The Devil's Armour (Gollancz S.F.)

by John Marco

  ‘Food,’ he declared, snapping his bare fingers at the barkeep. ‘Bring me eggs. Meat if you have it, too.’

  The barman looked at him for a moment, confused by the stranger. Thorin slapped the coins down on the table.

  ‘Don’t make me wait, man. I have a need for speed.’

  He didn’t know where the words came from, but they sent the proprietor scurrying into the back room. Thorin felt the eyes of the soldiers on him. He bit his lip, not with fear but with anger. It was Kahldris, he decided. The Akari presence in his mind made his brain burn.

  No fear! the spirit chided. You must learn . . .

  Thorin tried clamping down on the spirit, pushing him back. He realised suddenly that Kahldris had dropped him into this situation.

  If they challenge you, what will you do?

  Thorin struggled not to turn around. All at once he hated the Nithins. Because they stared at him? Because . . . why?

  You are playing with my mind, demon! he silently roared. His legs twitched, threatening to get up and leave.

  Will you flee in the face of Jazana Carr? taunted Kahldris. Tell me now and I will waste no more time on you.

  The effort within Thorin became enormous. He shut his eyes against the flood of tangled feelings.

  You brought me here to fight? he asked.

  I need blood to make you strong, Baron Glass.

  The answer sickened Thorin. His appetite fled in an instant. ‘Oh, no . . .’

  Before he could get up to leave he heard the chairs behind him sliding backward. The two soldiers got to their feet and stood on either side of him. He looked up, to one and then the other, and could not control the sneer twisting his lips. Both men were younger than him, barely thirty he supposed. The one at Thorin’s left hooked back his cape to show his sword and dirk.

  ‘You’re a stranger,’ said the man. ‘A soldier.’

  See how he challenges you? You are old and he hates you for it!

  Thorin fought to ignore the spirit. His jaw clenching, he said, ‘Just on my way home.’

  ‘Where’s home, then?’ pressed the man.

  For a moment it occurred to him to lie, but then something snapped in Thorin. The arrogant gait, the pulled-back cape – all conspired to make him hate the man.

  ‘Liiria.’

  The man’s face loss all pretence. Glancing at his comrade, he stepped back from the table and looked Thorin over. The tradesmen at the nearby table stopped eating. From the corner of his eye Thorin saw the barkeep retreat back into the other room.

  ‘What is this you wear?’ said the soldier, flicking his fingers at Thorin’s shoulder. ‘That’s not Liirian armour. I’ve seen Liirian armour, when your pig of a king came to conquer us.’

  Baron Glass, who had never any use for King Akeela, smiled at the man. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘You have never seen armour like this. The world has never seen armour like this, or a man like me.’ He rose to his feet. Then, taking the table in his fleshless hand, tossed it aside. The soldier who had challenged him stepped back. Thorin stalked after him. ‘I am Baron Glass of Liiria,’ he declared, ‘returning to reclaim my homeland. And I will walk through Nith or walk through fire to take back what is mine, and all the seven hells will not stop me!’

  It did not matter that the man reached for his dirk. In less time than the blink of an eye Thorin ripped his own blade free, arcing it outward and cutting him down in an instant. Blood sprayed from the man’s cleaved chest, soaking Thorin’s face and breastplate. Frightened hollers rose from the tradesmen as they scrambled away. The other soldier’s face curdled as Thorin turned on him. Sword in hand, armour splashed with blood, Baron Glass bid the man forward.

  ‘Fight me,’ he hissed. ‘I have not fought in years and I must show you!’

  Too callow to simply flee, the young man drew his sword and held it shaking before him. Thorin – now completely possessed by Kahldris – let his own blade droop, inviting the assault. Not seeing it for a trap, the soldier lunged. What should have been a clean blow glanced harmlessly off the armour with an almost human screech. Beneath its magic shield Thorin hardly felt the blow at all. Surprised and unmoving, he waited for the man to strike again. This time he came in with a horrific cry, swinging his sword like an axe and landing it on Thorin’s shoulder. Again the armour screamed like twisting metal and again the blow glanced off. The sword shattered in the soldier’s hand.

  Kill him, urged Kahldris.

  Thorin, his whole body shaking, somehow kept his sword from rising. ‘I will not!’

  Do it!

  ‘No!’ Thorin clenched his fist to hold back Kahldris’ growing rage. ‘Go!’ he ordered the stunned soldier. ‘Now!’

  Managing to sheathe his sword, Thorin staggered toward the door. The soldier and other patrons did not follow, but instead joined the barkeep in the back room. The world blurred around the baron as he staggered to his horse, his head splitting with Kahldris’ anger. Blood and gore from the man he had slain glistened on the Devil’s Armour. He mounted, steered his horse out of town and sped away, all the while tottering in his saddle as he tried to shake the evil glamour.

  Back to the hills, he thought frantically. Back to the trees to hide . . .

  The town vanished in a haze behind him. Afraid and sick with grief, Thorin barely noticed the valley whizzing past him. All of his great, Akari-born strength had fled. He was exhausted, weak and old again, and all he wanted was to be gone from Nith. He rode like this for many minutes, galloping until his horse frothed, and when at last they had climbed a hill and found shelter in some woods, Thorin jerked the steed to a halt and slid from its back. He sank to his knees, shaking, thinking he would vomit. The blood on his breastplate glowed an eerie red. He stared at it in horror. Slowly, slowly, it began to disappear into the intricate carvings of his armour. Slowly, the armour drank it in.

  Then, when all the blood was finally gone, the carvings in the breastplate came to life.

  With his eyes wide Thorin watched the little figures begin to move, their little metal bodies flowing lifelike in their chores – the woman in her gown singing, the man with the pike raising it high, the dragons on his leggings beating their wings. A great warmth overcame him, and suddenly Thorin felt strong again, possessed of a power beyond youth, beyond anything of mankind. His beating heart fed the armour and the living things on it, and he could not tear his eyes away from the macabre show.

  ‘What is happening to me?’ he gasped. ‘Kahldris, what have you done?’

  We grow stronger, Baron Glass.

  ‘You made me kill that man!’

  I need blood to be strong. You need strength to reclaim Liiria.

  ‘But I am not a murderer! I had never been a butcher until you came to me!’

  Thorin hung his head and thought to weep, but he could find no tears within him. Had Kahldris taken those too, he wondered? If Meriel saw him now, she would think him a butcher. And what of the boy? What would Gilwyn think of him now? What would any of them think?

  The boy no longer matters. Think not of him. Do not think of any of them.

  ‘I will think what I want, monster, and think of him fondly! He would not believe the murderer I’ve become! He thinks me a good man!’

  Good or evil, it does not matter. You must not think of these people – they are behind you. They will make you weak, and you must not be weak. You must be strong, Baron Glass, strong like my armour to beat back the bitch-queen.

  The effort to argue – to even shake his head – was too much for Thorin.

  You will feed me, Kahldris went on, and I will make you powerful.

  ‘You will make me a madman,’ Thorin whispered. ‘I will not become a creature such as you.’

  If that is what you think, then you may take off my armour and leave it in these woods, and have one arm again and be old again, and return to Grimhold to live with those fools and let Jazana Carr rape your homeland.

  Thorin struggled with the unbearable thought. ‘I cannot
.’

  Then you must trust me, Baron Glass. And you must not think of the boy or of the others again. Think only of your mission.

  ‘No,’ said Thorin. ‘Do not crowd out all my memories. I will not allow it.’

  There was quiet for a time, and for a moment Thorin could barely feel the Akari inside him. Finally, the figures in the armour lost their animation. The world around him began to refocus.

  I must rest, said Kahldris. You must ride on to safety.

  Thorin nodded. It was not at all safe in Nith now. ‘Then give me your strength, demon. Let us ride from here.’

  35

  A Mission for Onikil

  The sky above Andola’s castle was a bright, promising blue the day Count Onikil returned. He had been gone from the conquered city most of the winter, and was pleased to see Jazana Carr had done well in his absence. Gone were many of the burnt-out buildings, those husks that had littered the main streets and poisoned the business atmosphere. Gone also was every indication that Baron Ravel had once ruled here. There were no more of his mercenaries in the streets; now, only the Diamond Queen’s own hirelings could be seen in the taverns and whorehouses, spending all their gold while they waited for winter to end. Count Onikil kept his head high as he rode toward the castle. Like a hero he had returned from Norvor, an impressive trail of his own Rolgan soldiers behind him. Though tired and filthy from the long ride north, he managed to smile as he entered the city, hopeful that Jazana Carr could see him from the tower of her new home, the castle she had stolen from the now-dead Ravel.

  It had been almost two months since Onikil had been back to Andola. Not long after they had taken they city, bad news had reached them from Norvor. Rodrik Varl – the Diamond Queen’s favoured man – had been prophetic. Just as he had predicted, rebellions had begun flaring up in Norvor. Without the constant presence of Jazana’s armies, the tenuous hold she had on her homeland had started to falter. Onikil’s own city of Rolga had fallen prey to an ambitious warlord named Skorvis, a man who had expected to take over for Duke Rihards and who had been vocal in his disapproval when Onikil had been given the honour. While Onikil had been gone, helping Jazana win Andola, Skorvis had raised an army of his own and taken Rolga for himself. The same had happened in other Norvan cities. Onikil had been lucky. His sway with the Rolgan nobles had eventually countered Skorvis’ influence. The army he had brought south did the rest.

  Now, weeks later, Skorvis was dead. After having his body cut into quarters and sending the parts throughout Norvor as a warning to other would-be usurpers, Onikil had at last returned to Andola. He was glad to be gone from Rolga. Though that city would always be his home, condors wheeled over it now and reconstruction would be slow. Because he had no wife or children, Onikil had no one in Rolga to miss. What he did miss – what he longed for more than anything – was the chance to serve the Diamond Queen and be remembered for his service. In all the time he had been away, Onikil worried constantly about those who had remained in Andola, whispering advice in Jazana Carr’s pretty ear, gaining her confidence day by day. Had he been the first to return from Norvor? He still did not know, and that was why he struggled to look proud against his body’s countless aches.

  Still, Onikil was pleased by the progress he saw in Andola. The city was vastly improved by the looks of the commerce taking place. The stores were open again and vendors were in the streets, selling leather goods and winter vegetables and all manner of livestock to those who had flooded back into the city. Under Jazana Carr’s protection, Andola had come alive again. Onikil smiled as he trotted through the avenue. Merchants who recognised his banner began to rush up to his procession, offering them food and trinkets. An old woman forced an orange into his hand – a prized commodity this far north – and thanked him for keeping her safe. Though he had had nothing at all to do with her safety, Onikil took the orange. As he sauntered closer to the castle, he peeled the fruit with his teeth and began to eat.

  The castle, Onikil soon learned, was as crowded as the streets surrounding it. As he and his men entered the courtyard, he noticed throngs of horses and people from the nearby countryside mingling with the ever-present mercenaries and Norvan soldiers. Jazana Carr had freed Ravel’s slaves, but many of them had stayed on for paying jobs and now scurried through the yard on their way to the kitchens or stables. The common people – mostly peasants who tilled nearby farms – waited in queues for handouts of bread and cheese and other supplies, all purchased by the Diamond Queen. Onikil had seen similar sights throughout Norvor. It was Jazana Carr’s peculiar way of earning the people’s love, and for the most part it was working. Finally, she had heeded Rodrik Varl’s advice. Despite her itch to do so, she had not yet launched an attack on any other Liirian city, waiting instead for winter to pass and her toehold in this foreign land to become secure.

  Onikil brought his horse to a stop and got down from the great beast. He ordered his men to do the same, then shouted angrily for a stablehand. A red-haired boy of perhaps thirteen hurried over when he heard the bellow, nodding agreeably as Onikil told him to see to the horses.

  ‘My men are tired, boy,’ he added. ‘They need food. See to it.’ He looked around with a disappointed smirk. ‘What is this mob? Where is everyone?’

  ‘It’s People’s Day,’ said the boy. He took the reins of Onikil’s horse. ‘The queen does this every week.’

  Onikil glared at the boy. ‘People’s Day? And just what kind of abomination is that?’

  The boy withered under the question. ‘People’s Day, my lord,’ he began to stammer. ‘A day—’

  ‘For the people, yes, I managed that much on my own.’ Onikil looked around and gave a doleful sigh. ‘Don’t stand there like a dunce, son. See to my men.’

  With great relief the boy scurried off, calling to more of his ilk to come and aid him with the horses. Onikil’s men dismounted and waited for orders. All of them, including the count himself, were confused by the chaos in the yard. It irked Onikil that no one had come yet to greet him. He had sent word two days ago of his arrival and expected a better turnout than this. Jazana Carr, it seemed, was too occupied by her ghastly ‘People’s Day’ to thank him for his work in Norvor. The skin around Onikil’s collar began to prickle with hot anger. At last, he saw a familiar face approaching through the crowd. Rodrik Varl waved as he waded through the mass of farmers, each one shouting and stretching out his hands.

  ‘Onikil,’ Varl barked. ‘You’re back.’

  The ruddy mercenary pushed his way forward to stand before the count. He looked older than he had just two months before, when they had taken the castle and when he himself had cut down Colonel Bern. It was said Varl thought the defeat of Bern little more than murder, and that he carried the guilt of it like a yoke.

  ‘Yes, I am back, for all the fuss you make of it,’ said Onikil. There was no bow from the mercenary, and the count didn’t expect one. Of all the men in Jazana Carr’s employ, though, Varl remained among the count’s favourites. Onikil pulled off his skin-tight riding gloves and looked around. ‘All this rabble. I thought I’d left it behind in Norvor. What a treat to have it here as well.’

  Rodrik Varl laughed his thick laugh. ‘Back barely a moment and already complaining. Blue-blooded Rolgans don’t like to see common folks happy, I know. Better get used to it, Onikil.’

  ‘Hmm, yes, that dimwitted stableboy already told me. The queen does this every week?’

  Varl nodded. ‘For the last month or so, yes. There’s word from Koth, you see. They’ve been building up their defences. Jazana wants these people on her side when the time comes.’ The soldier furrowed his tangled eyebrows. ‘So? What news from Norvor?’

  Onikil blew into his hands, which were already chilling in the nippy air. ‘Just as you said, bad news all around.’

  ‘You killed Skorvis, though. We heard about that.’

  ‘A trifling thing, really. Skorvis always thought too much of himself. Don’t worry about Rolga, Varl. It’s Carlion I worry ab
out. Vicvar too, maybe.’

  Varl grunted at the news. ‘Manjek hasn’t come back from Carlion yet. You have heard nothing from him? Or from Lord Gondoir?’

  ‘Just hearsay on the road,’ Onikil replied, trying to hide his pleasure. Besides Varl himself, Lord Manjek was his biggest competitor for the queen’s attention. And Manjek being stuck in Carlion made Onikil shine. ‘It is nothing we cannot handle. The queen moves too quickly, that’s all.’

  ‘Have I not been saying so? I tell her every day, Onikil.’

  ‘She still waits to move on Koth?’

  ‘She’ll have it no other way,’ said Varl. ‘She obsesses over it, and about Thorin Glass.’ For a moment jealousy flashed in his eyes. ‘This vendetta of hers – bad business.’

  Onikil nodded. ‘Good that she waits, though. I had half expected you all to be gone by the time I got here.’

  Varl’s red face broke into a smile. ‘We would have left a note for you, precious fellow. Odd that you should bring it up, though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Koth,’ said Varl. ‘The queen has some plans. And she’s glad to know you’re back. She wants to see you straight away.’

  ‘Does she?’ said Onikil pettily. ‘Then where is she?’

  Varl made a mocking pout. ‘Oh, we should have had trumpets for you, is that it? Poor Onikil.’