The Sword Of Angels eog-3

by John Marco

  The young soldier swallowed nervously. ‘Yes, Majesty.’

  ‘Why?’ thundered Baralosus. ‘In the name of Vala tell me why! She’s just a girl — was she too much for you?’

  ‘She is under Aztar’s protection, Majesty,’ Jashien argued. ‘You sent two men after me — me and Zasif. Aztar has many men, and all of them are willing to die for him. We tried to reason with him, but he refused to let us take her against her will, and there was no way we could force him.’

  ‘We’ll force him,’ Kailyr argued. ‘We’ll send an army after Salina if we must!’

  ‘That would be better, I think, then sending just two men against him,’ suggested Jashien. ‘I am sorry, Majesty, but I returned without her because I knew you were worried and wanted news. I’ll go back for her, right now if that’s what you wish, but please give me something to threaten Aztar.’

  ‘He’s a fox, that one,’ said Kailyr. ‘He’s always wanted the Princess and power both. Now he means to ransom her.’

  ‘He says not,’ said Jashien. ‘When I asked him that same thing he was insulted.’

  ‘Of course he was! He’s not going to admit it.’ Kailyr turned toward his king. ‘Majesty, you cannot let this stand. Once the people hear what Aztar’s done, they will demand action. You must send men after her, as many men as needed.’

  ‘And I will lead them gladly,’ Jashien added. ‘Give me the enough men, and I’ll bring the Princess back to you, Majesty.’

  Baralosus’ head ached with confusion. Jashien’s news had stunned him, and he was still overwhelmed at Salina’s welfare. Part of him rejoiced that she was well. But another, darker part began to scheme. Prince Aztar had always been an ambitious man, a player of games. That political muscle that Baralosus used to detect deceit told him that Salina had become one of Aztar’s pawns.

  ‘Jashien, thank you,’ said the king. ‘I’m grateful to you. We’ll talk again tonight.’

  The soldier grimaced. ‘Majesty?’

  ‘You’re dismissed,’ said Baralosus. ‘Go and rest now.’

  Minister Kailyr raised an eyebrow, but had the good sense not to speak until Jashien left the room. He and the king watched Jashien go. Kailyr closed the door behind him.

  ‘You’re thinking something,’ said Kailyr. ‘Tell me what it is.’

  King Baralosus took his time. He leaned back, he cracked his knuckles, he sorted through his confusion. Aztar was playing a bold game this time, but he had the most important game piece. He had Salina. The king doubted very much that the Tiger of the Desert would harm her. He loved her, after all, and Baralosus knew his love was genuine. Surely, that could be a lever.

  ‘He wants something from us,’ said the king finally. ‘Salina, certainly. Power, probably. A place at the table.’

  ‘We can’t bargain with him, Majesty,’ said Kailyr. ‘By refusing to return Salina he has spat in your face. If you let that stand there will be trouble, not just with your ministers but with the people.’

  ‘The people adore Aztar, Kailyr. Not all of them, but enough of them. He’s a hero. If we harm him, we’ll undercut ourselves.’

  ‘If you let him blackmail you, you do yourself the same damage,’ said Kailyr. He hovered over the king like a shadow. ‘Listen to me, Baralosus. Aztar has been a problem long enough. It’s time to deal with him.’

  ‘Deal with him. You mean kill him.’

  ‘Yes, I mean kill him. Right now.’

  Baralosus considered his friend’s counsel. It was not without appeal. Inside, he raged at the insult Aztar had delivered, taking his daughter from him, the sheer gall of standing up to the king. But that was what the Ganjeese loved about him. It was what had drawn so many Voruni tribesmen to his banner. There was a glamour about Aztar, a magic cloak that made people adore him. He was dangerous alive, surely. But dead?

  ‘If we kill him, he’ll be an unspeakable menace,’ said Baralosus. ‘The Voruni will blame us, and so will some of our own people. It would be a bloodbath.’

  ‘He’s not as strong as he was,’ Kailyr reminded him. ‘He lost most of his men at Jador.’

  ‘He has enough still to harm us, and he still has my daughter, remember. What would he do to her if he saw our army marching toward him?’

  ‘He would let her go without a scratch,’ said the Minister confidently. ‘You know he’d never harm her.’

  ‘And should I chance that? We need another answer, Kailyr, something that gets us all out of this mess.’

  ‘A bargain, you mean.’ Kailyr looked disgusted. ‘Mark my words, Majesty, this is a mistake.’

  Baralosus turned away from his Minister, looking at all the ledgers strewn across the table. His family had more wealth than any other in the city. He could pay a hefty ransom for Salina and never miss the gold. But he knew that Aztar wanted something more than gold, something that only he, the king, could legally grant.

  ‘I have bargained with devils before,’ said Baralosus, ‘and so have you, old friend. It’s politics, always.’

  Kailyr’s expression went from disgust to a kind of grudging understanding. He was an old fox, just like his king, and understood the ways of politics.

  ‘I see your meaning, Majesty,’ he said.

  He was quiet for a time, and then went back to his books.

  27

  Night draped its dark arm across the Novo Valley. From a hillside by the river Kryss, Aric Glass watched the distant campfires wink to life. He had ridden hard by the last light of the sun, trotting quickly through the valley as dusk descended, but when at last he saw the camp of Raxor’s men he paused, reining back his lathered mount to marvel at the army. It had grown, the rumours had claimed, and Aric could see the veracity of those claims now, for the Reecian army stretched like the tail of a dragon across the Novo Valley, that great weary expanse of grassland that rested between Liiria and Reec. Divided by the river Kryss, the Novo Valley had long been the sight of numerous battles between the two nations, its trees fed by the blood of both sides. Now, with Raxor’s brooding army bedding down, Aric could see another feast of blood festering.

  The road from Nith had been long and hard, and Aric Glass had not slept for days, not since he’d heard the news of Raxor’s growing force. In Norvor he had followed the Kryss north, occasionally crossing the river at its periodic bridges to enter Liiria. Without a genuinely safe route north, Aric had lived on his wits to avoid being discovered, stopping along the way at small villages to rest himself and hear the gossip of peasants, all of whom repeated the same ominous tale. The Reecian army was growing, they had said, waiting on the border for the battle with Liiria. Aric Glass let his eyes linger on the sight. In the gathering darkness he saw men and horses moving through the camp and fires coughing up sparks. He saw the armoured wagons lined up in long rows, their metal-covered hides studded with rivets, their sides cut with arrow loops for the soldiers inside. A company of horsemen drilled upon their splendid mounts, bearing spears with feathers and sporting gleaming Reecian armour. Stableboys and squires darted through the dirty lanes. Aric tried to number them, supposing at least a thousand men had come to face his father. Impressed, he rolled his head along his soldiers, stretching his tired muscles and hearing them pop. To the west lay Liiria, his homeland, shrouded in the coming night, hiding his father and his dark designs. Aric Glass peered closely through the valley and could not see any army gathering to oppose the Reecians.

  The silence made him uneasy.

  ‘Father, what is your game?’

  In Koth, miles away, his father Baron Glass brewed a poison potion for the Reecians. Aric knew this with certainty. Yet he could see no evidence of it in the quiet Novo Valley, only the Reecians and their army and the rolling river Kryss that divided the two lands. Unnerved, Aric hesitated. He had come so far to meet King Raxor and deliver the message of Prince Daralor, and only fate had steered him here, to this unexpected army. In the villages they had said that Raxor himself was coming to join the battle, and now that he could see the king
’s army Aric no longer doubted this. Still, he had expected to ride to Hes to find the King, a prospect that would have added days to his journey.

  Am I ready? he wondered.

  Along the way he had rehearsed his words many times. He had practiced and was pleased with himself, but now his mouth dried up and his stomach pitched with nerves. How could he convince anyone to join with Daralor? The man was shunned by the rest of the world, a pariah among kings. For years he had kept his little principality safe from the storms on the continent, avoiding contact with outsiders and sending away foreign emissaries. But Daralor had courage, like the Reecians, and it was that lone similarity that had convinced Aric to take up his mission.

  He’s there, Aric told himself, staring at the Reecian camp. Raxor.

  The air around the camp seemed charged. Only a king could make the air tremble. Aric considered the danger, the very real possibility of his imprisonment. He was the son of Reec’s greatest enemy. Surely that might earn him a rope at the gallows.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he whispered.

  It was a lie, but it made him feel better. Taking a breath, he took hold of the reins again and steered his horse onward, toward the Reecian camp. Quickly the gelding picked up speed as it hurried down the slope, and Aric Glass did nothing to slow it. Determined, he let the horse take him straight toward the heart of the camp, until at last he approached the outer perimeter where men on guard duty patrolled with spears. Aric could smell the powerful smoke and the dung of horses. The distant guards, bored and talking among themselves, seemed not to notice him as just one more horseman trotted toward camp. Wearing armour and red capes against the chill, the men ignored the cavalrymen drilling nearby as the sounds of Aric’s own horse were drowned by the pounding hooves of the parading teams. Aric sat up tall in his saddle, trying to look unthreatening, and trotted up to a pair of weary-looking guards, who at last turned to regard him.

  ‘Hello,’ Aric called to them, putting up his hand. He slowed his horse just a bit. ‘May I come forward?’

  The guards blinked in confusion. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A messenger,’ Aric replied. ‘I have business with your king.’ From the corner of his eye, Aric watched as a pair of cavalrymen quickly broke ranks with their team, spinning their horses toward him. For the moment he tried to ignore them. ‘This is the camp of Raxor, yes? I would speak to him.’

  The guards looked stunned. One of them stepped forward, spear in hand. ‘Stay where you are,’ he warned, ‘and tell us what this business is.’

  Aric eased back on his horse, bringing it to a stop. The two horsemen were coming forward now, one a furious looking man with shocking red hair, the other older and more seasoned looking. The younger, red-haired man quickly took the lead, galloping forward then jerking his horse to a stop between Aric and the guards.

  ‘Who are you?’ he barked.

  He stared demandingly at Aric. Tall and thin, his cape was grand, trimmed with gold and silver threads. His horse wore armour over its flanks and face, snorting with the same anger as its master. Just his presence made Aric pale.

  ‘I’m a messenger,’ Aric repeated, not sure how much to reveal or how long he could keep up the pretense. ‘I have come to speak to King Raxor.’

  ‘No one speaks to the king, especially not a boy,’ said the red-head. He peered through the darkness, at last noticing Aric’s battered uniform. ‘And a Liirian!’ The man glanced at his older comrade, who seemed equally confused. ‘You’re a Liirian?’

  ‘Yes,’ Aric admitted. ‘A Royal Charger.’

  ‘There are no Royal Chargers,’ said the older man. From his place atop his horse he looked Aric up and down. ‘They’re all gone now.’

  ‘No, not all of them are gone,’ said Aric. ‘I am a Royal Charger, Sir. And I’m not one of Baron Glass’ men. I’ve come from someplace else.’

  ‘Are you one who fought at the library?’ the old soldier asked. There was a measure of respect in the question.

  ‘Aye, Sir, I am,’ Aric replied. ‘I fought under Breck at the battle of Koth.’

  ‘And now you’re here to see my father?’ the red-haired man burbled. ‘Why?’

  ‘As I said, I bear a message,’ said Aric. Immediately he knew who he was addressing. Like most Liirians, he had heard the name Roland the Red. ‘Prince Roland, what I have to say to your father is greatly important. If he is here. .’

  ‘You know who I am,’ said Roland, puffing a little. ‘Whatever you have to tell the king you can tell to me.’

  Aric avoided his traps. ‘I should tell it to both of you, I think.’

  Roland grinned. ‘You task me, boy. Give me your name.’

  It was the question Aric dreaded. ‘Aric Glass,’ he said, then waited for the storm to come.

  ‘Aric. .?’ Roland looked again at his comrade, this time in disbelief. ‘Aric Glass?’ he sputtered. ‘Aric Glass?’

  ‘The son of Thorin Glass, yes,’ said Aric. He watched as the faces of the men twitched. ‘Prince Roland, I’m here because I have important news for your father, news about my own father that might help all of us. Please, I’ve ridden for weeks looking for help. If I can have an audience with the king-’

  ‘For what reason?’ asked Roland sharply. ‘You’re the son of Baron Glass.’

  ‘It’s not a ploy,’ said Aric, bracing himself. ‘Sir, I’ve come from Nith. I’ve come with a message from Prince Daralor to your father. I’m on your side in this, believe me.’

  Roland put his hand to the pommel of his sword. ‘And I’d be a fool to let a snake into camp, boy.’

  ‘Prince Roland, please listen to me. I need to see your father.’

  ‘You are seeing me,’ said Roland, his ire growing. ‘Tell me what your business is. What is this message from Nith?’

  There was enough steel in his words to make Aric ease back. He had seen men like Roland before — quick to anger, needing to prove himself. He had given himself away with every poorly chosen word. Risking Roland’s wrath, Aric shook his head.

  ‘I can only give my message to the king,’ he said. ‘It’s just by good fortune that I find him here. I was on my way to Hes to speak to him.’

  Prince Roland turned an apple shade of scarlet. He started to speak, then caught himself as he noticed his men looking at him. Finally, the older man spoke again.

  ‘Your father will want to speak to him,’ he said to Roland easily. His tone was practiced. ‘Let the boy deliver his message.’

  Roland smiled crookedly at the older man. ‘Is that what he would want, Craiglen? Then my father should have what he wants, shouldn’t he? He’s the king, after all.’

  The man called Craiglen turned from the prince and ordered the guards to stand aside. To Aric he said, ‘Dismount. My men will take your horse.’

  Aric did as ordered, and the guards came forward to take his mount. The older soldier then dismounted himself, handing off his own horse, and called to other guards who had gathered nearby to listen. These men surrounded Aric at his order. Prince Roland, still upon his horse, gazed down imperiously at Aric, yet nevertheless looked out of place.

  ‘Are you coming?’ Craiglen asked him.

  Roland grimaced, then finally got down off his own horse. It shocked Aric how much things were out of his hands. Even the low ranking guards looked to Craiglen for direction.

  ‘Follow me,’ Roland said, then led the way into the heart of camp.

  Surrounded by armed men, Aric followed the prince, stepping into the perimeter to the stares of dumbstruck soldiers. The men who had first greeted him led away their horses, and soon Aric was engulfed by the camp. He studied the war machines the Reecians had brought with them, the armoured wagons and carts laden with weapons. A few burly, bare-chest men sweated with an enormous catapult, cursing as they refitted its splines. Horse dung littered the ground, though gaggles of stableboys worked gamely to clean it, and men in armour and scarlet capes gathered around campfires to talk and laugh, falling quiet as Prince Roland
passed. It took long minutes to cross the camp, and every step impressed Aric. King Raxor was taking no chances. Whatever his motives, he intended to win against the Liirians.

  But Aric knew how impossible that was. Raxor might be brave and have an army with him, but he didn’t know what he was up against, or the sheer power of the Devil’s Armour. To think of it made Aric forlorn.

  At last they came to the far end of the camp, where a pavilion stood alone and the camp fires had thinned. Here, more of the guards greeted them, though these were more alert than the ones who’d greeted Aric. Standing at attention, their uniforms crisp and clean, they glared at Aric as he approached, at once sensing the stranger in their midst. Prince Roland exchanged a few words with them, mostly ordering them to step aside. Backing up the prince’s order was Craiglen, who nodded at the guards. The guards parted reluctantly, letting all of them pass. Aric looked around and saw that more soldiers milled near the grand tent. Huge dogs — mastiffs by the looks of them — were chained to posts near the fire. Soldiers tossed them meat. Others groomed the howling beasts. Aric noticed another campfire, this one apart from all the others. A single man enjoyed the fire, surrounded by unleashed dogs. The dogs knelt dutifully by him as he went from one to the other, giving each of them treats and patting their heads. He was an old man, older than Craiglen, dressed in a long coat with a collar of wolf fur. Though he stooped to tend his pets, Aric could tell he was enormous. Except for his head, his entire body was draped by the dark coat, his hands and feet shielded in black leather as well. Enamoured of his dogs, he seemed not to notice the approaching men. The group paused just outside the light of his fire. Prince Roland stepped forward.

  ‘Father,’ he said, ‘someone is here for you.’

  King Raxor didn’t bother lifting his head. ‘Who?’

  ‘A messenger. A boy named Aric Glass.’

  The distracted king took a moment before he realized what had been said. He turned to look at Roland, then straight at Aric. Their eyes met, making Aric shrivel. Raxor had been legend once, a warrior of great renown, and had lost little of his ability to intimidate.