The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  Richius almost blushed. “That’s very nice,” he said, “but I still don’t want to get up and talk.”

  “Oh, you should, Kalak,” said a voice. It was Lifki, one of the workers who was seated behind them. Lifki was a silversmith who had been employed at the citadel since the time of the Daegog. His family sat with him, a wife and three teenagers, all of whom nodded. “You should listen to Dyana, Kalak; she is right. All these people admire you.” Lifki nudged the man next to him. “I am right, yes, Lang?”

  Lang hadn’t been listening, but when Lifki explained it to him the Triin warrior agreed. “Yes,” he declared. He clapped his hands together, urging Richius up. “Speak to us, Kalak. Let us all see you.”

  “No, I can’t—”

  “Richius?” called Lucyler. From up on his dais the Master of Falindar had seen the commotion building in the front row of his audience. Now he stared down at Richius with laughing eyes, suddenly making him the center of attention. “You have something to say?”

  Flushed with embarrassment, Richius said, “No. I’m sorry, Lucyler. Just go on.”

  But they were all looking at him now, and Lucyler wasn’t about to let him off so easily. Dyana was laughing with a hand over her mouth, while Lifki and Lang kept clapping, urging Richius to his feet.

  “Go on, Richius,” prompted Dyana. “It is Casadah! Go up and say something.”

  “Say what? What do you want me to tell them?”

  “Tell them how happy you are today.”

  “Oh, that’s silly …”

  Lucyler stepped to the edge of the dais, grinning down at them mischievously. “The great Kalak should address us,” he said. He raised his hands to the crowd. “Yes?”

  A happy chorus rose up. Richius felt blood rush to his face. He gave Dyana a dirty look.

  “Thanks a lot,” he whispered. Dyana wouldn’t stop laughing.

  “You will be fine,” she told him. “Now go; speak to us.”

  Handing Shani to Dyana, Richius got to his feet before the crowd. He turned to face them and saw a sea of people, far more numerous than they had seemed from his place on the floor. They waved and cheered when they saw him, and for the first time Richius felt the adoration Dyana had told him about. It was powerful, and when he heard the word Kalak run through the crowd he did not cringe. Once that name had been a hated insult, but no longer. Now he was Kalak. The Jackal.

  “Hello, my friends,” he said awkwardly. Old men and young women tossed him encouraging smiles, and children cooed excitedly. “Uh, happy Casadah to all of you. I want to thank you. I—”

  “Come up here, Richius!” urged Lucyler. His Triin friend stretched down a hand, offering to pull him onto the dais. The dais was just a handful of planks hammered together for the occasion, but it had been covered with bright cloth and looked impressive. So impressive that it intimidated Richius.

  “I’m fine right here,” he told Lucyler in a low grumble.

  “Nonsense.” Lucyler jumped down off the dais, taking Richius by the shoulders and pushing him toward the makeshift stage. Goaded on by a hundred voices, Richius climbed onto the dais and looked out over the gathering. His mouth dried up.

  “Yes, well,” he began woodenly. He spoke in Triin, which made his delivery all the worse. “I really do not know what to say.”

  “Kalak!” cried a boy happily from across the hall. Richius laughed at his echoing cry, feeling like an actor on stage in the Black City. He glanced down and saw Dyana looking up at him proudly. In her lap sat Shani, her eyes full of wonder as she saw her father on the dais. Suddenly Richius knew what to say.

  “I am very lucky to be here with all of you,” he told the crowd. “I am luckier still that you have accepted me. When I first came here, I hated it. I was trapped, and I felt like I had lost my home. You all know about Aramoor, and what happened there. I lost a lot. I thought I had lost everything, really. But you have all made me feel at home here in Falindar. You are all my family now.”

  “Kafife,” shouted Dyana. “Remember, Richius?”

  Richius remembered perfectly. It was the Triin word for family, and she had taught it to him. He smiled at her warmly. Then he straightened, saying, “Some of you think I still miss Aramoor, and you are right. But some of you also think I plan on leaving here someday, and that you are wrong about. This is my home now. This is where my family is, and all my friends.” He laughed. “So do not keep asking me when I am going to leave, all right? I am not going anywhere.”

  The crowd loved this, some rising to their feet. With one voice they shouted their adoration for Kalak, the Jackal of Nar. Richius watched the crowd, giddy with their affection, and when he gazed down at Dyana he saw that she was staring at him in astonishment, her lips slightly parted as if shocked by what she’d heard. Richius looked at her inquisitively, but she merely shook her head.

  “Uhm, I do not know what else to say,” he told the gathering. “Except one more thing. We are all afraid of Praxtin-Tar and his army. I too am afraid. But we are strong here in Falindar, and Praxtin-Tar is weak. He might not look it, but he is. Right now he is out in the cold, alone with no one to help him. And we are in here.” He clasped his hands together firmly. “Together.”

  At the base of the stage, Lucyler nodded solemnly. He climbed back onto the dais and embraced Richius, kissing his cheek.

  “Perfect, my friend,” he whispered. “Perfect …”

  Richius gave the group a final wave, then jumped down from the dais, relieved to be masked again in the crowd. Shani rushed up and wrapped herself around his legs. Proudly he dipped down and picked her up, pleased with himself.

  “So?” he asked her. “How was that?”

  “Good!” she answered, then buried her head against his neck. Richius sat down again with Shani in his arms. After two years as an outsider, they really did like him, and the realization lifted a great weight from his shoulders. He glanced at Dyana, who was still looking at him with the same disquietude.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She smiled, but said nothing.

  “Dyana, why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Do you not know?”

  “I don’t,” said Richius. “Tell me.”

  Dyana looked away, glancing down at the carpeted floor. “For two years I have waited for you to say those words, Richius. I have waited and hoped but I never heard them. Not until today.”

  Richius understood her perfectly. Shifting a little closer, he put a hand on her leg.

  “I just hope you mean it this time,” she said sadly. “This time you will keep your promise, yes? No more going away?”

  It was the easiest promise in the world to make. Aramoor wasn’t his anymore, and never would be. “I promise,” he said. “This is home now, Dyana.”

  For the first time in their lives together, Dyana seemed to believe his promise. Her eyes lit up and her white face glowed, and Richius knew there was nothing on earth that could pull him away again.

  Praxtin-Tar stood at the edge of his encampment, watching the trio of riders approaching. It was well past noon and the warlord was impatient, for he had sent out his warriors hours ago. Crinion still lay ill. Five days had passed since his wounding, and he had shown little improvement. Though he had awakened briefly, the many punctures in his body weren’t healing, and Valtuvus claimed that infections were setting in. Soon they might kill the young man, and there was nothing the healer could do to stop it. Valtuvus had tried his herbal remedies and leeches, had soaked the wounds in extracts and even made Crinion sip leopard’s milk, but all these so-called remedies had been in vain. Crinion was worsening. Today, on Casadah, not even the prayers of his father could help him. Crinion needed the prayers of someone with more authority, someone with the ear of Lorris and Pris.

  Now the cunning-man approached the encampment. Led by two of the warlord’s raven-tattooed men, the priest sat atop a plain brown pony, resplendent in his traditional saffron robes. His face betrayed his anger at being summone
d to the camp, and when his eyes met the warlord’s, they soured. Praxtin-Tar crossed his arms over his chest. Willing or not, the cunning-man had come, and the warlord was grateful.

  “Come ahead,” he ordered.

  His warriors brought the priest to the edge of the camp where Praxtin-Tar waited. A scowl painted the cunning-man’s face. He did not dismount with the warriors, but instead stayed on his pony, glaring at Praxtin-Tar. Praxtin-Tar put his hands up in friendship.

  “You will not be harmed,” he promised. “But I had to bring you here. I have need of you.”

  “My village needs me today, Warlord,” said the cunning-man. “It is Casadah. Or have you forgotten?”

  Praxtin-Tar struggled to be civil. “My calendar is the same as yours, priest. But my son is ill and needs prayers. Were I not so desperate—”

  “I have come because I have no choice,” the priest interrupted. “My village fears your vengeance. That is the only reason, Praxtin-Tar. You shame Casadah by sending for me like this.”

  “Will you help or not?” asked Praxtin-Tar.

  “I am here, am I not?”

  “Then tutor me some other time, priest. My son has grave need of you.” Praxtin-Tar went to the priest’s pony and took its reins. “Get down.”

  The cunning-man did as ordered, careful of his saffron robes as he slid down from the beast’s back. There was no saddle on the horse, only a plain blanket. Praxtin-Tar recognized the pattern. It had been made in Taragiza, a distant village. So far Praxtin-Tar’s army had ignored the folk of Taragiza, but if the priest failed, that might change. The warlord handed the pony off to one of the waiting warriors.

  “What is your name?” he asked the priest.

  “Nagrah.”

  Praxtin-Tar considered the man. “You are very young, Nagrah. How long have you been a cunning-man?”

  “Why should that matter?”

  The warlord couldn’t answer the question. Perhaps it didn’t matter at all. “Will you do your best for me, Nagrah? For my son?”

  “I will pray,” replied the man. Surprisingly, his face softened. “I am commanded to do so by my gods. Crinion is his name, yes?”

  “Yes,” said Praxtin-Tar. “He is very ill. He—”

  “Your men have explained it to me,” interrupted the priest. “Take me to him, and I will pray. But I warn you, Praxtin-Tar—Lorris and Pris have already heard your prayers. If they ignore you, that is their choice.”

  “Not good enough,” rumbled the warlord. “That is why you are here, cunning-man. They will not ignore you. Come.”

  He stormed into the heart of the camp where all his men were celebrating Casadah. Fires had been lit and the smell of roasting meats drifted high into the mountain air. Even the slaves sang and played instruments, happy for a day of rest and respite from the whip. Only Rook, the Naren, was hard at work. Praxtin-Tar saw him in the distance, surrounded by a pile of freshly cut timbers. He had a tool in his mouth and a length of rope in his hands, and what little of the new trebuchet he had so far constructed stood in a malformed pile next to him. Praxtin-Tar tried to ignore the Naren, hoping that Nagrah wouldn’t notice him. He wanted the priest focused on his prayer, not asking questions about the siege. Thankfully, Nagrah followed him like a dutiful dog, saying nothing as they plunged deeper into the encampment. At last Praxtin-Tar’s pavilion rose up ahead of them. A warrior stood guard outside the tent. When he saw his master approaching, he dropped to one knee.

  “He is the same, Praxtin-Tar,” the warrior said without being asked.

  “Inside,” the warlord told Nagrah. He led him through the tent flap and into the darkened pavilion, which smelled of sweet herbs and incense and the unmistakable smack of illness. Pillows lined the canvas floor and candles burned on the altar, all in vain appeasement of the deaf gods. Near the altar lay Crinion, his head cradled on a pillow of vermilion silk. He looked drawn and ragged, and his body was covered in fresh bandages. Over him hovered Valtuvus. The healer was blotting Crinion’s forehead with a towel, soaking up the perspiration from the young man’s fever. Valtuvus gave Praxtin-Tar a worried look when he stepped inside.

  “Is that your priest?” he asked.

  “My name is Nagrah,” said the cunning-man. He went to Crinion and bent over him, studying his face and body and gently probing the tender skin. Praxtin-Tar drifted closer. He saw real concern on Nagrah’s face.

  “He sleeps now but he is no better,” said Valtuvus. “I am sorry, Praxtin-Tar, but there is little I can do for him.”

  “He grows weaker by the day,” whispered Praxtin-Tar. “Cunning-man, you will pray for him.”

  “Prayers will not heal his infections,” countered Valtuvus. “Only rest can do that, and the will of his own body.”

  “But he was up,” Praxtin-Tar protested. “He was speaking. You saw, Valtuvus. He was becoming well again.” Valtuvus was merciless. “He was not. He awoke from his sleep because his head wound had improved. I am not worried about that anymore. It is the other damage that is ruining him.” The healer brushed his hand lightly over Crinion’s body. Except for the bandages and blankets, Crinion remained naked. “I have seen infections like this. Look how the fever holds him.”

  “Why does he sleep so?” asked Nagrah.

  “Weakness. The body fights to live, but it is diseased.” Valtuvus pointed out the many contusions on Crinion’s torso, the myriad of pus-covered sores. “See there? That is filth. All of the dirt and debris from the explosion. It is in his body now. I cannot remove it.”

  Praxtin-Tar took hold of Nagrah’s arm. “Lorris and Pris must hear you,” he commanded. “You are a cunning-man. They will not ignore you. You must make them listen.”

  Nagrah roughly pulled his arm away. “I do not command the gods, Warlord,” he said. “Nor do you.”

  Rebuked, Praxtin-Tar stepped back. “Tell them about my son,” he implored. “Tell them he is too young to die. Tell them that he serves them, as I serve them.”

  “Serve them,” Nagrah scoffed. “You dishonor them just by being here. You are a cancer, Praxtin-Tar, a disgrace. Now go.” He turned away from the warlord and knelt down in front of Crinion. “The healer, too.”

  “Why can I not stay and pray with you?” asked Praxtin-Tar.

  “Because I do not want you here.”

  Nagrah closed his eyes and began to pray, unclasping his hands just long enough to shoo the warlord and his healer out of the tent. Praxtin-Tar backed away reluctantly. He studied Nagrah for a moment, satisfied that the young priest was capable, then turned and left the pavilion with Valtuvus. Once outside, the healer spoke freely.

  “You give yourself false hope,” he told his master. “You have prayed as strongly as any man. Why do you think they will hear this priest’s words over yours?”

  “Because he is a priest. He knows them better than I. They will answer him.”

  Valtuvus smiled sadly. “Maybe they have already answered,” he suggested. “Maybe you just do not like their answer.”

  The warlord of Reen turned his face toward the sun. It was a fine day, one he had only just noticed. Choosing to ignore the healer’s implication, he said, “I am going into the hills. I wish to be alone. Tell the cunning-man to find me there when he is done. I will be by the rock that looks like a skull. You know the place.”

  He began to walk off, but Valtuvus called after him.

  “Praxtin-Tar, it is wrong not to prepare yourself. Every man dies. Even young men.”

  As if he hadn’t heard, Praxtin-Tar walked away.

  The warlord spent the afternoon in the hills, atop the skull-like rock. It was quiet, and from his place he could see his encampment spread across the earth like a blister. Praxtin-Tar had a stick in his hand that he twirled absently as he sat, occasionally poking the ground with it. A wind blew through the hills. Far away, he heard the cry of what might have been a snow leopard. Yet Praxtin-Tar wasn’t afraid. He didn’t pray anymore, for he didn’t want to interfere with the work of the cunning-man.
Instead he sat in brooding silence, contemplating Falindar.

  The rock on which he sat was a marvel. Praxtin-Tar had spotted it immediately. It was like someone had sculpted it into the stone, giving it eye sockets to keep a watchful lookout on Falindar. The rock was high up on a ledge and Praxtin-Tar rested on its crown, leaning back against an elbow. He had stayed this way for many hours, ignoring everything, hardly stirring until he heard footfalls behind him. The warlord sat up at the intrusion, then saw Nagrah coming toward him, surefootedly navigating the rocks. The young cunning-man looked tired, but Praxtin-Tar knew it wasn’t from the climb. When he had made it to the top of the skull, Praxtin-Tar gestured to the ground beside him.

  “Sit,” he said easily.

  Nagrah obeyed, sitting down next to the warlord. He didn’t waste any time delivering his bad news. “Your son is very ill,” he said. “You should listen to your healer, Warlord. I do not know how long he will live.”

  “But you have prayed?”

  “Yes, I have prayed for him.”

  “With all your heart?”

  “I did the best I could. Now it is up to Lorris and Pris. But he is very sick. I could smell his infections, like a swamp. You should prepare yourself.”

  “Then you are done here,” Praxtin-Tar declared. He stared at Falindar as he spoke. “You may rest if you wish before returning to your village. Have some food and enjoy what is left of Casadah.”

  “You should listen to me,” Nagrah advised. “I am no healer, but even I can see how ill your son is. Be good to yourself, and do not lie about this. Crinion—”

  “Will live.” Praxtin-Tar turned to regard the cunning-man. “The gods will not ignore me on this. I will not allow it. I have done too much for them to let them take my son.”

  Nagrah frowned. “Have you really? You are bold to say so. You are hardly Drol at all, Praxtin-Tar. I know the truth about you.”

  “Spare me.”

  “I knew Tharn,” the cunning-man continued. “I even travelled with him to Chandakkar. He was nothing like you. And you are nothing like him, either. He was a great man. You are not. When you compare yourself to him, you soil his memory.”