The Devil's Armor

by John Marco

  “Don’t . . . kill me . . .”

  Lorn tightened his fingers around the gasping throat. “Ah, but you’re fading fast, my friend. If you don’t get help soon, you will die. Shall I help you die?”

  “Please, no . . .”

  “Does Erlik knows I’m here? Has he sent others after me?”

  “No, no others,” the man fought to explain. “We were told . . . to look for you.”

  That gem of information made Lorn smile. Suddenly he was in control again—at least until the bodies were discovered.

  “Where’s the Blue Ram?” he demanded.

  The blond man struggled to answer, consciousness fading fast.

  “Tell me!” hissed Lorn.

  “Down . . . there . . .”

  A feeble finger rose to point left. Lorn looked down the alley. Torches lit the area. Street noise tumbled toward them. Lorn was sure he’d find the tavern.

  “All right,” he said, still holding his sword. “I mean to find your duke, assassin. And when I do I’m going to send him to the same hell as you.”

  The man’s eyes filled with horror. A strangled plea rose from his throat. Ignoring it, Lorn quickly ran the edge of his blade over the man’s neck, cutting off his cry.

  In less than an hour, Lorn was in the Blue Ram.

  He had washed himself of blood, then taken the cape and helmet from the soldier. These he kept under his table, the helmet wrapped up in the cape, tied like a bundle of belongings. Lorn’s table was at the far end of the tavern, away from the hearth and a good distance from the busy bar. A tankard of ale that had gone flat sat before him, nursed carefully so he did not have to pay for another. A group of men played cards at a table nearby, ignoring him completely, while the barkeep kept occupied with a steady stream of patrons. It had not been hard for Lorn to locate Duke Erlik among them. The grand man sat at his own table near the hearth, laughing and drinking with a pair of fine-looking women and occasionally getting whispered reports in his ear from his caped guardians, who seemed to be everywhere in the city.

  Lorn averted his eyes, mostly, as he waited patiently in his wooden chair. His place afforded him a good view of Erlik and quick egress from the nearby door, but he was sure there was a back exit to the place, and that Erlik would be using it soon. Before entering the Blue Ram, Lorn had surveyed the place’s outhouse, a shabby structure of stone at the rear of the street. The hour was perfect; the outhouse itself had little traffic now. And Erlik was doing a good job filling his bladder with beer. Soon, Lorn knew, he would have to empty it.

  Lorn took a sip from his own ale. A barmaid asked him pointedly if he wanted another. Lorn reached into his pocket and slapped a bronze coin onto the table, one of his very last.

  “Here,” he said gruffly. “Bring me another, then stop bothering me.”

  The harried-looking maid greedily took the coin, then went to the bar to bring him another drink. When she was gone Lorn settled down. Sitting in the Ram had given him time to think. He’d been surprised by Erlik’s ambush, but he knew he shouldn’t have been. He’d been a king once, and certainly there were too many flapping lips in Koth to keep them all closed. It annoyed him that he’d not foreseen this, and he wondered how many other assassins were waiting for him on the road to Ganjor.

  So close . . .

  Too close now to be stopped by some greedy duke.

  Duke Erlik himself was no less impressive than the ladies he entertained. Back in Norvor, Lorn had heard stories about the man and his handsome face. It was said that Erlik pampered himself like a princess, importing oils and perfumes to keep his skin supple. A foppish man, Erlik sat tall in his thronelike chair, his lean body draped in brightly colored clothes and a coat that looked more suited for a woman. His face, powdered white and rouged at the cheeks, held two glassy eyes that jumped insanely, admiring the bosoms of his laughing entourage. Surprisingly, Lorn did not hate Erlik. Though looking at the fop disgusted him, he nevertheless admired him, and all he had attained. Ransoming a criminal—even a noble one—was simply good business.

  I would have done the same, thought Lorn darkly.

  He pondered that for a moment, wondering if it were true. In another life he would have ransomed a man without a second thought. Now? He wasn’t sure.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled. “Business or not, it won’t save him.”

  A few long minutes later, Erlik finally rose from his seat and headed toward the rear of the tavern. A caped soldier saw him rise and followed him, no doubt a bodyguard. Lorn checked his eagerness, took a calm drink from his tankard, then got up himself, carefully taking his bundle from beneath the table. He gave one casual look over his shoulder as he headed for the front door. Then, sure nobody had noticed him, he went outside. The night wrapped him in its silent mantle. Up and down the street he saw only distant figures, too far away to see him clearly. With his stolen cape and helmet in hand, he walked around the brick building toward its rear, his boots sinking into the loamy earth as shadows swallowed him completely. There he fixed the cape around his neck and shoulders and put the helmet on his head. Hand on his sword, he stalked toward the outhouse.

  As he’d hoped, only the single guardian awaited Duke Erlik. More lucky still, he had his back turned toward Lorn. Without pausing, Lorn drew his sword, walked up behind the man, and put the blade through his back. Quickly covering his victim’s mouth, Lorn held him as he convulsed, spewing blood from his throat onto Lorn’s hand. When he was sure the guard was dead, Lorn dragged him into the shadows next to the outhouse, where he quickly wiped his bloodied hands on the dewy grass. A glance toward the Ram told him no one else was coming. Lorn seized the chance. Standing at the very threshold of the stone outhouse, he grabbed hold of the door very quietly, paused to prepare himself, then flung the door open.

  Squatting over the seat was Erlik, his trousers around his ankles. Lorn had his blade at the duke’s throat at once.

  “Oh, Fate . . .” gasped Erlik, holding up his hands. His head pinned to the wall by the sword, he looked desperately at Lorn. “Don’t kill me!”

  “Don’t say another bloody word,” Lorn whispered. With his free hand he closed the outhouse door behind him, so that only a sliver of light entered through the chamber’s tiny window. “Scream and you die.”

  “I won’t,” promised Erlik. His powdered face began to sweat. “You want to rob me, take it, whatever you want.”

  “Gods above, but you’re a coward,” hissed Lorn. He pressed harder on his sword, nearly breaking the silky skin of Erlik’s throat. “At least act like a man, even if you can’t dress like one.”

  The insult riled Erlik. “Who are you?”

  “Why don’t you figure that out for yourself? I’m Norvan. Does that help?”

  The little color fell from Erlik’s face. “Lorn . . .”

  “Indeed,” replied Lorn hatefully. “How much did you think you’d get for me, Erlik? Did you really think I’d let you sell me to that bitch Jazana Carr?”

  “You’re insane,” sneered Erlik. “A mad-dog king, just like everyone says.”

  “Maybe,” said Lorn. “But at least I’m alive.”

  Then, for the third time that night, Lorn bloodied his blade.

  By dawn the next morning, Lorn had left Dreel far behind. Remarkably, he had escaped the city with ease, leaving through the main gate as soon as he’d emptied Erlik’s pockets. Travelling had been difficult without a horse, but he remained on the main road throughout the night, hiding in the dark woods whenever he heard others approaching. When the sun finally rose he had put a good distance between himself and the city, and was sure no one had followed him. He did not look like an assassin, after all, and he knew it would take time for anyone to find the two bodies of the soldiers, which he stuffed down an old abandoned well. Erlik himself was probably found minutes after his death, but by then Lorn was already through the city gates.

  Exhausted, he continued on the wooded road south, ignoring his blistered feet and enormo
us fatigue. He was glad Eiriann had followed his orders to leave the city; he had seen nothing of them on the road. With luck he would meet up with them in Ganjor. If not, he hoped they would go across the desert without him. Poppy didn’t need him to be healed—she needed the magic of Grimhold, and that was all. Perhaps he had taken her far enough. Perhaps Eiriann would take her the rest of the way.

  “A good woman,” he told himself as he walked, and the thought of her pretty face eased his many aches. They were all good, and he trusted them. Poppy was in capable hands.

  For an hour more Lorn continued on his weary way. His swollen feet threatened to burst from his worn-out boots, but he was driven by a mad urge to reach Ganjor. He remembered from the maps that it was a three day ride between Ganjor and Dreel, and he knew it would take him much longer on foot. He had money now but that was little good to him, for he trusted no one on the road and could not risk buying passage south. If he came upon a town he might be able to purchase a horse, and it was that single hope that kept him going.

  Then, to his surprise, Lorn heard voices. He stopped in the road to listen. There was no movement up ahead, no horse hooves or wagon wheels. Whoever it was had stopped, too, but the bend in the road prevented him from seeing. There was a group of people, unquestionably, and for a moment the sound was familiar. He dared to hope that it might be the Believers . . .

  As he crept up the road, his hope was rewarded. There they were, all of them, pulled off on the side of the road, waiting. Lorn stepped out from the bend and stared in happy shock. Atop the wagon, Eiriann was first to notice him.

  “Lorn!” she called.

  Every head turned at her cry. Lorn hurried toward them. Eiriann, holding the baby as always, got down from the wagon and went to him, followed close behind by her father, then Bezarak and the others.

  “You waited?” asked Lorn. “I told you to go on to Ganjor.”

  “Yes, you told me,” said Eiriann. “But I knew you’d make it out.” Her smile, like her faith in him, seemed boundless. She handed him Poppy, who cooed at his familiar touch. “Remember what I told you? You belong with us, Lorn.”

  “Aye,” agreed Majis. “We knew you’d make it out.”

  Lorn’s expression grew stormy. “I should be angry with you. You took a great risk.”

  Eiriann gave him a wicked smile. “Well, we could leave you here if you prefer, or we can all go to Ganjor. What say you, King Lorn?”

  None of them expected his thanks. It was not his way and they knew it. So instead Lorn reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold coins he’d stolen from Erlik. Showing them to the Believers, he said, “I say we ride for Ganjor. And this time when we get there we won’t have to beg for help.”

  28

  THE VALLEY OF THE KREELS

  For two days and nights, Gilwyn traveled east across the desert with only Emerald and the enigmatic Ghost for company. He had enough supplies for the journey and had promised Minikin he would return—unharmed—with as many kreels as he could manage. It had been a bold promise, and often during his trip Gilwyn wondered how he would keep it. The valley of the kreels was little known to him, and despite the tutoring of friendly Jadori warriors he didn’t really know what to expect there. He would find kreels there; that he knew for certain. Hour by hour, as he drew closer, he could feel them ever stronger in his mind. Better than any compass or map, the powerful sense of their reptilian lives directed him across the desert.

  His companion offered little company. Gilwyn had never really liked Ghost, not since their first meeting during the Liirian war. The albino was everything Gilwyn was not—brash and arrogant and skilled in battle—and after two days of travelling Gilwyn simply decided they had little to talk about. Mostly, he had agreed to Ghost’s presence to appease Minikin, who had insisted he take a bodyguard on the trip. It annoyed Gilwyn that no one thought he could take care of himself, even with Emerald’s help, but in the end he was grateful for Ghost’s meager companionship.

  All that second day the pair rode quietly, Gilwyn atop Emerald, Ghost riding an ugly, single-humped drowa. The drowa were the horses of the desert, and like the kreels they were capable of going great distances without water. They had no beauty at all and the plainness of his mount seemed to irritate Ghost, who was an accomplished horseman. The drowa, however, did an excellent job of keeping up with Emerald, a feat Ghost grudgingly admitted when at last they bedded down the night. Ghost made the fire while Gilwyn unrolled their bedding and broke out some food. Their rations were simple but Gilwyn was famished and looked forward to eating. They had made great progress through the day, and both men were pleased. As Ghost blew on the tiny embers, coaxing up a fire fit for cooking, Gilwyn dropped down next to him, holding a pan filled with bacon in his good hand. Ghost saw the food and smiled, taking a whiff of the uncooked meat.

  “Not long now,” he predicted, “and I can eat all of it myself.”

  “There’s enough still,” said Gilwyn. “We’ve been good about making it last.”

  Ghost fanned the growing flames, carefully waving his hand over them. Now that the sun was down he had lowered his heavy garb, revealing his strangely handsome face. Gilwyn watched him curiously. Sometime tomorrow they would reach the valley, and he still hadn’t really gotten to know the Inhuman. Ghost pretended not to see Gilwyn staring at him. He cocked his chin toward Emerald.

  “She’s hungry, too,” he told Gilwyn. “She needs to hunt.”

  Gilwyn turned his mind toward Emerald, feeling her hunger like a sharp pain. Without him to slow her down, she could hunt her own meal among the snakes and rodents of the desert.

  Go on, girl he told her, not bothering to speak.

  Her grateful response came to him across the distance. Then she was gone, slipping quickly away and vanishing into the night. He could hear her claws padding through the sand, but only for a moment. A second later he heard nothing at all. If he concentrated, he could feel her still. But he let the link with her fade as he turned his attention back to the fire. Ghost was talking about bread.

  “I still have some in my packs. We should eat it now, before it gets too old.”

  He got up and let Gilwyn start cooking the bacon while he rummaged through his bags. The drowa sat watching him with big, bored eyes. He’d feed the beast later, Gilwyn knew, but not before he fed himself. Ghost returned with the bread he had saved and a leather bag of plump dates, a staple among desert travelers. Unable to hold the pan and grab a date at the same time, Gilwyn opened his mouth so Ghost could toss one in.

  “Thanks,” he said, chewing and shuffling the pan. Already it smelled wonderful. Ghost leaned back on his elbow, patiently eating dates while watching Gilwyn cook. He remained quiet for a long time. Then, finally, he spoke.

  “We’ll be in the valley tomorrow. By noon, I’d say.”

  Gilwyn nodded. “Yes. I can feel the kreels. We’re very near now.”

  “You can feel them.” Ghost shook his head. “That’s weird.”

  “No weirder than making yourself disappear, I’d say.” Gilwyn chuckled. “To tell the truth, I think you’re the odd one, friend.”

  Ghost tossed a date high into the air, catching it on his tongue. “Sure you do.” He chewed a moment than swallowed hard. “That’s what everyone thinks.”

  “I didn’t mean offense . . .”

  “No, nobody means offense. I know that. In Grimhold everyone looks odd, yet they stare at me because they’ve never seen a person with my coloring. Think about that, Gilwyn Toms—here’s a place where half the people are blind or hunchbacked, yet they stare at me.” Ghost laughed good-naturedly, covering his anger. “Am I offended, though? No. So go ahead and stare. Get a good look.”

  Gilwyn felt his face beginning to redden. “I stare because you’re interesting looking. I never saw an albino before, and neither have a lot of the other Inhumans.”

  “Interesting looking? That just sounds like another word for ugly.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean at
all.” Gilwyn gave the bacon an expert toss. “You’re striking, that’s what I mean. Some of the other Inhumans are hard to look at, I admit. But not you. You’re . . .” He smiled. “Interesting.”

  “Ah, now if only the fondness of a young man made my heart race!” joked Ghost. “Unfortunately I like girls. And there’s not too many of them who want a white-skinned freak for a suitor, especially not the girls in the village.”

  “They don’t know you. Here, bring those plates over . . .”

  Ghost did as asked, extending two dull metal plates they had brought with them from Jador. Gilwyn slid some bacon onto one, then the other, then set his pan down into the sand beside the fire. The pan hissed as it seared the earth.

  “You hide behind those wraps all day,” Gilwyn continued. He settled back, picking up a stout chunk of bacon with his fingers. “You need to let people see you.”

  “I have to cover myself,” said Ghost. “And if you’re going to be nasty I won’t share my dates with you.”

  “Spend some time in the village at night, then, when you can be more yourself. Let the girls get to know you. If you did, they’d like you.”

  “You’ve been learning at the knee of Lukien, eh? He has a way with the women, too. Looks like his talent is rubbing off on you.”

  “I know about as much about women as I do about being regent,” said Gilwyn. The turn in the conversation ruined his appetite. “I just think you should stop hiding, that’s all. Maybe being able to disappear isn’t such a good thing.”

  Ghost took a moment to eat, considering Gilwyn’s words and falling back into his usual quietness. Gilwyn glanced down at his plate, sure he had said too much. As he raised his head to apologize, he saw something odd rising behind the albino. He stared at it, thinking it the drowa . . .

  Gilwyn tossed his plate aside, shouting and reaching for Ghost. He grabbed the Inhuman and dragged him forward just as the thing plunged forward. A great blur of snakeskin and shadow collided with the fire, scattering embers like fireworks. Gilwyn scrambled to get away, fumbling to pull Ghost to safety.