Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  "Hurry now," grumbled Praxtin-Tar. He watched as the slaves and warriors worked the winches and pulleys of the trebuchet, hoisting up one of the huge rocks and trying to finesse it into the weapon's armature. At the end of the arm was a catapult cup. Larger than most, it could hold a boulder many times the size of the smaller catapults. The rock they had chosen for their first missile was half as tall as Praxtin-Tar, with jagged edges chiseled roughly into a ball. Under the irascible gaze of his master, Rook worked diligently to get the boulder into the cup, and when it was finally positioned he loosened the vine netting around it and took a step back.

  "It's ready," he said simply.

  "Fire it then," snapped the warlord.

  "At what?"

  "Anything! I just want to see the thing work!"

  Rook nodded and gibbered something to his crew in poorly-phrased Triin. In two years he had learned quite a bit, but his accent was still atrociously Naren. Praxtin-Tar hadn't supposed the weapon would be very accurate. In fact, Rook had warned him it wouldn't be, but its pay-load was heavy enough to damage anything it hit, and if it hit the guard towers . . .

  "Fire the cursed thing," rumbled the warlord.

  "It takes time, Master," pleaded the slave. "It is almost ready."

  When the counterbalance was positioned and all the mechanisms shook with the strain, Rook politely shooed his master away from the weapon, explaining that it would be dangerous to be so near. But they had erected shields around the weapon to try and stave off the arrows from Falindar, and Praxtin-Tar felt safer close to the weapon than out in the open, so he refused to leave. He also refused to let Rook leave, making sure that the man fired the weapon himself.

  There was a wooden lever on the right side of the trebuchet. Rook and his assistants approached it warily. Rook put both hands around the lever. The siege machine groaned with the strain.

  "Do it," spat Praxtin-Tar.

  With the help of his fellow slaves, Rook pulled the lever. Instantly the counterbalance fell forward, jerking the swing arm up in a rush of air. The boulder catapulted into the sky. The giant machine screamed as its timbers shook. The missile was away. Praxtin-Tar gazed up in disbelief, watching as the hulk of granite sailed effortlessly through the air streaking toward the walls of Falindar.

  Richius heard the crack before he saw the boulder arcing skyward. Stunned, he lowered his bow and watched the rock approaching like a shooting star. Next to him, Lucyler and the others stood in open shock, bracing themselves for the coming impact. "Oh, my God . . ."

  The boulder reached the top of its arc, hung frozen in the sky for the smallest instant, then descended toward the citadel. From the height of its trajectory and the speed of its approach, Richius could tell that this new weapon had a greater range than any of the warlord's other catapults. When it looked like the missile might just strike the guard tower, he decided to duck.

  "Here it comes!" Lucyler shouted, dropping to the deck and frantically ordering his men down. The meteor sailed overhead, nearly grazing the top of the tower, then collided with a concussive boom in the outer yard, sending up an explosion of slate and gravel. An unlucky cart was splintered and the boulder rolled on until at last it crashed against one of the spire walls, cracking it. Remarkably, no one had been harmed by the missile, and the miracle of it made Richius' breath catch. He stood up dumbly and stared into the courtyard, stupefied at the size of the boulder. "We will not be so lucky next time," warned Lucyler. "Look!" Richius gazed out over the battlefield. Praxtin-Tar's men were carefully lowering another rock into the weapon. Even from a distance, Richius could see the weapon crew making adjustments to the machine, gauging their range and accuracy.

  "Son of a bitch," Richius muttered. Again he picked up his bow and began firing into the crowds. The ladder-men were racing forward, hoping to get a foothold on the walls. Lucyler's warriors made ready with polearms along the length of the battlements, ready to repel the escalade. "We'll have to take it out," cried Richius.

  "We cannot," spat Lucyler. "Not from here. It is too far." The twang of the ballistae rang in Richius' ears. He knew Lucyler was right. There was no way to leave Falindar and sally out to destroy the catapult. The idea was suicidal, but the weapon itself was murderous. Soon the crew of the trebuchet would learn the azimuth and range. They would hammer the citadel's walls until they shattered. Then they would swarm inside. A wave of anxiety washed over Richius. It didn't seem right that anyone should be able to tear down Falindar.

  "I won't let him," he muttered. "Not today, and not tomorrow." He threw down his bow and went back to the nearest ballista. The Triin warriors working the weapon stepped aside. A javelin had already been fixed into its stock, poised for firing. The Jackal of Nar closed one eye, aimed at a thicket of warriors, and squeezed the trigger.

  An explosion of bodies ripped around Praxtin-Tar as a javelin shot across the field, homing for the trebuchet and slicing through the unarmored flesh of his men. The warlord, still on his horse, grinned happily beneath his helmet. He could see Richius Vantran atop the guard tower vainly trying to reach him with the spears. But he would fail, Praxtin-Tar knew, because today he had Lorris on his side.

  His son galloped up to him. Crinion's ponytail was spattered with blood, but the young man was uninjured and wore the same expression as his father. They were doing well. Their warriors were getting the galleries into position against the citadel's walls. The wooden canopies would protect their men against attacks from above, shielding them like little houses from the projectiles of their enemies. Then the sappers, as Rook called them, could get to work again, trying to bore a single hole in Falindar's thick stone. So far, their attempts had failed. But Praxtin-Tar had a premonition of victory today.

  "It works!" declared Crinion proudly. He brought his horse to a halt next to his father's, admiring the tall siege machine. Rook and the other slaves had finally lowered another boulder into the mechanism and were preparing to fire. The Naren checked the coordinates, making little adjustments that the warlord didn't understand. Another javelin whistled past, sailing harmlessly away from them. Vantran's aim was getting sloppy. Praxtin-Tar looked at his son.

  "Let us finish the Jackal now, yes?"

  "Yes."

  Praxtin-Tar glared at Rook. "Hit the guard tower this time," he demanded.

  "I will try," came Rook's reply as he feverishly tightened splines and checked mechanisms. When he was satisfied with his adjustments, he rubbed his hands together and nodded. "It's ready. Get back."

  Once again Praxtin-Tar refused to move. More arrows slammed into the shields around him as the defenders realized the trebuchet was about to fire. Praxtin-Tar ignored it. He was wrapped in a shield from heaven. Crinion, who never showed fear around his father, stayed near him, ignoring the catapult's groans as it prepared to launch. Every timber of its construction shuddered under its own tremendous strain. The boulder trembled and the swing arm seemed to sing, and Praxtin-Tar eyed the weapon suspiciously, uncertain of its soundness.

  "Rook . . ."

  The Naren reached for the firing lever. When he did, a single supporting strand of rope snapped from the swing arm, followed in fast succession by a dozen more. Rook stumbled backward, aghast, as every spline in the weapon suddenly tore from the strain. The engine shook, rumbled as if in pain, then promptly exploded in a shower of splinters. Praxtin-Tar felt a storm of wooden needles pelt his armor. Beneath him, his horse cried out then buckled under his weight. Men shouted in pain, scrambling away from the sudden storm with bloodied shards of wood in their backs. As Praxtin-Tar fell to the ground he saw Crinion beside him, unconscious.

  "No!"

  The warlord scrambled to his knees beside his fallen son. He tore off his helmet and threw it down, gingerly cradling Crinion in his arms. Little daggers of wood peppered Crinion's body like a pin cushion; he was oozing blood from a hundred different wounds. Along his head ran a crimson gash from crown to cheek, littered with dirt and bits of broken timber. Praxtin-Tar felt hi
s world collapse. He put his ear to his son's lips and sensed the faintest flow of breath.

  "Master!" cried Rook, scurrying out of the carnage. Remarkably, he was unscathed; the explosion had blown out to a single side. "I'm sorry. I don't know what happened!"

  Praxtin-Tar's rage boiled over. "Look at my son! You have killed him!"

  "No," insisted Rook. He pointed down at Crinion's chest, which rose and fell with staggered breaths. "He lives! Dear God, I swear this wasn't my fault!"

  "Do not ever swear to your God around me, worm!" raged the warlord. He got to his feet with Crinion in his arms, looking around in confusion. The battle raged on. From Falindar's guard towers he could see Lucyler and the Jackal staring at him in disbelief. He couldn't continue fighting, not with Crinion so badly wounded. Crinion needed care, and for that he had to be taken to the camp.

  "What now, my lord?" asked a young warrior anxiously. A jiiktar dangled in his hands. A group of his brethren were gathering, mute with confusion around the remains of the trebuchet.

  Praxtin-Tar simply couldn't speak. He looked up to heaven, heard the sounds of arrows in the air, and wondered why Lorris and Pris hated him.

  Richius stared in disbelief. Amazingly, Praxtin-Tar was leaving the battlefield. He had someone in his arms; Crinion, Richius supposed. And the trebuchet was gone. It had simply exploded. Richius began laughing, and his giddiness became a contagion, so that soon all the men along the wall walk were laughing, too. Suddenly leaderless, Praxtin-Tar's men began breaking off their attack. They abandoned their attempts at escalade, leaving behind their ladders and slowly started pulling back their galleries and mantlets. Chaos reigned on the field. The arrow fire from the besiegers slackened as they retreated, and Lucyler's men pressed their advantage, pumping bolts and javelins after their fleeing attackers.

  "Look at that!" Richius cheered. "They're running away!"

  Lucyler was less enthusiastic. "They will be back."

  "Lucyler, come on." Richius gave his comrade a good-natured slap on the back. "We've won the day!"

  The Triin shrugged. "For how long? We may have killed Crinion, Richius. What do you think Praxtin-Tar will do now?"

  "It doesn't matter," Richius insisted. "That trebuchet he built is in pieces, and if Crinion is dead, well then I say good riddance. For God's sake, we've won, Lucyler. Be happy!"

  "Yes," agreed Lucyler. Then he laughed shortly, shaking his head "Yes, I am happy."

  Richius lowered his bow, setting it down on the wall walk, and made for the tower's stairway. "I have to go find Dyana," he explained before disappearing down the trapdoor. Inside the tower, men were surging up and down the steps slapping each other and smiling. Hands reached out offering congratulations, but Richius returned the good humor with short replies, for he was in a hurry to find his wife and daughter.

  Once outside, he looked across the outer courtyard and saw the women and children emerging from the main keep. They blinked as they stepped out into the light. Children dashed across the yard to their fathers and brothers on the wall while the women simply slumped in relief that the siege had broken off so quickly. Richius searched the swelling throngs for Dyana. A wave got her attention, and she began hurrying toward him, little Shani toddling next to her, her short legs hurrying to keep up. Dyana's face lit at the sight of Richius. Each time she went down into the cellars, she had confessed, she wondered what she would find when she reemerged. Today, at least, her fears had been allayed.

  "I told you!" Richius called. He laughed and crossed the distance between them, sweeping up Dyana in one arm and kissing her cheek. "We've beaten them back!"

  Dyana looked around in puzzlement. "Already?"

  Richius scooped up Shani, holding her high and smiling at her. "That's it little one. No more cellar for you today!"

  "What happened, Richius?" asked Dyana. "All I heard was a blast. Did they fire their weapon?"

  "They did." Richius gestured over his shoulder to where the first and only projectile had landed, scraping a huge gash from the earth. "Just once. Then the trebuchet blew apart."

  Shani squealed in delight. Richius lowered her to the ground, keeping hold of her hand. He led her and Dyana toward the massive rock in the courtyard. A curious crowd was already gathering around it.

  "The weapon exploded from the strain," Richius tried to explain. "It's all pressure and counterweights. If it's not built right, well . . ."

  "But why did he retreat?" Dyana persisted. "I do not understand."

  "His son, Crinion," said Richius. "When the weapon blew, it must have wounded him. We saw Praxtin-Tar carry him off. The other warriors won't fight, not without their leader."

  "I see," whispered Dyana, her face darkening. "Then they will be back."

  "Oh, now you sound like Lucyler!"

  "They will be back, Richius," Dyana insisted. "We are still not safe."

  "We're safe for the day. That's all any of us can ask." But Dyana's words made him squeeze Shani's hand a little tighter. Praxtin-Tar would return. And when he did, his heart would be full of vengeance.

  SEVENTEEN

  That night, after the wounded had been attended to and the meager damage done to Falindar repaired, Richius went in search of Lucyler. He had already taken a late supper with Dyana and Shani, and after his wife had put their daughter to bed Richius began to feel restless. Still buoyed from the morning's victory, he wanted to plan their next strategy. With the trebuchet destroyed and Crinion wounded, Praxtin-Tar would have to devise a new way of taking the citadel. Richius suspected he would try again soon.

  After searching Falindar's dining hall and making a sweep of the outer ward, Richius decided Lucyler was probably alone, either in his private chambers or his office on the ground floor. As the office was closest, he went there first and discovered Lucyler leaning back in his chair, his nose buried in one of the room's many books. The chamber door was slightly ajar. Richius poked his head inside. Just when he thought Lucyler hadn't seen him, his friend spoke.

  "I can hear you."

  Richius pushed the door open. "Good ears."

  "I was expecting you, actually." Lucyler's face remained hidden behind the book.

  "Oh?" asked Richius, stepping inside. Quietly he closed the door behind him. "I ate alone with Dyana and Shani. Were you looking for me?"

  "No." At last Lucyler lowered the book. "I just thought you would want to talk."

  Richius noticed his friend's bloodshot eyes. There was a half-empty bottle of tokka on the desk, a fiery Triin liquor that Richius had always despised. A single cup stood next to the bottle. "Lucyler, are you drunk?"

  The Triin smiled. "Maybe just a little." He put the book down on the desk. "You are as predictable as the sunrise, Richius. Every time we fight Praxtin-Tar you want to talk about it."

  "At least I don't get drunk after every battle. What's the matter with you, Lucyler?"

  Lucyler didn't answer, nor did he look at Richius. Instead he put his feet up on the desk, ignoring the way his boots scuffed the expensive wood. Once, the tiny chamber had belonged to Tharn. It had been the Drol leader's study, a place where he could lock himself away and pore over the many texts he had collected. The dusty manuscripts still lined every inch of the walls, crammed tight into bookcases and strewn in crooked piles along the floor. Lucyler did a poor job of keeping the room in order. Beside the cup and bottle on his desk lay stacks of paper and dried out inkwells, unread correspondences in yellow envelopes, and trinkets given to him over the past two years from grateful peasants in Tatterak. Among the folk of Tatterak, Lucyler was beloved. So why did he hate himself?

  "I checked the guard towers and the eastern wall," said Richius, hoping to stir Lucyler's interest. "Everything seems quiet. No trouble."

  "Fine."

  Richius frowned. "Aren't you going to check for yourself? Or are you just going to sit there feeling sorry for yourself?"

  The insult didn't rouse Lucyler. He absently tucked an errant lock of hair behind his ear, and nodd
ed at the book on the desk. "Know what that is?" he asked.

  "No idea," said Richius. He picked up the book and examined it. A journal, probably. As he riffled through the pages he realized that the writings were in Triin. He laid the book back down. Though he could speak Triin with reasonable fluency, he had never really learned how to decipher their written words. Still, he didn't have to wonder who had composed the journal.

  "It belonged to Tharn," Lucyler confirmed. "I have been reading it." His expression soured. "I was hoping to learn something useful."

  "And did you?"

  "Let me read you something," Lucyler said, then retrieved the journal and began searching through the pages. When he found the passage he wanted, he cleared his throat.

  "We are still on the road to Chandakkar," he began, "and the dread of it is endless. It is hot, and I feel like I am dying. There are hazards here, too. I can hear them at night. We are without allies, and I have never felt so alone. Often, I think of Dyana to pass the time, and I wish she were here to comfort me. She is a good woman, and I miss her."

  Hearing the old words made Richius bristle. He didn't like being reminded that Dyana had been wedded before, even to someone as beneficent as Tharn.

  "So?" he asked sharply. "What's the point?"

  "Let me skip ahead," said Lucyler. He went on, reading, "Falindar has become precious to me, and I did not realize it until now. I had never thought to love an object so dearly, but it is my home now and I must protect it. I must never let it fall to the Narens, or see it scarred by war. While there is breath in me, I will fight for her."

  Lucyler slowly closed the book and slid it across the desk, almost pushing it over the edge. His eyes flicked up, looking at Richius. There was an awful silence that bespoke his misery. Richius put down the tokka bottle, trying hard to smile.

  "You won't lose Falindar," he said softly. "If that's what has you worried, don't be."