The Devil's Armor

by John Marco

  He went on through the avenue, unhassled, until at last he found the bank of homes Gilwyn had told him about. A row of small, pretty houses of Ganjeese architecture greeted him with oblong windows and shingles of bright red clay. As he entered the street, he saw a man and a child seated on the ground outside one of the homes. The man had a book in his hand. The child—a girl—wore an enraptured expression. For Thorin, it took only a moment to recognize their Liirian garb. There were others in the street as well, men and women, but all of these had the swarthy skin of desert folk. Only the man with the book and his fresh-faced charge were northerners. The sight of them struck Thorin hard. He paused, staring at them as he wiped his greasy hand on his hip. Gilwyn had described Paxon as a gray-haired man of middle age, and this fellow fit that sketch perfectly. There was a weak smile on his face as he read to the girl, ignoring everyone else around him. Baron Glass did not go unnoticed, however. A woman chatting with some friends caught his eye and pointed. Thorin held up his hand to silence her, and she fell quiet. But it was the quiet that finally nabbed Paxon’s attention. He looked up from his storybook and glanced at Baron Glass, his eyes going from mildly annoyed to astonished in an instant.

  Thorin looked around. He saw no other northerners. With a slight smile he stepped forward. “I am looking for a man named Paxon,” he said. “I’ve heard that he lives here. Might you be he?”

  The man nodded. The little girl looked equally astonished.

  “I’m Paxon,” he said. He kept the storybook opened in his lap. “You’re a Liirian. You’re Baron Glass.”

  “I’m afraid I have that ugly distinction, yes,” said Thorin. He could feel the eyes of the gathering Ganjeese on him. The growing crowd made him uncomfortable. He took another step toward Paxon, smiling down at the girl and noticing her twisted leg. He said to her, “You’re Melini, aren’t you? Gilwyn Toms told me about you.”

  The girl seemed too frightened to answer. Before she uttered a word a woman came out of the house, stopping at once when she saw Thorin. This was Melini’s mother, guessed Thorin, the one named Calith. According to Gilwyn, they were sharing this house along with a family of Ganjeese.

  “I’m not here with any special news, good or bad,” said Thorin quickly. “I just want to talk. To you, Paxon, if that would be all right.”

  Paxon looked both excited and confused. “Did the one called Minikin send you? We’ve been waiting . . .”

  “No,” said Thorin. “I came on my own to speak to you. I have questions, about Liiria.”

  A dashed expression washed Paxon’s face. He slowly closed the book and shook his head. “The knight Lukien said the mistress would speak to us,” he muttered. “We have been waiting days for word. Still nothing, you say?”

  “You must have word, Baron Glass,” said the woman Calith. She went to her daughter Melini and rested a hand on the girl’s head. “Please, tell us something. Anything.”

  Thorin knew he should have expected the reaction, but was unprepared for it. He stammered an apology. “No, I’m sorry. I really came of my own accord.” He looked at Paxon. “I have no news for you, nor influence with Minikin. But I would be grateful for your time. Like you, I’m a Liirian who’s trapped here.”

  “Trapped?” The term surprised Paxon. “You live in Mount Believer, sir. You are blessed.”

  “You know the woman Minikin, the one Lukien told us about,” said Calith. “What has she said of our petition?”

  “No one knows the workings of Minikin’s mind, especially not I,” replied Thorin. “It’s true, I do live in Grimhold, but I have no sway over who is allowed in and who is not, nor has Minikin told me anything about you. It was the boy, Gilwyn Toms, who told me where to find you.”

  Paxon dropped the book to the dirt and rose to his feet. “Then the Bronze Knight has lied to us,” he said angrily. “He said that Minikin would speak to us, but she has not. He said that things would be explained, but we are left here deaf and blind. And now you come to ask questions of us? I know you, Baron Glass. I am old enough to remember you. I did not believe you were alive until I came here.” He gestured to the many Ganjeese surrounding them. “These people told me it was true, that you were still alive. When I heard that—and when I saw the Bronze Knight Lukien—I thought you would help us.”

  Paxon’s words stung Thorin, but he did not show it. He kept his features hard as he replied, “I would still have words with you, though you think me a scoundrel. Will you let me ask my questions, Paxon? Or shall I go now and leave you here?”

  It seemed to take great effort for Paxon to make his decision. He looked around at his dark-skinned hosts, then at Calith. Finally he replied, “We’ll talk, but not here. Walk with me. I know a place.”

  Calith hurried him a cautioning glance. “No, Paxon, don’t bury yourself in drink again.”

  “It’s the only thing that helps, Calith,” said Paxon. “Finish the story for Melini, then put her to bed.” He sighed and walked toward Thorin. “Come with me, Baron Glass.”

  Without saying good-night to the woman and child, Thorin followed Paxon away from the house back into the avenue of merchants. It was good to get away from the crowd, but he soon noticed that Paxon was leading him to one of the quarter’s many taverns, or shrana houses as they were called by the Ganjeese. Shrana houses were scattered throughout the township, just as they were in Ganjor. And shrana houses meant lots of people.

  “We can talk out here,” said Thorin. “We don’t need to go inside.”

  “I need to go inside. If you want to talk, you’ll come with me.”

  Thorin relented, letting Paxon hold aside the beaded door for him as they entered the tavern. The smell of shrana—that bitter, black liquor—crept up Thorin’s nose. He had never acquired a taste for it or understood how anyone could, but its adherents were everywhere in the public house, sipping the steaming drink from little cups as they huddled around circular tables to talk and gamble. Thorin’s eyes quickly adjusted to the dark. Paxon located an empty table at the far end of the place and led Thorin to it. There were no chairs around the short table, just pillows and rugs to rest on. They sat down just as a pretty young woman came to the table.

  “Rahos,” said Paxon. He held up two fingers. The woman nodded and disappeared into the crowd. Though Thorin knew very little Ganjeese, he knew that rahos wasn’t shrana. Rahos was a much harder drink, a clear alcohol often used to liven up a cup of shrana. Some drank it straight, though, like Paxon. Thorin had tried rahos twice before and hadn’t liked it, but he was suddenly in the mood for a hard drink. He didn’t say anything to Paxon while they waited for the woman to return, and the head of the Liirian Seekers offered nothing in return. The awkward silence was brief, however. The woman returned with two cups and an entire jug of rahos. Apparently, she knew Paxon’s drinking habits. The Liirian picked up the jug and poured a cupful of the stuff for each of them, then emptied his own cup quickly down his gullet before refilling. His eyes watered a bit but he didn’t cough at all.

  “It helps the pain,” he explained. “I have a cancer, Baron Glass.”

  “I know,” said Thorin. “I was told. I’m sorry for you.”

  “I came here thinking I’d find something better than liquor to aid me, but the real medicine is being kept from me. It’s being kept from all of us, Baron. I wonder how it is you can live with yourself.”

  “The power of Grimhold is not for me to give, my friend. To be truthful, I hardly understand it at all. But you must know this—Minikin does not withhold it from you maliciously.”

  “She would rather watch a man die? Or a crippled child wither?” Paxon shook his head as he stared into his cup, as if the concept seemed unbelievable. “In Liiria the legend of this place grows. When the men came back from the war they told us of the miraculous things that went on here, and now I have seen these things for myself. The one called Ghost who makes himself disappear; he could make a believer out of anyone! So there is magic here. We weren’t wrong. Not everyone b
elieved, but we did. Others laughed at us but we came across the desert anyway.” Finally, Paxon looked up from his drink. “Do you see why I’m so angry, Baron Glass?”

  Thorin nodded with sympathy. “To have come so far . . . Truly, I am sorry for you, Paxon, and all the others. But you must realize—there is not the room for all of you in Grimhold. The magic you speak of is . . . well, it’s hard to understand. I don’t comprehend it myself, but I know you can’t just summon it. It must be given freely to a person. There are spirits in Grimhold, spirits that choose to work with people or heal them. You don’t know that because no one has told you anything. But it’s true.”

  “And is it not within the power of this Minikin to bestow such a spirit on a person? I have spoken to the people here, Baron Glass. They have told me it is the midget woman who grants these spirits and their magic.”

  “Bah, it is all babble you overhear. I tell you it is complicated.” Thorin toyed with his drink but did not sip. “I have been here a year now, and still I do not understand things. I know only that Minikin has a good heart and suffers as you do, because she sees your plight.” He pushed his drink aside with annoyance. “Paxon, I didn’t really come here to speak of Minikin.”

  “No,” said Paxon, understanding. “You want to know about Liiria.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll tell you anything you want to know, Baron Glass. Let’s see, where shall I start? Do you want to know about the warlords that have torn our country apart? Or about the lawlessness? I know of a child trampled by a horse in one of their battles. Should I tell you about him?”

  The news made Thorin blanch. “As bad as that?”

  “The country has collapsed, Baron. Once we learned that King Akeela had died, it was chaos. He bankrupted us, did you know that?”

  “I had heard,” said Thorin. “Go on.”

  “Well, there was no money for anything, and the army was broken, too. I don’t know how many men were killed here in the war. You’re more of an expert on that than I am, but those that survived didn’t all return to Liiria. Some did, though, and because General Trager was dead they had no one to follow, so they went to anyone who could pay them. Baron Ravel got most of them, I think. He had enough gold to keep them fed.”

  Hearing Ravel’s name made Thorin’s blood curdle. The Merchant-Baron was a quiet but ambitious man, who had long fancied himself a man of war. Now it seemed he had bought the title others had rightfully earned.

  “I know Ravel,” said Thorin. “To call him a dog would be a kindness. He hasn’t taken Koth, has he?”

  “Not by the time I left, but he has designs on the city, that’s certain. And I’ve been gone many weeks. Koth may be his now.”

  The news was too much for Thorin. At once he took back his cup of rahos and drank, gulping the liquid thoughtlessly. It burned all the way down.

  “That is horrible news, Paxon. To imagine Ravel in charge of my beautiful city . . . It’s too much to bear.”

  “As I said, I’ve been gone from Koth for some time now, Baron. It may be that Ravel has defeated the library folk, or perhaps not. Perhaps they still hold on.”

  “Library folk? Who are they?”

  Paxon looked peculiarly at Thorin. “They are the men in the library, the army that fights for Koth. Haven’t you heard of them?”

  “No, Paxon, I told you—I’m deaf and dumb here. Tell me who these men are.”

  The Liirian shrugged. “I don’t really know them, to be honest. They’re soldiers mostly, men who didn’t side with Ravel or other warlords when they came back from the war. They’re loyal to King Akeela, or at least his memory.”

  “And they live in the library?”

  “It’s their fortress now. It’s on a great hill, overlooking the city. Even Lionkeep isn’t as good a position.”

  The news was astonishing to Thorin. Suddenly he was full of questions. “They’re soldiers, you say? Royal Chargers, even?”

  “I think so. There aren’t many of them, but they’ve been rallying anyone they can to their banner for the defense of Koth. For the old ways, you might say. The man who leads them is an old-timer, too. A fellow named Breck.”

  “Sweet mother of Fate.” Thorin leaned back as if struck by a stone. “Breck?”

  “That’s his name, I’m sure of it. You know him?”

  “I know him,” said Thorin, remembering the man as clear as sunshine. It was Breck who had gone to Norvor with Gilwyn to take him away from Jazana Carr. After that he’d gone off with his family, leaving Koth to escape Akeela’s wrath while the rest of them fled across the desert. It boggled Thorin’s mind to think of Breck holed up in the library, defending Koth once again. “What a good man,” he said with a smile. “Gods, what a hero.”

  “He may be a hero, but he doesn’t stand much of a chance,” said Paxon. “He’s outmanned by Ravel’s army.”

  “I’ve seen Library Hill, my friend. A skilled group can hold off an army up there. Ravel will be no match for them, not at first. Ravel will have to wear them down, though I have to admit it won’t do Breck much good if no one comes to help him.” Once again the agitation grew in Thorin. “What else do you know, Paxon? What have you heard of Jazana Carr?”

  “Ah, that one!” Paxon shook his head ruefully. “She’s the one Breck should really worry about. Last I heard she had King Lorn on the run. It was just a matter of time before she conquered Norvor. She’s done it by now most likely.”

  “No . . .”

  “Oh yes, Baron Glass. Jazana Carr’s a wicked one, and she has the means to do whatever she wants. She has her own designs on Liiria, you know. They say even Ravel fears her, because his army is no match for hers. If she wants Liiria, she’ll take it. And no one’s going to be able to stop her.”

  A sickening lurch shook Thorin’s stomach. He looked down at the table, suffocated by a sense of utter helplessness. “So it’s too late,” he muttered. “My family . . .”

  Paxon frowned. “You have a family, Baron? You mean still in Liiria?”

  “Still in Koth, for all I know,” replied Thorin. “I haven’t seen them in years. They’re all grown now. Or dead.”

  The images of his family—as they had been years ago—flashed through his mind. His wife Romonde, his sons Aric and Nial, both boys when he’d left them. And of course there were his twin girls, perfectly the same like two shining pennies. For a moment he saw them clearly, and the memory was painful. He had been forced to leave them, all of them, sent to the Isle of Woe by Akeela to be eaten by cannibals. But he’d been saved by Lukien and Jazana Carr and he had never looked back. He had never even told his family he was still alive.

  “I don’t know,” Thorin wondered aloud. “I don’t know what they think of me.”

  Paxon was still staring at him. The Liirian had lost his sour expression and now looked wholly sympathetic. “It is a cruel thing to lose one’s family. I’m sorry for you, Baron Glass. You must miss them.”

  Thorin thought about this, but was unsure how to answer. “I would miss them, if I knew how. I don’t even know what they look like now. I left them to keep them safe. I could never tell them I was alive because that would have put them in danger from Akeela. Ah, it’s a long story . . .” Thorin found the jug of rahos and poured himself some more. He drank, trying not to be embarrassed by Paxon’s pity. “I owe them, that’s all. If Jazana Carr is on the move, then they are in danger.”

  “If they’re still in Liiria,” said Paxon. “You say you don’t know where they are?”

  “Or even if they’re still alive.” Thorin snickered blackly. “What a father and husband I am, eh? Bloody one-armed coward. Bloody useless.”

  He finished his cup of rahos in one big gulp, then licked his lips.

  “Not much good I can do anybody here, though. And how can I get across the desert to help them, or help Breck? That cursed Aztar has us all sealed in here like insects in a jar.”

  “There’s nothing for you in Liiria anyway, Baron Glass,�
�� Paxon cautioned him. “There’s nothing left there for any of us.”

  Thorin looked at him and grimaced. “No. No, you’re probably right.”

  “Our lives are here now. The others that came with me, they need a life, too.” Paxon took hold of Thorin’s hand. “You must make Minikin understand that. If there’s any way for us to enter Mount Believer . . .”

  “I told you, there is no way.”

  “But if there is a way, any way, you must convince her. Will you do that for us, Baron Glass? Will you speak to the woman Minikin for us?” Paxon sighed as if he knew the answer. “Or will you simply forget us?”

  About to reach for his cup, Thorin stilled his hand. Suddenly he wanted no more of the liquor. “I will not forget you, Paxon. Or Liiria.” He shoved aside his cup. “Thank you for the drink, and for the company,” he said. Then he rose from the table and left the shrana house.

  Outside, he felt his anger crest. Over the white wall he could see the palace of Jador and knew that Minikin was in there somewhere. He looked around and saw what was still a vibrant town, alive despite the hardships of isolation. But it was a Ganjeese town, a place for desert dwellers. It was not a world for Liirians. Liirians belonged up north, Baron Glass decided.