The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  “There,” shouted Jelena. The thunder of the flame cannons made conversation almost impossible, and both she and Kasrin wore wax plugs in their ears to stave off the noise. As the queen spoke, she leaned into Kasrin. “Onshore. See them?”

  “I see them,” replied Kasrin.

  “You can reach them!”

  Kasrin lowered his spyglass and shook his head. “No.”

  Jelena looked at him. She was about to speak, then abruptly stopped. Kasrin slipped a hand into hers, clasping it gently. He could see the poison in her expression, just as it must have been in Vares’ face. Together they had watched Vares turn the Hammerhead against the privateers. Part of Kasrin had been shocked. Jelena had been silently gratified. Now she wanted him to kill the Talistanians. They are Narens, he could hear her thinking. Kill them.

  “I’m Naren,” he told her over the booming cannonade.

  They stared at each other. Onshore, a glow was rising from the burning fortress.

  “You’re not like them,” Jelena said, her voice barely audible. “You’re different.”

  “But I am one of them,” Kasrin insisted. “Can you accept that?”

  After a pause, Jelena took hold of his collar, put her lips to his plugged ear, and said, “I took you to my bed, didn’t I? I know what you are, Blair Kasrin!”

  Smiling, Kasrin replied, “I’m not the Jackal. And I’m not a hero. But I’m a lucky man, Queen of Liss. Now …” He put the spyglass to his eye again. “Let me do my job.”

  Spotting an unmanned wall in his lens, he directed the starboard cannons toward it.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Biagio watched as, across the river, the line of longbowmen drew back their weapons. Tassis Gayle sat smugly on his horse, eager for battle. Redburn’s army readied themselves for the incoming missiles, bringing up their round shields. Biagio listened for the order, then heard the twang and rush of arrows. Overhead the sky darkened.

  “Protect yourself!” he shouted to Breena, who had already brought up her shield. The arrows arced and began their screaming descent. A wooden rain stormed down, thumping into shields and banging against armor. Biagio watched an arrowhead pierce his shield. Along the defenses, unlucky men wailed as missiles found their marks. The elk bristled and shook their armored snouts against the assault, and men tumbled from their backs. Without archers of his own to return fire, Redburn lowered his shield and screamed across the battlefield.

  “You missed me!”

  The Highlanders howled and batted their shields with their swords, whooping like madmen at their foes. Again the archers fitted shafts in their bows, aimed skyward, and loosed at the order. Another volley streaked skyward as Biagio hurried to bring up his shield. His temples thundered and his mouth dried up, and his insides burned for Bovadin’s drug, for the familiar sense of fearlessness it had always provided. As the arrows rained down he closed his eyes, hating his fear. When he knew he had survived, he threw down his shield, enraged.

  “Fight us!” he bellowed at Gayle. “You craven bastard, fight us!”

  It was all the taunting Tassis Gayle needed. He shouted something to his bowmen, then at the Voskans, who prepared to charge. Count Galabalos raised his silver sword. Next to Redburn, Olly Glynn pleaded for vengeance.

  “Let me, my Prince, I beg you!” he said. “Let my men take on those pigs!”

  Redburn bit his lip, thinking hard as Galabalos made ready. Olly Glynn had his hand on his sword and was breathing hard. Finally, as Galabalos and his horde started forward, Redburn gave the order.

  “Do it, Glynn. Give them a screwing they’ll never forget!”

  Olly Glynn spun his elk around to face his fighters. In unison they drew their blades, crouched in their saddles, and listened to their leader’s command.

  “To battle!”

  Fifty armored latapi raced for the river. Opposing them charged a hundred Voskan horsemen. The latapi lowered their racks as they bolted forward, chewing up the meadow with their cloven hooves. Galabalos gave a vengeful cry as he dashed through the river, waving his sword and facing down the first of the Highlanders—the roaring Olly Glynn. Glynn’s sword was up in an instant. Galabalos’ steed snorted. It raced for the elk and slammed into the latapi’s rack. A great cry went up from the horse. The latapi bellowed and thrashed its antlers. Olly Glynn held on tight as the horse’s neck fountained blood. Galabalos tumbled headlong out of his saddle and into the elk’s swishing antlers.

  Biagio blinked in disbelief. Galabalos was screaming. Impaled on Glynn’s elk, he reached for the Highlander with clawed fingers. The latapi thrashed violently, shaking the count loose and tossing him to the dirt. Around him thundered the horses and elk, like two brick walls crashing together. Glynn wheeled his mount toward the helpless Galabalos and brought down his sword, slicing off the count’s face, then shook a fist in the air and cried out, “No mercy!”

  It was astonishing. With Breena cheering next to him, Biagio watched as the latapi drove through the horses, ignoring their numbers and armor, pulling apart their flesh with pointed tines. Suddenly leaderless, the Voskans scrambled to regroup, desperately slashing at the Highlanders. Soon the melee engulfed them all.

  “My God,” gasped Biagio. “I don’t believe it …”

  “I told you,” declared Redburn proudly. “They are no match for us.”

  Across the river, Tassis Gayle seemed to draw the same conclusion. He spun toward his bowmen again, sputtering orders and waving his arms. The archers fixed their weapons and let loose another volley. Redburn called for shields. The arrows plunged downward, puncturing flesh and armor and felling the Highlanders. Breena’s shield absorbed two of the shafts, then another grazed her shoulder. She cursed at the pain, waving off Biagio.

  “I’m all right,” she said. “Look to yourself, Emperor!”

  More arrows came down. More Highlanders fell. Redburn shouted at his army to hold fast, and Cray Kellen and Vandra Greyfin did the same. The Lion of Granshirl trotted among his troops, singing a Highland battle song. Clan Greyfin took up the tune, and soon all the Highlanders raised their voices, taunting the Talistanians with defiant music. Between the enemy armies, Olly Glynn and his clan were battling the Voskans, and both sides had taken heavy damage. The outnumbered Highlanders pressed the advantage of their mounts, but the Voskans were a well-trained brigade and had regrouped after the initial clash. The numbers of both were dwindling. Biagio realized that he didn’t see Olly Glynn anymore.

  “Glynn,” he barked. “Where is he?”

  Redburn peered through the melee, pointing toward the middle of the fray.

  Olly Glynn was off his elk and splashing through the river. He looked exhausted, smeared with blood and barely standing. He was staggering, raising his sword against two mounted Voskans. One with a flail twirled his weapon, winding it up for the blow.

  “No!” screamed Redburn.

  If Glynn heard him, it was too late. The flail came down, crushing Glynn’s head with its spiked ball. The Highlander fell facedown in the river.

  “God, no!” cried Breena. She looked at her brother, who had closed his eyes.

  “Damn them,” Redburn muttered. “Damn them!”

  Once more a rain of arrows fell. Neither Redburn nor his sister shielded themselves. Glynn’s remaining men were fighting the Voskans to a bloody stalemate.

  “Redburn,” said Biagio, “sound the charge.”

  Vandra Greyfin rode up to them. She heard Biagio’s sentiment and echoed it.

  “Do it, Redburn,” she urged, “or we’ll be slaughtered here by arrows, one by one.”

  Tassis Gayle was stupefied. He had lived on the border of the Eastern Highlands all his life, but never once had he seen their elk in battle. From between the eye slits of his demon helm, he watched the Voskans get slaughtered, skewered by antlers or crushed by hooves or simply hacked to pieces by crazed Highlanders. The bear clan of Olly Glynn had been decimated, too, but they had dragged down the arrogant Galabalos with them. Gayle glanced a
cross the Silverknife, quickly counting the remaining Highlanders. Redburn hadn’t yet charged, nor had the lion or shark clans. What had looked to be a rout was quickly becoming an even match, and Gayle began cursing Duke Wallach for leaving them.

  “My liege,” called Major Mardek, galloping up through the line of infantrymen. “Your orders—shall we retreat?”

  Gayle looked at him in disbelief. When had Mardek become such a coward?

  “We will not retreat. Look there, across the river. Redburn makes ready to charge. Prepare your cavalry.”

  “My King, we cannot win. Look at the Voskans! The Highlanders are too strong—their beasts outmatch us.”

  “Prepare your horsemen, Mardek.”

  “But my lord, the emperor! This is foolish!”

  Gayle reached through the distance between them, snatched Mardek by his gorget, and dragged him from his horse.

  “I am the King of Talistan,” he roared. “You will obey me! Now prepare to charge, or I will kill you myself!”

  Mardek stared up at his crazed king. “My lord, listen to me, I beg you. The emperor has found us out. He has dreadnoughts on the coast, and Triin attacking Aramoor. We are finished. You must surrender.”

  “Get up, Mardek,” warned Gayle. He put the tip of his sword to the major’s throat guard. “Or die on your knees like a coward.”

  Slowly Mardek got to his feet. “You’re mad,” he whispered. “Completely mad …”

  What little sanity remained in Gayle snapped under the accusation. With a frustrated scream, he pushed against his sword and drove the blade through Mardek’s windpipe. The major gasped and gurgled, then dropped to his knees. With one hand he reached out for Gayle. Gayle pulled his blade free and kicked the major over.

  “Now then,” he said, addressing his troops. “I gave you bloody bastards an order!”

  Prince Redburn saw the cavalry readying to charge.

  “This is it,” he told his sister. “I’m taking in our own.”

  Breena gripped her sword. “I’m ready.”

  “No,” said Redburn. “You stay behind. If I fall …” His voice choked off. “Breena, if I fall, they’ll need you.”

  “Redburn, let my men go,” pleaded Vandra Grayfin. “We’re ready!”

  “So are we,” said Redburn. He swallowed down a surge of fear. “Vandra, you and Kellen—you’re all that’ll be left. I’ll take my own men in, try to break Gayle’s back.” He glanced at Biagio, who looked eager for battle. “Emperor, you stay too.”

  “What?” said Biagio. “I won’t! I’m ready.”

  Redburn flicked his eyes toward Breena. Biagio got the hint instantly. So did Breena.

  “I don’t need a chaperon!” she protested.

  “Stay,” commanded the prince. He galloped across the ranks of his clan waving his sword and rallying them to battle. The latapi snorted, the footmen beat their shields, and Redburn called them to battle with all his blood-given charisma. On the other side of the Silverknife, the Talistanian horsemen were galloping forward. Redburn whirled his elk toward them and charged. Behind him he heard the roar of his men as they screamed into battle, the pounding of hooves and the clang of heavy armor. Tucking himself down in the saddle, he directed his latapi’s rack toward the onrushing horsemen. His sword swam in his grip, and he realized he was sweating. He had never wanted this war, but Tassis Gayle had forced it. Redburn seized on his goal—the arrogant king across the river. If only he could reach him …

  The impact of the horsemen exploded around him. His elk tore into them, raking its antlers across the flanks of two steeds, dragging them backward. A moment later Redburn was engulfed in slashing steel. He brought up his shield, blocked the falling blows, and swung his sword against his leftward opponent. The blade slammed into the soldier’s helmet. The man responded with a flurry of hacks. Redburn urged his elk through them, shouting wildly. Around him surged his men and the thrashing antlers of latapi, followed by an ungodly chorus of screams. The world blurred, and suddenly Redburn was surrounded again, enemies and allies pressed against him. Cold river water gushed up, blinding him as he swung his blade. He needed to free himself, to break away from the surging herd, but the walls of men and beast bore down on him. His head rang with angry shouts and agonized screams. He saw metal flashing and the spurting of stumps, and he knew that he was lost. Panic drove him on, and when he saw an opening he went for it, charging free of the cluster toward a pair of mounted soldiers. Racer brought his deadly rack down and hammered into them, sending them tumbling. Redburn gasped at the blast of hot blood. Both soldiers were grounded by the blow, scrambling through the rushing river. Before Redburn knew it, he was swinging after them, bringing down his blade in two bloody arcs. The men fell like weeds. Redburn lifted his sword, drew hard the reins and brought the buck rearing to its hinds.

  “Revenge!” he cried. “For our Highlands!”

  Berserk with rage and slick with blood, Redburn turned Racer back toward the battle. His men were outnumbered but evening the odds, pressing their attackers back with their elk. Ahead of him, one Highlander was fending off two Talistanians. Redburn roared, jabbed Racer’s sides for speed, and went after them. The elk splashed through the river but quickly misstepped, buckling beneath the prince and sending him sprawling. Racer let out a horrible wail. Redburn hurried to right himself, lifting his face out of the river and stumbling to his feet. A towering lancemen bore down on him.

  “Mighty Prince!” said the soldier. He aimed his lance at Redburn’s gut. “Lose something?”

  It happened in an instant. The lance hung in front of him, and before he could dodge the thing it was moving, racing for his heart even as he brought up his hands. His torso exploded with pain. Looking down, he saw a fountain of blood gush from his punctured belly.

  “Redburn!”

  Breena’s shriek shattered Biagio’s skull. Before he could stop her she was rushing forward, screaming and brandishing her sword as she rode to her brother’s rescue. But it was too late. Redburn dangled on the end of the lance, his body convulsing, then slid off, crumpling in a heap in the river. But Breena’s mad dash stirred the Highlanders.

  “The prince!” shouted Cray Kellen. “The prince has fallen!”

  The Lion gave a roar and rallied his fighters. Vandra Greyfin’s men prepared to charge. The two clan leaders looked to Biagio, and he realized they awaited his word. With no one left to lead them, Biagio gripped the reins of his warhorse and gave the order.

  “Slaughter them!” he cried. “Let no Talistanian live out this day!”

  He spurred his horse forward, speeding toward Breena and the riotous battle. Across the Silverknife, Gayle’s infantry was readying to charge. Breena had reached the river. With a scream she threw herself onto the lanceman, spitting like a wildcat and swinging her sword. The soldier tumbled, dragged into the water as Breena beat him mercilessly with her blade, hacking through his armor. When Biagio reached her she was covered with blood, her face twisted and streaked with tears.

  “Breena, stop!” he ordered. “Get out of here!”

  Breena had lost her elk in the melee and now dropped her sword. She stumbled through the river toward Redburn. The prince lay unmoving in the water.

  “Redburn, no!” sobbed Breena. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him, trying to will him back to life, but his head lolled back and his dead eyes stared, unblinking. Biagio hurried toward her, leaned down from horseback and grabbed hold of her collar. He yanked her off the corpse and dragged her to the riverbank.

  “My brother!” she cried, struggling to get loose. “They’ve killed him!”

  “Get out of here,” ordered Biagio. “You can’t help him now.” He tossed her to the ground where she fell to her knees.

  “This is your fault,” she sobbed. “You and your blasted war!”

  Biagio didn’t answer. Around him, the clans of Greyfin and Kellen clamored into battle, beating back the cavalry and fording the river toward the onrushing infantry. There was no
time to talk, and no way to save Redburn. Breena knew it, too. She didn’t crawl toward the battle or even try to lift her head. Soaked in blood and muddy water, she merely knelt at the riverbank, staring vacantly at Biagio.

  “Go!” he commanded.

  Lost in a fog, Breena didn’t move.

  “I will avenge him, Breena, I promise,” said Biagio. “Now go, please!”

  Breena lifted herself up, tottering to her feet. She looked at the river and her countrymen surging forward, then at the corpse of her brother, trampled beneath the hooves of war beasts. Oblivious to the fury around her, she walked toward the river and tried fishing Redburn’s body from the water. Others joined her, dragging the corpse ashore. Breena looked around blankly.

  “Get him back to the castle,” Biagio told her. “Don’t leave him here to rot.”

  “Yes,” agreed Breena. “Yes, all right …” She paused to look at Biagio. “Avenge him,” she said. “Remember your promise.”

  “I will,” said Biagio. He turned his horse back toward the river. The Highlanders had crossed and were barreling through the infantry. In the distance, Tassis Gayle sat upon his charger, looking stunned by the turn of events.

  Biagio drew his sword and galloped across the river.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  At the mouth of the Saccenne Run, where the evergreens of Aramoor surrendered to the Iron Mountains, Richius Vantran leaned out over a rocky ledge and counted the contingent of cavalrymen camped at their makeshift base. It was morning of the fateful day, the day when he would finally regain Aramoor. Praxtin-Tar’s army was stretched out through the run, and Jahl Rob’s Saints led the way, poised on foot and on horseback to invade the tiny kingdom. But an unexpected company of Talistanian soldiers now blocked their way. Oblivious to the forces massed just beyond their sight, the horsemen lounged about their camp, talking around a campfire and absently grooming their mounts. Richius, crawling on his belly, craned to see them better. They were far below and well out of earshot, yet he whispered as he addressed his companions.