The Saints of the Sword (80 page)

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 Aramoor. 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.”

“Talistan’s going to be rather busy, don’t you think? Gayle won’t be sending Leth any help; not if Biagio does as he says.”

“Oh, Biagio.” Richius rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what to think about that one. Alazrian trusts him, but, well …”

“It’s impossible to trust him,” said Jahl. “I know what you mean. But my lack of faith in Biagio is made up by my faith in Alazrian. He’s a good boy, Richius. And I know he’s not lying.”

“He doesn’t have to be lying,” said Richius. “Maybe he’s just been taken in by Biagio. You don’t know the emperor the way I do, Jahl—he’s a trickster. And he can be a real charmer.”

“Alazrian says he’s changed.” Jahl grinned. “Don’t you think a man can change, my lord?”

“Don’t lay traps for me, Jahl. You know what I mean. Biagio is going to have to prove himself. As far as I’m concerned, we’re alone in this.”

“Maybe,” said Jahl. “But we have Praxtin-Tar’s horde, and we have you to lead us. And we have God. Not a bad army, that.”

Richius nodded absently. Jahl looked up at him.

“My lord?”

“Uhm?”

“You didn’t come here to talk about the attack, did you? Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

Richius chuckled. “Now you sound like Biagio. Am I so easy to read?”

“When you walk around with such a long face, yes. Sit, please.”

Richius sat beside Jahl, crossing his legs beneath him like a boy and staring into the night. He did not speak, but rather let the silence grow around him as he contemplated Aramoor. Jahl said nothing, giving Richius time to collect his muddled thoughts.

Finally, Richius said, “They have accepted me again.”

Jahl nodded.

“I didn’t expect it. I don’t think I deserve it.”

“You are their king,” said Jahl. “They always wanted you back.”

“King,” scoffed Richius. “A real king wouldn’t have left them.”

“A real king would return. As you have.”

“This isn’t easy for me. I never thought I’d see Aramoor again, and now I can hardly bear to look at her. She’s too beautiful.”

“She’s waiting for us,” said Jahl. “She needs us.”

Richius put his hands together. “Then I hope I don’t disappoint her again.”

Jahl glanced down at his clasped hands. “Praying, my lord?”

“No.”

“No? Well, you should. God can help you.”

“God and I aren’t on speaking terms, I’m afraid.”

“You should talk to Him. He can ease your burdens. He can take away your guilt.”

“What guilt?” asked Richius sharply. “I don’t feel any guilt.”

Jahl looked at his king. “I see the struggle in you. You’re wondering why the Saints have accepted you after what you’ve done. You’re feeling guilty for abandoning us. You think you’ve sinned.”

“I’m not a sinner.”

“God can take away your sins,” said Jahl. “If you let Him. Ask Him to forgive you, Richius. You’ll feel reborn.”

Richius shifted. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Why not? You believe in God, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what to believe.”

“So then? What have you got to lose?” Jahl sat up straight. “Unburden yourself. Let me hear your confession.”

“I have nothing to confess,” said Richius. “I’m just … nervous.”

Jahl poked him forcefully. “You’re the King of Aramoor,” he said. “We have all forgiven you. Now you need to know that God has forgiven you, too.” Jahl closed his eyes, preparing himself. “Your confession, my lord. Speak it.”

“Jahl, let’s talk about our plans,” said Richius impatiently. “We’ve got a lot to do. And your men have been asking about you. You should be involved. Come with me; we can meet with Praxtin-Tar.”

“Later,” said Jahl. “First, we pray for God’s guidance.”

“Jahl, we’ve only got two days left!”

“There’s always time for prayer, Richius. Now, ask God to forgive your sins.”

“I’m not a sinner, Jahl. I’m just a man who made mistakes. I’m not going to beg forgiveness.”

Jahl kept his eyes closed. “I’m waiting.”

For a moment he thought the king would speak, but then he heard the scraping of dirt and the sound of departing footfalls. When at last Jahl opened his eyes, Richius was gone.

“Ah, forgive him, Father,” sighed Jahl with a smile. “But one step at a time. At least we’ve gotten him back.”

O
f all the ships in Wallach’s fleet, the
Gladiator
was the finest. Built a dozen years ago in the shipyards of Gorkney, she had carried gold and rubies up from the Casarhoon coast and along the Empire’s eastern shore, making countless runs with pirates on her tail and captains of the Black Fleet dogging her for bribes. She was square-rigged and triple-masted, and had served for a short time in Gorkney’s navy before the government of that principality abandoned the idea of its own military for reasons of expense. Because of the
Gladiator
’s brief career as a ship of the line, fitting her with weaponry had been remarkably easy. Now she sported ten cannons port and starboard. She was the most dangerous, well-armed ship in Zerio’s armada, and that was why he had made her his flag.

On Elrad Leth’s orders, Zerio had set sail from Aramoor, heading south toward the coast of the Eastern Highlands. With the
Gladiator
at its head, the armada sailed in formation, each ship following its sister. Once they reached the Highlands, they would take up positions offshore. They would be the opening volley in a war that would tear the Empire apart, setting nation against nation, and Zerio couldn’t be happier. For a privateer, nothing was as profitable as war. He had gladly endorsed Tassis Gayle’s plan, because he knew that he would be safe aboard the
Gladiator
, even if the King of Talistan lost his
life on the antlers of a Highland elk. There was money to be made and Zerio and his crews had been well paid from Duke Wallach’s coffers. And when the duke’s money dried up, they would find other employers. The Black Fleet was in chaos, war was coming to the Empire, and Zerio thrilled at the possibility of gold. For a full day they had sailed south, leeward with the wind at their sterns. Until this evening, they hadn’t sighted a single other vessel.

Then they saw the dreadnought.

Captain Zerio leaned against the bow of the
Gladiator
, peering through a spyglass at the windward-tacking warship. The sun was low in the sky, but the opposing vessel was obvious. She was a dreadnought of the Black Fleet, but she struck no flag or colors. Zerio chewed his lip as he spied her, wondering at the vessels sailing abreast of her. He had never seen the golden schooners of Liss, but he had always imagined he would know them if he saw them.