The Saints of the Sword (46 page)

Now the cunning-man approached the encampment. Led by two of the warlord’s raven-tattooed men, the priest
sat atop a plain brown pony, resplendent in his traditional saffron robes. His face betrayed his anger at being summoned to the camp, and when his eyes met the warlord’s, they soured. Praxtin-Tar crossed his arms over his chest. Willing or not, the cunning-man had come, and the warlord was grateful.

“Come ahead,” he ordered.

His warriors brought the priest to the edge of the camp where Praxtin-Tar waited. A scowl painted the cunning-man’s face. He did not dismount with the warriors, but instead stayed on his pony, glaring at Praxtin-Tar. Praxtin-Tar put his hands up in friendship.

“You will not be harmed,” he promised. “But I had to bring you here. I have need of you.”

“My village needs me today, Warlord,” said the cunning-man. “It is Casadah. Or have you forgotten?”

Praxtin-Tar struggled to be civil. “My calendar is the same as yours, priest. But my son is ill and needs prayers. Were I not so desperate—”

“I have come because I have no choice,” the priest interrupted. “My village fears your vengeance. That is the only reason, Praxtin-Tar. You shame Casadah by sending for me like this.”

“Will you help or not?” asked Praxtin-Tar.

“I am here, am I not?”

“Then tutor me some other time, priest. My son has grave need of you.” Praxtin-Tar went to the priest’s pony and took its reins. “Get down.”

The cunning-man did as ordered, careful of his saffron robes as he slid down from the beast’s back. There was no saddle on the horse, only a plain blanket. Praxtin-Tar recognized the pattern. It had been made in Taragiza, a distant village. So far Praxtin-Tar’s army had ignored the folk of Taragiza, but if the priest failed, that might change. The warlord handed the pony off to one of the waiting warriors.

“What is your name?” he asked the priest.

“Nagrah.”

Praxtin-Tar considered the man. “You are very young, Nagrah. How long have you been a cunning-man?”

“Why should that matter?”

The warlord couldn’t answer the question. Perhaps it didn’t matter at all. “Will you do your best for me, Nagrah? For my son?”

“I will pray,” replied the man. Surprisingly, his face softened. “I am commanded to do so by my gods. Crinion is his name, yes?”

“Yes,” said Praxtin-Tar. “He is very ill. He—”

“Your men have explained it to me,” interrupted the priest. “Take me to him, and I will pray. But I warn you, Praxtin-Tar—Lorris and Pris have already heard your prayers. If they ignore you, that is their choice.”

“Not good enough,” rumbled the warlord. “That is why you are here, cunning-man. They will not ignore you. Come.”

He stormed into the heart of the camp where all his men were celebrating Casadah. Fires had been lit and the smell of roasting meats drifted high into the mountain air. Even the slaves sang and played instruments, happy for a day of rest and respite from the whip. Only Rook, the Naren, was hard at work. Praxtin-Tar saw him in the distance, surrounded by a pile of freshly cut timbers. He had a tool in his mouth and a length of rope in his hands, and what little of the new trebuchet he had so far constructed stood in a malformed pile next to him. Praxtin-Tar tried to ignore the Naren, hoping that Nagrah wouldn’t notice him. He wanted the priest focused on his prayer, not asking questions about the siege. Thankfully, Nagrah followed him like a dutiful dog, saying nothing as they plunged deeper into the encampment. At last Praxtin-Tar’s pavilion rose up ahead of them. A warrior stood guard outside the tent. When he saw his master approaching, he dropped to one knee.

“He is the same, Praxtin-Tar,” the warrior said without being asked.

“Inside,” the warlord told Nagrah. He led him through the tent flap and into the darkened pavilion, which smelled of sweet herbs and incense and the unmistakable smack of illness. Pillows lined the canvas floor and candles burned on the altar, all in vain appeasement of the deaf gods. Near
the altar lay Crinion, his head cradled on a pillow of vermilion silk. He looked drawn and ragged, and his body was covered in fresh bandages. Over him hovered Valtuvus. The healer was blotting Crinion’s forehead with a towel, soaking up the perspiration from the young man’s fever. Valtuvus gave Praxtin-Tar a worried look when he stepped inside.

“Is that your priest?” he asked.

“My name is Nagrah,” said the cunning-man. He went to Crinion and bent over him, studying his face and body and gently probing the tender skin. Praxtin-Tar drifted closer. He saw real concern on Nagrah’s face.

“He sleeps now but he is no better,” said Valtuvus. “I am sorry, Praxtin-Tar, but there is little I can do for him.”

“He grows weaker by the day,” whispered Praxtin-Tar. “Cunning-man, you will pray for him.”

“Prayers will not heal his infections,” countered Valtuvus. “Only rest can do that, and the will of his own body.”

“But he was up,” Praxtin-Tar protested. “He was speaking. You saw, Valtuvus. He was becoming well again.” Valtuvus was merciless. “He was not. He awoke from his sleep because his head wound had improved. I am not worried about that anymore. It is the other damage that is ruining him.” The healer brushed his hand lightly over Crinion’s body. Except for the bandages and blankets, Crinion remained naked. “I have seen infections like this. Look how the fever holds him.”

“Why does he sleep so?” asked Nagrah.

“Weakness. The body fights to live, but it is diseased.” Valtuvus pointed out the many contusions on Crinion’s torso, the myriad of pus-covered sores. “See there? That is filth. All of the dirt and debris from the explosion. It is in his body now. I cannot remove it.”

Praxtin-Tar took hold of Nagrah’s arm. “Lorris and Pris must hear you,” he commanded. “You are a cunning-man. They will not ignore you. You must make them listen.”

Nagrah roughly pulled his arm away. “I do not command the gods, Warlord,” he said. “Nor do you.”

Rebuked, Praxtin-Tar stepped back. “Tell them about my son,” he implored. “Tell them he is too young to die. Tell them that he serves them, as
I
serve them.”

“Serve them,” Nagrah scoffed. “You dishonor them just by being here. You are a cancer, Praxtin-Tar, a disgrace. Now go.” He turned away from the warlord and knelt down in front of Crinion. “The healer, too.”

“Why can I not stay and pray with you?” asked Praxtin-Tar.

“Because I do not want you here.”

Nagrah closed his eyes and began to pray, unclasping his hands just long enough to shoo the warlord and his healer out of the tent. Praxtin-Tar backed away reluctantly. He studied Nagrah for a moment, satisfied that the young priest was capable, then turned and left the pavilion with Valtuvus. Once outside, the healer spoke freely.

“You give yourself false hope,” he told his master. “You have prayed as strongly as any man. Why do you think they will hear this priest’s words over yours?”

“Because he
is
a priest. He knows them better than I. They will answer him.”

Valtuvus smiled sadly. “Maybe they have already answered,” he suggested. “Maybe you just do not like their answer.”

The warlord of Reen turned his face toward the sun. It was a fine day, one he had only just noticed. Choosing to ignore the healer’s implication, he said, “I am going into the hills. I wish to be alone. Tell the cunning-man to find me there when he is done. I will be by the rock that looks like a skull. You know the place.”

He began to walk off, but Valtuvus called after him.

“Praxtin-Tar, it is wrong not to prepare yourself. Every man dies. Even young men.”

As if he hadn’t heard, Praxtin-Tar walked away.

The warlord spent the afternoon in the hills, atop the skull-like rock. It was quiet, and from his place he could see his encampment spread across the earth like a blister. Praxtin-Tar had a stick in his hand that he twirled absently
as he sat, occasionally poking the ground with it. A wind blew through the hills. Far away, he heard the cry of what might have been a snow leopard. Yet Praxtin-Tar wasn’t afraid. He didn’t pray anymore, for he didn’t want to interfere with the work of the cunning-man. Instead he sat in brooding silence, contemplating Falindar.

The rock on which he sat was a marvel. Praxtin-Tar had spotted it immediately. It was like someone had sculpted it into the stone, giving it eye sockets to keep a watchful lookout on Falindar. The rock was high up on a ledge and Praxtin-Tar rested on its crown, leaning back against an elbow. He had stayed this way for many hours, ignoring everything, hardly stirring until he heard footfalls behind him. The warlord sat up at the intrusion, then saw Nagrah coming toward him, surefootedly navigating the rocks. The young cunning-man looked tired, but Praxtin-Tar knew it wasn’t from the climb. When he had made it to the top of the skull, Praxtin-Tar gestured to the ground beside him.

“Sit,” he said easily.

Nagrah obeyed, sitting down next to the warlord. He didn’t waste any time delivering his bad news. “Your son is very ill,” he said. “You should listen to your healer, Warlord. I do not know how long he will live.”

“But you have prayed?”

“Yes, I have prayed for him.”

“With all your heart?”

“I did the best I could. Now it is up to Lorris and Pris. But he is very sick. I could smell his infections, like a swamp. You should prepare yourself.”

“Then you are done here,” Praxtin-Tar declared. He stared at Falindar as he spoke. “You may rest if you wish before returning to your village. Have some food and enjoy what is left of Casadah.”

“You should listen to me,” Nagrah advised. “I am no healer, but even I can see how ill your son is. Be good to yourself, and do not lie about this. Crinion—”

“Will live.” Praxtin-Tar turned to regard the cunning-man. “The gods will not ignore me on this. I will not allow
it. I have done too much for them to let them take my son.”

Nagrah frowned. “Have you really? You are bold to say so. You are hardly Drol at all, Praxtin-Tar. I know the truth about you.”

“Spare me.”

“I knew Tharn,” the cunning-man continued. “I even travelled with him to Chandakkar. He was nothing like you. And you are nothing like him, either. He was a great man. You are not. When you compare yourself to him, you soil his memory.”

Praxtin-Tar bristled. “It is Casadah. You should hold your tongue, boy—for the spirit of the day, at least.”

“No. I saw your pavilion. The altar, the candles—you have the trappings, Praxtin-Tar, but you do not have the heart of a Drol. The gods will not speak to you just because you weave a wreath for them. And they will not touch you with gifts just because you kill for them.”

“Enough, holy man,” sneered Praxtin-Tar. “You have done what I ask. I give you my thanks and say good day to you.”

Nagrah got to his feet. He was about to say more, then stopped himself. With one last look at the warlord, he started back down the hill. But before he took three paces, Praxtin-Tar called after him.

“Cunning-man, why are they silent?”

Nagrah paused and looked at the warlord. “What do you mean?”

“They have been silent since Tharn died. Why?”

The young Drol seemed saddened by the question. “Tharn was very special,” he said at last. “He was touched by heaven.”

“So?” asked Praxtin-Tar bitterly. “Did they have to close the door on the rest of us?”

Nagrah shook his head. “I cannot answer you. All I know is that Tharn gave us a glimpse of what truly exists. Now we must find other doors.”

“That is what I am trying to do. But every time I open one they ignore me.”

“Then perhaps you should try building your own doorway to heaven,” advised Nagrah, “instead of kicking in those built by others.”

When Praxtin-Tar did not reply, Nagrah turned and left. For another hour Praxtin-Tar sat in silence, watching the sun go down. And as he sat he heard Nagrah’s final words over and over again, echoing in his head.

Q
ueen Jelena stood in the bow of her jarl, the walls of an ancient canal rising high above her. The Serpent’s Strand had a primeval quality that harkened back to when rock and water ruled the world and mankind’s mark was yet unmade. A silent fog draped the surrounding hills, chilled by a breeze and the constant rush of the river. On both sides of Jelena’s little boat, sheer faces of stone reached skyward, blocking out the sun and darkening the passage with shadowy reflections. It was a wide waterway but it always felt claustrophobic, and as her jarl drifted through it she imagined the cliffs tumbling down on her, trapping her forever in the watery gorge. For the bloody business at hand, it was ideal.

“There,” she said, pointing to a place high in the eastern cliffs. “That’s it. Timrin, stop the boat.”

Timrin ordered the sailors to bring the jarl to a halt. The oarsmen retracted their blades and let the boat drift with the current. Jelena spied the eastern wall of rock, then swiveled to assess its western brother. It, too, was craggy and somber, high enough to hide them but close enough for the needed range.

“This is where we’ll place the cannons,” she decided. “A dozen on each cliff. We’ll cover them with brush until the
Fearless
comes in range.”

Timrin shielded his eyes as he looked up at the cliffs.
“We can do that. But it’s going to be hard getting cannons up there. You’re talking about a lot of men, too. A dozen guns, five men per gun.” Quickly he did the math and came to the same conclusion. “Lots of men.”

Jelena looked over the side of the jarl. The water was deep—deep enough for a dreadnought to navigate. That wasn’t a problem. But somehow they had to stop the
Fearless
. Otherwise she’d escape the guns.

“How deep is the water here?” Jelena asked.

“I don’t know for certain. Maybe thirty, thirty-five feet.”

“Thirty-five feet,” Jelena mused. “Kasrin told me the
Fearless
has a draft of at least twelve feet. The
Dread Sovereign
maybe ten.” Again she glanced up to the cliffs. “When we start digging those gun emplacements, there’s going to be a lot of rocks.” She smiled at Timrin. “Twenty-three feet’s worth, you think?”