The Saints of the Sword (36 page)

“We ride,” Praxtin-Tar told his slave. “You will get this monstrosity in place. I want Lucyler and his Naren to see it.”

“Yes, Praxtin-Tar,” agreed Rook.

“You will make it work,” said Crinion threateningly.

“It
will
work, Crinion, I promise,” swore the slave. He looked over his creation, licking his lips. It was very different from the simple catapults they had been employing, much taller and of a foreign design. It also took twice as many men to crew it. The heft of its missiles meant even more manpower, just to get the rocks in place. Thankfully,
Tatterak had no shortage of rocks. Praxtin-Tar nodded approvingly. This time, Lucyler would fear him.

“This is good,” he said simply. “I am pleased with it.”

Rook smiled, showing a mouthful of broken teeth. Praxtin-Tar glared at the pathetic creature, who was not a man at all but a hybrid of worm and skunk.

“Get it into place, savage,” the warlord ordered. “I will ride up to Falindar. I have a message for Lucyler, and I want him to see it.”

Without another word, Praxtin-Tar turned from the Naren, striding off toward his waiting warhorse. Like its master, the horse was outfitted with bamboo armor that matched the warlord’s. A boy held the beast’s reins ready, handing them to Praxtin-Tar when he approached. Crinion’s own horse was nearby, in a company of mounted warriors, all in the grey jackets of the clan. They watched the warlord of Reen mount his stallion in a single graceful arc and place the elaborate helmet upon his head. For Praxtin-Tar, the world narrowed down to two thin eye slits.

“For Falindar!” he shouted, then hurried his horse up the road toward the citadel.

On the eastern guard tower, Richius and Lucyler watched as a column of horse soldiers began ascending the long road to Falindar. At the head of their ranks was Praxtin-Tar, unmistakable in his fearsome armor, a jiiktar on his back. He rode with at least thirty warriors, all on horseback, all garbed in grey with their white hair in long ponytails. Behind them came another column, this one lumbering. The giant trebuchet was slowly being dragged up the mountain road, a collection of slaves captured from Kes toiling to bring the weapon aloft. Archers and jiiktar-men came in their wake bearing mantlets for their protection; wide, freestanding shields with loopholes cut in them for archery. Along the wall walk, Lucyler’s men steeled themselves, disconcerted at the sight.

“Look,” said Lucyler. “Praxtin-Tar comes to talk.”

“Of our surrender, no doubt,” quipped Richius. His fist tightened around the hilt of his sword. It was a giant
blade, too big for him really, but it was good for the bloody work he would do today.

“We will let him come,” said Lucyler, “and hear his words.”

The archers nearby on the tower lowered their weapons, heeding Lucyler’s order. Richius held his breath, watching as Praxtin-Tar pranced forward, heedless of the danger posed by the defending bowmen. He wondered if there was anything in the world the warlord feared.

Lucyler had no illusions about the outcome of the discussions. Already he had ordered his men to get ready for the battle. Fires had been lit under the urns of oil, bringing them to a scalding boil, and along the lengths of every wall Falindar’s warriors chaffed for war, their jiiktars and arrows sharp and eager. Near Richius, two of his ballistae were manned and armed, fixed with stout javelins. A single shot from one of the huge crossbows could easily reach Praxtin-Tar, skewering him and three of his entourage.

When Praxtin-Tar had finally crested the slope, he stopped some twenty yards from Falindar’s brass gates. Demon-masked, he stared up at Lucyler and Richius, then gestured to them contemptuously, obviously laughing behind his helmet. Richius stood beside Lucyler, straightening proudly in the face of Praxtin-Tar’s disdain.

“Lucyler of Falindar,” boomed Praxtin-Tar. “You still hide behind your Jackal, I see.”

Lucyler laughed. “Why don’t you come and take him from me?”

“I intend to, Pretender,” the warlord called back. “Today.” He gestured toward the towering trebuchet being dragged up the road. “Do you see it, Lucyler? That is your doom!”

Richius leaned over the wall. “Go to hell!”

Crinion, Praxtin-Tar’s son, shook his fist. It had been spoken in Naren, so neither of them had understood, but the meaning was plain.

“Today you die, Jackal!” hollered Crinion. “And your whore wife, too!”

Praxtin-Tar whirled on his son, rebuking him angrily. Praxtin-Tar was never one to insult a woman. According
to Lucyler, the warlord of Reen was an enigma. Striving for the approval of the gods, he fought on a level above pettiness. None of this meant that Praxtin-Tar wasn’t ruthless, though, so Richius held up his broadsword for Crinion to see, waving it above his head.

“You and me, Crinion,” he shouted in Triin. “Just come and get me!”

Crinion bristled but said nothing. Praxtin-Tar shook his helmeted head in exasperation.

“Enough,” he demanded. “I am here to speak with you, Lucyler.”

“I am listening,” said Lucyler.

The warlord spread out his hands in mock friendship. “You should surrender. You see what you are up against? I have a weapon such as the Jackal himself might build. In time I will breach your walls. You know I will.”

Lucyler sighed, and Richius could tell he was disappointed by Praxtin-Tar’s demand. It was nothing but the same tired rhetoric. For a moment, a glint of hopelessness flashed in Lucyler’s eyes. But then his old defiance came roaring back.

“Is that all?” he growled. “You waste your breath, Praxtin-Tar. You should save it for fighting.”

“I am not a butcher,” Praxtin-Tar declared. “Surrender now and you will be spared. But if you make me come in there after you …”

“Come if you can,” challenged Lucyler. The master of Falindar turned his back on Praxtin-Tar. He gave Richius a playful wink.

“Die then!” cried Praxtin-Tar. With a jerk of his reins he whirled his horse about, raising his hands toward his gathering troops. Crinion and the others lifted their jiiktars, trilling out a savage war whoop. Praxtin-Tar seemed to feed on their energy. He stood up in his saddle, took his own weapon off his back, and gave the order to attack. Like a thunderhead rolling off the horizon, his 1200 warriors raced in, swarming toward Falindar in a sea of grey jackets and flashing metal.

“Let’s get him this time,” growled Richius. As the warlord’s forces approached, he shoved aside the warrior
manning the nearest ballista, taking careful aim with the giant crossbow. Behind Praxtin-Tar was Crinion, waving and shouting, whipping up the bloodlust of his men. Lucyler gave the order to fire. All along the twin guard towers arrows launched from their bows, screaming across the yardage toward the besiegers. Richius bit his lip, focused on Praxtin-Tar, then firmly squeezed the balista’s trigger. The man-size javelin sprinted forward, propelled by the taut skeins. It raced toward Praxtin-Tar, slamming into a nearby warrior and ripping through him. Barely slowed, the javelin skewered three more men before stopping inside the belly of a horse.

“Damn it!” Richius cursed. Praxtin-Tar turned to glare at him, unscathed. The ballista crew hurried another javelin into the weapon, but it was too late. Praxtin-Tar was already surrounded by onrushing troops. They brought ladders and mantlets with them, bows strung taut and arrows stuffed with quivers, and the horsemen galloped around the outer walls of the citadel, raising up a thundering chorus.

“All right, then,” said Richius. He picked up his bow from its place on the wall and drew an arrow from the ammunition racks on the catwalk. “Come and get it!”

Next to him, Lucyler plied his bow with inhuman speed pumping shafts into the swarm of warriors. The ballistae flanking them fired ceaselessly, sending out their missiles, and the noise of battle climbed into the air like the roar of a forest fire, shaking the catwalks and the very foundations of Falindar.

Praxtin-Tar galloped among his men waving his jiiktar as arrows showered down around him. His warriors were inundating the battlefield now, setting up their freestanding shields and returning the fire of Falindar’s bowmen. Rook’s huge catapult continued to rumble forward. It was almost in position. The hundred slaves who bore the weapon grunted as they fought to get their burden ready. Storms of arrows fell on them, killing one after another, but Praxtin-Tar knew there weren’t enough arrows in all of Falindar to stop his new weapon. Slaves were cheap, and when one
fell another took his place, for the warlord had given his slaves a bleak choice—they could die like men on the battlefield, or die in agony at the hands of a torturer.

A stray arrow glanced off Praxtin-Tar’s armor but he ignored it, hurrying toward the catapult. Rook and the Triin crew were there making ready as the weapon was positioned. Huge boulders that had been dragged up the road in vine slings waited next to the catapult. According to Rook, they could be loaded into the firing armature by means of a pulley apparatus built into the weapon. The Naren design was ingenious, and Praxtin-Tar was eager to see it put to work. He galloped up in front of Rook.

“Fire the weapon!” he ordered.

Rook didn’t bother looking up. He was working feverishly with his crew, shouting orders and checking mechanisms.

“It’s almost ready,” he told the warlord. “But we have to load the rock.”

Praxtin-Tar snorted impatiently, looking back toward Falindar. In the brief minutes since the battle had begun, most of his men had already made it on to the battlefield and were crowding around the citadel, fighting for a foothold. The warriors inside the walls kept them at bay, and already there were casualties from their arrows and javelins. Crinion was at the head of a column, shouting like his father as he urged his warriors forward. Praxtin-Tar was proud of his son. He was fearless, and the men respected him. Someday, he would make a fine warlord.

“Hurry now,” grumbled Praxtin-Tar. He watched as the slaves and warriors worked the winches and pulleys of the trebuchet, hoisting up one of the huge rocks and trying to finesse it into the weapon’s armature. At the end of the arm was a catapult cup. Larger than most, it could hold a boulder many times the size of the smaller catapults. The rock they had chosen for their first missile was half as tall as Praxtin-Tar, with jagged edges chiseled roughly into a ball. Under the irascible gaze of his master, Rook worked diligently to get the boulder into the cup, and when it was finally positioned he loosened the vine netting around it and took a step back.

“It’s ready,” he said simply.

“Fire it then,” snapped the warlord.

“At what?”

“Anything! I just want to see the thing work!”

Rook nodded and gibbered something to his crew in poorly-phrased Triin. In two years he had learned quite a bit, but his accent was still atrociously Naren. Praxtin-Tar hadn’t supposed the weapon would be very accurate. In fact, Rook had warned him it wouldn’t be, but its payload was heavy enough to damage anything it hit, and if it hit the guard towers …

“Fire the cursed thing,” rumbled the warlord.

“It takes time, Master,” pleaded the slave. “It is almost ready.”

When the counterbalance was positioned and all the mechanisms shook with the strain, Rook politely shooed his master away from the weapon, explaining that it would be dangerous to be so near. But they had erected shields around the weapon to try and stave off the arrows from Falindar, and Praxtin-Tar felt safer close to the weapon than out in the open, so he refused to leave. He also refused to let Rook leave, making sure that the man fired the weapon himself.

There was a wooden lever on the right side of the trebuchet. Rook and his assistants approached it warily. Rook put both hands around the lever. The siege machine groaned with the strain.

“Do it,” spat Praxtin-Tar.

With the help of his fellow slaves, Rook pulled the lever. Instantly the counterbalance fell forward, jerking the swing arm up in a rush of air. The boulder catapulted into the sky. The giant machine screamed as its timbers shook. The missile was away. Praxtin-Tar gazed up in disbelief, watching as the hulk of granite sailed effortlessly through the air streaking toward the walls of Falindar.

Richius heard the crack before he saw the boulder arcing skyward. Stunned, he lowered his bow and watched the rock approaching like a shooting star. Next to him, Lucyler
and the others stood in open shock, bracing themselves for the coming impact.

“Oh, my God …”

The boulder reached the top of its arc, hung frozen in the sky for the smallest instant, then descended toward the citadel. From the height of its trajectory and the speed of its approach, Richius could tell that this new weapon had a greater range than any of the warlord’s other catapults. When it looked like the missile might just strike the guard tower, he decided to duck.

“Here it comes!” Lucyler shouted, dropping to the deck and frantically ordering his men down. The meteor sailed overhead, nearly grazing the top of the tower, then collided with a concussive boom in the outer yard, sending up an explosion of slate and gravel. An unlucky cart was splintered and the boulder rolled on until at last it crashed against one of the spire walls, cracking it. Remarkably, no one had been harmed by the missile, and the miracle of it made Richius’ breath catch. He stood up dumbly and stared into the courtyard, stupefied at the size of the boulder.

“We will not be so lucky next time,” warned Lucyler. “Look!”

Richius gazed out over the battlefield. Praxtin-Tar’s men were carefully lowering another rock into the weapon. Even from a distance, Richius could see the weapon crew making adjustments to the machine, gauging their range and accuracy.

“Son of a bitch,” Richius muttered. Again he picked up his bow and began firing into the crowds. The ladder-men were racing forward, hoping to get a foothold on the walls. Lucyler’s warriors made ready with polearms along the length of the battlements, ready to repel the escalade.

“We’ll have to take it out,” cried Richius.

“We cannot,” spat Lucyler. “Not from here. It is too far.”

The twang of the ballistae rang in Richius’ ears. He knew Lucyler was right. There was no way to leave Falindar and sally out to destroy the catapult. The idea was suicidal, but the weapon itself was murderous. Soon the crew of the
trebuchet would learn the azimuth and range. They would hammer the citadel’s walls until they shattered. Then they would swarm inside. A wave of anxiety washed over Richius. It didn’t seem right that anyone should be able to tear down Falindar.