The Saints Of The Sword (Tyrants & Kings)

by John Marco

  ‘You have not! You were gifted to us, to me.’

  ‘No. I came for a single purpose. I came for the Jackal. But he will not listen to me.’

  With his mind alone, Alazrian imparted the story of how Vantran was supposed to lead a Triin army to Aramoor, and how Biagio was waiting for him. The mere thought of the Naren emperor made Praxtin-Tar shudder, but he held fast and listened to the wordless tale, nodding.

  ‘Without Kalak, there is no peace. Biagio will fail. There will be war. Do you understand, Praxtin-Tar?’

  ‘Praxtin-Tar understands war,’ said the Triin. ‘But you do not need Kalak.’

  ‘But I do. He was to lead a Triin army. His country needs him.’

  ‘You are not listening. You do not need Kalak. I will come with you.’

  ‘What?’ blurted Alazrian. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I will be your sword,’ declared Praxtin-Tar. ‘I will lead my warriors in your name, and I will win this battle for you.’

  ‘Oh, no! You can’t do that. I’m not asking for your help, Praxtin-Tar.’

  ‘Do not refuse. You have need of me, and I have need of you. I will not abandon you, just as I would not abandon Tharn were he still alive.’ Praxtin-Tar’s expression was grave. ‘You are the door to heaven, boy. You are the proof I have been seeking.’

  ‘Proof?’

  ‘That the gods exist; that Tharn was no accident or trick of fate. You are touched by heaven. You must be protected.’

  ‘Praxtin-Tar, I can’t let you . . .’

  ‘You cannot stop me,’ said the warlord firmly. ‘It is my choice.’ His face softened. ‘Before you came, I was without hope. Tharn showed me another life, then he took it away. I have fought to open that door again, but Lorris and Pris have been silent to me. Yet they speak to you. So you must be protected.’

  There was no arguing with the warlord. Alazrian could feel his conviction like a tidal wave flattening all resistance. Praxtin-Tar was pledging himself, body and soul. For him, it wasn’t friendship or the love of war. It was something holy.

  ‘If you do this, you could be killed,’ Alazrian warned. ‘Your men, too. My grandfather is strong, and he has allies. Defeating him will not be easy.’

  Praxtin-Tar grinned. ‘Praxtin-Tar fears no Naren,’ he boasted. ‘We will battle and we will win. I will make you king of your country.’

  ‘No, that’s not what I want. I’m not doing this for the throne. If I can, I might even be able to save my grandfather.’

  A disapproving rumble came from the warlord’s throat. ‘Do not be sentimental. To win a war, you must be ruthless.’

  ‘He’s my grandfather, Praxtin-Tar. I have to try.’

  Praxtin-Tar nodded. ‘If you must. But if you fail, I will slay him personally. You can make a trophy of his head.’

  Oh, God, thought Alazrian. He’s a butcher, too. Then he realized that Praxtin-Tar had caught the thought.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he offered. ‘I am not a warrior, I guess.’

  ‘Warriors are made up of sun and moon,’ said the warlord. ‘Lorris is the strength, the anger. Pris is the compassion and the strategy. You are more like Pris.’

  Alazrian laughed. ‘My father would agree with you.’

  The warlord gave the boy a steady look. ‘You have saved my son, but you have also saved my soul. I will be your protector, wherever you go.’

  ‘No, Praxtin-Tar, I don’t need a slave.’

  ‘I am no man’s slave,’ retorted Praxtin-Tar. ‘I am a servant of Lorris and Pris, as you are.’ He glanced up into the starry sky. ‘I had thought they called me for other things, but now I see my fate.’

  ‘Then I accept your help, gladly,’ said Alazrian. ‘And I give you my thanks.’

  He released the warlord’s hands, then saw another figure staggering out of the darkness. Praxtin-Tar turned in alarm, but relaxed when he realized it was Jahl Rob. The priest had an uneasy gait, like he was exhausted or drunk, and when Alazrian saw the bruises on his face, he knew something was wrong.

  ‘My God, Jahl,’ he cried. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Vantran,’ said Jahl through a crooked smile. ‘We had a bit of a tussle.’

  Alazrian pointed to the contusion on his cheek. ‘He did that to you?’

  ‘And more,’ replied Jahl. To Alazrian’s shock, he didn’t seem angry. ‘Vantran fights like a wild boar.’

  ‘But what happened? Why were you fighting?’

  ‘It’s great news, boy,’ said Jahl. His smile was wider than the ocean. ‘Vantran is coming with us. He’s going to join the Saints!’

  ‘What?’ Alazrian laughed, shaking his head. ‘God, what a night. And now we have an army, Jahl. Praxtin-Tar is going to help us. He’s going to march his men to Aramoor, to join the battle.’

  Rob looked at the warlord in disbelief. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘I mean, did he say that?’

  ‘He did,’ said Alazrian flatly. ‘They’re going to be our army, Jahl. Maybe all your praying finally did some good.’

  The priest crossed himself. ‘Thanks be to God.’ He looked up into heaven, laughing. ‘Thank you, Lord! I will deliver Aramoor for You, I swear it!’

  ‘It’s just like Biagio wanted, Jahl,’ said Alazrian. ‘We’re his alliance now, all of us.’

  ‘No,’ corrected Jahl. He was still gazing skyward. ‘We’re not Biagio’s army. We’re the Saints of the Sword.’

  Thirty Seven

  Alazrian spent the next two days shuffling between Falindar and the camp of Praxtin-Tar. There were plans to make and supplies to gather, and all manner of questions to answer. Praxtin-Tar had delivered a stirring speech to his warriors, telling them that they were about to embark on a glorious journey. It was a war for Lorris and Pris, he told them, a struggle to aid their mortal ambassador, Alazrian. Praxtin-Tar did not tell his men that they were going to free Aramoor, or that the peace of Nar was at stake. He merely worked the horde like a magician, and because his men adored him, they obeyed. The warriors of Reen spent the next two days sharpening jiiktars and preparing themselves for the long march westward. Under their raven banner and the steely eyes of their warlord, they readied themselves to fight for their fickle gods.

  Surprisingly, Richius Vantran had come down from his apartment in Falindar to be with Praxtin-Tar’s warriors. The Jackal did not explain his silence to anyone, but it was agreed that he was worried for his wife and child, whom he would once again be leaving. It was said among the warriors that Vantran had never really become a Triin despite his giant efforts and that his heart truly belonged to Aramoor, no matter his claims to the contrary. At their meetings in Praxtin-Tar’s pavilion, Alazrian watched the Jackal carefully, studying his moods. Even as they discussed strategies for freeing his homeland, Vantran was a thousand miles away, fretting for his wife and daughter. Surprisingly, it was Jahl Rob who tried to comfort the king. Since convincing Vantran to join them, Jahl spent much of the time shadowing the Jackal, forcing him to smile when he didn’t want to and making bold claims about victory. Vantran endured Jahl’s company with good humor, but Alazrian knew he was hurting.

  On the evening before their departure, Alazrian went back to Falindar one last time. It was early and Vantran was still in the camp making final preparations for the long march, but Alazrian knew the Jackal would be returning for the night. Before he did, Alazrian hoped for some private time with Vantran’s wife. Seeing the Jackal with a foot in two worlds had snapped something inside him. All the travelling, all the worrying, all the planning of the past two days had buried the other part of his mission, but now Alazrian remembered his promise to his mother, and it drove him on.

  So he dressed himself in clean clothes, left the encampment without Praxtin-Tar or Jahl noticing, and rode toward the citadel of Falindar. The brass gates were still guarded but he passed through them easily, recognized by the guardians, and soon found himself in the outer ward where an eager Triin boy took care of his horse for the price of a smile. Nervous about seeing D
yana, Alazrian smoothed down his hair and considered what he would say to her. As he walked through the splendid halls, he remembered Falger, the rebellious Triin he had met in Ackle-Nye, and how he had promised the man he would give a message to Dyana. He would use that as a pretext, Alazrian decided, then ease into his questions. And Dyana Vantran seemed like such a gentle lady. Surely she wouldn’t turn him away.

  Vaguely recalling the way Richius had taken him, Alazrian retraced his steps up the tower. It was a long climb, and by the time he reached the top he was winded. He stepped out into a hallway, looked around, and anxiety seized him again. Dyana Vantran might not even be here. But he supposed she would be; she would be expecting her husband. Alazrian steadied himself with a few deep breaths. She was his last chance at answers, and he was afraid of being turned away. Worse, he was afraid that she would tell him nothing.

  ‘Steady,’ he told himself. ‘Remember to smile . . .’

  He put on a sunny face and went down the hall, ignoring the magnificent white stonework and banks of doors. Most of the portals hung open, revealing great, comfortable rooms, but the door at the end of the hall was closed. Perhaps the lady wasn’t in. He decided to try, going to the door and knocking quietly.

  He heard some rustling behind the door, then the sound of a child’s voice. The door opened to reveal Dyana Vantran. She looked startled by the sight of him.

  ‘Alazrian Leth,’ she said uneasily. ‘I am sorry; Richius is not here.’ A little frown betrayed her dismay. ‘I was expecting him. I thought you might be him.’

  ‘Forgive me, my lady,’ said Alazrian politely. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. But actually it’s not your husband I came to see. The Jackal . . . Er, I mean Richius is still down at the encampment, making plans with Praxtin-Tar. I came to see you.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘Well, I have a message for you, my lady. May I come in?’

  Dyana Vantran shrugged and stepped aside for him to enter. Shani was playing on the floor, batting a little wooden figure from hand to hand. To Alazrian, the carved figure looked like a mermaid. The child glanced up at him and giggled.

  ‘Triin,’ she announced. ‘Triin . . .’

  Dyana looked embarrassed. ‘I am sorry. She heard Richius and I talking about you.’

  ‘That’s all right, I don’t mind,’ said Alazrian. He went to the girl to squat down beside her, studying her fair hair and oval eyes, marvelling at the complexity of her features. She was neither Triin nor Naren, belonging to both races and neither simultaneously. ‘She’s a very pretty girl,’ he said. ‘She looks like you.’

  ‘You are kind. Are you thirsty? I can get a drink for you.’

  ‘No,’ said Alazrian. He stood up. ‘Really, I just came to talk to you.’

  ‘Yes, your message.’ Dyana looked at him inquisitively. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do you remember a man named Falger?’ he asked.

  Instantly, Dyana’s expression softened. ‘Falger,’ she echoed. ‘Why? Do you know him?’

  ‘When I came to Lucel-Lor I travelled through Ackle-Nye. When we got there, some riders came out to greet us. They were Triin. They took us to an old Naren tower, one the Empire had abandoned. The people living in Ackle-Nye are all refugees. Some are even from this territory, fleeing the war with Praxtin-Tar.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Dyana.

  ‘The Triin took us to the tower to see their leader,’ Alazrian continued. ‘A man named Falger. He helped us. He told us about the war here in Tatterak, and he gave us food and other provisions. He gave us a map, too, so we could find you.’

  Dyana nodded. ‘That sounds like Falger.’

  ‘He said he knew you, my lady,’ said Alazrian with a smile. ‘He remembered you well, in fact.’

  The woman glanced away. ‘He was a good man,’ she said softly. ‘We travelled to Ackle-Nye together. He tried to take care of me.’

  ‘He didn’t explain your relationship, but I could tell he thought kindly of you. I promised I would give you his greetings, and tell you that he’s well. That meant a lot to him, I think.’

  ‘You are kind to tell me this, Alazrian,’ said Dyana. ‘Thank you. I have thought of him often, but so much has changed.’ She looked around the vast room. ‘We were so poor, once, Falger and I. Now look at me.’

  Alazrian did. She was stunningly beautiful, and he understood why Vantran had left Aramoor for her. Just being in her shadow was bewitching.

  ‘Thank you for telling me this,’ she said. ‘If you see Falger again in Ackle-Nye, give him my greetings. Tell him that I am well, and that I think of him often. And tell him that the war is done here, that he will be safe now. Will you do this for me?’

  ‘Gladly, my lady. But I think your friend Falger has an independent streak. I’m not sure if he’ll leave Ackle-Nye.’

  Dyana laughed. ‘You are right about that. He is a . . . Oh, how do you say in Nar? A firebrand!’

  ‘Yes,’ Alazrian agreed. ‘But I will give him your greetings with pleasure. Or your husband can tell him – I wouldn’t mind.’

  The mere mention of Richius made Dyana darken. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ Alazrian fumbled. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned him.’

  ‘It is all right,’ Dyana told him. ‘Richius’ leaving is no secret to me.’ She went to her daughter and sat down on the floor, occupying herself with Shani’s wooden figure. Shani looked at her mother with some annoyance, wanting her toy back. ‘Richius will be here tonight. It will be the last night we will spend together for some while.’

  Her voice was distant and sad, and Alazrian wanted to comfort her.

  ‘It’s a long way to Aramoor, my lady. And the first day of summer isn’t far off. We have to leave quickly if we’re to make it on time.’

  ‘I know,’ said Dyana. ‘I just wish things were different. Pardon me for saying this, but I wish you had never come.’

  Alazrian took no offense. ‘I don’t blame you for being angry with me,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think I had a choice.’

  ‘I am not angry at anyone. Not even Richius. Like you, he has no choice. I had hoped this day would never come, but this is something Richius must do. This is what I told him.’

  ‘Really? I had thought you two had, well, words over it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Pardon me, my lady, but your husband isn’t well. He frets over you and the child. He’s worried about you. I had thought maybe you didn’t give your blessing.’

  ‘I did not bless him,’ Dyana corrected. ‘I merely told him to do what he must. You do not know Richius, Alazrian. You think he never cared about Aramoor, that he just abandoned his country without looking back. Well, you are wrong.’

  ‘I know that now,’ admitted Alazrian. ‘And I’m sorry for what I said. Your husband is a good man.’

  ‘Yes he is. He is good and proud and strong. He is the best man I have ever known. And tonight I will be with him – maybe for the last time.’

  ‘This was a mistake,’ whispered Alazrian. Slowly he backed away toward the door. ‘I shouldn’t have come, not tonight.’

  Dyana examined him. ‘You have something special you want to talk about? Something private?’

  ‘Well, yes . . .’

  ‘About Richius?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’ Alazrian sighed. ‘About myself.’

  Dyana studied him. Her inspection reminded him of Biagio. ‘You are a puzzle, Alazrian Leth. I am wondering why you would come to me. Did Falger tell you something?’

  ‘No. Well, yes, actually, he did. He told me you were married to Tharn.’

  ‘That is so. That interests you?’

  ‘Tharn interests me, my lady. I wish to know about him.’ Alazrian took a few steps closer. ‘I told you when we met that I came here for answers, to find out about myself. Do you remember that?’

  Dyana nodded.

  ‘I’ve met people who knew Tharn,’ Alazrian continued. ‘Praxtin-Tar knew Tharn, and your husband did, too.
But none of them have been able to answer my questions. Praxtin-Tar says that Tharn was a mystery, and I’ve tried to ask Richius, but he won’t talk about it.’

  A smile curved Dyana’s lips. ‘Richius rarely speaks of Tharn. He was my first husband.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. But I still have questions. I was hoping you could help me.’

  ‘That may be difficult. What do you want to know?’

  ‘I’m not certain, really,’ said Alazrian. ‘He had magic, yes?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Dyana. ‘If ever a man was touched by heaven, it was Tharn. And you, perhaps.’