Swords and Saints- The Complete Saga

by Alec Hutson

  Instead, I hold his gaze. “Perhaps the scales finally fell from his eyes,” I tell him levelly, “and he saw you for what you truly are.”

  The effect is instantaneous. Ezekal’s face darkens, his hands clenching into fists. I have the sense he wants to strike me, but with an effort he manages to control himself. Lucky for him, as I’d been tensing to seize him if he got close enough.

  “Your brother was like a son to me,” he says, taking up the black-hilted dagger as he rises. “As were you.”

  The door bangs hard against the wood as he throws it open, and then he is gone again.

  The Prophet does not return for quite some time, and I curse myself for driving him away. There are so many questions I want answered – why is he in league with the Shriven? What was he offered that he would help bring them into his new world after they destroyed the old? Who made the Gates, and where do the demons come from? At the same time, a cold worm of fear is squirming in me that eventually he will be successful in returning my lost memories. That I will remember who I was before, and I will join him again. Surely my nature has not changed . . . but it seems impossible that anything could convince me to usher the Shriven into Bell and Deliah’s world.

  After another long while the wagon halts, and the interminable red wastes stop sliding past my small window. It’s not nighttime – as it is never nighttime in this place – but apparently the demons still need to rest, as they use their arms of hooked bone to scoop out burrows in the dust, then hunker down within. Or perhaps they sense the coming storm, for the wind begins to rise and I hear the sound of grit striking the outside of the wagon. Soon my view outside is consumed by swirling red, and I slide the panel shut to keep the dust out. The Prophet must have another place to shelter, as he does not rejoin me in here.

  The maelstrom continues to strengthen, the wagon shuddering like a living thing. By the time the storm abates, I’m expecting the wagon to be half-buried – I want to take a quick glance out my window and see what it’s like out there, but I’m afraid of what will be blown inside. Instead, I hunker down and finish the last of the wine and flatbread and listen to the wood creak and groan.

  Something thumps against the other side of the door. More thumping, increasingly insistent, as if whoever it is expects me to somehow break my restraints and lift the latch.

  “I can’t get there!” I yell, though I doubt they can hear me over the howling winds. Then a crunch comes and a section of the door splinters. More hacking with a blunted object widens the hole to the point where a hand can slip inside – I’d been expecting red skin, but it’s pale and most definitely belongs to a man. The fingers scrabble for the latch, lift it, and then the door is shoved open violently.

  “Who are you?” I cry at the large figure. His face is hidden behind a wrapped cloth stained pink by the storm, and the armor he’s wearing is similarly dust-covered. The stylized bronze plates are familiar: they look like what I had seen the elite Zimani soldiers wearing inside the Purple Emperor’s pavilion.

  The soldier does not answer my question as he surges towards me, a curving knife in his hand. I try to catch the blow, but he’s surprisingly quick, and with my hands bound I only manage to raise them so that he won’t plunge the blade into my chest. I steel myself, expecting to feel cold metal slice through my fingers, but instead the dagger finds the strap between my wrists and severs it.

  “What?” I manage dumbly as he shoves me to the side so that he can reach the chain restraining me to the wall. He reverses his dagger, then with the metal pommel strikes the links with such force that a few of them immediately shatter. My jaw drops at his strength.

  “Come,” the man growls behind his cloth, seizing a handful of my shirt and dragging me towards the broken door.

  At first I’m too surprised to resist, but before I am pulled through the door I manage to brace myself against the frame. My shirt rips and he stumbles slightly, coming away with a handful of cloth.

  “Wait,” I say, “I want to know –”

  He mutters something harsh, his hand flashing out to grab the collar of my ring mail hauberk. I nearly leave my feet as I’m hauled from the wagon.

  Immediately I’m pummeled by the storm, and I try to cover my face to protect my eyes from the stinging grit. We’re standing on a platform like where a drover might sit, but whatever animals have been pulling the wagon must be sheltering elsewhere. There’s no sign of the Prophet or any of the Shriven.

  Still gripping my armor, the man drags me to the edge of the bench and throws me over the side. Pain erupts in my shoulder as I strike the ground, but the dust is not packed hard enough for any lasting injury. Still, the breath is driven from my body and I can only lie there for a moment, stunned, as the one who tossed me from the wagon leaps down. Then he grabs me again, pulling me to my feet, and starts to drag me stumbling away through the lashing storm.

  “No!” I cry, straining against him and gesturing back at the other vague shapes bulked behind the wagon. “We have to rescue my friends!”

  The man’s grip on my armor slackens as he turns his shrouded face to stare where I’m pointing. Then his other hand flashes up, the one holding the knife, and bright pain explodes in my temple.

  I tumble into darkness.

  When I wake, I’m lying in a cave, a little way from its mouth with my cheek pressed against pitted stone. Outside, the storm has subsided, and an eerie stillness has fallen over the wastes. Red dunes undulate into the distance under a sky pulsing with unnatural colors. My head is aching, and I want to explore the swelling, but instead I keep my arms motionless at my sides. The only sound is coming from behind me, a rhythmic metal scraping.

  Should I leap up and rush at whoever kidnapped me? Or was it a rescue? To be honest, I’m not sure if I have much fight in me right now, or if I would even be a challenge for the warrior who brought me here.

  The scraping stops. “I know you’re awake.”

  Sighing, I push myself onto my hands and knees. My head swirls, and I come dangerously close to being sick. With some effort, I focus on the figure crouched in the back of the cave, recessed among the shadows.

  “Who are you?”

  Metal flashes as the dagger the stranger was sharpening vanishes. He studies me for a long moment.

  I struggle into a sitting position. “You must be from one of the tribes,” I continue. “Not the Azures, I think. Another that has survived here.”

  The shadowed figure cocks its head to one side. “I am from one of the tribes.”

  I let out a sigh. “Good. Then you must have seen I was a prisoner and that Shriven accompanied the wagon. I am an enemy of the demons.”

  “Are you truly?”

  “Yes.”

  The stranger puts his elbows on his knees and laces his fingers in front of his face. “What is your name?”

  “Talin. No, wait, it’s Alesk.”

  The stranger is very still. “Why do you have two names?”

  “My memories of who I was are gone. The first name was given to me by those who found me, and I have come to think of it as my own. But later I learned my true name.”

  “Alesk and Talin,” the stranger says, then grunts. “Traitors to this world.”

  Damn. “They were. But I’m trying to atone for whatever sins I committed. That’s why the Shriven had captured me. I betrayed Ezekal.”

  The stranger’s head comes up sharply at the name. “Did you?”

  I nod. “You know him as well?”

  In response, the stranger reaches deeper into the darkness and pulls forth a sheathed sword. He grips the hilt and draws out a hand-span of the blade . . . and I gasp as a soft green glow fills the cave.

  “My sword,” I whisper.

  The stranger slams the sword back into its sheath, extinguishing the light. “No. My sword.” He rises so that he’s towering above me and takes a step forward out of the gloom. Then he reaches up and unwinds the dust-stained cloth covering his face.

  Black hair and
high cheekbones. It is the man who came to me in the muckers’ barracks in Zim. The one who claimed to be my brother . . . the true Talin.

  “What are you doing here?” I manage, stunned.

  The man squats in front of me. His bright silver eyes stare into my own, as if he’s searching for something. “Atonement,” he says simply.

  “Atonement for what?” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “For my crimes. And yours.”

  He stands again abruptly and walks back into the shadows. He bends down, and I hear the sound of rustling. When he returns he’s carrying another sheathed sword, but this one I recognize immediately from its hilt, carved out of dark wood into a raptor with wings outspread.

  My brother – if he is my brother – rips the sheath away and tosses it aside. The darkness melts away as emerald radiance floods the cave. “You were not the only thing I took from the caravan,” he says, running his hand along the gleaming crystal. “Now, convince me you are no longer the Prophet’s lapdog. If you do so, I will return your sword. If you do not, I will do what I should have done long ago.”

  I hold up my wrists, still encircled by the remnants of my shackles. “This is not enough proof?”

  “If you betrayed Ezekal, why are you not dead?”

  “He . . . wants to return my memories. He thinks I will join with him again if this happens.”

  “And will you?”

  I shake my head vehemently. “Never.”

  He regards me impassively. “Yet on his orders you came here and dragged a weaver into the new world.”

  “And then brought her back!”

  He is quiet for a long time, staring out at the wastes. When he finally speaks, his voice sounds distant. “I was there, you know, in the pavilion.”

  I blink, taken aback. “What?”

  He gestures at his armor. “I joined the imperial guard long ago to keep an eye on Ezekal’s scheming. I watched your rather . . . brazen antics at the parley. You’re lucky the emperor didn’t have you executed then and there, to be honest.”

  “You were one of the guards in the tent?”

  He nods. “And after, when Ezekal made known that he was going to follow you through a Gate to retrieve the weaver, I managed to get myself assigned to the squad that would accompany him. When he arrived here we were set upon immediately by Shriven, and I used the chaos as an opportunity to slip away. I have been following this unholy caravan ever since, and I saw them drag you inside.”

  “And the weaver, Valyra? You saw her?”

  “Yes. She is with two other companions in another of the wagons.”

  “We must rescue them,” I say quickly.

  He returns his gaze to me. I think there may be a slight softening in his mien. “There are nearly twenty of the Shriven escorting Ezekal and his prize. Three Voices. The odds are against us.”

  “The red-skinned woman is a powerful warrior. At least my equal. If we could free her first and get her a weapon she might tip the odds.”

  His mouth twists. “Skill with a sword is useless with the Voices there. Their dark sorcery will overwhelm us.”

  “We need a plan,” I say. “Please, brother – I don’t know what happened between us long ago, but I must save those three. The Prophet must be stopped.”

  Another long pause. He bows his head, as if deep in thought. Then he suddenly straightens.

  And tosses my sword at my feet.

  The caravan looks abandoned.

  Mounds of dust have enveloped its wheels and sent red fingers creeping up the sides of the wagons. The Shriven that I saw digging burrows for themselves out in the wastes as the storm strengthened are nowhere to be seen, though I suspect that the demons are hunkered beneath some of the dunes. A little ways away from the chain of six wagons are two massive, beetle-like monsters, their dark carapaces stained pink. From the strange halters slung around their blunt heads, these must be the creatures that have been pulling our wagons. Whatever oxen or aurochs crossed over from the other world are no doubt nothing but bones right now. I can see no movement among the wagons.

  “The weaver and your other companions are in the second-to-last wagon,” my brother says, squinting down through the haze. The flensing winds have mostly subsided, but not all of the dust has settled again, and a gritty veil hangs over the scene spread below us. “You were in the middle wagon. The Prophet sleeps in the first.”

  “And the Voices?”

  He grimaces. “They are always spread out. From what I’ve seen, one stays with the supplies in the last wagon. That’s where I liberated your sword, and that’s also where the rest of your companions’ belongings are stored.”

  “Deliah’s glaive,” I murmur, and Talin glances at me sharply.

  “Her weapon. It’s some kind of polearm, but not used for fighting in formation. She’s deadly with it.”

  He grunts. “Then our first priority should be returning it to her. One of us will enter the last wagon, find the . . . glaive, and kill the Voice inside. The other should kill the Voice that stays in the second wagon from the front. That will leave only the Voice in the Prophet’s wagon.”

  “And the Shriven out in the wastes. Unless we can do this quietly enough that they won’t wake.”

  Talin looks at me strangely, then sighs and shakes his head. “I forget you don’t remember anything. The Scythes and Snakes in the dust will know we’re here as soon as the Voices do. The Shriven share one mind. We never learned whether they are many distinct organisms that merely share thoughts, or if a single, terrible consciousness inhabits them all simultaneously. It was something our scholars debated often during the war.”

  A hive mind. The Prophet mentioned a Mother to the Shriven somewhere out there in the place he called a paradise. Is she here in this world now, controlling the demons like pieces on a game board? If she were to die, would the rest of the Shriven follow her into the abyss? I shake my head, pushing those thoughts to one side for now.

  “Leave the demons out in the wastes,” Talin continues. “The Voices are the more immediate threat. If one of them gets their hooks into your mind, you are finished.”

  “I know, I’ve felt it before,” I murmur, my attention suddenly drawn to the great beetle-creatures as one of them uncases iridescent wings, a sheet of dust sliding away. Seeing the creatures start to stir worries me. “I will kill the Voice in the supply wagon, then deliver Deliah’s weapon to her.”

  My brother nods. “Very well. The Voice in the second wagon is mine. We must strike them at the same time, lest they warn each other. Fifty heartbeats from when we stand, yes? The last one with the Prophet will know immediately when its brethren are slain. What do we do then?”

  I chew on the inside of my cheek, considering. “The weaver. Her sorcery can dispel the Voice’s hold. I’ll bring her when I hunt the third Voice.”

  “And I will keep the other Shriven away from you until it’s dead,” Talin says evenly. He looks at me, his silver eyes hooded. Finally, after a long moment, he turns away again and lets out a deep sigh. “This . . . this reminds me of how things were. During the Winnowing, when we first fought the Shriven, life was hard and terrible. But it was also simple. You and I . . . we killed these bastards for years.” He swallows away some emotion. “Then after we abandoned this world . . . things changed.” His green-glass sword chimes like a bell as it leaves its sheath, a slightly lower pitch than my own blade. “I hope you never remember the man you became,” he says. Then he surges to his feet and begins charging down the dune towards the waiting caravan. I wish I could consider more fully what he’s just said, but there’s no time, and I follow him, my own sword ringing when it slides free.

  My boots churn the fresh-laid dust as I rush towards the rearmost wagon. Talin said we should strike down the Voices at the same time, since they are somehow linked through their thoughts, and so in my head I keep count of my heartbeats. I need to be swinging my sword by the time I reach fifty. My eyes are on the bulges out in the waste
s where I believe the Shriven are resting, but they do not stir as I approach the back of the wagon. I press myself against the wood, testing the latch to make sure the door is unlocked. It is. I let out a deep breath, adjusting my grip on my sword. Twenty heartbeats.

  Strange sounds are seeping from within. It might be a language, but it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before. It rises and falls, droning like a chant, the sounds almost slippery as they blend together.

  Five heartbeats. My hand turns the latch, hoping the Voice is not facing the direction I’m coming from.

  Two. I explode into motion, flinging the door wide as I lunge inside, leading with the tip of my blade. The Voice is kneeling among a haphazard piling of casks and crates, its hood pushed back to reveal its bulging head. Distended black veins are etched stark beneath its pale flesh, and green light leaks from its fish-like eyes. Unnatural sounds are issuing from its writhing lips, but it stumbles in its chanting as I hurtle closer. The sickly radiance in its eyes flickers and fades just before I plunge my sword into its neck. The Voice is driven backwards in an explosion of black blood, dead before it flops to the floor of the wagon.

  The chanting doesn’t stop. Not completely, at least – I realize now that there had been two voices tangled together, and while the Shriven’s wet rasping has vanished, the other continues for a moment before trailing away. For the first time I sense the presence. Vast and unnatural, it fills the wagon with an outrage that makes my skin crawl. Then it’s dissipating like smoke in the wind. Before it’s gone completely, though, I feel its attention sharpen on me, and I draw in a shuddering breath.

  I shake my head, trying to clear it. I don’t have time to waste. Stepping over the Voice’s sprawled corpse, I investigate the supplies piled in the wagon – among the barrels of water and wine and sacks of food I find the bags the Contessa gave us, and beneath these are Deliah’s glaive and Bell’s crossbow. I sheath my sword so I can carry both and exit the wagon. Out in the wastes shapes are emerging, dust sliding from black, gnarled flesh, but I ignore them as I dash to the wagon Talin claimed holds my companions. The door to this one is stuck, and I don’t see how it unlocks or opens, so with a growl of frustration I smash the pointed end of the glaive into the wood. It splinters and caves inward, and with another hard push the door flies open.