The Saints of the Sword (79 page)

“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 abandoned 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.

“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.”

H
alfway 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 soon.”

“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.”