The Saints of the Sword (77 page)

E
lrad Leth could barely believe his ears. “Dead?” he cried. “What do you mean she’s dead?”

“She laughed at me, so I killed her.” Tassis Gayle quit fussing with his garments and pointed at the bed. “There, when we were sleeping. I strangled her.”

“What?” Leth’s eyes danced frantically between the bed and the king. “She can’t be dead! I saw her a week ago.”

Gayle nodded. “That’s right. That’s when I killed her.” He checked himself in the mirror, dazzled by his royal garb. The sunlight coming through the window made him gleam.

“I can’t believe this,” gasped Leth. “She’s been dead for almost a week and you’re only telling me now?”

“I wouldn’t have told you at all, but I thought you should know. Anyway, that’s not why I summoned you. I want to talk about the Highlands.”

Leth put up his hands in exasperation. “Wait, goddamn it, just wait. What the hell happened to Ricter?”

Gayle sighed as if talking to a child. “I told you; she’s dead.”

“You told me you strangled her!”

“That’s right.” The king took a cape from his wardrobe and draped it over his shoulders. “What do you think of this one? I want to look my best for the troops.”

“Tassis, are you listening to yourself? You just said you killed the baroness.”

“Stop clucking and help me with this,” said Gayle, fumbling with the chain of his cape. His old fingers couldn’t seem to work the clasp.

“What did you do with the body?” Leth pressed.

“Redd and Damot disposed of it. They threw it into the river, I think.”

“Oh, my God. Are you mad? Have you lost your goddamn …”

The king looked up at him. It was all the warning Leth needed.

“My lord,” he said carefully, “let’s try to act rationally here, all right? You murdered the baroness. What do you think is going to happen when her men find out?”

Gayle shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well, neither do I! God almighty, aren’t you worried?”

“No, I’m not. Her soldiers think she’s gone back to Vosk to gather more troops. I told them our own people were accompanying her, so they wouldn’t get suspicious.”

“Oh, brilliant. Yes, that’s very convincing.”

“By the time her men realize she’s dead, we’ll have already taken the Eastern Highlands. Now help me with this bloody cape.”

“The hell with your cape!” Leth tore the garment away from Gayle and threw it to the floor. “Haven’t you been listening to me? We’re in trouble!”

The king’s expression became dangerous. “No, we’re not. Ricter’s troops know nothing of her death. Redd and Damot won’t say a word, and I’m certainly not going to tell anyone about it. Will you?”

“Of course not,” flared Leth. “But sooner or later they’re going to find out. And when they do, we’re going to have a revolt on our hands. Are you prepared for that?”

“You worry too much,” said Gayle. He picked up his cape and began arranging it around his shoulders again, admiring himself in the mirror. “When the baroness doesn’t return to Vosk, it will be supposed that some horrible accident befell her. And who are we to argue with that?” The king smiled. “Look at me. I’m still beautiful. I look barely half my age. I can’t wait for them to see me!”

Elrad Leth was speechless. Was Gayle so mad that he
couldn’t see the shriveled reptile staring back at him? Worse, he had come at the king’s behest to discuss the Eastern Highlands and Redburn’s response to the slaughter of his elk. Tassis Gayle had even sent a carriage for the governor. Leth had spent the trip to Talistan fretting over Gayle’s state of mind. Lately, the king had gotten worse. But Leth never expected murder.

He watched Tassis Gayle primping like a bride before the mirror, preparing to meet his horsemen, whom Major Mardek had assembled on the parade grounds outside the castle. He was going to tell them all about Redburn’s imminent attack, and how they needed to make ready. It would be like the old glory days for the king, and he was eager to get outside. But first he had to look perfect. In that strange way the insane have of obsessing over minutia, he couldn’t seem to decide on an outfit. Leth’s mind raced for something to say. Somehow, he had to reach the king’s diseased mind.

“My lord,” he said gently, “let’s talk.”

“Yes, let’s. We have a lot to do. Major Mardek and his troops are waiting for me. I must address them, tell them to make ready. Redburn’s attack could come any day.”

“No, my lord,” said Leth. “I want to talk about you. Here …” He eased the king away from the mirror and directed him to the bed. As Gayle sat down, he let out a sigh.

“Leth, I don’t have time for this. I want to talk about Wallach and his ships.”

“Yes, all right. But listen to me first. You’re not well. You’ve murdered Baroness Ricter.” He scrutinized the king, looking for a sign of recognition. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

“What the hell have I been saying? I know I killed her.”

Flabbergasted, Leth said, “That’s murder, my lord. She was a baroness! She was your lover.”

Gayle scoffed. “Some lover. She said I was old. Well, I am not too old! And I intend to prove it to you!” He rose from the bed and shoved Leth aside, going back to the mirror. With a flourish he tossed the cape over his shoulders, his nostrils flaring. “You will return to Aramoor. Tell Wallach to have his armada set sail for the coast of the
Highlands as soon as they are able. I want them to set up a blockade. I don’t want Nicabar’s navy interfering with our invasion.”

“Nicabar is dead, Tassis.”

“I know that. But his captains might still try to stop us. I won’t take any chances. Zerio and his ships must set sail at once.”

“My lord …”

“At once!” growled Gayle. This time it was he who tossed the cape to the floor. “Goddamn it, why won’t anyone listen to me? Why all this bloody arguing? I’ve given you an order, Governor. Obey me!”

Leth struggled to subdue his rage. “I will obey you, my lord,” he spat. “And I will give your message to Duke Wallach. Zerio’s fleet will set sail, as you wish.”

“Good,” snapped Gayle. He turned to the mirror again, scowling at himself. “I am the King of Talistan. You will follow my commands without question.”

“And what are your orders for me?” asked Leth. “Am I to fight here against the Highlanders?”

“You, fight? No, I don’t think so.” The king chortled. “Fighting is a task for real men, Leth. Men like myself. You will return to Aramoor and stay there. See to it that Wallach’s navy sets sail as ordered. Then protect Aramoor from the Saints. Once they learn we’re at war with the Highlands, they may try to attack. You’re to see that they don’t. Do you think you can do that without complaining?”

“Of course I can. I’m as much a fighting man as you are, Tassis.”

“You are a flower, Elrad. Any Highlander would have no trouble pulling off your petals. Even Lady Breena could best you, I think.”

“And what about you, my lord? What will you be doing when the Highlanders attack?”

“I will be where a king should be,” declared Gayle. “I will be at the head of my army.”

“So you’re going to fight?”

“Of course.”

“You’re going to ride into battle?” Now it was Leth
who was laughing. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, my lord? After all, you’re … well …”

Gayle turned on him like a cobra. “What? Too old? Is that what you were going to say?”

“You? Old? Don’t be ridiculous. There are plenty of seventy-year-olds still clanging around in battle armor.”

“I …”

“Go off and ride into action, my lord,” said Leth. Without waiting for the king to dismiss him, he started toward the chamber door. “Enjoy yourself. But if you get out of breath, ask the Highlanders if you could take a break. I’m sure they’ll accommodate you.”

“I’m not too old!” roared Gayle. “I’m not!”

But Elrad Leth was already out the door. Fuming, he stormed through the hall, pushing aside the servants who were waiting for their king and flying down the staircase in a rage. It didn’t mean anything to him that Tassis Gayle wanted to ride into battle—if the old fool died, he wouldn’t care a whit. But to be called less than a man was unthinkable. Leth’s jaw tightened as he made his way to the courtyard. Outside, he saw Major Mardek and his ranks of green and gold horsemen prancing on the parade ground waiting for Tassis Gayle. They were beautiful and compelling, even frightening in their demon-faced helms. When the battle with the Highlanders finally came, they would easily outmatch them. Beside them rode the hundred soldiers from Vosk, sitting tall in their saddles, ignorant of their mistress’ murder.

Leth lowered his hand, his shoulders slumping. He was glad he wasn’t riding into battle. Redburn’s people were savages. They would lose, of course, but the clash would be bloody.

The governor walked quietly to his carriage. When he returned to Aramoor, he would order Zerio to set sail against the Eastern Highlands. Then he would go back to his usurped castle and wait. He didn’t expect the battle against Redburn to take very long. And if the Saints of the Sword tried to interfere as Gayle feared, Leth knew he could deal with them. They were only a handful, after all.

I
nside the tower, Falger waited.

A hush had fallen over Mord and the others, who stood very still as their leader contemplated strategies. Falger stooped beside his telescope, his eye fixed to the lens. He had trained the device on the outskirts of the city, and could plainly see what his scouts had reported—a huge mass of men and horses, slowly lumbering toward Ackle-Nye. They wore the grey of Reen and bore the standard of that territory, the hateful flag of Praxtin-Tar. Directly toward the city they moved, hundreds strong, their colors and intent unmistakable. Falger watched them silently, his mind and heartbeat racing. For months he and his people had lived in fear of this day. They had stockpiled food and Naren weaponry against Praxtin-Tar’s arrival. Today, at last, their good fortune had run dry.

“It is him,” said Falger. He looked up from the telescope and saw Mord’s stricken expression. His friend was barely breathing. “They are still a distance from the city. We have time, yet. Is everyone secure?”

Mord swallowed. “I think so. They have been told to find shelter and stay inside. But they are afraid, Falger.”

Falger looked around the chamber at his friends. Most of them were dressed as he was, in surplus Naren uniforms and helmets haphazardly mixed with their own traditional
Triin garb. Some had jiiktars, others imperial swords and maces. They stood at nervous attention, desperate for Falger’s wisdom. Falger wasn’t sure he had any. “I know you are all afraid,” he told them. “It is all right. We have the cannons to defend us. We will surprise the warlord.”

His friends all nodded, murmuring agreement. The Naren flame cannons gave them confidence.

“Mord, you and I will stay in this tower, closest to the warlord,” said Falger. “We will work the weapon together. The others are ready?”

“I think so,” said Mord. “Tuvus is in the western tower. He says he has the cannon working.”

“And the eastern tower?”

“Ignitor troubles. But Donaga has gotten it to light. It should work.”

Falger considered this. He would need all three flame cannons against Praxtin-Tar’s army. The Naren attack towers rimming Ackle-Nye were their only defense, unless they resorted to hand-to-hand. One look at his ragtag defenders told Falger to avoid that contingency. The warriors from Reen would rip them to pieces. There was no shortage of terrible tales about Praxtin-Tar and his zealots; only the cannons would give them an edge. Mentally, Falger congratulated himself for salvaging them, along with the other Naren weapons. Today, his foresight might save them. But none of them were skilled with the weapons, and that worried him. The fuel was very scarce, and they had never really practiced for fear of wasting the precious kerosene. It seemed like a straightforward design, however, and Falger was something of an engineer. Using only his imagination and his love for tinkering, he had discovered how to light the ignitors and aim the barrels. Now all he needed to do was pull the trigger. Praxtin-Tar and his horde would be burned to cinders.

At least in theory.

Falger called to one of his men. “Go down and make sure no one is on the streets. We still have some time before the warriors reach us.” He turned to another pair of his comrades. “I want you both to go to the other towers.
Tell Tuvus and Donaga not to fire until the warriors are in the city. Mord and I are closest, so we will make the first shots. Go now, quickly.”

The men hurried out of the chamber, racing down the tower’s steps. Falger went to the flame cannon and inspected its glowing ignitor. He put a hand over it, feeling its heat. The kerosene from the tank hissed through a gleaming metal line, burning off in a bluish flame. The weapon itself rested on a tripod, with levers and wheels to adjust its aim. It was the long-range type, the kind Falger had heard about in the Dring Valley but had never seen until coming to Ackle-Nye.

Next to him, Mord put his eye to the telescope and let out a little groan. “They are closer.”

“What of Praxtin-Tar? Can you see him?”

Mord shook his head. “No. But they are riding straight toward us.”

“Then we shall have a surprise for them.”

Mord looked up from the eyepiece. “We cannot win, you know.”

“We can defend ourselves,” said Falger. He ran his hand over the barrel of the flame cannon. “And we will.”

“We are women and children mostly. Lorris and Pris, they will be ruthless. They will punish us for fleeing Lucel-Lor.”

“They will try,” said Falger.

A great weight settled on his shoulders. Everything he had accomplished in Ackle-Nye had been a battle. Finding food, decent shelter, cleaning up the innumerable Naren corpses—these things Falger had done because he wanted a life of his own. Like the rest of his refugee kin, he wanted a place to call home.

“Make ready,” he told Mord. He settled in behind the flame cannon, gingerly testing the trigger. “As soon as they are close enough, we fire.”

In the center of Praxtin-Tar’s lumbering horde, Alazrian rode beside Richius Vantran, watching him as he marvelled at Ackle-Nye. It had been a long, arduous day of
riding, and the company had kept a brisk pace in hopes of reaching the City of Beggars by nightfall. They had spent the previous night bedded under the stars, just as they had since leaving Falindar, and the thought of decent shelter propelled them forward so that even Praxtin-Tar, who usually ambled proudly atop his horse, rode with smoke in his heels. Using the Sheaze River as a guide and taking clean water from its banks at rest times, they had made remarkable progress. Now Ackle-Nye shone in the distance, its architecture reflecting the hot sun.