on the roof as they climbed back down the hatches and wall walks. Shinn watched them go, utterly lost. Leth was dead? How could that be?

  Then he remembered the boy.

  “That little whoreson,” he whispered. Had the boy killed Leth? It didn’t really matter. If Alazrian was alive, he could tell his grandfather how the boy had tried to murder him. Shinn might even tell his grandfather.

  With his bow still in hand, Shinn hurried from the roof, eager to take care of some unfinished business.

  Down in the courtyard, Jahl watched in astonishment as the Talistanians surrendered. The order travelled quickly through their ranks. As the horsemen dropped their lances and the weapon-wielding staff emerged from the castle, Richius and the Saints swarmed forward, shouting orders and herding the horsemen into groups. Praxtin-Tar and his warriors surrounded them.

  “Alazrian!” Jahl called. “Alazrian, can you hear me?”

  Praxtin-Tar jumped from his horse and ran for the castle gates. Jahl was right behind him.

  Together he and Praxtin-Tar pushed their way inside, shouldering past a group of Talistanians. Jahl grabbed hold of one, a young woman wearing an apron.

  “Where’s the boy?” he said. “Where’s Alazrian?”

  The woman nearly fainted, shrieking as she noticed Praxtin-Tar.

  “Where is he?” Jahl demanded, shaking her.

  “Upstairs,” she stammered, pointing down the hall. “That’s where the master took him.”

  Jahl and the warlord raced for the staircase, hurrying to the second floor. As he reached the top of the stairs Jahl saw an open door across a long corridor. There was a figure in the threshold. For a moment Jahl thought it was Alazrian, but then he saw Alazrian kneeling in the chamber. The figure in the threshold held a drawn-back bow.

  “No!” screamed Jahl.

  Shinn turned. Jahl raced up the steps. Shinn loosed his arrow—and Jahl felt its hammering impact. His chest exploded with pain and he stumbled back, falling into Praxtin-Tar.

  “Alazrian!” he gasped.

  Alazrian was in the doorway now. He saw Shinn, then cried out for Jahl. Praxtin-Tar laid Jahl aside and roared forward, flying at Shinn with his jiiktar. Jahl saw it all through a fog. Praxtin-Tar raised his blade. Shinn brought up his bow and saw it severed as the warlord’s weapon flashed. Shinn’s anguished wail shook the hall.

  “Jahl!” cried Alazrian desperately.

  Jahl could barely hold his eyes open. An arrow erupted from his chest, swamping his shirt with blood. Alazrian knelt over him, weeping.

  “Alazrian …”

  “Jahl, don’t talk. Let me help you!”

  “No,” Jahl gasped.

  “Stay still,” Alazrian begged. He quickly laid his hands on Jahl, digging into his bloodied flesh. “I can heal you, Jahl,” he said. “Just hold on!”

  “Don’t … do … anything.” With a giant effort, Jahl raised his head and looked at Alazrian. “No magic!”

  Frustrated tears stained Alazrian’s cheeks. “Jahl, please! I need you.”

  With his waning strength Jahl pushed away Alazrian’s hands. “Don’t …” He looked into the boy’s eyes, so bright they could have been stars, and smiled because he knew the boy was safe.

  “No tears for me,” he choked. “Alazrian, I’m going to God.”

  Jahl Rob closed his eyes and let his angels take him to heaven.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Just off the coast of Talistan, the Dread Sovereign sat at anchor, bobbing in the moonlight. A gentle solitude blanketed the ocean. The warship’s cannons had quieted hours ago, but her decks still stank of kerosene. Onshore, the ruined fortress glowed with waning fires, sending up sad smoke signals. It was abandoned now, without even a single occupant to curse the dreadnought offshore.

  Blair Kasrin had gone through his usual inspections after the bombardment of the fortress, seeing to his crew and the welfare of his ship, and finding both in good spirits. The Sovereign had weathered her mission remarkably well. Kasrin was proud of her. He was proud of himself, too, a
nd how he had helped Biagio. If he listened very closely, he could hear the chaos in Talistan, the occasional shouts of troops or farmers as they realized their world had violently changed. Biagio had launched his war. He had probably even won. For that, Kasrin was glad. But like the Sovereign, Kasrin knew he had paid his debts.

  He finished his inspections then went in search of Jelena, finding her at the stern, pensively watching Talistan. She was lovely in the moonlight, and Kasrin adored her. He adored her fire, her will. She wasn’t a girl to him—she was a queen. She glanced in his direction as he approached, offering a smile. Kasrin shouldered up to her, leaning on the railing and sharing the view. It was very quiet and he could hear the waves lapping against the hull. A good time to confess his decision, he supposed.

  But before he could speak, Jelena asked, “What will you do now, Blair?”

  “We will anchor here for the night,” he said. “Give the crew a chance to rest.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Biagio will be expecting you, I suppose. He will need a new admiral. Or at least passage back to Nar City.”

  “Yes, I suppose he will.”

  “Will you go ashore to see him?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Kasrin turned to her. “I’ve paid my debt to Biagio, Jelena. I don’t think he needs me anymore. He can make Gark head of the fleet. Besides, I’m not really sure how safe I’d be in Nar. Not after killing Nicabar.”

  Jelena looked at him hopefully. “So? What will you do?”

  Kasrin patted the railing. “She’s a good old ship, isn’t she? Still seaworthy. She’ll make it back to Liss, no problem.” Kasrin took Jelena’s hand, grinning wickedly. “After all, you still have a lot of Liss to show me, my Queen.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  In the aftermath of the battle, Biagio returned to Elkhorn Castle.

  The survivors of the battle had accompanied him, and Cray Kellen and Vandra Grayfin paid their respects to Breena before returning to their own territories. A day and a half after they were gone, the silence of the castle began to irritate Biagio, and he knew it was time for him, too, to leave. He had spoken infrequently to Breena since returning to the castle, for she had not wanted his company, and Biagio thought it best that she be given space and time to recover from her loss. But as he readied to leave the castle, to go on to Aramoor and meet with Richius Vantran, he knew he could not leave her without saying good-bye. With his saddlebags packed and stuffed with provisions, he made a small detour before departing, going to the castle’s rose garden. There among the forlorn blossoms he found her, absently trimming back the vines the way he had taught her. She did not notice as he approached, or if she did she simply ignored him. Sadly, Breena had changed. The death of Redburn had smothered her fire, replacing it with a dreary apathy. Biagio paused at the edge of the garden, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

  “You’re going,” she said finally. Her voice was flat.

  “Yes.”

  “Good-bye, then. Have a safe journey to Nar.”

  “I’m not going back to Nar,” said Biagio. “Not yet. First I’m going to Aramoor. I want to speak to Richius Vantran.”

  “I see,” said Breena, continuing to prune. “And what makes you think he’ll speak to you? You’re still his enemy. You’re still the one that ordered his wife’s death.”

  “Maybe,” said Biagio. “But I think the Jackal is eager to mend fences.” He took a step closer. “What about you?”

  The girl lowered her shears. “Don’t ask me to forgive you, Lord Emperor. I cannot. Not yet.”

  Biagio looked at her hands. She was still wearing the ring he had given her. To him, that was hopeful.

  “I wanted to thank you before I left. You were very kind to me. You helped me to …”

  “What?”

  Biagio gave a pale smile. “To find my mind again. I am not insane, Breena. Someday I hope you’ll realize that.”

  Breena shrugged. “Someday.”

  “I will check on you from time to time. When I get back to the Black City, I will send people to the Highlands, to make sure all is well. If you need anything, just ask.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

  “No,” said Biagio. He took her ringed hand and kissed it. “Thank you, Lady Breena.”

  Then he turned and left the sad woman behind, departing the rose garden for the long road to Aramoor.

  It took days before Richius felt at home again, but eventually he settled into the familiar rhythms. Despite Elrad Leth’s occupation, the castle had changed little, and there were still some of his old servants in the lands around the keep. After the surrender of the Talistanians, he had let the soldiers return home. And he had opened the castle to any and all visitors, proclaiming his return. The Saints of the Sword rode through Aramoor with the news. Without Jahl Rob, they were diminished but remained stouthearted, and they helped Richius spread the word of his homecoming. They helped him at Windlash, too. The labor camp had been the roughest part of Richius’ return. After freeing his people, he had ordered it burned.

  Richius knew healing Aramoor would take time, and he had no magic to make it easier. Without Jahl Rob or Alazrian, he was alone, at least until Dyana arrived, and he knew he would depend heavily on Ricken and the other Saints. So far, his new friends had been invaluable. They had tamed the swelling crowds at the castle and had purged the country of Talistanians. Alazrian himself had left with Praxtin-Tar, using the warlord’s horde as protection during his own homecoming. Talistan would be a very different place now, and no one knew who would hold its throne. Richius supposed Biagio would make that decision. As emperor, it was his prerogative.

  On the seventh day of his homecoming, Richius rode alone through the apple orchards, going from farm to farm to visit his wounded subjects. He had already been to the House of Lotts to pay respect to Alain’s parents, who now had only one son but graciously refused to blame Richius for their losses. It was a fine summer day and Richius had spent the morning at the house, tossing a ball back and forth with Alain and reminiscing about his dead brothers, Del and Dinadin. Alain was very much like them, Richius noticed. He was growing up to be a fine man.

  Upon leaving the House of Lotts, Richius rode south, nearing the border with Talistan. There he stopped on the side of the road to admire the groves of apple trees and rest his tired horse. The trees provided shade from the sun, and as he sat he daydreamed about Dyana and Shani. It would be a long time until they arrived, but that was all right. It would give him time to ready the castle, give Aramoor some time to heal. Aramoor would welcome its new queen, Richius was certain. Leaning against a tree trunk, he let out a contented sigh.

  He pulled a twig from a fallen branch and put it between his teeth, then noticed a lone rider in the distance, coming slowly toward him. Out of Talistan, Richius realized. The man wore black and carried a sword at his belt. He sauntered forward at an easy pace, unhurried by the heat, his golden hair gleaming. As he drew closer he noticed Richius beneath the tree.

  “Oh, my God,” Richius said. “I don’t believe it.”

  Emperor Renato Biagio was a surprisingly muted sight. Without his train of slaves or baronial garments, he looked like any other road-weary rider, a lonely figure emerging from the hot day. His keen eyes regarded Richius sharply, but they no longer glowed sapphire blue, nor did his flesh have its impossibly golden sheen. Still, Biagio looked remarkably fit. He cast Richius a dazzling smile.

  “I have a memory like a steel trap,” he declared, “and yours is a face I could never forget.” He brought his horse to a stop. “Greetings, Jackal.”

  Richius didn’t get up. “You surprise me, Biagio,” he said. “I didn’t expect you to come.”

  “Really? That would have been rude of me. I thought I owed you a visit. You and I have something to discuss.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Your rulership of Aramoor, of course.”

  Biagio slid down from his horse, then s
urprised Richius again by sitting down beside him. The emperor picked up a twig of his own and began twirling it between his fingers. Richius watched him carefully.

  “I am emperor, you know,” said Biagio. “I’ve had my problems, but I intend to solve them once I get back to Nar City. With Tassis Gayle out of my hair, I can finally concentrate.”

  “Problems?” probed Richius. “What kind of problems?”

  “Oh, I still have enemies,” said Biagio. “Believe me, there are problems to occupy me for a hundred years.”

  When he didn’t elaborate, Richius said, “I see. So what about me?”

  “I need your promise, Jackal.” Biagio’s expression was grave. “Will you follow me as emperor? Or will I have more treason on my hands? An honest answer would be appreciated.”

  “First, I have a question for you,” said Richius. “Alazrian Leth gave me your letter. You said Aramoor would be mine if I brought the Triin into your war. Did you mean that?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, I’ve brought the Triin.”

  “Yes,” laughed Biagio, “I’d heard. News of a Triin invasion travels quickly. I’d like to meet these Triin of yours. Are they at your castle?”

  Richius shook his head. “They’re gone. They left yesterday for Talistan with Alazrian.”

  “Alazrian?” Biagio looked disappointed. “Oh, bother. I had hoped to see the boy as well, but I avoided as much of Talistan as I could coming here.” He smiled impishly. “I’m not very popular in Talistan these days.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “How is the boy?” asked Biagio. “He is well?”

  “He’s fine,” Richius replied, wondering how long that would be true. He didn’t tell Biagio about the curse of Triin magic—that it could only be used to heal, and not to harm. Nor had he mentioned it to Alazrian. He wondered how long it might be before Alazrian started showing symptoms—just as Tharn had.

  “I am glad the boy is all right,” said Biagio. “That is good news.”

  “Well, he’s not exactly perfect,” Richius confessed. “He killed Leth with his bare hands. And then he found out you killed his grandfather before he could try to heal him.”