The Saints of the Sword Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE WORK OF JOHN MARCO

  THE JACKAL OF NAR

  “The Jackal of Nar introduces us to a world full of intrigue, villainy, magic, and technology, producing a unique fantasy tale.… I can’t wait to see how the rest of the tale unfolds.”

  —MICHAEL A. STACKPOLE

  “A well-crafted military fantasy, fast-paced and underscored with believable characters and politics.”

  —J. V. JONES

  “Introduces a marvelous new voice to the world of fantasy. The Jackal of Nar is a stunning first novel, and I eagerly await the next book.”

  —ALLAN COLE

  “Absorbing, deftly plotted … with promising character developments and a well-rounded satisfying end.”

  —KIRKUS REVIEWS

  This edition contains the complete text of the original trade paperback edition.

  NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

  THE SAINTS OF THE SWORD: BOOK THREE OF TYRANTS AND KINGS

  A Bantam Spectra Book

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Bantam Spectra trade paper edition published February 2001

  Bantam Spectra paperback edition/ December 2001

  SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2001 by John Marco.

  Map by James Sinclair.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-059868.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  ISBN 0-553-58032-9

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-8041-8087-0

  Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Map

  Part One: The Rebel Angels

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part Two: Saints and Sinners

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  ChapterTwenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Part Three: The Last War

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  Alazrian’s mother had once said that the sound of rain was heaven singing. Tonight, heaven was screaming.

  Five days of rain had turned the roads of Aramoor to rivers and made the grounds boggy around the Vantran house. It was spring, when this part of the Empire endured countless thunderstorms. It was the time of year that Alazrian’s mother liked best. Soon, when the rains were gone, the gardens would bloom with rosebuds, but she would not be around to see them. By the time the first butterfly took wing, she would be long gone.

  A distant blade of lightning flashed outside the castle window. Alazrian watched it dispassionately. The torch on the wall bounced shadows across the hall. The rain beyond the misty glass was coming down sideways. He was glad his grandfather wasn’t still on the road. In the morning the storm would have passed; his grandfather could make it back to Talistan then. He wouldn’t be staying long. Just long enough to see his daughter die. Alazrian pondered what was going on behind the nearby door. Was his grandfather weeping? he wondered. Was his mother? She was so close to death now, probably too weak for tears. And she never really had use for tears, anyway—her life and husband had made her hard.

  Lady Calida had been a good mother, and the only thing of beauty that Alazrian knew. She had the heart of a lion and the soul of a poet, and it was a mystery to Alazrian how she had come from the same loins that produced her brother, Blackwood Gayle. Her father was sometimes a beast and almost always a madman. And though Tassis Gayle loved his daughter dearly, he had stood by while she married a man without love in his heart. Her life had been a terrible thing, but she had never admitted that to Alazrian. She had taken joy and refuge in him. She had worn him like a magic cloak to ward off evil.

  A crash of thunder echoed through the hall. Alazrian jumped at the blast. Down the hall, he could see the man who was not his father give him a peripheral glare of disgust. Elrad Leth snorted and turned his attention back to his own window. He wasn’t speaking to anyone tonight, not even the king, and Alazrian knew that Elrad Leth was a million miles away, preoccupied with things more important than his wife’s impending death. He had his hands behind his back, the way he always did when he was contemplative, slapping one into the palm of the other. His long body swayed a little as if he was enjoying music, but his eyes never hinted at anything but disdain. Elrad Leth cared for nothing, least of all his wife and “son,” both of whom he beat regularly. He took no joy in food or pageants or expensive clothing, and the only time he smiled was when he sensed his power over others. The way the storm lit his face was frightful.

  Elrad Leth, Governor of Aramoor province, waited impatiently for King Tassis Gayle to conclude his last encounter with his daughter. The family was dwindling now. Tassis Gayle had already lost his son, and Alazrian worried that this new loss would send the old man over the edge. Some were saying he had already passed it. But if that was true, then Elrad Leth would be there at the bottom, waiting for him.

  But even in his grief, Tassis Gayle was different these days. As Calida faded, the king grew vital, as if through some vampiric magic he stole her years. Sorrow had given his life purpose, a dimension it hadn’t had for a decade. Grief had straightened his spine and strengthened him, quelled his coughing fits. These days, Tassis Gayle resembled the blood-thirsty warlord he had been in his youth.

  Leth paid his son no regard as they both stared out at the stormy night. Alazrian could feel the man’s disapp
ointment. He had wanted a strong son, like himself. Instead, Calida had delivered him a bastard, and a weakling, too. Leth could prove nothing of Alazrian’s fatherhood, and Tassis Gayle would brook no talk against his daughter’s virtue. So Leth and Calida and Alazrian all kept up the pretense, each of them knowing the truth, but Leth still smouldered when he looked at the thin-boned son that was not his own. Someday, Alazrian knew, the dam of his hatred would burst and Alazrian would have nowhere to hide.

  “Alazrian,” called Leth from across the hall. “Come here.”

  The summons made Alazrian weak-kneed. He hated speaking to Leth. He hated being around him. But he picked his way cautiously across the hall and stood beside his so-called father, who sighed as he contemplated the rain. Alazrian waited. Finally the governor spoke.

  “I’ve been called to the Black City,” he said. His voice had a confessional tone, like a whisper. “Emperor Biagio and his inquisitor wish to speak with me.”

  “Yes, Father,” said Alazrian. He had heard the gossip among the staff. Leth was to face the Protectorate.

  “Politics,” said Leth. “That’s what it is, you see.”

  “Yes,” agreed Alazrian. “I see.”

  “Do you? I doubt that. I doubt you understand anything but needlepoint. You have your mother’s sensibilities for these things, boy. Your head’s full of air.”

  Alazrian swallowed the insult. His relationship with Leth had only grown worse since they had come to Aramoor. The pressures of governing had embittered Leth.

  “Biagio lays traps for me,” Leth said. “He thinks I’m stupid, eh? Bloody fop.” He balled his hand into a fist and rubbed the knuckles. “Well, he’s got something up his sleeve. He wants you to come as well.”

  “Me? To the Black City?”

  “We leave the day after tomorrow.”

  “Why me?”

  “You’re old enough to make the trip.” Alazrian had just turned sixteen. For his birthday, Leth had given him a dagger, something to make him “look more like a man.” Alazrian never carried it.

  “I don’t understand,” said Alazrian. “What does the emperor want with me?”

  “How the hell should I know? But that’s what the summons says, and we’ve got to obey. So don’t spend too much time weeping over your mother. We’ll need our wits about us for the trip, and I won’t share the voyage with a child that needs a wet-nurse.”

  “But …”

  “But what?” growled Leth, whirling on Alazrian.

  Alazrian felt his throat constrict. “What about Mother?” he managed.

  “What about her? She’s dead. We can’t help her.”

  “She’s not dead yet.”

  “Oh, Mother, Mother!” taunted Leth. “Please, Mother, don’t die.” He scoffed and closed his eyes. “Pull yourself together, boy. We’ve got bigger concerns.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  Leth’s hand shot out and delivered Alazrian a stinging slap. “What was that?” he barked. “Did you raise your voice to me?”

  Alazrian was silent. He knew his words would only invite another slap, so he merely looked at the man he was forced to call father, trying to convey his hatred with his eyes.

  Elrad Leth read his face easily and returned the revulsion. “My God, if I had a real son I could deal with these things. Tassis had Blackwood, and I’ve got you. Go on, get out of my sight. But be ready to leave early, day after tomorrow. Pack for a long voyage. And don’t make me wait for you.”

  Alazrian had a thousand questions, but didn’t dare ask them. He could guess why Emperor Biagio wanted to see his father, but he couldn’t fathom the faintest reason why the Protectorate wanted to question him. He knew nothing about the happenings in Aramoor. All he knew was what he heard whispered in the castle—that Leth was still trying to put down the Aramoorian rebels. He was using ungodly tactics, but that was no surprise. And why it should bother the emperor was a mystery. But there had been strange things happening in Aramoor lately. Alazrian had been too concerned about his mother to take much notice, but Leth was away from the castle often these days, and messengers from King Tassis Gayle were frequent. Whatever was happening, it had gotten his father in trouble, and Alazrian was glad for it. He was glad that the Saints of the Sword were still hassling the “governor.” Jahl Rob might be a priest, but he had a general’s craftiness, and his Aramoorian rebels were proving a gigantic thorn in Leth’s side.

  Good, thought Alazrian as he retreated across the hall.

  The sudden sound of a door opening pulled Alazrian back to reality. He turned to see his grandfather, Tassis Gayle, backing out of his mother’s bedroom. The king was stooped with weariness and was whispering something to the unseen woman in the room, something gentle and fatherly. His cloak of wolf fur dragged along the floor, limp as the look on his face. He was an old man now, ancient really, but he had the classic Gayle strength about him, long of bone and wide of shoulder, and his short hair was hardly thinning at all. Yet despite his recent resurrection from depression and old age, the night’s events had wearied him. He had travelled quickly from Talistan when he’d heard the news of his daughter’s decline, and had disappeared into her bedchamber hours ago. Alazrian looked at his grandfather and felt profoundly sad. Tassis Gayle was cruel, and the rumors of his mania were well-founded. But he was good to his daughter and her son, a dichotomy that puzzled Alazrian. Other than his mother, Tassis Gayle was the only person in the world who showed him any kindness.

  “I’ll see you again,” Alazrian heard the King of Talistan whisper before closing the door. Tassis Gayle squared his shoulders, gathering himself. Alazrian waited anxiously for him to speak. Elrad Leth stared out the window with appalling disinterest.

  “She’s very weak,” said the king at last. It was an effort for him to speak. “Oh, my Calida. My little girl …” He beckoned Alazrian closer with a finger. “Alazrian, come here.”

  Alazrian hurried over to his grandfather, taking his hand and finding it trembling. Obviously the king hadn’t expected to see his daughter so frail. For a woman who was once so robust, she looked little more than a shadow now.

  “Your mother is very ill,” the king said. “You know that though, don’t you?”

  Alazrian nodded.

  “Not much time, I think,” his grandfather went on. He didn’t bother speaking to Leth. “You should go to her. She wants you with her now.”

  Leth’s lips twisted in disdain. Not surprisingly, his wife wasn’t calling for him in her final moments. Alazrian ignored him and offered his grandfather a smile.

  “I’ll be out soon,” he said. “She should sleep now anyway.”

  The old man squeezed his hand. “Yes, go to her.” Then his face hardened and he added, “I have things to speak to your father about.”

  Leth folded his arms over his chest. “About time,” he muttered.

  Alazrian had hoped his grandfather had come to Aramoor just to see his daughter, but it seemed there was business on the agenda as well.

  “Go to her,” ordered Gayle. “We will speak of your trip to Nar City later.” He grinned crookedly at the boy. “You’re afraid, I know. Don’t be. We have things in store for our new emperor.”

  “What things?”

  The king put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. Go see your mother now. Be with her. It’s what she wants.”

  The old man slid over to where his son-in-law waited and began talking in murmurs. Alazrian didn’t listen. The way his grandfather accepted Leth was shocking, but he knew the king had reasons for keeping Leth’s confidence; the man had a talent for cruelty that Gayle needed. Only Leth’s iron hand had been able to govern Aramoor. Once he had become governor, nearly all the rebellions had ceased. Except for the Saints.

  Alazrian knocked gently on the door, not expecting his mother to answer. He fashioned a smile and stepped inside. His mother’s eyes gazed at him from her sickbed. They were the only part of her that still looked familiar. Her raven hair had fallen to dead grass and her
once strong body had been devoured by the cancer, so that a husk now stared back at him. Lady Calida managed a frail smile. The treacly smell of medicines infused the air.

  “Mother,” said Alazrian cheerily, going to her bedside. “Can I get you anything?”

  Lady Calida shook her head, looking ghastly in the candlelight.

  “Grandfather said you wanted to see me,” said Alazrian. “But you should rest.”

  “No more rest for me child,” said Lady Calida. “Where I’m going there will be time enough for that.” She looked at him, and Alazrian knew that somehow she had seen the future and was counting down the minutes. “Stay with me,” she said. There were no tears, not from this woman who had endured so much. “I want you with me now. You alone.”

  “But, Grandfather—”

  “Just you, Alazrian. My little boy.” She reached out for his cheek, but carefully avoided touching him. Alazrian tried to hold back his desire to save her.

  “Mother,” he said desperately. “Let me help you. Please …”

  Calida closed her eyes. “No, Alazrian. Do not even think it.”

  “But I can,” the boy insisted. “You just need to let me.” He leaned over her and lowered his voice. “Father need never know. We’ll call it a miracle or something. Just let me try, please.”

  “No,” said his mother adamantly. Her face grew pained. “Don’t ever do it—not around your father. He must never know, Alazrian. Never. Understand?”

  Alazrian didn’t understand. He didn’t know why his mother was dying, or why such a good woman had endured such a cruel husband, and he didn’t know how heaven could stand to watch something so unjust. His life was nothing but questions now. And the one that vexed him most was his secret gift. Watching his mother wither away, he wanted desperately to use it.

  “I have this gift for a reason, Mother,” Alazrian argued, careful to keep his voice low. “You always told me so. Maybe the reason is to save you.”

  Lady Calida shook her head. “No, the reason remains a mystery. And I don’t want you to save me.” Her eyes grew dim as her memory called up the recent years. “I welcome death, I think.”

  “Because of him,” Alazrian growled.