The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.)

by John Marco

  For Lukien, the death of Baron Glass was the like the end of hope. All through his journey to Tharlara and back again, he had dared to imagine saving Thorin, bringing back the man he had once been. Instead, he had seen a shambling mound of humanity, with barely a hint of the once great and proud Thorin. But in the end, he had saved himself. That, at least, brought a sad smile to Lukien’s face.

  Count Lothon continued on without speaking, confident that soon they would find King Lorn. He was an old man now, but canny and fearless, with the same sense of righteousness Lukien remembered from years ago. Lukien was grateful for the noble’s company, but all of them knew they could do nothing against the Devil’s Armour. That bad business fell to Lukien alone, and to the sword slapping at his thigh. For Lukien, Malator had been like a bloodhound in leading them to his brother, but now the real battle was about to begin. As the plateaus began to rise up above them, Malator’s presence trembled with anticipation. The Akari spoke once again, his voice cool and certain.

  Lukien, he’s there, on the ledge ahead of us.

  Lukien looked up, and as he did the image of Lorn appeared, leaning out over the ledge. Lothon gasped, pointing up at him.

  ‘There he is!’

  The riders stopped immediately. Lukien put his hand on the pommel of his sword. Malator’s energy charged through him. Lorn gazed down and gave a small nod of regard. The helmet of the armour rested in the crux of his elbow. On his chest and arms, the black metal gleamed. He raised his chin and shouted down at his pursuers, his voice spilling down the hillside like a waterfall.

  ‘I’m here, Lukien,’ he declared. ‘I’m ready. To your left there’s a way up the hill. I’ll wait for you here.’

  Then he was gone, disappearing back behind the ledge. Lukien looked left and saw that there was indeed a grade to the hill, one that he could easily climb without his horse. The setting put him in a mind of another duel he had fought, just a few short years ago. There was no more time to rest or prepare himself. He had come this far with a purpose, and before he could ever return to Cassandra there was one more battle ahead. Knowing there was little he could do for the knight, Count Lothon once again took out his water skin and handed it to Lukien. This time, Lukien accepted.

  ‘We’ll be here. We won’t leave you,’ said the count.

  Lukien sipped at the water, then licked his sun-cracked lips. He handed the skin back to Lothon with thanks. ‘You’re a good man, Lothon, and you have good men following you. Whatever happens to me up there, remember to take care of Liiria.’

  ‘I have faith in you,’ said Lothon, smiling. ‘You’ve been dead more than once, but somehow you keep coming back again.’

  ‘It’s a curse,’ said Lukien. He slid down from his saddle. ‘No man should live forever, Count Lothon. Especially not King Lorn the Wicked.’

  ‘His head would make a fine trophy for my study. If you don’t mind . . .’

  ‘I’ll oblige if I can,’ said Lukien, then turned and headed toward the grade.

  At the top of the plateau, Lorn waited with the helmet in his hands, quietly contemplating the view to his homeland. He regretted the need to kill Lukien, but was sure the knight would never relent. Kahldris began to speak to him, whispering in his mind, telling him about the greatness that awaited him in Carlion. They would rebuild Norvor together, said the demon. They would be invincible. It made no sense to mourn the death of a single man, Kahldris explained. Lukien and Malator were just two insignificant souls. In the great design of things, they mattered not at all.

  ‘Enough,’ Lorn muttered, shaking his head. ‘You are like a bad breakfast that won’t stay down, spirit. Get out of my mind.’

  The feeling of Kahldris faded from his brain, but not the energy he gave. Lorn flexed his fingers in their metal sleeves. He had never felt stronger, not even as a young man.

  ‘I’m not a man any more,’ he told himself. ‘I’m more than a man.’

  Silently he watched the edge of the plateau, waiting for Lukien to come.

  Lukien took his time climbing the grade, keeping the Sword of Angels sheathed to his side. Sweat dripped down his nose onto his boots as he walked, and he cursed himself for blundering so quickly into Lorn’s rocky lair. He should have waited, he supposed, and rested for the fight as Lorn had. But in the end Lukien didn’t really care. He wanted things to be over, and if that meant losing . . .

  No, he told himself. I will not lose. For Thorin’s sake, I will have my vengeance.

  He reached the top of the grade a moment later, stepping onto the flat surface of the plateau and staring straight into Lorn’s eyes. The king surprised him by sighing.

  ‘You’re a mountain lion, Lukien,’ said Lorn. ‘I knew you’d find me wherever I hid.’

  Lukien looked around. The sky remained perfectly blue. ‘You picked a nice place to die, Lorn. You know what the Akari say – the place you die is where you spend eternity. I hope you like it here.’

  ‘Let me extend you a courtesy, Lukien. I know you won’t listen, but honour begs me to try. Turn around and go home. Go back to Liiria and find a hole to bury that sword. I don’t want to fight.’

  Lukien stepped closer. ‘But I do. You’ve taken something dear to me, Norvan, and now I can’t get it back.’

  Lorn stood his ground. ‘Baron Glass tried to stop me, Lukien. Ghost, too. I am sorry Glass is dead, but he’s better off, I think.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Lukien. ‘The demon inside that suit of armour turned his brain to porridge. He’ll do the same to you unless you give him up.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Lukien. I can’t be king without the armour, and I can’t live without being king.’

  ‘And your daughter? What about her? What about the rest of the people in Jador and Grimhold? Once you get your kingdom back, will you ride against them next?’

  ‘I’ll send for my daughter and Eiriann once Carlion is mine again. With the help of the armour that should not be long.’

  He was still the Lorn that Lukien knew; there was no trace yet of Kahldris’ corruption. The old king was as hard and resolute as ever, and Lukien was sure there could be no reasoning with him. At last he drew his sword.

  ‘Then we are done talking.’

  Lorn frowned. ‘Regrettably, yes,’ he said, and placed the horned helmet over his head. Then he drew his own sword, not the Akari blade Thorin had used but the same one he had battled with against the mercenaries. As he stalked closer, he took the sword in both fists, making little circles in the air.

  Lukien parroted his dance, moving side to side, waiting for the first blow. Quickly he searched his mind for Malator, asking him the only question that mattered.

  When?

  Malator replied, When the metals touch, I will meet him in our world.

  ‘All right,’ said Lukien aloud, ‘get ready!’ and launched himself against Lorn. He was in the air, flying at the Norvan, and quickly plunging down his sword. Lorn moved just as quickly, but only with his forearm. Astonishingly, he released his sword with his right hand, bringing up his arm to block the Sword of Angels. Black and silver metals clashed, showering the men with sparks. Lukien felt the charge of it throughout his body like an icy rain. His sword skidded down the metal with a shriek, and he knew that part of Malator had left him, flying off to the world of the dead.

  Malator emerged headlong into the dead place, stepping into being as if born from a mist. Around him, he saw the place where he had died in Tharlara, full of story stones, the sky overhead pink with twilight. The serpent people who had sheltered him were nowhere to be found, but he was not alone in the garden. Ahead of him was Kahldris, looking youthful and fit, dressed as the general he had been in life. Resting in his fist was a hoka, the long sword with a slightly curved blade he had always favoured. Malator glanced down at his own hand and found the same type of blade there, emblazoned with the crest of their family. Unlike his brother, Malator did not wear the heady garb of a general. He had chosen to come to this world the way he had lived hi
s final days, dressed in the simple garb of the Tharlarans. Kahldris, looking grand in his armour, smirked at Malator’s choice of uniform. The reunion between them had been ages in the making. Yet Malator could not think of a single thing to say. When they were alive, Malator did not hate his brother, and so did not hate him now. It was more important to fear Kahldris, Malator knew. The key to Kahldris was the depths of his obsessions.

  Kahldris’ smile widened as he studied his surroundings, looking completely out of place in the peaceful setting. ‘This is where you came,’ he said with a deep breath. ‘This is what you left us for. It reminds me of you, Malator. You’re like the flowers here – weak and pretty.’

  His brother was much as Malator remembered, larger in every proportion and much fiercer looking than Malator. Kahldris took after their father, also a man of the Akari military. Their delicate mother had gifted Malator with her bones, making him light on his feet, like a dancer. The older Kahldris had always envied his sibling’s speed. Where Kahldris was the thinker of the pair, a military mastermind, it was the smaller, slighter Malator who was the better with a sword – and in combat. Kahldris seemed not to remember that, however, looking supremely sure of himself. He touched the point of his hoka lightly with his finger, preparing himself for the battle.

  ‘Tell me, brother – did you find what you were looking for here? Were these sweet-minded gardeners willing to come to your aid?’

  ‘They were,’ said Malator. ‘They were brave and kind to me and they would have helped us in Kaliatha.’

  ‘But we were out of time,’ Kahldris reminded him angrily, ‘because you ran away. I made the armour for you, brother, and you turned your back on it, on all of us.’

  ‘And you’ve believed that lie forever,’ said Malator. ‘I pity you, brother. You’ve wasted your eternity hating me.’

  Kahldris grinned. ‘I’ll feel better once you’re gone. Then all the obstacles will be out of my way.’

  Flexing his hoka, Malator sprang toward his brother, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was done talking. The time had come at last.

  The Sword of Angels screamed as it cut through the air, a glowing tail of flames stretched out behind it. Each time it cracked against the Devil’s Armour, fire flew from its blade. Lukien’s hand burned with its power; his fingers coiled perfectly around its hilt. Like the living metal of Lorn’s black suit, the weapon came to life in Lukien’s grasp, writhing and stretching as it sang its magical tune. Lorn had withstood every blow, blocking some while others snuck through his defenses, ineffectually smashing the armour but nevertheless driving him back. He was a fine swordsman, nearly Lukien’s equal, and the Devil’s Armour made him fearless. His black limbs were everywhere, spinning and kicking, forcing Lukien to move like lightning to avoid his heavy blows. Time slipped from Lukien’s mind, meaningless. Had it been a minute since he’d climbed the hill? An hour? In the heat of the meˆle´e, only movement mattered, the deadly ballet of combat.

  Fire erupted from Lukien’s sword as he swept low for the mid-section. Lorn moved faster than any man could, pivoting to smash the sword aside. The death’s head he wore was ablaze with rage, its skull-like features changing with its wearer. Lorn moved in, butting Lukien with his shoulder and sending him sprawling. The concussion knocked the wind from his lungs. He rolled back and sprang to his feet, summoning the magic from his blade.

  ‘Malator, help me send this beast to hell!’

  He had only to speak the spirit’s name to feel his other-worldly muscle. It flooded him, scintillating down the length of the sword and into his arm, filling his body with strength. Again he sprang, growling like a tiger and threading the sword past Lorn’s own, straight for the hateful helmet. Blinded by sparks of fire, Lorn staggered. For the first time his weapon came up clumsily, nowhere near Lukien. Pressing the advantage, Lukien slammed the flat of his weapon against Lorn’s head. Amazingly, he shouted, not in pain but in frustration.

  In the world of the dead, Malator too pressed his attack, smashing his own weapon against his brother’s armoured shoulder. No fire flew from his hoka, no magic music came off the blade. There was only the old-fashioned screech of steel as the siblings crashed again and again, trading blows and the advantage, each of them growing fatigued. It didn’t matter that they were dead already or that they had no bodies to exhaust. Here in this corporeal state, they had chosen to focus their hatreds, making them real. No one would die here in the dead place, but one would be vanquished even so, and in the world of the living they would perish, expunged from that realm forever. Both knew the stakes were impossibly high, and both Akari gave no quarter. Kahldris slashed relentlessly at Malator, using his greater strength to wear his brother down. Always too quick, Malator danced away from his brother’s hoka, spinning and jumping and then coming again to attack.

  ‘I’m your better, brother, face it,’ spat Malator. ‘We can fight forever and you would never win.’

  ‘Then let it be forever!’ Kahldris roared. He broke off his attack, fading back to catch his footing. Around them the world began to change. Slowly, others popped in to being, the ghostly bodies of fellow Akari coming to see the siblings duel. Unnerved, Kahldris looked at him with spite. ‘Cowards! I gave you all the means to save yourselves!’

  The spirits did not answer him, they simply kept coming, rising up from the story stones or drifting down from the sky until there were hundreds of them shimmering in the light of the undead sun.

  ‘They know you, Kahldris,’ said Malator. ‘They remember you for the madman you were.’

  Kahldris kept his distance from his brother, unable to look away from the accusing Akari. ‘They let themselves be slaughtered because they were too afraid,’ he said. His face showed more than loathing now. A hint of regret glimmered in his eyes. ‘Why were you such sheep?’ he asked them, looking up as more of them descended. ‘All I wanted was to save us all!’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ said Malator. ‘Every Akari knows the truth. You were a butcher, brother. You were depraved and they were right to fear you. Now they come to see your end.’

  Kahldris shook his head. ‘They are wrong, and so are you. No one knew my heart. Tell me I wasn’t right about the Jadori, Malator. Tell me they weren’t animals! They came and massacred us, and you were nowhere to be found.’ He turned to his unwanted audience, shouting as he spun to see the whole garden. ‘You hate me? He was the one who abandoned us!’

  Throughout the story garden, the spirits were silent. Enraged by them, Kahldris came again at his brother, screaming and raising his weapon. This time, though, his attack seemed slower. His maddened face twisted with a new kind of anguish. Malator ducked left, easily dodging the attack. His brother turned as he blew by, snarling into Malator’s face.

  ‘End me!’

  Malator reared back. His brother lowered his sword, looking pitiful.

  ‘I can’t beat you,’ Kahldris groaned. ‘And I can never win their hearts.’ The ancient general tossed his sword at Malator’s feet. ‘Damn you for being better. For being loved when I was hated. Damn you forever, Malator.’

  For a moment Malator was dumbstruck, too astounded to move. The audience of his fellow Akari moved in to circle the siblings, waiting for the end.

  ‘Send me back,’ said Kahldris. ‘Send me back so I never need look at them again.’

  Malator understood. There was no place so peaceful as that private place of death. Malator’s was this garden. Kahldris’ was a tomb-like temple full of stone and moss. Despite its coldness, he longed to return there. The old general no longer seemed young to him. To Malator, he was as ancient as the world, his face poisoned by rage and madness. He refused to look at his fellow Akari as they closed in around him, staring instead at the brother he despised. Even now, Malator realized, Kahldris hated him.

  ‘I do this out of mercy, brother,’ said Malator. He raised his hoka. ‘Not out of spite.’

  The blade came down at Kahldris’ neck, delivering a perfect killing blow. If Kahldr
is had been alive, his head would have split from his body in a fountain of blood. But in the world of the dead, he simply disappeared.

  Lukien fought until his arms and legs burned, until exhaustion turned to agony and his breath came in gasps. He had fought and given it his all, and he knew that no matter how much he gave he could never make the armour yield nor the man inside it submit. Lorn, too, seemed depleted from the fight, kept erect only by the Devil’s Armour, which still gleamed with unblemished perfection despite a hundred well-placed blows. Hopelessness took hold of Lukien. Down at the bottom of the plateau, Lothon and his fellow Liirians were watching, sure that the end was drawing near. Knowing he could not go on yet refusing to yield, Lukien wound back for one more attack. As he did, he felt Malator rush back into his sword.

  The tidal wave of new found strength dazzled Lukien. All at once his aching muscles filled with vigour. Holding high the Sword of Angels, he saw Lorn drop back, as if struck by some unseen force. Instantly the light of the armour died away. The skull-shaped helmet froze, lifeless. Lorn, clearly stunned, raised his eyes to Lukien and the sword hanging high above him. This time, the Norvan gave no defense.

  It was over. In the netherworld, Malator had won and both men knew it. Lorn, however, made no plea. Before the blade could fall he reached up and pulled off the helmet, looking death full in the face. He seemed to know it was deserved.

  Lukien thought only of Thorin. He brought down the sword, bringing an end to King Lorn the Wicked.