The Devil's Armor

by John Marco

  At the library he discovered much the same as he had in Koth proper—destruction and despair. Varl’s mercenary force had done a fine job of disobeying his orders; their catapults had wrecked the place. It was unbelievable to Thorin that Varl could be so careless. Even more confusing, reports had reached Thorin earlier in the day saying that Varl had allowed everyone in the library to escape and join the flood of refugees from the city. Thorin didn’t care that he had spared them, but he did wonder why. Too grief-stricken to be angry, he trotted his horse up the hill road to the yards accompanied by Colonel Thayus. His heart nearly broke when he saw the great gouges ripped into the once-beautiful library.

  “Great Fate, look at this,” he sighed, shaking his head. Torches had been lit along the road and in the yard, giving the structure a ghastly pall. He had never wanted the library built—he had in fact fought bitterly with Akeela over its construction—but it had come to symbolize Koth to the world, and now it was ruined.

  The machine!

  Kahldris’ voice hit him like a hammer. Throughout the day the demon had been silent. His sudden insistence rattled Thorin.

  Silence, monster, he replied without voice. He blamed Kahldris for Lukien’s fate and wanted none of his commands. If the catalog machine had survived the bombardment, they would see it soon enough. If not . . .

  Find it, Kahldris insisted.

  Thorin felt the dark Akari squeeze his brain in its icy grip. He resisted, mostly by ignoring it.

  Rodrik Varl and a small group of weary mercenaries greeted Thorin as he approached. Varl’s beret was soiled with sweat, his face smudged with soot. He stood with resolve, obviously awaiting judgment, refusing to flinch. Thorin rode closer, impressed by his lack of fear. After his poor defense of Count Onikil, Thorin had expected Varl to be a lapdog. Clearly, he had decided to assert himself. Thorin stopped his horse and dismounted. Thayus did the same and followed his leader toward Varl.

  “I have one question for you, Varl,” said Thorin. He stood face to face with the mercenary, glaring at him. “Why?”

  Varl replied as if he’d expected the question. “To save them from you.”

  Thorin nodded. “Ah, yes, you know me so well, don’t you? Did you not see that swarm of refugees I let flee Koth?”

  “I saw what you did to Onikil,” said Varl. “I couldn’t risk what you might do to these people.”

  The words stung Thorin. “Onikil was a traitor and a risk. He jeopardized our plans. But I am not a monster, Varl. I would not have harmed these people. That’s not why I’ve come to Koth.”

  Varl seemed unconvinced. “So now I’m a traitor, then,” he said. “Do with me what you will, Baron.”

  “I should kill you, at least for what you did to this beautiful place.”

  “I have no regrets. I needed to convince them to leave. Destroying the place was the only way to do that. They would never have left otherwise.”

  “You brought ruin here, after I expressly forbade it.” Thorin sighed heavily. “Have your men ransacked it, too?”

  Varl shook his head. “We’ve touched nothing. We’ve secured the place and helped the civilians escape. That’s all.”

  “And the soldiers, too,” said Thayus bitterly.

  “That’s right,” Varl conceded. “They fought well. They deserved to live.”

  “All of them are gone?” asked Thorin.

  “Not all. A major and some others stayed behind. We have them secured.” Varl grimaced. “There’s another as well.”

  Puzzled, Thorin asked, “Another? Who?”

  “A woman,” said Varl, looking very sullen suddenly. “She’s inside the library, waiting for you. She hasn’t moved.”

  “What woman? Make sense, you fool.”

  “I don’t know who she is,” said Varl. “She wouldn’t give her name.”

  The riddle tantalized Thorin. He searched his mind for Kahldris, to see if the spirit could shed light on the mystery, but Kahldris remained elusive or unwilling to help. Overcome with curiosity, Thorin decided to see this woman for himself.

  “Take me to her.”

  Varl hesitated. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Who else? You mean too much to Jazana for me to kill you, Varl, though Fate knows you deserve it. Mark me—cross me again and I will kill you, and everyone stupid enough to stay loyal to you. Now take me to this woman.”

  After ordering Thayus to remain behind and bring up the rest of their company, Thorin followed Varl across the yard toward the library. The devastation in the yard surprised him, though Varl’s men had done a good job of disposing of the bodies. Bits of arrows and broken swords littered the landscape. Huge stones and timbers that had been used as barricades blocked them everywhere, forcing them to pick their way across the yard. The front facade of the library, once a palisade of soaring, polished stone, had been caved in by a catapult blast, buckling the enormous wooden doors and sending down a steady shower of stone dust. As he stepped inside the main hall, Thorin saw that the same alarming damage had occurred to the ceiling, now cracked and shedding bricks, some of its timbers split and fallen. In the center of the hall lay a giant pile of square bricks that tumbled out of the roof. The sight boiled Thorin’s blood.

  “Are you proud of this?” he hissed at Varl. If he had not had the urge to kill the man earlier, he had it now. “Do you know what you’ve done, you idiot?”

  Varl replied calmly, “I knew exactly what I was doing, Baron. And the people I saved here are grateful for it.”

  Unable to rebut him, Thorin remained silent as they continued through the shattered library. Everywhere were the remnants of what had been—overturned shelves spilling books to the floor, broken tables, reminders of those who had fled. Thorin had to gird himself against the onslaught of emotions. Was this the symbol of the new Koth, he wondered?

  “Where is this woman?” he rumbled impatiently.

  “Not far,” said Varl. “Near the west side of the building.”

  The west side, Varl explained, was where most of the civilians had lived. Hearing this, Thorin asked at once about Breck’s wife, Kalla.

  “She fled with the others,” Varl told him. “Their son was with her.” His eyes flicked at Thorin as they walked. “We heard Breck didn’t make it.”

  Thorin clenched his jaw and nodded.

  They continued on through the library, some of it ruined, some of it as grand as they day it was built, but when at last they came to another wide hallway Thorin saw that his one had not been left untouched by the catapults. A great section of the roof had collapsed, spilling heavy debris everywhere. It had been a lovely hall once, bare mostly but high and wide and pretty with stonework. Where the ceiling had collapsed a severed timber lay pinned to the floor, having cracked from the roof. Near the debris knelt a woman. Thorin slowed.

  He had not forgotten her, and knew her instantly. The beauty of her new face had seared itself into his mind.

  “Meriel.”

  He paused to look at her kneeling near the timber. She lifted her red eyes to see him. He wondered why she knelt, then saw a figure splayed beneath the fallen log. A soldier. Someone he knew? He doubted it, but someone important to her, certainly. The darkness that had engulfed him through the day now settled thickly on his soul.

  “Thorin.” She said his name more like a curse than a greeting. Her tear streaked face was red with grief. Hatred laced her tone. “We came to save you,” she said. She began to titter. “How did we do?”

  It shattered Thorin to see her so miserable. He had loved her in Grimhold. He loved her still, despite Jazana Carr. In the ruins she looked so helpless. She looked down at the man beneath the rocks and timber and trembled.

  “He built walls outside, to try to stop you, to give us time,” she said. “But they didn’t stop you. Your men just came and came, and ruined this place.”

  Baron Glass felt her heartbreak. He too felt diminished by the library’s demise.

  “What was his name?” he asked.

  M
eriel whispered his name. “Van.”

  She touched the man’s limp hair. Had they been lovers? Thorin stepped closer. He could see the man was young, a Royal Charger. Near him was a colored cloth of some kind, a carpet perhaps. Meriel noticed his puzzlement.

  “He tried to save it,” she said.

  “A tapestry?” Thorin looked closely at it. “Why?”

  Meriel groaned bitterly. “Because it meant something to him. Because it meant peace and beautiful things.” Finally she looked at him, really looked, examining the thing he had become. Surprisingly, there was pity in her swollen eyes. “Lukien?”

  Thorin swallowed his anger. Of course she would ask about him.

  “Alive or dead, I cannot say,” he told her.

  Meriel closed her eyes, fighting back fresh tears. “Where?”

  Thorin reached down and hooked his hand beneath her arm, lifting her to her feet. She felt effortlessly light, so frail he could have snapped her. Gently he pulled her away from the dead man and debris, standing her against a wall so she would not fall. She could not bring herself to look at him. Thorin took her chin in his grip and forced her eyes upward.

  “You love him,” he said, not hiding his contempt. “I loved you, but I was never enough for you. Am I enough now, Mirage?”

  The girl would not—could not—answer him. She fought off his grip, turning her face away. Enraged, Thorin took her arm and flung her aside.

  “He is outside the city,” he thundered. “Go to him. Save him if you can.”

  She looked at him in disbelief. “Lukien . . . ?”

  Thorin folded his arms across his armored chest. “You were beautiful to me, even before your magic. Yet you choose a man who thinks nothing of you. Have him, then.” Thorin nodded at Varl, who had watched their drama with quiet surprise. “Take her to him,” he ordered. “Thayus knows where to find him.”

  Mirage remained fixed on him even as Varl dragged her away, her face full of confusion. Thorin watched her go, Varl roughly shoving her down the hall. When at last she was out of view he let his arms fall weakly at his sides. Next to him, the man called Van lay sprawled in death. Thorin stared at him a moment, then knelt beside him. A bit of the tapestry rested tightly between his fingers. Thorin undid the rigored grip and pulled the tapestry free. It was very large, but he laid it out neatly on the floor, curious to see what the man had died for.

  To Thorin, the thing was very plain. Well made, perhaps, but depicting nothing of particular value.

  “Just old men,” he said. He looked back at Van. “I don’t understand.”

  55

  ALIVE AGAIN

  For the second time in his life, Lukien awoke from the brink of death.

  He remembered floating, and then Cassandra, and then the darkness that seemed to never end, suffocating him. He remembered the light of the amulet and the presence of Amaraz, struggling to hold together his mind and battered body. He remembered the passage of time, as if ages had gone by. Then finally, he awoke.

  His eyes fluttered open to see Mirage’s pretty face coming squarely into focus. She smiled on him like the sun, making him unafraid. For what felt like a long time he did not speak as he looked at her, happy to see her but wondering if she were just another apparition. His body felt warm. He was naked beneath a blanket, out of his armor and—he supposed—out of danger. Mirage reached down to touch his hair.

  “Lukien? Can you hear me?”

  Her voice was like music. He nodded, though every bone in his body ached.

  “I can hear you.”

  The sound of his own voice startled him, so weak was it. Like a little boy’s voice.

  “You’re safe, Lukien,” said Mirage. “Don’t be afraid.”

  He was safe. And alive. He remembered his encounter in the death-world and smiled.

  “Cassandra . . .”

  Mirage’s face contorted. “No, Lukien, it’s me—Mirage.”

  “Mirage.” Lukien licked his lip. “I saw Cassandra.”

  Mirage brushed the hair from his face. “Don’t try to talk. You’re not well, but you’ll be all right now.’

  Lukien painfully rifted his hand to his face. He felt contusions on his lips and chin and swelling over his one good eye. The thrashing Thorin had given him rushed back into his memory, making him gasp.

  “I’m all right,” he said, trying to calm himself. But the room was unfamiliar to him. “Where . . . ?”

  “We’re in Borath,” said Mirage. A bowl of water that Lukien only just noticed rested beside her. She dipped a rag into it and wiped his face. “You have sores. Lie still.”

  The water burned his wounds. Lukien winced, terribly confused. He knew Borath; it was not far from Koth. A village. Why was he here? And why was she with him? He pushed her hand away and tried to sit up, but the effort made his brain slosh with nausea and he laid back gasping.

  “Don’t,” Mirage warned. “You’ve been badly hurt, Lukien.” She leaned over him. “Do you remember what happened?”

  “Thorin,” Lukien whispered. He remembered it all too perfectly. “Where is he?”

  “In Koth,” said Mirage. She went on to explain how he had come to the library and how they had spoken, and how Thorin had sent her to find him. Many others had escaped with her, she told him, many were with them now in Borath. Gradually Lukien’s mind began to clear. He thought of Breck, suddenly, and how his old friend had died. Then he thought of others.

  “What about Aric Glass? Is he here?”

  Mirage nodded. “He’s here. Thorin didn’t know what happened to his son. He didn’t even ask.”

  That bewildered Lukien, but he assumed it was Kahldris, keeping Thorin from caring too much. Minikin had warned him that would be the case but he hadn’t really listened. And he had paid the price. Suddenly remembering the amulet, he felt for the thing. There it was, laying across his naked chest, warm and pulsing, keeping him alive.

  “That saved you,” said Mirage. “I found you outside the city, just as Thorin said I would. You were near death, Lukien. I didn’t think you’d make it. Aric came back for you, too. He had a horse and helped me bring you here.” She smiled, trying to cheer him. “You’ve been out for days.”

  “Aric,” Lukien croaked. “I want to see him.”

  “You will. Not yet, though. You need to rest first. Maybe tomorrow if you’re stronger.”

  Again Lukien tried sitting up, this time raising himself to his aching elbow. “Mirage, I cannot wait,” he told her. “I’ve seen Cassandra—I have to find the sword.”

  “What? Lukien, you’re fevered. Lean back, now . . .”

  “No, listen to me! I’ve seen her. When I was dead, she came to me.” Lukien could hear the shakiness in his voice and fought to steady it. “I know,” he said, “it sounds mad. But she came to me, Mirage, in the orchard where she died. She’s alive!”

  Mirage lowered the rag and stared at him, confounded, but did not argue with him. Instead she seemed aghast. “Her death place? That’s where you saw her?”

  “Yes,” said Lukien. “It was real. I know it.”

  “I believe you,” said Mirage. She sat back, looking pensive. “It can happen. Why not?” Again she looked at Lukien. “What is this sword she told you about?”

  Lukien tried hard to retain his strength. “I’m not sure. She called it the Sword of Angels.” Then, as if the sun had risen, he remembered what Cassandra had told him. “The Serpent Kingdom,” he whispered. “That’s where this sword is. It belongs to Kahldris’ brother.”

  “She told you all that?”

  “She did. Do you know of this place, Mirage, this Serpent Kingdom?”

  Mirage slowly nodded. “All Inhumans know something of it. Our Akari tell us of it. It is a land beyond Grimhold, a secret place.”

  “Yes,” said Lukien excitedly. “That’s what Cassandra told me—a land beyond Grimhold.” He leaned back again in his bed, staring at the ceiling. “I have to find it, and this sword.” Despite the pain he smiled. “And Cass
andra.”

  “Cassandra?” Mirage glowered at him. “What do you mean?”

  Lukien didn’t want to answer her. She would never understand his plan. He said, “She’s alive, Mirage, and I want to go to her.”

  “You mean die?” said Mirage acidly. “You want to die so you can be with her?”

  “Yes!” Lukien bolted upright. “She’s alive, I saw her. I want to be with her. Can’t you understand?”

  Mirage tossed the rag to the floor and stood up. “I understand that you’re a fool. And so am I. I thought that maybe after what had happened, after what I did for you . . .” She stopped herself, tightly closing her eyes. “But you’ll never love me, will you, Lukien? You’ll continue to dream about Cassandra.”

  “Because she’s alive,” Lukien implored. “And yes, I love her. I told you that a hundred times, but never would you listen. I’m grateful that you saved me. Believe that. But I’m going on this quest, and when I am done I will show the Akari who my life belongs to.” He made a weak fist and tapped his chest. “It belongs to me.”

  “Then go,” said Mirage bitterly. His words had forced her to tears. “I am done with you, Lukien. Go and find your sword. Go and die if that’s what you want. I’ll find another who loves me.”

  The threat was implicit. “Don’t go to him,” Lukien warned. “He’s not the man you think.”

  “He loves me, Lukien. What else do I have? You’ll never love me. My home is gone. And Van’s dead. Did you not realize that? He cared about me, but he’s gone too. Only Thorin is left.”