The Devil's Armor

by John Marco

  Lorn was happy to be rid of their old mounts and equipment. Now he had a horse of his own to ride, a fine gelding with a military gait that easily bore his weight. After three days in the desert it still amazed Lorn that Salina had been so willing to help them. Along with Kamag and Dahj and some hidden others, she had created something not unlike a smuggling ring or one of those misguided slave-freeing cabals that had so often troubled him while king. The desert had given him time to think about the young princess and about the risk she had placed herself under. She was an amazing girl, really, and Lorn admired her. Absently he poked a thin stick into their small campfire, his mind still turning on her. Someday, perhaps, he could repay her kindness. If he ever made it back to Ganjor. If he ever had anything valuable to give her. If he didn’t die fighting Aztar.

  So many dark possibilities. Lorn’s smile twisted on his bearded face. It was late now, and most of the exhausted Believers slept. Only Eirian sat by him near the fire, nursing Poppy. His daughter had been restless during their journey through the desert, disturbed by the sun which never gave them quarter during the day. Eiriann sat peaceably as she nursed the child, her face flushed from the day’s heat, a skin of water on the sand beside her. She looked beautiful, so young she made Lorn feel old. She made no effort to hide herself as she nursed the child, either, letting the top she wore hang freely open. Lorn glanced up from the fire and stole a longing look at her. She caught him and, unembarrassed, clasped her clothing closed a bit.

  “You look good with the child,” he decided out loud. “She belongs with you now.”

  Eiriann’s reaction was impossible to read, for she merely smiled demurely at Poppy. It surprised Lorn how unafraid she was about their danger. She was a girl of boundless faith, not only in the magic of Mount Believer but in him, too. She was sure he would protect them, and the added burden made Lorn evermore determined to do so.

  “You look like Rinka sitting there,” he said softly.

  “Your wife?” Eiriann asked.

  Lorn nodded. “She was young, like you.”

  Eiriann held Poppy a bit closer. “You never speak of her.”

  “No?” Lorn thought about that and realized she was right. “Perhaps there is not so much to tell. She was young and I was old and I was fortunate to have her. Rinka was not like other women. She was like you, Eiriann—willful.”

  “Oh, now that’s not a good thing for a Norvan woman, is it?”

  “It’s not an insult.”

  “It sounded like one.”

  “It was not meant to,” said Lorn. “Rinka was kind and good and everything else a woman should be, but she was also strong. I admired that in her. It is not easy to find women like that. I miss her.”

  At last he had said something to make Eiriann uncomfortable. She looked at him over the fire, her lips disappearing in confusion. Her expression made him weak.

  “Why do you think so well of me?” he asked. “Why, when everyone else thinks me a butcher? Rinka saw good in me, too, but I never understood it.” He shook his head, exasperated. “No matter what I did she stayed with me. All of Norvor thought me a tyrant at the end, but not her. Not her, ever . . .”

  Angrily he tossed his stick into the fire and stood up.

  “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he sneered. “Why am I thinking of this tonight? I have a battle to win!”

  “Are you afraid?” asked Eiriann.

  “I have never been afraid,” said Lorn. But then he looked at Poppy lying helplessly in Eiriann’s arms, and knew he had lied. “Yes,” he sighed. “I am afraid. I’m afraid for all of you. You’re all trusting me, and what have I led you to? Death in the desert.”

  “You don’t know that,” said Eiriann. “And we came of our own choice.”

  “Aye, like fools you followed me into this.” Lorn kicked angrily at the earth, unable to look at her. “You followed me like so many others, and like so many others I’ve brought you ruin.”

  “A new life,” Eiriann corrected. “That’s what you’ve brought us. I would rather die here in the desert than starve in Liiria, never having tried to make it here.”

  It was the answer Rinka would have given. Lorn looked at Eiriann helplessly, and knew that he loved her now. She was a tiger. Her fearlessness brought out the king in him.

  “Eiriann,” he said seriously, “I want you to be careful tomorrow. We’re not far from Jador now. That means we’re not far from Aztar, either.”

  The young woman nodded. “I know.”

  “Do as I say. Do you hear? Keep yourself and Poppy safe.”

  “Yes, Lorn, I understand,” said Eiriann. Poppy had stopped nursing and was squirming at her breast, but the woman continued looking up at him. There was more he wanted to say to her, and Eiriann waited for it.

  “Promise me you’ll do as I say,” said Lorn. “Promise me you’ll keep yourself safe.”

  “I promise.”

  For a moment they stared at each other, letting the unspoken thing hang between them. Eiriann’s eyes were full of patience as she waited for Lorn to speak the words on the tip of his tongue. But the words would not tumble.

  “Good,” he said finally. “Then we should rest. Tomorrow will be upon us soon enough.”

  “Yes,” said Eiriann. Was it disappointment on her face? Relief? Lorn couldn’t say.

  Realizing he would say no more, Eiriann closed her shirt and took Poppy off to sleep.

  Sleep was far from the mind of Prince Aztar as he finished his prayers beneath the starlit sky. He had met with his Zarturks—his generals—and had already laid confident plans for the siege tomorrow. His men—over a thousand of them—had settled down for the night to sleep or tell stories or simply to clean their weapons and wonder about the morning. After meeting with his Zarturks, Aztar had declined their requests to drink and dine with them, a tradition among the Voruni on the eve of battle. Instead he had wandered a league away to be alone and to pray undisturbed in the desert. There, amid the scorpions and sleeping rass, he had knelt on the warm sand and unwrapped his dark headdress, divesting himself to his god, Vala. Spreading his arms, he prayed to the deity for strength and victory and the usual things a man would ask of a god before battle, but he also prayed for understanding and peace of heart. His was a good and gentle god. His god wept over innocent death. And as Aztar prayed, he prayed as much to explain himself as he did for victory, and hoped the lord of the heavens understood his need.

  They had come like a plague across his desert, Aztar told Vala, bringing disease and false gods with them. Jador had become an evil place, and if the great Desert of Tears was ever again to be godly it had to be cleansed. It had to be; there was no choice for Aztar.

  So he declared himself the instrument of his god, Vala’s right hand, and with tears in his dark eyes begged the Serene One to forgive the blood he might shed in battle.

  “Let the blood feed your desert, Vala,” he pleaded. “See the good in what I do for you.”

  Aztar bowed his head to the sand and kissed the desert, finishing his prayer. For a moment he remained on his knees. Surrendering himself to Vala always drained him. The touch of the god on his soul was indelible, sometimes crippling. Aztar wiped the tears from his face and slowly stood. The desert was remarkably quiet. He could see the dimming fires of his men, but he could not hear the soldiers. Nor could he hear the defiant cries from the Jadori. He turned toward that distant city, barely visible now, and regretted having to destroy it.

  “The desert demands it,” he told himself. Lowering himself again, he scooped up a handful of sand and let the stuff seep carefully through his fingers. The desert was his lover. From the time he was a boy he had worshipped it. But he knew it was not just the desert demanding the death of Jador. He had other, more mortal reasons for his plans.

  He only hoped Vala understood that, too.

  Aztar turned from his prayer place and began walking very slowly back to his men. It did not surprise him at all to see the figure of Baraki, his hal
f brother, waiting for him near a dune. Baraki greeted him with a furrowed brow. As one of Aztar’s trusted Zarturks, Baraki wore a gaka trimmed with gold and a red sash across his waist. He was a large man, heavier than his half brother but with the same piercing eyes as their shared mother. And like Aztar, Baraki had no weapon on his person, for to bring a blade to prayer was a high heresy.

  “You have prayed?” Baraki asked his brother. The moon was gone almost completely, and Aztar could barely see the man’s face.

  “I have,” Aztar answered. He paused before his half brother. “It is well.”

  “Hmm, you look . . . troubled,” Baraki said. “You are thinking of the girl still.”

  Aztar had never been able to hide the truth from him. Not when he had stolen confections as a boy, nor now, when his aching heart betrayed him.

  “I am,” Aztar admitted. He looked down at the sand and shrugged. “She haunts me always, brother, and I cannot keep my mind from her. I should have prayed about this, but I did not. I simply asked Vala to forgive me for the blood I shed tomorrow.”

  “You cannot keep the truth from him, Aztar. Vala knows the desires of men’s hearts.”

  It was that which troubled Aztar most of all, for he knew not all his reasons for attacking Jador were noble. He wanted Salina, and by taking Jador he might have her, or so said King Baralosus. Aztar did not trust the old king completely, but he knew that Jador was a gift not even Baralosus could ignore.

  “I will cleanse the desert for Vala,” Aztar said. “That should be enough. And if I get Salina in the bargain, I think the Serene One will be glad for me.”

  “And Shalafein? What if he is protected by the Serene One as well?”

  “Impossible,” said Aztar. It was a rumor that had always disgusted him. “Tomorrow I shall kill the Bronze Knight at last. I shall do it myself to prove my worthiness to Vala. Then he will not be angry with me. Then he will grant me Salina.”

  Baraki did not argue, though Aztar could tell his brother did not totally like his logic. But it did not matter to Aztar. He had already made his peace with his decision.

  31

  THE STORM

  Morning came slowly across the desert, painting it gold. From his place on Emerald’s back Gilwyn watched the sunrise, watched it peel away the darkness to reveal Aztar’s forces, and knew that this perfect morning might be his last.

  Aztar’s men had lined up in two great ranks along the sand. The banners of the desert prince barely stirred in the breezeless air. As the light began to shine, Gilwyn saw the army clearly. The Tiger of the Desert had brought his nearly two thousand men just a half-mile from Jador. With machinelike precision they waited atop their groomed warhorses—great beasts with glimmering coats and Ganjeese saddles. They were divided roughly evenly between the two ranks. Gilwyn saw at least a thousand in the rear. Among them, Prince Aztar waited on a sandy hill, flanked by Voruni warriors. From his place among his companions Gilwyn could see the prince upon his horse, small as a speck yet frightening to behold. A gold and black headdress wrapped his bearded face. His horse—a black monster—stood apart from the others, giving the prince an imperious air.

  Previously, Prince Aztar had never come himself to battle the Jadori. It was the first time any of them had seen the Tiger, and now their ranks buzzed with curious talk. Nervous talk, the kind from frightened men. Gilwyn glanced at their faces and was glad to see resolve there.

  Afraid or not, they were prepared for battle. Facing Aztar’s forces, they had marched or ridden out from Jador an hour earlier when the first glint of sunlight peered over the horizon. They had arranged themselves the way they had drilled—in two long ranks on the western edge of the city, safely away from the outskirts, in the sand where the multi-toed feet of their kreel would have the advantage. Prince Aztar’s men, all on horses, had watched as they’d taken their positions, arranging their defenses. They had watched without moving, almost without a sound.

  So sure were they of victory.

  Gilwyn and his forty kreels waited patiently in the rear rank, made up of men on foot. They were northerners, mostly, with Paxon among them. Gilwyn could see Paxon some yards away, anxiously gripping his already-drawn sword. Falouk, the Jadori warrior who would lead them, stood nearby. Falouk had no kreel; he had given it over to another warrior so that he might lead the foreigners. Falouk was a man of bold talk and action, and the three hundred men he led—all from other countries—gathered close to him as they waited, leaving him at their center like some idol of bronze. Gilwyn knew he too was part of Falouk’s group. Like them, he would wait until the first rank—Kamar’s kreel riders—needed them.

  I should be with them, thought Gilwyn. He looked at Kamar’s warriors, beautiful and proud, all on the backs of seasoned kreels. Was he not one of them? Could he not command his own kreel at least as well as Kamar? Perhaps, he conceded, but he was no warrior. Today, his forty young kreels would do the fighting for him. Today, his mind would be his weapon.

  There were others in the rear rank as well. Ghost, the albino, looked about anxiously from the back of his horse, one of the only stallions on the Jadori side. Though most of the Inhumans had stayed within the city walls with Minikin to protect the women and children, Ghost had been vocal about taking part in the battle. And he did not hide his displeasure over having to wait in the back rank. He wanted to be up front, with Kamar’s men. His fierce expression made his white face terrible to behold. The young albino had a sword at his belt and a chain mace in his hand. He twirled the mace distractedly as he waited, never taking his eyes off the distant Voruni.

  Unlike Ghost, the great Greygor was quiet and unmoving. Standing apart from Falouk and the northerners, no one really knew what Grimhold’s guardian would do on the field, or even to whom he reported. It seemed to Gilwyn that Greygor reported to no one at all, save Minikin, and would do his own bidding when the battle finally started. He was a good distance from Gilwyn yet was plainly visible, a giant among normal men, looking immense even against the kreels. There was serenity in Greygor, a kind of peaceful patience. He did not toy with his weapon the way Ghost did or shift his weight between booted feet. He merely waited and watched, sizing up the enemy through the eyeslits in his helmet.

  Gilwyn let his mind skip from kreel to kreel. His eager beasts flooded his brain with excitement. Like wild dogs they panted for the chance to race across the sand, to attack their enemies with their sharp claws and teeth. Gilwyn’s mind leashed them to him, holding them back. Once the battle started it would be more difficult, he knew, but he was not to loose them until Falouk’s brigade took the field. Gilwyn closed his eyes to concentrate. When he did he saw Ruana. His beautiful Akari smiled reassuringly.

  Ruana, he called to her silently. Stay with me.

  Ruana’s face was circumspect. I will, for as long as I can.

  What does that mean?

  It means that I am here and I will help you, but you must help yourself as well. If I go, do not be afraid. It will only be for an instant.

  What? Gilwyn clamped his eyelids down harder. I don’t understand. You can’t go, Ruana, not even for a second!

  Trust me and trust yourself, Gilwyn. Now concentrate! The spirit’s command made Gilwyn relax. He opened his eyes and let his mind-grip flow over the kreels. Beneath him, Emerald twisted her long neck as she spied the arrayed Voruni. Her green nostrils flared as her tongue licked the air. Gilwyn patted the beast. Through her, he tasted every bit of sand and dust.

  “You’re not afraid, are you, girl?”

  Emerald answered with a sense of insult. Gilwyn laughed. The kreels were never afraid.

  On the pinnacle of a small sand dune, Prince Aztar waited atop his silk-draped warhorse, considering the defense the Jadori had fielded. Like his own men, his enemies had arranged themselves in two long ranks—a front rank of kreel riders, and a second, less impressive group of northerners on foot. Their numbers were not nearly as grand as his own army, yet Aztar worried. There were perhaps two hundred
kreels in the front rank, enough to give his horsemen a considerable challenge. Aztar had seen kreels in battle before; he knew how formidable they could be.

  Still, he had expected there to be more of the beasts. In the year since the army of Liiria had come across the desert—a year that had marked his beloved land’s defilement—Jador had been unable to significantly replenish their depleted ranks of kreel riders.

  It was good, Aztar decided. It was Vala’s will, and he was confident the god was on his side. Surely Vala knew the achings of a man’s heart. Surely the Serene One would never punish him for lusting over a woman, a woman he himself had made too beautiful to resist.

  Aztar’s own front rank consisted of four brigades, each of two hundred men commanded by a Zarturk. These four trusted men would lead the first attack. They would face the kreel riders. And because they had sworn to die for Aztar, he knew they would not retreat against the slashing claws of the beasts. It would be a bloody morning, but Aztar’s men were ready. The prince’s half brother Baraki rode through the front rank, inspecting them and rallying them to their cause. His raised scimitar shone madly as he twirled it in the morning air. As the men gave up a cheer, Baraki galloped toward the hill.

  “They are ready,” Baraki called. “On your order, brother.”

  Aztar nodded. His four Zarturks—Bekat, Galouth, Tasmiir, and Narween—looked at him from their places in the front ranks, awaiting his signal. Each of them expected this battle on the sand, and each expected to ride through Jador’s gates by noon. They would not, Aztar knew. But he would.

  “Baraki, where is the Bronze Knight?” Aztar asked. “I do not see Shalafein anywhere.”

  “I do not know,” admitted Baraki. “But he is with them, I am sure.”

  Aztar looked past the defenders toward the city. “Behind the wall? Do you think?”