The Saints of the Sword (85 page)

“Now then,” he said, addressing his troops. “I gave you bloody bastards an order!”

Prince Redburn saw the cavalry readying to charge.

“This is it,” he told his sister. “I’m taking in our own.”

Breena gripped her sword. “I’m ready.”

“No,” said Redburn. “You stay behind. If I fall …” His voice choked off. “Breena, if I fall, they’ll need you.”

“Redburn, let my men go,” pleaded Vandra Grayfin. “We’re ready!”

“So are we,” said Redburn. He swallowed down a surge of fear. “Vandra, you and Kellen—you’re all that’ll be left. I’ll take my own men in, try to break Gayle’s back.” He glanced at Biagio, who looked eager for battle. “Emperor, you stay too.”

“What?” said Biagio. “I won’t! I’m ready.”

Redburn flicked his eyes toward Breena. Biagio got the hint instantly. So did Breena.

“I don’t need a chaperon!” she protested.

“Stay,” commanded the prince. He galloped across the ranks of his clan waving his sword and rallying them to battle. The latapi snorted, the footmen beat their shields, and Redburn called them to battle with all his blood-given charisma. On the other side of the Silverknife, the Talistanian horsemen were galloping forward. Redburn whirled his elk toward them and charged. Behind him he heard the roar of his men as they screamed into battle, the pounding of hooves and the clang of heavy armor. Tucking himself down in the saddle, he directed his latapi’s rack toward the onrushing horsemen. His sword swam in his grip, and he realized he was sweating. He had never wanted this war, but Tassis Gayle had forced it. Redburn seized on his goal—the arrogant king across the river. If only he could reach him …

The impact of the horsemen exploded around him. His elk tore into them, raking its antlers across the flanks of two steeds, dragging them backward. A moment later Redburn was engulfed in slashing steel. He brought up his shield, blocked the falling blows, and swung his sword against his leftward opponent. The blade slammed into the soldier’s helmet. The man responded with a flurry of hacks. Redburn urged his elk through them, shouting wildly. Around him surged his men and the thrashing antlers of latapi, followed by an ungodly chorus of screams. The world blurred, and suddenly Redburn was surrounded again, enemies and allies pressed against him. Cold river water gushed up, blinding him as he swung his blade. He needed to free himself, to break away from the surging herd, but the walls of men and beast bore down on him. His head rang with angry shouts and agonized screams. He saw metal flashing and the spurting of stumps, and he knew that he was lost. Panic drove him on, and when he saw an opening he went for it, charging free of the cluster toward a pair of mounted soldiers. Racer brought his deadly rack down and hammered into them,
sending them tumbling. Redburn gasped at the blast of hot blood. Both soldiers were grounded by the blow, scrambling through the rushing river. Before Redburn knew it, he was swinging after them, bringing down his blade in two bloody arcs. The men fell like weeds. Redburn lifted his sword, drew hard the reins and brought the buck rearing to its hinds.

“Revenge!” he cried. “For our Highlands!”

Berserk with rage and slick with blood, Redburn turned Racer back toward the battle. His men were outnumbered but evening the odds, pressing their attackers back with their elk. Ahead of him, one Highlander was fending off two Talistanians. Redburn roared, jabbed Racer’s sides for speed, and went after them. The elk splashed through the river but quickly misstepped, buckling beneath the prince and sending him sprawling. Racer let out a horrible wail. Redburn hurried to right himself, lifting his face out of the river and stumbling to his feet. A towering lancemen bore down on him.

“Mighty Prince!” said the soldier. He aimed his lance at Redburn’s gut. “Lose something?”

It happened in an instant. The lance hung in front of him, and before he could dodge the thing it was moving, racing for his heart even as he brought up his hands. His torso exploded with pain. Looking down, he saw a fountain of blood gush from his punctured belly.

“Redburn!”

Breena’s shriek shattered Biagio’s skull. Before he could stop her she was rushing forward, screaming and brandishing her sword as she rode to her brother’s rescue. But it was too late. Redburn dangled on the end of the lance, his body convulsing, then slid off, crumpling in a heap in the river. But Breena’s mad dash stirred the Highlanders.

“The prince!” shouted Cray Kellen. “The prince has fallen!”

The Lion gave a roar and rallied his fighters. Vandra Greyfin’s men prepared to charge. The two clan leaders
looked to Biagio, and he realized they awaited his word. With no one left to lead them, Biagio gripped the reins of his warhorse and gave the order.

“Slaughter them!” he cried. “Let no Talistanian live out this day!”

He spurred his horse forward, speeding toward Breena and the riotous battle. Across the Silverknife, Gayle’s infantry was readying to charge. Breena had reached the river. With a scream she threw herself onto the lanceman, spitting like a wildcat and swinging her sword. The soldier tumbled, dragged into the water as Breena beat him mercilessly with her blade, hacking through his armor. When Biagio reached her she was covered with blood, her face twisted and streaked with tears.

“Breena, stop!” he ordered. “Get out of here!”

Breena had lost her elk in the melee and now dropped her sword. She stumbled through the river toward Redburn. The prince lay unmoving in the water.

“Redburn, no!” sobbed Breena. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him, trying to will him back to life, but his head lolled back and his dead eyes stared, unblinking. Biagio hurried toward her, leaned down from horseback and grabbed hold of her collar. He yanked her off the corpse and dragged her to the riverbank.

“My brother!” she cried, struggling to get loose. “They’ve killed him!”

“Get out of here,” ordered Biagio. “You can’t help him now.” He tossed her to the ground where she fell to her knees.

“This is your fault,” she sobbed. “You and your blasted war!”

Biagio didn’t answer. Around him, the clans of Greyfin and Kellen clamored into battle, beating back the cavalry and fording the river toward the onrushing infantry. There was no time to talk, and no way to save Redburn. Breena knew it, too. She didn’t crawl toward the battle or even try to lift her head. Soaked in blood and muddy water, she merely knelt at the riverbank, staring vacantly at Biagio.

“Go!” he commanded.

Lost in a fog, Breena didn’t move.

“I will avenge him, Breena, I promise,” said Biagio. “Now go, please!”

Breena lifted herself up, tottering to her feet. She looked at the river and her countrymen surging forward, then at the corpse of her brother, trampled beneath the hooves of war beasts. Oblivious to the fury around her, she walked toward the river and tried fishing Redburn’s body from the water. Others joined her, dragging the corpse ashore. Breena looked around blankly.

“Get him back to the castle,” Biagio told her. “Don’t leave him here to rot.”

“Yes,” agreed Breena. “Yes, all right …” She paused to look at Biagio. “Avenge him,” she said. “Remember your promise.”

“I will,” said Biagio. He turned his horse back toward the river. The Highlanders had crossed and were barreling through the infantry. In the distance, Tassis Gayle sat upon his charger, looking stunned by the turn of events.

Biagio drew his sword and galloped across the river.

A
t the mouth of the Saccenne Run, where the evergreens of Aramoor surrendered to the Iron Mountains, Richius Vantran leaned out over a rocky ledge and counted the contingent of cavalrymen camped at their makeshift base. It was morning of the fateful day, the day when he would finally regain Aramoor. Praxtin-Tar’s army was stretched out through the run, and Jahl Rob’s Saints led the way, poised on foot and on horseback to invade the tiny kingdom. But an unexpected company of Talistanian soldiers now blocked their way. Oblivious to the forces massed just beyond their sight, the horsemen lounged about their camp, talking around a campfire and absently grooming their mounts. Richius, crawling on his belly, craned to see them better. They were far below and well out of earshot, yet he whispered as he addressed his companions.

“Looks like thirty-five or forty men.” He retracted his head and sat up. “What the hell are they doing?”

“They expect us,” surmised Alazrian. The boy had insisted on scouting with Richius and Jahl, and had done an admirable job of scaling the ridge. His face twisted as he added, “My father probably wants to protect himself. I’ll bet Biagio has started his war with Talistan.” He turned to Praxtin-Tar, and quickly explained his deduction, making
an arcane connection by touching hands. As Alazrian’s words flowed into him, the warlord snorted.

Alazrian grinned. “Praxtin-Tar says that fifty Talistanian dogs are of no concern to him. He says that we will flood them like a river.”

The warlord looked at Richius, saying, “Kalak, foo noa conak wa’alla.” He jabbed a thumb proudly into his chest. “Eo uris ratak-ti.”

“What did he say?” asked Jahl.

“Praxtin-Tar doesn’t want Richius wasting himself with these weaklings,” replied Alazrian. “His words, not mine. Anyway, Richius, he thinks you should save your strength for the battle at the castle.”

Richius peered down at the horsemen, wondering how many more they would face. Their goal was to make a lightning drive to the castle, taking control of it before Talistan could send reinforcements. That meant they had to move quickly. Regrettably, the soldiers camped at the mouth of the run had ruined any chance of surprise.

“Richius,” whispered Jahl, “Praxtin-Tar is right. We can overwhelm them, kill them all before they can warn Leth.”

“You mean slaughter them, don’t you, Jahl?” said Richius. “Do you hear yourself? You’re a priest, for God’s sake.”

“This is war,” said Jahl indignantly. “And anyway, what choice do we have? We can’t let them reach the castle.”

“No,” said Richius, shaking his head. “I won’t have a massacre. Remember, we want Leth to surrender. Once he sees how many warriors we have, he’ll have no choice.” He glanced at Alazrian. “Don’t you think?”

Alazrian shrugged. “I don’t know. My father … Leth, I mean; he won’t care how many of his soldiers die. If he thinks my grandfather will send help, he may never surrender.”

“And then he’ll be holed up in that castle with no way to get at him,” added Jahl. “I’m telling you, Richius, we have to get those horsemen. All of them.”

Richius thought about the dilemma, weighing his options.

Praxtin-Tar’s warriors could easily defeat the horsemen. But that wasn’t the homecoming Richius wanted.

“We’ll battle it out at the castle if we have to,” he said. “And if these horsemen want a fight, we’ll give them one. Otherwise we’ll make them surrender.”

He could tell Jahl was disappointed, but the priest acquiesced nonetheless. “All right,” agreed Jahl. “Then we’ll have to get the warriors into position, let those soldiers see what they’re up against.”

Richius grinned. “Definitely.” He turned to Praxtin-Tar and began speaking in Triin. “Praxtin-Tar, this is what I want you to do …”

Richius rode at the head of a column, leading Jahl and the Saints of the Sword out of the Saccenne Run and onto the soil of his homeland. A tattered Aramoorian flag blew above them held aloft by Ricken. Fifty yards away, the Talistanians milled aimlessly around their camp—until they saw the Saints emerging from the mountains.

“Holy mother!” someone shouted.

All at once bedlam broke out. The horsemen ran to their steeds, drawing steel. Richius led his party toward them at a leisurely trot. He didn’t bother drawing his own sword or warning his men of danger. Jahl had a wild smile on his face and his bow slung arrogantly on his back. As he trotted beside Richius, he gave his king a cocky wink.

“Here they come …”

“Look sharp,” said Richius. For the first time in months he felt truly alive. Once again, Aramoor was beneath him, filling his soul with the vigor of his birthright. At that moment, he could have faced an army of horsemen.

“I wish Alazrian was here,” said Jahl. “It’s his homecoming, too.”

“Soon enough,” said Richius. He, too, would have liked the boy as part of their group, but they were saving that particular surprise for when they faced Leth. As he watched the horsemen gathering to oppose them, he called over his shoulder, “Hold that flag high, Ricken. Let’s make sure those bastards see it!”

Ricken responded by howling and waving the banner back and forth, a tactic that irked the horsemen. They had mounted now and were hurrying forward, determined to cut down the Aramoorians. Richius arched his back, facing them with a wicked smile.

“You there!” he called. “Looking for us?”

For a moment, the Talistanians didn’t know what to make of their opponents. They slowed from a gallop to a trot, then came to a circumspect stop a few yards before the Saints. Their leader, a captain by his uniform, waved his saber at Richius.

“Halt!” he cried from behind his helmet. “Don’t move!”

Richius stopped his horse, then ordered his company to do the same.

“You’re on my land, Talistanian,” he said.

The soldiers glanced at each other. The captain cocked his head at Richius. “Your land? Who the hell are you?”

“I am Richius Vantran, King of Aramoor, and I’m here with the Saints of the Sword to take back my country.”

The captain began laughing, an awful guffaw quickly echoed by his troops. “Vantran? I don’t believe it! The Jackal has returned.” He pointed at the tattered flag. “You think that rag gives you authority? It’s meaningless here, boy. This is Talistan now!”

“No,” corrected Richius icily. “This is Aramoor. And it’s not our flag that gives us authority.”

He put two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. “This does!”

Overhead on the rocks and ledges, Praxtin-Tar’s warriors popped into view. They loomed over the Talistanians with bows drawn, a wall of white flesh creeping over the peaks. The captain tilted his head skyward, nearly falling from his steed. A groan issued from his helmet.