by John Marco
“Go easy now,” I warned. “We’ve got a fight tomorrow. Between the wine and that spice of yours you won’t be able to stand.”
“It’s the only thing that gives me courage,” said Anton. “They think I’m a coward, but I’m not. All my men—they think I have a flower in my chest instead of a heart. I’m not like that, you know.”
“I know, Anton,” I said. “I see that now.”
He smiled. “You called me Anton.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t betray me, Lukien,” he sighed. “Don’t give me to Diriel.”
“Is that what you think I’ve planned?”
Anton wiped his mouth. “I dunno. You told Marilius you were going to give Diriel what he wants. I thought that was the monster. But here you are, empty-handed as usual.” He pointed at my face. “Except for that new eye. I like that eye.”
“Anton, you’re drunk. Why don’t you go to sleep now?”
“Can’t. First you have to promise me. Promise me you won’t give me over to Diriel, Lukien. I figured it out. That’s the only way you can save yourself.”
“I don’t want to save myself, Anton. The last thing I want in this bleak world is to save myself.”
“Why?” He got out of his chair and shambled toward me. “Look at you—you’re young again! Beautiful, like me! You made a bargain with that thing inside your sword, didn’t you?”
“Only to have my vengeance. Do you believe me, Anton?”
He sat down on the table with a slump. “I suppose I have to. I’m sorry about the girl. Marilius told me what happened to her. It is right that your heart breaks for her, Lukien. But I did warn you of Diriel’s horrors.”
“You did,” I admitted. “But I never listen, you see. I’m the one who got her killed. Tomorrow I’ll make everything right.”
“All right,” he whispered. “If that’s the best answer I’m going to get . . .” He pushed himself from the table, wobbling back to the big chest. He waved me closer. “Come. I have something for you.”
I was curious as I got out of my chair. The room swam a bit around my head, but I straightened and swallowed my nausea. The one thing Malator couldn’t cure was a hangover, it seemed. Anton stepped aside when I reached him, gesturing to the chest. There was no lock on it, just a latch keeping it closed.
“Open it,” he proffered.
I did and had to shut my eyes at the brightness of the contents. Gold, I thought at first, a whole chest of it! But when my sight adjusted and my thinking cleared, I recognized the shining helmet staring back at me, the very perfection of handmade armor. It was my own, bronze and beautiful, better than new, and it blinded me with its glittering. I must have said something, because I remember my mouth falling open in awe.
“You like?”
I touched the helmet, then the gleaming breastplate beneath. I’d last seen it ruined, first by weeks of dusty travel, then by Crezil’s brutal battering. I’d left it in Isowon, dented and forgotten. But here it was again, reborn, more like gold than bronze, a suit of shining precious metal.
“Anton,” I lifted the helmet out of the chest, “how?”
“I like shiny things, Lukien. I have many smiths and jewelers here in Isowon to make my world pretty. Fixing your armor wasn’t easy. The monster left it quite a mess. It’s amazing what real craftsmen can do, no?”
“It is,” I agreed. “Almost perfect.”
I was tempted to try the helmet but didn’t. I just stared at my reflection in its surface, the way the finish distorted my face, and saw my giant smile. My armor was new again, like me. I wondered if Anton knew how great a gift he’d given me.
“Any debts you owe me are paid,” I told him. “This is better payment than anything else you could offer.”
“Good,” said Anton, “because I can’t afford anything else. Even if we win tomorrow, I will have to rebuild.”
“But you’ll still have Isowon. You’ll have a home.”
“You can stay if you wish, Lukien. After the battle, I mean.”
“No, Anton, thank you. If I live tomorrow I’ll return to Jador.”
“And if you die at least you’ll be well dressed!” he laughed. “You should go to heaven looking your best.”
I put the helmet down slowly. “I can’t go to heaven, Anton, remember? I have no soul. No heaven would take me.”
Anton thought about that for a while. He blinked a few times, then said, “I am very drunk.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I should sleep.”
“We should both sleep.”
He staggered toward the open doors, taking the last bit of merriment with him. But before he exited he paused one last time to comfort me.
“Don’t worry about heaven, Lukien,” he slurred. “You can’t die.”
The logic of a drunken man. “Thank you, Anton,” I said. I picked up my helmet again. “And thank you for this.”
He waved and mumbled something and then was gone. A manservant appeared suddenly in the doorway, peering inside the chamber.
“Sir Lukien? Can I help you to your room?”
“Thank you,” I answered. “I think that would be best.”
“I’ll have your armor brought up to you,” said the man. “It will be waiting for you when you wake.”
A sad thought crashed my brain. “I’ll need help with it tomorrow,” I said. “To dress for battle. I’ve lost my squire.”
The servant smiled with pity. “Yes, sir. I’m very sorry.”
“I loved her.”
“Yes,” said the man. He came to me and took my arm. “I’m sure she knew that.”
I looked at him. It was the wine, I knew, but nothing made sense to me suddenly. “Do you think so? I want to believe that. How can I be sure?”
He got me on my feet, smoothed down my wrinkled shirt, and said, “I’m sure you told her so, sir, even if you never said a word.”
Then he pointed me toward the doors, gave me a gentle nudge, and followed me all the way to my private chamber, where the softest bed in the world lulled me instantly to sleep.
32
I slept a drunkard’s sleep, deep and troubled, my mind far from the world where my body lay in soft, expensive sheets. I’d once had a fever when I was a boy, sleeping in the streets of Koth beneath a blacksmith’s shop; a fever in which every monster my mind could conjure visited and chased me in my sleep, and every time my eyes opened I screamed, because the sickness was so thick in my body I could not stay awake. The next morning, when the fever finally broke, the monsters left me, but the terror of that night always remained.
That was the kind of night I had before the battle. Only it wasn’t monsters that found me sleeping in Anton’s palace, and it wasn’t Crezil that called my nightmares. A long parade of dead friends came to me instead. Or, rather, it was I who went to them, like a troubadour.
I visited each of their death places. In my dreams I saw Akeela, my beloved brother, my king, one of the only people I ever truly loved. I dreamed of him so infrequently over the years that it startled me to see him. We spoke, but his words were foreign to me, so twisted by rage as to be incomprehensible, and when I left him he was crying after me. Screaming, I think.
Next I saw Minikin, my old mentor, and she spoke to me about love, and about how powerful she’d been in life, and how I was now even more powerful than that. I think she pitied me. So I left her quickly, and one by one visited a gallery of past friends and enemies. There was Figgis the Librarian and Trager, my nemesis, and nameless men I’d slain on battlefields. I saw Meriel, who’d loved me, who I’d spurned into the arms of a madman, and then I saw the madman himself, Baron Glass. Together they spoke to me of the burning that had taken Meriel’s life and the peaceful world of the dead, and when I told them I had no soul they wept for me.
That’s when I grew tired of the dream. I tried to awaken. I pushed myself, but somehow I could not, and so I went in search of Cassandra but could not find her. Nor could I find Cricket. I fel
t myself panicking, lost in my dreamworld, trapped like that little, fevered boy. I had the terrible thought that I wasn’t dreaming at all . . . and that’s when my eyes finally opened.
Not wide, though. Just slivers, just enough to see that I was still in my bed in the palace. I fought to stay awake, to sit up and wait for morning, and that’s when I saw Malator seated at my bedside. He was dressed for battle in his splendid Akari armor, perched patiently on a plain wooden chair that I knew had been in my chamber earlier. I looked at him as I laid there, reassured to see him but unable to fully awaken. He smiled at me.
“Is this a trick?” I asked softly.
The room was so quiet, so like a tomb, that I would have thought myself dead if not for my cursed life. I could see the Sword of Angels where I’d left it, propped near my bed, and the boots the servant man had pulled off my feet. I could see the window and the darkness beyond it, telling me that morning was still far off. Yet I could hear nothing, not even my heartbeat.
“Do you think I’m tricking you?” Malator asked.
“Why can’t I wake up? Am I sick? Or is this just another one of your illusions?”
“Nothing I’ve never shown you has been an illusion. Nothing I’ve ever said has been a lie.”
“Why are we talking now, then? Why won’t you let me sleep in peace?”
“You’re moving through the worlds of the dead, Lukien. Those aren’t dreams you’re having.”
I lay very still. “Am I still in those worlds? This feels unreal to me. What time is it?”
“You have time, don’t worry. It’s hours yet until morning.”
“Hours? That can’t be. I’ve been dreaming all night.”
Malator shook his head. “Only a little while.”
“But I’ve seen so many people . . .” I studied his face for treachery. “So, they’re real? Akeela—was that him? Where is he?”
“In the realm of the dead. I told you, Lukien, you are special. Wait. You’ll soon understand.”
“No.” I somehow managed to prop myself up. “Tomorrow is the end for me, Malator. Even if they don’t manage to kill me. If I survive I’m leaving here. I’m going home to Jador. There’s no more time for your puzzles. Tell me why I’m special. Tell me now.”
“You will wait,” said Malator gently. He was like a father at my bedside, and I felt like the sick child, frightened and impatient. “You will not die tomorrow, Lukien. Remember? I promised you your vengeance.”
I nodded. “And I gave my soul for it.”
“You lost your soul long before that.”
“Is that why I can move through the death realms? Because I have no soul?”
“Partly.” Malator grinned. “You’re getting it, Lukien.”
“Then tell me the rest. Or let me sleep. A real sleep. I don’t want to see any more phantoms. Why’d you want me to come here, Malator? Why didn’t you want Cricket to come with me?”
He smirked at me. “Lukien, that bit is obvious. It was too dangerous for Cricket. Did I not warn you? You need no other friend on this journey. Just me. If you trusted me . . .”
He stopped himself. He looked down at his lap. But I knew what he meant.
“Cricket’s dying is my fault. I know that. And tomorrow I’ll make Wrestler pay for it. I’ll make them all pay. That was our bargain, Malator. Don’t renege.”
“Renege? I have given you everything you need to be unstoppable. You are a living weapon now, Lukien. Tomorrow you may occasion as much carnage as you crave. Tomorrow you will be the end of the world to your enemies. I have dressed for it! Let hell’s gates swing wide for them.”
“Then answer me, Malator: What has all this been? A lesson? A test?”
“Training,” replied Malator.
“Training? For what?” I was indignant. “What’s the point of all this misery?”
“Not yet.” Malator’s voice was soothing. Suddenly my eyes began to close again. “Soon.”
“No . . .”
I clutched for him, but my world quickly darkened.
“Sleep, Lukien,” he whispered. “Grow strong. Tomorrow you will be at your glorious best.”
I dreamt no more that night. Whatever enchantment Malator had put on me sent me to the most peace I’d known in ages. And the next day, when I awakened, I felt like a giant.
33
I slept past the morning, through breakfast, almost till noontime. No one dared to wake me, but when my eyes snapped open Malator was still in my room, bathed in the bright light of the sun pouring through my window. At the foot of my bed sat the chest holding my bronze armor, its lid open wide, its contents gleaming. Malator was stone-faced. My body roiled with an energy I’d never known. I remembered the dream I’d had, the promise he had made me. I flexed my fingers to test their strength and knew I could crush a rock with them.
“Rise,” commanded Malator.
I did as he said, standing before him in his own resplendent, spiked Akari armor, my feet naked on the carpet.
“A squire needs to help you prepare,” he said. “Since you have lost yours, I will dress you.”
I didn’t ask what time it was. Malator’s manner told me everything was ready. My chamber was quiet, but outside in the courtyard I could hear the commotion of men riding forth, joining the ranks of their battle-ready brethren. The day had started, but not the war. Not without me. I held up my arms and let Malator pull my old shirt over my head. Next came the trousers, and when I was naked he turned silently to my fresh garments, waiting for me near my newborn armor. He dressed me like a father would; I could feel the warmth of his pride. He seemed hardly a spirit at all, so real that I could touch him, and for the first time, probably the first time ever, I wanted to embrace him and thank him for his gifts.
But I did not. I was a warrior now, and no thoughts of love could sway me. I wanted no tenderness in me today, no humanity to stay my sword. Some men pray before a battle, but I was never one of those. I had no gods. But if I could have found a patron devil, I would have prayed to have my mercy stripped away, to turn me to stone. In that moment I saw what I had ever been, what I would always be—a fighting man.
Slowly, lovingly, Malator encased me in bronze. Not a word passed between us. We shared a single mind now. His thoughts were as open to me as the sea. I felt his placid calm, he felt my boundless vengeance. One by one he closed the bindings on my legs and arms, taking his time with the ritual. When I held out my hands, he slipped my fingers into my golden gauntlets. The sunlight bounced off me like a kaleidoscope, splashing prisms of color across the walls. Malator stepped back to eye his work and finally allowed himself to smile.
“Your helmet,” he said, then stooped to hand it to me. I put the golden helm in the crux of my arm.
“Your sword.”
Malator reached for my battered, blood-stained blade. In his fist he held it out for me, and my own fist closed around it. Together we held it, sharing its power, our eyes seeing straight into each others’ minds.
“This is the Sword of Angels,” whispered Malator. “It lay dormant for years until you found it. And I slept within it, alone and lonely until you came for me, Lukien.”
His confession surprised me. “If it’s a debt you feel you owe me, Malator,” I said, “you’ve already repaid it.”
“Not quite yet,” said Malator. “But I will. On the other side of this day.”
I said nothing, just let him speak his riddle. All I wanted from Malator was the strength to have my revenge, and he’d already given me that. He let go of the sword, his hand disappearing as his fingers uncoiled, and soon his whole arm was gone, and then his whole body. But I wasn’t alone in the room. He was with me, inside the sword and inside my entire being. So I belted the sword around my waist and went to find Marilius.
* * *
I found Marilius in the courtyard of the palace, waiting for me. Nearby, surrounded by mercenaries, was Anton, speaking frantically, waving his arms about, pointing at different areas of his city. The
courtyard was filled with soldiers and horses, all of them ready to march through the gates.
Three men stood apart from the crowd, watching me as I emerged. Sariyah, Chuluun, and Kiryk were dressed for battle, each in the garb of their varied lands, each of their horses decorated differently. The buzz in the yard quieted as I entered, the heads turning to see me in my resplendent armor. Even Anton quit his ranting. He turned to face me, his eyebrows shooting up in wonder. The sun was high above my head, and the anxious faces of the soldiers told me they’d been waiting long for my arrival. I stopped myself a few paces into the yard and looked at them.
“I slept,” I declared. “But no ordinary sleep. I will make your wait worth it.”
Even my voice sounded different, not just from the bronze helm but from the magic coursing through me. The men nodded and looked toward their leaders, my unlikely generals. Young Kiryk, King of the Drinmen, clenched a fist at his side, Chuluun bowed his dark head, and Sariyah took a single, silent step forward. Marilius called out to his mercenaries.
“To your places!” he cried, and the mercenaries in the yard broke rank, riding for the gate. Kiryk gave the order too, and then Chuluun, and the Drinmen and Bogati rode forth, kicking up dust as they rode for Sklar Valley. Only a handful of men and horses remained behind, including Venger, who’d been prepared for me with armor the color of my own and Bogati ribbons in his jet mane. Another gift from Anton, I supposed. He smiled when I noticed it, but I could tell he was terrified of the battle ahead.
“Anton,” I said, “you’ll stay here in Isowon, but not out in the open like this. Guard yourself inside. Diriel might have assassins come for you.”
“I’ll be protected,” said Anton, gesturing at the ring of mercs who’d stayed behind. “Lukien, before you go, I want to know about the monster.”
I shook my head. “I can’t. Just trust me on this one.”
Anton pointed at his forehead. “I’m the one that bears the mark! It’s not Diriel’s assassins I’m worried about. If I stay behind, these few men can’t help me against Crezil.”