The Saints of the Sword (70 page)

Alazrian laughed despite the absurdity. Biagio had big plans. “King Richius,” he said, “I know this sounds like madness, but every word is true. Biagio intends to crush Talistan before my grandfather can start a world war. But he needs your help to do it. He thought you could bring the lion riders from the run with you, but there aren’t any, I know. Yet you have an army here in Falindar! If you bring them into battle, Aramoor could be yours again.”

“That bastard,” exclaimed Richius. “Dangling Aramoor like a carrot!”

“No,” Alazrian protested, “you’re wrong. He really needs you. He told me he would find other allies, but that it wouldn’t be enough. You have to attack from the east.” He picked up the letter and shook it in the air. “And Biagio will attack on the same day, I bet. And the dreadnought, too, right?”

“That’s what it says.”

“Well then? Don’t you think it can work? You can have Aramoor back. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

There was no answer from the king. He did not look at anyone, least of all his wife. Dyana Vantran put an arm around her husband, but she was silent, too.

“King Richius,” began Alazrian softly, “this is no lie. Biagio will give you Aramoor, but you’re going to have to help him.”

“No,” gasped Richius. “I can’t.”

“You must. It’s all part of Biagio’s plan. If you don’t join, he can’t win. Talistan will defeat him, and then there will be war in Nar.”

“War in Nar,” scoffed Richius. “What else is new?”

“There’s never been a war like this one,” said Alazrian.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does!” flared Alazrian. “How can you sit there and argue with me? Biagio’s giving you a chance to get your homeland back! Don’t you care?”

Richius put up his hands in surrender. “Stop. Please …”

“Listen to me,” Alazrian insisted. “Aramoor isn’t the way you left it. Elrad Leth has your country in an iron
grip. Your people are being enslaved. You have to help them!”

“I can’t!” growled Richius. “You want me to bring an army to Aramoor? What army? The lion riders have left us, and I’m not the master of Falindar. I don’t have any warriors.”

“Then bring yourself. Come back to Aramoor with Jahl and me. You can join the Saints of the Sword. They’re rebels, Aramoorians like you. Jahl Rob is their leader. But if you were to return, you could be their leader. And who knows what that could mean? You can make your army out of them, and anyone else that wants to join you. You could—”

“Enough,” Richius ordered. “I’ve listened to you, Alazrian. I’ve heard what you have to say. But now you have to listen to me. I brought you here because I wanted you to see my wife and daughter. This is my family. I have a life here, finally. It wasn’t easy, but we made it together. I’m not going to turn my back on this life like I did my old one. And nothing you can say will change my mind.”

Alazrian was aghast. “But Aramoor needs you. You can’t just ignore them!”

“Aramoor needed me two years ago, when I left. I changed everything when I came to Lucel-Lor. But I can’t change the past.”

“You’re wrong,” said Alazrian. “That’s exactly what you can do. All you need is the courage to try.”

Richius laughed. “You’re young. You don’t understand.”

“Yes, I do,” snapped Alazrian. He got to his feet and stared down at Richius. “It’s just like Jahl Rob told me. You’re a coward.”

“I am not a coward.” Richius started to rise but a calming hand from Dyana stopped him. “You have no right to call me that.”

“And you have no right to live here, lying around dumb and comfortable while your people suffer! You know what I think? I think you’re a disgrace, Jackal.” Alazrian shook his head ruefully. “You’re not what I expected at all.”

Crestfallen, Richius Vantran glanced away. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I can’t help you.”

Alazrian hovered over the little family, unsure of what to do. He felt resentful, yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

“What can I say to convince you?” he asked. “What will make you change your mind?”

“Nothing,” answered Richius.

“I don’t believe that.”

“No? Well, you should. Because you’ve wasted your time coming here.”

“Yes,” sneered Alazrian. “I can see that.”

“Why did you come?” asked Dyana. “I mean, why did Biagio send you?”

“Biagio knew I wanted to come to Lucel-Lor, my lady. He knew I wanted to find out about myself, to find out who and what I am.”

Dyana looked profoundly sad. “Like Tharn.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Alazrian shrugged and said, “I’m looking for answers.”

“And have you found any?”

Alazrian directed his answer at her husband. “I have found only disappointment, my lady.”

Then, with his words hanging in the air, Alazrian turned and left the chamber. As he crossed the threshold, a picture appeared in his mind of Jahl Rob, laughing.

J
ahl Rob held his breath.

He had become a shadow, drifting wraith-like through the grounds. The moon was high and his heartbeat was heavy, thundering in his skull. He fought to concentrate on his quarry, to remain unseen and as silent as a breeze. He had followed Richius Vantran to a stable on the east side of the citadel, a wooden structure all but deserted save for several sleepy horses. Behind him, the sounds of life in Falindar went on, and he could hear the distant roar of the surf. But here in the stable only the solitary musings of Vantran disturbed the peace.

“Hello, my friend,” whispered Vantran, oblivious to his unwanted shadow. Jahl peeked around the corner and saw the young man enter a stall. There he put out his hand to stroke the neck of a chestnut horse. “How are you doing?” he asked the beast. There was a sad smile on his face. Jahl pulled back, leaning against the wall and listening. So far, Vantran hadn’t seen him.

Easy
, Jahl scolded himself.
Stay quiet …

But staying quiet wasn’t easy. One small breath would betray him. He closed his eyes and forced himself to stay calm. Tracking Vantran had taken some effort. He had followed the young king from the citadel, hoping to face him alone, not really sure what he was planning. Rage alone had driven him on.

I’ll do it
, he resolved.
He deserves it!

Very slowly, Jahl removed the dagger from his belt, the only weapon he had brought with him to Falindar. He wasn’t a murderer, but tonight he felt like one. Like Alazrian, he had come too far to be betrayed again. If Vantran wouldn’t help them …

Sweet God
, Jahl prayed silently,
give me the strength to rebuke this devil
.

Jahl listened for heaven’s answer and heard nothing. In his wrath, he took the silence as approval. He knew he would have to move quickly. If Vantran was going riding, he would lose his chance. But something held him against the wall.

I can do this! I must!

Once more he peeked around the corner. Surprisingly, Vantran wasn’t mounting his horse. He merely stood in the stall, petting the beast with a vacant expression, lost in a fog. His back was almost completely to Jahl, but Jahl could see a sadness in his profile.

“They want me to go back with them, Lightning,” whispered Vantran. “They want me to be king again. But I can’t do it. I’m afraid.”

Jahl grit his teeth. No one deserved death more than Vantran—not even Elrad Leth. Leth was a butcher and a brute, but he was no traitor. He hadn’t left his people behind to be slaughtered.

“I wish you could talk,” Vantran said with a laugh. “I wish you could tell me what to do. Dyana won’t say anything to me. She’s afraid I’ll leave her again. Shani, too.”

You’re the bloody king!
Jahl seethed.
It’s your duty!

“… and if I go, what good can I do? There’s no Triin army for Biagio. Aramoor would be better off without me.”

Those final words set Jahl in motion. He sprang from the shadows, dagger in hand, and wrapped his arms about Vantran’s neck, dragging him from the stall with the blade at his throat. The horse whinnied in alarm; Vantran kicked like a madman. Jahl flexed his hold and growled, wrenching Vantran backward.

“You’re right!” he spat. “Aramoor
is
better off without you!”

Vantran fought him, trying to break the hold. He gasped for air and tried to scream, but all that came out was a scratchy rasp. Jahl put the tip of the dagger to his cheek and drew a pinpoint of blood to get his attention.

“Stop,” he warned, “or I’ll gut you like a cat.”

Vantran stopped his violent writhing and waited in Jahl’s grasp, his chest rising and falling in great gasps.

“What … are you doing?”

“Settling an old score,” said Jahl. “You won’t join us? Then you will die!”

Jahl tightened his grasp, driving Vantran to his knees. The hold had turned the man’s face purple. Much more, and he would suffocate. But Jahl didn’t relent. Putting his lips to Vantran’s ear, he whispered, “You deserve this, traitor. You’re going to pay for what you did to Aramoor.”

“Burn in hell, priest!” gasped Vantran.

“Oh, I might. But you’ll be there to greet me!”

Jahl brought the dagger to Vantran’s throat. The young man closed his eyes and fought anew, but his strength was waning. When he felt the blade against his windpipe, he tried to scream. Jahl drove downward with his weight, ready for the killing stroke—but he couldn’t make the dagger move. Remarkably, his whole body began to shake.

“I should kill you!” he cried. “Goddamn you, I should!”

The breakdown was all Vantran needed. He drove an elbow into Jahl’s gut, then smashed his head backward. Jahl cried out in pain and surprise, dropping the dagger to the dirt. Vantran sprang to his feet and kicked Jahl in the chest, driving him backward. But before he could strike again, Jahl rolled and sprang up like a tiger, launching a fist into Vantran’s face. The blow caught the man squarely, sending blood sluicing from a split lip. Vantran staggered briefly, then came charging forward, bellowing in rage. He barreled into Jahl, grabbing him in a wild embrace and pinning him against the stable wall. All the breath shot out from Jahl’s lungs. Vantran’s bloodied face glared at him.

“Now you die, priest!” he roared. But Jahl wasn’t finished. Blind with rage, he dragged Richius down into the dirt, kicking and screaming and pummelling him. The two rolled over in the filth, exchanging punches, and just when Jahl thought he might best the man, Vantran’s fingers retrieved the fallen dagger. His other hand wrapped around Jahl’s throat.

“You goddamn murderer,” Vantran seethed. “I should run you through!”

Jahl was on his back. Beads of sweat dripped from Vantran’s brow onto Jahl’s face.

“Do it,” Jahl croaked. “Kill me!”

“God, I should!” said Vantran. His expression was frightful, his face torn with contusions.

“You bloody coward,” cursed Jahl. “Kill me! Send me to God; please!”

Vantran hovered over him uncertainly. The dagger slackened in his grasp, and his choke hold relaxed. Jahl looked in his eyes, hating him, desperate to die while he still had the courage to face it. Anything but go back to Aramoor …

“Why?” asked Vantran. “What did I do to you?”

Jahl closed his eyes. “How can you ask that? You’ve killed us, Vantran. You’ve ruined us.”

Then Jahl began to weep. He didn’t know why the tears came, but he was powerless against them. Unable to control himself, he put his hands to his head and sobbed.

“Goddamn you! Look at me! Look what you’ve done to us!”

Jahl rolled over and buried his bloodied face in the dirt, unable to stand the sight of his king. Guilt assailed him, the imputation of broken Commandments, and the fury that had possessed him was completely gone, replaced by a brutalizing sorrow. Vantran knelt over him and gently touched his shoulder.

“You have a right to hate me,” he said softly. “I am cursed, Jahl Rob. I have wronged you; I know that.”

Still Jahl couldn’t answer.

“I’m not the King of Aramoor,” Vantran continued. “You’ve come a long way for nothing.”

“You left us,” Jahl managed. “You ruined us …”

“I’m sorry …”

“Sorry? Sorry doesn’t help us! The land bleeds, but you ignore it. Your people die, and you do nothing. You are a Jackal; you truly are.”

Vantran hung his head. “You don’t understand. I can’t go back to Aramoor. Not after all that’s happened.”

Jahl seized his hand. “You’re wrong,” he said. “You’re our only hope.”

“But … I’m afraid.”

“Be afraid, then. Fear is no sin. The sin comes when we do not act, when we’re too afraid to do what’s right.”

Richius Vantran smiled ruefully. “My homeland,” he said. “Aramoor …”

“We need you,” Jahl pleaded. He ignored his blood and tears. “Please.”

“I have no army.”

“We will find you one.” Jahl sat up and stared at his king. “You will lead the Saints of the Sword.”

“They will not welcome me.”

“They will. By God, I will make them!” Jahl put his hand on Vantran’s shoulders, and the two nearly fell into an exhausted embrace. “You are the king, my lord.”

Children laughed and dogs barked, and Falindar’s merriment tumbled over its walls, draping the night in goodwill. Praxtin-Tar’s offer of peace had set the besieged to celebrating, and the citadel was alive with candles and torchlight. Music played in the distant courtyard, and from his place overlooking the ocean Alazrian could hear the gleeful laughter of women as they danced. Alazrian had his back to the citadel and his collar turned up against the chill. He picked up a stone and tossed it over the ledge, watching it sail endlessly downward, disappearing into the dark of the ocean.

Richius Vantran had spurned him. He had travelled many miles for the meeting, enduring Jahl’s prejudice and Shinn’s attempted assassination, and had performed miracles to win Praxtin-Tar’s favor. All these things he had
done, only to be turned away. Alazrian’s black mood soured the evening. He was pleased that Praxtin-Tar had suspended his war, but his mission was to bring peace to Nar, not Lucel-Lor. In that he had failed, and it was crushing him.

Falindar’s shadow settled on his shoulders, pressing on him. Once, the fantastic structure had awed him, but now it was only a monument to his folly, and he wanted no part of it. He didn’t want to dance or be with the Triin—he just wanted to sulk.