The Sword Of Angels eog-3

by John Marco

  ‘Where are you?’ he bellowed, calling out for Rhot. ‘General, I’m here!’

  The sun spread hotly over the sands. Stinging sweat blinded him. Aztar rode wildly, unsure where to go, heading east toward the distant flag. Around him the battle swelled, carrying him forward, forcing his aching sword arm up again and again, each time to fall on an enemy’s head. But the wave was relentless, and already Aztar’s drowa panted, slobbering spittle from its lips. He had damned himself, Aztar knew, and a glance toward the dunes said there was no turning back. Somewhere in that mass of men his brother fought. Or maybe he had fallen. Aztar wondered a little too long. .

  His drowa fell beneath him. A second later he noticed the sound, as a trio of arrows slammed the beast’s side. Its front legs collapsing, the drowa slid face first into the dirt, spilling Aztar over its head. The tumble loosened Aztar’s grip on his sword. He was flying, heals over head, then landed with a jolt with his face looking skyward. His body tightened with pain. His lungs screamed for air. Catching himself, he rolled over, clutching the sand and raising his eyes toward the coming riders.

  There, at their point, rode General Rhot, his face triumphant. He had picked up a javelin along the way and held it at his side, its steel tip gleaming. A dozen men rode with him; two dozen more circled around Aztar. The prince got unsteadily to his knees, looking back at his fallen drowa, sprawled uselessly in the sand, a groaning death rattle streaming from its mouth. Rhot ordered another company of men into the fight. Aztar knew why. Being so occupied, none of his men could come to his rescue. He got to his feet and stared at the approaching general, sure that none of his lackeys would deliver the death blow.

  ‘You are a mighty fool,’ crowed General Rhot. He reined in his drowa, his men taking up positions at his side. ‘Here,’ he told Aztar, then tossed the javelin to his feet. ‘This belongs to you.’

  It was indeed a Voruni javelin, one of the many they had used the night before. Aztar stooped to pick it up, hiding the pain that wracked his body.

  ‘So? You are man enough to fight me alone?’

  Rhot started to answer, then turned toward another group riding into the circle. This time, King Baralosus led the way. With him was Jashien, the young soldier who had come to Aztar’s camp. Aztar recognized him at once, giving him a scowl. Baralosus’ own expression was unreadable. He trotted up to General Rhot, regarding Aztar strangely.

  ‘You wanted him, Majesty,’ said Rhot proudly. ‘Here is your prize.’

  Baralosus frowned. ‘You gave him that weapon. Why?’

  ‘Speak to me!’ Aztar demanded. ‘You may best me, but I won’t be ignored.’

  Rhot sneered. ‘A man like him should die on his feet, Majesty. You said that yourself. Look. .’ The general turned toward his men. ‘All of you look at him! Is this your hero?’

  No one spoke. Jashien looked away. Aztar hefted the javelin, took measure of the distance, and heaved it at Rhot. Amazingly, it struck his unprotected breast. Rhot’s eyes bulged in astonishment. Baralosus gasped. The nearby riders closed the gap, supporting Rhot as he fell. And Aztar, as amazed as any of them, raised his voice toward heaven in praise.

  ‘You see?’ he told them all. He danced across the dirt, almost laughing. ‘I am the hand of Vala! You defy him by riding for Jador!’ He pointed at Baralosus. ‘By following this toad!’

  Rhot cried out, cursing as his breath faded. His men rushed in to help him to the ground. As he lay there dying, King Baralosus said nothing. The other commanders looked at him impotently.

  Like Aztar, Baralosus seemed lost. He stared at Rhot, then at Aztar, then at nothing as the general died. The battle still raged in the dunes. It would go on for hours. But Aztar was finished. He knew it and did not care. Vala had guided him. He was happy.

  ‘Vala watches over me,’ he told the king. ‘Everything I do is for him. And for Salina. Go back now, Majesty. Go back and beg for His forgiveness.’

  Baralosus smiled sadly. ‘I cannot. I cannot leave this place with you alive.’

  ‘Then kill me,’ said Aztar. ‘You can do me no greater glory.’

  Jashien rode quickly up to Baralosus. ‘Do it, Majesty,’ he urged. ‘Do it yourself. Take his head back to Ganjor.’

  Aztar laughed. ‘Yes! Make a trophy of me, Baralosus! Let all the people see how good and just you are!’

  King Baralosus called up his archers. Aztar watched them, then spread his arms out wide.

  ‘I’m ready to receive your gift!’ he told the bowmen. ‘You send me to a better place!’

  ‘No!’ Jashien growled. ‘Majesty, do it now! This is your chance.’

  Baralosus shook his head. He said to Aztar, ‘I love my daughter. I love her. And I will have her back.’

  The bowmen fired. Aztar watched the arrows come. A stunning pain filled his chest. His punctured heart exploded. The sand rose up to greet him as he fell, and in his mind he saw the smiling face of Vala.

  Vala looked pleased. Aztar was happy.

  Baralosus got down from his drowa, then went to stand over Aztar’s body. Death had come quickly; his marksmen were perfect. Red blood soaked the sand beneath the prince’s corpse, spreading out like wine. The men encircling him were silent. Baralosus knelt, putting his hand on Aztar’s head. He had died with serenity on his face, and the king was glad for it. He himself had rarely known serenity, and always envied those who did. But Aztar deserved such peace, he believed, and with his death the king’s hatred fled.

  ‘My daughter is no closer,’ he said to no on in particular. It was merely the truth. Aztar was dead. His men were being slaughtered. And still Salina was no closer.

  ‘Majesty, take his head,’ Jashien urged. ‘The others must see you.’

  King Baralosus scoffed. ‘Let the vultures have his head.’

  He rose, then glanced at the body of General Rhot. He had died so foolishly, so impossibly. It would be one more story added to Aztar’s legend. ‘Kahrdeen,’ he called, ‘you are in charge now.’

  Kahrdeen nodded solemnly. ‘As you say, Majesty.’ He looked toward the dunes where the battle raged on. ‘What shall we do with the rest of them?’

  ‘Finish them,’ said Baralosus. ‘They mustn’t follow us to Jador.’

  ‘And the camp? What of that?’

  ‘Women and children?’ snapped the king. ‘What shall we do with them?’ He turned to Jashien. ‘Shall we take their heads as well?’

  No one had an answer. Baralosus sighed disgustedly. ‘Kill the men for as long as they fight. If they surrender, give them leave. When you are done, make ready to ride.’

  ‘For Jador?’ asked Kahrdeen. ‘Majesty, we should wait. We are not strong enough to fight the Jadori.’

  ‘We should go back to Ganjor first,’ said Jashien. ‘When we have enough me-’

  ‘Jador has my daughter,’ the king thundered. ‘We’re not going to wait another day. Not another minute! We’re going to get her back.’ He took one last look at Aztar’s body. ‘You loved him,’ he told Jashien. ‘You bury him.’

  Sickened by all he’d seen and done, King Baralosus retreated to the back ranks of his army, where the cooks and cowards waited.

  53

  A jagged blade of lightning cut across the sky, making the forest road glow for a brief, frightening moment. Across the glass of the coach’s window, beads of rain fell hard and steady as Mirage pressed her nose against the glass, scanning the dark world for any signs of life. Up ahead she could barely hear the men above the storm’s incessant din. Straining, she saw the white rump of a horse struggling against the rain. The constant clouds had smothered the moon and stars, and with no light at all to guide them the little caravan snaked its way through the hidden hills, on toward Richter and the promise of warm beds. Mirage braced herself against the thunder. Seated across from her, Thorin had fallen asleep in the plush bench of the coach. His slack face leaned against his enchanted arm, his head bobbing steadily. He had ordered his men to keep going despite the rain and darkness, sure that his
estate at Richter was only an hour or so away.

  That had been more than three hours ago.

  Still, Thorin slept, unperturbed by the noise and unafraid of the lightning. His self-assured manner gave Mirage a measure of ease. They had spent nearly two days together in the coach, far from Koth’s prying eyes, and except for the rain the trip had been wonderful. Without Jazana Carr and the pressures of kingship to hassle him, Thorin had become remarkably civil again, the way he had been when they’d first met in Grimhold. Amazingly, Kahldris had not come again either. Only once had he threatened Mirage, that first night when she’d come to Koth. Since then he had yet to rear his ugly face again, and Mirage knew it was because Thorin was controlling him. She knew she had come to Thorin at just the right time, and for that she was proud of herself.

  Thorin’s invitation to join him in Richter had surprised Mirage. For her first week in Lionkeep, she had done her best to stay far from Jazana Carr, letting Thorin mend his relationship with her. The trip was to be for the two of them alone, a way for Thorin to prove to Jazana that he loved her. At first it had worked, and Jazana had been happy. But then Thorin had broached the subject of bringing Mirage along with them, and a giant, dangerous freeze set in. Mirage still didn’t know if she’d done the right thing by agreeing to come, but she was alone with Thorin now and that was good, surely. She had a mission to accomplish, and if she could save him from Kahldris it would all be worth the hurt. She knew that Thorin loved her again, the way he had in Grimhold. With her new, beautiful face, she was irresistible to him, and that was why he had willingly risked his relationship with Jazana Carr. He needed her, Mirage knew. He had almost begged her to come.

  Just then, Thorin opened a single eye. He smiled at her. ‘We’re not there yet.’

  ‘No,’ replied Mirage. ‘Not yet.’

  Thorin sighed. ‘And it’s still raining.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were looking at me when I woke up.’

  ‘I was thinking,’ said Mirage.

  ‘About me?’

  Mirage nodded. ‘I am happy to see the change in you. I am happy I came with you, Thorin.’

  Thorin beamed. There were not many men to witness the look in his eyes; they had come with only a handful of guards. It was how Thorin had wanted it. For him and Jazana, going to Richter was to be a private affair, a way to rekindle the sparks that war and ruling had smothered. Then, Mirage had come and changed that. Already things were moving faster than she had imagined. She had a way with men now, a power she had never known until her face was repaired. Raxor had fallen under it, and so had Corvalos Chane. Now it was Thorin’s turn to fall. This time, though, Mirage felt something different. She cared for Thorin. And she wasn’t completely sure it wasn’t love.

  ‘You’ll like the estate,’ Thorin told her. ‘It’s simple, a sad little place. Very old.’

  ‘And remote,’ joked Mirage.

  Thorin let his arm rest on his thighs. ‘We’ll be there by the morning.’

  ‘That long?’

  ‘I can’t say. I can’t see anything in this darkness.’

  ‘But you can,’ said Mirage. She gave him a knowing look. ‘With your armour you can see.’

  Thorin nodded grudgingly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What else can you do with it? You haven’t told me yet, Thorin. What is it like?’

  ‘You want to know?’ Thorin laughed at this. ‘I remember, back in Grimhold — you warned me off the armour.’

  ‘And I was right. Look how it’s devoured you.’

  Thorin grimaced. ‘I’m stronger now. Because of you.’

  They shared a moment of beautiful silence. Thorin leaned forward on the bench. Their faces stood only a few feet apart, and Mirage could feel his warm breath. Thorin’s appearance was alternately grim and powerful. When she had first come to him in Koth, he had looked emaciated. Now, though, he seemed vital. Even youthful. The black armour encasing his arm gleamed with unnatural light.

  ‘You are good for me,’ he told her. ‘It does not matter what Kahldris thinks of you.’

  ‘What does he think of me?’ asked Mirage.

  Thorin sat back without kissing her. ‘Kahldris is afraid. He fears anything that might come between him and me.’ He patted his arm with a smile. ‘I can feel him in me even now. He’s grumbling.’

  The thought frightened Mirage. Of all the Akaris she had ever encountered, he was by far the most powerful. ‘He wants me dead,’ she said. ‘That’s why he exposed me.’

  ‘Kahldris wants only me,’ said Thorin. ‘And he has been good to me. You will see, Mirage — he is not the devil everyone thinks. Without him I would be nothing, just an old man with one arm. Instead I am a king! And Liiria is great again.’

  There was room for argument in his statement, but Mirage let it go. She had made too much progress to fail now. Soon, she knew, Thorin would see the truth in her words. Kahldris was nothing more than a cancer. It time, she would convince him of that.

  They rode on through the miserable night, unsure of the time even as midnight slipped away. Mirage fell into an untidy sleep as the lightning finally subsided, and groggily opened her eyes as she felt the coach come at last to a stop. Through blurred vision she saw the light of torches through the window, and bolted up for a better look. Thorin was making ready. Outside, the men on their horses began to dismount, and voices echoed across the night.

  ‘Are we here?’ Mirage asked hopefully.

  Thorin went to the door of the coach. ‘We are.’ He undid the latch and pushed the door open, letting in a gust of wind. A sheet of rain struck his face, making him squint. ‘Get your cloak,’ he told Mirage.

  Mirage quickly rummaged through the things beside her on the bench. She had taken very little to the estate, but her cloak was foremost among them. Clutching it in her hands, she waited until Thorin departed the coach before going to the door. Thorin, standing in the mud, held a hand out to help her. Mirage peered out and saw the looming estate, an ancient home of stone and wood brooding in the rain. The house was larger than Mirage had imagined, though only a small fraction of Lionkeep’s size. The men that had accompanied them from Koth — all mercenaries — waited in the rain with Thorin while a pair of servants hurried out from the house to join them.

  ‘It looks better in the light!’ Thorin assured her with a smile. ‘Come on.’

  Without hesitation Mirage took Thorin’s hand. Jumping down from the coach, her boots hit the muddy ground with a splash. With her cloak over her head, she dashed for the warmth of the precious estate.

  For Corvalos Chane, the ride to Richter was miserable, a lonely trek of muddy roads and never-ending rain. He had left behind his soft life in Hes nearly four full days ago, hurrying out of the capital to join his comrades near Baron Glass’ remote estate, hoping to beat the baron and his lady queen. But the rain and mud had made that impossible, and Chane had pressed on through the misery, crossing over the border and taking the valley road north toward Richter. Because the road was rarely traveled, used mostly by huntsmen and trappers, it was overgrown in most spots and not really much use at all. Still, it provided an easy to follow map for Chane, who followed it all the way into the mountains until it disappeared. There was, he knew, a better way to the estate, but Chane couldn’t risk it. The main road — the one the kings of Liiria maintained — would be the one that Glass and his people took to Richter. And because he wanted no mistakes, Chane avoided it.

  Everything he did was meticulous. Corvalos Chane would take no chances. This one, wonderful opportunity to kill the Black Baron had fallen like a lucky star into his lap. Determined not to waste it, Chane worked over every detail with precision, confident that his plan would work.

  Still, there was much that could go wrong, and as he made his way through the stormy night Chane considered the countless contingencies. Baron Glass might come late to his estate. He might not come at all. Worse, the men of the Red Watch might have already been discovered.

  No, Chane
told himself. That was impossible. He had trained the Watch himself, years ago. They didn’t make mistakes like that. In the days before the peace with Liiria, when Raxor was Reec’s War Minister, he had formed the Red Watch to assassinate the newly crowned Akeela. Years of attrition had convinced Raxor of the rightness of the move, but Akeela had proven to be more than anyone expected. The young king willingly gave Reec the river Kryss, and the Red Watch faded into obscurity, killing minor nobles and criminals instead. But they always kept their skills honed, and their loyalty to Chane was unshakable. Now they had been given another mission, this one far more difficult than any previous one. Chane knew that killing Thorin Glass would be difficult.

  But he is just a man, he reminded himself. And all men die.

  To Chane, it didn’t matter that some called Glass immortal, or that he wore a suit of god-forged armour. He could not let himself be swayed by talk. This would be his last, most important mission. Corvalos Chane would not taste failure.

  At last he came to the place he was seeking. After hours of darkness, he saw the fork in the valley road. To the east the road branched upward, almost invisibly toward the mountains. To the west it meandered aimlessly, flat and overrun with weeds. Chane slowed his horse and shook the rain from his face. Up behind the clouds he could just make out the shimmering moon, peeking weakly through the storm. Richter Estate was about a mile away. After days of riding, he had finally arrived.

  Chane began to sing.

  ‘Farewell to you, sweet lady of Torlna, farewell to you, sweet lady. .’

  He kept his tone measured, loud enough to hear over the rain. As he sang he trotted slowly upon his stallion, keeping an eye on the surrounding trees. Listening, he heard the slight rustle of the branches, then glimpsed a tiny movement up ahead. Then, a figure spilled out onto the road.

  ‘Ah, sweet lady, there you are,’ crooned Chane.

  A big smile bloomed on the figure’s face. A handful of men came out to join him.

  ‘You must have ridden that horse backwards to get here so slowly,’ said the man. He came forward to help Chane with the beast. ‘Believe it or not, I was starting to worry.’