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

by John Marco

  Until a terrible vision seized her.

  She awoke while it was still night. The fire in the hearth had died to embers. Darkness crowded around her. Silence filled the tiny home, but in her head White-Eye heard the most determined screams, thundering in her mind, threatening to crack her skull. She sat up gasping, trying hard to catch her breath. Through Faralok she could ‘see’ the room, but the screams in her head crowded out his calming, constant voice.

  ‘Gilwyn . . .’

  Somehow, the sound was Gilwyn. The screams were his; she knew they were. He was very near, calling for her. Her heart began to pound.

  ‘Gilwyn, I hear you,’ she said, not really hearing her own voice. The world around her became a dark and hazy hall, not at all the clear vision Faralok provided. Still, only one thought consumed her foggy mind – helping Gilwyn.

  She threw the covers off her nightgowned body and jumped to her naked feet. It did not occur to her to call for Minikin or the others. Almost nothing occurred to her. She briefly wondered if she were really awake, but the cold floor beneath her toes told her the truth. Groping through the darkness, she stumbled toward the door and opened it. When she did the screams in her head grew louder. Gilwyn was outside, just outside and calling for her.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she told him, trying to shout but unable to raise her voice. She was enormously tired, moving as if drunk. Her own sluggishness put a question in her mind, but that too was quashed by the need to help Gilwyn. Panicked, she stepped outside the house and looked around the gloomy night. All the homes nearby were dark. Everyone slept. White-Eye took another cautious step. Where was he? Where was Gilwyn?

  ‘Gilwyn, I can’t find you!’ she cried. ‘Help me. Tell me where you are!’

  Again the cries collided in her mind. Again she tried to fix on Faralok. The Akari was there, but just out of reach. She could almost see him, grasping for her. He looked desperate.

  ‘Faralok, I have to find Gilwyn! Stay with me – help me find him!’

  Did he hear her? Did anyone? White-Eye didn’t know, but Gilwyn was very near and needed her.

  So she ran.

  She did not feel the stones cut her feet or the wind tear at her gown. She saw only the looming village and the great desert beyond, and driven on by Gilwyn’s calls she ran to the desert, bumbling blindly through the avenue. Within a mile she was out of breath and well into the desert now. She went on, not really feeling her exhaustion or the burning in her lungs. She began to cry, completely confused, wondering how to make the terrible screams stop.

  Only finding Gilwyn, she decided, and pressed on.

  White-Eye lost her sense of time. Her mind and body moved but were severed from each other. The cries went on, unabated. An hour passed, and then another. By now she was deep within the desert, not really sure where she was or where she was going. She had the notion that the village was only a few yards away, but when she turned around she could not see it at all, not its torchlight or even the slightest outline of a building.

  White-Eye stopped and became afraid. The fog that had seized her began to lift. Suddenly the haze was gone. She could almost feel Faralok again. She wondered briefly what had happened, thinking it all a terrible dream. But she was alone, nearly undressed, and all around her was the desert. She turned to see the sky overhead, swallowing her.

  ‘Gilwyn?’

  Her voice was meek and feckless. Gilwyn was nowhere near her. She realised he had never been near, nor had he screamed for her at all.

  ‘What’s happening? Faralok . . . ?’

  Faralok reached for her. She could feel his comforting embrace starting to wrap around her like a mantle. Finally she could see more clearly. She smiled, greatly relieved, then noticed it was only the sun coming up.

  The unforgiving lord of the desert.

  ‘Great Fate . . .’

  White-Eye looked about desperately. She wanted to bolt, but there was nowhere to run. She was lost and the village was gone. The mountains in the distance looked wholly unfamiliar. She ran for them, knowing it was impossible to reach them. Slowly, horribly, the sun ascended the horizon, striking her skin and clawing at her sightless eyes. The pain of it made tears run. She closed her eyes, shutting out the worst of it as she scrambled for the mountains, the only shelter she could detect for miles.

  ‘Help!’ she cried, her eyes shut tight, her naked feet tumbling through the sand. ‘Help me!’

  No one heard her. She knew that no one would. She stumbled, falling to her knees, cupping her hands over her eyes. The pain became enormous with every bit of sunlight that filtered through her fingers. The slight redness on her eyelids intensified. Suddenly she could no longer feel Faralok, only the desperate scratching of his spirit-hands as they reached for her across the void. The pain was driving him away. The pain kept her from concentrating.

  Concentrating will bring him back! she told herself. Hold on! Hold on!

  With her hands over her eyes she rose unsteadily to her feet, but without Faralok she was blind and not even sure where the mountains lay.

  Straight ahead, she urged. Walk straight ahead.

  Every step was an agony. Exhausted, her body aching, her hands slipped down from her face as she fought to balance herself, stabbing her closed eyes with red beams of sunlight. White-Eye gasped as her head exploded with pain. Again her knees buckled, dragging her down to the sand. All at once the weight of her predicament fell on her, crushing her. She began to sob, crying out for Faralok. The Akari was gone. She was completely alone, a feeling she had forgotten but which now sent her spinning. Mad with fear and pain she collapsed into the sand, burying her face so that the sun could not find her.

  The worst darkness she had ever known filled the void left by Faralok.

  44

  The Hunting Party

  Count Onikil scratched the skin beneath his leather jerkin, trying hard to keep up with the others. The thick forest reached for him with low branches as his horse galloped gamely after the barking hounds. Up ahead, Baron Glass and Rodrik Varl followed closely on the hooves of Master Halorn, the huntsman of Andola castle. Halorn and his apprentice – a boy named Reeve who’d been recently promoted to groom – had awoken early to track the boars. In early spring there were still wild pigs about the forest, and Glass had been eager to get out of the castle. The yelping of the dogs filled the wooded hills as they found the scent of their prey. If he listened hard enough, Onikil could hear the frightened snorting of the boar as the hounds wore it down.

  Onikil was an accomplished huntsman himself and had been pleased by Glass’ invitation to join the hunt. As a noble, Onikil had his own Master of the Hunt back in Rolga, and had joined in many stag and boar parties. But he had come to Andola like everyone else – unprepared for simple pleasures like hunting. The borrowed boots and jerkin he wore barely fit his gangly frame. Like the others, Onikil wore heavy leather leggings to protect himself from thorns and brambles and a fur jacket over his jerkin. At his belt hung a skinning dagger and a long sword for dispatching the boar. He doubted very much that he would get a chance to kill a boar himself. It was Glass’ party, after all, and Glass seemed particularly bent on doing the killing himself.

  Master Halorn slapped his leather thong across his boot to urge on the hounds. The twelve beasts – a multicoloured, slobbering brood – darted up and over fallen trees in their pursuit. Baron Glass rode close behind Halorn and his groom. He had finally removed his strange armour but still wore the pieces for his left arm. After two days in Andola, he had revealed the truth of his enchanted appendage to all of the queen’s men. It had been a shock to Onikil, who had easily fallen for Glass’ act of lameness and had completely believed the arm components to be empty. Were they empty? Onikil still didn’t know for certain. He only knew that the Jadori armour was somehow bewitched, enabling Glass to be whole again.

  As they drove through the woods, Glass surprised the count by turning to glare at him. ‘Keep up, Onikil!’ he shouted.

  His fac
e was peculiar. Red and covered in sweat, it had changed since that first meeting in Koth. Onikil was frightened of Glass now. They all were, except for the queen. Instead, Jazana Carr seemed happy. That was some good, Onikil supposed, but since Glass had come she had not abandoned her plans to conquer Koth.

  And that puzzled him.

  ‘I’m trying!’ Onikil yelled back at Glass. ‘This bloody horse!’

  He had been given the worst mount of the bunch, it seemed. Even Reeve the apprentice had a better horse than his nag. Still, Onikil did his best to stay in the hunt, at last bringing his mount up beside Rodrik Varl’s dappled gelding. Varl had dressed in hunting gear like the rest of them but still wore his beret, tucking it tightly down over his forehead as he galloped after the boar. Unlike the others, however, Varl had not wanted to come on the hunt, doing so only under Glass’ insistence. Since Glass had come to Andola, Varl had done a very poor job of hiding his disdain.

  At last, the group stopped running. The hounds began to bark and growl, looking around in tired confusion. Onikil knew they had lost the boar’s track. They sniffed at the air, trying to rediscover its scent. Master Halorn cursed and urged his apprentice forward. The boy rode ahead and spoke encouragingly to the dogs, feeding them bread from a sack at his saddle.

  ‘Go on,’ he told the hounds. ‘Find him . . .’

  The hounds took no interest in resting. Instead they started up again, sniffing at the ground and finally choosing a direction. They located the boar and the hunt began anew. This time, Onikil was all caught up and determined not to fall behind. He punched his boots into the flanks of his horse and sent the beast flying forward. Baron Glass laughed and cheered.

  ‘That’s it, Onikil! After that ugly pig!’

  With Glass and Varl close behind, Onikil sped after Halorn and the apprentice, following the dogs as best he could. They had been running a good while now and he knew the boar must be exhausted. Soon the hounds would close around it, terrifying the beast who’d be too damn tired to defend itself. It was a cruel and beautiful thing, the hunt, and Onikil had always enjoyed it. Buoyed by his newfound speed, he grinned and cheered himself on.

  ‘Whoever reaches it first gets the kill,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Agreed, Baron?’

  ‘Agreed!’ barked Glass. He spurred his horse to keep up. Barrelling past Rodrik Varl, he was soon neck-and-neck with Onikil. Master Halorn charged deeper into the woods after his eager hounds, banging his thong against his boot. Reeve the groom coaxed the dogs onward, calling out to them to hurry. As they closed in on the trapped boar, Onikil could see them breaking formation, encircling the beast. Soon they had stopped, having cornered the animal near a thick stand of trees. Onikil and the others quickly reined in their horses.

  ‘There it is,’ said Halorn, pointing toward the animal. It was a big beast, snorting hard, thrusting its curled tusks at the snapping dogs. Terror filled its small round eyes. Reeve dropped quickly off his horse and took up a hunting spear, slowly approaching the beast. When it saw him it squealed horribly.

  ‘Not too close,’ Halorn called after him. The Master of the Hunt dismounted, telling the others to do the same. He had his own spear ready and closed in on the beast from the other side.

  ‘So?’ asked Rodrik dryly. ‘Which one of you heroes gets to kill the poor thing?’

  Clearly it wouldn’t be him. He had no interest in the killing. Onikil looked at Baron Glass, who nodded at him.

  ‘A good effort in the end,’ said Glass. ‘Take it, Onikil.’

  Surprised by the gesture, Count Onikil drew his long sword and stalked toward the pig. Too exhausted to run again, the boar stood its ground as he approached, snorting and twisting its thick neck, threatening to attack. The dogs kept the beast back with their clapping fangs. Master Halorn and Reeve stood ready with their spears. Onikil knew they would not be needed. The chase had taken the fight out of the beast. All he had to do was kill it.

  With his sword poised before him, Onikil came in low and slow. The excitement of the kill pumped his veins with rushing blood. He met the small, piggish eyes of the boar. A kind of desperate resignation shone in them. Did all beasts know when their time was finished? This one did, and Onikil was quick to bring its end.

  The boar had not really time to see the sword thrust forward. Onikil’s blade darted out, catching the beast in its hulking breast. An agonised squeal blew from its lungs as blood sprayed from its wound. It shook violently on Onikil’s sword – but only for a moment. Onikil pulled his blade free and readied for another blow. The boar collapsed in a heap to the mossy ground.

  ‘Well done,’ praised Baron Glass. He stepped closer to inspect the count’s handiwork, kicking at the dead boar with his booted foot and beaming an admiring smile. ‘I’m glad I brought you along.’

  An hour later Count Onikil sat crouched over a fire, warming his hands and listening to Rodrik Varl tell a raunchy story. They had brought food and drink along with them so that they could enjoy it after the hunt, and Varl had already drunk more than his capacity. Master Halorn and his apprentice had ridden back to the city with their prize, but the afternoon was bright and still warm enough to enjoy, and Glass had suggested the rest of them remain on the hunt. He had not yet gotten a boar of his own and still seemed intent on doing so. Onikil, however, was content to stay by the fire and rest. The hunt had hungered him and he had eaten his fill. He doubted very much that any of them would feel like hunting after enjoying the hospitality of their little camp.

  Baron Glass listened and laughed as Varl continued his tale, a bawdy story of two fat sisters he had bedded during a campaign long ago against King Lorn. The mercenary continued drinking as he spoke, drowning half his words in ale. Onikil could not help wondering what was the matter with him. After an afternoon of stoic anger, Varl had decided to lose all control. He cursed as he told his story, his voice slurring badly. Baron Glass leaned back on his magical arm, watching him oddly as he listened, a blade of grass propped in his teeth. Whatever animosity existed between the two of them was over for the moment, but there was definite mistrust in Glass’ eyes, as if he expected Varl to say something insulting.

  ‘And when I woke up the bed was broken!’ Varl chuckled. His shoulders bounced with laughter. ‘Women. I can pick ’em, eh? Only the good ones turn me down, you see. I haven’t been with a good woman since . . .’ He shrugged, unable to find an answer in his clouded brain.

  ‘Your mother?’ suggested Glass.

  Onikil laughed. Varl shot Glass a sneer.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about, Glass. I’m talking about Jazana. You’re back now, and she has no use for me, except to run her errands and pick up after her.’

  ‘Steady, man,’ Glass warned.

  ‘It’s true . . . you know it is.’

  ‘Varl, you’re drunk,’ said Glass. ‘Try to remember why we’re here.’

  Varl got a distant look.

  Glass continued, ‘Jazana Carr likes loyal men. You’ve been loyal to her, Varl. That’s why she keeps you around. She knows she can depend on you.’ The baron pushed himself up. He glanced at Onikil. ‘Loyalty is all-important now, more than ever. We can’t brook dissent, not while we’re at war with Koth.’

  Count Onikil nodded, feigning full agreement as he rubbed his hands before the fire. He had been completely surprised by Glass’ willingness to war with Koth, people he had assumed were Glass’ friends. But he had quickly learned that the baron’s hunger for power was as bad as the queen’s herself; now they planned on taking Koth together.

  ‘You’re so right, Baron,’ he offered. ‘No dissent. No chinks in the armour, so to speak. That’s how we’ll win this thing.’

  Glass smirked at his minor joke. ‘This “thing”, as you call it – we’re talking about my country. Don’t misunderstand why we’re doing this, Onikil. I don’t need another misery-bag like Varl, always complaining and holding us back.’

  ‘No, Baron, certainly not,’ said Onikil. He looked at Varl, but the b
odyguard only stared at him blankly. ‘You’re too hard on poor Rodrik, perhaps. He’s as loyal as any man I know. He’ll be no trouble for you, I’m sure.’

  ‘Good, because I don’t want a man in my circle to be preoccupied with home,’ said Glass. ‘You know the type – always moaning about the way things should be done, as if he could do it better himself.’

  Onikil smiled. ‘Of course not,’ he agreed, wondering why Glass was still looking at him instead of Varl.

  ‘Say for instance that a man was going around talking out of turn, talking about how the queen was going too far. Now that wouldn’t be good.’ Baron Glass spat the grass blade out of his mouth. ‘Get my meaning, Onikil?’

  The signal was too clear to ignore. Count Onikil felt his heart ice over.

  ‘Baron Glass, I’m not a stupid man,’ he said quietly. ‘What we talked about in Koth was for the best of all of us.’

  ‘I wonder how many others you’re talking to, Onikil. I wonder how much poison you’ve spread.’ Baron Glass leaned his big body forward as if to tell a secret. ‘What you said to me in Koth – some might call it treason.’

  Onikil licked his lips, lost for words. He glanced at Varl, but the drunken soldier merely nodded. His tight expression told the count exactly why they were all here.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Glass,’ he argued. ‘I’m as loyal to Jazana Carr as anyone. She wants to invade Koth with you? I’m with her completely. Fate above, Varl, tell him!’

  Rodrik Varl was listless as he said, ‘The decision’s been made, Onikil. Glass has Jazana’s ear now, not me.’

  ‘And you told her what?’ asked Onikil hotly, glowering at Glass. ‘That I think she’s going too far? I was the one who brought you here!’ He could barely catch his breath as the sudden fear gripped his chest. ‘But you’re not that same man, are you, Baron? That blasted armour.’