The Sword Of Angels eog-3

by John Marco

  Chane slid down from his saddle to face him. His name was Kaprile. He was about the same age as Chane, with the same lanky frame. His balding pate glistened with rainwater. He was dressed like a mercenary, as were they all, bearing no particular colours or insignia that would give them away as Reecians. Each man greeted Chane warmly. There were six of them in all, seven including their leader, Chane. All of them took turns embracing Chane and kissing his cheeks.

  ‘So?’ Chane asked impatiently. ‘Tell me.’

  The man named Kaprile spoke first. ‘Glass is already at the estate, Corvalos. He arrived last night.’

  ‘What about Carr? Is she with him?’

  ‘She is. We watched them from the trees. The rain gave good cover.’

  Chane turned toward Horatin, a man with a haggard red beard and puffy blue eyes. ‘You were supposed to get yourself inside. What happened?’

  ‘Couldn’t risk it,’ said Horatin. ‘Glass might have seen through the ruse.’

  Chane was disappointed. He had expected at least one of the Watchmen to make it inside the estate, posing as a traveler in need of rest. ‘You should have tried,’ he said, not crossly. ‘We need someone inside.’

  ‘We don’t,’ said Kaprile. ‘I’ve seen the place, Corvalos. It isn’t big. Glass brought only a half dozen guards with him. He’s cocky, for sure.’

  ‘And how long have you been here?’

  ‘We set up camp a few days ago,’ said Horatin. ‘Me and Kaprile arrived first. Robb and the others came a day later.’

  ‘So, I’m the latest to the ball,’ sighed Chane. ‘I could use a fire.’

  ‘We could all use a fire,’ said Horatin, commenting about the rain. ‘This way, Corvalos — let us show you something.’

  Chane left his horse with Noan and Robb, two more of the Watch, and followed Horatin back toward the trees. Kaprile and the two others — Calan and Travor — followed close behind. Pushing aside the wet branches, Horatin led them toward their makeshift camp, a clearing cut away among the trees and cleaned of debris. Here, the men had hidden their horses and supplies, including one item that struck Chane at once — a wagon filled with leather containers. Guessing immediately what they were, he went to the wagon and inspected the containers. The rain had stained them, but they were sturdy and stable, and when he poked them they moved like jelly.

  ‘You brought more than I thought you would,’ said Chane, pleased by the discovery. ‘Half this much should have the house burning.’

  ‘It’s the rain,’ said Kaprile. ‘We’ll need more oil to get it to burn good.’

  ‘True enough,’ agreed Chane. He had asked them to bring enough of the flammable fuel to get a good blaze going. Usually, the oil was used for lamps, but this special, viscous variety had been made for the Red Watch. Because it was so sticky, it wouldn’t wash away as easily as normal lamp oil. And it had very little odour, an advantage considering how they planned to use it. ‘How are you planning to get it inside? Have you thought about that?’

  Kaprile said, ‘Once we take care of the guards we’ll get it through the windows. We’ll slit the bags and toss ‘em in.’

  ‘That’ll do it?’

  ‘The place is old,’ said Horatin. ‘Old drapes, old furniture. And there’s plenty of wood to burn. Believe me, Corvalos — it’ll go up like kindling.’

  Like kindling. Chane tried to grin but couldn’t. Things had worked out perfectly, but it was a terrible way to die.

  ‘Even Glass won’t be able to survive it,’ he told himself. ‘What about the door?’

  ‘There,’ said Kaprile. He pointed toward a pile of chains and padlocks. ‘There are only three or four doors. Once we get those chains on, no one’s getting out.’

  ‘Three or four? Shouldn’t someone make sure?’

  ‘Can’t,’ said Kaprile. ‘Not without getting closer.’

  ‘All right. Crossbows for the guards?’

  ‘Probably. We’ll be able to get a shot at some of them. The others will have to be cut.’

  Chane’s thoughts went at once to the dagger at this belt. Every member of the Red Watch carried the same weapon, so sharp it made no sound at all when dragged across a windpipe.

  ‘That’s everything, then,’ said Chane, satisfied.

  Kaprile shifted and asked the obvious question. ‘When do we go?’

  Chane looked at the wagon full of oil sacks. If they had forgotten something, he couldn’t think of it. ‘Tomorrow night,’ he told them. ‘Sharpen your knives, Watchmen. Tomorrow we draw blood.’

  54

  By the afternoon of Mirage’s second day in Richter, the rain had finally stopped. After the long deluge, it was good to see the sun, but Mirage continued to stay indoors. All the day before — when the rain had been relentless — she had stayed with Thorin inside the estate, letting him show her its quaint wonders and listening to his stories about how life used to be. Despite the downpour, the day went remarkably quickly, as did the following evening. Mirage had been given a splendid room on the second floor of the house, overlooking the impenetrable woods. The room was much like the one she had left behind in Hes, well appointed and quiet, with a huge, comfortable bed thick with downy linens and fine old furniture. Though not a large room, it was more than serviceable for the Mirage, who slept like the dead as the rain pelted her window, secure in the knowledge that Thorin and his Devil’s Armour was protecting her.

  That next morning, while the rain still fell, Mirage broke her fast with Thorin, seated in a room near the kitchen. The estate had a lovely dining room, but Thorin had not wanted to waste such splendour on their morning meal. Instead he told her that tonight his servants would treat her to a feast. Mirage had no idea of the romantic scene that awaited her. She spent most of the day away from Thorin, who decided to go riding. Alone with the quiet servants and the handful of bodyguards, Mirage enjoyed the tranquility of the estate, venturing outside only briefly to feed the ducks in the nearby pond. She ate her midday meal alone, napped in her giant bed, and when the day was over felt surprise at how quickly it had gone. By the time the maid Stella came to retrieve her for dinner, Mirage was extremely well rested. She set aside the book she was perusing — a volume of poetry Thorin had selected just for her — and went to the door to let Stella inside. The maid, who looked as though she had spent her entire life in the remote estate, politely averted her eyes.

  ‘My lady, Baron Glass has returned,’ she told Mirage. She wore a perfectly pressed uniform of grey and black, complimenting her salty hair. Mirage, on the other hand, had dressed for the evening, and looked radiant in a gown that Thorin had purchased for her. The surprise had been waiting for her when she returned to her room, including a note from Thorin requesting that she wear it for him. Made of silk and threaded with gold, the emerald gown fit her perfectly, and in it Mirage felt like a queen.

  ‘Thank you, Stella,’ said Mirage, still not sure how to address the servants. In Hes, she had become friends with the maids, and never liked ordering them about. Giving orders was counter to everything she had learned in Grimhold, a place that worshipped equality. Mirage stepped back from the door. ‘How do I look?’

  Surprised, the old woman raised her gaze. ‘My lady looks lovely.’ Then she smiled. ‘You are beautiful.’

  ‘Beautiful? Really?’ Mirage still couldn’t believe that word applied to her.

  ‘Yes, my lady. Baron Glass will not be bothering much with his meal, I think. He will not be able to take his eyes off you.’

  Mirage blanched. All the people in Richter seemed to think they were lovers, though they plainly knew of Thorin’s relationship to Jazana Carr. ‘Let’s pray that the food is excellent, then,’ laughed Mirage, ‘for I myself won’t be on the baron’s plate.’

  Stella looked rebuffed. ‘No, my lady, I am sorry. .’

  ‘Do not be,’ said Mirage gently. ‘And thank you. I’ll be down presently.’

  Mirage waited another few minutes before going downstairs. Stella’s comment had unnerv
ed her. Throughout the long ride to Richter and all during the first day, she had felt Thorin’s love for her, burning into her like a brand. He had treated her better than his own queen, talking sweetly to her and buying her expensive gifts, and she knew that tonight was a prelude to something more than she’d expected. When at last she went down to dinner and saw the elaborate dining room decorated with candles and gleaming silverware, she realized she had stumbled into a trap. And that she had done so willingly.

  Thorin looked resplendent in a velvet jacket, brushed clean of every speck of dust. A vest tucked his white shirt neatly against his solid body. He had shaved for the evening, looking young and strangely handsome. And though he still wore the armour of his left arm, the sleeve of his jacket covered it almost precisely, custom tailored for his odd appendage. The enchanted gauntlet hung at his side, looking strange and out of place. Thorin kept it out of sight as he rose to greet Mirage. Behind him, a pair of smart-looking stewards waited to serve them. The smells from the kitchen grew in Mirage’s nose. She drifted like royalty into the dining room, smiling and letting her gown twirl prettily behind her.

  ‘A vision,’ Thorin declared. ‘That’s what you are.’

  ‘A Mirage, you mean,’ said Mirage wryly.

  ‘No,’ said Thorin. He reached out and took her hand. ‘That is not what I mean. That is never what I think when I see you.’

  He led her to her chair at one end of the table, pulling it out for her and letting her sit. Then he went to his own chair, helped into it by one of the stewards. There were only a handful of servants in Richter Estate and Mirage already knew them all. These two, like everyone else in the house, performed multiple duties. Now they stood arrow-straight, waiting for Thorin’s orders. Mirage looked around, marveling at the room. Over the table hovered an ornate iron chandelier, each one of its candles lit with a gently wavering flame. The table itself was polished to a mirror shine, covered with linens and expensive looking silver. At Thorin’s request one of the stewards poured Mirage some wine. The red liquid shimmered in the crystal. Across the table, Thorin beamed at her.

  He was like a boy again, happy, trying to impress her.

  ‘Whatever they’ve cooked up for us smells wonderful,’ Mirage commented. ‘They fed me well just hours ago and already I am hungry again.’

  ‘You see? I’ll take care of you,’ said Thorin. He unfolded his napkin and placed it over his lap with his one real hand, then self-consciously tucked his other hand out of sight. ‘After we eat we can go outside and have our drinks. The night has cleared. It’s beautiful now.’

  ‘I was out by the lake this afternoon,’ said Mirage. ‘I looked for you.’

  ‘I gave you some time to be by yourself. After all the time we spent getting here I thought you’d be tired of me by now.’

  ‘No,’ said Mirage. Her words felt awkward, and she groped for the right thing to say. Thorin came to her rescue.

  ‘No,’ he told her gently. ‘Relax. We don’t have to say anything at all. We can just eat.’

  Mirage needed no more prodding. Instead of forcing herself into banter, she let the servants bring her meal, indulging herself with the fine food. Course after meticulous course came out of the provincial kitchen, stunning her. Even in Raxor’s court she had not eaten like this, and for a moment she lost herself in thought, wondering how her old benefactor was faring. She missed Raxor.

  No, she scolded herself suddenly. Do not think of him.

  Kahldris was powerful, and could probably read her thoughts. She wasn’t sure of that, but she suspected it. Still, the demon had been quiet since that first day in Koth. Had Thorin really tamed him?

  Mirage didn’t know, and wasn’t willing to take the gamble. Instead she let the evening unfold, plate by plate, occasionally engaging Thorin in the most unimportant subjects, like the rains that had plagued them and his day in the woods. To this Thorin brightened, telling her that the forests and lakes around Richter were renowned throughout Liiria, a place of exceeding beauty that he insisted she see.

  ‘Tomorrow we will ride around the lake, just you and I. Forget the ducks, my lady — there is a spectacular brood of herons on the east side of the lake. They fly in like angels. We can boat there, if you like.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Mirage cautiously. ‘That might be nice.’

  The stewards moved gracefully around them as the dinner unwound, then finally came to an end. One of them, an old man named Jarel, produced a pipe for Thorin which he gratefully accepted.

  ‘Come,’ he said, pushing back his chair. ‘Let’s go outside. We can see the stars.’

  Mirage hesitated. The night was going too quickly. Something told her to slow it down. ‘No,’ she declined. ‘I think I’d rather stay inside.’

  Thorin looked surprised. ‘But you’ve been inside all day. Just a quick breath. .’

  ‘No. Thank you.’ Mirage rose and put her napkin on the table. She smiled at him. ‘That was wonderful. It was, really, but I’m tired now. I think I’d like to go upstairs.’

  Thorin chaffed at this. ‘So soon?’

  ‘It’s what I want, Thorin.’

  The fingers of his gauntlet flexed. ‘I had hoped we could talk some more tonight. In private. It’s very quiet by the lake.’

  She could feel him drawing closer, craving her. His eyes smouldered. Mirage carefully backed away, feeling her own resolve loosening.

  ‘No, Thorin, no,’ she said, more firmly this time. ‘I have to go upstairs.’

  He stalked closer to her, not menacingly. ‘Let me walk you upstairs.’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Yes, I want to.’

  She put up her hands. ‘I’m fine.’ With a smile she added, ‘Thank you.’

  Thorin came to stand before her, towering over her. Sensing the moment, the stewards disappeared. The house became still. ‘I think,’ said Thorin, ‘that you should let me see you upstairs.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Mirage, feeling weak.

  ‘I see something in your eyes.’

  Whatever he saw, Mirage could not hide. She swallowed, looking away, but his gaze fell on her like a shadow, suffocating her. She glanced around, checked that they were alone and wished to heaven for someone — anyone — to stop them.

  ‘I can’t,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Please. .’

  Thorin’s hand came up to touch her cheek. ‘What is this that you can’t do? You can’t make your own choices? You can’t betray some misplaced loyalty? You came to me. Remember that, Mirage.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Mirage. Did she regret that now? ‘I-’ Her words trailed off.

  ‘What? You want to tell me something — speak it.’

  She looked squarely into his powerful eyes. ‘I am a maiden, Thorin.’

  She expected to see conquest on his face. Instead, he softened.

  ‘What a sweet gift that would be, if you would give it to me.’

  Mirage began to shake. Seeing this, he took her. His strong embrace propped up her failing knees. And then she was up, off of her feet and in his arms, sweeping out of the dining chamber toward the stairs. She put her arms around his neck, unable to speak, wanting to cry out for help.

  But not a sound escaped her throat.

  At midnight precisely, Corvalos Chane and his Watchmen broke camp. They took with them everything they needed for their task — their crossbows and daggers, their chains for the doors, and the flammable oil that would turn Richter Estate into a torch. The night was clear and cool, and in the light of the full moon it took less than an hour for them to get into position, staking out the woods around the estate and leaving their horses deep in the trees. The sacks of oil that they brought with them waited nearby, also hidden from view. The seven faces of the Watchmen peered invisibly out over the grounds of the estate, each two man team taking a different door. Because he was their leader, Chane remained near the front of the house, not far from the road that led up to the estate’s circular drive. From his place in the trees he could
see the Norvans patrolling the grounds. Stupidly, a foursome of them had clutched near the covered walkway leading to the kitchens. One of them puffed languidly on a pipe. Kaprile and Horatin, who crouched with Chane in the brush, noted the guards with hand signals.

  Chane shook his head. Kaprile raised his crossbow, putting his hand out to lower the weapon. Kaprile was the best shot of the group, and the crossbows the Watchmen carried had all been specially made for strength and silence. Even in the darkness, it would be no problem at all for Kaprile to kill two of the guards. But not four.

  There were other guards as well, and these too would be dealt with. Robb and Noan, who had taken up position near the back of the estate, had already determined from earlier excursions that there was one man posted there at all times. Probably, he was already dead. Calan and Travor had the most difficult task. They had each been posted at opposite ends of the estate. They had no crossbows, but were armed with knives. It was up to them to sneak in first.

  Horatin kept one hand on the stout chain. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He did not look nervous, just determined. It seemed to Chane that things were going wonderfully well. They had taken up their positions without being noticed and ostensibly had the house surrounded. They had everything they needed in place.

  Still, there were those four guards. .

  ‘There’s no time,’ whispered Chane, his voice so low he himself could barely hear it. ‘We have to move on them.’

  He knew that his men were waiting, and that Robb and Noan had probably already killed the rear guard. Other soldiers inside the house might come looking for him, and if he went missing things would get difficult fast.

  ‘Horatin,’ he said, ‘with me.’ Then he turned to Kaprile. ‘When we get close, hit them.’

  There was no need for either of them to speak. Kaprile readied himself behind his crossbow. Horatin followed Chane through the woods. They both had their daggers drawn, moving likes cats through the brush, finally emerging out of sight of the four guards. The walkway leading to the kitchens had a roof that shadowed the men, making it difficult to see which way they were looking. Chane watched the glowing pipe in the lips of the one man, turned sideways to the grass. There was no easy way to reach them.