by John Marco
Kasrin nodded. ‘I’ve heard of them.’
‘We’re like them, I think,’ Biagio mused. ‘We’re an odd alliance, coming together to fight against Talistan.’ Amused by the notion, he chuckled. Suddenly he realized how much he had changed.
‘I’m afraid,’ confessed Kasrin in a low voice.
Biagio sighed. ‘Me too.’
Kasrin glanced away. ‘Nicabar used to be my hero.’
‘Mine too,’ echoed Biagio. From the corner of his eye he saw Kasrin’s astonished look. ‘He was my best friend,’ Biagio explained. ‘He was like my brother once.’
‘Now you’re sending me to murder him.’
The words struck the emperor like a hammer. ‘That’s right.’
‘And you’re afraid? Why?’
Biagio considered the question. There were so many things that frightened him these days. Without the drug to bolster him, all the frailties of human existence seemed monumental. He feared his mortality and his empty legacy, and he feared the company of crowds. Once, a lifetime ago, he had ridden the seas like a hero, but now the thought of a long ocean voyage made him pale. But most of all he realized he was afraid of the unknown, the thousand inconspicuous things he might find in the Eastern Highlands. This time, he would be all alone.
‘I’m afraid of failing,’ he concluded. ‘I’m afraid that my new alliance won’t be enough.’
Kasrin looked at him, sharing his fears, and the two of them said no more.
Part Two
Saints and Sinners
Sixteen
Richius Vantran, sometimes called the Jackal of Nar, stood on the wall walk of Falindar’s eastern guard tower, contemplating the milling hordes circling his mountain home. On his back sat Shani, his two-year-old daughter, her legs dangling around his neck, her little hands supporting herself with tufts of her father’s hair. A handful of blue-jacketed Triin warriors flanked them, equally intrigued by the forces gathering below, chattering anxiously among themselves while their leader, Lucyler of Falindar, stood white-knuckled on the stone battlement. The sun was coming up over Tatterak, revealing the totality of their predicament. Lucyler whistled through his teeth as he counted up the warriors preparing to scale the road toward the citadel. There was only one way up to the mountain palace, a wide avenue cut into the rocky hill toward Falindar’s gates. The gates were flanked by two silver guard towers. Like the eastern tower holding Richius and Lucyler, its westerly sister was similarly crowded with fighting men – Triin warriors in the indigo garb of Tatterak. Each guard tower held forty men, Falindar’s first line of defense against the besiegers wheeling below. Arrows and javelins poked through loopholes in the towers, and along the wall-walks paced more warriors, bowmen with full quivers and jiiktars, the uncanny dual-bladed swords of the Triin, on their backs. Their white faces reflected their apprehension; their white hair stirred in the morning breeze. And Richius Vantran, who stood out among them like a fly in amber, kept his own broadsword beside him on the wall, waiting for the onslaught he knew was coming.
Dyana, Richius’ wife, stood beside him on the walk. She had her arms folded defiantly over her chest and a long stiletto in her belt. It was the thirty-fifth day of the siege, and Dyana had grown accustomed to the relentless attacks. She no longer feared for herself, but rather for the others on the wall, chief of which was her husband. She feared for Shani, too, and the dearth of milk the protracted siege would eventually bring. So far Falindar had weathered the siege with remarkable resilience. They had been prepared and their foresight had paid off, but despite the long days out in the elements, despite their susceptibility to disease, their attackers betrayed no hints of cracking. They would continue to fight, Richius knew, until they were dead or Falindar fell. And there were still many weeks ahead before either happened.
‘See there, Shani,’ whispered Richius. He pointed down the wide road leading to the base of Falindar’s mountain. At least 1200 warriors were camped there, waiting on horseback or on foot, milling around their pavilions and siege engines. Richius had never showed Shani Praxtin-Tar’s warriors before, but the two-year-old had known something was wrong. She could hear the weekly battles, even locked safely in the cellars with the rest of Falindar’s children. Today, before another of Praxtin-Tar’s assaults, before Shani was stowed away like jarred apples, Richius wanted her to see what all the fighting was about. And Shani, who was like her mother in so many ways, wasn’t frightened by the tattooed warriors surrounding her home. Rather, she was indignant. She was old enough now to kick a ball and talk in short sentences, and she had no problem showing her disdain for the cellars. Richius was proud of her.
‘Praxtin-Tar,’ he said. ‘Down there.’
‘Richius, please.’ Dyana reached out to take Shani from him. ‘I have to get her down to the cellars.’
‘In a minute,’ said Richius. Far below, the 1200 warriors looked like insects readying to climb an anthill. They didn’t bother trying to surprise Falindar the way they had Kes, conquering Ishia’s unsuspecting forces in a week. Falindar was too tall and too well-prepared for that. They merely mounted their horses and pulled up their siege machines, and threw themselves against the citadel’s unrelenting stone, dying for the glory of Praxtin-Tar.
‘That’s what we’re fighting,’ Richius said to his daughter. ‘That’s all the noise you hear. All right?’
‘All right,’ said Shani. She spoke in Naren, her father’s native tongue, one that he had been determined to teach her.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Richius urged her. ‘They can’t beat us, Shani. I won’t let them.’
‘No,’ Shani agreed. She banged a hand against his head for emphasis. All the warriors along the walk laughed. Shani had become something of a mascot to them. Some had families of their own in the citadel, others had come to defend Falindar when Praxtin-Tar’s warriors started rolling through Tatterak. But they all had one thing in common – they were besieged. Imprisoned in the splendid palace where food and water were rationed and each day brought a new threat from below; they had nonetheless defended the citadel with ferocity. It was as if a glamour had touched them, some magic that kept their hearts stout and their courage cresting when it should have shriveled. None of them complained or questioned the orders of Lucyler, the citadel’s master. They were as dutiful to Lucyler as they had been to Kronin, their first master, and Richius didn’t doubt their willingness to die defending the palace.
Richius was part of Falindar now. It had been his home for more than two years. At last, he had grown attached to it. He wouldn’t let Praxtin-Tar and his fanatics take Falindar, not after all he’d been through. He had already lost one home. He refused to lose another. So he had set about turning the beautiful palace into a fortress, constructing battlements on the balconies and wooden hoardings over the stone walls to repel escalading marauders. Superstructures of brick had been built on every spire, crenellations of alternating defenses for archers and lance-men. Now there were ballistae on the twin guard towers and atop every wall, great crossbow-like javelin launchers. There were loops of rope called crows dangling down from the defensive walls ready to hook unsuspecting besiegers or to cripple their siege ladders, and pots of boiling oil stood bubbling at key junctures. Wooden polearms for toppling climbers lined the wall-walks bolstered by hundreds of axes and farm implements that could easily shatter the rungs of the poorly-made ladders.
As he looked over their defenses, Richius smiled. Praxtin-Tar had assembled quite an army, but Richius was a Naren. He knew castles and siege warfare, and he was confident that the nearly impregnable Falindar would withstand the warlord’s bombardment. Praxtin-Tar had spent the last month sending wave after wave of his men against the citadel, only to be repelled by the superior positions of Lucyler’s troops. There were hundreds of dead Reen-men outside the walls now, all wearing the black sash of their territory and all bearing the same detestable raven tattoo on their cheeks. With their crazed attacks and appalling disregard for death, they reminded Rich
ius of the men of the Dring Valley, those foolishly valiant warriors who would have followed Voris anywhere, even to their own graves. These were madmen, waging a misguided holy war for their master. Once again the canker of Triin politics had surfaced. Once again the Triin were at war. The peace brokered by Tharn and carried on by Lucyler was shattered into a million argumentative factions. Lucel-Lor was once more the killing ground it had been for a thousand years.
‘Let me take her below now, Richius,’ said Dyana. ‘I’ll keep her safe.’
‘Yes, get rid of the little one,’ echoed Lucyler. His hard grey eyes were fixed on Praxtin-Tar’s warriors. ‘I don’t want her here when they start coming up the road.’
Richius stooped so that Dyana could take Shani from his back. His daughter squealed a little at Dyana’s touch, knowing that her mother would take her down to the cellars. They would be safe there, at least for a time, away from any arrows or missiles that the warlord’s catapults heaved over the walls. Lately, Praxtin-Tar had been tossing all manner of things into the courtyard, including severed heads and the carcasses of slaughtered cattle. These things were meant to intimidate, to frighten the women and children and spread disease. Faced with the nearly impossible task of taking Falindar, the warlord still hoped they would surrender.
Not likely, thought Richius. He leaned over and gave Shani a kiss, then looked at Dyana. He could tell his wife wanted to remain on the wall, to take up a bow or one of his ballistae, but she wasn’t just a wife. She was a mother, too, and her duty now was to Shani.
‘Be good, little one,’ said Richius. ‘Don’t give your mother any trouble.’
Shani scowled, then grabbed up a handful of Dyana’s dress. Dyana held her fast.
‘Be careful,’ she whispered. Then she glanced at Lucyler. ‘You too, Lucyler.’
The master of Falindar nodded. ‘Get below.’
Apprehension seemed to fill Lucyler. Dyana traded kisses with Richius, then made her way off the wall-walk and down the stairway of the guard tower, disappearing through a trapdoor. Richius watched her go, certain she would be safe. Praxtin-Tar had catapults and twice as many troops as the defenders of Falindar, but he still had only one way up to the mountain palace. That meant he was vulnerable.
Richius took a step toward Lucyler, gauging his old friend’s mood. Lucyler looked older than he had before. Two years as master of Falindar had cut deep lines into his face and hollowed circles under his eyes. Once glossy hair now dangled limply around his shoulders. Lucyler had done his best to keep the peace. Without wanting to, he had picked up the mantle left by Tharn and tried to make it his own, struggling to maintain the stability for which Tharn had died. But he wasn’t Tharn. Praxtin-Tar and the other Triin warlords had followed Tharn because he had been special, touched by heaven. Lucyler simply wasn’t enough to fill that space.
‘What do you think?’ asked the Triin softly. He never took his eyes off the milling warriors.
‘They’ll attack,’ said Richius. He pointed toward the western flank of Praxtin-Tar’s army. ‘Look. They’ve got a new engine.’
‘I see it,’ replied Lucyler. The warlord’s latest catapult was bigger than the others, made from local tree timbers. This one looked almost sixty feet tall. To Richius’ eye, it was more like one of Nar’s deadly trebuchets than the primitive, smaller catapults the warlord had previously constructed, and Richius wondered how Praxtin-Tar had come upon the design. It was rumored that Praxtin-Tar kept a Naren slave, a soldier that he had captured in the war with the Empire. Praxtin-Tar himself had not denied the rumor. Now, staring at the hauntingly familiar catapult, Richius was unnerved. He guessed its range at about 300 yards. That meant Praxtin-Tar wouldn’t have to get the weapon too close to Falindar to breach its walls. It could easily be fired from the roadway.
‘That weapon is dangerous,’ said Lucyler. ‘They will put shields around it. We will not be able to reach their crews with our arrows.’
‘Maybe not,’ agreed Richius. ‘But Falindar is solid. Let’s see what that thing can do before we start worrying. If we have to, we can send a sally out after it.’
Lucyler laughed. ‘Oh yes? Who will be mad enough to lead that raid, my friend? You?’
The tone of his friend’s voice made Richius bristle. ‘I’m just saying if we have to,’ he countered. ‘And it won’t be easy for Praxtin-Tar to use it. It can’t reach us from down there, and if he tries to bring it up, he’ll have to bring ammunition with it. That’s going to be heavy work. He won’t be able to get more than a few shots off at a time.’
Lucyler finally looked away from the warriors, staring at Richius questioningly. ‘You are too confident. We’re trapped in here. Or don’t you know that?’
‘And he’s trapped out there. He’s got a whole army to feed, and he’s out in the elements.’
‘It is spring,’ observed Lucyler sourly.
‘It doesn’t matter. He’s already endured a month of it. He’ll have to do something before too many of his warriors start grumbling or someone comes to help us. We’re stronger, Lucyler. Don’t forget that.’
‘No one will help us.’ Lucyler turned away again, not hiding his bitterness. So far, none of the other Triin warlords had come to Falindar’s rescue. They were all too afraid of Praxtin-Tar, or too caught up in their own squabbles to spare warriors for the citadel. Even Karlaz of the lions had abandoned them, leaving the Iron Mountains with his great cats to return to his far-off home in Chandakkar. For a year and a half he had guarded Lucel-Lor from the Narens, but Karlaz had been sickened by the fighting among the other warlords, and neither Richius nor Lucyler blamed him for leaving. But it meant that they were alone in their struggle against the warlord from Reen. This time, no one would help them.
At the last count, there were some 600 warriors inside Falindar and another hundred or so farmers and peasants from the surrounding countryside. Praxtin-Tar hadn’t bothered hiding his forces as he rode into Tatterak. He had made it very plain to Lucyler that he intended to take the citadel for himself. Richius was sure that Lucyler’s defiance only enraged the warlord. Patience was the cornerstone of siege warfare, but that was a virtue Praxtin-Tar didn’t possess. It could take months, even years, to bring a stronghold like Falindar to its knees, but Praxtin-Tar had shown himself to be a sloppy tactician, too driven to simply wait out a war of attrition. Soon, Richius knew, he would force his warriors into an all-out assault against Falindar – a move that would destroy him.
‘Let him come,’ Richius said. ‘Let’s provoke him into a fight. He’ll exhaust himself. He’ll just keep battering his head against our walls until there’s nothing left of him.’
Lucyler shook his head. ‘If he comes to talk I will listen.’
There were indications from the goings-on below that Praxtin-Tar might first send a herald up the mountain road. There was too much order down at their camp. The warlord usually sent his men charging up the road, but not this morning. This morning his 1200 madmen were eerily quiet.
‘If he comes it will be to demand surrender,’ Richius pointed out. ‘He won’t discuss peace with you.’
‘Because he hates me.’
‘Not just you,’ said Richius. ‘He hates everything now.’
Praxtin-Tar was Drol, just as Tharn had been. But Praxtin-Tar had never been devout until he’d heard the words of Tharn and seen his touch of heaven. Now the warlord was a zealot. Obsessed with his newfound religion, he had conquered Kes because it was a Drol holy place. He had killed the warlord Ishia in the middle of a peace conference, setting his severed head on a pole for all to see.
Then he had marched for Falindar.
‘We must resist him, Lucyler,’ said Richius. ‘Goad him into fighting.’ He gestured to the land around them. Tatterak was a rocky, barren place, and Falindar itself overlooked the sea, protected on its northern face by a sheer cliff diving down to the ocean. ‘Look around. There’s nowhere for him to go. Sooner or later he will deplete himself.’
‘Befo
re we do?’ observed the Triin. ‘We’ll run out of everything eventually too, just like Praxtin-Tar.’
‘We’ve filled the granaries and the water tanks,’ countered Richius. ‘We’ve got plenty of food. Weapons too, and good men to wield them.’ He put a hand on his comrade’s shoulder. ‘Resist him, Lucyler. Please.’
Lucyler smiled weakly. ‘What else can I do? I’ll never give him Falindar.’
Richius grinned. He hadn’t wanted this fight, but it had been forced on him. He had spent his life avoiding war, yet it always pulled at his sleeve, dragging him in. So far, war had cost him a father and a slew of good friends. It had even cost him a kingdom. And it had almost cost him Dyana. Scars, both real and imagined, were an indelible part of his body and mind. He had prayed for peace, and all he had to show for his efforts was a legacy of dead bodies and a horde of warriors at his doorstep. Richius Vantran picked up the hilt of his broadsword and leaned against it.
‘They’ll come at us where they think we’re weakest,’ he decided. Falindar had its main guard gates, the two silver towers they currently occupied, and five other spires that reached into the clouds. But surrounding most of it was a wall that sealed the rest of the citadel off from its outer courtyard. The yard itself was teeming with men ready to defend the keep. Praxtin-Tar could search endlessly for a weak spot and never find one.