The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.)

by John Marco

  Lukien was intrigued. ‘Do you believe him, Aric?’

  ‘I do, Lukien. I tell you, I have seen such strange things this last year! Raxor is a good man. He’s nothing like I’d thought he’d be. He’s as crusty as an old loaf of bread, but his heart is good and I trust him. He’ll be ready for us when we return, I know it.’

  ‘We’ll need him,’ said Lukien. ‘You say Daralor has only a few thousand men to bring with us?’

  ‘I don’t even think it’s that many, really,’ said Aric.

  ‘And Raxor? He’s already been beaten by Thorin. He can’t have that many men, either.’

  ‘Reec is still strong,’ said Aric confidently. ‘But it’s not about numbers, Lukien. Raxor could have thrown everything he had at my father, it wouldn’t have mattered. I’m telling you, you had to have seen him!’

  ‘I did see him,’ Lukien reminded Aric. ‘I fought him, remember.’

  Aric grimaced. ‘I remember. But he’s changed even since then. He’s much worse now, Lukien.’

  ‘And he’s had time,’ said Lorn, finally breaking his silence. The big man looked at all of them seriously. ‘Without Reec to bother him he’s had all the time he needs to build up his forces, to call up reserves from Norvor. Tell me, Aric, what about that? You have hardly mentioned Norvor or Jazana Carr.’

  Aric shrugged. ‘I have no news, not since leaving Liiria. Travelers don’t come here to Nith.’

  ‘Then we must assume the worst,’ Lorn concluded. ‘Baron Glass will be waiting for us, and Jazana Carr’s dogs will be surrounding him.’

  Lukien nodded at the deduction. ‘When Daralor returns, we should speak to him, ask him just how many men he can muster for this.’

  ‘Lukien, it won’t matter,’ Aric insisted. ‘Three thousand men or a hundred thousand, my father could take them all if he wanted. Everything he told me about his armour is true – he’s invincible in it. Only your sword can stop him now.’

  Leaning against Lukien’s chair rested the sword. If he listened very closely, he could almost hear its rhythmic humming. The awesome responsibility for bringing down Thorin rested with the sword now, and with the man who would wield it. Aric didn’t need convincing. He was sure that only Lukien and his magical sword could save them.

  ‘I think,’ said Lukien, ‘that I should like to speak with Daralor when he returns. Sword or not, I will still need to get to Thorin, and that will take men. He’s not just going to come out of Lionkeep and fight me this time.’

  ‘Then we’ll draw him out,’ said Lorn, ‘and his bitch-queen with him.’

  Aric bristled at his tone. ‘Sir, it’s time you did explain yourself . . .’

  ‘No,’ said Lukien. He smiled. ‘Forget him, Aric. I want to know more about what happened to you. Where did you go after I left?’ He paused, hoping Aric would take his meaning. ‘Where did everyone go?’

  Young Aric blanched. ‘Oh. I think I see what you mean.’ He glanced at the others uncomfortably. ‘How much do you want me to say, Lukien?’

  It was plain that Aric had bad news. Lukien braced himself. ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘Lukien, I haven’t told you this yet. I don’t know if I should.’

  ‘Tell me, Aric,’ Lukien insisted. ‘What happened to Meriel?’

  Aric shifted. ‘She’s in Reec, Lukien. With Raxor.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know it’s hard to believe. I didn’t even believe it myself at first! She was captured, Lukien. She meant to go to my father as she threatened, but Raxor’s spies in Koth found her and brought her to him in Hes. When I went there, I saw her.’

  Lukien’s mouth hung open in shock. ‘Aric, you left her there?’

  Aric nodded, looking ashamed. ‘I had no choice. I spoke to her. We argued. I don’t know if she’s still there with him, but he wouldn’t let her go and I don’t think she would leave him, either.’

  ‘So you left her there.’ Lukien fought to still his anger. ‘Like she was just some harem girl, you left her behind.’

  ‘I had to, Lukien. I had to get back here, to tell Daralor what had happened and to wait for you!’

  ‘You should have demanded Raxor let her go!’

  ‘I did!’ snorted Aric. ‘But he loves her, Lukien. And I’m not sure, but I think she loves him, too. He’s a broken man. She’s all he has.’

  ‘She’s not a slave,’ Lukien rumbled. ‘She’s being kept as a prisoner.’ He pounded his fist on the table. ‘You should have stayed with her, Aric. You should have made Raxor let her go!’

  ‘You weren’t there!’ Aric shot back. ‘You went off without her, remember? You’re the reason she wanted to go to my father in the first place!’

  Both Ghost and Lorn shrank away as Lukien got to his feet. With a face like thunder, Lukien said, ‘I brought her across the desert because she wouldn’t make a move without me. She hung around me like death because she loved me. I never wanted her love, but I never wanted her discarded, either.’

  Aric remained seated, staying as calm as he could. ‘It’s not like that, Lukien. Raxor is good to her. He doesn’t treat her like a slave or plaything. He’s kind to her. Kinder than you were, probably. And you know what else? She was happy there!’

  Lukien was about to erupt, then stopped himself. He reached for his chair as he stared at Aric – and at Aric’s accusations. ‘I’m supposed to trust Raxor now?’ He laughed. ‘I’m surrounded by men like that!’ He looked with disdain at Lorn. ‘Tell him who you are, Lorn. Let Aric have a good laugh.’

  Lorn got up from his chair. ‘Sit down, Lukien. You’re drunk.’

  ‘Drunk! Yes!’ cackled Lukien. ‘All my enemies are here to help me. And why? To kill my best friend!’

  ‘What enemies, Lukien?’ said Ghost. ‘We’re not your enemies.’

  ‘Raxor is my enemy!’ roared Lukien. He picked up the sword, and with a swipe of his arm sent the plates and glassware near him flying off the table. The crash of dishes brought the servants running, but Lukien ignored them, pointing his sword – still in its sheath – at Lorn. ‘And this hideous pig of a man – he’s my enemy. He’s everyone’s enemy! I’m just Minikin’s messenger boy, bringing him back to Norvor!’

  ‘Lukien, that’s enough,’ hissed Ghost.

  Aric stood puzzled, looked between Lukien and Lorn. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Lorn?’

  Lorn, staring down Lukien’s sword, declared proudly, ‘I am Lorn, the rightful king of Norvor. I’m going home to reclaim my throne.’

  ‘You’re not,’ sneered Lukien. ‘I won’t have it.’

  Lorn looked almost serene. His expression infuriated Lukien. ‘I’m the rightful king,’ he said. ‘You know I am, Lukien.’

  ‘You are a butcher and a tyrant,’ spat Lukien. ‘Minikin must be out of her mind to let you go.’

  ‘Minikin owes me. I lived up to my part of our bargain.’

  ‘Bargain?’ Aric piped up. ‘Lukien, I don’t understand this.’

  ‘Your bargain was with her, yes,’ said Lukien to Lorn. ‘Not with me.’

  ‘So what will you do?’ challenged Lorn. He stood his ground, looking unafraid of the crazed knight.

  ‘I should put you down like a sick dog,’ hissed Lukien.

  ‘You may not find that so easy,’ said Lorn calmly.

  ‘Oh, I knew this was coming!’ cried Ghost, who jumped onto the table between them. He turned to Lukien, making sure to push the tip of the sword aside. ‘Put it down,’ he directed. ‘You don’t want to fight here, Lukien.’

  Lukien’s hand began to tremble as he stared into Lorn’s hard face. The Norvan was icy calm as he returned the glare. Aric hurried to Lukien’s side.

  ‘Put it down, Lukien,’ he echoed angrily. ‘I don’t care what your grievance is with Lorn. This is Daralor’s house!’

  ‘Right,’ sighed Lukien, at last relenting. He lowered his sword without ever having unsheathed it, shaking his head miserably. ‘Aric, do you want to know this man’s history? Ask him. He’ll tell y
ou everything. He’s proud of it.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Aric, holding his gaze. ‘We’re all going to Liiria.’

  ‘That’s right,’ chirped Lorn.

  ‘Shut up,’ Ghost snapped at him.

  Lorn withdrew with a scowl. He began to leave the banquet chamber, then stopped to glance at Lukien. ‘Sooner or later you’ll have to trust me, Lukien.’

  Lukien shook his head. He said to Ghost, ‘Go with him.’

  Reluctantly, the albino followed Lorn out of the chamber, taking the stunned servants with them. Lukien laid his sword on the table, sorry for the things he had said to Aric, the scene he had caused. Aric waited a long moment before going back to his chair. But he did not sit down. He merely paused there expectantly.

  ‘I did care about her,’ said Lukien.

  Aric nodded. ‘I know you did. I did what I could for her, Lukien, just like you.’

  ‘When you see Raxor again, you must try to get her free.’

  ‘I’ll try, Lukien.’

  The awkwardness between them was intolerable. Lukien looked at Aric and smiled. ‘I’m drunk.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘King Lorn the Wicked?’ said Aric. ‘Is it him, really?’

  ‘Aye,’ lamented Lukien. ‘Truly, I am cursed.’

  Aric began to laugh more loudly, taking his seat. He licked his lips as if he still had a secret. Lukien eyed him, knowing the man too well.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ he asked.

  ‘Lorn.’ Aric stopped laughing abruptly. ‘Maybe it’s nothing . . .’

  ‘What? Tell me, Aric.’

  ‘It’s really just a rumour.’

  ‘What?’ pressed Lukien.

  Aric looked around to make sure no one was listening. ‘He’s going to hear it from someone, it might as well be you. I didn’t mention this yet because it didn’t seem important, not until we started talking about Norvor. There’s something you should know, Lukien.’

  ‘Aric,’ groaned Lukien. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘It’s about Jazana Carr,’ said Aric. ‘We do get some news here in Nith. Lukien, we heard she’s dead.’

  72

  Old King Raxor knelt on the dirt floor of the arena, his face buried in warm, brown fur. Broud, the big male bear, wrestled him playfully, using its powerful jaws to tickle his shoulder and its big, clawed paws to leverage him aside. As Varsha looked on with mild interest, waiting for her own turn to entertain her master, Raxor lifted Broud to his hind paws, then let the bear dance backward, loudly calling out his approval. Broud, who seemed to get bigger every time Raxor saw him, remained upright for Raxor’s pleasure, balancing expertly the way he had been taught. Raxor clapped his hands and laughed, letting the bear fall gently forward, then called his sister forward.

  ‘Varsha, up,’ said Raxor, and with a wave of his hand brought the female upright. Varsha stretched her muscled body skyward, prancing the way she’d seen her brother do. The bag of treats at Raxor’s side brought a quick reward. ‘Good,’ praised Raxor happily. It would be the last he would see of his two beloved bears, and he wanted to remember them perfectly.

  Above the open-air arena, the morning waned quickly into afternoon. Sunlight leaned heavily on Raxor’s weathered face. He sweated in his velvet garments, not at all dressed for a day with his pets. Where he was going, he needed to look the part of a king, but his heart was here with the siblings, and he knew he would miss them horribly. One at a time he tossed the bears the bread balls from his bag, taking his time. He had asked General Moon to wait for him, and the old soldier had relented to the request, yielding to the king’s idiosyncrasies. There was a long march ahead of them and all was ready, prepared for months as Reec simmered from its many loses. Reec was hardly the country Raxor remembered. It had changed so much since he’d returned from Liiria.

  ‘Why do things have to change?’ he asked his bears. ‘Why do men have to get old?’

  Broud and his sister ignored the question, more interested in the treats being tossed into their snouts. Their silence reminded Raxor why he had come to the arena today. Today, he needed the solace of the place, the simple companionship of the bears. In all of Reec a storm was brewing, but not so in this peaceful place. As it had been for so many years, the arena and its inhabitants were a refuge for Raxor. His country had gone mad. Too many mothers had lost sons in Liiria, and too many fathers were crying for revenge. Raxor himself had lost his son, and the heartbreak of that gave him insight into the madness of his countrymen. He had tried to keep a lid on the boiling pot, to wait until Aric and their Nithin allies arrived, but he had heard nothing from Aric in months, not since getting his letter, and the rage of his Reecians would not be quelled.

  ‘Only blood,’ mused Raxor with a sigh. ‘That’s the only thing they want.’

  Raxor himself wanted blood. He wanted Baron Glass on the end of his lance for what had happened to Mirage. For weeks, the news of her death had spiraled him into depression, and when he had awoken from it the lament of his people had become too much to ignore.

  Raxor felt around in his bag of treats. It was empty. He looked at the bears apologetically.

  ‘That’s it.’

  Broud looked sad. His sister Varsha came up to nuzzle Raxor’s leg. Between them both, they had left a slick of brown hair on his fine garments. Seeing it made Raxor smile. His people loved him, but thought he was mad, and he did their bidding now because they demanded it. Raxor was not afraid of facing Thorin Glass again. He had hoped to do it with Nithin help and the aid of the enchanted sword, but those things had never happened, and wounded Reec could wait no longer.

  It was time for Raxor to go.

  He said his good-byes to his beloved twins, then turned to make his way down the corridor that would lead him to the street. In the shadow of the corridor he saw General Moon. The general nodded, realizing the king was ready, then escorted him out of the arena. Raxor could see the sunlight beckoning at the end of the rounded hall. General Moor moved stiffly as he walked. Like Raxor, his mood was morose. He was, however, a military man, and would do his duty no matter how distasteful. Raxor took the lead as the two of them moved out into the sunlight, stopping at the edge of the street to see the passing parade.

  The avenues of Hes were choked with marching soldiers, all the men that she could muster. Thousands of them, armed and gleaming, snaked their way past the king. West they marched, toward Liiria, toward the looming unknown of battle. King Raxor’s horse waited for him, surrounded by loyal bodyguards. General Moon motioned Raxor toward his mount.

  ‘If you’re ready, my lord,’ he said.

  Raxor was ready. For Roland and Mirage, he would once more face the Black Baron.

  73

  Alone in the library, a pile of unread books spread out before him, Gilwyn paged through the yellow leaves of a dusty tome, trying vigourously to read the foreign penmanship. His eyes stung as his mind wandered through the words. He had never been able to decipher the strange tongue of Marn, at least not as well as Figgis could, but this one book intrigued him and he continued, occasionally picking out a word he recognized. He read by sunlight, waves of which came though the big windows of the reading room. The empty library echoed with his tiny sounds as he gently turned the pages. It had been nearly two weeks since he had returned to the library, and he did so today only reluctantly. But time was running out and Gilwyn knew it. If he was ever to find a way to break the bond between Thorin and Kahldris, he had to do so quickly.

  Gilwyn leaned back with a doleful sigh, exhausted from his morning with the books. Nothing, not even the obscure texts from Marn, told him what he wanted to know. He gave a little curse for the catalogue machine. That vexing collection of rods and pulleys had been no use to him at all. Nor had the endless volumes of manuscripts. Nothing had helped Gilwyn unlock the secret he needed. He began to feel defeat creeping over his shoulders.

  Keep going, urged Ruana. Don’t give up.

  ‘It’s hopeless,’ Gilwyn r
umbled. He slammed closed the book from Marn, sending up a cloud of dust. ‘I can’t even read it.’

  You’re tired. Rest a bit. Then try again.

  ‘No,’ said Gilwyn. He grit his teeth. ‘All right, yes.’

  Ruana smiled in his mind’s eye. If it’s here, you’ll find it.

  ‘Ah, but what if it’s not here? What if I’m wasting my time?’

  There is an answer, Gilwyn. You’re close.

  As tired as he was of reading through the book, Gilwyn was even more tired of Ruana’s encouragement. In all his life he had never met a more cheerful soul. To Ruana, every puzzle had a solution. Being an Akari herself, she should have known how best to beat Kahldris, Gilwyn thought. But she did not. She knew only as much as Gilwyn himself, and they had already been over that tired knowledge a hundred times.

  A noise outside the window snagged Gilwyn’s attention. He bolted upright with alarm, then realized it was the wind.

  ‘Damn it.’

  Calm yourself, Ruana urged.

  But Gilwyn could not. His feud with Kahldris had frazzled him. It was not enough that the demon had made him face his mother in the library that day, and every day since. Now his dreams were filled with poison. He woke up sweating every midnight. More than once Kahldris had turned his broth to blood and filled his shoes with maggots. They were illusions, but they were all too real for Gilwyn, so that now every small sound made him jump. He had endured Kahldris’ conjurings for two unendurable weeks. Keeping himself awake at night to avoid the nightmares had made him as brittle as an old branch. His hands shook and his eye twitched at the corner. He waited frantically for his mother’s agonized face to appear in every pool of water. Sometimes she spoke to him, other times she simply wailed, giving off a glass-shattering lament.

  Gilwyn closed his eyes, trying to refocus his mind. Kahldris had played the game well, and had driven Gilwyn to the edge. But the last two days had been blessedly quiet. There had been no nightmares, no unwanted visitations from his past. It was as if a truce had been called between the two of them, and Gilwyn had honoured it. He had not gone to Thorin or bad-mouthed Kahldris to Lionkeep’s staff. He had simply enjoyed the respite.