The Saints Of The Sword (Tyrants & Kings)

by John Marco

  ‘Yes,’ said Rob. ‘But what does he protect you from?’

  ‘And where are the lions?’ added Alazrian. ‘We expected to find them in the mountains.’

  ‘Lions are gone,’ said Mord. ‘Went back to Chandakkar, back to their home.’ His expression dimmed a little. ‘No more protection from Nar. More like you will come now.’

  ‘They won’t,’ Jahl Rob assured him. ‘No one in Nar is interested in Lucel-Lor anymore. That emperor is dead.’

  ‘Ah, Arkus,’ said Mord knowingly. ‘Dead. Good.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Rob. ‘Though our new emperor isn’t much better.’ He stole a glance at Alazrian, who froze. ‘Still, you aren’t threatened by Nar anymore. No one is coming after you. Nar is . . .’ The priest shrugged sadly. ‘. . . In bad shape. No one is interested in making war on Lucel-Lor anymore.’

  Mord seemed heartened by the answer, which he quickly passed on to Falger. In turn the Triin leader raised his eyebrows, obviously pleased by the news. But they weren’t really safe, Alazrian knew, because they had mentioned a different threat.

  ‘Who else are you afraid of?’ Alazrian asked. ‘Is it Triin?’

  ‘Triin, yes,’ replied Mord. ‘Praxtin-Tar.’

  ‘Praxtin-Tar,’ repeated Falger. He spit the word out like a curse. ‘Praxtin-Tar do hekka ji’envai!’

  ‘Praxtin-Tar is warlord of Reen,’ explained Mord. ‘At war with everyone. No one safe. Here we protect ourselves from him.’

  In twisted Naren, he went on to say how Praxtin-Tar was a Drol, which Alazrian already understood, and how the warlord had been conquering Lucel-Lor, spreading his ideals. But when Mord claimed that Praxtin-Tar was a devotee of Tharn, Alazrian’s heart iced over. Even Jahl Rob was stunned.

  ‘I see,’ said the priest, looking at Alazrian for a guidance the boy couldn’t provide. ‘Well, this Praxtin-Tar sounds like a terror. We shall certainly avoid him. Tell us, where is Praxtin-Tar now?’

  ‘In the place of Triin power,’ replied Mord. ‘In Falindar.’

  ‘Sweet Almighty,’ said Jahl Rob. ‘Falindar? The Falindar?’

  ‘There is only one Falindar.’

  ‘Yes,’ growled Rob. ‘Where Richius Vantran is, right?’

  ‘Jahl, don’t . . . !’ Alazrian exclaimed.

  ‘It doesn’t matter now, boy,’ snapped Rob. ‘I’m sorry, but we have to know the truth.’ The priest turned to Mord and Falger while the children huddled again around Falger’s legs. Rob fought to control himself, taking a deep breath before saying, ‘You know Richius Vantran, yes? You’ve heard that name?’

  ‘Kalak,’ said Falger. ‘Vantran Kalak!’ He began talking too fast for even Mord to interpret, repeating the word ‘Kalak,’ occasionally peppering it with ‘Falindar.’ Alazrian tried to follow his meaning. Obviously, Falger knew Vantran well, or at least his name.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Alazrian asked. ‘Mord, explain.’

  ‘Kalak is Vantran,’ said Mord. ‘Jackal.’

  Rob folded his arms. ‘Jackal. Precisely right.’

  ‘Kalak is in Falindar, surrounded by Praxtin-Tar and his warriors,’ said Mord. ‘Under . . .’ He groped for the word. ‘Under . . .’

  ‘Siege?’ supplied Rob. ‘Great. Vantran is under siege in Falindar. Damn it . . .’

  ‘But he’s alive?’ asked Alazrian. ‘You know he is there?’

  Mord shrugged. ‘Maybe alive, maybe dead. But Kalak is in Falindar.’

  ‘Falindar,’ agreed Falger. ‘Kalak . . .’

  Alazrian approached him, sensing his sadness. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Falger’s smile was crooked. He shook his head, refusing to answer. But Alazrian felt his pain.

  ‘Tell us what’s wrong,’ he said. ‘You know something about Vantran . . . Er, Kalak, I mean?’

  The Triin leader nodded, then answered Alazrian in a confessional voice. Alazrian didn’t understand a word of it, but he didn’t look away, either. Instead he simply let Falger talk. Finally, when he was done, he waved his hand absently at Mord, signaling him to translate.

  ‘There is a woman Vantran married,’ said Mord. ‘Her name is Dyana.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jahl Rob. ‘Yes, I know of this. Vantran left Aramoor for her.’

  ‘She belonged to Tharn. Now she lives in Falindar with Kalak.’ The Triin put a friendly hand on Falger’s shoulder. ‘Falger knew her. Came together to Ackle-Nye, they did. Were close.’

  ‘Lovers?’ asked Rob.

  Mord shook his head. ‘Friends. Just that. Falger misses her.’

  ‘Apparently,’ said Alazrian. His kinship with Falger was growing by the moment. If he could have, he would have touched the Triin and taken away his pain – but his gift didn’t work that way. Falger sank down onto the floor with the children. At once they swarmed around him like a protective cloak.

  ‘You have come for Vantran,’ Mord guessed. ‘So you are in danger. Falindar is dangerous.’

  Falger looked up and asked a question.

  ‘He wants to know why you are looking for Kalak. Kalak is outlaw in Nar. Will you take him back with you? Are you angry with him?’

  The expression on Rob’s face was fierce. ‘Angry? No, we’re not angry. We need him for something else. We need his help in Aramoor.’

  As Mord explained, Falger listened. The children continued to flock around him, protecting him from some unseen threat. Alazrian fell to one knee before the refugee leader.

  ‘It’s very important that we get to Kalak,’ he said. ‘Please, Falger, if you can tell us the way, give us a map, anything. We must go.’

  Falger sighed. ‘Praxtin-Tar.’

  ‘I know. But we don’t have a choice. There’s a lot at stake here, too much to explain. To be honest, I don’t understand it all myself. I’m just delivering a message, really. But it’s important. Can you understand that?’

  Falger looked hard at Alazrian and for a moment they shared an instant of perfect clarity, like there was no barrier at all between them, not language or distance or race. For the first time in his life, Alazrian felt a real connection with his Triin blood.

  ‘This woman Dyana was your friend,’ he said. ‘I will take a message to her from you. I’ll tell her that I’ve seen you, and that you are well. Shall I do that for you, Falger?’

  Mord explained. Falger nodded eagerly, a smile on his face.

  ‘What about a map?’ Rob asked. ‘And food. We can use that, as well. Anything that might help us get there.’

  ‘Maybe we should take one of their flame cannons,’ joked Alazrian. ‘We’ll probably need it against this Praxtin-Tar.’

  Mord repeated their words to Falger, who listened before rising to his feet. He addressed Alazrian directly when he spoke, ignoring Jahl Rob completely.

  ‘Falger says that you are welcome to rest here,’ Mord told him. ‘When you are ready, he will have a map for you. There is not much food, but it is yours to share.’

  Alazrian bowed to Falger. ‘Thank you, Falger,’ he said. ‘Shay sar.’

  Even Jahl Rob had learned a bit of Triin. The Aramoorian smiled at their hosts repeating Alazrian’s words. ‘Shay sar, Falger,’ he said. ‘We are grateful.’

  Mord led them away from Falger and the children, promising them a hot meal and a warm place to sleep. Alazrian followed Mord out of the chamber, stealing one last look at the Triin who had somehow awakened his blood.

  Nineteen

  Blair Kasrin slept alone in the cold sheets of his cot, dreaming bad dreams. For many weeks he had sailed with the crew of the Dread Sovereign, heading for Casarhoon and his meeting with Admiral Nicabar, and because he was drawing near his destination, Kasrin was afraid. His fears preyed upon him while he slept, making him toss fitfully. And as so often happens in dreams, the nightmare was a separate reality, as substantial to him as the waking world.

  In his dream Kasrin was a young man standing at the docks of the Black City. Barely fifteen, Kasrin’s face was smooth, without the stubble he alwa
ys wore now, and his eyes were bright and eager as he watched the flagship of the admiral at anchor. It was the Fearless, though it shouldn’t have been, because the Fearless wouldn’t be built for years. Yet the dream continued, and young Kasrin stared in amazement at the vessel and wished that it was his, and that the hero who captained the vessel might notice him someday. She was a proud vessel, the Fearless, awesome to behold, with her shining guns and perfect lines. Young Blair Kasrin wanted her, or one just like her for his own . . .

  The years skipped ahead suddenly and Captain Kasrin was older, aboard the ship he had wished for in his youth – his own Dread Sovereign. She was a beautiful ship, but Kasrin only noticed her grace for a moment. Explosions ripped all around him. Kasrin realized he was in Liss again. On the prow of the Sovereign, he and Laney were shouting orders to the men, bringing their batteries to bear against an undefended coastal village. Behind them roared the Fearless, firing with her giant cannons, scorching the earth and blowing it apart in chunks. Kasrin could hear screams over the detonations, and the wailing of children. There were no schooners here, no defenders of any kind, and the carnage ate at Kasrin’s conscience.

  ‘We have to stop!’ he shouted in his dream. ‘They’re civilians!’

  Kasrin had relived this nightmare a dozen times. The familiarity of it wakened part of his mind, and he realized that he was dreaming. Now he watched it unfold like a play, dreading the inevitable conclusion. The Kasrin of the dream kept shouting, shaking, but was too afraid to order the bombardment stopped because his hero was out there, judging him.

  ‘Have to stop,’ he muttered. Laney walked off suddenly, shaking his head. Impotently Kasrin raised his spyglass and peered out at the village. The Sovereign continued to fire. Through the glass Kasrin saw men and women, their homes and clothing aflame. He watched in horror until a little girl wandered into his view. She was bewildered, shouting something he couldn’t hear, and when the Sovereign fired again she looked straight ahead, staring at Kasrin in the spyglass until her face was torn away in the strafing . . .

  Kasrin bolted up in bed, his chest drenched in sweat. The image of the girl hung in his mind for a moment, then slowly faded into blackness. But when he closed his eyes again she reappeared, and no amount of grief could erase her.

  ‘Oh, help me . . .’

  He sank his head into his hands and almost wept, but there were no more tears for the girl or her village, because they had been depleted long ago; Kasrin was empty of everything but revulsion. Tonight, shivering and alone in his cabin, he hated himself more than anything. Even more than Nicabar. Kasrin drew the sheets closer, trying to stave off the chill that had seized him. His teeth chattered and perspiration dripped from his forehead. He leaned back, sure he would never be rid of the girl.

  ‘Stop haunting me,’ he whispered. ‘Please . . .’

  Could she hear him? Did Lissens go to the same heaven as Naren sailors? Kasrin didn’t think so. The place he was going – the place he deserved – was the same hell as Nicabar’s, because if God was just he could never overlook such crimes, not even if the sinner was repentant. And Kasrin had repented. He had prayed for forgiveness, begging God to remove the girl’s indelible image. Yet even now she remained his dark companion, silently torturing him night after night.

  Slowly he brought his feet over the mattress and sat brooding on the edge of his bunk. Through his tiny porthole he saw only darkness, so he knew that it was night-time. The realization put him at ease. In the morning they would be approaching Casarhoon. They would see the first hint of it with the dawn, and that meant seeing Nicabar again. Kasrin sighed. It had been a long time, and Nicabar could still intimidate him. That was why his nightmares had become so regular again, so vivid. It was like he could smell Nicabar across the ocean, the stench like poison, but also intoxicating. Much as he hated his old teacher, Kasrin still admired him. Every ribbon on his chest had been earned through valor and bravery. And, admittedly, butchery.

  ‘Some men are butchers and others aren’t,’ Kasrin told himself, paraphrasing something Nicabar had told him after his exile.

  Some men are brave and others aren’t; that was Nicabar’s version. Kasrin wondered if the admiral still thought him a coward, or if time had mellowed him. According to Biagio, Nicabar still took his life-sustaining drug. If anything, Nicabar was probably worse, and that was a hard thing to imagine.

  Then Kasrin thought about Jelena, and his pulse steadied. The Lissen queen had a fair face. Summoning a picture of it always made him smile. He tried it now, banishing the face of the little girl and replacing it with Jelena’s. Something about Jelena put him at ease. She was young and beautiful, of course, but that wasn’t it, not precisely. She was also a Lissen. And her willingness to help in his crusade relieved Kasrin’s guilt. How old was she? he wondered. How old would the little village girl be now? There was an age discrepancy surely, yet the girl was very much like the child queen. Seeing Jelena was like seeing the village girl alive again.

  ‘Oh, now you’re really dreaming,’ he scolded himself. He laughed, shaking his head. He had been smitten by Jelena, and everyone on board knew it – especially Laney, who teased his captain about it at every opportunity. Kasrin looked down at his bare feet and wriggled his toes. He wouldn’t be getting anymore sleep tonight, so he decided to go above and check their progress. Laney would be up there, and Kasrin craved the company. So he rose from the bed and dressed, toweling off his sweaty face with his shirt-tails and running a metal comb through his hair to look presentable. When he was satisfied, he pulled on his boots and went above. Night-time was all around him. As he stepped up off the ladder he caught a glimpse of Laney leisurely coiling a length of rope. Moonlight on the water had caught his attention and he stared at it as he worked, lost in a fugue. Kasrin strode up to his friend, standing behind him for a long moment before speaking.

  ‘Hello.’

  Laney jumped, dropping the rope. ‘God, you startled me!’ He stooped to retrieve the coil and started wrapping it again in a circle. ‘You could have pitched me overboard,’ he snapped. ‘What are you doing up, anyway? I told you I’d take the watch.’

  Kasrin shrugged. ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘You’re afraid?’

  ‘Yes, and if you had any brains you’d be afraid with me.’

  ‘Who said I’m not?’

  Kasrin looked around the deck, spying the tall masts and the sails full of wind. All was quiet but for the relentless crash of surf against their keel. Darkness enveloped the vessel, broken only by moonlight.

  ‘We’re close to Casarhoon,’ said Kasrin absently. ‘Close to Nicabar.’

  ‘Yes.’ The first officer finished coiling his rope and hooked it on a peg in the railing. ‘Close enough to smell him, you might say.’

  ‘Funny, I was just thinking the same thing. Do you think he’ll believe me?’

  Laney sighed. ‘I really don’t know, Blair. You’ve got that map from Jelena, and we’re all backing you up. But whether or not Nicabar sees through you . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘I know what you mean.’ The captain of the Sovereign looked over the waves. ‘God, I’m afraid of him,’ he said. ‘I always have been. It’s like wanting the approval of a father who beats you. No matter how many times he takes that strap out, all you want is his love.’

  ‘Don’t let him frighten you,’ urged Laney. ‘Remember what he is.’

  My hero, thought Kasrin blackly. But no, that was a long time ago. ‘He’s a butcher and a madman,’ he declared. ‘And I won’t let him ruin me again.’

  At the southernmost tip of the Naren Empire, on a peninsula fed by trade winds and blue water, stood Gorgotor Fortress, guardian of the principality of Casarhoon. Built decades ago overlooking the sea, the fortress protected the important spice and slave routes and stood watch over the timeless tropical territory. From its stone buttresses the chain of islands and chop of whitecaps could easily be seen for miles, stretching out endlessly and dotted with tradin
g vessels busy with imperial commerce. And it had been like this for years, because Casarhoon was immutable. There was an element of eternity mortared into the brown bricks and the swaying palms. Casarhoon had been a rock-steady part of the Empire since the ascension of Arkus of Nar. Its spices and fruits had fed the continent and its fortress had stood guard over her southern flank, a great, bronze giant waiting to crush invaders.

  But invaders had never come to Casarhoon, and that didn’t surprise Danar Nicabar. The principality was a tempting target, but Gorgotor Fortress was a powerful deterrent. With her thick walls and watchtowers filled with fighting men, the fortress was nearly impregnable, lined with cannons on her battlements – the old-fashioned ball-and-powder kind favored by the Lissens. To say that Gorgotor Fortress was ugly was to be kind. She was monstrous to behold, and her perch on the sea cliff made her seem perpetually on the verge of toppling. The fortress would never topple, though. Even the flame cannons of his own ship, now at anchor on the sea, couldn’t penetrate her walls. She would stand forever, safeguarding the southern Empire.