The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  Kasrin didn’t reply.

  “Come forward, Captain,” ordered Nicabar.

  Kasrin took off his cape and laid it across one of the pews with his hat, then went down the aisle like a bride to face his nemesis. He kept the all-important case in his hands, and noticed with satisfaction as Nicabar’s eyes flicked to it. The admiral waited patiently. Neither angry nor pleased, he simply stood blocking the altar until Kasrin was finally face to face with him. Then, with a reverence that turned his stomach, Kasrin dropped to one knee and bowed.

  “My Lord Admiral,” he said, “I have returned.”

  His eyes on Nicabar’s feet, Kasrin stayed that way for a long moment, knowing Nicabar relished his debasement. He waited for the hammer-blow of a fist, but instead felt the admiral’s freezing hand on top of his head, stroking his hair.

  “Rise,” commanded Nicabar.

  Kasrin rose. He looked straight into those unnatural eyes and was instantly lost in them.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said shakily. “I … I thank you for seeing me.”

  “Why are you here?” Nicabar asked. “For my forgiveness?”

  “Yes, sir. And more.” Kasrin held up the leather case. “I have a gift for you.”

  “Not yet, Kasrin. You can’t buy my pardon so easily.”

  “If the admiral would let me explain what I’ve brought—”

  “Quiet,” barked Nicabar. “Let me look at you.”

  Kasrin remained very still as Nicabar circled, slowly skimming his eyes over every inch of him. Kasrin had expected the admiral to be furious, but Nicabar’s control was maddening.

  “You look terrible,” declared Nicabar. “You’ve been drinking too much and eating too little. Sit down.”

  Kasrin sat down in the front pew, laying his case next to him. Nicabar remained standing, an advantage that made him seem as tall as the tower. He glowered down at Kasrin contemptibly.

  “Look at you,” he sneered. “You’re skin and bones. You’ve grown too fond of the rum. I can smell it on you.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Shut up.” The admiral sneered at Kasrin. “Is this what living in that rat hole did to you? Don’t you know how to shave anymore? And your uniform is filthy.”

  Kasrin held his tongue. The stubble of his beard had been mere laziness, but the uniform was Nicabar’s fault. No one was supplying the Sovereign’s crew with anything these days.

  “I wonder,” Nicabar continued. “Do you still have your Black Cross? Or did you sell it to pay for whores?”

  “I still have it, sir,” said Kasrin. The Black Cross was the highest medal in the Naren navy, and Nicabar had struck it for Kasrin personally. Kasrin had earned it during the Criisian campaign, when that tiny queendom had thought of seceding from the Empire. The Dread Sovereign had been the only warship near Criisian waters. Kasrin had opened fire on their ports, wasting them. He had been young then, and eager to please his hero. It was a stupid move that he’d long regretted. “I’m very proud of my Black Cross,” he lied. “I would never part with it.”

  “Indeed? Am I supposed to be pleased about that? After all you’ve done to me?”

  “Sir—”

  “Am I supposed to greet you like a son? Is that what you expect me to do?”

  Kasrin was speechless. Nicabar’s face was scarlet and his eyes sparked with rage. His hands shook at his side, and the veins on his neck bulged. He took a long breath to calm himself, barely able to contain his fury.

  “Look at me,” he spat. “Look what you’ve brought me to. You’ve driven me insane, Kasrin.” The admiral turned his face away, leaning against the opposite pew. “You betrayed me.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Kasrin softly, and this time he wasn’t lying. He had never seen Nicabar so broken, and all his old feelings for his hero bubbled up again, making him ashamed. He had never wanted to betray Nicabar. “Sir, forgive me.”

  “I could have killed you,” Nicabar whispered. “I could have executed you for treason and mutiny.” He looked at Kasrin, his expression ragged. “Do you know how many officers begged me to kill you, Kasrin? Do you know that even now L’Rago offered to murder you when you came ashore? But I said no. You always meant too much to me. You think I was harsh sending you to that village? I wasn’t. I was merciful.”

  The words were too much for Kasrin, who looked away, ashamed and hating himself. He realized that perhaps he shouldn’t have come to Casarhoon at all, that his feelings for this man were still too powerful. There was love in his maddened voice, the kind of affection Kasrin had always longed for, and now to plot his doom seemed despicable.

  “You overwhelm me,” said Kasrin, his voice breaking. “I never meant to hurt you, or disgrace you in any way. But what I did, I did from misguided conscience.”

  “Now you admit you were wrong.”

  “Yes,” said Kasrin. “I was wrong. I know that now.” With his last ounce of pride, he added, “I want to join you again.”

  The smile on Nicabar’s face lit the chamber. “I was right about you. I knew you’d come back. You couldn’t stay away from the sea and the action, because you’re too much like me. It’s in your blood. You see the truth, don’t you, Kasrin?”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “About Liss. I knew exile in that village would give you time to see the truth. That’s why you’re here. You knew I was rendezvousing with the others, didn’t you? How?”

  “I’m still a captain,” said Kasrin evasively. “I have ways of finding things out. When I learned you were planning an attack on Liss, I knew I had to join you.” He feigned his most sincere expression. “I have something for you, Admiral.” He patted his leather case. “I think you’ll be pleased.”

  “Yes, what is that?”

  “First, tell me something. How are your plans for Liss going? Have you agreed on a strategy?”

  “No,” said Nicabar. “Those cowards are as bad as you were. They’re afraid.” Then he grinned sardonically. “But you were never really a coward, were you, Kasrin? Not really, not in your heart. That’s why you’ve come back to me.”

  “So you have no plans for Liss?”

  “Not yet, but I will. With you on my side now, I’m sure we can defeat them.” He reached out and placed a cold hand on Kasrin’s shoulder. “You’ve made me happy, Kasrin. I’m glad you returned.”

  “You honor me,” Kasrin lied. Though part of him still idolized Nicabar, he could see the madness in his every move. “We will take Liss, this time, sir. And to prove myself to you, I’ve brought something special.”

  “Well, open it up. Let’s have a look.”

  Kasrin undid the ties of the case and carefully opened it. Inside was the usual collection of captain’s things—a few charts, some compass headings on scribbled notes, but beneath it all was the paper that Jelena had drawn up for him—the map of the Serpent’s Strand. Kasrin could see Nicabar frown inquisitively as he pulled the map from the case. He rose from the pew with the map in his hands and walked over to the altar, telling Nicabar to follow him, then moved some of the candles aside and spread out the map.

  “What is it?”

  “Your dream, sir,” said Kasrin. “Your secret passage.”

  Admiral Nicabar reached out for the map, brushing his fingertips over the inked headings and landmarks. The map showed the Hundred Isles of Liss in a way neither seaman had seen before—in great detail, with all its many tributaries revealed. Nicabar caught his breath, unable to speak. He glanced up at Kasrin, his face ashen.

  “How …?”

  “You’re pleased,” said Kasrin. “I can tell you are.”

  “Where did you get this?” asked Nicabar. “How did you find it?”

  “It was drawn for me, by a captured Lissen. Look here.” Kasrin traced his finger over the map, showing the particular waterway Jelena had revealed to him. According to the queen, it truly was one of Liss’ great secrets. “This waterway is called the Serpent’s Strand. It’s very narrow, but it�
�s deep. Deep enough for the Fearless, even. It leads south, straight to one of Liss’ main islands, called Karalon.”

  “Dear God.” Nicabar caressed the parchment lovingly. “It’s beautiful. It’s …”

  “It’s all true,” said Kasrin, smiling proudly. “Do you like it?”

  “I can hardly believe what I’m seeing,” said the admiral. “You got this from a Lissen, you say? How?”

  “I knew you wanted a way into Liss. So when we set sail for Casarhoon we went looking for a Lissen schooner. It wasn’t long before we encountered one, not far from the coast of Crote.” He became grim. “I put the crew overboard one by one. When that didn’t work I took a knife to one of the mates. He cooperated once I cut his fingers off.”

  “You did that?”

  Kasrin shrugged. “Left hand only. He still needed his right hand to draw.”

  Nicabar laughed, pleased at the news. “Oh, you’ve done well, Kasrin! I’m proud of you.”

  “Are you?” asked Kasrin. “I want you to be. I’ve changed, sir, I swear it. I thought if I could prove it to you …”

  “You have, Captain, a thousandfold!” The admiral put an arm around Kasrin. It was like being squeezed by a cobra. “This is wonderful news. Now I can take this map to those other cowards and show them what we can do!”

  “The others? Oh, no, sir. I don’t think that would be wise.”

  “What? Why not?”

  Kasrin said it just like he’d practiced. “Well, you see the Serpent’s Strand is very narrow.” He showed this to Nicabar on the map. “It’s a long way through the strand to Karalon. There’s a lot of opportunity to be spotted before reaching the island and taking it. And there’s no room to turn around. We can get in, but we can’t get out if something goes wrong, not before reaching the island so we can loop around it. It will be like a bottleneck if we go with too many ships. We’d be trapped in there.”

  “But no one would be expecting us,” said Nicabar. “With more ships we can protect ourselves.”

  “I’m sorry, Admiral, but I don’t agree,” said Kasrin. He had expected Nicabar’s argument and was prepared for it. “The Fearless is too big to keep a secret, and if they do start firing on us from these hills …” he showed Nicabar the tall canyons lining the strand, “… we won’t be able to fire back. Not without risking damage to our own ships.” Nicabar stroked his chin. “Goddamn, this is a tight one you’ve brought me, Kasrin. What are you suggesting?”

  “I saw maybe a dozen ships at anchor here, am I right?”

  “Yes. That’s all of them, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Well, look, then.” Kasrin referred to the map again. “The Serpent’s Strand is part of an estuary. That’s how we’ll be getting in. We’ll have to ride the high tide, which will let us drift south. Now with only the Fearless and the Sovereign, we can make it to Karalon. We can take the island by ourselves.”

  “What for? What’s on Karalon?”

  “Ah, that’s the best part,” said Kasrin with a devil’s grin. “A training base. Not just for sailors, mind you, but for ground troops. The same type of troops they used to take Crote. If we can take the island, we can wipe them out.”

  “What makes you think we can take the island? If it’s a training base, then surely they have guns protecting it.”

  “No, no guns. No cannons, no defenses of any kind, because they don’t expect an attack. And with all those green troops as our hostages, right under the nose of our flame cannons … well, just think about it.”

  Nicabar did. It was a cruel plan, and because it involved the deaths of thousand of Lissens, he was drawn to it. Knowing he had the admiral in his palm, Kasrin decided to close his fist.

  “It can work,” he urged. “If we just take in two ships, we can make that island our own, hold it hostage and bring Liss to its knees. Then Black City and the other ships can come in on the next tide. They’ll be stationed offshore, waiting.” Kasrin paused as though this was the most important thing in the world to him. “What do you say, Admiral? Will you do it? Will you let me come with you?”

  Nicabar’s eyes became shrewd slivers. “This means a lot to you, eh?”

  “Yes,” said Kasrin. “It does.”

  “Why?”

  Kasrin told him what he wanted to hear. “Because I was wrong. And because I’m a Captain of the Black Fleet. I don’t like people saying I’m a coward, Admiral. I’m not a coward. Now I want to prove it. Not only to you but to all those others who are jeering at me, even as we speak. That’s why I came back. That’s why I got this map for you. Please don’t turn me away.”

  A great, warm smile split Nicabar’s face. He put his arms around Kasrin, embracing him.

  “Good work, my friend,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

  Kasrin stood there in Nicabar’s embrace, unable to return the affection or even taste the slightest sweetness of victory. Now he would lure his old hero to his death. And though it was richly deserved, Kasrin had never felt more like a traitor.

  TWENTY

  On Casadah, the highest Drol holy day, Lucel-Lor became a vastly different place. No one warred on this day of peace, especially not Praxtin-Tar. Casadah was the great celebration of Spring, a time to honor Lorris and Pris. Food and drinks were liberally dispensed, and the cunning-men—the Drol priests—walked from town to town proclaiming the goodness of the gods and the bounty of heaven. Children wove ceremonial wreaths and women wore dresses of the brightest fabric to mirror the world coming into bloom, and every territory of Lucel-Lor, no matter the beliefs of its warlord, enjoyed the celebration.

  For Richius Vantran, who was neither Drol nor Triin, the holy day was a time for relaxing. This was his third Casadah since coming to Lucel-Lor, and each one was better than its predecessor. Though today he was under siege from the forces of Praxtin-Tar, Richius was determined to enjoy the day and not spoil it for Shani. His daughter was two years old now, old enough to start understanding things about her background and culture. She was growing up quickly, just like the other children trapped in Falindar. Despite the warriors waiting outside, Richius wanted desperately for her to have a normal life.

  In the center of Falindar’s great hall, where the walls sparkled silver and bronze and the ceiling soared high as the sky, Richius sat cross-legged, bouncing Shani in his lap. Next to him sat Dyana, beautiful in emerald, her eyes soft as she listened to Lucyler’s speech. A crowd had gathered in the hall, a mix of warriors and women and the farmers who had come to the citadel for sanctuary. Children sat with their parents, hushed at the sound of Lucyler’s voice. It was already noon but the fun of Casadah didn’t really begin until the ceremonial blessing. Lucyler, hardly religious at all, glowed merrily as he addressed the gathering. For the first time in weeks, he seemed genuinely happy. Richius leaned over to Dyana and gave her a kiss.

  “Look at him,” he told his wife. “He looks great, doesn’t he?”

  Dyana took his hand. She was happy, too, not just because it was Casadah, but because of the peace Praxtin-Tar had promised for the day. “He is wonderful,” she agreed. “The children love him.”

  That much was obvious. The children of Falindar had taken to Lucyler like a father, even more than they had to Tharn himself. Lucyler was their hero, their savior.

  Presently, Lucyler was telling them the story of Lorris and Pris. It was a tale recited every Casadah, in every town and village of Lucel-Lor, and it spoke of the deities and how they had once been mortal before their tragic ends. Lucyler looked like an actor on the dais.

  “… but the evil Pradu had deceived Lorris,” thundered Lucyler. “He wasn’t Vikryn at all!”

  Richius loved the tale, and so hung on every word just like one of the children, eager for the gruesome ending where Pris died in the city of Toor, and Lorris, overcome with grief, tossed himself from the towers of Kes. That part always elicited cries from the crowd, and this time, with Lucyler’s grand delivery, the reaction was deafening. All around the hall children squealed in
delighted horror. Lucyler hung his head in sorrow for the dead siblings, then brightened and told them how Lorris and Pris had been taken into heaven by Vikryn, their patron, and how they were given immortality. They were gods now, Lucyler explained, and they were very real.

  “Tharn showed us that,” said Lucyler to the crowd. “He proved to us that the gods exist. I believed nothing before meeting Tharn, but now I know that there is something more than all of this.” He swept his arm across the chamber.

  Richius smiled. Perhaps Lucyler had taken their talk to heart. He did seem better—much better, really—and the way he held the crowd in thrall made Richius proud. They had been through a lot together, had fought and watched comrades die, and it had forged a strange bond between them. Now they were under siege, and Lucyler had become a leader.

  “What are you thinking about, Richius?” asked Dyana. “You are staring at Lucyler like one of these children.”

  Richius chuckled. “Am I? I’m just happy, I suppose.”

  “Me too,” said Dyana. Then her face darkened. “But tomorrow is another day. It is hard to forget, even for the little ones. I—”

  “Shhh,” urged Richius, putting a finger to her lips. “Not today.” He cocked his chin at Shani, still in his lap. “Look at her. Look how happy she is.”

  Dyana nodded. “Yes.” She reached out and took her daughter’s hand. “You like this story, Shani? You like hearing about Lorris and Pris?”

  “Like Pris best,” said Shani predictably. “Father speak, too?”

  “No, not me,” said Richius, laughing. “This is a Triin day, Shani. I’m not Triin.”

  “Naren,” said Shani, crinkling her nose. Richius didn’t know what to make of the expression.

  “You should speak, Richius,” urged Dyana.

  “No, thanks.” Richius put his hands under Shani’s arms and lifted her up to face him. “You don’t want to hear me talk, do you, Shani?”

  “Talk of Nar!” chirped the girl. “Aramoor!”

  Now it was Dyana that frowned. “No, but you could talk about being here, Richius. The people admire you like they do Lucyler. You make them feel safe.” Playfully she poked his ribs. “Yes?”