The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.)

by John Marco

  ‘You have been right about everything,’ he told Jashien.

  Jashien shrugged. ‘It is easy to be right about a man like Aztar. He is predictable.’

  ‘He’s not stupid, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘No, Majesty. I mean that he is devoted. Men like that are easy to figure out.’

  Baralosus said nothing, but the reply rattled him. Aztar was devoted. Not just to Vala and to his Voruni, but to Salina as well. There had even been a time when the Tiger was devoted to the king himself. Suddenly, Baralosus regretted the turn events had taken. His whole life had been politics. Aztar had seen that in him. For the first time since coming to the desert, Baralosus felt regret.

  ‘He lives in a world above me,’ he muttered.

  Jashien turned to him. ‘Majesty?

  Baralosus smirked unhappily. ‘Just a thought. Stay close to me, Jashien.’

  ‘Of course, Majesty.’

  Together they followed Kahrdeen to the front of the army, where General Rhot still sat upon his drowa, directing the men who scurried around him. The long night had wearied Rhot, making his bearded face droop. Still, his eyes burned with determination, even pleasure that morning had finally come. He smiled a little at the approaching king.

  ‘Majesty, we are ready,’ he declared. ‘On your orders, I will unleash hell on Aztar.’

  Baralosus looked around. Out around the dunes, his much larger army surrounded Aztar’s own, poised to enter the sandy hills and extract the prince. Atop the highest dunes a handful of the Voruni waited, scouting their enemies. It had no doubt been a terrible night for them all, and Baralosus was sure they would not be refreshed enough to fight their best. It would be a rout, a massacre even, and giving the order gave the king no pleasure at all.

  ‘General Rhot,’ he said softly, ‘do what you must.’

  The order went out, and the great army of Ganjor came alive like a huge, armoured beast.

  Prince Aztar knew his time had come.

  For the prince and his brother, it had been a bizarre evening. Knowing that the morning would bring their death had made the two siblings talk about things they hadn’t spoken of in years, the kinds of things that old men discuss on their death beds. Prince Aztar had reflected on his life and was satisfied. He had made mistakes, but in the eyes of Vala he was cleansed now, with only one great task left before him.

  To Aztar, it did no good to hide within the dunes. His task seemed as clear as the new daylight pouring over the sands. His enemies numbered over a thousand, but most of these were unimportant men, like game pieces moved about by a master. And like any game of skill, it was capturing the king that mattered most. Aztar had no illusions of his chances, but it was Vala’s will that he try. And like a fool, Baralosus had come out of hiding to accommodate him, riding up to the front of the ranks so that he was plainly visible now atop his ostentatious drowa.

  ‘He looks like a fat hen,’ commented Baraki. ‘Does he mean to fight?’

  ‘And dirty his hands? No, never,’ Aztar replied. He gazed out over the sand to where Baralosus waited near Rhot.

  ‘Reaching them will be impossible,’ said Rakaar.

  ‘But glorious to try,’ said Aztar.

  Rakaar grinned. ‘We are peculiar.’ He laughed nervously. Then he looked up into the sky. ‘For Vala, then.’

  Aztar nodded. ‘For Vala.’

  Rakaar and his men had all agreed to ride with Aztar from the dunes. Their excursion against the spearmen the night before had filled them with fearlessness, and because the odds truly were impossible the thought of dying in hiding was abhorrent to them. The other Zarturks might fight within the hills – that was up to them. Aztar had given them autonomy to die as they saw fit. For him, though, and for his brother, dying meant living like a man, with the sun on his face and the sand of his beloved desert flying from his drowa. He gave one last look at the fifty men who would charge, then took the scimitar from his belt. Up ahead waited Rhot and his soldiers, a long line of drowamen ready to charge. Mingled among them were the spearmen, who would quickly run in after them. Aztar put their numbers in the hundreds.

  He closed his eyes. He spoke a prayer. He thought of Salina and imagined her perfume. And then he was ready.

  Scimitar raised, he called out to his men. ‘For Vala!’ he cried, and like a storm they bolted forward. Across the flat earth they tracked toward the drowamen, who slowly came alert. Behind them General Rhot turned toward the dunes, a great, stunned smile on his face. He was all fury suddenly, swinging into action with his men, galloping forward and leaving Baralosus behind.

  ‘Do you see him, brother?’ Aztar shouted. ‘Do you see Rhot?’

  Baraki, tucked behind the neck of his mount, nodded vigourously. ‘He wants you, Aztar. Be ready for him!’

  Aztar fixed his grip on his blade, ready to strike. Between him and the general stood at least a hundred men, but Rhot was riding forward furiously, eager to meet him. Aztar’s men dispersed around him, clashing quickly with the cavalry. A moment later all was chaos. Beside him, Aztar caught a glimpse of Baraki, slashing feverishly with his sword, already surrounded by Ganjeese. The fighters tore at him, stabbing with their weapons and Baraki fought to free himself. A turn of his drowa and he was out, swinging around again to face them. Aztar brought his own beast around and joined the meˆle´e, then found relief in Rakaar’s leaping attack. Rakaar fell upon the men, his drowa bursting through their ranks, his blade moving with impossible speed.

  ‘I can’t get caught here!’ Aztar cried. ‘I have to reach him!’

  ‘Go!’ cried his brother.

  With more of their men coming to join them, Aztar pulled free of the fight and turned again toward the front lines. Amidst the madness he had lost sight of Rhot but a great mass of spearmen headed toward him. Aztar wiped at the blooming sweat across his brow. Over their head he could see the distant flag of Baralosus, looking hopelessly remote.

  ‘Vala, help me,’ he groaned. ‘Help me reach him . . .’

  The spearmen swarmed him. Aztar’s drowa reared to its hinds. The beast kicked out, catching a man in the teeth with its hooves and clearing a tiny path for them. Aztar seized the chance, driving the drowa out of the swarm then turning to unleash his barrage. His scimitar found flesh quickly, carving its way through the nearest man’s face. Another came, then another, and Aztar viciously dispatched them all, splattered by the blood that sprayed from their wounds. He was alone, he realized, with his nearest Voruni long yards away. And the spearmen kept coming.

  ‘Where are you?’ he bellowed, calling out for Rhot. ‘General, I’m here!’

  The sun spread hotly over the sands. Stinging sweat blinded him. Aztar rode wildly, unsure where to go, heading east toward the distant flag. Around him the battle swelled, carrying him forward, forcing his aching sword arm up again and again, each time to fall on an enemy’s head. But the wave was relentless, and already Aztar’s drowa panted, slobbering spittle from its lips. He had damned himself, Aztar knew, and a glance toward the dunes said there was no turning back. Somewhere in that mass of men his brother fought. Or maybe he had fallen. Aztar wondered a little too long . . .

  His drowa fell beneath him. A second later he noticed the sound, as a trio of arrows slammed the beast’s side. Its front legs collapsing, the drowa slid face first into the dirt, spilling Aztar over its head. The tumble loosened Aztar’s grip on his sword. He was flying, heals over head, then landed with a jolt with his face looking skyward. His body tightened with pain. His lungs screamed for air. Catching himself, he rolled over, clutching the sand and raising his eyes toward the coming riders.

  There, at their point, rode General Rhot, his face triumphant. He had picked up a javelin along the way and held it at his side, its steel tip gleaming. A dozen men rode with him; two dozen more circled around Aztar. The prince got unsteadily to his knees, looking back at his fallen drowa, sprawled uselessly in the sand, a groaning death rattle streaming from its mouth. Rhot ordered another company of men
into the fight. Aztar knew why. Being so occupied, none of his men could come to his rescue. He got to his feet and stared at the approaching general, sure that none of his lackeys would deliver the death blow.

  ‘You are a mighty fool,’ crowed General Rhot. He reined in his drowa, his men taking up positions at his side. ‘Here,’ he told Aztar, then tossed the javelin to his feet. ‘This belongs to you.’

  It was indeed a Voruni javelin, one of the many they had used the night before. Aztar stooped to pick it up, hiding the pain that wracked his body.

  ‘So? You are man enough to fight me alone?’

  Rhot started to answer, then turned toward another group riding into the circle. This time, King Baralosus led the way. With him was Jashien, the young soldier who had come to Aztar’s camp. Aztar recognized him at once, giving him a scowl. Baralosus’ own expression was unreadable. He trotted up to General Rhot, regarding Aztar strangely.

  ‘You wanted him, Majesty,’ said Rhot proudly. ‘Here is your prize.’

  Baralosus frowned. ‘You gave him that weapon. Why?’

  ‘Speak to me!’ Aztar demanded. ‘You may best me, but I won’t be ignored.’

  Rhot sneered. ‘A man like him should die on his feet, Majesty. You said that yourself. Look . . .’ The general turned toward his men. ‘All of you look at him! Is this your hero?’

  No one spoke. Jashien looked away. Aztar hefted the javelin, took measure of the distance, and heaved it at Rhot. Amazingly, it struck his unprotected breast. Rhot’s eyes bulged in astonishment. Baralosus gasped. The nearby riders closed the gap, supporting Rhot as he fell. And Aztar, as amazed as any of them, raised his voice toward heaven in praise.

  ‘You see?’ he told them all. He danced across the dirt, almost laughing. ‘I am the hand of Vala! You defy him by riding for Jador!’ He pointed at Baralosus. ‘By following this toad!’

  Rhot cried out, cursing as his breath faded. His men rushed in to help him to the ground. As he lay there dying, King Baralosus said nothing. The other commanders looked at him impotently.

  Like Aztar, Baralosus seemed lost. He stared at Rhot, then at Aztar, then at nothing as the general died. The battle still raged in the dunes. It would go on for hours. But Aztar was finished. He knew it and did not care. Vala had guided him. He was happy.

  ‘Vala watches over me,’ he told the king. ‘Everything I do is for him. And for Salina. Go back now, Majesty. Go back and beg for His forgiveness.’

  Baralosus smiled sadly. ‘I cannot. I cannot leave this place with you alive.’

  ‘Then kill me,’ said Aztar. ‘You can do me no greater glory.’

  Jashien rode quickly up to Baralosus. ‘Do it, Majesty,’ he urged. ‘Do it yourself. Take his head back to Ganjor.’

  Aztar laughed. ‘Yes! Make a trophy of me, Baralosus! Let all the people see how good and just you are!’

  King Baralosus called up his archers. Aztar watched them, then spread his arms out wide.

  ‘I’m ready to receive your gift!’ he told the bowmen. ‘You send me to a better place!’

  ‘No!’ Jashien growled. ‘Majesty, do it now! This is your chance.’

  Baralosus shook his head. He said to Aztar, ‘I love my daughter. I love her. And I will have her back.’

  The bowmen fired. Aztar watched the arrows come. A stunning pain filled his chest. His punctured heart exploded. The sand rose up to greet him as he fell, and in his mind he saw the smiling face of Vala.

  Vala looked pleased. Aztar was happy.

  Baralosus got down from his drowa, then went to stand over Aztar’s body. Death had come quickly; his marksmen were perfect. Red blood soaked the sand beneath the prince’s corpse, spreading out like wine. The men encircling him were silent. Baralosus knelt, putting his hand on Aztar’s head. He had died with serenity on his face, and the king was glad for it. He himself had rarely known serenity, and always envied those who did. But Aztar deserved such peace, he believed, and with his death the king’s hatred fled.

  ‘My daughter is no closer,’ he said to no on in particular. It was merely the truth. Aztar was dead. His men were being slaughtered. And still Salina was no closer.

  ‘Majesty, take his head,’ Jashien urged. ‘The others must see you.’

  King Baralosus scoffed. ‘Let the vultures have his head.’

  He rose, then glanced at the body of General Rhot. He had died so foolishly, so impossibly. It would be one more story added to Aztar’s legend. ‘Kahrdeen,’ he called, ‘you are in charge now.’

  Kahrdeen nodded solemnly. ‘As you say, Majesty.’ He looked toward the dunes where the battle raged on. ‘What shall we do with the rest of them?’

  ‘Finish them,’ said Baralosus. ‘They mustn’t follow us to Jador.’

  ‘And the camp? What of that?’

  ‘Women and children?’ snapped the king. ‘What shall we do with them?’ He turned to Jashien. ‘Shall we take their heads as well?’

  No one had an answer. Baralosus sighed disgustedly. ‘Kill the men for as long as they fight. If they surrender, give them leave. When you are done, make ready to ride.’

  ‘For Jador?’ asked Kahrdeen. ‘Majesty, we should wait. We are not strong enough to fight the Jadori.’

  ‘We should go back to Ganjor first,’ said Jashien. ‘When we have enough me—’

  ‘Jador has my daughter,’ the king thundered. ‘We’re not going to wait another day. Not another minute! We’re going to get her back.’ He took one last look at Aztar’s body. ‘You loved him,’ he told Jashien. ‘You bury him.’

  Sickened by all he’d seen and done, King Baralosus retreated to the back ranks of his army, where the cooks and cowards waited.

  53

  A jagged blade of lightning cut across the sky, making the forest road glow for a brief, frightening moment. Across the glass of the coach’s window, beads of rain fell hard and steady as Mirage pressed her nose against the glass, scanning the dark world for any signs of life. Up ahead she could barely hear the men above the storm’s incessant din. Straining, she saw the white rump of a horse struggling against the rain. The constant clouds had smothered the moon and stars, and with no light at all to guide them the little caravan snaked its way through the hidden hills, on toward Richter and the promise of warm beds. Mirage braced herself against the thunder. Seated across from her, Thorin had fallen asleep in the plush bench of the coach. His slack face leaned against his enchanted arm, his head bobbing steadily. He had ordered his men to keep going despite the rain and darkness, sure that his estate at Richter was only an hour or so away.

  That had been more than three hours ago.

  Still, Thorin slept, unperturbed by the noise and unafraid of the lightning. His self-assured manner gave Mirage a measure of ease. They had spent nearly two days together in the coach, far from Koth’s prying eyes, and except for the rain the trip had been wonderful. Without Jazana Carr and the pressures of kingship to hassle him, Thorin had become remarkably civil again, the way he had been when they’d first met in Grimhold. Amazingly, Kahldris had not come again either. Only once had he threatened Mirage, that first night when she’d come to Koth. Since then he had yet to rear his ugly face again, and Mirage knew it was because Thorin was controlling him. She knew she had come to Thorin at just the right time, and for that she was proud of herself.

  Thorin’s invitation to join him in Richter had surprised Mirage. For her first week in Lionkeep, she had done her best to stay far from Jazana Carr, letting Thorin mend his relationship with her. The trip was to be for the two of them alone, a way for Thorin to prove to Jazana that he loved her. At first it had worked, and Jazana had been happy. But then Thorin had broached the subject of bringing Mirage along with them, and a giant, dangerous freeze set in. Mirage still didn’t know if she’d done the right thing by agreeing to come, but she was alone with Thorin now and that was good, surely. She had a mission to accomplish, and if she could save him from Kahldris it would all be worth the hurt. She knew that Thorin loved her again
, the way he had in Grimhold. With her new, beautiful face, she was irresistible to him, and that was why he had willingly risked his relationship with Jazana Carr. He needed her, Mirage knew. He had almost begged her to come.

  Just then, Thorin opened a single eye. He smiled at her. ‘We’re not there yet.’

  ‘No,’ replied Mirage. ‘Not yet.’

  Thorin sighed. ‘And it’s still raining.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were looking at me when I woke up.’

  ‘I was thinking,’ said Mirage.

  ‘About me?’

  Mirage nodded. ‘I am happy to see the change in you. I am happy I came with you, Thorin.’

  Thorin beamed. There were not many men to witness the look in his eyes; they had come with only a handful of guards. It was how Thorin had wanted it. For him and Jazana, going to Richter was to be a private affair, a way to rekindle the sparks that war and ruling had smothered. Then, Mirage had come and changed that. Already things were moving faster than she had imagined. She had a way with men now, a power she had never known until her face was repaired. Raxor had fallen under it, and so had Corvalos Chane. Now it was Thorin’s turn to fall. This time, though, Mirage felt something different. She cared for Thorin. And she wasn’t completely sure it wasn’t love.

  ‘You’ll like the estate,’ Thorin told her. ‘It’s simple, a sad little place. Very old.’

  ‘And remote,’ joked Mirage.

  Thorin let his arm rest on his thighs. ‘We’ll be there by the morning.’

  ‘That long?’

  ‘I can’t say. I can’t see anything in this darkness.’

  ‘But you can,’ said Mirage. She gave him a knowing look. ‘With your armour you can see.’

  Thorin nodded grudgingly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What else can you do with it? You haven’t told me yet, Thorin. What is it like?’

  ‘You want to know?’ Thorin laughed at this. ‘I remember, back in Grimhold – you warned me off the armour.’

  ‘And I was right. Look how it’s devoured you.’