The Sword Of Angels eog-3

by John Marco

  Chane straightened when he heard the familiar sound of Raxor approaching, the distinct din of his heavy boots clicking on the polished floor. Raxor appeared quickly, his face shining in the hall’s candlelight. He was a big man still, as tall as Chane himself and almost twice as wide, and when he grinned he lit the room. Corvalos Chane smiled back at his beloved king.

  ‘My lord is pleased,’ said the spy.

  King Raxor put his giant hand on Chane’s cheek, patting it. ‘I’m grateful, Corvalos. I didn’t believe you at first, but she is everything you promised. She is so beautiful it takes my breath away.’

  ‘She is Lady Helea’s spitting image, my lord, is she not?’

  ‘Aye, she could be her daughter. And fiery!’

  Chane shrugged. ‘I did warn you.’

  ‘Ah, she is afraid, that’s all.’ Raxor twisted a stout golden ring on his finger, the way he always did when worried. ‘She won’t be harmed. I promised her that, though I don’t know if she believes me.’

  ‘Give her time, my lord,’ Chane advised. ‘She will learn to love you.’

  Raxor looked at his trusted friend. ‘That is too much to hope. Her heart belongs to another, I can tell. Perhaps Baron Glass himself.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. She is here with you, and not with Baron Glass.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Raxor. ‘And I will keep her for myself, no matter what storms the Black Baron might bring us.’

  15

  ‘You can get off here,’ said the boatman. ‘It’s not far to the centre of the city. You can walk the way easily.’

  Lukien looked out over the edge of the dock, to the sprawling city on the riverbank. The spires of Torlis shadowed his face. He smelled the briny scent of salt drying along the rocks at low tide and the pungent odours of crowded humanity. While black flies swarmed their boat, the boatman, Akhir, guided his tiny vessel toward the dock, scraping it alongside and tossing ropes to dark-skinned workers. A hundred other boats were tied there, and a hundred more choked the river, fishing boats and barges filled with cargo. Men and boys waded in the shallow parts of the river, tossing nets. Along the bank, homes of mud brick baked in the sun, erected on pylons to keep from flooding when the river rose. Beyond the homes, the centre of Torlis beckoned with its densely built temples and minarets. Somewhere in the distance a bell rang.

  The workers with the ropes jerked the boat to the dock. Lukien held to the rail as the vessel jolted to a stop. Akhir hurried to secure the moorings, his gnarled hands quickly tying knots. Beside him stood Jahan, looking moonstruck as he gazed upon Torlis. For three days they had been aboard Akhir’s boat, hiring him out of a busy fishing village, the only man willing to ferry them to Torlis. For the price of their worn-out horse and donkey, Akhir had navigated them up the wide river, expertly avoiding the treacherous spots. Years of piloting his ancient boat had given Akhir a confident hand, and while he captained Lukien and Jahan could relax and rest themselves. It had been a pleasant, unremarkable journey, and the two men had deepened their friendship, getting to know one another and swapping tales. Under the starry nights, Torlis seemed a thousand miles away.

  But now the great city towered all around them, and Jahan did not speak at all. He simply gazed, his eyes wide with breathless awe. His ponytail of hair pendulated to the rocking surf. Lukien sidled closer. For both of them, their arrival was a victory. As Akhir secured the vessel, Lukien and Jahan pondered the city and its people. To Lukien, they were very much like the villagers he had already encountered in Tharlara, but their city was much more advanced. Monuments were everywhere, sprouting like reeds among the paved roads cut between the grand buildings. In the centre of the city rose an elaborate palace of shimmering limestone. A trio of graceful spires turned upward from the palace, capped with golden domes that showered sunlight into the streets. The palace was easily the largest building in Torlis, dwarfing everything around it and surrounded by greenery and pools of blue water. Lukien nudged Jahan.

  ‘The Red Eminence?’

  Jahan nodded. ‘It must be.’

  Torlis itself went on for miles, but beyond the city rose a mountain range, and from that range grew a single giant of a mountain, its broad shoulders packed with snow, its peak puncturing the clouds. The river they had followed for so long snaked around the city and disappeared into the mountains. The glorious mountain drew Lukien’s gaze. He had never seen its like before, and despite the grandness of Torlis it was the mountain that made him feel small.

  The boatman finished tying off his moors and came to stand beside his passengers. Akhir was a lean man, long of bone, with thoughtful eyes that gave him an air of wisdom.

  ‘That’s where the river comes from,’ he said, noticing the way Lukien spied the mountain. ‘When the snows melt, the river swells. It will soon happen again.’

  ‘And make the land strong,’ said Lukien.

  Akhir smiled. ‘Yes. You are learning, foreigner.’

  ‘And what about that big mountain?’ Lukien asked. ‘Does it have a name?’

  ‘That’s a holy mountain,’ said Akhir. ‘The people of Torlis call it the House of Sercin.’

  ‘Who is Sercin? A ruler?’

  ‘Sercin is the god of this land. Look, you will see his image everywhere,’ said Akhir. He pointed toward the city and its spires. ‘You see that temple? That is a temple of Sercin.’

  Lukien and Jahan both peered through the daylight. From out of the mud and limestone buildings jutted a tower topped with the image of what looked like a snake, its fanged maw opened wide.

  ‘You mean that one?’ asked Lukien. ‘With the serpent’s head?’

  ‘That is Sercin,’ Akhir explained. ‘That is how the people of Torlis say he appears. He is the patron of the city, the one who looks over them.’

  ‘And he lives in the mountain?’

  Akhir shrugged. ‘So they say. I do not believe or disbelieve. The people of Torlis turn the river to blood when the time comes, and that is all I care about.’

  Lukien was careful not to ask too many questions. So far, they had managed to avoid telling Akhir much about their journey, and the wily boatman seemed not to care. When they had requested passage to Torlis, Akhir had not asked why, but had merely taken their animals and given them to his family for safe keeping. Now, with his cargo safely delivered, he was eager to return home.

  ‘I have to stock my boat,’ he said. ‘And then I will leave.’

  ‘How long will you remain?’ asked Jahan.

  ‘An hour. Maybe two.’ Akhir frowned. ‘You do not want to go?’

  Apprehension made Jahan’s lips curl. ‘No. We will go.’

  But he didn’t move.

  ‘Jahan?’ probed Lukien. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Jahan looked uncomfortable. ‘All of this. It is more than I expected. It is so big! It is nothing like my village. And all these people. I have never seen so many.’

  ‘Jahan, this is what you wanted — to see Torlis.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jahan agreed.

  Still he did not disembark. Akhir made a face of displeasure.

  ‘I can take you back with me if that’s what you wish,’ he said. ‘Those were good animals you gave me. But tell me now. If you are riding back with me, I will buy enough food for us all.’

  ‘I’m going,’ said Lukien. ‘I have to. Jahan, go back with Akhir if that’s what you want.’

  Jahan shook off his apprehension with a laugh. ‘Go back? No, Lukien. How would you find your way without me?’

  ‘I don’t think I could,’ said Lukien with a grin. ‘Come on, then.’

  They said good-bye to Akhir, wishing the boatman a safe journey home, then stepped off his shaky vessel onto the dock. The wooden structure gave a groan beneath them, directing them toward the beach where dozens of fishermen and boys waded into the water or stayed ashore mending nets. Not far ahead of them, the crude homes of mud brick glowed orange in the sunlight. Stepping off the muddy bank and onto a crowded street, Lukien pointed with his chin towar
d the palace in the centre of the city.

  ‘There,’ he said softly. ‘That’s where we’ll find him.’

  Jahan’s nervousness grew. He licked his wind-chapped lips as he surveyed the looming palace. Around it stood scores of lesser buildings, all beautifully constructed of gleaming stone and precious metals. It would be a long walk, but Lukien could tell it was not the distance daunting his friend.

  ‘Lukien, what will you say to him?’ Jahan asked. ‘Have you thought about it?’

  ‘I will tell him the truth,’ said Lukien. ‘That I’m looking for the sword, and that I’ve come a long way to find it.’

  ‘But look at us. We have nothing to offer. We’re dressed like peasants.’ Jahan smoothed down his garb, trying to make himself presentable. ‘The Red Eminence is rich and powerful. I think perhaps I should not have come.’

  ‘Why?’ Lukien asked. He paused in the middle of the avenue, turning toward his companion. ‘Because the city frightens you? Jahan, it frightens me, too. I’m the real stranger here.’

  ‘No Lukien. The place you come from is not so unlike this. I have listened to your stories. Your city of Koth is a great city like Torlis. And I’m. .’ Jahan dropped his eyes. ‘I’m a villager.’

  ‘You’re the founder of your village, a Simiheh. Your people are proud and respected in their part of Tharlara. You should tell the Red Eminence about your people, Jahan. If he doesn’t already know about them, then he should.’

  Jahan tried to smile. ‘The Simiheh are proud. I will tell the Red Eminence about my people, if that’s what he wishes.’

  Satisfied, Lukien took the lead as they made their way through Torlis’ crowded lanes. He wore a hood to shield himself from onlookers, but occasionally earned a surprised glance from those who had never seen his like before. Though large, Torlis was not like Koth, with its myriad of peoples. Instead, the people of Torlis were all the same, with skin like caramel and dark, narrow eyes. They dressed themselves in robes similar to Jahan’s, though better made, and the women wore their hair long and adorned themselves with jewelry. As they entered a market, the noise of chattering patrons filled the square. Merchants stood behind tables laden with dates and rice, shouting above the din while caged birds chirped incessantly and dogs ran between the stalls. Old men sat around game tables, smoking pipes and laughing, while boys in long, striped gowns herded sheep through the market. Exotic smells filled the air, making Lukien hungry, but he had very little coinage left to splurge, and so decided to forgo the market’s many treats. Jahan, who had left down his hood, let his head swivel on his shoulders, taking in every sight and sound. Still, the people of Torlis paid the pair little attention. Too involved with their day to day business, they offered only cursory stares.

  Leaving the market, Lukien discovered a wide, straight avenue leading directly toward the centre of the city. At the end of the road stood the palace. Carts drawn by oxen and donkeys filled the road. Triple-tiered homes lined the sidewalks. Lukien led Jahan down the avenue, marvelling at a temple ascending high above their heads. It was the one they had seen from Akhir’s boat. The enormous image of the serpent’s head surveyed the city with its reptilian eyes, its stone tongue licking the air. Around the temple knelt praying worshippers, holding burning incense and chanting. Even with the help of his amulet, Lukien could not understand their words.

  ‘Look, Jahan,’ said Lukien. ‘What Akhir said about Sercin — did you know about that?’

  Jahan craned his neck to better see the towering serpent. ‘I have never heard of a god named Sercin. But see — he is a rass. They are holy here, too.’

  ‘And the people here turn the river to blood,’ said Lukien, repeating Akhir’s claim. ‘Just like you said.’

  ‘It is the Red Eminence who makes the river bleed, when he kills the great rass.’

  ‘The great rass. Could that be Sercin?’

  ‘I do not know, Lukien.’ Jahan turned eyes toward the palace. ‘Come. The Red Eminence will have your answers.’

  Avoiding the carts and beasts of burden, they took the sidewalks of the avenue, heading directly toward the palace. After a time the avenue changed, and the houses along its way surrendered to more splendid buildings. Here, there were few children playing and the homes were more elaborate. The dress of the people became finer. Taller spires reached into the air and broad-leafed trees shaded those along the walkways. Enormous edifices of limestone — monuments to past rulers, Lukien supposed — looked down at them from pedestals of polished rock, sitting like giants on gargantuan thrones. Passing the monuments, they came at last to the gates leading to the palace. Lukien paused, struck by the gates and the grounds beyond them. All around the palace stood gardens and fountains and meticulously manicured pathways. Butterflies fluttered among the flowers while men in white uniforms and saffron sashes guarded the lanes, their heads wrapped with cloths and pinned with jewels. Other men walked among them, looking like holy men in their simple, off the shoulder robes. The palace itself was set back from the gardens, its three spires achingly beautiful. The blinding-white surface of the palace contained a mind-boggling array of carvings, all climbing forever up the towers, reaching for the golden domes.

  ‘No one from my village has ever been here,’ Jahan whispered. ‘Or seen anything so beautiful.’

  Lukien could not argue, for he doubted that he himself had ever seen such beauty wrought by human hands. The artisans of the palace had made more than a grand building of limestone and gold. They had made a miracle.

  ‘We should go,’ he said gently. ‘Are you ready?’

  Swallowing his emotions, Jahan squared his shoulders and proceeded toward the gates. Lukien walked beside him, imitating his friend’s fearlessness. He had travelled for months and endless miles to reach this place. The hope that his journey had neared its end was overwhelming. Not wanting to hide himself, he lowered his hood to present his white face and golden hair. Inside the gates, a contingent of guards dressed in their perfect uniforms gathered to confront them, clearly surprised by the visitors. The guards held long, spear-like weapons of ebony topped with hooked blades. In their sashes were short, curved swords. Each wore a jewel in his headdress, all of them rubies except for one, who pinned his head gear with a diamond. A man of rank among his peers, the one with the diamond broke from the others to peek through the gate. He looked perplexed rather than angry.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked. For a moment, Lukien did not understand his words. Then, as had happened with all those he’d met in Tharlara, the words became clear to him, magically translated in his mind. Lukien glanced at Jahan and saw that he too understood the guard, though their dialects were markedly different.

  ‘My name is Lukien. This is my friend, Jahan, a Simiheh from a village a long way from here.’

  The leader of the guardians regarded Lukien curiously. A young man, there was innocence in his eyes. ‘You are strange looking. And your words. .’ He looked at his comrades, who all had the same reaction. ‘They’re different, but we understand!’

  ‘Please don’t be afraid,’ Lukien cautioned. ‘I’m from a land far away, a land called Liiria. I speak differently from you. But I have a way to make people understand me.’

  The guard turned to Jahan. ‘You are from the river lands beyond the city.’

  ‘I am Simiheh,’ said Jahan proudly. ‘My village is far from here. I took this man up the river so that he could see the Red Eminence.’

  ‘A peasant and a foreigner?’ The guard shook his head. ‘The Eminence will not see you.’

  ‘Please listen,’ implored Lukien. ‘I’ve come a long way, many miles. I must see the Red Eminence.’

  ‘It is not possible,’ said the guard. ‘You are not expected, you are not of important families, you do not even bring gifts with you. The Eminence will not see you.’

  ‘But it’s important,’ Lukien argued. ‘Have you ever seen my kind before?’

  ‘No,’ the guardian admitted.

  Lukien raised his voice just
enough. ‘Then how do you know I am not important? I have business with the Red Eminence, probably something you cannot understand. I have come a long way to bring something from my land, something of great value. Now, open the gate and let us pass.’

  Lukien’s bravado caught the attention of others on the grounds, guards and holy men who came to gape at the strangers. One man in particular, far older than the rest, came to stand beside the man with the diamond headdress. Surrounded by young acolytes in flowing robes, the old man stared inquisitively.

  ‘What have your brought the Red Eminence?’ asked the guard, growing annoyed.

  Lukien reached beneath his clothing and pulled out the Eye of God. ‘This.’

  The gathered men gave a collective gasp of interest, instantly bewitched by the amulet. Lukien let it dangle before them, twirling it on its chain. As if on cue, the ruby jewel in its centre flared to life.

  ‘This is an artifact of powerful magic,’ said Lukien, unsure of the wisdom of his gambit. ‘It is from my land across the desert, a mighty land with great sorcerers. The magic of this amulet lets you understand my words.’

  The guard stepped back, bewildered. Before he could speak, the old holy man came forth.

  ‘You are from across the desert?’ he asked.

  ‘I am,’ Lukien declared.

  The holy man watched the Eye of God as it spun on its chain. Sunlight danced off the amulet and the old man’s shaved head. A tattooed serpent slithered on his neck, its head almost biting his ear, where a single earring dangled. His young acolytes bore earrings as well, but no tattoo.

  ‘That is a magic thing, you say? From your people?’

  Lukien nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And who are your people? What are they called?’

  ‘I’m from Liiria. That’s what my people are called — Liirians.’

  ‘Liirians.’ The old man chewed on the word, looking disappointed. ‘That’s not right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The holy man shook his head. ‘If you were the one, you would know.’

  The old man turned and shuffled back toward the palace.