The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  “Falger?” he said softly.

  Falger smiled and said something in Triin that Alazrian couldn’t understand.

  “Falger apologizes,” Mord explained. “He regrets your injuries.”

  “No need to keep apologizing,” said Alazrian. He was careful not to touch the man again. So far, Falger had accepted his explanation of his powers. It was the one thing convincing him of Praxtin-Tar’s sincerity, for he knew the warlord’s ardor for heaven. “We thank you for your help,” Alazrian told him. “We will not be a burden to you or your people.”

  Falger nodded, understanding. Then he returned to staring at Praxtin-Tar. Praxtin-Tar dismissed Crinion and the others, strode over to the table, and put his hand into Alazrian’s.

  “You are feeling better?” he asked.

  “I am fine,” replied Alazrian. “Thank you.”

  Praxtin-Tar frowned. “You are headstrong. How can I protect a foolish boy like you?” He shook his head ruefully. “You worry me like my own son. If you die, I will be very angry.” His eyes flicked toward Falger. “And this one. He is an even bigger fool. I will be glad to be gone from his foul city.”

  Falger gave an angry retort.

  Alazrian looked at Praxtin-Tar. “What did he say?”

  “That he will be happy to see us go. So be it. I will leave you now, Alazrian Leth. I must go to my men. You may stay here for a bit, but do not linger. You need rest.”

  “Yes, father,” said Alazrian jokingly.

  Praxtin-Tar’s face glowed for a moment, then returned to its normal, stony facade. He left the room in silence. Falger let out a breath when he saw him go. So did Richius.

  “Well, that’s it then,” said the Aramoorian. He got up from the table and smiled at Falger. “We’ll try to stay out of your way,” he told the Triin. “We won’t stay long, I promise. Just long enough to get some rest.”

  The king gave them all a quick good-bye, then followed Praxtin-Tar out of the chamber. When he was gone, Falger smirked and whispered something.

  “What was that?” asked Jahl.

  “Kalak is not what Falger expected,” translated Mord. “Not what I expected, either.”

  Falger nodded sadly. “Piy inikk.”

  Mord agreed with his friend. “Troubled; yes, he is.”

  The observation irritated Alazrian. Didn’t Richius have the right to be troubled? Didn’t they all? Perhaps it was his proximity to home, or perhaps the shock of nearly dying, but suddenly Alazrian didn’t feel Triin at all, not even half Triin. And he didn’t like them gossiping about Richius, either.

  “Jahl, I’m going,” he said as he rose from his chair. “Praxtin-Tar may need my help.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Halfway through the Iron Mountains, Richius caught his first glimpse of Aramoor. It was very far away and shrouded in a haze, but at the sight of it he caught his breath.

  For more than a day they had ridden, leaving behind the grudging hospitality of Ackle-Nye for the cheerless confines of the Saccenne Run, snaking through the passage and filling the canyon with the noise of their hoof-falls. Praxtin-Tar’s horde stretched out behind them, while ahead lay nothing but endless rock and emptiness, cut through by a single, defiant roadway. But now Richius stood on a mountain ledge, alone but for Jahl Rob, and felt the first pangs of homecoming.

  Aramoor was just as he had left her. This high up, he couldn’t see the scars of Talistanian occupation. Instead, she was verdant, almost virginal. Her beauty forced a lump to his throat. Beside him, Jahl Rob stretched out his hands and took deep gulps of mountain air. The priest crossed himself, then closed his eyes and spoke a prayer of thanks.

  “We’re home,” he said. “Or very near.”

  Richius thought of Dyana suddenly, and how she had never seen Aramoor. If all went according to plan, he might finally be able to bring her here. And Shani would know her other half, and realize that not all life was Triin.

  “It’s so beautiful,” he said. “I feel … strange.”

  “Strange?”

  Richius knew he could not explain it. He glanced around at the mountains, daunted by their sameness. “Can you see your stronghold?” he asked. “Are we close?”

  “We are. There, beyond that ridge. That’s where the Saints hide.”

  “It’s very near Aramoor, isn’t it,” Richius observed. “I’m surprised Leth hasn’t come to rout you out.”

  “Oh, he’s tried,” said Jahl. “And I’ve been gone a long time. I’m afraid to see what’s left of my friends. Before Alazrian and I went off to Lucel-Lor, Leth had discovered our stronghold.”

  “Yes, Alazrian told me,” said Richius. “The bodyguard.”

  “Shinn, the bastard. We were all sure he’d come back with an army. I told my Saints to flee if he did.”

  “Well, then, there’s only one way to find out if they’re still here.” Richius smiled grimly. “You ready?”

  “Are you?”

  Another tough question. Richius felt he’d never be ready to face Aramoorians again. “Yes,” he lied. “Let’s go.”

  Carefully they slid back down the rocky slope to where Alazrian and Praxtin-Tar were waiting. The odd pair looked at them expectantly.

  “Did you see it?” asked Alazrian. “Are we almost there?”

  Jahl nodded, saying, “Just a bit farther. Alazrian, I think you and Praxtin-Tar should wait here with the army. If the Saints haven’t seen us yet, I don’t went them spooked by seeing a horde of Triin coming at them.”

  “Oh, but they must have seen us by now,” said Alazrian. “There must be lookouts, right?”

  “There should be, but I don’t know what’s left of them, and I don’t want to take chances. Wait here with the warriors, will you?”

  Alazrian agreed, then explained it to Praxtin-Tar. The foursome walked back toward the army. Praxtin-Tar’s slave Rook waited at the front of the column next to Crinion, eagerly awaiting news as he held Praxtin-Tar’s horse.

  “Well?” pressed the slave. “Did you see Nar? Are we almost there?”

  “Almost,” said Richius.

  “Your answer, my lord, I must have it. What will happen to me when we get back to Nar?”

  “I’ll talk to Praxtin-Tar,” said Richius. “I’ll see what I can do. But no promises.”

  Rook whispered angrily, “But he’ll be watching me. I won’t be able to escape without your—”

  “Eesay!” yelled Praxtin-Tar, slapping the top of Rook’s head and sending him scurrying off. Then he nodded at Richius and Jahl. The two Aramoorians climbed back onto their horses.

  “We won’t be long,” Jahl promised Alazrian. “Look after yourself, and don’t worry. I’ll be back in a couple of hours, once I’ve made my explanations.”

  So Richius and Jahl rode off, Jahl taking the lead and driving steadily through the Saccenne Run, leaving behind Alazrian and his Triin protectors. When the warriors were far in the distance, the air took on a silent quality, unbroken by the footsteps of men. Richius’ mind flashed back, summoning memories of the run. He had left Aramoor to rendezvous with Lucyler, under the vague promise that Dyana was still alive. He had abandoned everything and everyone, and he had never returned. Decisions and politics had fated him. Now his blood stirred as he neared his birthplace. The growing anxiety that had plagued him through the journey started gnawing at him relentlessly. Maybe he shouldn’t have come …

  But Jahl had been so convincing, and Richius had desperately wanted to return. As they rode on, scanning the hillsides for the hideout, Richius steeled himself. Jahl was slowing, watching their surroundings.

  “There,” he said, pointing at a cliff face on the south side of the run. “Up there is where we stay.” He looked around at the run, studying it for hoofprints and debris. To Richius, no one appeared to have come this way for many weeks.

  “Where are your sentries?” Richius asked. “It’s very quiet.”

  “The Saints have to be quiet,” replied Jahl. “We’ll go on. We’ll find someone soo
n.”

  “Jahl Rob!” came a sudden cry. The voice broke into triumphant laughter. “You made it!”

  Richius looked skyward and saw a figure hanging from a high ledge. It was a man with a bow, but more than that Richius couldn’t tell. He didn’t recognize the man whose face was thickly bearded and whose clothes were in rags. The figure stood up, waving and calling down to them. Jahl Rob waved back, grinning broadly.

  “Ricken!”

  The priest rushed his horse forward as the man scrambled down the hillside. Richius followed at a more cautious pace. Jahl hadn’t spoken much about his Saints, probably because Richius had been too afraid to ask. Details like that only depressed him. And the sight of the man called Ricken was depressing indeed. As he met up with Jahl, embracing the priest as he dropped from his saddle, Richius could plainly see his wretched vestments and pallor. He was emaciated, thin as a reed. But his eyes leapt with joy at the priest’s return. Richius trotted toward the pair, staring down at the stranger from atop his horse. The man looked up and all the pleasure drained from his expression.

  “God in merry heaven,” he gasped. “I don’t believe it … Is this him?”

  Jahl’s voice was somber. “It’s the king, Ricken. It’s Richius.”

  Ricken couldn’t take his gaze from his king. Suddenly Richius recognized him.

  “Ricken Dancer,” he whispered. “I know you. The horse breeder.”

  “My God,” said Ricken in disbelief. “It really is you. Jahl, I can’t believe you got him to come back!”

  Richius’ heart hardened. “Believe it,” he said. “I’ve returned.”

  “The King of Aramoor, back to preside over his peasants.” Ricken’s lip trembled with anger—the same anger that had once tainted Jahl’s face. “You’ve got iron balls, Vantran.”

  “Easy, Ricken,” scolded Jahl. “That’s your king. You’ll treat him with respect.”

  Ricken finally shifted his glare to Jahl. “You say that? This blood-sucker betrayed us!”

  “That was the past,” said Jahl, “and it’s forgiven. Or would you rather call Tassis Gayle master?”

  Before Ricken could answer, Richius slid off his horse and faced him. “I didn’t come back for your forgiveness, Dancer. I don’t want it, and I don’t deserve it. I’m here for Aramoor; that’s all.”

  His face softening, Ricken said, “I can’t call you king, Vantran—not yet. God in heaven, I can’t even believe you’ve come.”

  “He’s here to help us,” said Jahl. “And he’s brought Triin with him. A whole army. They’re still in the run, about a mile from here.”

  “You’ve brought the lions?”

  “No, no lions. But an army of Triin warriors, led by a warlord named Praxtin-Tar. Now listen to me, Ricken—this Praxtin-Tar is no one to trifle with. He’s like a king in his country, and he’ll gut you for the smallest insult. I want you to go back to the camp and tell the others …” Jahl stopped himself suddenly. “There are others, aren’t there? The Saints are all right?”

  “Mostly,” said Ricken. “Parry’s been sick through the spring, and Taylour took a tumble down a slope and broke an arm. But Leth has left us alone. It’s been real quiet, Jahl. It’s got us all nervous.”

  Jahl Rob slapped his comrade’s back. “Well, it’s about to get a hell of a lot more noisy around here! Go now and tell the others we’re coming. Tell them not to make a move against Praxtin-Tar or his people. We’ve got a war to fight, Ricken! And we don’t have much time.”

  “How much time?” asked Ricken, alarmed.

  “Check your calendar,” said Richius. “It’s two days before the first of summer. That’s when we ride for Aramoor.”

  “Jahl? Is that right?”

  “Afraid so, Ricken,” said Jahl. “We’ve got to get our plans together fast. And that horde of Triin is aching for battle, and for food. We have to take Aramoor before we all starve to death. Now don’t stand there gaping at me. Tell the others we’ve come!”

  Ricken started back up the slope, but as he began climbing he paused, glancing up at a small figure perched high above. A youngster was staring down at them, his mouth open in surprise. Richius looked back at him, perplexed. Did Jahl have children in his Saints?

  “Oh, hell,” growled Ricken. “Alain, I told you stay put!” he shouted at the boy. “Don’t be following me down here.”

  Richius was stunned. “Alain?” He hurried to the hillside, studying the boy. “Alain!”

  The boy blinked, his face familiar yet so much older. “Richius?” he called. “Richius, is it you?”

  “Alain!” Richius cried. He forgot Ricken and Jahl completely and began clawing up the hillside. Alain shouted gleefully, nearly losing his footing as he scrambled down to meet Richius. For Richius, it was like seeing a ghost. He paused on the slope, opened his arms wide, and let the brother of his dearest friend tumble into his embrace.

  “My God, Alain!” Richius cried, lifting the boy high. “What are you doing here? What … what happened?”

  “Richius, it’s you!” squealed Alain. “It is!”

  Richius led Alain down the hill. He had gotten so much bigger, so much like Dinadin it was frightening. Jahl hurried closer, his expression anxious.

  “Richius, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t. I …”

  “Jahl, what happened?” Richius demanded. He turned to face Alain. “Alain, where’s your family? Where’s Del?”

  Confused, Alain glanced at Jahl. “You didn’t tell him?”

  “No,” said Jahl. “I couldn’t.”

  Richius let out a groan. “Oh, no. Dead?”

  The youngest Lotts nodded. Richius reached out again, wrapping him in his arms. “God, I’m sorry, Alain. I’m so sorry …” Richius glared at Jahl and mouthed a silent curse.

  “What could I say?” asked Jahl. “You didn’t know, but you didn’t ask. It was hard for me. Del was my friend.”

  “He was my friend, too,” spat Richius. “And so was Dinadin. You should have told me.”

  “I was going to. I was just …” The priest shrugged. “Waiting, I guess.”

  Richius took Alain by the shoulders and gave him his broadest smile. “God, it’s good to see you, Alain. And look at you. You’ve gotten so big!”

  “I can’t believe it’s really you,” said Alain. He reached out and brushed his fingers against Richius’ face. “You’ve changed.”

  “More than you know. But you look hungry. Are you? We brought food with us. You want some?”

  Jahl cleared his throat. “Richius, this isn’t the time for a reunion. We have to get back to Praxtin-Tar. Go on now, Ricken, and take Alain with you.”

  “No,” said Richius. He took hold of Alain’s hand. “He’s coming back with us.”

  “Richius, please …”

  But Richius walked off, leading Alain to his horse. “I’m not letting him out of my sight, Jahl,” he said. “I’ve already lost two of his brothers. I’m not going to lose this one.” He helped Alain onto Lightning’s back, then climbed into the saddle behind him. Taking the reins in his hands, he told Ricken, “Get back to the others. Tell them we’re on our way. Tell them I’ve returned to Aramoor.”

  Astounded, Ricken said, “Are you here to stay, my lord?”

  Richius heard the hope in his voice. “I’m here to take back what’s mine,” he declared. “In two days, we’re going to win back our country.”

  That evening, Jahl knelt alone by the edge of a cliff near the mountain stronghold of his Saints. Far in the distance, the fir trees of Aramoor stood like dark sentries across the shadowy horizon, barely visible despite their height. Night brought a cool breeze through the canyons, stirring up dust and whispers, and the stars slowly popped to life. To the east, the army of Praxtin-Tar had set up camp in the run, their cooking fires deliberately kept small, their horses and supply carts secured for the night. They had met with the Saints to talk of the coming war and to share their provisions, and to begin planning their invasion of Aramo
or. There was much to do and too little time. The first of summer was only two days away. Praxtin-Tar’s warriors were exhausted from their trek, and the Saints of the Sword looked in no shape to fight, but both groups had willingly put their pains aside. There was an eagerness in the stronghold and throughout the ranks of Triin, a palpable desire to follow Richius Vantran into war. Even now the Jackal was using his influence to win the loyalty of his subjects. To Jahl, it was like witnessing a miracle. Vantran blood was persuasive.

  Facing Aramoor, Jahl knelt with his eyes closed, praising God. The Lord had watched over him during the long journey to Lucel-Lor. And He had brought back the Jackal. Jahl had prayed mightily and had been heard, and his gratitude to heaven was overwhelming.

  “Thank you, Father,” he declared. “Thank you for protecting my Saints. Thank you for bringing back our king. Thank you for Praxtin-Tar, though he be a heathen. Thank you for taking the heaviness from my heart.”

  Jahl opened his eyes and gazed heavenward, remembering something that Bishop Herrith himself had said—that some angels rode on chariots and carried swords. If he looked very hard, perhaps he might see them on this night of miracles. Jahl was sure the angels would be with them during the battle. Nothing would stand against them—not even Tassis Gayle.

  Suddenly a shadow darkened the starlight. Over his shoulder, Jahl heard footfalls.

  “Richius,” he presumed. “Come ahead.”

  “You’re praying,” said Richius. “I don’t want to bother you.”

  “I’m done for now.” Jahl turned and waved the young man over. “Come. Sit with me.” He gestured to the ground beside him. “We can talk.”

  Hesitantly, Richius inched closer. He was troubled and doing a poor job of hiding it. His eyes flicked toward Aramoor, but only for a moment.

  “I came to talk about the attack,” he said. “You weren’t at the meeting with Praxtin-Tar.”

  Jahl shrugged. “I thought you should handle it yourself. I want the men to get used to following you again, and to stop looking to me for answers. You’re the king, after all.”

  “They’ve all agreed—the day after tomorrow. Praxtin-Tar says he’ll be ready. We’ve only got one real chance at this. We’ll have to surprise Leth at the castle. We have to take him before Talistan can send reinforcements.”