Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  "I'm not from around here. Just show me where this inn is, will you?"

  The boys closed in around Biagio. There were three of them, all with the same delighted expressions. Apparently they didn't get many Cretans in Stoneshire. Biagio tried not to squirm under the scrutiny; children always made him nervous. When the dog came up to sniff him, he gingerly patted its head.

  "Where you from?" asked one of the boys. "You a southerner?"

  "Yes, a southerner. And I'm very tired, young man. Tell me where the inn is, please."

  The boy pointed over his shoulder, toward the center of the village. "That way. Want us to take you there?"

  Biagio grinned. "Ah, now you're a businessman, eh? Is there a fee for this service?"

  "No," said the boy indignantly. He started walking away, muttering. "Just being friendly is all. Southern trash . . ."

  "Stop," said Biagio. "Take me to the inn." He dug into his belt bag and fished out a coin, tossing it to the boys. "That's for your troubles, and for your wounded pride. Now, lead on."

  All the youngsters glowed at the shining coin, then hurried off toward the center of the village, waving at Biagio to follow. As he strode down the dirt road he noticed townsfolk looking at him, pondering his golden hair and foreign looks. When the boys stopped outside a small house of timber-frame and mortared rock, they directed the emperor to the door.

  "This is it," the one boy declared. Then, reading Biagio's disappointed expression, he added, "Not much to look at, but it's all we've got for travellers like yourself. Unless you want to stay at one of the farms. My father's got rooms."

  "Thank you, no," said Biagio cordially. He looked the tiny cottage up and down. "This is fine. Scoot on home now; it's getting dark."

  With a final look at the visitor, the boys did as Biagio ordered, disappearing into the village with their terrier chasing dutifully behind them. Biagio stepped to the door and knocked. When no one answered he knocked again, more forcefully this time, until at last he heard someone shuffling toward the portal. Slowly the door opened to reveal a stooped woman with cloud-grey hair and wrinkles like the craggy mountains. Bright eyes peered at him, friendly but suspicious.

  "Hello," she said. "Can I help you?"

  Biagio offered her a small bow. "Madam, hello. My name is Corigido. I am travelling through Stoneshire and heard you might have a room to rent. Is this so?"

  "A room? Oh, yes, I have a room." The woman tried to straighten, pleased at the prospect of business. She had a thick Highlander accent that made her hard to understand, but her soft voice was welcoming. "I only have two rooms and one is already taken. You'll have to make do with the smaller one. Come in, we're just having our supper. Are you hungry?"

  "Very much so, madam, and tired as well. I should be pleased to sup with you."

  The old woman stepped aside and let Biagio enter her home. It was small but remarkably well-appointed, with a comforting hearth crackling with alder and a pair of wing-backed chairs positioned near the flames, each within easy reach of a bookcase stuffed with leather-bound volumes. The scent of home-cooking wafted from the dining area. There was a table set with food and silverware. At it sat a man Biagio had never seen before, though his identity was revealed by the scar slicing across his face. As Biagio entered the man started to rise, then quickly stopped himself when he saw the emperor's cautioning wink.

  "Come and sit," said the woman. "I'll show you to your room after we've eaten. We don't want it to get cold."

  "No, indeed," said Biagio. He laid his travelling pack on the floor and went to the table, rubbing his hands together in delight. The man with the scar smiled at him. He had one eye that was brown and another that was red and fixed in a droop. Malthrak had said he'd earned his scar in a duel and that people called him "the cyclops"--a cruel joke considering how handsome he might have been otherwise. He was a Highlander, like the old woman, and so wore the plaid of Prince Redburn's tribe.

  "Barnabin, this is Corigido," said the woman. "He's just arrived and wants a room. Now we have some company! Isn't that nice?"

  "Sit, Corigido, please," said Barnabin. He offered Biagio the chair next to him. There was awe in his eyes that made Biagio uncomfortable, but he supposed the old lady hadn't noticed.

  "Thank you, Barnabin," said Biagio, taking the chair. A platter of steaming meat sat in front of him, begging to be devoured. Biagio picked up a fork and started piling his plate. "I hope you don't mind if I help myself. I'm rather famished from the road."

  "No, no," chirped the old woman. "Enjoy yourself. It's so good to have two guests here at the same time."

  Together they ate in the glow of the hearth. Biagio and Barnabin spoke very little, occasionally trading knowing glances.

  Late that evening, Biagio settled into his small but comfortable room. Mistress Estrella, the proprietor of the inn, had brought him some tea and biscuits. The treats were a delight to Biagio, who hadn't enjoyed a proper cup of tea since leaving the Black City. He dashed his cup with honey as he settled back into the room's only chair, staring out the window while he waited for Barnabin to arrive.

  Biagio's room was on the second floor of the two-story structure, affording him a view of the little shire from a small window trimmed with green draperies. Everything in the inn was immaculately clean. The emperor picked up one of the delicate biscuits and smeared it with boysenberry jam, which Mistress Estrella had provided in a tiny ceramic crock. The confection was fresh baked and delectable. Biagio was about to reach for another when he heard a knock at his door.

  "Enter," he said.

  Barnabin slowly opened the door. His scarred face peered inside, and when he saw Biagio seated in the chair his one eye widened reverently. He had obviously bathed for the meeting, scrubbing his ruddy face and washing his hair, combing it back with oil.

  "Lord Emperor?" he whispered.

  "Come in, Barnabin, and keep your voice down."

  Barnabin shut the door behind him, then fell to his knees at Biagio's feet.

  "My lord, I am honored to be in your presence. I am here to serve you. Command me."

  "Very well. Get up."

  The man sprang to his feet but kept his gaze on the floor. Biagio picked up the plate of biscuits and offered it to Barnabin.

  "Take one."

  Haltingly, Barnabin reached out and chose a fruit tart, but he didn't eat it. Instead he kept it in hand, continuing to avoid Biagio's gaze.

  "Look at me, Barnabin."

  Barnabin raised his head. "Emperor?"

  "Eat," commanded Biagio. "Then tell me how long you've been here."

  The man hurriedly ate the biscuit. When he was done, he said, "I have been in the shire for a week now, waiting for you. I received word from Malthrak two weeks ago, telling me to meet you here."

  "Is Barnabin your real name?"

  "Yes, my lord. I am a distant relation of Clan Redburn. I work as a shoemaker in a small town near the border with Talistan. But I am devoted to you, my master."

  Biagio sipped his tea thoughtfully. Malthrak had told him all about Barnabin. He was supposed to be a reliable source, and had been well paid by the Roshann for keeping an eye on the Highlands. Shoemaker or not, Barnabin had become one of the Roshann's most important informants.

  "I have questions for you, my friend," said Biagio. "This might take some time. You should make yourself comfortable." The emperor gestured to the bed. "Sit down."

  Without hesitation the shoemaker sat down on the edge of the mattress, dutifully awaiting the emperor's queries. Biagio studied him for a long moment, assessing his appearance and loyalty. He was eager to please, that was obvious. And Malthrak had vouched for his fealty. Supposedly, Roshann agents like Malthrak were beyond reproach, but that was before the defection of Simon Darquis. Now Biagio trusted no one.

  "First," began the emperor, "let me say how it pleases me to see you. I had a difficult journey and I feared you might not be here. Because you are, I thank you."

  Barnabin inclined his he
ad. "I would never displease you, Lord Emperor."

  "You are being paid well for coming here, yes?"

  "Yes, Lord Emperor. I admit that. But my word is good, and I am not a mercenary."

  "Don't apologize, my friend. Gold is gold. We all must eat, after all. Now, tell me what you know. How go things in Talistan? And what of Prince Redburn and the other clan leaders?"

  "It is worse now," said Barnabin. "Talistan's soldiers have been drilling near the border. They continue to harass Redburn. So far there has been no fighting, but rumors are growing, my lord. I have heard that Redburn is getting angry."

  "Is he making ready to fight?"

  "I cannot say for certain. But Prince Redburn is a man of peace. He will not fight unless he must. I don't think he understands why Talistan is harassing him."

  "He doesn't suspect an invasion?"

  The Highlander shrugged. "Truly, I do not know. Redburn is a bright man, but politics is not his specialty. He probably doesn't understand what's happening."

  "But Gayle is provoking him. Surely he can see that."

  "Perhaps. But I doubt he knows why." Barnabin leaned forward, speaking in a whisper. "You will have difficulty convincing him to join you, Lord Emperor. Prince Redburn wants no quarrel with Talistan. They are too strong for him, and he knows it. He will not let them provoke a war, not if he can avoid it."

  Biagio sat back in his chair contemplating the news over his steaming teacup. As he'd suspected, Tassis Gayle was trying to push the Highlanders into a war--giving Gayle the perfect excuse to roll his troops into the Highlands. Somehow, Biagio needed to prove that to Redburn.

  "There's been no real fighting, is that right? No bloodshed at all?"

  "None that I know of," said Barnabin. "Some arguing back and forth, some disputes over land, but that's all. Petty things, but the Talistanian troops near the border are making Redburn nervous. I know, because I hear things. We Highlanders are all afraid, my lord."

  "Then I will use that fear on Redburn. I will make him see the truth." Biagio set down his cup and sighed. "I don't know very much about Prince Redburn. Tell me about him. What sort of man is he?"

  "Very young. A scrapper. They call him the Red Stag."

  "Red Stag?"

  Barnabin ran a hand over his scalp. "His hair; it's red, like mine. And he commands the latapi."

  "Exactly what is a latapi?"

  "The elk," Barnabin explained. "That's what they are called in Redburn's territory."

  "Ah, yes, the elk." Biagio already knew about the armored elk of the Highlands. Redburn's clan rode them instead of horses, an arrangement Biagio always thought comical. "The elk are sacred here, yes?"

  "To some, my lord. To Redburn and his kin, especially. You'll see the latapi when we get closer."

  "How far are we from the prince?"

  "Redburn lives in Elkhorn Castle, a two-day ride from here. Can you ride a horse, Lord Emperor?"

  "I am fully trained in the martial disciplines, Barnabin. I may not look like a fighter, but I can ride as well as anyone and handle a saber, too. Do not fret over me. Just get me to Redburn."

  "I will. I swear it."

  "Fine." The emperor closed his eyes. "We will leave the day after tomorrow. I am too tired to leave any sooner. Tomorrow you will purchase horses for us and supplies for the trip. I will give you money to buy what we need. Now, please leave me, Barnabin. I need sleep. I will see you in the morning."

  The informant left the room quickly, bidding the emperor a courteous good-night. Biagio listened to the sound of his boots trailing away down the hall. It was just past midnight and Mistress Estrella's little inn was as silent as a tomb. For Biagio, the place was a blessing. Soon he would set off on the last leg of his journey. He would try and convince a prince that hated Naren lords to go to war with Talistan. Wearily, he picked up another of the biscuits and popped it into his mouth, savoring its delicate taste. In two days he would be a filthy traveller again, but until then he would rest and relish the inn's simple hospitality.

  "Thank you, Mistress Estrella," he sighed, "for making this boorish journey a bit more civilized."

  TWENTY-THREE

  Wind blew through the canyon, threatening a spring storm. Alazrian looked into the sky and counted the rain clouds. A thunderhead was rolling in from the west, thick and black, battling the sun for dominance. Already shadows were growing on the mountains. Flier, Alazrian's horse, snorted disdainfully.

  Jahl Rob slowed his mount to a trot. He glanced around at the rugged hills surrounding them. They were brown and ugly, and deathly quiet. This was Tatterak, Lucel-Lor's northern territory, and the earth here was hostile and unyielding, broken only by mountains and spotty patches of twisted trees. Few rivers cut through the hills and only a handful of villages clung to the mountainsides, scraping out an existence. It was an unforgiving land, and its roads were a nightmare to travel, gutted with holes and sometimes narrowing down to snaking trails. The terrain had slowed the duo's progress, and now the weather was threatening to join the conspiracy.

  Alazrian unhooked his water skin from his belt and took a sip. For five days they had travelled, and only now were they entering Tatterak. They had left behind Ackle-Nye and Falger's hospitality, having filled their stomachs and saddlebags with food, and had followed the map Falger had drawn for them. According to Alazrian's calculations, this canyon was a gateway to Tatterak. And Tatterak was the gateway to Falindar. Soon they would come upon a village. There would be water, and news--and if its Triin inhabitants welcomed them, there might even be shelter. But there was no way they would reach the village before the rain came.

  "Should we stop now?" Alazrian asked. "Make camp before the storm?"

  Jahl Rob shook his head. "It's a long way to Falindar yet. Maybe the storm will pass us by."

  Alazrian gauged the wind. "I don't think so, Jahl."

  "We'll go on," said the priest. "A bit more, anyway. How much farther to that village?"

  "I've checked the map. It's miles yet. We'll never make it."

  "Let's try, at least. If it rains we'll find shelter."

  Alazrian agreed, urging Flier alongside Jahl's horse. Jahl Rob was anxious to reach Falindar, and didn't seem to care about the warlord that Falger had warned them about. He was driven, and Alazrian knew it was his reunion with Richius Vantran that spurred him on.

  "What will you do when you meet the Jackal?" asked Alazrian.

  "Why do you ask that?"

  "Just curious. You're very keen to reach him, aren't you? I've noticed that."

  "Maybe I am."

  "So? What will you say to him?"

  "You're very nosy."

  "And you're very slippery." Alazrian grinned. "Don't you want to talk about it?"

  Jahl Rob turned his face away. "No, I don't want to talk about it. All right?"

  "But you're angry with him, aren't you? Is that why you agreed to come with me? To tell him that?"

  "So now you're a mind reader as well as an empath? I thought you had to touch someone to know what they were thinking."

  "Not always. You're easy to read, Jahl. For a priest you're not very forgiving."

  Jahl fixed Alazrian with a furious glare. "Do me a favor, boy. Get out of my mind. I don't like your parlor tricks."

  Alazrian drew back. "I'm sorry, Jahl, I--"

  "You have no idea how angry I am at Vantran. So just don't try. And don't make me explain it to you, because I won't, understand?"

  "Yes," said Alazrian softly. "I'm sorry."

  The priest rode ahead of Alazrian from then on, not acknowledging him as he kept his careful pace through the canyon. His feelings wounded, Alazrian waited a long time before speaking again, giving Jahl time to cool off. He still liked the priest, and was determined to crumble the wall separating them, brick by brick if necessary. So he trotted up beside the priest again, this time trading his mischievous smile for a genuine one.

  "We're making good time," he observed. "Maybe we will reach the village befor
e it rains."

  Jahl Rob had let go of his anger. He looked to the west where the thunderhead was growing and said, "Hmm, I don't think so, but we'll try. I don't like the idea of camping in this canyon. There'll be animals here, no doubt. Falger told us about those snow leopards."

  "I have my dagger," said Alazrian. "And you have your arrows."

  "Neither of which will help us much if we're sleeping. Besides, I'm not that good with a bow. You know how fast a leopard is? It'd be on us before I could draw from my quiver." Then he laughed, adding, "But I appreciate your confidence, boy."

  "I saw you in the Iron Mountains, when you were fighting Shinn, remember? You're as good as he is, I'll bet."

  "Not hardly. That bastard's an expert with a bow. Compared to him I'm just an amateur. I practice, though. It's a handy habit to have these days, even for a priest."

  "Can you teach me?" asked Alazrian. "I'd like to learn. I've never shot a bow before." His expression soured. "Elrad Leth wouldn't let me. He used to say I was too weak to pull back the string."

  "Elrad Leth is going straight to hell. I wouldn't believe anything he tells you."

  "I think I would be good with a bow," said Alazrian. "I have long fingers, like the Triin. And the Triin are supposed to be great archers."

  "Yes, I've heard that."

  "So you'll teach me?"

  "Not right now."

  "No, not now. But maybe when we reach Falindar? We'll have some time then."

  When Rob didn't answer, Alazrian pressed him.

  "What do you think, Jahl?"

  "Yes, all right. Maybe. If we have time."

  Alazrian beamed. "That would be great." He ran a hand over his brow, wiping away the sweat. Despite the breeze and cloud cover, he was warm from riding. Jahl Rob had a slick of perspiration, too. Again Alazrian took up his water skin. "I'm thirsty," he said.

  "Me too," said Jahl. "It's all these dusty roads."

  Alazrian took a pull from his water skin, then offered it to Jahl. "Here."

  Rob turned, noticed the offered skin, and blanched. His eyes darted down to the mouthpiece, which had just come from Alazrian's lips. "Uh, no thank you."

  "Aren't you thirsty?"