The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.)

by John Marco

  ‘We have supplies for days, and fresh water from the river. We can stay, Niharn, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘The Eminence will know we are gone. She will guess that we have taken Lukien away.’

  ‘She won’t know we’ve come here, though.’

  Niharn considered this. ‘No.’

  There was so much to think about, and so little that made sense. He had agreed to take Lukien to Amchan to kill a rass, and that alone seemed like madness. Lukien was a stranger, and in many ways a rival. Why then did his heart ache now?

  ‘Your men want to leave,’ said Niharn. ‘They are afraid.’

  ‘I’m their captain,’ said Thaget. ‘They will stay.’

  ‘And you? Do you want to leave, Thaget?’

  The captain of the boat reared back indignantly. ‘I’m not afraid, Niharn. I would not have come if I were.’

  ‘No,’ said Niharn with a grin. ‘I know. But they are very late, and they are strangers here. They do not know the things they should to survive out here.’

  ‘The man from the village – he seems to know.’

  ‘Yes,’ Niharn agreed. ‘He’s part savage, that one. And he has not come to fight a rass. But Lukien . . .’ The old man shook his head and sighed. ‘I do not think he can survive it.’

  On the third night in Amchan, the rain returned.

  Lukien, stripped to the waist and smeared with mud, stood outside the den of the rass, waiting with his katath, his Eye of God dangling at his naked chest. In the blackness he was invisible, smeared with earth so that his skin and hair were hidden. His eye glistened like an angry pearl. His toes dug into the loamy ground, bootless. His trousers, soaked with river water, clung to his muscled legs. Behind a single, broad-leafed fruit tree he stood, statue-still, his breathing calmly matching the wind. In the moonless night he could barely see the yawning cavern the rass called home, a craggy opening covered with slime and lichens. Lukien concentrated, summoning the power of the amulet, using its ruby light to warm himself. Though the rain fell cold, he did not shiver. His mud-caked body stood rigid.

  For a day and a night he had tracked the rass, following the tell-tale drops of Jahan’s blood and studying every leaf and broken twig. The rass had moved like lightning, stealing away the dead Jahan, but its giant mass had left clues to trace. Slowly, painstakingly, Lukien had found its lair. After a dozen false starts, he came at last to the object of his vengeance.

  And then he waited.

  For more than a day he had gone without food, refusing to leave the lair of the beast to hunt for sustenance. Everything he had brought with him – save the katath – he had left at the beach where Jahan had been killed, not wanting anything to slow or distract him. Refusing to reveal himself, he had stripped away most of his clothes and washed away his scent in the river, doing just as Jahan had taught him to avoid the snake’s sharp senses. His coat of mud kept the insects at bay. For food, he used thoughts of vengeance. Endlessly patient, Lukien watched the lair of the rass.

  The night grew deeper. The rain slackened. Inside its home of rock the serpent did not stir. Satisfied from its human meal, it had no use to hunt. But did it need water? Lukien could only guess.

  I am here for you, ugly one. Soon you will have to come out, and I will be waiting.

  He had seen snakes in Liiria, little ones, swallowing whole eggs without ever stopping to chew as their mouths grotesquely dislocated. He imagined that’s how Jahan had been eaten, all at once and slowly.

  You will not die so horribly. It will be quick for you, but you don’t deserve such mercy.

  Jahan had always tried to convince him that the rass were noble. But to Lukien, they remained the most evil of creatures.

  Jahan was noble.

  Would he want such revenge? To Lukien the question hardly mattered. Revenge was for the living to decide.

  Near dawn the rain finally ended. Lukien fought to keep awake. Looking up into the sky he saw the twilight stars struggling through the moving clouds. The leaves and grass began to glow beneath their light. He steeled himself, disappointed that the night had fled. It would be another day at least before his quarry emerged. The strength that had kept him erect so long began to ebb, making his eyelids heavy.

  They come out at night . . .

  His gaze dropped, and for a moment sleep edged across his mind.

  No! Stay awake!

  He took a breath.

  But sit. Rest . . .

  And then at last he heard a sound. It was unlike any other he had heard during his vigil near the cavern, a small, almost imperceptible scraping that tickled his ear. His heart began to race. His gaze widened and his jaw began to tighten. Crouching, he spied the hole of the serpent, and saw to his amazement the shadowy beast start to emerge. The head appeared, big and black, its dark eyes looking lifeless as they narrowed in the starlight. The cautious tongue came out to sniff the air, hissing as its forked muscles shook. The hood spread wide and the great beast rose up, surveying its domain.

  Lukien slowly released his breath. In his hand the katath trembled. He rose, stretching himself tall to confront the creature.

  ‘Look here,’ he commanded.

  The black eyes of the serpent snapped forward, fixing on him. Half naked and muddy, his hair slicked back against his head, Lukien raised the katath over his head.

  ‘You’re the one,’ he said. He had only seen the rass for an instant, yet now he recognized it immediately. ‘I have come for you, monster.’

  What might have been disbelief flashed across the serpent’s features. It’s huge head bobbed backward and forward as it watched Lukien, searching for him with its terrible tongue. The amulet around Lukien’s neck flared to life, flooding his features with a rush of crimson. He stood fearlessly before the rass, staring into its hypnotic gaze.

  ‘A friend of mine is in your belly. I have come to avenge him. Don’t think me another easy meal, beast. I am damned. Nothing can kill me, not even you.’

  His words echoed through the night. The creature swayed in confusion. It pulled the rest of its bulk from its lair, coiling its tail around itself like a spring. The hood pulsed with breath, spreading and contracting in easy movements. The lidless eyes kept watch on Lukien as it opened up its red, pulpy mouth. A great hiss issued forth.

  ‘You mean to scare me?’ Lukien sneered.

  The rass reared back. Lukien knew a strike was imminent.

  It came like a bolt, swift and silent. The coiled spring of the serpent’s body exploded forth, its head dashing for Lukien. Lukien dove. He hit the ground, somersaulting away as the mouth snapped closed. Surprised, the rass rose quickly, searching frantically as Lukien leapt to his feet. Seeing his chance, Lukien spun the katath overhead, slicing through the air and catching the beast just below its head. The blades of the weapon went through its hide, ripping through the scales. The rass hissed and jerked back. Lukien danced away. Coming around, he jabbed at the beast just as it tried to strike, this time smashing the twin blades into the creatures snout. The rass thrashed its head, dislodging the blades easily and tossing Lukien backward. It’s tree-trunk body shot skyward, towering over Lukien.

  For a moment the two locked eyes. Lukien waited for the coming blow. The rass flexed its hood and opened its maw, showing its gleaming fangs. Dazzled by its fearsome face, Lukien saw the coiling tail too late. It stuck like a whip, smashing into his back and knocking him to the ground. He tried to desperately to avoid the rest of the body, but the snake worked itself around him, moving with such speed that Lukien lost sight of it. A moment later he felt the strong muscles suffocating him.

  ‘Gods!’

  The tail lifted him bodily from the ground, bringing him face to face with the rass. Every fibre in him fought for breath, and remarkably he held tightly to his katath, refusing to loose the weapon even as his hands went numb.

  ‘Amaraz, help me!’

  A single blast of the serpent’s venom would paralyze him. But the spitting fangs were a second wea
pon for the beast, which instead used its powerful body to crush the life from Lukien. Lukien felt the pressure building in his chest and head, threatening to pop his skull. His fingers clawed around the katath.

  ‘Amaraz!’ he cried.

  At once he felt the power of the Eye coursing through him. Amaraz answered his summons with a flood of raw strength. The pain ebbed, and soon Lukien could breathe again. To the great astonishment of the rass he looked into its black eyes and cursed.

  ‘Kill me!’ he cursed. ‘You stupid beast, kill me!’

  The mouth opened, ready to spit. Lukien readied his katath. With all the strength Amaraz had given him, he jammed the katath into the soft flesh, cutting through the snout and severing the flicking tongue. A spurt of liquid struck his face, the venom from ruptured poison sacks. Lukien cried out, fighting the burning pain as he felt the muscles in his face go slack. His one eye blinked away the filth, holding firm to the katath as the rass uncoiled its massive body. With one last twist Lukien ripped apart its mouth before he hit the ground.

  The earth struck him, blasting the air from his lungs. Looking up, he saw the bloodied rass thrashing in pain. Nearby he found the katath, reaching for it with his outstretched fingers. His face screamed with pain and his crushed ribs felt as though they were coming through his flesh. Lukien staggered to his feet, beating back the pain as he rushed against the rass. Katath in hand, he drove the blades into the monster’s gut, bringing it up with a shout and ripping open its hide. A flood of fluid erupted from its wound, splashing Lukien’s naked skin and soaking the ground. The rass rose up in one great cry, shooting skyward and stretching out its long body. Then it fell with a shudder to the ground, writhing and whipping Lukien backward. Dodging the beast, Lukien fell away and watched the creature die. The rass crept toward its lair, almost unable to move. With agonizing progress it reached the hole, about to hide its head within its safe recesses. Seeing this, Lukien stepped forward, looking straight into the snake’s shining eye.

  ‘Time to die,’ he whispered.

  Raising the katath overhead, he brought it down hard against the serpent’s skull, driving it through the skin and skull. The creature tensed, opened its bleeding mouth, and collapsed.

  Lukien staggered back, leaving his weapon inside the beast’s head. For a long moment he was silent. His face twitching with pain, he dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around his broken ribs. He would heal, he knew. Already the amulet worked its magic.

  Laying down on the gory earth, Lukien slept.

  The afternoon sun bore down on Niharn as he sat on the deck of the feruka, sipping from a cup of wine from Thaget’s private bottle and feeling the heat cook the back of his neck. Steam rose up from the river bank, disappearing like ghosts into the breezeless air. Niharn’s shirt clung to him, wet with perspiration. An insistent fly buzzed around his ears. The men of the feruka sat on the other side of the boat, mostly doing nothing because there was nothing much to do. Others waited below deck, out of the sun. They had been beached in Amchan for over three days and their restlessness showed on their bitter faces. Some had taken to splashing in the water or laying on the beach, liberated from their duties by Captain Thaget, who had the good sense to try and defuse their anxiety. Niharn sipped languidly from his cup, feeling the wine work its way over his brain. He was more than bored now, and past the point of worry. He had already told Thaget that they would be leaving in the morning, and Niharn had given up hope of ever seeing Lukien or Jahan again.

  We should leave now, he told himself blackly. His eyes lingered on the woods in which his charges had disappeared. They’re gone. They must be.

  He felt a fool for waiting as long as he had, and he dreaded the look Lahkali would give him when he returned – without Lukien.

  The Katath Master lowered his cup to the rickety table and stood, stretching his tight back. Peripherally, he glimpsed something on the beach. Thinking it one of Thaget’s men, he momentarily ignored it. A second later his head snapped around again.

  ‘Lukien . . .’

  In disbelief he ran to the gangplank, pausing there to see the man trudging toward the bank. Lukien, half naked and starved, still held the katath Niharn had given him. His golden amulet swung from his neck. But he was alone. And his face had the look of tragedy to it.

  Niharn called to Thaget as he bounced down the gangplank then splashed into the muddy waters. Behind him, sailors gathered on the deck of the feruka. He heard Thaget’s gasp of surprise.

  ‘Lukien!’ Niharn called. He stopped with his ankles still in the water. ‘What has happened?’

  The knight from across the desert turned his single, hollow eye to the master. A filthy beard covered his sunken cheeks. The trousers he wore had been torn and stained with blood, and his hair was matted back against his head, caked with mud. He spoke in a rasp.

  ‘Jahan is dead,’ he pronounced. ‘And so is the rass that killed him.’

  Niharn fell speechless. All he could do was stutter a feckless reply. ‘I am sorry.’

  Lukien held out the katath. ‘Take this,’ he said. ‘And take us home.’

  Handing off the weapon, Lukien staggered up the gangway and onto the waiting barge.

  35

  The Walled Garden of Castle Hes contained more roses than Mirage had seen in her whole life. They bloomed in every variety, climbing trestles and smothering ancient statues while they filled the garden with perfume. Mirage worked diligently among the flowers, clipping back the sprouts the way Laurella had taught her, careful to watch the thorns that had already pricked her fingers, teaching her the hard way to use the gloves Laurella had provided. The morning sun blanketed the garden, threatening a hot day. Mirage glanced up at the blue sky, noting its perfection. The last week had passed in a day-dream of perfect weather, and she had been glad to get out of the castle and help Laurella with the chores. With Raxor gone, she had more than enough time to pitch in, and while the royal women of the castle ignored her and called her whore behind her back, Mirage was content to work as the servants did, tending to the garden or shadowing the maids while they cleaned the enormous home. She had been in Castle Hes for more than two months now, and the only friends she had made in the city were servants like Laurella. Laurella had taken Mirage under her tutelage, teaching her the fineries of court gossip and pointing out the best ways to avoid King Raxor’s arrogant family. She had cared for Mirage like a mother, and Mirage was grateful to the old woman. She had made Mirage’s confinement in Hes bearable. Amazingly, it was starting to feel like home for Mirage.

  Home had never been a word Mirage was comfortable with. For her, home was her burnt-out house in Jerikor, where her parents had died and where she had been scarred to the point where pity shone in every eye that looked at her. And like the little girl she had been on that awful night, she carried that memory of home throughout her years in Grimhold, where she had struggled to find her place among the Inhumans and to be the daughter Minikin had always wanted her to be. She had chaffed in those years, never really feeling at home, and then when Lukien had come . . .

  Mirage paused, staring at the bright red rose just in front of her nose, her shears poised to clip back its dead leaves. It struck her as beautiful suddenly, and she realized that she had not thought of Lukien in weeks. Her time in Castle Hes had gone that quickly, and instead of pining for Lukien she spent her days worrying about Raxor. Now, though, the memory of Lukien came flooding over her like the scent of the rose, so strong it forced her to remember. Her heart twisted with a tiny pang, and she lowered her shears long enough to sigh.

  Where was he these days, Mirage wondered? Had he found the sword? Was he even still alive?

  ‘And does he think of me?’

  From the other side of the row of roses, young Sela glanced at her. The girl was on her knees in the dirt, sweating but happy-faced, enjoying her work. She peered through the blooms inquisitively.

  ‘Mirage? Are you talking to me?’

  ‘No,’ said Mirage,
quickly shaking her head. ‘I was just . . . thinking.’

  Laurella, dressed in a long brown work gown, sat on a stool at the other end of the garden, filling a basket with the most perfect of the roses. Overhearing the conversation of the girl’s, the old woman glanced over, nodding with a smile at Mirage. Mirage nodded back, embarrassed.

  ‘Take a break if you’re tired,’ Laurella suggested. ‘Take some water.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Mirage.

  ‘You don’t have to be here, you know,’ said Laurella gently. ‘You can go inside.’

  ‘No, I want to be here,’ Mirage insisted.

  There were four entrances to the Walled Garden, each one an archway built into one of the four high walls. At the northern entrance stood Corvalos Chane, keeping his watchful visage over Mirage as she worked. Mirage stole a look at him, spotting a hint of humour on his hard face. He smiled, one of his wry grins, forcing Mirage to roll her eyes. Next to him was a barrel full of cool water that he had been helping himself to while the women worked. He patted it tauntingly with his hand. And all of a sudden Mirage was thirsty.

  ‘All right,’ she relented, getting off her knees and wiping the dirt from her work gown. She pulled off her gloves and dropped them to the ground, then sauntered over to where Chane was standing. Wherever she went in the castle or its grounds, Chane went with her, hovering like a vulture. At King Raxor’s orders he had been assigned to protect Mirage while the king was gone, and Chane had never once faltered in that duty. He was always nearby, waiting when she took her meals or went down to sleep at night, even when she bathed. He had become such a part of her life now that Mirage hardly noticed him any more, and that was why he occasionally taunted her. Like a spoiled brat, he wanted her attention.

  ‘Hot,’ he commented when she came up to him. He took a tin cup from the side of the barrel and dipped it into the water for her, offering her the drink.

  ‘How would you know?’ she jibed. ‘You’re just standing here.’