The Saints of the Sword (35 page)

Lucyler laughed. “Oh yes? Who will be mad enough to lead that raid, my friend? You?”

The tone of his friend’s voice made Richius bristle. “I’m just saying if we have to,” he countered. “And it won’t be easy for Praxtin-Tar to use it. It can’t reach us from down there, and if he tries to bring it up, he’ll have to bring ammunition with it. That’s going to be heavy work. He won’t be able to get more than a few shots off at a time.”

Lucyler finally looked away from the warriors, staring at Richius questioningly. “You are too confident. We’re trapped in here. Or don’t you know that?”

“And he’s trapped out there. He’s got a whole army to feed, and he’s out in the elements.”

“It is spring,” observed Lucyler sourly.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s already endured a month of it. He’ll have to do something before too many of his warriors start grumbling or someone comes to help us. We’re stronger, Lucyler. Don’t forget that.”

“No one will help us.” Lucyler turned away again, not hiding his bitterness. So far, none of the other Triin warlords had come to Falindar’s rescue. They were all too afraid of Praxtin-Tar, or too caught up in their own squabbles to spare warriors for the citadel. Even Karlaz of the lions had abandoned them, leaving the Iron Mountains with his great cats to return to his far-off home in Chandakkar. For a year and a half he had guarded Lucel-Lor from the Narens, but Karlaz had been sickened by the fighting among the other warlords, and neither Richius nor Lucyler blamed him for leaving. But it meant that they were alone in their struggle against the warlord from Reen. This time, no one would help them.

At the last count, there were some 600 warriors inside Falindar and another hundred or so farmers and peasants from the surrounding countryside. Praxtin-Tar hadn’t bothered hiding his forces as he rode into Tatterak. He had made it very plain to Lucyler that he intended to take the citadel for himself. Richius was sure that Lucyler’s defiance only enraged the warlord. Patience was the cornerstone of siege warfare, but that was a virtue Praxtin-Tar didn’t possess. It could take months, even years, to bring a stronghold like Falindar to its knees, but Praxtin-Tar had shown himself to be a sloppy tactician, too driven to simply wait out a war of attrition. Soon, Richius knew, he would force his warriors into an all-out assault against Falindar—a move that would destroy him.

“Let him come,” Richius said. “Let’s provoke him into a fight. He’ll exhaust himself. He’ll just keep battering his head against our walls until there’s nothing left of him.”

Lucyler shook his head. “If he comes to talk I will listen.”

There were indications from the goings-on below that Praxtin-Tar might first send a herald up the mountain road. There was too much order down at their camp. The warlord usually sent his men charging up the road, but not this morning. This morning his 1200 madmen were eerily quiet.

“If he comes it will be to demand surrender,” Richius pointed out. “He won’t discuss peace with you.”

“Because he hates me.”

“Not just you,” said Richius. “He hates everything now.”

Praxtin-Tar was Drol, just as Tharn had been. But Praxtin-Tar had never been devout until he’d heard the words of Tharn and seen his touch of heaven. Now the warlord was a zealot. Obsessed with his newfound religion, he had conquered Kes because it was a Drol holy place. He had killed the warlord Ishia in the middle of a peace conference, setting his severed head on a pole for all to see.

Then he had marched for Falindar.

“We must resist him, Lucyler,” said Richius. “Goad him into fighting.” He gestured to the land around them. Tatterak was a rocky, barren place, and Falindar itself overlooked the sea, protected on its northern face by a sheer cliff diving down to the ocean. “Look around. There’s nowhere for him to go. Sooner or later he will deplete himself.”

“Before we do?” observed the Triin. “We’ll run out of everything eventually too, just like Praxtin-Tar.”

“We’ve filled the granaries and the water tanks,” countered Richius. “We’ve got plenty of food. Weapons too, and good men to wield them.” He put a hand on his comrade’s shoulder. “Resist him, Lucyler. Please.”

Lucyler smiled weakly. “What else can I do? I’ll never give him Falindar.”

Richius grinned. He hadn’t wanted this fight, but it had been forced on him. He had spent his life avoiding war, yet it always pulled at his sleeve, dragging him in. So far, war had cost him a father and a slew of good friends. It had even cost him a kingdom. And it had almost cost him
Dyana. Scars, both real and imagined, were an indelible part of his body and mind. He had prayed for peace, and all he had to show for his efforts was a legacy of dead bodies and a horde of warriors at his doorstep. Richius Vantran picked up the hilt of his broadsword and leaned against it.

“They’ll come at us where they think we’re weakest,” he decided. Falindar had its main guard gates, the two silver towers they currently occupied, and five other spires that reached into the clouds. But surrounding most of it was a wall that sealed the rest of the citadel off from its outer courtyard. The yard itself was teeming with men ready to defend the keep. Praxtin-Tar could search endlessly for a weak spot and never find one.

Which was why the warlord had built the trebuchet, Richius surmised. If he couldn’t find a weak point, he would make one on his own. He would try to punch a hole through Falindar’s walls, using rocks and whatever missiles he could load into the weapon’s armature.

“I wish we had a flame cannon,” mused Richius. “That would make short work of his catapult.”

“I wish we had a hundred more men,” replied Lucyler anxiously. Siege warfare had a way of playing with men’s minds. Even disciplined minds like Lucyler’s could break from the strain. A lucky shot from that new catapult or a group of determined sappers, those foolhardy besiegers who tried to bore holes under Falindar’s walls, might quickly change the balance.

But Richius didn’t let himself be afraid. His wife and daughter were in the citadel. For him, failure just wasn’t an option.

Far below the silver spires of Falindar, at the base of the citadel’s formidable mountain, Praxtin-Tar knelt alone in his pavilion, ritualistically praying to his Drol gods. Lorris and Pris, the sibling deities of his sect, were silent today, just as they had always been, and Praxtin-Tar gnashed his teeth in frustration wondering what he was doing wrong. The Drol gods spoke very seldom and only then to the
most devout of their followers. They had spoken to Tharn. Through Tharn they had proven that they lived and held sway, and that there was a life after this one. To Praxtin-Tar, they had opened the door to heaven.

And then they had abruptly shut it.

The death of Tharn had once again blinded Praxtin-Tar to the glories of heaven, but he had already seen the truth, and he was determined to reclaim it. He would pray mightily until the brother and sister gods reappeared, and he would fight. If it meant reclaiming the glory of Tharn, he would lay siege to a thousand Falindars.

Praxtin-Tar kept his eyes closed as he prayed, reciting the words with practiced ease, exactly how Tharn himself would have spoken them. He had studied the texts of the Drol cunning-men and committed them to memory, and he was especially proud of himself for this, for none of his warriors seemed able to remember so many prayers with such clarity. Truly, he was a good Drol. But the warlord of Reen refused to smile. Self-pride was sinful. And Lorris had been a warrior in life. Surely the god of war had no use for humor. As for his sister, the proper Triin woman Pris, she was the goddess of peace and love. She was Praxtin-Tar’s feminine side, supposedly, but that was irksome to him. It was the one aspect of his chosen religion that eluded him, for he was a man of great renown in battle and the ways of women remained a mystery.

Before him, two candles burned on a makeshift altar. Praxtin-Tar opened his eyes and looked at them. He blew out the left candle first, as was the custom, and then the right, careful to remember all he had taught himself. Then he bowed his head twice to each candle, the representatives of the holy twins. The warlord of Reen drew a breath. He was almost ready. But the silence of his patrons irritated him. He wanted them to be pleased with him. He had reclaimed Kes for them, the ancient site of Lorris’ suicide, and he had taken up the cause of Tharn, so that his light would not diminish. Yet still Lorris and Pris shunned him, and it wounded Praxtin-Tar.

“What I want,” he whispered, “is what Tharn took with him when he left us.”

A palpable silence answered him, the only reply he ever heard from his gods. For a long moment Praxtin-Tar remained kneeling. Outside, 1200 warriors of Reen were waiting for him to emerge from his pavilion eager to once again throw themselves at Falindar. They had marched with him under his raven banner from Reen to Kes and then to Tatterak, capturing slaves and proclaiming his glory, believing in his mission to free Lucel-Lor from pretenders like Ishia. But Ishia hadn’t been a problem. His mountain keep at Kes had fallen in a week. Falindar, however, was a different sort of challenge. Falindar was taller, and within her walls were warriors of equal zeal to his own. Lucyler wasn’t Tharn, but he did possess some of Tharn’s charisma. Men followed him. Like they followed his friend, the Jackal.

The warlord slowly rose, then saw a shadow darkening the flap of his pavilion. His son, Crinion, stood in the threshold watching his father. Praxtin-Tar’s offspring was tall, like himself, and bore the same raven tattoo on his cheek as all the warriors of Reen. For them, the raven was a spiritual symbol. It represented the other side of life, the great beyond. Sometimes, it symbolized death. Crinion’s face bore the tattoo well. He was a handsome young man, well-muscled and proportioned, and when he wore his grey battle jacket he left it open a little, revealing a hairless white chest.

“You are done with your prayers?” asked Crinion.

“I am done,” replied Praxtin-Tar. Near the altar was a copper basin filled with clear rainwater. The warlord dipped his hands into the basin, careful always to observe all the Drol stringencies, then daintily picked up the plain white towel hanging on a nearby hook. He dried his hands starting with the fingertips and working his way to the palms, left hand first, then the right. A Drol’s hands had to be clean before battle, and always before and after prayer. The liturgy books said so. Praxtin-Tar observed every small ritual perfectly.

“The trebuchet is ready,” said Crinion. “The men are ready, too.”

“That is fine,” replied Praxtin-Tar. “I, however, am not.”

Near the altar was Praxtin-Tar’s jiiktar. He had blessed the weapon during his prayers, infusing it with the power of Lorris. Crinion had a jiiktar, too, which he wore on his back in the warrior fashion. On the other side of the altar, hanging from a rack in the perfect shape of a man, was Praxtin-Tar’s armor. It was a simple design, mostly, with very few details, save for a pair of crimson ribbons wrapped around the elbow joints and an inlay of wolf’s teeth in its breastplate. Balancing atop the armor was the elaborate helmet with two ivory horns and a crown of metal. A carved faceplate showed off a grimacing demon’s facade, and along the back of the helmet dangled a slew of raven feathers, draping down like hair.

“You will help me dress,” Praxtin-Tar directed. His son came forward. This was part of the warlord’s ritual, and Praxtin-Tar enjoyed having Crinion share it. Crinion was his only living son. His wife back in Reen had borne him two sons, but the other had been sickly and had died at an early age. Other than Crinion, Praxtin-Tar had only daughters now. They were precious to him, too, but in times of battle they were no substitute for sons.

Crinion started with the greaves, working his way up his father’s body, taking the bamboo armor off its rack a piece at a time and working the laces until Praxtin-Tar’s entire frame was covered in the articulated vestments. Finally, after the half-fingered gauntlets went on, Crinion plucked up the helmet and held it out for his father. Praxtin-Tar took the helm but did not place it atop his head. Instead, he rested it in the crux of his arm, letting the raven feathers drape around him. Crinion picked up the jiiktar, fixed it to his father’s back, then stepped away to observe his handiwork. The expression on his face told Praxtin-Tar how formidable he looked.

“Now I am ready,” declared the warlord. “Let us go.”

His son led him out of the pavilion and into his encampment where hundreds of warriors on horseback and on foot awaited him, their jiiktars and bows at the ready. Horses clopped at the earth, eager for the fight, and children ran excitedly through the throng, all of them boys as yet too young to fight but old enough to help their elders
with the chores and preparations. When they saw their warlord emerge from his tent, a rousing cheer went up. Praxtin-Tar felt himself color. Now, he was indeed ready for battle.

“There,” said Crinion, pointing off toward the war machine they had built. It stood nearly sixty feet tall, a collection of timbers and ropes with a counterbalanced arm that could heave a boulder against Falindar. Next to the weapon, anxiously awaiting the approval of his master, stood Rook. The Naren rubbed his filthy hands together nervously when he saw Crinion point at him. With his rat-like face and pink Naren flesh, he was detestable to Praxtin-Tar, but he had also been a valuable slave, and the warlord was always grateful that he had captured the man and let him live. Once, before his enslavement, Rook had been a man of rank in Nar’s imperial army, a legionnaire as they were called. Now he was a chittering fool. Living among a superior race had turned him into a weakling. He wore his clothes like rags, never washing them, and his stench was unbearable, especially on hot days. With summer coming, Praxtin-Tar dreaded his company.

With Crinion on his heels, the warlord strode over to the siege engine. Rook bowed. There was a crew of slaves and warriors with him, all enlisted to help Rook employ the weapon. Its shadow drenched Praxtin-Tar as he approached, and the warlord gazed up at it, impressed by the thing the Naren had constructed. Despite their barbarity, there were some things the Empire was good at. Weapons were one of them.