Swords and Saints- The Complete Saga

by Alec Hutson

  “She’d be dead before you got halfway there.”

  “Talin.”

  Bell has turned her head towards me. She blinks, struggling to focus, and lifts a shaking hand. I squeeze it fiercely.

  “Bell, you shouldn’t have been here. This is my fault.”

  Her thin lips twist into a pained smile. “My choice,” she says simply.

  “Is she dead?”

  I shoot an angry glance at Fen Poria, who has emerged again from the copse of mushrooms. She ignores me.

  “Yeah, that doesn’t look good,” she says as she approaches.

  “Oh, by the Shadow! Bell!” Xela cries, the darkness flaking away from her as she bursts from the mushrooms and rushes over.

  “You were supposed to be paying fucking attention, shadowdancer,” Fen Poria snarls as Xela goes to her knees beside Bell.

  “I didn’t see anyone . . . I must have passed right below them . . .” She reaches a shaking hand towards the arrow’s shaft, then draws back. “What . . . what can we do?”

  “Get revenge,” Fen Poria says simply, staring in the direction the green woman vanished. “They know we’re coming now, though. Going to be bloody.”

  “Valyra,” I say suddenly, hope filling me. “Valyra is a healer . . . she has the power to save Bell.”

  “We have to hurry, then,” Deliah says, watching Bell in concern as her eyes flutter closed. “She already fading.” I nod, gently moving Bell’s head from my arms and standing.

  But I’m still torn, watching her ragged breathing and the rise and fall of the arrow protruding from her chest. “Someone has to stay with her,” I say, looking at the others. “The arrow could shift, the bleeding might get worse . . .”

  Fen Poria snorts as my eyes meet hers. “Not me. I want that feral’s blood.”

  “I could stay,” Deliah says, also rising to her feet. “But you need me.”

  She’s right – without her glaive I doubt we’d stand any chance against the Swords and Shields. My gaze settles on Shalloch and Vesivia.

  “You have to stay,” the pirate says, turning to his lover. “You know more about battlefield medicine than I do.” He reaches out for her, but she jerks away from him.

  “I’m not going to let you fight without me,” she says angrily.

  “Vesivia,” I say softly. “Please.”

  The Zimani swordswoman stares up at the distant stalactites dripping from the ceiling and curses in a language I don’t know. But when she looks down again, I can see the resignation in her eyes.

  “Very well. I’ll keep her alive as best I can. But you have to hurry.”

  They are waiting for us.

  We watch from deep within a mushroom grove, recessed among the shadows. Eight warriors, arrayed around the base of the pyramid, guarding the incredibly steep stairs that climb to its peak. I recognize several of them: the green-skinned girl is there, a strip of cloth wrapped around the wound on her shoulder. Something more like sap than blood oozes from beneath the bandage and trickles down her arm. In her other hand she holds a black-metal trident. There’s also the mantis-man – I assume it’s the same one – who had been standing behind the fat matriarch when Auxilia summoned me to show off for her friends. It carries no weapons, but the serrated scythes that serve as its front limbs look like they could cut a man in half. Finally, the ebony-scaled alethian with the broken head spines prowls in front of the stairs, his tail lashing. The rest of the Swords and Shields are Zimani, each dressed in the flamboyant style favored by that people, their clothes of bright glistening silk sewn with feathers and colorful gems.

  “We need to bring Valyra to Bell as quickly as possible,” I whisper, my eyes traveling up the thousand steps to the top of the pyramid. “She must be at the top already.”

  “What’s the plan?” Shalloch asks, all trace of his usual good humor gone.

  “I’ll take the stairs while the rest of you hold off the Swords and Shields. Rescue Bell before they can do whatever they’re planning.”

  The pirate grimaces. “You’ll have to go through that lizard.”

  “I plan on it.”

  Shalloch turns and spits. “Saints give you strength, mate. I’ve spent my life trying to avoid pissing off an alethian.”

  “Shut up and stop stalling,” Fen Poria says, and then she’s up and running, screaming a war cry. Deliah follows her a moment later, whooping and brandishing her glaive. Shalloch and I share a brief, surprised glance, and then we’re on our feet, exploding from the mushroom grove as the Swords and Shields turn to face us. My green-glass sword thrums as I rip it from its sheath, its crackling power singing in my veins.

  Fen Poria draws first blood, sending one of her throwing daggers spinning into the neck of the closest Zimani. The warrior goes to his knees clutching at the spike embedded in his throat, blood squirting from around his fingers. Fen sends another dagger whirling towards the green-skinned woman, but she knocks it from the air with a swipe of her trident.

  Deliah ducks beneath a slash from the mantis-man, then thrusts out with her glaive. The insect Sword is surprisingly fast, though, leaping backwards on its segmented legs like a grasshopper. It clashes its scythe arms together, its mandibles making a harsh clacking sound that I interpret as some kind of war cry.

  A Zimani woman wielding a pair of swords – one a shorter, broad blade for parrying, the other much longer for thrusting – slides in front of me as I try to make for the stairway. She’s fast, and I barely get my sword up in time to deflect a quick jab. Then I’m lunging forward, and she catches my blade with her short parrying sword . . . her eyes widen in shock, though, as the length of green-glass passes through her sword’s metal, shearing it off at the cross guard. I continue the strike, separating her head from her shoulders.

  Now it’s just the alethian standing before me and the stairs. He holds back as I approach, and there’s wariness in his slitted yellow eyes. The lizard man hisses a challenge, working his scimitar through a series of flourishes, the massive sword light as a feather in his taloned hand. It has a strange yellow tint, like ancient bone. I approach cautiously, shuffling forward in a fighting stance, well aware of how fast these creatures can move. They may look as sluggish as crocodiles drifting in a river, but in truth they strike as fast as a hooded serpent.

  “Alesssk,” the alethian hisses, tossing the scimitar to his other hand and catching it smoothly. “What are you doing here?”

  Alesk. That was what the silver-eyed stranger had called me in the mucker barracks. Did this thing know me?

  “My name is Talin,” I reply, my gaze flicking to the stairs behind him. As much as I want to know what the alethian is talking about, I need to rescue Valyra if Bell is going to live.

  The creature’s long tongue flickers from its fanged mouth. “No! You are trying to confussse me. You are the Pilgrim and your brother Talin is the Heretic, he who left the right hand of the Prophet to preach his foul gospel of redemption. Your liesss have no power here, traitor!”

  I’m expecting the attack, but still it comes with devastating quickness. The scimitar arcs closer and I turn it aside; metal shrieks and yellow dust flakes away but the blade holds, and I’m pressed back as the huge lizard man surges forward. If I tried to catch each of his hammering blows I think my arm would break, so I’m forced to let the scimitar slide off my own sword, which keeps me unbalanced and unable to retaliate.

  “Your demon blade cannot shatter mine,” he gloats. “For it was fashioned from the bones of the Old Mother.”

  His tail whips out and I dance backwards, its tip coming within a span of smashing into my legs and sending me sprawling.

  “Sssstill fast, Pilgrim,” the alethian growls, stalking after me.

  Pilgrim. That was what the Voice called me in my first memories, when the Shriven ambushed me in the red wastes. My yearning to know what this thing knows about me is almost overwhelming . . . but I cannot afford this delay.

  “How do the spirits feel about you following this
Prophet?” I goad him, remembering the other alethian’s obsession with his old gods. “Must be pretty disappointed that you’ve turned your back on your own kind.”

  The alethian roars and charges, and our swords come together again and again, dragonbone on green glass. I duck beneath a wild swing and slash the lizard man’s side, opening a cut among his obsidian scales. He draws back a pace, hissing in pain and rage.

  Above his cracked spines looms the top of the tiered pyramid; there’s now a golden glow creeping from something I can’t see . . . but I know that light. One of the doorways has been opened.

  There is no time, and I rush the lizard man. His lips curl away from curving fangs, and he also lunges to meet me, the curving length of yellow dragonbone slicing the air. At the last moment I duck beneath his blow and drive the point of my sword into his stomach – it slides between his scales smoothly, almost to the hilt. Before his hurtling bulk can smash into me I leap to the side, ripping my blade loose as he crashes to the ground.

  Our gazes lock as death steals into his eyes. Beyond the alethian the fight is still raging: Xela and Deliah are circling the tall insect man, trying to get inside the reach of his long curving scythes; Shalloch is holding off a pair of Zimani warriors, and the green-skinned girl has lost her trident in the melee and is now dueling Fen Poria and her daggers with a pair of flickering short swords. I turn and start bounding up the stairs, sending a silent prayer that my companions do not need my help.

  The glow intensifies as I approach the summit, and when I arrive at the top I’m blinded for a brief moment. Then my vision clears, and I scream in defiance of what’s before me.

  There’s an archway of the same opalescent white stone, but much larger, easily big enough for an elephant to pass beneath. A rippling golden veil fills the portal, and standing before it is Valyra, her arms thrust up to her elbows in the swirling radiance. She’s facing away from me, staring into the doorway.

  “Valyra!” I cry, rushing across the cracked and ancient stone. But she does not turn around, even when I put my arm on her shoulder. Now I can see that her mouth is slightly parted, and she’s staring glassy eyed into the undulating portal. Ripples are emanating from where her arms vanish into the light, as if she has thrust herself into golden water.

  “Pilgrim.”

  The word explodes in my mind, sweeping away all conscious thought.

  I whirl away from Valyra, facing the thing as it steps out from between the folds of reality. The Voice is draped in the same shapeless robes I glimpsed in the Last Word and the emperor’s audience chamber, but it has discarded the broad-brimmed hat that had concealed its true nature. Wide fish-like eyes stare at me from its misshapen head, and its red lips writhe into a monstrous leer as it shuffles closer.

  I bring my sword up to skewer this thing that has haunted my dreams since I encountered its brethren in the red wastes, but before I can lunge forward a cold power settles over my limbs, holding me in place.

  I strain, thrashing on the inside to free myself of this thing’s power, but it is useless. I’m helpless as the Voice’s monstrous face comes within a handspan of my own. My heart is beating wildly, and I want to retch at the disgusting smell wafting from the creature.

  It regards me for a long moment, its nictitating eyelids closing and then opening again.

  “You please us.”

  The words flash in my brain, lightning strikes on a dark night.

  “You have done what you promised, returning with a sorceress. Why do you come here and murder our disciples?”

  The crushing grip on my throat slackens, and I can speak again. I take in a shuddering breath before trying to reply.

  “You . . . want to hurt her.”

  The Voice’s eyelids slide closed and then open again. Wrinkles appear on the corpse-flesh of its forehead.

  “We do not wish to hurt her. She must open the gate, and heal what was sundered. When the paths are reforged she will no longer be needed.” The Voice raises a long pale finger and tenderly strokes Valyra’s cheek. She continues to stare sightlessly into the rippling veil. “But you know this, Pilgrim. The voyage may repress your memories, but it cannot destroy them. Eventually you will remember, and you will stand with Ezekal again as he leads your people to a new world. You have proven your value to us. We do not wish to discard you. Come, she is almost finished. Soon the rest of me will begin the journey to this world. Watch, and revel in what you have wrought.”

  An evil, oily residue coats this thing’s mind-speech, and it is making my head pulse. My hand trembles as I fight against the power binding me. The creature sees this and its lip curls in contempt.

  “You know you cannot stand against us, Pilgrim. You tried and failed once, but you found wisdom in the depths of your defeat.”

  “To the hells with you,” I snarl through gritted teeth. The Voice stares at me impassively.

  “Look. We are coming.”

  Suddenly, I can move my head slightly. In the depths of the golden radiance a darkness is swelling. Something is approaching, and in my lost memories I must know what it is, because a wave of cold dread washes over me.

  A flicker of movement from elsewhere. A shadow swells beside the Voice, but it is not Xela. This is but a wisp of darkness, its limbs too long and attenuated to be human. A mane of glistening black tumbles from its head, and its eyes are twin points of cold light. There’s something feminine about this thing, though its ill-defined shape is featureless. A hand of long spidery fingers slashes the air, passing through the Voice and Valyra and myself, and as the shadow touches me I feel a shock of cold and I can move again. My sword thrusts forward . . . only to be stopped again a whisper from the folds of the Voice’s throat. With an angry hiss, the Shriven gestures at the shadow and it dissipates like smoke caught in a strong wind.

  “Foolish, faded relic. An echo of an echo, but still it tries to protect this world. She should have fled long ago.”

  The shadow in the golden pool is bigger now, nearly filling the soaring archway. The malice leaking from the portal is palpable.

  It’s here. In moments this emissary of the Shriven will push into this world.

  Then the light abruptly vanishes as Valyra pulls her arms from the doorway and whirls towards me.

  The Voice gurgles in anger and the weaver stiffens like she’s suddenly been turned to stone . . . but her fingers still brush my hand.

  A crackling bolt of energy shoots up my arm, melting the Shriven’s clammy grip. With all my strength I shove my sword forward, the green-glass tip piercing the Voice’s neck. Black ichor spurts from the wound, and as I open its throat wider this quickly turns into a waterfall. The eyelids slide closed, and the Voice collapses.

  I can move again, just like when Valyra broke the Voice’s power before in the ruined temple. With one stroke, I separate this thing’s head from its shoulders – I’m not taking any chances. Then I turn back to Valyra just as she swoons and starts to fall. I drop my sword and catch her, holding her to my chest. She moans, her eyes fluttering open.

  “Talin?” she whispers hoarsely. “Am I dreaming?” She reaches up a hand to weakly touch my face.

  “No,” I reply, relief flooding me. “This is happening.”

  She swallows slowly, and I can see that her lips are dry and cracked. “I’ve been . . . lost. Drifting. But then this woman touched me – she had midnight hair speckled with falling stars and gleaming black skin. And I knew where I was, and what I should do. I had to touch you.”

  “You did good,” I murmur. “The Voice is dead.”

  “The Voice?” she says, her brow knitting in confusion. “There was a Voice here?”

  “Yes,” I say, helping her to stand shakily on her own. “There’s been a fight . . . my friends need help. I will come back soon. Rest here for a moment.”

  “Talin!” she cries. “In my dreams . . . I spoke with my brother. Valans came to me. He said . . . he said he was dead. Well, half-dead and half something else. He said you ki
lled him. But he forgives you – he said he understands more now, and he wanted to apologize for doing something to you . . . something that hurt you . . .”

  I remember the writhing pillar of flame I glimpsed before the avalanche swept me off the cliff. Was Valyra talking about that?

  She passes a shuddering hand across her face. “I feel so strange,” she whispers, and she sounds scared, but I need to go help Deliah and Xela . . .

  I force myself to turn from her, but before I can take more than a few strides towards the edge of the summit a head of purple hair appears, coming up the stairs.

  Deliah. She looks strained, like she has just run up the pyramid, but her face is a mask of determination. In her arms is the limp body of Bell, the arrow shaft still jutting from her chest. The lamias stumbles, nearly falling, and I rush forward to help her.

  “Bell . . . ” she gasps between heavy breaths. “She’s dying. Almost . . . gone. Vesivia brought her when she knew . . . she wouldn’t last.” She swallows, her eyes falling on Valyra, who is looking at her in shock. “Heal her!” she shouts.

  Valyra lunges forward. Even though she doesn’t know what’s going on, her instincts as a healer are still there. She runs her hand lightly over Bell’s body, pressing her palm to her pale throat. “Put her down,” she commands, and Deliah struggles to her knees to gently lay Bell on the stone, though she keeps her propped slightly because the arrow’s tip is protruding from her back.

  With practiced efficiency Valyra snaps the shaft of the arrow, tossing it aside. “Roll her over,” she says, and between Deliah and myself we manage to turn Bell. The arrowhead is a black point emerging from her back, which is streaked with blood. Valyra touches the metal, frowning as she looks around. She needs something to pull it out, but there’s nothing here . . .

  Then with a grimace her hand closes around the arrowhead. I feel a pulsing warmth emanate from Valyra, making my skin tingle, and she grimaces as she pulls hard. The metal is cutting into her hand but she ignores it, and before my shocked eyes she draws the arrow from Bell’s body, crying with pain. She throws that away as well, then lays her bloody palm on the wound, and before my eyes the pulsing blood that has begun to freely flow dries up, and the flesh begins to knit.