by John Marco
Chane toyed with the dagger in his belt, fingering its hilt. He was tired, and he longed to return to Hes and give his king the news. After a long life of service, Corvalos Chane was done. He might at last take a woman. He would retire to a quiet corner of Reec and be happy.
‘Corvalos, I’ve cleaned up everything,’ said Kaprile, coming up quietly behind him. Only the two of them remained. Chane had sent the others back to camp, telling them to get rid of any evidence that might link them to the deed. The danger had passed, after all, and now there was nothing left to do but wait until morning and retrieve the Devil’s Armour. Kaprile, who read Chane’s thoughts easily, asked the question on both their minds. ‘Do you think it survived?’
Chane shrugged. ‘They say it’s indestructible.’
‘It didn’t help Glass much, though, did it?’ chuckled Kaprile. He looked at his old comrade. ‘We did good tonight, Corvalos.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Chane. ‘We did good.’
They would stay until morning, when the fire finally died and they could make their way through the rubble. Glass’ skull would make a fine trophy, and Chane hoped to find it in the ashes. The skull and the Devil’s Armour were the only things he wanted from the ruins. He planned to leave behind everything else, especially his memories. Chane turned to say something to Kaprile, but as he did he saw the main door explode outward. He ducked the flying splinters and sparks, shielding his face with his hand and reeling backward in surprise.
‘All the hells,’ gasped Kaprile. ‘Who’s that?’
In the burning threshold stood a man, big like a mountain, flames clawing at his back. He held a weapon in his fist, a long, straight-bladed sword that shined darkly in the firelight. Gleaming metal encased his body, covered with spikes, flowing with life, while atop his head rested a huge, horned helmet with a face like a death mask and two haunting eye slits. He stepped out of the flames and on to the cobblestone court, little drips of fire falling from his armour. The horrible helmet turned toward Chane and Kaprile.
It was impossible. Yet there he stood. Monstrous. Alive.
‘I am Baron Glass,’ he declared. ‘And I will make you pay for what you’ve done.’
Corvalos Chane stepped forward, drawing the dagger at his side. Kaprile raised his crossbow and took aim.
‘You’re a very hard man to kill, Baron Glass,’ said Chane. ‘I’m sorry to say, I can’t let you go further.’
‘You have killed my woman,’ Glass cried, ‘the most gentle creature on this god-cursed earth!’ His voice broke with sobs. ‘You are the worst kind of murderers. You deserve the worst kind of death.’
Kaprile fired his crossbow. The perfectly aimed bolt smashed into the baron’s breastplate. At such a range the weapon should have punctured, but it did not. Against the strange metal, the missile simply shattered. Baron Glass shook his head as Kaprile loaded up and fired again.
‘I wear the Devil’s Armour!’ he said.
Chane nodded. ‘That may be, Baron, but I have sworn an oath to kill you.’
‘You may try,’ said Glass.
Kaprile tossed his crossbow aside and drew his own Watchman’s dagger. He looked at Chane for guidance. It was hopeless, of course, but they had both sworn the same unending oath. Together, then, they would fight.
They both ran forward, daggers raised. Chane leapt for the baron, legs outstretched in a well aimed kick. Glass, unmoving, absorbed it easily, and Chane felt the bones in his leg crack instantly. He fell to the ground, crying out, rolling away as Kaprile launched his own attack. This time, Glass reached out with inhuman speed, snatching Kaprile from the air. By the neck he took the Watchmen, raised him off the ground, and popped his gasping windpipe. Chane, in agony, clawed away as Glass towered over him. The eye slits looked down upon him contemptuously.
‘Watch, brigand, and see how you will die.’
Kaprile’s body was like a doll in Glass’ grip, lifeless and limp, pendulating as if from a Hangman’s noose. Baron Glass held him out for Chane to see, then madly drove Kaprile’s head against the spikes of his shoulders, driving the iron daggers through his skull. Blood and brains splattered across the metal.
And the metal came alive.
‘You see?’ taunted Glass. ‘He feeds me.’
Spreading from the bloodied shoulder, the armour writhed and glowed, the figures and runes along it twisting and pulling from the metal until at last it wasn’t really metal at all, but a black, impenetrable skin that stuck to Glass like his own. Glass held up Kaprile’s body, showering himself with blood. Chane tried to look away, but the sheer horror of it kept his eyes pinned to the gory scene. His shattered leg burned with pain, and he knew he could not escape. All he could do was keep his secret, and take it with him into death.
When he was done with Kaprile, Baron Glass tossed aside his blood-drained husk, then glared insanely down at Chane. ‘Mercenary,’ he said, ‘who sent you to kill me?’
Corvalos Chane grinned. ‘Do you think I am afraid of you? I am not. I am not afraid of anything.’
‘No?’ Baron Glass stalked closer. ‘It is well, then. Do not tell me your secrets. You will find no mercy in me anyway.’
Stooping down, he grabbed hold of Chane’s broken leg, lifting him up by the ankle and dangling him like a fish. Chane braced himself but did not struggle. Closing his eyes, he said a prayer to the Great Fate and waited for the end to come.
55
Thorin rode throughout the night, riding a horse he had commandeered from the dead assassins sent to kill him. He left behind the burning ruins of Richter, heading south along the valley road toward Koth, a journey that would take him days but which also allowed him the time he needed to grieve. Haunted by his memories of Meriel, he took no time at all to rest or eat or drink from the river. Instead, Thorin brooded over what had happened and the great stupidity of it all. Still fully garbed in the Devil’s Armour, he did not even try to make contact with Kahldris. Sensing his grief, the demon stayed far away from Thorin’s mind. Thorin remained strong as he rode, refusing to give way to the sobs threatening to break him. His mind reeled with questions, but mostly he thought about Meriel and how his vanity had killed her.
Finally, when morning broke, Thorin found himself beside a placid lake. Birds sang their songs of dawn, and the trees filled with gentle light as the sun peaked its orange head above the hills. His exhausted horse would go no further, and Thorin guided it to the lake, dismounting and letting it drink. He took the helmet of the armour off his head, holding it in the crux of his arm and gazed out over the waters. Without food his horse would not take him all the way to Koth, but it didn’t really matter. In the armour he could walk forever and never tire. Such was the power of the Devil’s Armour.
‘But it does not give wisdom,’ Thorin whispered.
The rage he could no longer control boiled over, and he slammed the armour into the dirt. His metal fingers came up, clawing his face, and the sobs he had tried so hard to stifle overcame him in a torrent, shaking his body and driving him to his knees. There in the mud of the lakeside he cried, weeping, unable to stop himself until he felt Kahldris’ cold touch on his soul.
‘Why?’ he groaned, lifting his face skyward. ‘You could have saved her!’
Kahldris’ voice was filled with sympathy. I could not. I could only save you.
‘You lie!’ Thorin sneered. ‘I know how powerful you are! You could have saved her but you hated her! You wanted her to die, you jealous shit-eater!’
No, Baron, you are wrong. I know how happy she made you. That is why I left her to you. I could have harmed her any time, but I did not because she pleased you.
‘And now she’s dead,’ said Thorin, his hands in the dirt. He shook his head, wanting to blame someone. ‘Why’d they kill her? Who were they?’
They were mercenaries. You know that.
‘Who sent them?’ demanded Thorin. ‘Tell me, Kahldris!’
Baron Glass, you think too much of me. I cannot be everywhere at once. I
do not know who sent them. The demon paused as if he wasn’t telling everything. Who do you think sent them?
Thorin looked up. ‘What are you saying? Damn you, Kahldris, tell me clearly.’
Kahldris’ tone grew annoyed. Who has mercenaries to kill the woman you cared about? Who knew you would be in the house alone with her? Who hated the girl because you loved her? Who, Baron Glass? Who?
Thorin thought for a moment, but the idea seemed impossible. ‘Jazana would never do such a thing!’
Would she not? After how you’ve treated her?
‘She would not!’
You stupid toad of a man. What is a woman but a warm place to lay? You have no need of any of them, yet you protect and believe their words. Why would Jazana Carr not want her dead, and you rotting next to her? Who else would send filthy mercenaries to burn you both alive?
It was unthinkable, too much for Thorin to get his mind around. He got to his feet, feeling faint and feeling angry. The demon’s words were relentless, his logic cold and true. Meriel’s tortured face muscled into his memory, and suddenly it made sense.
‘Would that bitch do such a thing? Would she do it to me?’
What have you given her that she did not have herself? She wants to return to Norvor, Baron. She despises Liiria.
Thorin felt helpless. ‘What shall I do?’
You can act like a man. These women – they are a distraction to you. Jazana Carr does nothing but hinder you. We needed her once. But no longer.
‘No,’ said Thorin desperately. ‘What are you asking of me? Ask me to tear the flesh off my bones, but do not ask me this . . .’
She has killed the woman you loved, Baron Glass.
‘No!’
Thorin hurried away, running along the edge of the lake, trying to escape. But Kahldris clung to him, refusing to let go.
Why do you run? Will you let that diamond-crusted bitch beat you? Listen to me, Baron Glass – you are a man! I have made you whole again!
His words drove Thorin back to his knees. Collapsing into the mud, he put his hands to his ears trying to silence the Akari. He hated Jazana suddenly, and hated himself for doing so. But the logic seemed so clear to him. How could he ignore it?
‘She is a bitch and a whore and I hate her!’ he cried.
Good! Now have your vengeance on her!
Thorin closed his eyes as tightly as he could, wishing for a better way. Killing Jazana would be a horror. He would see her in his dreams for the rest of his life. But he would also see Meriel, lovely, helpless. She had been like a flower, totally innocent, so very fragile. And Jazana had murdered her. He saw that plainly now.
‘She is a woman who must be taught a lesson,’ he rasped. ‘When I return to Koth, she will feel the hand of Baron Glass.’
56
Through the blowing sand of a morning dust storm, King Lorn the Wicked bent low along a dune, his body pressed against the hot earth. Peering with squinting eyes, he saw the first signs of the Ganjeese army, slowly marching west toward Jador. Behind him, the kreels of his party kept hidden from view, warming their bodies in the sun and chittering nervously about the coming foreigners. King Lorn stretched his neck for a better look, his face peppered by wind-borne sand. From the looks of them, the army had camped for the night and had only recently resumed its march. Caravans of drowa burdened with supplies plodded unhappily behind the rows of fighting men. Baralosus’ flag, clearly visible among the ranks, snapped vigourously as the dust storm tore at its fabric. In the east the sun was rising, painting the army with an eerie glow. Lorn strained for a better view. It had been a long night of riding, but their kreels had performed magnificently, seldom needing rest and spiriting them like winged horses across the desert. To the men who had accompanied Lorn, the feat was commonplace. But to Lorn, who had always harboured trepidations about the beasts, their speed was magical.
‘How many, do you think?’ Lorn asked Noor, the leader of the kreel riders. The question was rhetorical. Noor did not speak the language of the continent at all. Still, the Jador seemed to understand Lorn’s meaning.
‘Khaln a balin,’ he replied. Crouched next to Lorn against the dune, his face covered with a gaka to shield away the sand, he looked at the king to share his meaning. Lorn read his expressive eyes and nodded.
‘That’s what I think,’ he said.
He leaned back and contemplated the scene. Baralosus’ army was smaller than they’d feared. Lorn put their numbers at just over a thousand. It was a goodly number, actually, because their own forces in Jador were so depleted, but Lorn had expected far more of the Ganjeese to come across the desert.
‘Aztar. They must have beaten him.’
Noor nodded. He looked sad. ‘Aztar.’
Princess Salina had promised them that Aztar would do his best to stop her father. Apparently, his efforts had failed. Lorn had no doubt that Aztar was dead, and most of his men with him. The Jadori all fell silent, honouring the Voruni’s sacrifice. They had come with Lorn because time was growing short, and because they wanted to defend their homeland. Lorn had done all that he could to help rebuild Jador’s suffering army, and to train its blind Kahana. Now, all that remained was to wait. And when the time came, to fight.
The blowing dust growled intensely. Lorn rolled over and covered his face with his hands until the worst of it had passed. At the foot of the hill the other scouts waited quietly for word. Noor signaled to them to be still, then looked expectantly at Lorn, who blinked hard to clear his eyes.
‘Not too many,’ he said to Noor. ‘But don’t be too happy, my friend. All that means is that Baralosus is determined.’
Noor grimaced, confused.
‘He wants his daughter back,’ Lorn tried explaining. ‘He should have waited after he defeated Aztar. He should have brought more troops with him, but that doesn’t mean they won’t come.’
Noor made a fist and shook it. Lorn smiled.
‘Maybe we can beat them. I don’t know.’
White-Eye had done a remarkable job of rallying the city. Lorn was proud of her. The Night Queen, as the Jadori called her now, had asked every able-bodied man within the white wall to make ready for the fight. They had nearly a thousand men themselves now, and almost four-hundred kreel riders. Once, in Jador’s glory days, that number had been far, far greater. Under White-Eye’s father Kadar the Jadori army had been a force to reckon with, but two recent wars had decimated them, and without a proper king to lead them . . .
Lorn stopped himself. Jador didn’t need a king. It had a queen. It had White-Eye, and she was strong. But what should he tell her when he got back to Jador? She was waiting for word about Baralosus, and had vowed to protect Salina from him. With the forces under her command she could probably defeat the Ganjeese. Noor, who had carefully been reading Lorn’s expression, pointed out across the desert to the coming army. He looked sharply at Lorn and said a single, powerful word.
‘Lhat.’
Lorn knew very little of the Jadori language, but had picked up bits of it during his time in the city. In Noor’s tongue, the word lhat meant death. And to Noor, their path was plain.
‘You’re right,’ said Lorn. ‘We’ll kill them.’
That’s what he would counsel White-Eye. They had enough men and kreels for the job. There could be no other course. They would fall like death on the men from Ganjor, and they would slaughter them. And Minikin? She was always counseling peace, but this time she was wrong. This time, war was the answer. He would have to convince White-Eye of its rightness.
‘Let’s hope the little lady stays out of my way,’ grumbled Lorn, then slid down the hillside toward the waiting kreels. Noor did the same, and the two stood to face each other. ‘We go,’ said Lorn to his guide. He pointed east. ‘Back to Jador.’
Princess Salina heard of Aztar’s death from a man with a serving tray. She had been sitting alone in the garden of Jador’s palace, occupying her troubled mind by counting the hummingbirds that came to the rose bushes. Behind
her, hidden by a vine-covered trestle, a servant was talking in a loud whisper, oblivious to her presence. He spoke hurriedly, as if he knew his gossip was taboo, his voice strangely clear, the way one hears one’s own name spoken in a crowd. Salina froze in her seat and remained there long after the man had gone.
Lorn had returned. King Baralosus and his army were nearing Jador. And, to Salina’s great sorrow, Prince Aztar was dead.
The servant seemed to have no proof of this, but spoke of it as though it were clearly a fact. His voice dithered nervously, sure that he and his fellows would soon be called to defend the city. Salina held her breath, trying to stem the awful feeling twisting in her stomach. She should have expected the news, and yet it struck her like a thunderbolt.
For long minutes – Salina did not know how long – she remained in the garden, paralyzed among the flowers. Her mind skipped through images of Aztar. She remembered his touch, how soft his calloused hands had been on her body. She remembered his face and hoped the memory would never fade. But mostly she remembered his courage. He had sacrificed himself for her, for all of Jador really, and for that he had surely ascended to heaven. Salina managed to rise from her chair, lifting her face toward heaven. In the endless sky she felt him, and knew that he had died happy.
But guilt clamped down on Salina, forcing her out of the garden in search of White-Eye. Driven to find the blind Kahana, Salina searched the usual places in the palace, asking everyone she passed where she would find White-Eye. Most gave her apologetic shrugs, but after a while she found the young Jadori woman, massed with some Jadori soldiers in a large, darkened chamber near the palace’s great hall. Surprisingly, no one stopped Salina as she skidded into the room, embarrassing herself with her clumsy entrance. The oil lamps along the long rectangular table had been dimmed; Kahana White-Eye always craved darkness. Among the handful of soldiers with her stood King Lorn, stooped over a map of some kind he had obviously drawn himself. The soldiers all looked at Salina, disturbing Lorn’s attention. He shot the princess an angry glance.