The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  It was all so familiar, and yet it was somehow different. Nar City had been happier when Arkus was emperor. It had been more stable, more predictable. Everyone accepted that Arkus’ rule would last forever. But not so for this new emperor. Biagio’s rule was tenuous, and everyone in the Empire knew it. It was why there were civil wars and genocide in Nar, why little men like Angoris were able to do such big things. Each week a new report of atrocities reached Biagio in his palace, new breakouts of unrest, new assassinations of kings. Nar had gone mad in the last year, a result of Biagio’s miscalculations. He had predicted trouble upon his return from exile, but not on the grand scale that was plaguing Nar now.

  Biagio winced as his carriage passed the rubble where the Cathedral of the Martyrs had stood. The empty site was a symbol of all he’d done wrong. The backlash from destroying the cathedral had been far worse than he’d anticipated. He had guessed that Herrith’s minions would flock to him for protection against Liss. But they were a loyal lot, almost as zealous as Herrith himself. And the archbishop’s loyalists had long memories. They knew it was Biagio who had gelded their religion. It was he who had killed the bishop. It was he who had ordered the cathedral blown apart. And it was he who had murdered eleven Naren lords to steal the Iron Throne. Now no one trusted him.

  He closed his eyes, shutting out the cathedral’s ruins. The rubble was a constant, nagging reminder of all the work still ahead of him. He was no longer the same man that had masterminded the explosion, but he still had to prove that.

  “I have changed,” he whispered to himself. It was a mantra he chanted, a self-hypnosis to keep himself focused. Once, there had been Bovadin’s narcotic to keep his mind keen, but he had given up that drug in favor of sanity. Still, the cravings never really left him. And the withdrawal from the elixir had been hell itself. It had nearly killed him. But only nearly.

  “I yet live,” he said, laughing. No assassin had reached him, and if the Protectorate worked, no assassin ever would. Dakel and his long arm would pluck out all the cancers in the Empire, and Biagio would be safe. Nar would be at peace. There would be no more genocidal tyrants like Angoris, no more civil wars. And all of Nar would see that their emperor had changed, that now he was a man of justice and vision. A man worthy of the title.

  “I’m not insane anymore,” Biagio whispered. His eyes were still closed and his head still rested against the glass; the rhythmic swaying of the carriage was lulling.

  “Not insane …”

  Dyana Vantran had said he was mad, and she had been right. Years of imbibing Bovadin’s life-sustaining drug had turned his mind to slush. But he was slowly reclaiming himself. He had made great progress in the past year. And the Protectorate had so far worked wonderfully. The tribunal proved that he was a man of strength, despite the chaos rocking Nar. Though the fragments of the church and the legions of Nar distrusted him, Biagio still had his Roshann, and the Roshann still had their gallows. He could still engender fear when needed.

  Not everyone who came before the Protectorate was executed. Biagio insisted on proof before taking such actions. And it had to be politically expedient. Angoris was a tyrant, and the people of Dragon’s Beak hated him. Executing him would be a popular move. And popularity was important to Biagio these days. Soon all the nations that hated him would accept his rule. Even Talistan.

  He wondered if Elrad Leth was nearing the city, and how soon he could get the schemer before Dakel. But there would be time enough to deal with Talistan.

  Exhausted, Biagio let himself daydream and he didn’t think of Talistan or its sinister king, or of dark-robed Dakel lit by candlelight. Instead, his mind turned to Crote. His former island homeland would be bursting into spring, and the bittersweet image made the emperor smile. It was a long road back to the palace. Biagio seized on the image of golden beaches and, for a while, forgot his troubles.

  But before long the carriage stopped before the gates of the Black Palace. Biagio rubbed his eyes and straightened his garments, which had fallen sloppily around his body. The slave that had closed his carriage door now opened it, again bowing as he bid the emperor to step out. They were in the private courtyard around the palace, the first of many tiers surrounding the dizzying structure. A network of roads and stone stairways connected each tier to its successor, and the yard was scattered with horses, bodyguards, and servants. High above, Naren noblemen hung over balconies, watching their ruler return. The tallest spires disappeared into Nar’s perpetual haze.

  As he stepped out of the carriage, Biagio noticed two figures coming quickly toward him. One was small and dark with wild eyes. The other was tall and burly, more like a wall than a man. No one would ever have believed the two were brothers. They approached their emperor and sank to their knees, greeting him with practiced respect.

  “Welcome home, my lord,” said the smaller man. He raised his head and smiled at Biagio, who knew at once that he was hiding something.

  “Get that ridiculous grin off your face and tell me what’s on your tiny mind, Malthrak,” Biagio ordered.

  Malthrak of Isgar and his brother Donhedris both got to their feet. Donhedris was typically silent, letting his sibling do the talking.

  “Can you not guess, my lord?” said Malthrak mischievously. He was in Biagio’s good graces, and so took annoying chances. “You haven’t seen, have you?”

  “Seen what?” rumbled Biagio. “Tell me, Malthrak, or I shall have your liver for dinner.”

  “There,” said Malthrak, pointing over the emperor’s shoulder. “In the harbor.”

  Biagio’s eyes followed his underling’s finger. They were high enough to see the city’s harbor, choked as always with trading ships. But today there was something else in the inlet, a vast, black ship with armor plating and towering masts that flew the flag of Nar.

  “The Fearless,” Biagio whispered. “Damn …”

  The Fearless dwarfed the ships around it, smothering them beneath its dominating shadow. Its sails were furled and its twin anchors were plunged into the depths. Biagio’s head began to thunder, and he put a hand to his temple to massage away the pressure. This was a surprise he didn’t need.

  “Is he ashore yet?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes. He’s waiting for you inside your reading parlor.”

  “Has he said anything?”

  “No, my lord,” replied Malthrak. Then his nose crinkled and he added, “Well, that’s not precisely true. He did mumble something about Liss.”

  “Oh, yes,” laughed Biagio. “I’m sure he did. Very well. Go and tell him I’ll be in directly. Get him something to drink and eat. Something expensive. Try to …,” the emperor shrugged, “make him comfortable.”

  Malthrak nodded and scurried away, his big, wordless brother following close behind. Biagio watched them disappear into the palace, then took his time following. He wanted to think before meeting Nicabar, but he didn’t want to keep the admiral waiting too long, either. Surely his friend would be enraged. And Biagio had half-expected the visit anyway. But now he needed to summon the old Crotan charm and diplomacy. Nicabar was a very old, very dear friend. Surely he would be able to handle him.

  The “parlor,” as Malthrak called it, was a private reading room Biagio kept for himself on the first of the palace’s many floors. It was a comfortable room housing the collection of rare books and manuscripts Biagio had assembled from around the Empire. Because of its location, Biagio often greeted dignitaries there. Nicabar had known exactly where to go.

  Once inside the palace, Biagio doffed his cape, handing it to another of the ubiquitous slaves, then headed off toward the parlor to meet his old ally. These had been difficult days for the two of them. Since helping his friend win the Iron Throne, Nicabar had turned his attention back to Liss. The admiral had spent the past year in a bloody campaign against the seafarers, a protracted waste of blood and energy that had gained him few victories. Now Biagio needed peace with Liss—especially with ambitious Talistan nipping at his heels.r />
  Biagio slowed a little as he neared the parlor. The collection of statues lining the hall stared at him. Suddenly he was afraid to face Nicabar. He was emperor, but that didn’t make things easier. What he was about to do frightened him.

  Outside the parlor, two of Nicabar’s officers waited, guarding the door. Not surprisingly, Malthrak and Donhedris were there as well. Next to them were a pair of Shadow Angels, keeping a conspicuous eye on the men from the Fearless. The Shadow Angels were everywhere now. Biagio preferred them to the legionnaires, who no longer served the emperor unquestionably since the murder of their general, Vorto. The two skull helms turned toward Biagio, then to the sailors. Nicabar’s men bowed courteously and stepped aside.

  Biagio pushed open the door and stepped into the parlor. The drapes were opened wide letting sunlight pour inside. At the far end of the chamber, his back turned toward the door as he stared out over the city, was Admiral Danar Nicabar. The officer had a glass of wine in his hand and was swirling it absently, lost in thought. Biagio could almost feel the fury rising off him. He put on a smile and closed the door behind him. Nicabar did not turn around. There was a long, uncomfortable pause before either of them spoke.

  “Renato,” said Nicabar at last, “I’m very angry.”

  “Indeed, my friend? Too angry to greet me properly?”

  “Too angry to call you friend,” sneered Nicabar. He turned from the window, slamming his glass down on the sill. The glass slipped and shattered on the floor, but Nicabar ignored it as he stalked toward Biagio. “Why did you order the war labs to curtail my shipments of fuel?”

  Biagio folded his arms over his chest. “Do not presume to bark at me, Danar,” he warned. “I’ve not the character for it. You’re here to discuss this matter. Fine. I expected you to come. But do not shout at me like a cabin boy. I am your emperor.”

  “I put you here!” Nicabar growled. He was taller than Biagio by at least a foot, and the imposing figure would have made a lesser man cower. But Biagio did not cower. He locked eyes with the admiral and returned his steely gaze.

  “How dare you keep that fuel from me!” Nicabar continued. “If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t be emperor. I need that fuel for my cannons!”

  “Danar,” cautioned Biagio. “Sit down. And try to calm yourself. I have my reasons for stopping shipment of your fuel. I will tell you why in my own time and manner. But you will sit.”

  There was enough edge to the command to make Nicabar’s face soften. He took a deep, unsteady breath, found a chair, and collapsed into it with an angry grunt. “I didn’t come here for word games, Renato,” he said impatiently. “I want answers. Why were my shipments of fuel stopped? And don’t tell me it’s because you still want peace with those Lissen devils. I swear, if you say that I’ll scream.”

  “Hmm, then perhaps I should cover my ears.”

  “Goddamn it, no!” Nicabar made a fist and slammed it into the armrest. “You promised me!”

  “I did promise you,” Biagio admitted. “What can I say? Things change.”

  “So, you’re not as good as your word then, eh? You forget too quickly, old friend. My navy put you on the throne. And I did it for a price. You knew the bargain. I won’t let you change it. I am going after Liss.”

  “You cannot,” said Biagio. He took a step closer to the admiral, deciding on a softer tack. “Danar, look around. Open your eyes. Your obsession with Liss is costing us too dearly. We must have peace with them. The Empire is tearing itself apart and you’re off on some mad vendetta. I need you here in Nar. I need you to keep me strong.”

  Nicabar laughed bitterly. “My God, you do forgive easily, don’t you? It’s not just my vendetta, Renato. It’s supposed to be yours, too. The Lissens have your homeland. How can you not care?”

  “I do care,” Biagio countered. “But it was the price of winning the throne. Everyone needs to make sacrifices, Danar. Even you.”

  Nicabar shook his head. “I’m done with that. I’ve sacrificed enough of my honor already. Ten years. That’s a long bloody time to fight. Now you’re asking me to wait even more? Forget it. Jelena’s still building her forces, Renato. Have you considered that?”

  Biagio had considered it heavily. The child queen of Liss was far more resilient than he’d anticipated, and her forces were growing stronger. It was just one more of his miscalculations. But it didn’t change the equation.

  “Peace,” Biagio said. “That’s the only answer.” He went down to one knee beside the admiral’s chair. “Be my friend, Danar. Do this thing for me.”

  Nicabar turned away, suddenly uncomfortable, but Biagio seized his hand. It was deathly cold, like his own had once been.

  “Look at me,” Biagio commanded.

  Nicabar complied and Biagio gazed into his comrade’s unnaturally blue eyes, seeing the same narcotic madness that had once stared back at him from mirrors. But how could he reach him? It was nigh impossible to break the bonds of Bovadin’s elixir. That desire had to come from deep within, and Nicabar seemed not to possess it. Biagio smiled at his friend, pitying his insatiable rage.

  “We’ve been friends a long time, Danar,” he said. “I owe you a lot. I know that. But it will all be for nothing if you keep pursuing Liss. We will lose the Empire and everything we’ve fought for. You’ve seen the chaos. You know I’m right.”

  Nicabar was unreachable. “All I know is your promise to me. You said I could destroy Liss once you took the throne. Well, it’s been a year now. Will you break your pledge to me? Or will you reinstate my cannon fuel?”

  “Danar …”

  “That’s your choice, Renato. It’s bleak, but there it is.”

  “Danar, Talistan—”

  “Burn Talistan,” spat Nicabar. “Burn and blast it! Blast Dragon’s Beak and Doria and Casarhoon, too. I don’t give a damn about any of them. Liss is what I live for, Renato. I will have them, and I will crush them.” He snatched his hand away from Biagio. “And you won’t stop me, old friend.”

  It was a poorly veiled threat, and it stunned Biagio. He got to his feet.

  “You will fight me, then?” he asked, struggling to control his resentment. “You’ll join in the chorus for my head? Why don’t you just sail your navy to Talistan, Danar? Join with the rest of my enemies?”

  “Your promise,” Nicabar insisted. “All I want is for you to make good on it.”

  “I can’t, you fool!” roared Biagio. “I am Emperor of Nar! I have more important things than your petty revenge.” He stalked around the room like a tiger, enraged and frustrated at Nicabar’s stupidity. “God help me, I can’t make war with Liss. I can’t even win back my homeland, because Nar needs me. We’ll have war if we don’t stop Talistan, Danar. Worldwide war. And if you’re off battling Liss, who will be here to stand against them?”

  The admiral merely shrugged. “Give me the fuel,” he said calmly, “and I won’t oppose you. I will fight my own war and win back Crote for you. That I promise. Just give me the fuel.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I will take the navy away from you, Renato. I will fight the Lissens without cannons and you will be weaker than you are now, with no navy.” The admiral grinned. “And no army.”

  Checkmate, thought Biagio blackly. He turned slowly toward the window, stalling as he groped through the political maze. Nicabar was right. He had no army. The legionnaires wouldn’t follow him because he’d murdered their general. He was emperor in name only because he had the threat of Nicabar’s fleet behind him. Without that, his hold on the throne might crumble in a day.

  Yet Nicabar had forced his hand, forgetting that the emperor was the Roshann and the Roshann was everywhere. Biagio had made a life out of contingencies. The emperor sighed. He had loved Nicabar like a brother once.

  “That’s final, is it?” he asked over his shoulder. He saw Nicabar nod in the window’s reflection.

  “It is. Just keep your promise, and you’ll have no trouble from me. Order the war labs to rele
ase the fuel.”

  “I’m not wrong about Talistan, Danar. Gayle is planning something.”

  “The fuel, Renato.”

  “Very well,” agreed the emperor. “I will speak to Bovadin about it. He’ll order the war labs to provide your flame cannon fuel. You will have it by tomorrow.”

  “Then that’s when we’ll set sail,” Nicabar said, springing from his chair.

  “But you’re not going to Crote, are you?” said Biagio. “You’re planning to attack Liss.”

  Nicabar blanched. “How did you know?”

  “Oh, please, Danar. I still have some sources.” Biagio rubbed his hands together. “Well, that does sound promising. Liss itself! My, you are confident, eh?”

  “I can beat them this time, Renato,” rumbled Nicabar. “Once I’ve gathered the intelligence I need, find a weak spot to attack …”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re right, Danar. Good luck to you, then. But keep in touch, all right?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, Renato. I am right this time. I will beat them.”

  You’ve been saying that for years, you fool, thought Biagio.

  “Of course you’ll beat them,” he said. “I wish you all the luck in the world. And you wish me luck, don’t you, Danar? I mean, when Talistan rolls its horsemen into the Black City and all the nations of Nar clamor for my skin, I will have your best wishes, won’t I?”

  The two men shared a charged glance, then Admiral Nicabar backed away, shaking his head. Biagio thought of stopping his comrade before he left, but it was too late and Biagio wasn’t in the mood to apologize. Nicabar left the door open as he exited the parlor and stormed off down the hall, his two sailors falling in step behind him. Quick-thinking Malthrak shut the door again, guessing correctly that his master wanted to be alone.