The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  “Look at the mountains,” Jahl suggested. “A couple more days and we’ll be meeting up with my Saints. Then Aramoor. God in heaven, it’s good to be home!”

  Alazrian was still eyeing Richius. “Are you all right, my lord?” he asked. “You look pensive.”

  Richius turned. “A lot of memories, Alazrian. It’s like hearing voices. I guess I’m just a bit nervous.”

  “Don’t be. Once we get to Ackle-Nye, we’ll be able to rest. Falger will have food for us, and a place to sleep.”

  But it seemed Vantran wasn’t listening. “Ackle-Nye,” he whispered. “God, I never expected to be back here again. It doesn’t look like it’s changed much. You can almost hear the ghosts.”

  “You can smell ’em, too,” joked Jahl. “I’d advise you to hold your nose, my lord. The place stinks like a Naren cesspool.”

  Richius laughed. “Like I said, nothing’s changed.”

  Alazrian continued to study the Aramoorian, struck by his demeanor. For nearly two weeks they had travelled together, and day by day Richius lost more of his edge, growing increasingly wistful as they neared the Empire. It didn’t surprise Alazrian, really. In a lot of ways, Richius Vantran wasn’t what he’d expected. The Jackal of Nar was more like a house cat, not the military genius that legend had drawn. He was comfortable with Praxtin-Tar’s troops, and he spoke Triin with fluency, yet he wasn’t quite Triin and he wasn’t quite Naren, and he seemed to recognize this duality. Over the course of their journey, Alazrian had come to like him immensely.

  And Jahl Rob liked Vantran as well. He had told Alazrian of his fight with the king, explaining it as a cathartic, almost religious experience. Now Jahl Rob seemed a changed man. His tongue was still sharp, but there was a lilt in his voice and an eagerness that hadn’t been there before.

  Of them all, Praxtin-Tar remained the greatest mystery. Alazrian still couldn’t fathom the warlord. He rode all day under the hot sun, sweating in his bamboo armor but never complaining. And every night he would go to Alazrian and sleep near him, so that he could protect him from unseen dangers. The warlord treated Alazrian better than his own son, making certain that Alazrian had all the food and water he could want. And no one ever complained about this lavish attention, not even Crinion. To the warriors of Reen, Alazrian was sacred.

  Alazrian turned to look behind him, seeing Praxtin-Tar. The warlord’s face was hidden behind his malevolent bamboo mask.

  But he’s not malevolent, thought Alazrian. He glanced at Vantran again, then at Jahl. None of them are evil. Not even Biagio.

  They rode on, and when they reached the outskirts of the city and the first of Praxtin-Tar’s warriors crossed into its shadow, Alazrian turned to Vantran. He was about to speak when a sudden bolt of lightning exploded in his eyes. The world erupted in a hot haze and the sky split open, torn with thunder. Blinded and terrified, Alazrian struggled to control his horse. His head rang with the noise and he felt as if the air had been ripped from his lungs. All around him he heard the shouts of Praxtin-Tar’s men. Next to him, Richius Vantran was on his horse, tall and unshaken.

  “That’s a flame cannon!” he cried. “They’re firing at us!”

  Still reeling from the explosion, Alazrian looked at the city ahead. A huge blast mark scorched the avenue, setting it ablaze. Praxtin-Tar’s warriors rode in a frenzy, circling, unsure what to do. The warlord was shouting, shaking his fist at the city.

  “The attack tower,” shouted Jahl. “Remember, Alazrian? It’s Falger’s cannon!”

  “Why the hell is he firing on us?” spat Richius. “I thought you said he was your friend!”

  “He is, but—”

  Another glow from the tower silenced Alazrian mid-sentence. The tell-tale boom made Richius signal for cover.

  “Get down!”

  This time the blast ripped closer, shearing through a crumbling wall. The avenue rocked with the report, sending rubble tumbling down from Ackle-Nye’s ruins. A handful of warriors watched as the fist of flame descended. Alazrian screamed at them to run—but too late. The bolt slammed down, shredding their grey robes and setting their flesh aflame.

  “My God!” shouted Jahl. He looked around madly. Praxtin-Tar was roaring, spitting orders and racing past his panicked men toward Alazrian. The warlord brought his horse to a skidding halt, shielding Alazrian as yet another blast flew overhead.

  “Alazrian isya Maku!” he cried. Frantically he pointed toward the back ranks. “Maku!”

  “He wants you out of here,” Richius explained. “Ride away!”

  “No,” said Alazrian. “It’s Falger. He thinks you’re invading, Praxtin-Tar!”

  The outskirts of Ackle-Nye sizzled with heat. Two more frenetic shots fired down from the tower, mushrooming before them. Warriors shouted and rode through the avenues, desperate to escape the cannonade.

  “Richius, make him understand,” Alazrian pleaded. “Tell him Falger’s only protecting himself!”

  “Alazrian, just go!” Vantran ordered. “Get to safety!”

  “Goddamn it, no! Praxtin-Tar, listen, please …”

  “Come on, Alazrian,” shouted Jahl. He spun his horse around. “We have to get out of here!”

  Jahl was about to gallop off when a coordinated scissor-strike of fire sizzled overhead. Two mammoth booms detonated, turning the air red. Trapped between the blasts, Jahl’s horse whinnied, nearly tossing the priest backward. The thunder of the attack rattled Alazrian’s teeth. He glanced around in a daze, squinting to see past the glowing smoke, then realized that two more flame cannons had joined the assault.

  “The other towers!” he shouted.

  “All of you, get back!” cried Vantran, waving his arms and riding through the throng. “We can’t cross the city! Go back!”

  “Falger!” cried Alazrian. “Stop!”

  His voice disappeared in the noise and fire. Around him, warriors circled, trapped by the narrow avenues and the incessant hammering from the towers. The long-range guns bore down, spewing out their blazing poison. Alazrian’s face burned and his eyes gushed tears. Praxtin-Tar was still on his horse, still shielding him, trying to push him toward safety. Alazrian’s little horse brayed and shook against its bridle.

  “We’re trapped!” shouted Jahl. “We can’t retreat!”

  The nearest flame cannon had changed its aim, concentrating fire on the back ranks while its sisters in the flanking towers pommelled the horde’s center. Great chunks of bricks fell from Ackle-Nye’s frameworks, pelting them with debris while the cannons went on devouring warriors, sending them screaming for cover. The lucky ones retreated into buildings or fled the city through safe streets, but most avenues were choked with men and flaming pits, ensnaring the army in the cross fire of the towers. Richius Vantran cursed and directed the warriors with his arms, trying desperately to herd them out of the killing zone. But they were too many, and their escape routes too few.

  “Jahl, we have to find Falger,” shouted Alazrian. He turned his horse toward the central tower, staring down its lethal barrel. “We have to stop him!”

  Jahl Rob didn’t argue. He wheeled his mount around and maneuvered through the press of horseflesh. Praxtin-Tar reached out and grabbed hold of Alazrian’s horse by the bridle, roaring at him to stop.

  “I have to, Praxtin-Tar,” said Alazrian. “It’s the only way. Please, let go!”

  Praxtin-Tar shook his head, ducking under the nonstop barrage, refusing to release the horse.

  “Vantran, tell him!” cried Jahl. “Tell him we have to find Falger.”

  Richius hurried to explain, mixing his appeal with Naren curses. Still Praxtin-Tar wouldn’t relent. Finally, Alazrian took hold of his hand and willed a violent union, almost striking the warlord with the force of his mind.

  I have to go!

  I will come with you, replied Praxtin-Tar. I must protect you!

  No. Falger’s afraid of you. I have to go alone. Alazrian squeezed his protector’s hand harder. “Please, Praxtin-Tar. Let me go!�
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  The warlord released Alazrian’s horse, swearing and making a quick shooing gesture. With Jahl close behind, Alazrian galloped off down the narrow street, flying headlong toward the tower. As he rode he kept his head low, calling Falger’s name. Jahl, too, cried out for Falger, but their voices were drowned beneath the hoofbeats and the endless streams of fire. The central tower loomed in their view, dominating the deserted streets. At its peak the bluish glow of the flame cannon flashed, tracking the chargers as it drew its deadly bead.

  “It’s firing!” warned Jahl.

  Up ahead, the street exploded as the cannon came to life, sending down a plume of flaming fuel. The blast stopped their horses, blinding them and shooting shards of rubble at their faces. Alazrian put up a hand and felt the debris slicing flesh. He screamed and fell from his horse, hitting the pavement hard. A fog of pain and smoke gripped him. Groggily he lifted his head, trying to locate Jahl in the haze.

  “Jahl!” he cried. “Where are you? I can’t see!”

  “Here, boy!” came the priest’s reply. “Are you hurt? I can’t find you!”

  Another explosion boomed nearby. Alazrian’s ears popped with pain. He staggered to his feet, screaming, his hair singed. Nearly in tears, he bumbled toward the shadowy figure of Jahl Rob’s horse and collided with a wall instead.

  “Jahl!” he cried. “Help!”

  The smoke grew thicker. The fire licked at his feet. Jahl’s voice sounded, but he couldn’t find the direction. One more blast and he would die. Alazrian tried to run but tripped and fell face down in the street. His hands reached out into a puddle of fire, scorching them. Riddled with pain and pounded by fear, Alazrian lay in the street, paralyzed, screaming for Jahl Rob to find him.

  Up in the attack tower, Falger looked past the long barrel of the flame cannon, waiting for the smoke to clear. He had delivered a deadly barrage and had damaged the warlord’s ranks, but two warriors had broken free of the horde and had ridden for the tower. Falger peered into the smoke lingering in the avenue, wondering what had become of his targets. In his zeal he had squeezed off several shots, but he realized suddenly that their fuel was running low and he didn’t want to waste it. Nearby, Mord fumbled nervously with the telescope, trying to see the burning street below. Falger waited impatiently for his report.

  “Well?” he asked. “Do you see anything?”

  “Wait,” Mord cautioned. He focused the eyepiece. “I see something,” he said. “But the smoke is too thick.”

  “Hurry,” urged Falger. Past the smoke-filled avenue, he could see the army of Praxtin-Tar still running, caught in the fire of the other cannons. The warlord himself remained out of sight, hidden somewhere in the melee.

  “There!” cried Mord suddenly. “I see them. They are hurt. One is in the street.”

  Falger came from behind the cannon and went to the giant window. The murk in the street was beginning to fade. “Are they alive?”

  “They are moving,” replied Mord, “but they are off their horses. I can see …”

  Mord’s voice trailed away. He stood and put a hand to his mouth.

  “Lorris and Pris …”

  “What?” asked Falger. “What is it?”

  “Narens. The Narens that came to the city …”

  “What? The boy?”

  “There.” Mord pointed to the scope. “Look for yourself!”

  Falger rushed to the telescope, squinting to focus the lens. He saw two figures in the view field, one lying in the street with fire all around him, the other bent over, comforting his comrade. Because they were still and much closer now, Falger could see that they weren’t warriors at all—they were Naren.

  “Oh, no!”

  He went to the opening in the tower, hung out over the ledge and shouted, “Alazrian Leth! It is me! Falger!”

  “What are you doing?” asked Mord. “They are leading the warlord to us!”

  “No, impossible,” said Falger. “He would not do it!”

  “Falger …”

  “We have to stop,” ordered Falger. “Mord, get down and tell the others to stop firing. Do it now!”

  “Falger …”

  “Do it!”

  Falger practically shoved his friend toward the stairs, then leaned over the ledge again, waving and shouting to the wounded boy below.

  “Alazrian, stay! I am coming for you!”

  Driven by horror he ran for the stairs, forgetting that Alazrian couldn’t understand a word he’d said.

  • • •

  Alazrian lifted his face to the foggy figure of Jahl Rob standing over him. The priest had his hands on Alazrian and was talking, but Alazrian could barely make out the words. His skull was aching from the constant bombardment and his hands screamed with pain. Tears burned his eyes. He began to cough and then couldn’t stop himself, expelling saliva in great hacks. Jahl put his arm around Alazrian and looked about fearfully. Mercifully, the fire from the central tower had ceased. Slowly, Alazrian’s world came back into focus.

  “Jahl,” he croaked, “am I all right?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jahl. “How do you feel?”

  Alazrian did a mental check of his body. All the pieces seemed in place. “My hands; I burned them. And my head …” He touched his fingers to his skull, lightly probing the bruises and wincing. “I hit my head.”

  “We have to get out of here,” said Jahl. “Can you stand?”

  “I think so,” said Alazrian. With Jahl’s help he rose unsteadily to his feet, then looked around for their horses. The beasts were gone, hidden somewhere in the smoke and fire. Behind them, the deadly cannonade continued. “We have to find Falger,” Alazrian gasped. “He’s at the tower …”

  “Easy,” scolded Jahl. “You need to rest. I have to find you someplace safe, some shelter.”

  “Jahl, I’m all right. We have to find Falger.”

  “Stop arguing and listen to me! You’re hurt and you need rest. And we need to get the hell out of here before that gun starts up again. Now come on, lean on me.” He wrapped an arm around Alazrian’s ribs. “Let’s go.”

  “Which way? We can’t go back to the others. The cannons …”

  “Damn it, there’s got to be shelter around here. Anything! Just walk, Alazrian, hurry.”

  Jahl led Alazrian through the avenue, avoiding the numerous fires and the debris falling around them. They hurried toward a stand of buildings, all shuttered but away from the worst of the flames. When they had almost reached them, a piercing shout made them jump.

  “Alazrian! J’kan a hiau!”

  Jahl stiffened. “What the hell?”

  The cry came again, from the direction of the tower. At first Alazrian thought it was Praxtin-Tar, come looking for him, but then he recognized the voice. Falger was gasping in his effort to reach them. Alazrian pulled free of Jahl’s embrace and stumbled toward him.

  “Falger!”

  Falger skidded to a stop in front of them and started talking wildly, stringing together one foreign phrase after another and pointing at the two watchtowers. Completely lost, Alazrian took hold of Falger’s hand and made the connection. The union was explosive. Falger’s face fell in astonishment. Alazrian looked deep into his eyes, imploring him to listen.

  Don’t be afraid, he commanded. Stop your attack now. Stop firing. We are friends.

  After a moment of shock, Falger’s voice replied, What are you doing? What is this magic? You are gifted?

  I can’t explain—no time. Can you stop the attack?

  Falger nodded then began speaking again in Triin. Still holding onto the man, Alazrian understood every word.

  “It will stop. I have given the order. But what is this? Why are you with Praxtin-Tar?”

  Out of breath and about to collapse, Alazrian smiled crookedly at the Triin. I will explain it to you, he thought wearily. And I have a message for you, Falger. Dyana Vantran sends her greetings.

  An hour later, Alazrian, Jahl, and Falger met in one of Ackle-Nye’s abandon
ed strongholds, a castle-like structure on the east end of the city, protected by a dentate wall and a handful of Falger’s guardians. With them were Richius and Praxtin-Tar, who had survived Falger’s attempt to kill them and who, despite Alazrian’s claims to the contrary, viewed the refugee leader as an enemy. Falger had food brought into a meeting chamber where they sat and rested, and where Praxtin-Tar conferred with his warriors, counting up their dead. Falger’s attack had diminished the warlord’s horde; twenty-two dead, all incinerated by the flame cannons. Praxtin-Tar had removed his helmet and Alazrian could see his face clearly as Crinion gave him the bad news. The warlord looked about to weep. Falger watched him nervously from the other side of the room. Richius Vantran was talking in between great mouthfuls of food, and Jahl was beside him, taking it all in. So far they had decided that the warlord’s army would remain in Ackle-Nye for two days. They would rest and tend their wounds, and Falger would provide them food. Falger nodded as Richius spoke, half ignoring the king as he eyed Praxtin-Tar across the chamber.

  “Falger?” Richius prodded. “Are you listening to me?”

  Mord translated, and Falger nodded.

  “Falger is listening,” said Mord. “He has agreed to give food and shelter.” Mord leaned across the table and added, “What else do you want, Naren?”

  “I want his assurance that he won’t try anything else.” Richius gestured to Falger with a finger. “Look at him. Even now he looks to be plotting murder.”

  “We do not trust the warlord,” said Mord.

  “Mord, I give you my word,” said Alazrian. “Praxtin-Tar is not what you think.”

  “I was fighting him myself,” added Richius. “You know that. Why can’t you believe our truce?”

  “We believe,” said Mord. “Mostly.”

  Grudging acceptance was better than none at all, Alazrian supposed. He flexed his hands to test the pain. They had been washed and dressed with bandages, and Falger had put a salve on them to ease the burning. As for his skull, Alazrian still had a wicked headache, but it was retreating. He reached across the table and poked Falger to get his attention.