The Devil's Armor

by John Marco

  With a broadsword in one hand and his reins in the other, Colonel Bern gave a wild shout as he jumped the threshold of the broken gate. Outside he found the chaos he expected. Jazana Carr’s mercenaries were in disarray, calling retreat or vainly trying to rescue their burning comrades. Already Major Nevins had led a dozen horsemen out onto the field. Dozens more followed Bern, all eager to avenge their own fallen friends. The hailstorm of arrows had ceased, replaced by the relentless roar and heat of fire. Bern ignored the needles piercing his eyeslits. As his eyes ran red with tears he brought his sword down on a confused Norvan, cracking through the man’s breastplate and rending his chest. He could see the mercenaries running for cover around him, confused now by this new attack. Bern swung his sword in a rage, smashing through the defenses of any Norvan he came against and crying loudly for his men to follow. Frantically he scanned the field for Rodrik Varl, but the mercenary was nowhere to be seen. Calls for retreat echoed over the crackling fire. Bern shouted at his men to press on, to push the Norvans deeper into the fiery green.

  A forgotten sense of victory seized him. Behind him, he watched his men pouring out of the bastion, climbing through the gates or slipping down hastily dropped ladders. They came in great swarms onto the field, too many for the shocked Norvans to deter, slicing their way past the retreating mercenaries as they themselves retreated from the bastion. Colonel Bern knew his plan had worked, better than he’d anticipated.

  While the archers and infantry ran for the city’s center, Bern found Major Nevins in the crowd. Busily shouting and happy with the rout, it took a moment for Bern to get his commander’s attention.

  “Ride north,” he told Nevins. “Protect the men and keep them safe. Fight your way through the northern line if you have to, but get out of the city.”

  Nevins laughed as if he hadn’t heard. “Say again, Colonel?”

  “You heard me, Nevins, north!”

  “Sir, we’re making a final stand at the castle!”

  “We’re not,” barked Bern. “We’re not fighting for Ravel anymore, Nevins. We’re fighting for Liiria.”

  “But where?” sputtered Nevins. “We have to make a stand!”

  Bern brought his horse close to the major’s. “We will make a stand! But not here! You’re in command of these men now. Take them north and fight your way out of the city. Get them to Koth. Tell them what’s happened here.”

  The order bleached Kevins’ face. “Sir . . .”

  “Do it, Nevins. Quickly now—do it while you still have cover.” Bern turned his horse toward the burning green. The fire was already waning. He could see the mass of Norvans beyond it, still confused but still numerous. “Find Breck at the library,” he continued. “Help him defend our country, lad.”

  As he began to ride off, he heard Nevins shout after him, “Sir, what about you?”

  “I’m going to the castle,” Bern cried. “And don’t you dare follow me!”

  By the end of the morning, Kaj and his Crusaders had made their way to the eastern wall. As expected, they found the wall fortified with Liirians and some hirelings from other countries, all surprisingly willing to die for their employer, Baron Ravel. Kaj had lost at least sixty men taking the eastern district, and by the time his mercenaries reached the wall they were exhausted and ill-prepared for a prolonged siege. They took up positions in the streets just outside the wall, bearing down on the Liirian defenders and gathering the strength for the assault. Kaj waited patiently while his reserves were brought from the rear, over a hundred fresh men who could, at last, travel safely through the streets. He supposed that Count Onikil had encountered little trouble in securing the western part of the city, and that the count was ready to march on the castle by now. As for Rodrik Varl, that was a different story. By the time noon had come, messengers began arriving from the southern bastion. They explained to Kaj that Varl had indeed secured the little fortress, but at great loss. A fire had forced his men to retreat temporarily and the Liirians inside the bastion had escaped. According to the messenger, Varl supposed they had fled to the castle for a last stand, making the job of taking down Baron Ravel even more difficult. What had at first looked like a hard day’s work was becoming something of a debacle, and Kaj took the time to size up the situation. With Varl delayed in the south, there was no real rush for him to take the eastern wall.

  Then, to his amazement, Kaj noticed something. He was in a high, abandoned building with a good view of the eastern wall just two short streets away. Looking out the window while men chatted anxiously about their plans, he saw that there were far fewer men patrolling the wall than had been there just scant minutes before. Then, when he looked down into the streets, he realized that the barriers the Liirians had erected where unmanned as well. Kaj quickly realized what was happening. He leaned out through the broken window and stared at the wall.

  “They’re abandoning it . . .”

  At first his men acted as though they hadn’t heard. His friend Anare went to stand beside him.

  “Are they?” Anare asked, bewildered.

  When the rest of the men realized what was happening they headed for the street.

  “No!” Kaj called after them. “We won’t pursue them. They’re retreating. That’s good enough for now.”

  Assuming the Liirians were heading toward the castle, he did not bother sending scouts after them.

  Lord Dugald of the twin cities Vicvar and Poolv had enjoyed an uneventful morning. As predicted, his own small army had faced little resistance in their march south, securing the north of Andola easily and waiting for word from Rodrik Varl to proceed toward Ravel’s castle. The north of the city was the most sparsely populated and thus the least built-up, making Dugald’s progress simple. With his force of only seven hundred men—mostly infantry—they had forced the outnumbered Liirians south by flanking them on both sides and squeezing them down. The lack of heart the Liirians showed did not surprise Lord Dugald, who remembered gleefully what he had told Rodrik Varl earlier in the day: mercenaries simply couldn’t be trusted. They fought for money alone, and when their lives were really threatened they always—always—gave up. It did not matter to Dugald that these particular mercenaries were Liirians. Despite Varl’s ludicrous claims, they had no country to fight for.

  An hour past noon, Dugald had made camp with his aides and guards in a clearing that had been a market square before strife had strangled Andola’s commerce. The square was large enough to accommodate all of Dugald’s underlings, who traveled with him everywhere and who, like their lord, enjoyed comfort wherever they went. Workers who had been slaves before Jazana Carr outlawed the practice cooked for Dugald and pampered him, while the lord himself sat around a makeshift table with his aides, commenting on how well their campaign had gone. Like Kaj, Dugald had received a message from Rodrik Varl telling him of the difficulties they had faced down south and telling him to go no further. Dugald, who was famished from the busy morning, had no intention of moving another inch until he ate, and so received the message gladly. It didn’t matter to Dugald whether Andola fell in a day or in a month. So far Jazana Carr had been a generous queen, and he saw no reason to be unhappy. He ate a game bird and drank wine while he talked with his aides, and he laughed at Varl’s misfortune, wiping his greasy beard on his sleeve and bellowing for more wine. He was a big man with no manners at all, and was often called Dugald the Great by the peoples of Vicvar and Poolv, not because of any special accomplishment but because of his burgeoning stomach.

  As he ate and laughed, Dugald heard a strange noise in the distance. He paused to listen, then heard one of his own men shout. Looking up, he saw a soldier pointing southward, then noticed more of his men doing the same. Dugald laid down his quail and stood, causing his aides to do the same. What he saw confused him.

  “What’s that?” he asked stupidly, unable to recognize the army galloping toward him. At first he thought they must be Onikil’s men, who were closest and, like him, mostly unengaged. But then he realiz
ed most wore Liirian uniforms—and his face fell in terror.

  How many men were coming toward him? Dugald was too paralyzed to count. He stared for a moment, unsure what to do, unsure that the sight was even possible. But as his camp erupted in panic he knew he wasn’t dreaming, and that a new force of Liirians had gathered to fight him.

  “My horse!” he cried, scrambling from the table. Already the Liirians were charging toward him, a great mass of cavalry leading the screeching infantry. The thunder of their attack shook the ground beneath his feet as Dugald looked around desperately for his horse. His aides scattered, some drawing weapons while others merely ran, seeking cover anywhere they could. Unable to find his own horse, Dugald grabbed hold of the nearest stallion just as one of his aides was mounting, pulling the man from the stirrups. It was clear to Dugald that the mounted Liirians intended to cut a path through them for the infantry. At the rate they were approaching he had only moments to escape. Clumsily he unsheathed his sword and raised it over his head, trying to rally his forces.

  “Fight them! Don’t run, you cowards!”

  But his men were running, surprised and outnumbered by the coming Liirians. Dugald found himself alone as he charged headlong toward them. Realizing this he pulled back hard on his horse to turn the beast around. Too late, he noticed a flame-haired officer of the Chargers blazing toward him, lips snarling, sword drawn back and ready . . .

  It was the last thing Dugald saw before his head went tumbling through the air.

  Finally, at nightfall, Rodrik Varl and his forces arrived at the castle of Baron Ravel.

  Keeping to the shadows and remaining a few streets from the castle itself, Varl could nevertheless see the main tower of the castle peeking up above the city, lit by candlelight. He was plainly exhausted. His men had suffered horrible losses at the bastion, and even now there were many who remained behind, badly burned or crippled by the flaming trap Colonel Bern had sprung. Varl had spent the afternoon tending to his men and answering messages from Jazana Carr, who was rightfully incensed by his stupidity and demanded constant updates. At last, after seeing to the wounded and gathering those still able to fight, Varl had sent word to Kaj and Count Onikil to meet him in the center of the city. Lord Dugald, he discovered an hour earlier, had died, and his men had been badly routed. The Liirians that Varl supposed were escaping to join Ravel in the castle had instead fled Andola, another miscalculation Varl flogged himself over. As he rode at the head of his depleted men, Varl considered all that had happened. His friend Aykle was dead, killed just moments after the fire erupted. Over two hundred others had died with him. It had been a fantastic reckoning for the Liirians, and Rodrik Varl applauded them.

  But they would not be so lucky again. Though he was dead now, Dugald had also been prophetic—the Liirians had in fact abandoned Ravel. Only those most loyal to him remained in the castle, and if they had any brains at all they would surrender once they saw the force surrounding them.

  Count Onikil and his men had come from the west to join Varl’s forces. The Rolgan seemed shaken by the fate that befell Lord Dugald. His splendid clothes hung a little less grandly from his frame as he waited on his horse. Varl trotted through the dirty street toward him. The houses around them were shut tight, but he could hear frightened murmurs from them.

  As he approached, Onikil greeted him with a nod. “Rodrik.”

  “Where’s Kaj?”

  The count replied, “He and his men took up positions on the other side of the castle.” His smile sharpened. “I guess they don’t want another escape.”

  If it was a jibe, Varl couldn’t tell. Nor could he tell from his vantage point where Kaj and his men were positioned, hidden as they were by the darkness and the big, brooding castle.

  “What about Ravel’s men?”

  “I’ve had patrols out. There don’t look to be that many men, at least not outside the castle yard. The walls are bare mostly, too.” The count grimaced. “Frankly, I don’t know what it means.”

  “Most of them fled,” said Varl. He studied the darkened castle carefully “I don’t know where they’re going, but they’re not in Andola anymore. Looks to me like Ravel’s all alone this time.”

  “Hmm, looks can be deceiving, don’t you think?”

  “That’s a lesson I shan’t forget soon, Count. Have your men surround the north and west sides of the castle. Tell them to keep free of any debris, any close spaces, anything suspicious. You yourself can come with me, if you like.”

  Surprised, Onikil asked, “To where?”

  “To see Baron Ravel,” replied Rodrik Varl.

  With a casual flick of the reins, he guided his horse toward the waiting castle.

  Up in the tower of his fabulous home, Baron Ravel sat slumped in a velvet chair with his back to the window. At last, his enemies were at his threshold. He had seen them from his bedchamber, surrounding his castle, drawing ever closer. A horrible silence filled the room, punctuated only by the noise in the streets and Colonel Bern’s tired breathing. Nearby, the slave Simah remained with him as she had throughout the day, a last, beautiful link to the baron’s former life. Ravel kept his eyes closed as he considered Bern’s dreary report. There was no longer a way for him to escape the castle, to flee Andola as most of his troops had, and the fat baron wondered why he didn’t hate Bern for giving the order to retreat, signing all their death warrants. Colonel Bern wasn’t really a mercenary after all, Ravel realized, but the revelation had come too late.

  “And now, like a good soldier, you will die, Bern.”

  Ravel opened his eyes, almost laughing when he saw the military man standing proudly before him, his uniform soiled with blood, his face hard from the day’s gory work. There were still soldiers at the castle who hadn’t fled, but they were too few to do Ravel much good. They might take up arms against the Norvans, but they would certainly die. So would Simah and the rest of his women, eventually. It had all been an incalculable failure. “If you surrender me they might spare you,” said Ravel miserably. “You’re one of them after all, a soldier. Maybe get yourself a nice ransom for me?”

  Colonel Bern stood like a wax figure. Ravel put back his head and sighed.

  “Make a deal for my women and servants if you can. Have that bitch-queen spare them. At least Jazana Carr is a woman; she won’t stand for the raping.” He looked at Simah and pitied her. Surprisingly, the girl didn’t flinch at his words. Ravel glanced back at Bern and sneered, “Or maybe you’ll take her for yourself, eh? A little something extra for ruining me?”

  Still the colonel said nothing. His tired eyes seemed to groan.

  “Say something Bern, you shit-eating maggot. Will you surrender me or will you fight?”

  “I could have left with the others, my lord.”

  “Ah, yes. But why did you stay? That’s what vexes me, Colonel. What’s in that military mind of yours? What fate have you cooked up for me?”

  Colonel Bern replied wearily, “My lord, my advice is that you prepare yourself to meet Jazana Carr. I won’t be able to hold them off for long.”

  Ravel sat up with some surprise. “You mean you’ll fight?”

  There was no reply from Bern, who was already out the door.

  By the time Rodrik Varl reached the castle, a group of Liirian soldiers had gathered in the courtyard. Remarkably, the gates were opened wide, but in the threshold of the yard a single soldier blocked their way. He was an older man of obvious rank. His sword dangled in his hand, its tip raking the dirt. When Varl realized the man was Colonel Bern he slowed the progress of his horse, looking carefully at the yard and the men positioned there. There were perhaps seventy men, all in Liirian uniforms and not a mercenary among them. They were armed but none of them seemed prepared to fight. Only Bern had his weapon drawn.

  “What is this?” asked Count Onikil, who rode beside Rodrik Varl. Varl did not reply. Behind them rode a hundred horsemen, but he ignored them all as well. The lone man at the gate entranced him. A grudging admiration g
rew in him.

  “Colonel, you’re a very clever man,” called Varl. “I don’t mind admitting your tactics at the bastion were a surprise.”

  The Liirian tilted his head. “It’s not the way I’d want to go, burning to death. I suppose I should feel sorry for your men.”

  “War makes beasts out of all of us,” lamented Varl. “Step aside, sir. I can get you and your men mercy if you’ll cooperate.”

  “I can’t do that,” said Bern. “I’ll plead amnesty for these men—they’ll surrender if you’ll promise some decent treatment for them. But I can’t be among them.”

  “Colonel Bern, I have enough to regret today. Don’t make me kill you, please.”

  “I wish you would. I’m too old to die in a prison camp.”

  “Why die?” asked Varl. “Why fight for Ravel?”

  “Not for Ravel. For Liiria.”

  From his face Varl could tell Bern meant his words. “Where is that fat one? Inside?”

  The colonel nodded. “In his chambers, waiting.”

  “And you’ll be his last true soldier, is that it? Seems very stupid to me, Colonel. You should have left with the rest of your men.”

  “Maybe you can’t understand this,” said Bern. “Maybe you’re too much of a mercenary to know what words like duty and honor mean. But I’m an old soldier, and I gave my word to Ravel to protect him. Now . . .” He raised his sword just a bit. “If you’ll oblige me, I’d be grateful.”

  “Oh, let me kill this prating fool,” growled Onikil. He put his hand to his sword, ready to ride forward.

  “Keep your place,” snapped Varl. He looked back at the waiting Liirian. “If we had time I could tell you things, Colonel Bern. Maybe teach you that I’m not the man you think.”

  Bern shrugged. “Maybe.”