The Saints of the Sword (68 page)

“We will not.” Gayle’s voice took on a dangerous edge. “We will wait. I will make Redburn attack us.”

“Then do it!” Leth roiled. “Do it now, while we have the advantage.”

“I will,” said Gayle. “And don’t you ever forget yourself again, Leth.
I
am king of Talistan, not you.”

Leth put up a stony facade, but Gayle could hear his breathing quicken.

“You are dismissed,” Gayle added. “Go back to Aramoor and wait for my orders.”

He turned and left Leth in the hallway, going back to his room. When he opened it he saw Clarissa smile. The baroness had still not dressed and was sitting up in bed, a seductively placed sheet exposing her cleavage.

“What was that about?” she asked.

“Important news, my dear.” Wearily Gayle sat down on the edge of the bed. “Admiral Nicabar is dead.”

Clarissa’s reaction was the same as his own. First disbelief, then shock, then a kind of confused joy. She repeated Leth’s assertion that this changed things and gave them an opportunity.

“Don’t you think so?” she pressed. “With Nicabar gone, you can attack the Highlands, draw them into a war.”

“Not yet,” said Gayle. He rubbed his temples against a sudden headache.

“But why not?”

“Politics, my lady. Or have you forgotten?”

“I have not forgotten. But maybe you are wasting your time, Tassis. Maybe Prince Redburn will never attack.”

“Oh, it’s so much more complicated than that,” said the king. “We need allies in our war with Biagio. They will not join us if we are the aggressors.”

“But if Redburn never attacks …”

“He
will
attack. I promise you. I will make him.”

“How?”

The question made the king pensive. He needed to strike at something dear to the prince, something even Redburn couldn’t ignore. It had to be bloody and brutal, and it had to move Redburn past his boyish fears.

“Something drastic,” whispered Gayle. “Something terrible …”

He would think of it, and when he did, the wildmen of the Highlands would attack. There would be war in the Empire—glorious, bloody war. Tassis Gayle leaned back on the bed, resting his head in Clarissa’s lap and gazing at the ceiling.

“Someday,” he began softly, “we will have our vengeance on Biagio. We will attack the Black City with our horsemen and navy, and he will know we are his betters.”

“Yes, dear one,” crooned the baroness. Gently she stroked his thinning hair.

“I will be there for the final blow. I’ll be in my battle armor on a black charger, with a mace in one hand and a sword in the other, and I will cry out for Biagio to meet me in battle.”

When Clarissa didn’t respond, Gayle glanced at her. “How does that sound to you?”

The baroness smiled skeptically. “Like an old man’s fantasy.”

“It is not!” Gayle pushed her away and sat up. “I am not too old to ride into war, Clarissa.”

Baroness Ricter started chuckling. “I cannot see you on a horse, fighting Biagio. He is far more fit than you.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” warned Gayle. “Was I so ancient last night when I was humping you, old woman?”

The baroness looked hurt. “Now you’re being cruel.”

“And you’re being blind!” Gayle opened his robe. “Look at me! I am as virile as any man. I am a hundred times the man Biagio claims to be. He is not even a man. He is a slack-wristed dandy. You think I cannot best him?”

“You are a good king,” said Clarissa. She smiled, trying to defuse his anger. “But you are not young.”

Gayle couldn’t contain his rage. “I am as strong as I ever was! And when we ride against Nar, I will prove it to you. I will prove it to the world.” He stepped off the bed, circling it like an animal, his mind lost in a frenzy. “You will see,” he seethed. “I will get Redburn to attack us. Then we will have allies, and march against Biagio. All the
world shall fall into war, Clarissa, and they will all know my name again!”

He fell against a wall and looked at the baroness, his body shaking. Her face was white.

“That is not what this is about,” she whispered. “This is about Biagio, not the whole world.”

“You are a fool if you believe that, woman. Biagio is emperor. The only way to destroy him is through war—a world war.”

“No!” protested Clarissa. She got out of bed and went to him, standing before him naked and afraid. “That’s not what I’m here for. I’m here to avenge my brother, and nothing more.”

“My lady, you are being an idiot.”

“And you are acting like a madman!”

Tassis Gayle’s jaw clenched. “What did you call me?”

“Madman,” said Clarissa again. “You’re a bloodthirsty lunatic, and I don’t want any part of this!”

“Curb your tongue …”

“I’ll not be party to massacres,” declared the baroness. She seemed to have forgotten her nakedness and stood before him like a defiant queen. “I will take my men back to Vosk unless you change your plans.”

“Oh, no,” said Gayle softly. “You’re not taking your troops anywhere.” He stalked toward her, taking small, threatening steps. “Your men are staying here, and so are you. And you will send for more when the war starts, and Talistan and Vosk will be allies. Do you understand me?”

Baroness Ricter shook her head. “Madness,” she whispered. “I see it in you, like a disease.”

“Tell me you understand,” ordered Gayle.

“You do not own me, Tassis Gayle! I am Baroness of Vosk!”

Gayle advanced, pressing her against the bed. She tumbled backward onto the mattress.

“Get away from me!” she spat.

“Will you join me?”

“No!”

The shrill cry made something in Gayle snap. He followed her onto the bed, pressing down on her, his hands
going around her neck. A blind fury seized him, and all the world dropped away, so that he hardly heard her screams. He watched as his hands throttled her, watched as she beat his chest, struggling to free herself, her face ballooning. She raked a hand across his cheek, pulling away lines of skin, but he hardly felt the assault. All he heard was his own demented voice, booming in his mind.

“I am king! No one will defy me!”

He didn’t know how long it took for her neck to break, but when it did he lifted her like a broken doll, watching in fascination as her head lolled back. Gayle dropped her lifeless form to the sheets. A smattering of sanity crept over him, yet he wasn’t panicked by the murder.

“I am not too old, and I am not too feeble,” he said. “You’ll see, Clarissa. I will make Redburn come to me. Soon you will all know my greatness.”

Then, without another word, Tassis Gayle collapsed to the floor, weeping.

R
ichius Vantran was in the outer ward of Falindar, tossing a ball to his daughter. A light breeze stirred his hair, and the courtyard of the citadel rang with the shouts of children, oblivious to the horde at the base of their mountain. Overhead, the sun shone down from a cloudless sky, making Richius shade his eyes as Shani tossed the ball in a high arc. She knew her father could handle anything she tossed his way, and while Richius babied her with gentle throws, sometimes even rolling the leather ball, Shani insisted on popping the toy as high as she could. She let out a delighted cry as Richius ran for the ball, chasing it wherever she threw it.

It was an ideal day, and Richius was glad to be outside. Lately he had been spending more time than ever with Shani, as if part of him suspected doom around the corner and didn’t want to waste a moment. Praxtin-Tar and his forces still encircled Falindar, but they had made no moves against the citadel for many days, and their seeming disinterest had fostered a feeling of safety in the keep. Nearly everyone had succumbed to the good news, but not Lucyler. So when Richius heard his friend’s astonished shout, he wasn’t surprised.

“Richius! Come quickly!”

Richius lost the ball in the sun. It came down invisibly and struck his head. He turned toward the battlements
along the brass gates and saw Lucyler there, waving to him. His friend looked nervous. Richius instinctively took Shani’s hand.

“What is it?” he called back. “Trouble?”

“Riders,” shouted Lucyler. “You had better see for yourself!”

Along the wall-walks more of Falindar’s warriors gathered, pointing and shaking their heads. Shani’s face crinkled in a dubious expression as she echoed her father’s words.

“Trouble.”

“Hmm, maybe,” said Richius. He hefted her onto his back, letting her legs dangle from his shoulders. “Let’s go see.”

With Shani riding him like a horse, Richius galloped toward the brass gates. Dozens of Triin crowded around it, trying to peer down the mountain road. Unable to see through the throngs, Richius entered the eastern guard tower and quickly went up the steps, emerging onto the wall-walk where Lucyler waited. The master of Falindar’s face was lit with shock. Richius followed Lucyler’s gaze down the road and saw a handful of riders trotting forward. Four men, all on horseback, and all apparently unarmed. Amazingly, three of the group had pink Naren skin. And, doubly amazing, the fourth was Praxtin-Tar. The warlord sat erect upon his splendid stallion, his raven tattoo plainly visible on his face. He wore no armor and bore no jiiktar, and he had no warriors with him—only the three unarmed Narens.

“That’s Praxtin-Tar,” said Richius in disbelief. “With Narens!”

“The one beside him is probably his slave,” replied Lucyler. “I do not know who the others are.”

“What do they want?”

“I do not know that, either.” Lucyler glanced up at Shani, giving her a smile. “You should send her to safety, Richius. This cannot be good.”

Without argument Richius handed Shani to one of the warriors, ordering the man to take her to Dyana. He gave his daughter a kiss, told her to be good, and watched as the warrior spirited her away. He then turned back to the
remarkable foursome. He had heard about Praxtin-Tar’s Naren slave, but the other Narens didn’t look like slaves at all. One was tall and much older than the other, who looked more like a boy as he got closer. The boy had a nervous expression. The older fellow was stone-faced, full of disdain. Praxtin-Tar led the way proudly, ignoring the possibility of an arrow piercing his heart.

“Maybe he’s asking for our surrender again,” Richius surmised. But then he remembered another messenger from Nar, a Shadow Angel who had come to him long ago with his first wife’s head in a box. “Oh, God, I hope it’s nothing from Biagio.”

Lucyler leaned out over the wall-walk, calling out defiantly in Triin, “Keep your distance, Praxtin-Tar. You are close enough.”

The warlord put up his hands, but did not stop his horse. “I have no weapon, Lucyler. None of us are armed. We must speak to you.”

“Speak to us from there!” Richius shouted. As he spoke, the two Narens looked at him, and their eyes widened in recognition.

“This is your business, too, Kalak,” answered Praxtin-Tar. “You must see us. We are coming in.”

Defying Lucyler’s order, Praxtin-Tar led his little band toward the brass gates. Warriors fought back the crowds, herding them away.

“We will speak to him,” said Lucyler. “Come, Richius.”

Hurriedly they went back down the tower to stand safely behind the gates and await the approaching warlord. Three bowmen stood on either side, ready with their arrows, and more archers along the catwalks prepared to cut the intruders down. Richius put his face to the bars and took a long look at the Narens, trying to make out their faces but not recognizing either of them. He steeled himself for trickery.

When at last the warlord had come ten feet from the gates, Lucyler commanded, “No farther.”

Praxtin-Tar halted his party. “We must speak to you, Lucyler.” He smirked at Richius. “And you, Kalak.”

“Richius Vantran?” queried the younger Naren. “Is it you?”

“It is,” replied Richius. “Who are you?”

The boy sat up straight. “My name is Alazrian Leth. I must speak to you. It’s very important.”

“Leth?” said Richius. Then he whirled on Lucyler. “Lucyler, don’t let those piss buckets in here. They’re Talistanians!”

“I am not a Talistanian,” said the older Naren. Ignoring Lucyler’s command, he spurred his horse up to the gate and glared at Richius. “Don’t you recognize me? I am Jahl Rob, from Aramoor!”

Richius fell back under the angry gaze. “Jahl Rob?” he said. “Do I know you?”

“Get back,” ordered Lucyler. A wave of his hand brought spearmen forward, who poked their weapons through the bars. Praxtin-Tar shouted for the man to move back. Regretfully, the Naren spun his horse around.

“You don’t remember me, do you? Living too soft in your palace while Aramoorians die!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Richius. “Who are you?”

“Please,” shouted the boy. “Jahl, get back here!”

Lucyler looked at Richius. “Do you know them?”

“I do not,” replied Richius.

“He has forgotten!” sneered the one called Jahl. “He has forgotten everything about Aramoor! I am a priest, but you wouldn’t remember that, would you?”

“Priest?” Richius muttered. His mind skipped back through vague memories, suddenly recalling a little church in Aramoor—one of Herrith’s churches. “Ah, now I remember! You’re one of Herrith’s cronies.”

“God, what a memory,” said Jahl Rob. “Not anymore, Jackal. My church was stolen from me, because of
you
.”

“And now you’ve brought Talistanian trash with you, priest?” Richius pointed at the boy. “What’s he for? A messenger from Biagio?”

“Yes, I am,” said the boy earnestly. “Please, King Richius, if you’ll listen …”

Richius couldn’t believe his ears. Another message from Biagio meant something like the end of the world.

“What do you want?” he growled. “Tell me quickly, or I swear I’ll order these warriors to kill you.”

“Lucyler, Kalak will not listen,” argued Praxtin-Tar in Triin. “Call him off. We must speak to you.”

Lucyler put a hand on Richius’ shoulder. “Richius …”

“I heard him,” snapped Richius. “Go ahead, Warlord. Talk.”

Praxtin-Tar took a deep breath. As he spoke, his slave translated for the Narens.

“I am here for peace only,” Praxtin-Tar began. He gestured to the young Talistanian. “This boy is touched by heaven. He is the true heir to Tharn, not I.”