The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.)

by John Marco

  ‘Everyone’s gone,’ Ghost whispered.

  It was as the servants in the yard had told them. They had seen Baron Glass stumble into the library like a drunkard, raving insanely, and had rightfully been afraid of him, abandoning the place for the protection of the soldiers outside. Count Lothon had known this but had not revealed that important bit of truth, a fact that made Lukien smile at his cleverness.

  ‘Lothon is a fox,’ he said with a nervous laugh. ‘Now he has us to do his dirty work.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Lorn. ‘Where’s Glass? Lukien, can you tell?’

  Lukien listened for Malator. The Akari was out ahead of them, searching the halls with his mind. The sword that held his essence burned in Lukien’s fist, thrumming musically through the hall. Ghost and Lorn had drawn their weapons as well.

  I can feel my brother, said Malator. There was a trace of awe in his voice. He’s here.

  ‘Where, Malator? Take us to him.’

  Not precisely knowing what he would do when he found Thorin, Lukien let Malator guide his steps. The three men moved cautiously but with purpose, leaving the grand hall for another, smaller one, then finally up a long flight of winding steps. Like the main hall, the others were deserted as well, lending a sad aura to the place. Lukien remained as patient as he could, his heart galloping in his chest as he tried to bury the memories of his last encounter with Thorin. That one had left him near death. He glanced at Ghost and saw the same spark of dread in the young man’s eyes. Amazingly, Lorn showed no such fear. He was resolute as they rounded the halls, as hard as ever, like iron.

  Then, Malator spoke again. He’s here.

  Lukien stopped. ‘Where?’

  Up ahead. Malator seemed to sigh. Don’t be afraid, Lukien. It’s over.

  ‘Over?’ blurted Lukien. ‘What . . . ?’

  Go on. See for yourself.

  Torchlight lit the way, guiding them through the hall. They were in the highest part of the library now, in the tower where Lukien himself had spent hours, laying plans for the hill’s defense. He knew that a chamber lay ahead, a kind of meeting room with a great view of the city. Before the chamber was another hallway, dimly lit. It beckoned to them as they turned a corner. When they did, all of them saw what Malator had seen already.

  Balled up against the wall beneath a flickering oil lamp was Thorin, his face buried in his one remaining arm, his knees pulled up tightly to his chest. His shoulders shook; his legs and hands trembled. His white hair hung in limp, filthy strands down his back. Hunched like an animal, he took no notice of the others, nor of the suit of armour discarded in a pile beside him. Lukien gripped the Sword of Angels tightly, then let his grasp wane as pity overtook him. Ghost mumbled a prayer.

  ‘Thorin,’ Lukien said gently, ‘it’s me, Lukien.’

  Slowly, Baron Glass lifted his head. His glassy gaze met Lukien, bloodshot and full of pain. He was barely recognizable, a withered shell of a man. Once again, there was only a stump where his left arm had been. His wizened face showed off his insanity, a mask of twisted muscles and thin, pale lips. Like a dog he began to pant when he saw Lukien, as if unable to speak. Lukien hurried over to him and dropped to his knees beside his old friend.

  ‘It’s over, Thorin, it’s over,’ he said, trying to comfort him. ‘Listen to me now, I’m here. Everything is all right now.’

  Thorin’s haunted eyes widened. ‘Lukien . . .’

  ‘Yes, Thorin, it’s me.’ Lukien attempted a smile. ‘Just me.’

  ‘Lukien . . .’

  ‘Don’t speak too much, Thorin. Just tell me – where’s Gilwyn? Is he here with you?’

  A shaking groan came out of Thorin then, his hand clutching Lukien. ‘Gilwyn and my son . . .I . . .’

  ‘Thorin?’ Lukien held him tightly. ‘What?’

  The baron’s boney finger pointed to the chamber down the hall. ‘In there,’ he stammered. ‘Dead.’ He began to sob. ‘Gilwyn.’

  Panic seized Lukien. He sprung to his feet. ‘No. No . . .’

  Ghost dropped his weapon at once. ‘I’ll go see,’ he said quickly.

  ‘No!’ Lukien steeled himself. ‘Stay with him. Both of you, just stay with him.’

  It was something Lukien wanted to face himself, because he knew what would happen if he saw Gilwyn dead. He would weep like a woman, and for that he wanted no audience. His legs like water beneath him, he made his way down the corridor, toward the chamber where Thorin had pointed, leaving his companions behind with the maddened baron. The Sword of Angels still rested in his hand, but as he reached the open doorway he sheathed the weapon, pausing at the threshold before peering inside. The chamber was quiet, and as big as he remembered it. A huge window – its curtains drawn – dominated an entire wall. In the feeble light it was difficult to see, but Lukien saw Gilwyn at once, not far from the window, sprawled and broken-looking on the tiles. Blood smothered his chest, collecting on the floor beneath him.

  Lukien began to cry like he were a child.

  ‘Gilwyn . . .’

  He went to him, stooping over him, looking down at his white face, the blood drawn from it. The wound in his chest ran deep, a jagged gash like one might get from a morning star. Lukien wiped his eyes with his fingers, then knelt down next to his beloved friend. He put a hand on his face and felt its chill. The moment he did, Malator popped into his mind.

  He’s not dead!

  ‘What?’

  He’s alive, Lukien, barely.

  ‘Alive? Are you sure?’

  His Akari has not left him. I can feel her, Lukien. She clings to him still.

  Lukien groped frantically for an idea. ‘How can I save him? Look at him, Malator!’

  Lukien, the amulet. Give it to him. Put it on him quickly.

  Instantly Lukien reached under his shirt and pulled out the Eye of God. ‘Will it work?’

  You give it to him freely, Lukien. The magic will keep him alive.

  ‘Oh, Amaraz, I beg you,’ Lukien pleaded. He place the amulet on Gilwyn’s bloody chest, holding it there and praying to the Akari inside the Eye to spare his friend. ‘Bring him back to me, Amaraz, please. Heal him. Keep him alive.’

  Keep it on him, Lukien, said Malator. You don’t need the amulet any longer. I will keep you alive.

  Without a thought for himself, Lukien pressed the Eye hard against Gilwyn’s motionless chest.

  Out in the corridor, King Lorn stood apart from Ghost and the broken Baron Glass, staring at the heap of black armour laying uselessly nearby. The helmet of the armour had been left upright, deposited next to the rest of the metal suit by Lukien in his haste to save his friend. Doing just as Lukien had asked, Ghost remained with Baron Glass, kneeling next to him and comforting him. Glass himself was a pitiful mess, barely able to speak much less control his womanly tears. At first, Lorn had pitied him. But then he’d heard a voice.

  The voice echoed inside his skull and was not his own. Lorn stared at the helmet. The helmet stared back. The voice spoke gently, like a lullaby, talking to him about his kingdom and all he had lost, and about the many people who had wronged him in his life. Somehow, Lorn knew instantly that the voice belonged to Kahldris. Yet he was not afraid. The demon’s words were so sensible.

  *

  For long minutes Lukien knelt over Gilwyn, pressing the amulet against his chest and waiting for any tiny sign of life. Malator assured him that his young friend was still alive and the Akari had not yet left his body, but Lukien could sense only the barest warmth within Gilwyn and a heartbeat he wasn’t even sure was there. The war that raged outside the library had flown from Lukien’s mind, forgotten. Now, he thought only of Gilwyn and the amulet, and did his best to will Amaraz to save the boy.

  ‘Amaraz, please,’ Lukien whispered, his hand trembling on the Eye of God. Gilwyn’s blood soaked his fingers. Lukien could feel the wound beneath the ruined shirt, the jagged bits of flesh torn, he supposed, by the spikes of Thorin’s gauntlet. Malator hung over him, watching and hoping with his host, as
suring Lukien that Amaraz was up to the task and that the boy would live.

  He has saved you twice now, remember, said the Akari.

  ‘I was never this bad,’ Lukien retorted. ‘Not like this . . .’

  Malator did not argue. He was there for Lukien, and that was enough. His presence comforted the knight. As the moments ticked away, Lukien kept up his vigil, mumbling pleas to Amaraz and holding the Eye of God fast to Gilwyn’s body.

  Then, at last, Gilwyn breathed. He took a great gulp of air, shouting, his shoulders bunched with pain. Lukien reared back. Still holding the Eye, he laughed joyously.

  ‘It’s working!’ he exclaimed.

  Beneath his fingers he could feel the wound begin to close, the ragged flesh miraculously knitting together. The blood began to bubble through Lukien’s fingers as Gilwyn’s heart grew stronger, and soon a warmth swept his body. Overjoyed, Lukien grinned as Gilwyn began to pant.

  ‘Thank you, Amaraz,’ Lukien cried. ‘Thank you!’

  He began to place the amulet’s chain around Gilwyn’s neck when he heard a noise at the threshold. Someone was coming. Lukien called to the person over his shoulder.

  ‘He’s alive! Thorin didn’t kill him!’

  ‘Lukien . . .’

  Alarmed, Lukien spun toward the door. ‘Ghost?’

  The albino clung to the door, staggering as he tried to hold himself upright. Blood sluiced from a wound at his temple. Lukien leapt to his feet.

  ‘Ghost!’

  Somehow Ghost managed to stumble into the chamber, falling into Lukien’s arms. ‘Lorn,’ he gasped. ‘The armour . . .’

  Lukien helped his friend to the floor, letting him lie still on the tiles, then quickly began fumbling with the folds of his gaka so he could breathe better. ‘What happened, Ghost?’

  Ghost’s hands clawed the tiles as he gulped for air. ‘I don’t know . . . Lukien, he has the armour.’

  ‘He attacked you?’

  The albino nodded, squeezing his eyes closed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he moaned. ‘Damn him . . .’

  ‘What about Thorin?’

  Ghost turned his face away in misery. ‘Lukien . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I think he’s dead.’

  Lukien rose to one knee, furious. ‘Lorn did this?’ he seethed. ‘Lorn did this!’

  He wanted to go after him, to take the Sword of Angels and plunge it through the Norvan’s heart. But Gilwyn was only barely alive, and Ghost was badly wounded. And then, he thought of Thorin. He got to his feet, knowing that his old friend was dead. Malator did not have to tell him so. He could feel the emptiness of the world without Baron Glass.

  ‘I have to go get help,’ he told Ghost. ‘Don’t move.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ promised Ghost. He turned his head to look at Gilwyn. ‘Gilwyn . . .’

  ‘He’ll live,’ said Lukien. All the joy had left him. ‘But King Lorn the Wicked will not.’

  84

  Along the rough terrain to Norvor, King Lorn rode on a borrowed horse toward his homeland, marveling at the feel of the Devil’s Armour on his body. He had ridden without rest for more than a day and he was not fatigued at all. He had no food or water with him, yet his person craved neither, nourished instead by the strange magic of the demon Kahldris. The south had been blessedly uneventful, and Lorn had exhausted more than one mount in his bid to get home, eventually stealing horses where he could find them from unsuspecting riders. Now, though, the badlands of Norvor stretched out in front of him, just beyond the swiftly running river. Here the hills rose up like sentinels, grey and wind swept, shaped by eons into twisted giants. There were no homesteads for Lorn to raid now, only the siren-song of his homeland playing on the breeze. The dust of the earth struck his face, peppering his skin. He had removed the armour’s helmet almost immediately after fleeing Koth, preferring instead to feel the air on his hair and beard. King Lorn examined the hills, choosing a single, rugged plateau from which to make his stand. The perch would afford him a view of both Norvor and the enemies he knew were chasing him.

  ‘There,’ he pronounced, not really speaking to anyone, though he knew that Kahldris shared his every thought. The odd union with the spirit had unbalanced him at first, as had the soaring power of the Devil’s Armour. Night was coming. Already the sun was starting to dip, making shadows grow. Lorn looked longingly at Norvor, knowing that just beyond the river his throne awaited him. It would be a struggle to reclaim it from Jazana’s loyalists, but with the armour his triumph was assured. ‘We’ve paid in blood for this,’ he sighed.

  Getting out of Koth had not been easy. Once again, he had earned the title ‘wicked.’ Ghost had tried to stop him first, and then the weakling Baron Glass. Too withered to stand the blow, Glass’ skull had cracked like an eggshell. Ghost, Lorn supposed, had survived. He wasn’t at all proud of the things he had done, but it had all been for a reason, and he rehearsed now what he would say to Lukien when the knight finally came after him, going over all the reasons in his mind, telling himself that Lothon’s men had died because they were fools. Surely they should have known they couldn’t stop him, and yet a dozen of them had tried before the old count himself had called them off. Lorn shook his head, genuinely disgusted with himself, and started up his horse again, beginning to climb the hillside.

  When night finally came, Lorn found himself staring at the death’s head helmet by the light of the fire he had made. Finally, he allowed himself to feel tired. Reclining against his elbow, he considered the helmet, which he had propped up opposite him like a companion. Kahldris had spoken to him very little since leaving Koth, and when he did it was always gently, as though the two had known each other forever. Lorn knew the demon’s treachery however. He had seen what Kahldris had done to Baron Glass and had no intention of becoming such a lunatic. Picking up a small stone, he tossed it at the helmet, pinging it against the faceplate.

  ‘You there,’ he snapped. ‘Listen good. You’re pretty pleased with yourself, I’d bet. You think you found yourself a new fool to take you where you want to go, don’t you? Well, forget it. I’m not some weak-minded fool like Thorin Glass, and you’ve already given me what I want most. I’m home, demon. Finally.’

  Kahldris said nothing. The lifeless helmet merely sat there.

  ‘Let’s understand each other,’ Lorn continued. ‘You’re going to help me get my kingdom back. It’s mine. It belongs to me, and so do you now. I’m the master and you’re the slave, and if ever I find you toying with my brain I will lock you in a dungeon so deep even the worms won’t ever find you. I didn’t want to kill Baron Glass or those others, and I don’t intend to be your plaything. If you need blood to stay strong I’ll slaughter some chickens for you. Right?’

  Again the spirit did not respond. Annoyed, Lorn tossed another pebble at it.

  ‘Nothing to say? All right, then. We understand each other. Lukien will be coming for us. He’ll never let us rest. So we’re going to face him, right here. And when that’s done we’re going to Carlion to get back my throne.’

  A saucer-like moon hung above the plateau. Lorn smiled up at it, satisfied. He was weary, tired of so much traveling. He had been on the road for months now, so long his journey seemed endless.

  ‘Enough talk,’ he said. ‘Get some rest, demon. Tomorrow we have work to do.’

  Lukien looked ahead to where the river cut across the terrain, finally noticing the familiar landscape of Norvor. His weary horse snorted beneath him, caked in the dust of the road and nearly lame from lack of rest. The sun had come up hours ago, marking their third day on the road to Norvor. They had ridden without stopping the entire morning, and all the horses of the company were faring no better than Lukien’s. Count Lothon and his men – ten of them in all – scanned the horizon dotted with rocky hills. Lothon himself rode close to Lukien, staying at his side the whole way while the other Liirians trailed out in a long tail behind them. Lothon took his water skin from the loop at his saddle, offering it first to Lukien. When Lukien declined, the old man took a
miserly pull from the skin, conserving its contents out of habit alone. With the river so close, they could water the horses and fill up their skins, but Count Lothon took only mild notice of the waterway. Like all of them, his eyes were fixed instead on Norvor.

  ‘Ugly,’ he pronounced. ‘How did you ever manage to spend so much time there?’

  ‘I had no choice, remember,’ Lukien said, mildly annoyed. ‘And not all of Norvor is like that. Those are the badlands.’

  ‘Hanging Man.’

  Lukien nodded. ‘Yes.’

  He thought about his days with Jazana Carr, the years they had spent together at Hanging Man with Thorin. He would not be seeing the fortress again, though. Lorn hadn’t got that far, nor was he still on the move. It had been an easy thing to track the traitor, because Malator could sense his brother and because King Lorn did nothing to hide his tracks. He expected them to come after him. He wanted them to come.

  ‘He’s close now,’ mused Lukien. ‘Another hour maybe. Maybe less.’

  Lothon grimaced at the prophecy. ‘I have had my fill of magic and demons. Pardon me if I say I do not trust yours, Lukien. He is sure of this?’

  Lukien’s gaze narrowed on the horizon, where a rise of plateaus hung above the flat earth. On one of them, Lorn waited. ‘Positive.’

  There was no doubt of it, not to Malator, and the fact made Lothon and his men grimace. After what had happened back in Koth, Lothon had insisted on going after Lorn with Lukien. He had lost five men when the Norvan had burst from the library, garbed in the Devil’s Armour in his hurry to flee. More would have died with them if Lothon hadn’t ordered them to stand down. They had let Lorn go, because Lothon knew they couldn’t stop him.

  Word had spread quickly about Thorin’s death. In the east, Duke Cajanis’ army collapsed, routed by Daralor and his Nithins and dispirited over the death of their benefactor. In Chancellery Square the same had occurred, where the Norvan mercenaries had first seen Baron Glass abandon them. King Raxor and the Reecians did not slaughter the Norvans, however, but rather pulled back from the city so that the Nithins and Lothon’s troops could take control. The city was still in chaos, but Gilwyn and Ghost were both safe within the library. Ghost’s wounds, though far less serious than Gilwyn’s, would take a long time to heal. Gilwyn, on the other hand, had healed miraculously. Already Lukien could not wait to return to his young friend. After so many months of separation, they had once again been separated. And because Gilwyn now wore the Eye of God, there were things Lukien needed to explain to him. When he had left the boy, he had seen the uneasiness on his face.