The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  “To learn is to walk with God,” he read aloud. The notion made him smile. He wasn’t a god, just a boy looking for answers.

  The carriage came to a stop outside a flight of alabaster steps. Alazrian wasted no time. He tossed open the carriage doors and dropped down onto the street, staring up at the monstrous building.

  “This is it, Master Leth,” said the driver, another of Dakel’s countless slaves. “The Library of the Black Renaissance.”

  “Amazing,” said Alazrian. “Can I go inside? It’s very late.”

  “Late? Oh, no, sir. The library never shuts its doors, and there are always scholars available to help. Just go inside and someone will find you.”

  “Will you wait for me? I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  “I’ll have to move the carriage,” said the driver. “But I’ll check back for you here on the hour.” He pointed toward a tower in the distance. On its face was a huge illuminated clock. “Look to the Tower of Time when you need me. You’ll hear when it strikes the hour.”

  “I’ll listen for it,” said Alazrian. “Thanks.”

  The driver snapped the reins and the carriage pulled off, leaving Alazrian on the stairs. He steeled himself with a breath, then began climbing the flawless steps. The library’s doors were opened wide, and when he reached the top of the stairs, Alazrian peered inside to see a vast arena of wooden shelves, bookcases, and desks, all polished to a pristine luster and stretching out endlessly in corridors and alcoves. There was a bright glow from oil lamps and reading sconces, and the warm smell of oak and leather wafted over the threshold. Little men with hunched backs and beady eyes poured over texts, silently studying, and workers pushed carts of manuscripts through the halls, carefully categorizing them on the countless shelves. Alazrian stepped into the library, suddenly conscious of his own breathing. It was as if sound couldn’t penetrate the thick walls; even the drone of the city’s incinerators fell away behind him. His shoes scuffed soundlessly along the carpeted floor, and his head swivelled to survey his surroundings. The Library of the Black Renaissance was astonishing, just like the Tower of Truth and the Black Palace and the harlots in the streets.

  “Young man?” came a voice. “May I help you?”

  Turning, Alazrian discovered a woman behind him, studying him curiously. She wore a simple green gown belted with a scarlet sash, just like the workers pushing around the carts. She looked serene and peaceful and Alazrian liked her instantly.

  “Hello,” he offered, unsure what to say. “Uhm, my name is Alazrian Leth. I’m from Talistan. Well, Aramoor now.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m visiting the city,” Alazrian explained. “I’m a guest of Minister Dakel.”

  The word “guest” made the woman frown. No one was really a guest of the minister’s, despite his hospitality.

  “I’m one of the librarians here,” she said. “What can I help you with, Alazrian Leth? Are you looking for something?”

  “I don’t really know what I’m looking for,” Alazrian said. “I was wondering about Lucel-Lor, and thought you might have some manuscripts I could look at. Aramoor is very near Lucel-Lor, and I don’t know much about it.”

  Again the librarian frowned. “No one really knows much about Lucel-Lor, I’m afraid. There aren’t very many texts on it. Just some from the war.”

  “Yes, the war,” chimed Alazrian. He knew the war texts might make mention of the magician Tharn, and that would be a start. “Where are these books, please?”

  The woman had Alazrian follow her through a narrow corridor, past a collection of reading desks, and up a small flight of stairs to a landing overlooking the main chamber. Along the wall was a long bookcase crammed full of manuscripts and scrolls, some faded to yellow by years of decay. The librarian fingered through them, whispering to herself as she searched for the proper section. Finally she fished out a text bound in brown leather and embossed with the impressive title Lucel-Lor—Historical Facts and Notes. Alazrian’s eyes widened when he saw it.

  “What’s that?” he asked eagerly. He reached out and took the book from the librarian, handling it as carefully as if it were an infant.

  “There are some others but this is really the best,” said the woman. “It was written about a year ago by an historian that lives here in the capital. Emperor Biagio himself had the book commissioned so that there would be some record of the events of the war. It’s a very fine work.

  Conhorth, the historian, took care with it. He interviewed survivors of the war from Talistan and Ackle-Nye. I think it should help you.”

  Alazrian ran his hand over the tome. It was far too long to read in one night and he doubted he would be able to take it with him. He would have to get reading quickly.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much. You’ve been a great help.”

  The librarian smiled and told Alazrian that she was at his service if he needed anything else, but he hardly heard her. He was already lost in the pages of the remarkable book, flipping through the leafs and studying the hand-drawn illustrations that jumped off the parchment. Whoever this Conhorth was, he had done an impressive job at the emperor’s behest.

  Excited, Alazrian went back down the stairs with his prize, located one of the vacant reading desks, and examined the tome. On the very first page was a crude map of Lucel-Lor. Calligraphy indicated the names of the different regions. Alazrian tried to sound them out.

  “The Dring Valley.” He had heard of that one. “Tatterak. Kes.” The next one he had never heard mentioned. “Reen?”

  Obviously, he had a lot to learn, but he didn’t have a lot of time. Tomorrow was the tribunal, and after that—who knew? He might be returning to Aramoor. Or worse, he and Leth might wind up in prison. It didn’t seem fair that he should have such a book and not be able to read it, so he plunged ahead, devouring all he could of the High Naren writings, and an hour slipped by before he realized it. He read about King Darius Vantran of Aramoor and his own grandfather, Tassis Gayle, and how Emperor Arkus had made them both send troops to Lucel-Lor to defend the Daegog. He read about the Triin warlords and how they each ruled a different region of Lucel-Lor, and of the Drol and their revolution, led by the zealous Triin holy man—

  A name leapt off the page. Alazrian let it slip from his lips.

  “Tharn.”

  For a moment Alazrian could read no further. In Talistan, it was almost forbidden to speak the name of Tharn. This was the man who had defeated the Empire. Together with Richius Vantran, he had killed Blackwood Gayle.

  The Triin had called Tharn “storm-maker,” the book claimed, because he could command the sky and the lightning. The book swore that this was no rumor, but a truth corroborated by witnesses. The thought of it stirred Alazrian’s soul. Here it was, the proof he needed. For the first time he could remember since his body had changed, Alazrian didn’t feel alone. Tharn had existed. And he had possessed powers that no one could explain. Conhorth wrote that the Drol said their leader was “touched by heaven.” For Alazrian, the claim was wondrous.

  “Touched by heaven,” he whispered. “That’s what I am.”

  But the book didn’t say how this could be, and it didn’t say how Tharn had died. It only repeated the rumors that Alazrian knew already—that Blackwood Gayle was killed by the Jackal, Richius Vantran, and that the Triin holy man Tharn was dead as well. Frustratingly, there was nothing more. Alazrian started thumbing through the book desperately searching for more references to Tharn, but there were none. Nor was there any mention of Jakiras, Alazrian’s father. The omission disappointed the boy. He hadn’t really expected to see Jakiras’ name, for he had only been a merchant’s bodyguard, but any proof of his existence would have lightened Alazrian’s mind.

  His head aching, Alazrian closed the book and leaned back in his chair. The library was silent. Hours had passed. He thought of leaving the library to check the clock, but a dreadful melancholy pinned him to the chair. The giddiness of earlier had gone, and all
that remained were questions. How had Tharn gained the touch of heaven? Why did it burn in both their bodies? And what had really happened to him? Surely he was dead now, but that wasn’t enough for Alazrian. Some were even saying Richius Vantran was dead, too. It had been two years since the Jackal had left Aramoor. Alazrian sighed. Tomorrow he would face the Protectorate. It would have been so much easier to die knowing what he truly was.

  “Touched by heaven,” he muttered.

  “Touched by heaven?” came an echo. “What does that mean?”

  The voice startled Alazrian, who turned around to see yet another Naren stranger. A man, wide as a wall, with dark hair and brooding eyes and shoulders like an ox. He wore plain clothing but his black boots were of a military style. Alazrian wondered if he were a soldier, one of Nar’s legionnaires. The big man came over to him and looked down, blocking the light like an eclipse. His eyes shifted toward the book on the desk and swiftly scanned the title.

  “You’re interested in Lucel-Lor?” the man asked. His tone was neither friendly nor threatening.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Not yet,” said the man. “But I know you, Alazrian Leth.”

  “You’re one of the Inquisitor’s men,” Alazrian deduced. “Have you been following me?”

  The man pulled up one of the chairs, sitting down backward on it and folding his arms over its back. “I wasn’t really following you. I was looking out for you, that’s all.” He picked up the book and frowned. “Why are you reading this?”

  “Who are you?” asked Alazrian, perturbed. “What’s your name?”

  “Donhedris is my name.” He flipped through the pages curiously.

  “And?”

  “What?”

  “What do you do, Donhedris? Why are you following me? What do you want?”

  “I don’t know this book,” said Donhedris. He seemed more interested in the text than in the boy. “It’s big.”

  Alazrian sat back. “Why are you looking out for me?”

  Donhedris closed the book and shoved it back across the desk, then smiled at Alazrian. “I’m just here to check on you. It’s a big city. Lots of things go wrong.”

  More nonsense. Alazrian felt a nervous sweat break out on his brow. He tried to calm himself, guessing that it was all part of Dakel’s game. His mother had warned him about Biagio and the Inquisitor.

  “I don’t need a bodyguard, Donhedris. Please tell your master that for me. You do work for Minister Dakel, yes?”

  Donhedris shrugged. “Tomorrow is the Protectorate,” he remarked. “You going?”

  “I have to,” said Alazrian.

  “Is Dakel going to make you testify?”

  “Shouldn’t you know that already?”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Yes,” Alazrian confessed. He fidgeted in his chair looking for a quick way to end the conversation. “I should go now,” he said, getting to his feet. Donhedris remained seated.

  “I’m guessing it’s your father the Inquisitor is after. You may not have to testify at all. That would be good, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose. Really, I should go …”

  “I have a friend who can help you,” said Donhedris. “He could get you out of facing Dakel if you’re interested.”

  It was bait, and Alazrian was afraid to rise to it. But he was also curious. “What friend?”

  “Someone with influence,” Donhedris replied evasively. “You’d have to cooperate, of course. But I think my friend can help you.”

  “You keep saying friend. What are you talking about?”

  “It’s late,” observed Donhedris. He yawned theatrically, putting his hand over his mouth and getting out of his chair. “You just be there tomorrow when your father testifies. I’ll find you.”

  “What? Wait …” blurted Alazrian, but it was too late. Donhedris had vanished around a corner.

  Alazrian stood in the library, blinking in confusion. He didn’t know what had just happened. He didn’t know who Donhedris was or who he worked for or what strange friends he had. But Alazrian knew one thing—he was in over his head, and the water was rising.

  THREE

  A bloodred moon hung above the harbor and a mournful fog crawled across the docks. Somewhere over the sea a gull cried through the moonlight, and the distant din of boat winches whined from the water as the fishermen worked through the night dropping their nets onto the decks of shrimp boats. A welcome breeze swept through the harbor tempering the stink of fish and salt, and along the boardwalks and dingy avenues staggered sailors and fishermen, drunk from southern rum, their arms looped around willing whores. The clouds above threatened rain, but to the men and women from this side of Nar, any storm was a small inconvenience. The outskirts of the Black City grew hearty men and rats as big as dogs, and no one ran from a rainstorm.

  Blair Kasrin, captain of the Naren vessel Dread Sovereign, meandered down the street with a flower in his hand, his head awash with cheap liquor. He was on his way to see a lady named Meleda, and the state of his rum-soaked brain made the wilting rose in his fist seem priceless and perfect. By his side was his friend and first officer, Laney, who expertly flipped a gold piece as he walked, telling jokes too loudly for a sober man. It was well past midnight, but the two sailors had little sense of the time. Lately, time hadn’t mattered to the men of the Dread Sovereign. They had nowhere in particular to go.

  “I should ask her to marry me,” Kasrin quipped, not meaning it at all. “And we will have pups and I will give up the sea and the Sovereign for good.”

  “And you won’t drink, either,” added Laney, snatching his coin off a high toss. “Yes, I believe you.” He handed the gold piece to his captain. “Here. You’ll need this. Meleda loves you so much, she can’t bear not to take your money.”

  They both laughed. “She’s a good girl,” said Kasrin.

  “Her mother would be proud.”

  More laughter broke them up, but when they neared the house where Meleda worked, Kasrin grew serious. He straightened his crimson cape, squared his shoulders, and pulled the rim of his triangular hat down rakishly over his brow. A nearby window provided a reflection.

  “How do I look?”

  Laney grinned. “Beautiful as ever.”

  “You’re a charmer. Coming up with me?”

  “No,” said Laney. “Not tonight.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t feel like it, I guess.”

  Kasrin wasn’t satisfied. He could always tell when his friend was hiding something. “So you walked me all the way from the Sovereign just for the hell of it?”

  His first officer grinned sheepishly. “Yeah.”

  “Rot.” Kasrin stared at Laney, looking for the truth and realizing it quickly. “You just want to make sure I’m all right. I don’t need a wet-nurse, Laney. I’m not that drunk.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You didn’t have to,” snapped the captain. He lowered his hands and let the flower dangle at his side, then leaned against the dingy stone wall. Suddenly he wished he was back aboard his ship. “Goddamn it, now I’m getting pity from you. Nicabar should have thrown me in the brig with the rapists and deserters. I’d have been better off.”

  “Oh, they would have loved you,” quipped Laney. He reached out and pinched his captain’s cheek. “Pretty young thing.”

  “Stop it,” said Kasrin, batting away the hand. Then he laughed, adding, “I’m spoken for.”

  “Go upstairs, Blair. I’ll see you back on board in the morning.”

  The morning. And the morning after that, and the one after that, too, and every bloody morning until the Dread Sovereign could set sail again. Kasrin set his jaw, his good mood shattered. The thought of being land-locked for another month made him grim. He looked up into the dark sky. From the height of the moon, morning was only hours away. The dawn of another dreadful day spent cleaning a ship that never got dirty. Kasrin hated his life these days. It wasn’t what h
e’d dreamt of as a boy, watching the Black Fleet from the dockside.

  “Do you think I was wrong?” he asked quietly.

  The first officer of the Dread Sovereign grinned. “Permission to speak frankly, Captain?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “I think it doesn’t matter what I think,” said Laney. He reached out and tugged on Kasrin’s hat, pulling it down farther over his brow. “I think you’re the captain. Now get in there. Have some fun.”

  Laney didn’t wait for his captain to reply, but turned and walked off into the fog, whistling a broken tune. Kasrin had asked Laney for his opinion a dozen times since being beached, and he always got the same stupid answer. It really didn’t matter to Laney what he or the other crewmen thought of Kasrin’s decision. Kasrin was still a hero in their eyes and would remain so no matter how Nicabar punished them. It was like a curse for Kasrin, who loved Laney like a brother and hated to see his friend’s career ruined for the sake of misplaced loyalty. But it was also something to be proud of and Kasrin wore their fealty like a naval ribbon. Even Nicabar didn’t have so fine a crew.

  “Piss on you, Nicabar,” growled Kasrin. “And your slack-wristed emperor.”

  Men like Nicabar and Biagio were what was wrong with the world. They were blue-eyed devils who took drugs to steal life and butchered children to spread their reign. They were both to blame for Kasrin’s state and he loathed them. But it was a good loathing and it sustained Kasrin. Whenever he felt defeated, he fed on his hatred and steeled himself with the knowledge that someday, somehow, he would have revenge on them.

  Captain Kasrin twirled the flower in his hand, regarding it bemusedly. The Dread Sovereign had been docked for more than two months. And Nicabar hadn’t let him anchor his ship in the main harbor but had instead forced him into this dingy corner of Nar, away from the rest of the fleet. From here he could see the smokestacks of the city, but he couldn’t hear the incinerators or smell the pollution. It was like being on an island, this sad little fishing port, and the loneliness was maddening. The movement of the sea still rushed through Kasrin’s blood like it had when he was a boy. In those days, he’d go down to the docks and shipyards with a pocketful of sweets, eating them slowly and dreaming of the day when he was old enough to captain his own vessel. That time had come and gone and though Kasrin was still considered young by his peers, he felt curiously old.