The Saints of the Sword: Book Three of Tyrants and Kings by John Marco

Author:John Marco [Marco, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fantasy, Epic, Fiction
ISBN: 9780553580327
Google: vdv5F0tgvl4C
Amazon: 0553580329
Publisher: Bantam
Published: 2001-11-27T05:00:00+00:00

"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.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.