The Saints of the Sword (40 page)

Mord shook his head. “Tell us why you have come,” he insisted. “I am to bring answers back.”

“Back?” asked Rob. “Back to who?”

“Falger,” replied Mord. “The one.”

Alazrian understood. “Your ruler? Your … leader, yes? Is that who Falger is?”

“Falger leads us.” Mord smiled at Alazrian. “You understand me.”

Rob chuckled. “Oh, he understands you. But these others, they don’t speak Naren?”

“No,” said Mord. “Only I.”

“And Falger? Does he speak Naren?”

“Falger does not speak in Nar. Some Triin do, like I. Learned before the war. I am to take you for Falger. He has seen you.”

“Seen us?” asked Alazrian. “How?”

Mord gestured over his shoulder, pointing to the city’s towers. “There. We were sent. Falger fears you.”

“Do not fear us,” Rob said. “Please believe me, we’re not here for trouble.”

“Just you?” Mord asked. “Or more?”

“No,” replied Alazrian quickly. “There are no more Narens coming. We came alone. Just take us to Falger.”

“I am here for that,” said the Triin. He turned his horse around and started trotting back toward Ackle-Nye.

The other Triin waited for Jahl Rob and Alazrian to follow after Mord, then fell in behind them, surrounding them as they rode toward the city. Together they rode along the dusty avenue toward Ackle-Nye while the high sun beat down. Except for the Sheaze River, Lucel-Lor
seemed a bleak and barren place. Beyond the city rolled an expanse of nothingness, a hardscrabble plain that swallowed up the snaking river and went on endlessly to the horizon where it terminated in a range of hills an incalculable distance away. The sight of the terrain disheartened Alazrian. He wished that he had brought a map along, or at least some books about Lucel-Lor to tell him what to expect, but the only books he knew were a lifetime away, hidden in the shelves of Nar’s library. So Alazrian took a breath, steeling himself, and let Mord lead them into the city of beggars.

At the outskirts of the city, the same acrid stink that had already greeted them now rose up in a palpable wave, pouring out of the filthy streets to choke them. Alazrian and Rob both put a hand to their mouths to ward off the stench and looked through the broken archway to the city. Every foot of road was strewn with debris; broken glass and twisted metal and crumpled balls of paper that bounced through the streets like tumbleweeds. The once-proud buildings had fallen in upon themselves, either leaning or entirely collapsed, while their smaller siblings, the simple houses and structures built by Triin, were barely recognizable, routed by fire and standing like mute skeletons. Occasionally, what looked like a skull or bleached bone occupied a dark corner, gnawed clean by the rats that scurried between the crevices.

“God Almighty,” whispered Rob.

“Unbelievable,” said Alazrian. “It’s hard to imagine anyone living here.”

If Mord heard them, he did not acknowledge it. The Triin merely kept his pace as he led them into the center of the city, straight for one of the attack towers Alazrian had seen from the bridge. And as they reached the heart of Ackle-Nye, more of the desperate-looking Triin were evident, peeking out of broken windows or simply stopping in the streets to gape at them. None of them bore weapons, but all shared the same wasted appearance, dressed in rags or in mismatched Naren remnants like Mord, their white hair laced with the filth of the city.

“Quite a place you have, Mord,” said Rob dryly. “Maybe
get a fountain, a few sunflowers; it could really be a paradise.”

“What we have is what we have,” Mord replied, never turning his head. “And you of Nar have fault.”

“This isn’t our fault,” said Alazrian. “We had nothing to do with it.”

“Aramoor, you said,” snapped Mord. “Aramoor fighting men.”

“But not us,” Alazrian pointed out. “We didn’t—”

“Don’t argue with him,” said Rob. He put out a hand, trying to settle Alazrian down. “We’ll explain it when we meet his ruler. Mord, how much farther to Falger?”

Mord pointed at the attack tower looming just ahead. “Falger.”

“Falger lives in the tower?” Alazrian asked. It suddenly made sense. The towers were relatively intact, the best strongholds in the city, and afforded an easy view of the surrounding area. “Why does he want to see us?”

“Falger has questions,” replied Mord. He guided the band to the tower, which now rose up high above them, greeting them with a spiky portcullis. The iron grate had been lifted. A few other Triin milled around the entrance, along with some horses, but none of these threatened the Narens as they approached. One hastened up to Mord, stopped his horse and spoke to the man.

“Down,” directed Mord. He slid off his horse and let the Triin who had greeted him take the reins. When Rob and Alazrian didn’t dismount, he repeated, “Down. Falger is here.”

Rob complied, urging Alazrian off his horse. Both men stood uneasily, not wanting to surrender their horses. Mord sensed their trepidation and tried to put them at ease.

“Your horses. Worry not for them.”

Alazrian peered through the portcullis. The interior of the tower was lit by torches and had a surprising number of doors and corridors, like a tall, cone-shaped castle. There were men and women inside, and even a handful of children, who giggled and pointed at Alazrian when they
noticed him. Alazrian made a funny face at them and waved. His antics elicited happy squeals.

“Let’s give them the horses,” he suggested. “I don’t think they’ll harm us.”

Rob handed his mount over to one of the Triin, saying to Mord, “Tell him not to take anything out of the packs, you hear? If he does, I’ll know it. Stealing is a sin. Now, take us to Falger.”

Mord straightened his Naren jacket. “Falger is waiting,” he said stiffly, then disappeared into the gateway. Alazrian and Rob followed, and Alazrian was struck by the strangeness of being inside again. It had been many days since he had entered anything but a cave, and the warmth from the torches comforted him. Jahl Rob, too, looked pleased. The priest rubbed his hands together, blowing into them the way he did when he was nervous or excited. He even returned some of the children’s smiles. Ahead, the most prominent feature of the tower beckoned—a wide staircase spiraling upward along the rounded walls of the tower. Mord took the first two stairs, waved at them to follow, then began climbing.

“I wonder how high up this Falger is,” said Rob. “I’m too tired for all this climbing.”

But he let his complaints end there, trailing Mord up the staircase with Alazrian. Sconces of Naren iron lined the walls, guiding them by the burning light of torches, and because the staircase was wide enough to accommodate many at once, other Triin men and women passed them along the way, offering suspicious looks and holding their children tighter. Alazrian smiled at each of them. There was so much he wanted to know about them.

Alazrian noticed Jahl Rob grinning at him. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” shrugged Rob. But the grin didn’t leave his face.

Finally, after passing several levels and corridors, they came to what surely was the topmost floor of the tower. The stairway ended suddenly, spilling them out into a gigantic, circular room. A plethora of windows greeted
them, most shuttered closed but some with their shutters open, letting sunlight flood the chamber. Alazrian and Rob both stopped. It seemed they could see all of Lucel-Lor sprawled at their feet, and yet the view itself was only part of the picture. At the far end of the chamber, in what would have been a corner had the room had sides, stood a man of about Jahl Rob’s age, surrounded by children who quit chattering when they noticed the foreigners. The object of their attention, a long, silver telescope on a tripod, stood near one of the windows, this one far more giant than the others and open to the sky. And next to that, shaped like the telescope but a hundred times larger, stood a flame cannon. Alazrian flinched at the sight of the weapon, then stared at the man and children, at the collection of Naren artifacts standing on shelves and hanging on walls and collected in orderly piles across the stone floor. There were books, weapons, helmets, and uniforms with bright ribbons, neatly arranged or folded in stockpiles. The man beside the telescope stepped forward, shooing the children back, then leaned against the rear of the flame cannon, studying them curiously.

“Falger?” Alazrian whispered.

Jahl Rob didn’t answer. And Mord, who wouldn’t answer either, strode over to the man with the telescope and began speaking in Triin, pointing at Alazrian and the priest and embellishing his tale with hand motions. The man nodded. He had a congenial look about him, and the way the children played around his legs put Alazrian at ease. His face was weathered but his clothes were clean and well-maintained. Like Mord, he wore a jacket of the Naren military, marking him falsely as a colonel, and he kept the buttons polished to a brassy sheen. His hair was Triin white but not as long as that of the other men, and it was combed and carefully kept free of debris. The children had stopped fussing with the telescope, fascinated by the foreign visitors. When Mord finally finished talking, the man nodded again and stepped forward.

“Falger,” he said in a thick accent. He tapped his chest lightly with both hands. “Falger.”

Alazrian’s hope sagged. “That’s all he speaks? Just his name?”

“He speaks Triin,” countered Mord. “That is enough.”

Falger looked them up and down. “Oonal benagra voo?”

Rob glanced between Alazrian and Mord. “What did he say?”

“Why are you here?” translated Mord.

Alazrian groaned at the same old question. “Explain to him that we’re looking for someone, Mord. Please. Like we told you before.”

“Already told him,” said Mord. “Falger wants more. He saw you with the seeing glass. He wants to know why you are here, who you look for.”

“Seeing glass?” puzzled Alazrian. “You mean the telescope?” He took a step toward the window where the telescope rested. It was actually a gun port for the huge cannon, but the weapon was obviously too heavy to move and the opening made an excellent viewing platform. As Alazrian went toward the children, Falger moved to stop him, then abruptly changed his mind, letting him pass. Alazrian smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “Mord, how do I say thank you in Triin?”

“Say
shay sar
. Falger will understand.”

“Shay sar, Falger,” said Alazrian.

The Triin leader nodded, a tiny smile tugging at his face. He let Alazrian go to the children and squat down next to them, greeting them in Naren. The children laughed, unafraid, and reached out to touch his face.

“What are they doing up here?” he asked. “What is this place?”

“Yes, tell us,” added Rob. “What are all these … things?”

Mord didn’t reply before first translating for Falger. The Triin leader answered in his own tongue, motioning toward the different items. When he pointed at the telescope, he beamed.

“This place is for safety,” translated Mord. “All the Nar things are kept here. Things from the war. And the
little ones like it. They like the seeing glass, so Falger brings them here.”

Alazrian rose and studied the telescope. Like very few things in Ackle-Nye, it was in nearly perfect condition, lovingly polished and clean, and the children were careful with it, obviously realizing its value. But the other things in the room were a mystery to Alazrian. He looked around, puzzled why Falger and his people would save so much junk. Even the flame cannon was an immensely dangerous thing to preserve. It was one of the large-bore guns, easily capable of reaching the outskirts of the city. From what Alazrian knew about Naren weaponry, hearing a cannon detonate was like hearing the doom of the world.

“I think you’re right, Jahl,” he said. “From the looks of them, they’re refugees. But I don’t know why they have all this stuff. They’ve got a cannon and swords, even uniforms. It looks like an armory.”

“Armory,” Mord parroted. “Yes, armory. Weapons for us.”

“Why?” pressed Rob. “Why do you need weapons?”

“You ask many questions,” said Mord. “But you are here to answer.”

“We’ve already told you why we are here,” said Rob. “We’re looking for someone.”

“Who?”

The priest glanced at Alazrian. Obviously, he wasn’t going to divulge the boy’s secret without permission. Alazrian bit his lip. He didn’t even know who these people were, and their collection of Naren weapons unnerved him. Falger stared at Alazrian inquisitively, waiting for an answer. Even the children watched him. Jahl Rob saw his alarm and rescued him.

“First tell us who you are,” the priest insisted. “What are you doing here? We had heard that Ackle-Nye was deserted, abandoned after the war. How did you get here?”

Falger listened while Mord translated the questions, nodding as he did so and never taking his eyes off Rob and Alazrian. The children gathered around him now, somewhat
alarmed by the priest’s tone. When Mord had finished, Falger raised his eyebrows and sighed.

“Naren,” he said, shaking his head. “Min tarka g’ja hin tha.”

Rob looked at Mord.

“Falger says that we have always feared Narens. You are no good. Dangerous. He does not welcome you.”

“Really,” said Rob. “He said all that, did he?”

Mord frowned. “Mostly, yes.”

“Nonsense.” The priest turned and spoke directly to Falger, putting out his hands in friendship. “Falger, I don’t speak your language. But look at us. We’re no threat to you. We are travellers, that’s all. All we want from you is a place to rest, maybe some food …”

“And a map,” chimed Alazrian. “If they have one.”

“Yes, a map,” Rob agreed. With both hands he reached out for Falger, taking his milky-white hand and clasping it warmly. Surprisingly, Falger did not pull away. “Friends,” Jahl Rob assured him. “Not enemies. Can you understand that?”

The Triin leader regarded Jahl Rob oddly, yet still he did not pull his hand away. He began to speak. Mord translated.

“Falger understands your words of friendship. But he is afraid. You have come alone, yes?”

“Yes,” said Rob quickly. “No one is following us.”

Mord continued translating. “You are the first from Nar in years. We feared your coming. With lions gone, you came.”