The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.)

by John Marco

  ‘You are thinking of your friend?’ asked Malator.

  Lukien grinned. He was not used to having an Akari who could so easily pick at his brain. ‘This is what Gilwyn warned me about,’ he jibed. ‘Yes, Malator, I am thinking of Jahan. He would have understood what you cannot. He would have seen the glory that’s still here in Kaliatha.’

  ‘Always on the past is your mind, Lukien,’ said Malator, shaking his vapourous head. ‘I grieve for a city, a whole world of people! You grieve for one man, though I have assured you that he lives on, not just in your memory but in a very real world beyond this one. Do not lament for him so.’

  ‘I know what you have told me, Malator. But it is hard.’

  ‘But you have seen the truth yourself, in the Story Garden!’

  ‘I have seen it, yes,’ said Lukien. Cassandra, too, he thought of often. And yet Malator never questioned him about her, as if he already knew all he needed to know. ‘You have been dead too long, my friend, not to know what it is to lose someone. Not a city, mind you, just one special person.’ He looked at Malator and shook his head. ‘I pity you for that. Truly, I do.’

  Malator was not offended. His elfish ears perked up a little. ‘I see there is still so much to teach you, Lukien. I value life more than you think. More perhaps than you ever have yourself. Ah, but I do not want to argue with you!’ The spirit looked around, floating on his ghostly legs. ‘I want to see my city, Lukien, and I do not want the moment ruined.’

  ‘No,’ Lukien agreed. ‘No . . .’

  Together they continued through the deserted streets, Malator taking the time to notice every tiny detail, Lukien gently guiding him toward their destination. Though he had only been in Kaliatha briefly, Lukien easily remembered the way toward the house where Raivik had lived, and where the dead man’s story stone still resided. He intended to repay every kindness that had been granted him on his long journey to Torlis, and that included the dead as well as the living. Raivik had been the first to tell him the truth about Malator and his brother. He had set Lukien’s feet on the right path. In return, Raivik had only wanted to know about the world of the living. Because he had been in too much of a hurry to indulge Raivik’s craving, Lukien had left the Akari after only one brief night together. Now, though, he had something very special to give Raivik, the greatest gift anyone could give to an Akari.

  Malator.

  ‘He will want to know what took me so long to return,’ said Malator. ‘He will question me incessantly.’

  ‘Get out of my head, Malator.’

  ‘I’m not complaining, Lukien. It will be good to tell my people the truth finally.’

  Lukien shot the spirit a sceptical glance, then continued onward. His horse rode gamely through the city, exhausted beyond anything a horse should have to endure. Lukien knew his mount needed rest and water, and neither of these were plentiful in Kaliatha. But there was a stream a day’s ride away, and if they rested well tonight they might reach it by tomorrow’s end. Until then, the water they had brought with them in skins would have to do.

  As the afternoon sun dipped below the highest towers, Lukien at last saw Raivik’s home. The dilapidated building had been a splendid home once, with a sprawling garden and high walls of stone that looked down imperiously on the structures around it. Long overrun by weeds and varmints, the garden nevertheless continued to produce a few wild roses from its thorn-covered bushes. Lukien slowed his horse as he reached the garden gate, a desiccated tangle of metal ready to crumble at his touch. The story stone was hidden among the weeds. He remembered its place precisely. In the shadow of the ancient house he dismounted his horse and stood at the edge of the garden, patting the Sword of Angels and smiling. The city of ghosts comforted Lukien. He felt at home among the countless bones. Beside him, Malator had once again lost his boyish grin. He was all seriousness now.

  ‘Malator, are you ready for this?’

  The spirit sighed. ‘They know I am here, Lukien. I can hear them.’ He rolled his eyes about their surroundings. ‘So many voices . . .’

  Lukien listened but heard nothing. ‘Can you hear Raivik?’

  ‘No. There are too many.’ Malator laughed. ‘They greet me, Lukien.’

  ‘I am glad for you. Welcome home.’

  Malator smiled then entered the garden, not waiting for Lukien. The knight followed quickly at his heels, but Malator needed no guidance, homing in precisely on the story stone. Surrounded by tall, tangled grasses, the stone rose up only slightly from the lumpy earth. Malator studied the thing that looked like a grave marker and gently reached out his misty hand to touch it. When he did, the figure of Raivik appeared at once. Lukien stood back, amazed by seeing the dead man rise.

  ‘Miracles,’ he said. ‘Everyday, more miracles.’

  Raivik knew him at once, and beamed excitedly at Lukien. But he did not speak, turning instead to stare at Malator. Raivik’s jaw dropped in reverence. His skin was the colour of a living man, flushing with excitement. Raivik, who had told Lukien all that he knew about Malator and his brother, now gazed dumbstruck at the ancient legend. Then, as if realizing all the millennia that had passed, he closed his mouth in a grimace and sadly shook his head.

  ‘Do you hear?’ Raivik asked Malator.

  Malator nodded grimly. ‘I hear them.’

  ‘They wail for your return, like they wailed when you left us.’ Raivik’s tone was reproachful. ‘Look around you and see what you have wrought.’

  ‘No,’ said Lukien, stepping forward. ‘That’s not right, Raivik, and you know it. The Jadori destroyed Kaliatha, not Malator.’

  Raivik turned to Lukien. ‘I thought to never see you again, Lukien, or to ever be called once more from my stone.’ He glanced down at the sword at Lukien’s belt. ‘You have found it.’

  ‘It is the sword that contains the soul of Malator, Raivik,’ Lukien explained. ‘I found it in Tharlara. It was just as you said. That’s why I’ve come back, to thank you and to tell you our story.’

  ‘A story.’ Raivik grinned. ‘You remember me well, Lukien. But this is more than a story! You cannot hear my people because you are not one of us, but the city cries all around you.’ He turned back to Malator. ‘I will listen to your story, Malator. Tell us where you have been.’

  Malator sat himself down on the tall grass next to Raivik’s story stone, looking strange as he crossed his unreal legs beneath himself. He cocked his head to hear, and Lukien knew that he could hear the countless voices of the dead ringing through Kaliatha. He had agreed to explain himself to Raivik, and in so doing make his peace with what he had done.

  ‘You believe that I abandoned you,’ he said to Raivik. ‘If you listen, I will tell you the truth.’

  Raivik floated closer to him. ‘Will you tell me why you never returned? When Kaliatha needed you most?’

  ‘There was nothing left for me to return to,’ said Malator. ‘By the time I could have come home, the Jadori had already ruined us.’ He bade the old man’s spirit to sit beside him. ‘Let me tell you my story,’ he said. ‘And then, when I am done, you may judge me.’

  Lukien watched as Raivik sat down before Malator, agreeing to hear his tale. It was a long story, Lukien knew, and he had already heard it. He was also powerfully tired, and unlike a spirit he needed rest. Backing away from the Akari pair, he left the garden and went to his horse, unpacking the things he needed for his well-earned rest.

  *

  All the next day, Lukien rode alone. He had spent the night in Kaliatha under the clouded sky, and by the next morning he felt refreshed and eager to go on. Malator had returned to residing within the sword, and though Lukien fully expected the Akari to appear walking next to him, Malator never did. Even so, he could feel the presence of Malator inside him, nestled warmly in a little corner of his brain. As Lukien rode through the familiar territory on his way to Jador, he decided not to bother Malator by calling him forth. Obviously, the spirit’s conversation with Raivik had drained him, leaving him as quiet as when
they’d first entered Kaliatha.

  Lukien was glad to leave the dead city behind. At last, after weeks of riding, he was nearing the familiar world he had left. Soon, he would at last return to Jador, and the thought of seeing all of his old comrades heartened him. There was still much left to do, still hundreds of miles yet to go. And his next battle with Thorin loomed over Lukien like a terrible shadow. But he kept these blacker thoughts far from his mind as he rode along the dusty earth, preferring instead to think about Gilwyn and Minikin and all the others he missed so sorely.

  The day went quickly for Lukien. The weather co-operated and his tired horse at last slaked its thirst properly as Lukien located a stream he had forgotten from his first ride through the area. Mountains to the north poured down their melting snowcaps in gushes of crystal clear water, inviting both man and beast to enjoy its pure taste. Lukien took his time filling up his water skins as his horse drank and rested. The remarkable beast had taken him miles more than any steed should ever endure. Horses were rare in Tharlara, and this one had been a gift from Lahkali. She had promised Lukien that its heart was stout and its legs strong, and she had been right. Lukien thought about the girl as he dipped his water skins into the stream. He missed her, and wondered if he would ever see her again.

  After he and his horse had rested, Lukien continued on, still without the company of Malator. The Akari remained silent the rest of the afternoon, and then into evening as Lukien stopped riding for the day and made a camp in the shadow of the mountains. When he had tended his horse and prepared him for the night, Lukien made a fire to stave off the coming chill, settling down in front of it and staring into its jumping flames. He quieted his mind with a few deep breaths, letting out a sigh that traveled through the camp. Next to him, the Sword of Angels lay in its scabbard. Like his horse, the scabbard too had been a gift from Lahkali. Lukien reached over and picked up the weapon, pulling it free of its scabbard. He laid the blade across his lap and admired it. The ancient metal glowed warmly in the firelight. He touched its smooth surface, knowing that Malator dwelt within it. And within himself.

  ‘Will you stay in there all the way to Jador?’ asked Lukien. ‘I hope not. I can use your company.’

  In the back of his mind he felt Malator shuffle. The spirit was uneasy.

  ‘We made good progress today,’ Lukien continued. ‘Tomorrow should be a good day, too. With luck we will be in Jador in a week or two.’

  Still Malator did not appear, nor answer wordlessly in Lukien’s brain.

  ‘I would have you show yourself, Malator,’ said Lukien. ‘To know that you are not cross with me.’

  ‘You try to shame me?’ Malator’s voice appeared before the rest of him. His face shimmered into being on the other side of the campfire. His body came last, sitting in the same relaxed manner as Lukien. ‘I am not cross with you, Lukien. I have been thinking, that is all.’

  Lukien gently kept his fingertips on the blade of the sword, making the bond between them stronger. ‘I did try to tell you what it would be like, Malator,’ he said. ‘And you could not have expected Raivik to welcome you like a hero.’

  ‘I did not expect that,’ said Malator. ‘And now I have made my peace with my people. I should thank you for that, Lukien. It was a burden I carried for too long.’

  ‘And now they know where you were, and they can be at peace as well. You see, Malator? It is good. Now you can go on.’

  Malator nodded in agreement. The familiar grin returned to his elfish face. ‘You could go on as well, my friend. I have told you this a hundred times. You have don’t need as much rest as you give yourself. I’m here to give you strength, Lukien, but you must take it from me.’

  ‘I rest as much for the horse as I do myself, Malator,’ Lukien pointed out. ‘Unless you have another sword for the horse to wear, a little dagger on a chain perhaps . . .’

  ‘You know what I mean, Lukien.’ Malator gestured at him. ‘And look – you still wear the Eye of God around your neck, even though I have promised you there is no need for it.’

  Lukien replied, ‘An old habit. I wear it for safe keeping now, Malator. I know that it is you who gives me my vitality. When we get to Grimhold I will return it to Mistress Minikin.’

  ‘And what will she do with it?’ asked Malator. He was always curious about the Akari and their relationship with the Inhumans. Even though he was an Akari himself, he knew nothing about their covenant with Minikin’s people, only the little that Lukien had told him. ‘Will she give it to someone else? Keep them alive forever?’

  Lukien shrugged. ‘That’s a weighty matter for her to decide, not me. The amulet is hers to do with what she wishes.’

  ‘I am fascinated by these things you say, Lukien. To think that the Jadori are peaceful now! It is unbelievable to me. And now they protect the Inhumans and Akari. The world has surely changed while I was gone.’

  ‘It has indeed, Malator. And the Inhumans will have questions for you, no doubt.’

  ‘Let them ask whatever they wish,’ said Malator. He leaned back on his palms and studied Lukien. ‘And let you ask the questions on your mind, Lukien. I know you have them.’

  There was no way to hide anything from Malator, and it frustrated Lukien sometimes. He had tried to mask what he was thinking, but had easily been discovered. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I want to know how you plan on beating your brother. You have told me just about everything else about yourself, Malator. You have talked me nearly to death! Now tell me the thing I most need to know.’

  ‘Why Lukien, I will fight my brother, just as you have fought Baron Glass,’ replied the Akari. ‘What else would I do?’

  ‘No,’ said Lukien, growing angry, ‘don’t dodge me. Tell me how you’re going to beat him. Will this sword break his armour? Is that all there is to it?’

  ‘Think on what I have said, Lukien. I will fight my brother because I am a soldier. You will fight Baron Glass because you are a soldier.’

  ‘Malator, that makes no sense to me.’

  ‘Why doesn’t it?’ Malator leaned forward. ‘You expect some conjuring from me, is that it? Do you think I will cast a spell upon my brother and that all will be done? No, Lukien. My brother was a great summoner, but he was also a general, and he did not get that rank by being weak in battle. He was renowned for his abilities, but so was I, and when we settle this thing it will be with blades.’

  ‘But how?’ asked Lukien. ‘You are not even in this world. Not really.’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t intend to battle Kahldris in this world, Lukien. This is your world. Kahldris and I will fight in ours.’

  ‘In the world of the dead, you mean.’

  Malator smiled. ‘Now you get it.’

  ‘And Thorin and I? We are to battle again, here in this world?’

  ‘That will bring us all together, Lukien. When you cross blade with Baron Glass next time, you will have my sword with which to defend yourself. And when the metal of my blade touches the metal of his armour, Kahldris and I will meet again.’

  ‘And then I will be able to crack his armour? I must be able to crack it, Malator . . .’

  ‘When I have beaten Kahldris, you will breach the armour, Lukien. But not until then.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lukien grew pensive. ‘And if you don’t beat him?’

  Malator laughed and said, ‘You have no confidence in me!’

  ‘Well, it’s just that . . .’ Lukien struggled for the right thing to say. ‘Malator, you hardly look like a soldier.’

  ‘That may be, Lukien, but I was a fine soldier, finer than Kahldris some say. Find some good in me, Lukien, please.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Lukien unconvincingly. ‘But you have to admit, you look . . . out of practice.’

  Malator bristled playfully at the insult. ‘You are such a sceptic, my friend. I will simply have to convince you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lukien. ‘Because if you can’t, Kahldris will beat us both.’

  63

  In the town
ship outside the white wall of Jador, the days were long and filled with boredom. The drudgery of daily subsistence occupied most of the time, as the Seekers from the northern continent settled into the unending routine of the southern desert. Because they were unused to the sun and heat, most Seekers spent whatever time they could indoors, relaxing in the shrana houses or playing card games under the tin roofs of their shabby homes. For most Seekers, hope was something they had given up a long time ago. They had come across the Desert of Tears seeking healing, and had got a slum instead, a bustling conglomeration of tongues and skin tones that had once been a place of vibrant commerce, but had swelled to the world’s largest camp for refugees. And though Kahana White-Eye did her best to make the lot of the northerners easier, despair was the thing they had most in abundance. Returning north was out of the question, and gaining the magic of Grimhold was impossible. And so they were stuck in the netherworld between both, unable to go in either direction.

  King Lorn loved the shrana houses. They were an import from Ganjor, a place where the desert folk – and now the Seekers – could enjoy a lively conversation over a stiff pull of hot, black shrana. Shrana was an acquired taste that almost everyone acquired late, but Lorn had learned to love the drink. In the shrana houses, he was no longer the counselor to the great Kahana, and the people there referred to him as a kind of good-natured jibe. For Lorn, who had been in Jador for more months then he could remember, the shrana houses were a strange whiff of home.

  Tonight, Lorn relaxed as a pretty serving girl brought him and his comrades another pot of steaming shrana. He had spent the day in the township, helping the Marnan brothers repair their ramshackle home, replacing the sun-burned roof with another layer of thatch. Harliz, Garmin and Tarlan had all come to Jador with the same empty hope, wishing to be cured of the blood disease that made their bones ready to snap. Because none of them could climb a ladder, it had fallen to Lorn to do the bulk of the work, which he had done with aplomb and a smile on his face. White-Eye was a queen now. She had taken to her role like a fish to water, and rarely needed Lorn’s counsel any more. The rise of confidence had left Lorn feeling like a proud father’s whose child moves away.