The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  “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 always 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 nighttime. 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. Nighttime 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 th
e 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 trading 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.

  All these things Admiral Nicabar considered as he walked across the battlement on his way to his meeting. Casarhoon’s warm sun played across his face and a gentle breeze caressed him, as warm as the fingers of a woman. For Nicabar, who was continuously cold from the drugs, Casarhoon was a dream. The temperature never dipped below balmy comfort, nor did the winds ever blow too fiercely. As he walked Nicabar wondered if he might retire here someday and bask in its warmth forever. He paused for a moment on the wall, staring out over the sea. Not far ahead, the Fearless bobbed at anchor, surrounded by a dozen smaller warships. Black City had come to the rendezvous, as had the cruiser Angel of Death. Both flanked the giant dreadnought, dwarfed by her. Their combined firepower was half that of the Fearless alone, yet they were no less beautiful to Nicabar. A long time ago, this was why he had become a sailor. Casarhoon was exotic and fierce and made his blood rush, and the sight of so many warships put a powerful spring into his step. He was Admiral of the Black Fleet—this fleet.

  It was smaller than he’d hoped, though. The Shark hadn’t come, nor had Intruder or Notorious. Nicabar supposed they simply hadn’t been able to get away. The orders he had given for this rendezvous had been flexible, for he knew that Liss was still on the move and he couldn’t leave all of Nar unprotected. He had done that once, and the results had been disastrous. Liss had gained ground during his exile on Crote, and it had taken all of the past year to win back waters that were supposed to be their own. Nicabar had hoped for at least two dozen ships to reach Casarhoon. Sadly, he had barely half that many—not enough to take on Liss. Plus there were rumblings. Nicabar had reached Casarhoon over a week ago, and as his fellow captains arrived they did so with suspicion. They had guessed at his goals, and none of them seemed to be supporting him. They were saying he was too ambitious, whispering that the drug had warped him. None of them shared his zeal for conquering Liss, and that disappointed Nicabar. Today, he hoped to change their minds.

  They must listen, he told himself, gazing out over the little armada. He was very high up on the wall and the air was heady. A nervous flutter moved through him and he crushed it instantly. Now was no time to be anxious. His captains were waiting. They had gathered in the council chamber at his order, and Nicabar knew convincing them would be difficult, especially since he had no real plan.

  Someone was coming toward him. Nicabar glimpsed the figure from the corner of his eye, expecting it to be one of Prince Galto’s soldiers. The prince had graciously granted use of the fortress for Nicabar’s secret summit, and his dark-skinned troops were everywhere. But it wasn’t a Casarhian that greeted the admiral. It was Blasco, Nicabar’s captain. The officer stopped a few paces from his superior, squinting in the sunlight.

  “Admiral? The others are ready. They’re waiting for you, as ordered.”

  Nicabar didn’t answer right away. The meager turnout had put his plans in peril. He couldn’t attack Liss now, that’s what they would say. They would try to take away his only chance at victory. L’Rago of the Infamous would probably agree with him, and that gave him some ease, but Gark from Black City and Amado of the Angel would oppose him. He needed a consensus, and he didn’t know how to get it.

  “Admiral?” pressed Blasco. “Shall I tell them you’re on your way?”

  Nicabar squared his shoulders. “Yes. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “Very good, sir.” Blasco turned and strode off toward the council chamber. Nicabar licked dry lips. A moment was all he needed, so he took a breath, held it for a moment, then followed Blasco, fixing his face with confidence. Brashness was what his captains expected of him. He wanted to fill the room with it.

  The grand turret of the council chamber overlooked the ocean. At its entrance stood two Casarhian soldiers, their dark skin glistening as if oiled. They stepped aside dutifully as Nicabar approached. For the duration of his visit, Nicabar would be their lord and master. Gorgotor Fortress had a commander, but he was a relatively low-ranking man compared to the Admiral of the Black Fleet, and he wasn’t from the Naren capital. Prince Galto himself was in his palace at Fa, far removed from the fortress and the secret meeting. So Nicabar essentially had the fortress to himself, and he liked the gravity that gave him. When he walked past the soldiers, he entered a round chamber filled with men in uniforms. The room smelled of tobacco and wine, and he squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Voices hushed as he stepped inside, and Nicabar saw a host of familiar faces staring at him over a gigantic table of carved ash. Most sat back comfortably with crystal goblets in their hands, sampling the fine wines Prince Galto had provided for the summit, and others sucked on pipes, appreciating Casarhoon’s legendary tobacco. They were captains, mostly, and their lieutenants sat with them or stood nearby, and all of them paused when Nicabar entered. The admiral stopped a few paces into the room, frowning at them. Realizing they had offended him, they all hurried to stand.

  “Admiral Nicabar,” announced Captain Blasco. A chorus of polite applause followed. Captain L’Rago of the Infamous led the acclaim, clapping louder than anyone. He was
a young man for such a high rank and reminded the admiral a bit of Blair Kasrin, except that L’Rago wasn’t squeamish. His men called him the Executioner, an apt title for the captain who had butchered more Lissens than Nicabar himself.

  Nicabar didn’t smile at their applause, but merely lifted up a hand to silence them. “Be seated,” he commanded. One by one the Naren captains took their seats. A handful of slaves drifted through the room pouring wine and lighting pipes. They were all women, a touch Nicabar himself had ordered. He had hoped the dark-skinned beauties would put his officers in a compliant mood. And Nicabar himself had an eye for the breed. He whose skin was pale loved their caramel flesh and hair. As he strode across the room toward the head of the table, he smiled at a particularly comely girl, noting her for later.

  Captain Blasco showed Nicabar to his chair, the largest and most splendid in the room. There was a goblet of wine already poured for him, and an unlit pipe. There was also a map behind his seat, pinned to the wall like a tapestry. It showed Casarhoon and its proximity to Liss, with little painted pins to show the various ship movements. The pin for the Fearless was big and black. Nicabar noted the map with satisfaction, then sat down. He steepled his hands on the table and offered his captains a small smile.

  “It is a pleasure to see you all again,” he told them. “I’ve missed you. Thank you for coming.”

  Captain Gark of the dreadnought Black City, who had been the last to arrive, tapped his hand approvingly on the table. “You honor us by your summons, Admiral,” he said. “Do not thank us for doing our duty.”

  You’re a sly one, Gark, thought Nicabar. The first to speak favor was always the first to speak ill. Nicabar cast Gark a warm grin.

  “You had the longest trip, my friend,” he said. “Tell me—how was the journey?”

  “Well enough,” replied Gark. “I welcome the warm seas. Casarhoon is a good place for a rendezvous, no matter the reason.”

  The other captains laughed. Captain Kelara of the Unstoppable even raised his glass in tribute. A few of his fellows drank to the toast, but Nicabar never touched his wine.