The Saints of the Sword (41 page)

“Lions gone,” mused Alazrian. “That’s why you’re afraid? Because the lions aren’t here to protect you anymore?”

“Yes,” said Mord, speaking for himself now. “No more lions. They went home.” He swept his arm across the chamber. “This is protection now. All we have.”

Alazrian was fascinated. “Protection from Nar?”

“And from Triin,” replied Mord. Falger shot him an irritated glare, wanting to understand what was being said. Mord paused to translate it all for his leader. While he
spoke, Alazrian walked over to stand beside Jahl Rob. The priest and the Triin had broken their clasp and now Rob stood unmoving, waiting for Falger’s reaction.

Finally, Mord said, “You are not safe here. You should go.”

Rob shook his head. “We’re not afraid of you. We don’t believe you’ll harm us.”

“Not us,” corrected Mord. He pointed out all the weapons in the room, then brought his hand to rest on the cannon. “We are here because we chose this. We are free here. Not all Lucel-Lor is like this. Dangerous. For you, especially. We cannot protect you.”

It was all a jumble to Alazrian, who tried to fit together the fractured pieces but couldn’t quite make a picture from them. What were Falger and the others afraid of?

“We don’t ask your protection,” he said. “Just let us go on our way.”

“No, Alazrian,” said Rob. “I want to know what they’re afraid of. Mord, tell us. Why do you have all these weapons here? The cannon—does it still work?”

“All the cannons work,” said Mord. “Little fuel, but they protect us. If we need them, they are here.”

“Need them for what?” Alazrian asked, exasperated. “Tell me what’s going on. If we’re going to ride into danger we should know about it.”

Mord turned to his leader and explained the boy’s words. As usual, Falger nodded and stroked his chin. Then Mord began speaking. He told them that they were indeed refugees, gathered from all parts of Lucel-Lor to live in peace away from the warlords. The warlords, Alazrian knew, were the men who ruled the different territories of Lucel-Lor. Many of them were ruthless, supposedly, and Mord did nothing to change that opinion. Falger had come to the city two years ago before the Drol had won their war against the Narens. Like the rest of them, Falger had come looking for a better life, but there was none here. So he decided to build one.

“So Falger is like a warlord here?” Alazrian asked. “Ackle-Nye is his territory now?”

Mord looked scandalized. “Not warlord,” he insisted.

“Sorry,” said Alazrian. “I didn’t mean offense. I’m just trying to understand. You said that Falger came here two years ago, but that can’t be. Ackle-Nye was taken by Naren troops led by …”

He stopped himself. It had been his uncle, Blackwood Gayle, that had retaken Ackle-Nye from the Triin. Thankfully, Mord hadn’t noticed.

“I mean, there were imperial troops here. That’s where all this stuff came from, right?”

Falger nodded, as if understanding. “Nar stuff,” he managed to say, then smiled at his own command of the language. Apparently, he’d learned something from Mord. They all had, probably. Alazrian knew there were many Triin who spoke the language of Nar. Before the war, trade between the two lands had been common.

“So?” Jahl Rob asked. “How did he survive?”

“Falger fled Ackle-Nye. He came back when Nar lost war.” Mord looked at his leader proudly. “Falger leads here now. But not warlord. Good man. Protects us.”

“Yes,” said Rob. “But what does he protect you
from
?”

“And where are the lions?” added Alazrian. “We expected to find them in the mountains.”

“Lions are gone,” said Mord. “Went back to Chandakkar, back to their home.” His expression dimmed a little. “No more protection from Nar. More like you will come now.”

“They won’t,” Jahl Rob assured him. “No one in Nar is interested in Lucel-Lor anymore. That emperor is dead.”

“Ah, Arkus,” said Mord knowingly. “Dead. Good.”

“I agree,” said Rob. “Though our new emperor isn’t much better.” He stole a glance at Alazrian, who froze. “Still, you aren’t threatened by Nar anymore. No one is coming after you. Nar is …” The priest shrugged sadly. “… in bad shape. No one is interested in making war on Lucel-Lor anymore.”

Mord seemed heartened by the answer, which he quickly passed on to Falger. In turn the Triin leader raised his eyebrows, obviously pleased by the news. But they weren’t really safe, Alazrian knew, because they had mentioned a different threat.

“Who else are you afraid of?” Alazrian asked. “Is it Triin?”

“Triin, yes,” replied Mord. “Praxtin-Tar.”

“Praxtin-Tar,” repeated Falger. He spit the word out like a curse. “Praxtin-Tar do hekka ji’envai!”

“Praxtin-Tar is warlord of Reen,” explained Mord. “At war with everyone. No one safe. Here we protect ourselves from him.”

In twisted Naren, he went on to say how Praxtin-Tar was a Drol, which Alazrian already understood, and how the warlord had been conquering Lucel-Lor, spreading his ideals. But when Mord claimed that Praxtin-Tar was a devotee of Tharn, Alazrian’s heart iced over. Even Jahl Rob was stunned.

“I see,” said the priest, looking at Alazrian for a guidance the boy couldn’t provide. “Well, this Praxtin-Tar sounds like a terror. We shall certainly avoid him. Tell us, where is Praxtin-Tar now?”

“In the place of Triin power,” replied Mord. “In Falindar.”

“Sweet Almighty,” said Jahl Rob. “Falindar?
The
Falindar?”

“There is only one Falindar.”

“Yes,” growled Rob. “Where Richius Vantran is, right?”

“Jahl, don’t …!” Alazrian exclaimed.

“It doesn’t matter now, boy,” snapped Rob. “I’m sorry, but we have to know the truth.” The priest turned to Mord and Falger while the children huddled again around Falger’s legs. Rob fought to control himself, taking a deep breath before saying, “You know Richius Vantran, yes? You’ve heard that name?”

“Kalak,” said Falger. “Vantran Kalak!” He began talking too fast for even Mord to interpret, repeating the word “kalak,” occasionally peppering it with “Falindar.” Alazrian tried to follow his meaning. Obviously, Falger knew Vantran well, or at least his name.

“What’s he saying?” Alazrian asked. “Mord, explain.”

“Kalak is Vantran,” said Mord. “Jackal.”

Rob folded his arms. “Jackal. Precisely right.”

“Kalak is in Falindar, surrounded by Praxtin-Tar and his warriors,” said Mord. “Under …” He groped for the word. “Under …”

“Siege?” supplied Rob. “Great. Vantran is under siege in Falindar. Damn it …”

“But he’s alive?” asked Alazrian. “You know he is there?”

Mord shrugged. “Maybe alive, maybe dead. But Kalak is in Falindar.”

“Falindar,” agreed Falger. “Kalak …”

Alazrian approached him, sensing his sadness. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

Falger’s smile was crooked. He shook his head, refusing to answer. But Alazrian felt his pain.

“Tell us what’s wrong,” he said. “You know something about Vantran … er, Kalak, I mean?”

The Triin leader nodded, then answered Alazrian in a confessional voice. Alazrian didn’t understand a word of it, but he didn’t look away, either. Instead he simply let Falger talk. Finally, when he was done, he waved his hand absently at Mord, signaling him to translate.

“There is a woman Vantran married,” said Mord. “Her name is Dyana.”

“Yes,” said Jahl Rob. “Yes, I know of this. Vantran left Aramoor for her.”

“She belonged to Tharn. Now she lives in Falindar with Kalak.” The Triin put a friendly hand on Falger’s shoulder. “Falger knew her. Came together to Ackle-Nye, they did. Were close.”

“Lovers?” asked Rob.

Mord shook his head. “Friends. Just that. Falger misses her.”

“Apparently,” said Alazrian. His kinship with Falger was growing by the moment. If he could have, he would have touched the Triin and taken away his pain—but his gift didn’t work that way. Falger sank down onto the floor with the children. At once they swarmed around him like a protective cloak.

“You have come for Vantran,” Mord guessed. “So you are in danger. Falindar is dangerous.”

Falger looked up and asked a question.

“He wants to know why you are looking for Kalak. Kalak is outlaw in Nar. Will you take him back with you? Are you angry with him?”

The expression on Rob’s face was fierce. “Angry? No, we’re not angry. We need him for something else. We need his help in Aramoor.”

As Mord explained, Falger listened. The children continued to flock around him, protecting him from some unseen threat. Alazrian fell to one knee before the refugee leader.

“It’s very important that we get to Kalak,” he said. “Please, Falger, if you can tell us the way, give us a map, anything. We must go.”

Falger sighed. “Praxtin-Tar.”

“I know. But we don’t have a choice. There’s a lot at stake here, too much to explain. To be honest, I don’t understand it all myself. I’m just delivering a message, really. But it’s important. Can you understand that?”

Falger looked hard at Alazrian and for a moment they shared an instant of perfect clarity, like there was no barrier at all between them, not language or distance or race. For the first time in his life, Alazrian felt a real connection with his Triin blood.

“This woman Dyana was your friend,” he said. “I will take a message to her from you. I’ll tell her that I’ve seen you, and that you are well. Shall I do that for you, Falger?”

Mord explained. Falger nodded eagerly, a smile on his face.

“What about a map?” Rob asked. “And food. We can use that, as well. Anything that might help us get there.”

“Maybe we should take one of their flame cannons,” joked Alazrian. “We’ll probably need it against this Praxtin-Tar.”

Mord repeated their words to Falger, who listened before rising to his feet. He addressed Alazrian directly when he spoke, ignoring Jahl Rob completely.

“Falger says that you are welcome to rest here,” Mord
told him. “When you are ready, he will have a map for you. There is not much food, but it is yours to share.”

Alazrian bowed to Falger. “Thank you, Falger,” he said. “Shay sar.”

Even Jahl Rob had learned a bit of Triin. The Aramoorian smiled at their hosts repeating Alazrian’s words. “Shay sar, Falger,” he said. “We are grateful.”

Mord led them away from Falger and the children, promising them a hot meal and a warm place to sleep. Alazrian followed Mord out of the chamber, stealing one last look at the Triin who had somehow awakened his blood.

B
lair Kasrin slept alone in the cold sheets of his cot, dreaming bad dreams. For many weeks he had sailed with the crew of the
Dread Sovereign
, heading for Casarhoon and his meeting with Admiral Nicabar, and because he was drawing near his destination, Kasrin was afraid. His fears preyed upon him while he slept, making him toss fitfully. And as so often happens in dreams, the nightmare was a separate reality, as substantial to him as the waking world.

In his dream Kasrin was a young man standing at the docks of the Black City. Barely fifteen, Kasrin’s face was smooth, without the stubble he always wore now, and his eyes were bright and eager as he watched the flagship of the admiral at anchor. It was the
Fearless
, though it shouldn’t have been, because the
Fearless
wouldn’t be built for years. Yet the dream continued, and young Kasrin stared in amazement at the vessel and wished that it was his, and that the hero who captained the vessel might notice him someday. She was a proud vessel, the
Fearless
, awesome to behold, with her shining guns and perfect lines. Young Blair Kasrin wanted her, or one just like her for his own …

The years skipped ahead suddenly and Captain Kasrin was older, aboard the ship he had wished for in his youth—his own
Dread Sovereign
. She was a beautiful
ship, but Kasrin only noticed her grace for a moment. Explosions ripped all around him. Kasrin realized he was in Liss again. On the prow of the
Sovereign
, he and Laney were shouting orders to the men, bringing their batteries to bear against an undefended coastal village. Behind them roared the
Fearless
, firing with her giant cannons, scorching the earth and blowing it apart in chunks. Kasrin could hear screams over the detonations, and the wailing of children. There were no schooners here, no defenders of any kind, and the carnage ate at Kasrin’s conscience.

“We have to stop!” he shouted in his dream. “They’re civilians!”

Kasrin had relived this nightmare a dozen times. The familiarity of it wakened part of his mind, and he realized that he was dreaming. Now he watched it unfold like a play, dreading the inevitable conclusion. The Kasrin of the dream kept shouting, shaking, but was too afraid to order the bombardment stopped because his hero was out there, judging him.

“Have to stop,” he muttered. Laney walked off suddenly, shaking his head. Impotently Kasrin raised his spyglass and peered out at the village. The
Sovereign
continued to fire. Through the glass Kasrin saw men and women, their homes and clothing aflame. He watched in horror until a little girl wandered into his view. She was bewildered, shouting something he couldn’t hear, and when the
Sovereign
fired again she looked straight ahead, staring at Kasrin in the spyglass until her face was torn away in the strafing …

Kasrin bolted up in bed, his chest drenched in sweat. The image of the girl hung in his mind for a moment, then slowly faded into blackness. But when he closed his eyes again she reappeared, and no amount of grief could erase her.

“Oh, help me …”

He sank his head into his hands and almost wept, but there were no more tears for the girl or her village, because they had been depleted long ago; Kasrin was empty of everything but revulsion. Tonight, shivering and alone in his cabin, he hated himself more than anything. Even more than Nicabar. Kasrin drew the sheets closer, trying to stave
off the chill that had seized him. His teeth chattered and perspiration dripped from his forehead. He leaned back, sure he would never be rid of the girl.

“Stop haunting me,” he whispered. “Please …”