The Saints Of The Sword (Tyrants & Kings)

by John Marco

  Which was why the warlord had built the trebuchet, Richius surmised. If he couldn’t find a weak point, he would make one on his own. He would try to punch a hole through Falindar’s walls, using rocks and whatever missiles he could load into the weapon’s armature.

  ‘I wish we had a flame cannon,’ mused Richius. ‘That would make short work of his catapult.’

  ‘I wish we had a hundred more men,’ replied Lucyler anxiously. Siege warfare had a way of playing with men’s minds. Even disciplined minds like Lucyler’s could break from the strain. A lucky shot from that new catapult or a group of determined sappers, those foolhardy besiegers who tried to bore holes under Falindar’s walls, might quickly change the balance.

  But Richius didn’t let himself be afraid. His wife and daughter were in the citadel. For him, failure just wasn’t an option.

  Far below the silver spires of Falindar, at the base of the citadel’s formidable mountain, Praxtin-Tar knelt alone in his pavilion, ritualistically praying to his Drol gods. Lorris and Pris, the sibling deities of his sect, were silent today, just as they had always been, and Praxtin-Tar gnashed his teeth in frustration wondering what he was doing wrong. The Drol gods spoke very seldom and only then to the most devout of their followers. They had spoken to Tharn. Through Tharn they had proven that they lived and held sway, and that there was a life after this one. To Praxtin-Tar, they had opened the door to heaven.

  And then they had abruptly shut it.

  The death of Tharn had once again blinded Praxtin-Tar to the glories of heaven, but he had already seen the truth, and he was determined to reclaim it. He would pray mightily until the brother and sister gods reappeared, and he would fight. If it meant reclaiming the glory of Tharn, he would lay siege to a thousand Falindars.

  Praxtin-Tar kept his eyes closed as he prayed, reciting the words with practiced ease, exactly how Tharn himself would have spoken them. He had studied the texts of the Drol cunning-men and committed them to memory, and he was especially proud of himself for this, for none of his warriors seemed able to remember so many prayers with such clarity. Truly, he was a good Drol. But the warlord of Reen refused to smile. Self-pride was sinful. And Lorris had been a warrior in life. Surely the god of war had no use for humor. As for his sister, the proper Triin woman Pris, she was the goddess of peace and love. She was Praxtin-Tar’s feminine side, supposedly, but that was irksome to him. It was the one aspect of his chosen religion that eluded him, for he was a man of great renown in battle and the ways of women remained a mystery.

  Before him, two candles burned on a makeshift altar. Praxtin-Tar opened his eyes and looked at them. He blew out the left candle first, as was the custom, and then the right, careful to remember all he had taught himself. Then he bowed his head twice to each candle, the representatives of the holy twins. The warlord of Reen drew a breath. He was almost ready. But the silence of his patrons irritated him. He wanted them to be pleased with him. He had reclaimed Kes for them, the ancient site of Lorris’ suicide, and he had taken up the cause of Tharn, so that his light would not diminish. Yet still Lorris and Pris shunned him, and it wounded Praxtin-Tar.

  ‘What I want,’ he whispered, ‘is what Tharn took with him when he left us.’

  A palpable silence answered him, the only reply he ever heard from his gods. For a long moment Praxtin-Tar remained kneeling. Outside, 1200 warriors of Reen were waiting for him to emerge from his pavilion eager to once again throw themselves at Falindar. They had marched with him under his raven banner from Reen to Kes and then to Tatterak, capturing slaves and proclaiming his glory, believing in his mission to free Lucel-Lor from pretenders like Ishia. But Ishia hadn’t been a problem. His mountain keep at Kes had fallen in a week. Falindar, however, was a different sort of challenge. Falindar was taller, and within her walls were warriors of equal zeal to his own. Lucyler wasn’t Tharn, but he did possess some of Tharn’s charisma. Men followed him. Like they followed his friend, the Jackal.

  The warlord slowly rose, then saw a shadow darkening the flap of his pavilion. His son, Crinion, stood in the threshold watching his father. Praxtin-Tar’s offspring was tall, like himself, and bore the same raven tattoo on his cheek as did all the warriors of Reen. For them, the raven was a spiritual symbol. It represented the other side of life, the great beyond. Sometimes, it symbolized death. Crinion’s face bore the tattoo well. He was a handsome young man, well-muscled and proportioned, and when he wore his grey battle jacket he left it open a little, revealing a hairless white chest.

  ‘You are done with your prayers?’ asked Crinion.

  ‘I am done,’ replied Praxtin-Tar. Near the altar was a copper basin filled with clear rainwater. The warlord dipped his hands into the basin, careful always to observe all the Drol stringencies, then daintily picked up the plain white towel hanging on a nearby hook. He dried his hands starting with the fingertips and working his way to the palms, left hand first, then the right. A Drol’s hands had to be clean before battle, and always before and after prayer. The liturgy books said so. Praxtin-Tar observed every small ritual perfectly.

  ‘The trebuchet is ready,’ said Crinion. ‘The men are ready, too.’

  ‘That is fine,’ replied Praxtin-Tar. ‘I, however, am not.’

  Near the altar was Praxtin-Tar’s jiiktar. He had blessed the weapon during his prayers, infusing it with the power of Lorris. Crinion had a jiiktar, too, which he wore on his back in the warrior fashion. On the other side of the altar, hanging from a rack in the perfect shape of a man, was Praxtin-Tar’s armor. It was a simple design, mostly, with very few details, save for a pair of crimson ribbons wrapped around the elbow joints and an inlay of wolf’s teeth in its breastplate. Balancing atop the armor was the elaborate helmet with two ivory horns and a crown of metal. A carved faceplate showed off a grimacing demon’s facade, and along the back of the helmet dangled a slew of raven feathers, draping down like hair.

  ‘You will help me dress,’ Praxtin-Tar directed. His son came forward. This was part of the warlord’s ritual, and Praxtin-Tar enjoyed having Crinion share it. Crinion was his only living son. His wife back in Reen had borne him two sons, but the other had been sickly and had died at an early age. Other than Crinion, Praxtin-Tar had only daughters now. They were precious to him, too, but in times of battle they were no substitute for sons.

  Crinion started with the greaves, working his way up his father’s body, taking the bamboo armor off its rack a piece at a time and working the laces until Praxtin-Tar’s entire frame was covered in the articulated vestments. Finally, after the half-fingered gauntlets went on, Crinion plucked up the helmet and held it out for his father. Praxtin-Tar took the helm but did not place it atop his head. Instead, he rested it in the crux of his arm, letting the raven feathers drape around him. Crinion picked up the jiiktar, fixed it to his father’s back, then stepped away to observe his handiwork. The expression on his face told Praxtin-Tar how formidable he looked.

  ‘Now I am ready,’ declared the warlord. ‘Let us go.’

  His son led him out of the pavilion and into his encampment where hundreds of warriors on horseback and on foot awaited him, their jiiktars and bows at the ready. Horses clopped at the earth, eager for the fight, and children ran excitedly through the throng, all of them boys as yet too young to fight but old enough to help their elders with the chores and preparations. When they saw their warlord emerge from his tent, a rousing cheer went up. Praxtin-Tar felt himself color. Now, he was indeed ready for battle.

  ‘There,’ said Crinion, pointing off toward the war machine they had built. It stood nearly sixty feet tall, a collection of timbers and ropes with a counterbalanced arm that could heave a boulder against Falindar. Next to the weapon, anxiously awaiting the approval of his master, stood Rook. The Naren rubbed his filthy hands together nervously when he saw Crinion point at him. With his rat-like face and pink Naren flesh, he was detestable to Praxtin-Tar, but he had also been a valuable slave, and the warlord was always grateful that he had capt
ured the man and let him live. Once, before his enslavement, Rook had been a man of rank in Nar’s imperial army, a legionnaire as they were called. Now he was a chittering fool. Living among a superior race had turned him into a weakling. He wore his clothes like rags, never washing them, and his stench was unbearable, especially on hot days. With summer coming, Praxtin-Tar dreaded his company.

  With Crinion on his heels, the warlord strode over to the siege engine. Rook bowed. There was a crew of slaves and warriors with him, all enlisted to help Rook employ the weapon. Its shadow drenched Praxtin-Tar as he approached, and the warlord gazed up at it, impressed by the thing the Naren had constructed. Despite their barbarity, there were some things the Empire was good at. Weapons were one of them.

  ‘We ride,’ Praxtin-Tar told his slave. ‘You will get this monstrosity in place. I want Lucyler and his Naren to see it.’

  ‘Yes, Praxtin-Tar,’ agreed Rook.

  ‘You will make it work,’ said Crinion threateningly.

  ‘It will work, Crinion, I promise,’ swore the slave. He looked over his creation, licking his lips. It was very different from the simple catapults they had been employing, much taller and of a foreign design. It also took twice as many men to crew it. The heft of its missiles meant even more manpower, just to get the rocks in place. Thankfully, Tatterak had no shortage of rocks. Praxtin-Tar nodded approvingly. This time, Lucyler would fear him.

  ‘This is good,’ he said simply. ‘I am pleased with it.’

  Rook smiled, showing a mouthful of broken teeth. Praxtin-Tar glared at the pathetic creature, who was not a man at all but a hybrid of worm and skunk.

  ‘Get it into place, savage,’ the warlord ordered. ‘I will ride up to Falindar. I have a message for Lucyler, and I want him to see it.’

  Without another word, Praxtin-Tar turned from the Naren, striding off toward his waiting warhorse. Like its master, the horse was outfitted with bamboo armor that matched the warlord’s. A boy held the beast’s reins ready, handing them to Praxtin-Tar when he approached. Crinion’s own horse was nearby, in a company of mounted warriors, all in the grey jackets of the clan. They watched the warlord of Reen mount his stallion in a single graceful arc and place the elaborate helmet upon his head. For Praxtin-Tar, the world narrowed down to two thin eye slits.

  ‘For Falindar!’ he shouted, then hurried his horse up the road toward the citadel.

  On the eastern guard tower, Richius and Lucyler watched as a column of horse soldiers began ascending the long road to Falindar. At the head of their ranks was Praxtin-Tar, unmistakable in his fearsome armor, a jiiktar on his back. He rode with at least thirty warriors, all on horseback, all garbed in grey with their white hair in long ponytails. Behind them came another column, this one lumbering. The giant trebuchet was slowly being dragged up the mountain road, a collection of slaves captured from Kes toiling to bring the weapon aloft. Archers and jiiktar-men came in their wake bearing mantlets for their protection; wide, freestanding shields with loopholes cut in them for archery. Along the wall walk, Lucyler’s men steeled themselves, disconcerted at the sight.

  ‘Look,’ said Lucyler. ‘Praxtin-Tar comes to talk.’

  ‘Of our surrender, no doubt,’ quipped Richius. His fist tightened around the hilt of his sword. It was a giant blade, too big for him really, but it was good for the bloody work he would do today.

  ‘We will let him come,’ said Lucyler. ‘And hear his words.’

  The archers nearby on the tower lowered their weapons, heeding Lucyler’s order. Richius held his breath, watching as Praxtin-Tar pranced forward, heedless of the danger posed by the defending bowmen. He wondered if there was anything in the world the warlord feared.

  Lucyler had no illusions about the outcome of the discussions. Already he had ordered his men to get ready for the battle. Fires had been lit under the urns of oil, bringing them to a scalding boil, and along the lengths of every wall Falindar’s warriors chafed for war, their jiiktars and arrows sharp and eager. Near Richius, two of his ballistae were manned and armed, fixed with stout javelins. A single shot from one of the huge crossbows could easily reach Praxtin-Tar, skewering him and three of his entourage.

  When Praxtin-Tar had finally crested the slope, he stopped some twenty yards from Falindar’s brass gates. Demon-masked, he stared up at Lucyler and Richius, then gestured to them contemptuously, obviously laughing behind his helmet. Richius stood beside Lucyler, straightening proudly in the face of Praxtin-Tar’s disdain.

  ‘Lucyler of Falindar,’ boomed Praxtin-Tar. ‘You still hide behind your Jackal, I see.’

  Lucyler laughed. ‘Why don’t you come and take him from me?’

  ‘I intend to, Pretender,’ the warlord called back. ‘Today.’ He gestured toward the towering trebuchet being dragged up the road. ‘Do you see it, Lucyler? That is your doom!’

  Richius leaned over the wall. ‘Go to hell!’

  Crinion, Praxtin-Tar’s son, shook his fist. It had been spoken in Naren, so neither of them had understood, but the meaning was plain.

  ‘Today you die, Jackal!’ hollered Crinion. ‘And your whore wife, too!’

  Praxtin-Tar whirled on his son, rebuking him angrily. Praxtin-Tar was never one to insult a woman. According to Lucyler, the warlord of Reen was an enigma. Striving for the approval of the gods, he fought on a level above pettiness. None of this meant that Praxtin-Tar wasn’t ruthless, though, so Richius held up his broadsword for Crinion to see, waving it above his head.

  ‘You and me, Crinion,’ he shouted in Triin. ‘Just come and get me!’

  Crinion bristled but said nothing. Praxtin-Tar shook his helmeted head in exasperation.

  ‘Enough,’ he demanded. ‘I am here to speak with you, Lucyler.’

  ‘I am listening,’ said Lucyler.

  The warlord spread out his hands in mock friendship. ‘You should surrender. You see what you are up against? I have a weapon such as the Jackal himself might build. In time I will breach your walls. You know I will.’

  Lucyler sighed, and Richius could tell he was disappointed by Praxtin-Tar’s demand. It was nothing but the same tired rhetoric. For a moment, a glint of hopelessness flashed in Lucyler’s eyes. But then his old defiance came roaring back.

  ‘Is that all?’ he growled. ‘You waste your breath, Praxtin-Tar. You should save it for fighting.’

  ‘I am not a butcher,’ Praxtin-Tar declared. ‘Surrender now and you will be spared. But if you make me come in there after you . . .’

  ‘Come if you can,’ challenged Lucyler. The master of Falindar turned his back on Praxtin-Tar. He gave Richius a playful wink.

  ‘Die then!’ cried Praxtin-Tar. With a jerk of his reins he whirled his horse about, raising his hands toward his gathering troops. Crinion and the others lifted their jiiktars, trilling out a savage war whoop. Praxtin-Tar seemed to feed on their energy. He stood up in his saddle, took his own weapon off his back, and gave the order to attack. Like a thunder-head rolling off the horizon, his 1200 warriors raced in, swarming toward Falindar in a sea of grey jackets and flashing metal.

  ‘Let’s get him this time,’ growled Richius. As the warlord’s forces approached, he shoved aside the warrior manning the nearest ballista, taking careful aim with the giant crossbow. Behind Praxtin-Tar was Crinion, waving and shouting, whipping up the bloodlust of his men. Lucyler gave the order to fire. All along the twin guard towers arrows launched from their bows, screaming across the yardage toward the besiegers. Richius bit his lip, focused on Praxtin-Tar, then firmly squeezed the balista’s trigger. The man-size javelin sprinted forward, propelled by the taut skeins. It raced toward Praxtin-Tar, slamming into a nearby warrior and ripping through him. Barely slowed, the javelin skewered three more men before stopping inside the belly of a horse.

  ‘Damn it!’ Richius cursed. Praxtin-Tar turned to glare at him, unscathed. The ballista crew hurried another javelin into the weapon, but it was too late. Praxtin-Tar was already surrounded by onrushing troops. They brought ladders a
nd mantlets with them, bows strung taut and arrows stuffed with quivers, and the horsemen galloped around the outer walls of the citadel, raising up a thundering chorus.

  ‘All right, then,’ said Richius. He picked up his bow from its place on the wall and drew an arrow from the ammunition racks on the catwalk. ‘Come and get it!’

  Next to him, Lucyler plied his bow with inhuman speed pumping shafts into the swarm of warriors. The ballistae flanking them fired ceaselessly, sending out their missiles, and the noise of battle climbed into the air like the roar of a forest fire, shaking the catwalks and the very foundations of Falindar.

  Praxtin-Tar galloped among his men waving his jiiktar as arrows showered down around him. His warriors were inundating the battlefield now, setting up their freestanding shields and returning the fire of Falindar’s bowmen. Rook’s huge catapult continued to rumble forward. It was almost in position. The hundred slaves who bore the weapon grunted as they fought to get their burden ready. Storms of arrows fell on them, killing one after another, but Praxtin-Tar knew there weren’t enough arrows in all of Falindar to stop his new weapon. Slaves were cheap, and when one fell another took his place, for the warlord had given his slaves a bleak choice – they could die like men on the battlefield, or die in agony at the hands of a torturer.