by John Marco
‘And there is no one else that can slay this creature?’ Lukien asked. ‘Why must it be you? Why not Niharn or some other warrior? Why not an army of warriors, make sure it gets done right?’
‘Because that it is not how it is done, Lukien. Only my bloodline may slay the Great Rass. That is the pact we have made with Sercin.’
‘Sercin. Your god?’
‘He is the one that sends us the Great Rass. He becomes the rass, but of course he cannot be killed. When the rass is slain it is only the body that dies. Sercin’s soul returns to the sky.’
It was a fanciful, frustrating story, and Lukien didn’t know if he should believe it. Clearly Lahkali believed it, though, and that was all that mattered. He turned to look out over the wall, toward the range of hills in the distance and the single, fabulous mountain rising above the rest.
‘The home of Sercin,’ he whispered. ‘Eminence, how will you know when the Great Rass comes?’
Lahkali grew suspicious. ‘Why?’
‘Curiosity. Is there a certain date? How do you know how much time you have?’
‘In a few more weeks the rains will come,’ replied the girl. ‘Then the river will start to swell. That’s the time the Great Rass comes to the mountain. There is always light in the clouds around the mountain when the rass is there.’
‘That’s it? That’s how you tell?’
‘It has been seven years since the clouds around the mountain glowed, Lukien. They do not glow any other time. And it has been seven years since my father killed the last Great Rass. It is time for it to come again.’
With his thumb, Lukien tested the two points of the katath’s forked head. ‘Why are there two blades like this?’
‘A rass has two hearts, Lukien. Side by side.’
‘Ah! So to kill it with one blow . . .’
‘One blow is all that should be used. To butcher the rass would be an insult to Sercin.’
‘And one blow is probably all you’ll get,’ mused Lukien. He considered the task ahead of the girl, realizing it seemed hopeless. ‘Once a rass strikes you it would be deadly. How can anyone survive it?’
‘They do, Lukien,’ Lahkali assured him. ‘Even if they are wounded. When the rass is dead the Eminence drinks the blood of the rass. That heals him.’
‘Not him,’ said Lukien with a grin. ‘You, Eminence. So if you are hurt you drink the blood – what else?’
‘There is nothing else. Once the rass is dead the river turns to blood. That is all.’
‘I see.’ Lukien studied the blades of the weapon, reminded of the serpent skins he had seen in Kadar’s palace. ‘Lahkali, do you remember that place I told you about across the desert? The one called Jador?’
‘I remember,’ said the girl. With her arms wrapped around her legs, she looked up inquisitively. ‘Why?’
‘Well, this might appall you, but in Jador the rass are not worshipped the way they are here. In Jador the rass are vicious. Maybe they’re different from the ones you have here, I don’t know, but they’re not welcome in Jador. They’re hunted.’
‘Hunted? You mean killed?’
‘That’s right. They attack people where I come from. But I know a man named Kadar who knew how to kill them. He was the Kahan of Jador, the leader, like you are in Torlis. He had rass skulls and skins that he collected like trophies. Some of them were giant! I couldn’t believe a single man could kill a something like that.’
‘I can’t believe a man would kill a rass like that,’ said Lahkali.
‘That’s not the point. He was able to kill them. He had help from a creature called a kreel, a big lizard the Jadori ride like horses. The rass and kreel are mortal enemies.’
‘So that made the difference,’ Lahkali pointed out. ‘Without this creature’s help he would not have been able to kill a rass. Just like me, Lukien. Without my family’s ability to control the rass, how can I kill one?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ Lukien admitted. ‘But if it’s as important as you say, you have to find a way.’
‘I have tried, Lukien! I practice every day with the katath . . .’
‘Forget the katath. Or at least forget this one.’ Lukien tossed the weapon aside. ‘It’s too large for you. Niharn should have told you that. You need a weapon built just for you, something light and quick.’
‘Like the swords?’
‘Maybe. I’m not sure yet, Eminence, but I’ve trained men all my life, and I know that anyone can learn to fight. They just need the right weapon. And confidence.’
‘Confidence,’ Lahkali groaned. ‘No one has confidence in me, Lukien. Not even Karoshin, but he’s too kind to show it. The other priests know I am powerless, and the warriors like Niharn think I’m too young and weak to face the Great Rass.’
‘But you’re planning on fighting the rass anyway,’ said Lukien. ‘I can see it in your eyes.’
‘I don’t care if I die,’ said the young ruler. ‘If that is what Sercin wishes, then so be it. I will not run from this. Niharn and all the others think that I will, but I will not.’ Lahkali rested her chin back on her knees. ‘I have been the Red Eminence since my father died a year ago. He had no other children, and no one knows why. I have no mother and I have almost no support in Torlis. All that I have is Karoshin. I trust him. He protects me.’
Lukien could not help but pity the girl. ‘You’re too young to bear so many burdens.’
‘I’m young, yes,’ said Lahkali. ‘And alone.’
And lonely, thought Lukien. For a moment she reminded him of White-Eye. He thought of his promise to the blind kahan, and how he had pledged to protect her. It was why he had gone on this dangerous quest, to find the means to defend her and her people. Now, though, another young ruler needed his help.
‘I’ll teach you.’
She glanced up at him. ‘What?’
‘Lahkali, I’ll teach you how to kill the Great Rass. That man Niharn has no faith in you. He can’t teach you if he doesn’t believe in you.’
Lahkali stared in disbelief. ‘You? Why would you . . .’ Her question trailed off. ‘No. I know why. Lukien, Karoshin told you there could be no bargain. I cannot tell you where to find the Sword of Angels.’
‘I know that,’ said Lukien. ‘I honestly do. But I’m here anyway, and while I’m here I can learn from you and your people. Maybe something will happen. Maybe I’ll discover something about the sword that will help me find it. And even if nothing happens, I can repay you for your kindness.’
‘Lukien, you are a foreigner. You have one eye . . .’
‘I may not look like much but I know how to fight, Eminence. I didn’t always have this amulet to keep me alive. I survived battles because of my skill, and I learned a lot of things that I can teach you.’
The girl got slowly to her feet, doubting his offer. ‘I still have Niharn. He is a great fighter, too.’
‘I saw his methods, Eminence. I’m not impressed. Anyone can flail at you with swords. I’m talking about changing your heart. If you let me, I can turn you into a warrior.’
His promise touched something in the girl. Hearing his bold words lit a fire in her eyes.
‘What makes you want to help me, Lukien? I do not understand.’
For Lukien, the question had no answer. ‘It’s what I do, Eminence. Call it a curse.’
PART TWO
THE RIDDLE OF
THE SWORD
19
Alone on his weary horse, the last Royal Charger of Liiria rode into Nith. His name was Aric Glass, and like that long line of soldiers from his homeland he dressed in the uniform of a cavalryman, with black boots riding up his calves and a hat pulled down across his brow. The dirt of a thousand miles clung to his cape. Wind and rain had weathered young skin. Beneath his hat, dark, cow-licked hair hung in tendrils down his neck, but he kept his face clean-shaven, the way a good soldier should. Plagued with hunger, his body looked older than his twenty years. His eyes searched the valley warily, but he was not afraid. Like a vaga
bond with a begging bowl, he had been to the kings of the nations surrounding Liiria, asking for their aid and always being turned away. Finally, he had come to knock on Daralor’s door.
Aric Glass stopped his horse on top of a small hill. Below him lay a village, quaint and pretty, and beyond the village stood a castle, the modest home of Prince Daralor. Daralor Eight Fingers they called him now, though Aric supposed he loathed that nickname. In the Principality of Nith, Daralor was the only man that really mattered, the lord of a small but fanatical army who guarded their land jealously. Having just come from Marn days ago, Aric knew why the Nithins shunned their neighbours. Like all the other rulers, the Marnan king had sent him away empty handed. Even Sithris of Farduke, a man with no love at all for Baron Glass, had refused to pledge support, choosing instead to wait and see what plans the Black Baron might have.
Aric spied the prince’s castle, so small compared with all the others. In Marn, he had seen a palace with spires that reached into heaven, with so many rooms a man could lose himself in its labyrinthine halls. Yet still King Deborba had refused him, too fearful of Aric’s father to even hint at support. Like Sithris in Farduke, King Deborba had been watching the goings-on in Reec, waiting for the bloodshed to begin.
Aric Glass knew the Reecians were fighters, but he had seen what his father and the Devil’s Armour had done to Lukien, and he knew that Raxor’s men had little chance. In all the days since the library had fallen, Aric had spent his time wandering the lands around Liiria, begging kings to join his cause. And all the while rumours reached his ears about Liiria and Norvor, and about the great army his father had built to secure his kingdom. Aric missed his father. He missed that brief moment they had enjoyed together in Koth, before the armour had taken him. After years of estrangement, he had finally rediscovered the man who had bounced him on his knee.
But it had all ended too quickly.
As he sat upon his horse, Aric thought about his father, feeling like a little boy again. Once the library had fallen, he and the other survivors had fled, promising Lukien they would wait for him. That had been months ago, and but Aric had not lost faith in Lukien. Sure the Bronze Knight would someday return, he had kept his promise to Lukien, patiently waiting, always believing. When the night grew dark and cold, Aric believed, and when he was all alone in strange lands, penniless and hungry, Aric believed. He had believed in Lukien all through his father’s mad rise to kingship, tracking the rumours that followed him from place to place, listening helplessly as Liiria fell ever more under the thumb of the demon in the armour.
In all those months, Aric had never once returned home to Koth. He had considered it, when he was desperate, wondering if perhaps he could reach his father and talk sense to the man he had once loved. But then he remembered Lukien, and how the knight had tried that same folly. They had battled, his father and Lukien, and Lukien had so effortlessly been defeated, left to die in the middle of a muddy road. That’s when Aric knew his father was lost, and that the old man needed to be defeated.
Somehow.
A breeze strirred along the hill, carrying to Aric the scent of lilacs. He had seen lilacs all through the valley of Nith, and the smell brought a forlorn smile to his face. Nith was certainly the most peaceful place Aric had seen in years, like a pleasant memory from his boyhood. He breathed deeply, reminded of the days when he was a child and Koth was strong and whole and all the worries of a little boy could be dispersed with just a word from a well-loved father. Those days were gone now, like the glory of Koth, and Aric Glass could only hold on to the memory of them. He was more than just a stranger in Nith. He was like a ghost from the past, the last man alive willing to wear the uniform of a Royal Charger.
Aric straightened his hat and brushed the dust from his sleeves. Prince Daralor might hang him for invading his tiny nation, but the thought of the gallows did not dissuade Aric. He had grown accustomed to threats. They had only hardened him. Past the pretty village with its taverns and flower boxes, the castle of Prince Daralor rose up from the green earth, blocking the sun with its single, stout tower. Shepperds guided their flocks along the tiered hillsides, and somewhere in a distant farm a cowbell rang. Aric imagined bread baking in the homesteads and the taste of fresh milk. Hunger made his stomach clench. He put a hand to his belly to silence the rumbling.
‘Maybe later,’ he told himself. If Prince Daralor was generous and didn’t kill him on sight, he might at last have a decent meal. Then, down the hillside he rode, not quickly nor slowly, and not hiding from those in the village who might see him. At the bottom of the hill he found the road again, a winding dirt path that led toward the village, then forked. Guiding his horse onto the road, Aric ignored the village to his left and took the fork that led toward Daralor’s castle. Children in the village spotted him and pointed. A handful of men gathered at the edge of the street to watch him. Aric ignored them, not turning to make eye contact. In Nith, strangers were a rare and troubling thing, and Daralor’s people were not known for hospitality. Yet Aric did not flinch as he rode past the village, but rather sat tall atop his wearied mount, trotting undeterred toward the castle. Behind him, he heard the curious murmurs growing as the Nithins in the village gaped, forgetting their work. Ahead, Daralor’s home rose up on its green tor, surrounded by a meadow of wild flowers instead of iron gates. At the entrance to the meadow the road widened considerably, paved with cobblestones. A lone sentry patrolled the road, stationed at the mouth of the meadow. Spear in hand, the sentry wore an emerald cape around his slight shoulders. His eyes blinked in disbelief as he saw Aric riding toward him.
‘Halt,’ said the young man, sounding as if he’d never issued the order before. His tongue darted out to nervously lick his lips. Crossing the spear over his person, he asked, ‘Who are you?’
Aric Glass drew his horse to a stop in front of the soldier. ‘A stranger,’ he said. ‘Here to see your prince.’
The throne room was immaculate. And empty. Aric Glass stared at the seat of Prince Daralor, standing vacant in the spartan chamber. Tall windows flooded the room with afternoon light. A pair of emerald-draped guards stood at the entrance. Standing alone before the throne, Aric felt his legs slowly growing numb. The throne before him was a simple thing, not at all like King Deborba’s grand chair. Made of smooth white stone, the throne rested on a modest dais, shining dully in the dusty light. Twin lions had been carved into the armrests; the feet looked like bird claws. Behind the throne hung a tapestry. For nearly an hour Aric had stared at the tapestry and the battle it depicted. He recognized the flag of Marn, shown falling as a band of bloodied Nithins brought it down. The giant tapestry was the only remarkable thing in the chamber, and it seized Aric’s attention while he waited for the prince.
His feet throbbing in his boots, Aric took off his hat, holding it respectfully in both hands before him. The guards who had escorted him into the throne room had said almost nothing, ordering him to wait before disappearing. He had told them his name and his business with Prince Daralor, and he had expected the tiny castle to fly into activity. Yet the castle remained quiet. Prince Daralor had not come to confront him, nor had anyone else of importance. Only the lowly guards in the emerald capes watched over him. Aric began to twitch uncomfortably. Though he was young, he was quickly learning the games that men of power liked to play. This one, he knew, was meant to unbalance him.
So Aric calmed himself, waiting patiently, studying the tapestry and doing his best to ignore his own exhaustion. Finally, after another half hour had past, he heard the sound of people approaching through the connecting hall, then turned to see the guards parting at the rounded entrance. A splendid looking man paused at the threshold for a moment, spied Aric with his brilliant blue eyes, then entered the chamber with an entourage of stoic advisors, heading purposefully for the throne. Aric felt his mouth go dry as Prince Daralor glided up the dais in his flowing garb of sapphire silk. A black leather belt wrapped his waist, buckled with a golden lion’s head. Around
his shoulders he wore the same emerald cape as his soldiers, though his was trimmed with fur and gold embroidery. Prince Daralor sat gracefully on his throne, flanked at once by his gaggle of advisors, all sharp-eyed men who fixed Aric with suspicious glares. The prince made himself comfortable, placing his hands on the armrests of his throne. At once Aric noticed the missing fingers of his right hand. The little pinky and ring finger were gone, terminating in stumps. The three remaining fingers drummed the lion’s head of the armrest as Daralor took his measure of Aric.
Aric cleared his throat, then gave a little bow. ‘Prince Daralor. Thank you for seeing me.’
The prince’s youthful face remained unreadable. An advisor approached the throne to whisper in his ear. Daralor nodded. His good hand went to his chin thoughtfully, as if he had no idea what to make of the man who had dared to interrupt him.
‘You have your father’s brass,’ he said finally. ‘Every time a Liirian comes to Nith, there is trouble.’
‘Your Grace—’
‘No,’ Daralor interrupted. ‘Don’t speak. Let me look at you.’
Aric straightened, allowing the prince to study him. Daralor’s expression seemed distant, as if lost in thought.
‘Your father has been a great menace,’ said the prince at last. ‘Not just to Liiria, but to us in Nith as well. Did you know he came through here? He was wearing his accursed armour.’
‘No, Your Grace, I did not know that. I—’
‘He’s a single-minded man, your father. He could have easily gone around Nith but he must have been in a great hurry to reach Liiria. He killed one of my men in a tavern in the village. It was unprovoked murder.’
Aric didn’t know what to say, or even if he should speak at all.
‘Your Grace, I spent very little time with my father. We were defending Koth against Jazana Carr. My father came to join us.’
‘And then betrayed you.’
Aric nodded. ‘Yes.’