The Devil's Armor

by John Marco

  Thorin hardly slept at all that night as he waited for his son to knock on his door. He had taken off the Devil’s Armor finally, wearing only the components of his missing arm. Thorin never removed those pieces now. To do so not only rendered him with one arm again; it also severed his powerful link with Kahldris. There were two cots in the room, across one of which Thorin gently laid his armor. The other he kept for himself, resting his tired body as he waited for Aric to arrive.

  Aric never did.

  The only visitor was Vanlandinghale, who brought some clothes for him and some plain food, leaving it on the table before departing. Thorin could not help but wonder what the young lieutenant thought of him, or what the rest of them were saying now. Mostly, though, he thought of Aric. He had a picture in his mind of the last time he had seen his son, a tot of three years with a fresh face and unkempt hair that no amount of spittle could keep in place. His brother Nial was the older of the two; the twin girls older still. Aric was the youngest, and the perfect picture of him had not faded from Thorin’s memory.

  Remarkably, Kahldris did not speak to Thorin the entire night. Though Thorin could feel the Akari’s presence, Kahldris was strangely silent, letting him brood without advice or judgement. Thorin was grateful for the spirit’s silence. Day by day, the creature Minikin had warned him against was becoming more and more his companion. He was even trustworthy. It seemed to Thorin that only Kahldris truly grasped his angst and pain. Perhaps it was because Kahldris himself had been a military man, and had probably lost his own family to war. Kahldris, Thorin decided, understood him.

  By the next morning, Thorin had tired of his cramped quarters and his own dismal company. Attiring himself again in his armor—mostly because he feared it being stolen—he went down to the yards where the horses were kept, leaving shortly before sunrise so he wouldn’t be seen. A handful of boys slept in the hay, but when he bellowed for them they came running, hurrying to ready the his horse and watching him with awe. Thorin could not help that other soldiers had already seen him, and as he passed them in the yards he wondered if any of them were Aric. Still, he made no attempt to speak to any of them. He simply rode out of the yards and down Library Hill, into the waiting heart of Koth.

  Purposely avoiding the busy avenues along Capital Street, Thorin rode instead around the shops and taverns into Chancellery Square. Just as he had seen it from the hillside, he noticed again how much it had changed. In the distance rose Lionkeep, where he had spent hours arguing with King Akeela and his father before him. An eerie quiet palled the square, long abandoned now. Thorin trotted slowly along the parade grounds, pitted by horse hooves and littered with broken bits of lances and spears. The great government buildings had long been left to ruin, and if Thorin listened hard enough he could hear the ghosts of his long-gone friends, the noblemen of Liiria who had made their country great. Once, the square had been filled with busy civil servants and scheming bankers. Now all of them were gone, and the void they left was like the sudden emptiness in Thorin’s heart.

  Finally, he neared the House of Dukes. Most of the grand building still stood, though it was badly decayed. This was the place he had missed the most, where he had led his fellow landowners and where his voice held sway. Thorin stared up at the beautiful tower of gray stone and tarnished silver leaf, and for a moment could not move. His horse fidgeted beneath him. The quiet of the parade ground unnerved him . . .

  Until he heard a sound.

  Another horse was approaching. Following him. Thorin did not turn around. He knew without looking who had trailed him and why. A sweat broke out on his brow. Even the armor could not protect him from this confrontation.

  “Easy,” he whispered, patting the neck of his mount. He waited in the shadow of the House of Dukes as the rider drew nearer. What would Aric look like, he wondered?

  At last the rider drew up next to him. Thorin hesitated before turning, but the corner of his eye confirmed his suspicion. Aric Glass—his son—wore the uniform of a Royal Charger, complete with hat and cape. Though he had never seen him as a man, he was easily recognizable.

  “I followed you,” said the young man finally. His voice was calm but sad. “The others told me you had ridden off. I should have guessed you’d come here.”

  Thorin Glass looked at his son and was pleased. Aric had grown into a handsome young man, with the same dark, cow-licked hair.

  “I waited for you last night,” said Thorin. “You didn’t come.”

  “I needed time to think on what I’d say to you.”

  “And now you’ve had your time.” Thorin nodded at his son. “Speak.”

  Aric Glass had an innocent face, the kind more suited to a poet than a soldier. There was a remarkable lack of anger in his expression, but tremendous confusion, too. He said, “I can’t believe you came back. After all these years I can’t believe it.”

  “I came back because I finally could,” said Thorin. “And to protect you.”

  “You didn’t even know I was alive,” sneered Aric. “And the only reason you came back is because you missed having Liiria under your thumb. Well, those days are gone, Father.” He looked Thorin up and down. “I know about your special armor. Breck told me about it. You think it makes you strong. Maybe it does. But I know the truth. I know you would have never come back without it.”

  “Aye, the armor makes me strong. And yes, I was weak before I found it. Too weak to come back for you and the others . . .”

  “Damn it, stop now,” blasted Aric. “You were alive all those years. You could have come back any time, but you preferred the bed of that harlot, Jazana Carr.”

  “I could not come back,” Thorin argued. “Not while Akeela was alive. If he had ever known I still lived he would have found you all and killed you. By the time he was dead I was an old man, and I didn’t know where any of you where, or even if you were still alive.” Thorin looked at Aric hopefully. “Will you at least tell me that?”

  “The others are gone,” said Aric bitterly. “Mother died ten years ago.”

  The news staggered Thorin. Knowing Aric wouldn’t believe his grief, he pretended there was none. “What about Nial and the girls?”

  “I don’t know. They left Liiria years ago, as soon as they could. Akeela stopped keeping an eye on us after you were gone. Tesia and Jaynil both married and went east. I never heard from them again.”

  “And Nial?”

  “Same thing maybe. Maybe dead.” Aric spoke with effort. “Only mother stayed in Koth. Nial headed north to Jerikor when he was sixteen. They all thought you were dead. I thought so too until I met Breck. He told me you were alive and that he’d spoken to you in Norvor.”

  “That’s true,” said Thorin, remembering his meeting with Breck in Hanging Man. “I’m glad he didn’t lie to you. I’m glad at least one of you knew I was still alive.” He tried to smile at his son. “You look good in that uniform.”

  “Please, don’t tell me I look the way you once did,” Aric groaned. “That’s the kind of compliment a man doesn’t need, to be told he looks like a traitor. That’s what everyone thinks, you know. Even Breck.”

  “You can all think what you like and be damned,” Thorin thundered. “I came back to protect Liiria, with or without the blessings of you whelps. But I will say that I am proud of you, Aric. You may not care to hear it, but I’m proud you stayed in Koth to defend her. That was something I could never do, but believe it or not I wanted to.”

  The sorrow on Aric’s face deepened. “I want to believe you,” he said. “When Breck told me you’d returned I thought it was impossible, that you’d never come back because you didn’t care about anything but yourself. And now you wear that armor . . .” He grimaced at the frightful suit. “To me it seems an accursed thing. Only a man who craves power would wield such a weapon. And to be truthful, I see that in your eyes.”

  Thorin frowned; it was the second time in as many days someone had said that to him. He reminded himself that it was strength they saw in
his eyes, the great force of Kahldris and nothing more or less.

  “You may hate me if you wish,” he said. “I know the failure I was as a father. You have reason to hate me, Aric. I won’t ask for your love. But I tell you the truth, and if there is trust in you I will take that instead.”

  Aric’s gaze lingered on Thorin’s enchanted arm. “I remember your stump,” he said almost blithely. “It used to scare me when I was a boy. Now that arm of yours scares me more. How can such a thing be?”

  “How does the sun rise in the morning? Why do the rains come in spring? I don’t know, Aric. And I can’t explain this magic any better. It is the way things are in Grimhold. It’s a gift. That’s what they call it, at least.”

  “A gift?” Aric frowned at the armor. “Such a gift should be refused, I think.”

  “Some others think that, too,” said Thorin, remembering Minikin’s warnings. “But to refuse it would be Koth’s doom. Without it we could never beat Jazana Carr.”

  Aric looked at his father strangely. “What is she like? Jazana Carr, I mean. You spent all that time with her. Was she really so much better than my mother?”

  “No,” said Thorin, stung by the question. “Your mother was a fine woman. Jazana Carr was a convenience to me.”

  “I don’t believe you. No man would spend so long with a woman he didn’t love.” Aric pressed his father with a longing glare. “You did love her, didn’t you?”

  Seeing the hurt in Aric’s face, Thorin sounded a diplomatic note. “Once, perhaps, but it is done with, boy. We are enemies now.” Then, a different thought occurred to him. “Is that why you’re here? Because you hate her so for loving me, and me for loving her?”

  “I came to defend Koth,” Aric said. “I didn’t even know you were alive when I came here.”

  “Aye, but you’ve stayed. Other men have fled Koth. They’ve left the city like rats. And more will do the same once they see her armies coming. But not you. That’s what I see in your eyes, Aric. I see a hunger for revenge.”

  “She is the woman that destroyed me,” Aric confessed. “If not for her you might have come back sooner.”

  For the first time, Thorin had the urge to touch his son. A simple hand on the shoulder would have said so much—yet he could not make his hand move.

  “Do you think we can beat her?” asked Aric. “I mean really—do we have any chance at all?”

  “We’ll beat her,” Thorin assured him. “Have no doubt, boy. There’s not a blade been forged that can harm me now. And with the rest of you behind me . . . well, no army of hers will stand a chance.”

  The words bolstered Aric, who at last smiled. “Then I’m glad you’ve come back . . . Father.”

  Thorin’s pride soared. This good man before him was his son. Without a word he reached out and—bridging the great ford between them—clasped his armored hand on Aric’s waiting shoulder.

  38

  THE QUEEN’S MESSENGER

  Over the next few days, Baron Glass made himself comfortable in Koth. Deciding there was nothing much to do until Jazana moved against them, he spent his time exploring the library and getting used to his new comrades, many of whom mistrusted him, yet all of whom treated him respectfully. He learned quickly that Breck hadn’t lied to him about the library’s defenses; they were indeed quite formidable and Baron Glass was impressed. More importantly, perhaps, Breck had arrayed a reliable team of loyalists around himself, so that good advice flowed easily to him and made his difficult job simpler by virtue of delegation. Thorin had already spent many hours meeting with them all, poring over plans in the library’s gigantic reading room, discussing all manner of military minutia. After just two days in Koth, Breck had proven what Thorin had already suspected—that Library Hill was a formidable defensive position.

  Thorin spent little time with his son in those first few days. Like all the men of the library, Aric was busy with endless duties. Because of their relationship, however, Breck had assigned Aric to see to his father’s needs, which were minor and consisted mostly of understanding the chains of command. By the end of his third day in Koth, Thorin began to relax thoroughly. The excitement over his return had died down considerably, and he was able to fall into a comfortable rhythm. He was given nothing to do but wait and come to strategy sessions, adding his considerable knowledge of Jazana Carr and her tactics to that of the young Lieutenant Vanlandinghale. Together they found agreement on almost everything about the Diamond Queen. When Van pronounced that Jazana would stop at nothing to win Koth, Thorin did not contradict him.

  Thorin had even begun leaving his armor behind. Except for the arm pieces—which he never took off, not even to sleep—he kept the rest of the Devil’s Armor locked away in a huge iron chest in his chambers. At first it had seemed the most stupid of risks, but Breck had assured him that no one in the library would touch or even want to touch his cursed armor. Thorin had smiled politely at Breck’s assurances, but it was Kahldris who had truly convinced him. The dark angel told Thorin that they were one now, inseparable, and that any who dared tamper with his the armor would not be able to withstand it. The cryptic answer left Thorin puzzled, but in his heart he knew what Kahldris meant. The Akari fed on blood and was not averse to killing, not even a professed ally. Amazingly, Breck seemed to sense this danger in the armor, and so the rumor spread throughout the library that the armor was cursed and deadly. No one surprised Thorin by testing the armor’s venom.

  Thorin did not know when or if Kahldris would feed again, but he was glad to doff the armor, if only for a while. He was still connected with Kahldris through his enchanted arm. The bond between them grew stronger day by day. Occasionally, Thorin fretted over the changes he felt within himself. Besides the renewed vigor and sharpness of mind, there was a growing anger in him and a gnawing need for fulfillment. He was anxious for the coming war with Jazana, more and more eager to defeat her and reclaim Andola. But when he looked in the mirror—which he often did now—he did not notice the weird glimmer in his eyes or the sardonic expression furrowing his brow. He felt good, he told himself, better than he had in decades.

  And that was all that really mattered.

  It was a day like any other in the library. A warm spell that had gripped Liiria continued, encouraging the men outside to enjoy the streets and surrounding villages. Thorin awoke early and broke his fast with Aric, who had slowly been spending more time with his father and divulging bits about their dispersed family. The routine work of keeping things functioning went on unnoticed; food was cooked, stables were kept up, horses were shoed, and weapons were cleaned. Men drilled in the yards around the library. The great halls of the place echoed with activity. Thorin had left Aric to wander through the library, which was still filled with books that went mostly unread now, dusty and neglected. It had amazed him just how many manuscripts Akeela had been able to gather here, and he was determined to read at least some of them. Baron Glass had never been a scholar and had never shared King Akeela’s grand dream of educating the masses, or even believed that people should be free. People were touched by fate; he had decided that long ago. And too much knowledge was a dangerous thing.

  Still, he found the meandering library a marvel, astonished by its collections and sheer volume. This was where Gilwyn had lived and worked, after all, and the boy had taught him reverence for the place. As he walked the quiet corridors, scanning the shelves of arcane tomes, he remembered Gilwyn’s love for the library. There were books here to melt any heart, the boy had told him once, even one as hard as Thorin’s. And Gilwyn had never resented Akeela for the destruction he had wrought. He still remained grateful the mad king had given him a place in his grand library.

  While he studied the shelves, Thorin quickly lost track of time. The sun outside the towering windows arced from morning into afternoon. He had found a book for himself and a place to read it, choosing a worn-out leather chair he was sure had been enjoyed by countless scholars. The book he read was on military strategy, a thick biog
raphy of a Reecian general named Turlis. Dead now many years, Thorin still remembered Turlis and his long-ago battles with Liiria.

  He was well lost in the pages of the book when he heard his name called.

  “Baron Glass?”

  The call echoed through the vacant halls. Surprised, Thorin laid the book aside and stood up.

  “Here,” he called back.

  The man that had shouted followed his voice and appeared from behind a tall case of shelves. It was Vanlandinghale, the young lieutenant. His voice masked by the echo, Thorin hadn’t recognized it. The man’s face was drawn, white with concern. He didn’t bother greeting the baron.

  “Baron Glass, you need to come,” he said quickly. “Breck wants to see you.”

  “Is there trouble?” asked Thorin, noting the man’s expression.

  Vanlandinghale nodded, then shrugged as if to contradict himself. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. We have a visitor, Baron. Breck wants you to come at once.”

  “A visitor?” For a moment Thorin imagined who it might be. “Is it Lukien?”

  Van shook his head. “No, Baron. It’s a Norvan.”

  His name was Count Onikil, and he had come to Koth with a small band of bodyguards.

  Baron Glass had known of the count, but only through anecdotes. He was a minor Norvan noble, a long-time associate of Duke Rihards of Rolga, and as such a one-time enemy of Jazana Carr. Thorin knew most Rolgans to be duplicitous, however, and Count Onikil was clearly no exception. According to Van he had simply ridden up to the library, ostensibly to deliver a message from the Diamond Queen. He had been brought directly to Breck, and by the time Baron Glass arrived the meeting room was filled with Breck’s closest confidants, Major Nevins from the Andola campaign among them. Nevins stared hatefully at Onikil, who sat across the table, all alone.

  Baron Glass entered the gigantic chamber as quietly as he could and sat down at one of the long tables. Breck turned and noticed him with a nod. The commander, Van had told him, wanted Thorin to be here for the meeting, not at all sure that Onikil’s claims were trustworthy. Those claims, Van had told him, were terms for surrender. It took only a moment for Thorin to notice the letter on the table. Breck had left it there, almost as an afterthought.