by John Marco
Chane and Horatin lingered in the shadows, their backs pressed against the stone of the house. The four Norvans stood beneath the roof, talking and laughing, fifty feet away. For Chane, killing four men was easy. Unless one of them ran. Or screamed. He looked to the trees where Kaprile was waiting, hidden somewhere in the mesh of leaves. Raising his hand, he gave the signal.
The crossbow’s silent mechanism fired.
Mirage lay awake, naked, her tattered clothes draped over the mantle where Thorin had thrown them. The sheets of her enormous bed lay in a tangle around her limbs. Through the window she saw moonlight slanting through the glass, striking Thorin’s happy face. Half asleep, his arm draped over her breasts, he smiled at her and kissed her ruddy cheek. A strange pain ached between her legs. Her body felt taught, like the strings of an instrument. Against her skin she felt the hotness of Thorin and the cool touch of his metal arm, that magnificent appendage that had brought her magically to life. Wrapped in it, he had lifted her effortlessly from the bed, again and again while he thrust against her, filling her mind with visions. Mirage had never known ecstasy, and had never really understood the word.
Until tonight.
He had been gentle at first, sweetly whispering in her ear as he undid the buttons of her gown. She had feared him but did not stop him, and when the moment of his own nakedness came she had gasped, astounded by him. Passion had taken them both like a swift river, and when it was over the current began again. As though he were a machine, Thorin took her again and again, each time more surely than the last, the magic of his armour giving him the virility of men half his age.
No, thought Mirage as she lay against him. Not a man. More like a god.
For no man could do what Thorin had done, or done it so flawlessly. She was in the arms of an avatar, and finally realized why Jazana Carr had never left him.
She rolled her head over to face him. Thorin’s heavy eyes opened a bit wider.
‘Sleep now,’ he said.
Mirage stared into his eyes. ‘I cannot. I feel strange.’
‘You are a woman now,’ he whispered. ‘You’re no longer a child. Everything will be different for you now.’
Without understanding him, Mirage simply nodded. He closed his eyes, drifting away to sleep, and a moment later Mirage did the same. Outside her window, she thought she heard a sound, something odd that she did not recognize. Too tired to pay it much heed, she ignored it.
Out of the blue came the bolt from Kaprile’s crossbow, streaking invisibly through the moonlight. A moment later, the man with the pipe fell to the ground. His head exploded so quickly that the others around him didn’t know what happened. He was talking and then he wasn’t, and the three remaining Norvans simply stood there, stunned. Chane and Horatin flew from the shadows, knives in hand, and by the time they had reached the guards another bolt came out of the darkness, this one felling the man nearest Chane. Changing tactics, Chane selected another of the doomed men, who was just turning around to face him. With his dagger in one hand, he grabbed hold of the man’s hair, snapped back his head, and ran the blade silently across his neck. Next to him, Horatin did the same, and before five seconds had ticked away both Norvans were dead.
Chane quickly glanced around. He listened for any sound. Out of the forest came Kaprile, his crossbow discarded, his back burdened with the heavy chain and padlock. Horatin wasted no time in dashing back for the oil. Chane kept watch on the door as he ran toward it, then put his ear against the wood. Inside the house he heard nothing, not even the idle chatter of servants or the footfalls of guards. Sure that the other teams had done just as well, he helped Kaprile loop the chain around the door.
Mirage awoke to the noise of breaking glass. At first it seemed like a dream, distant and unimportant, but then she heard it again, louder, closer, and her eyes snapped open in alarm. Thorin, still asleep beside her, his face slack after their love-making, barely stirred. Mirage listened intently, afraid and not knowing why. She thought to wake him, but feared his anger. She tried to lift her head but his weight pinned her down. Somewhere in the house something fell, bursting with sound. Another followed then another, and suddenly someone screamed.
Mirage bolted upright, waking Thorin instantly. Naked, she spotted her clothing flung against the mantle. Thorin groggily came awake, rubbing his eyes in confusion.
‘What is it?’ he croaked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mirage. ‘Something’s happening.’
‘What’s happening? What?’ Thorin tossed his feet over the bedside. He shook his head a moment, then looked alarmed. ‘I smell fire.’
The word paralyzed Mirage. ‘What?’
‘Smoke.’ He looked at her. ‘Do you smell it?’
Then suddenly she did. All around her. Mirage leapt from the bed, dashing for the door. When she opened it a burst of heat gushed at her.
‘Thorin!’
All the memories of that horrible day rushed at her, those far flung nightmares of burning. Mirage stood in the door, frozen by the flames, stung by the heat as Thorin rushed up behind her.
‘Fate above, what’s happened?’ he gasped. He pulled her roughly from the door. ‘Get back! Get some clothes on!’
Mirage stumbled to the mantle, finding her gown clutching it. The whole downstairs seemed to be in flames. Through the roar she could hear the cries of people burning.
‘We have to get out of here,’ Thorin told her. He looked around for a way. ‘The window!’
He ran to it, breaking it open with his gauntleted fist and sticking his head outside to see. Mirage already knew it was impossible. They were too far up, even for Thorin to make it. As he cursed the danger, she saw him glimpse something troubling below them.
‘You there!’ he cried.
Mirage hurried toward him. ‘What is it?’
‘An attack,’ Thorin grumbled. His face went suddenly. ‘Great heaven. .’
‘Thorin, what’s happening?’
He backed away from the window, his face pensive. Then he took her in his big hands. ‘Listen to me — there are men here. They mean to kill me. They set the fire, Mirage. And they’ve locked us in.’
‘No!’
‘Don’t be afraid. I can get you out of here.’
‘You can’t! We’re on fire, Thorin!’
‘The fire won’t hurt me,’ Thorin insisted. ‘I’ll carry you out.’
Mirage tore away. ‘No!’
‘Meriel, you have to trust me. I can protect you. .’
‘No you can’t! I’m not like you, Thorin! I’ll die!’
‘You have to trust me,’ he said, then grabbed hold of her arm and dragged her forward. She fought him, screaming, but he lifted her up in his arms, tucking her head against his shoulder and pinning it there. Mirage was sobbing, pleading with him to let her go. Thorin ran headlong for the door.
Chane and his men gathered on the main lawn to watch the fire. Robb, the last of them to arrive, ran up to Chane quickly to give his report. With Noan’s help they had broken through most of the ground-floor windows, tossing in their containers of oil. Chane had helped on the other side of the house, lighting the oil with a tiny flame made by striking flint. He had been amazed at how quickly the oil had combusted, bursting into tall flames that quickly licked at the drapes and antique furniture. Now, as he massed with his Watchmen, Chane could hear the cries of the old wood beams, buckling and cracking as the fire consumed them.
‘Listen,’ Horatin directed. But it wasn’t the beams that had caught his attention. He motioned toward the main door, the one Chane had helped barricade. On the other side of it, someone was screaming. An insistent pounding rocked the thick wood.
‘Chane, I saw him,’ said Robb, gasping for air. ‘Glass.’
‘What happened?’
‘He looked down at me from one of the bedrooms. He broke the window trying to escape.’
‘Was he alone?’
Robb nodded, catching his breath. ‘He’s still up there.’
Kaprile raised his crossbow. ‘Maybe not for long.’
‘He can’t survive it,’ said Chane confidently. ‘No one can.’
He felt a surge of pride at what he’d done, and a wave of self-loathing. The battering at the door continued. A window shattered on the top floor. A man appeared, his clothes in flames, ready to leap. Kaprile raised his crossbow instantly, took aim, and mercifully killed him. The man fell backward, disappearing into the flames.
The pounding at the door died away.
Corvalos Chane, bathed in the light of the conflagration, imagined Baron Glass and his Diamond Queen, charred and dead within the house. Some twenty others had died with them, but to Chane the arithmetic seemed fair. How many men had Glass killed at the Kryss? How many more might he have killed?
The flames spread across the ground floor, leaping from the windows and scratching at the doors. Corvalos Chane bid his Watchmen to stand down.
‘Get the horses,’ he told them. ‘I want to be ready to leave.’
*
Thorin ran naked through the flames, leaping over burning beams and corpses. In his arms, Mirage was screaming, begging to be saved. The heat that licked their bodies had torn the skin from her back. Near tears, Thorin peered through the choking smoke, ignoring the pain. The armour on his arm glowed ferociously, lighting a path, but the fire was everywhere, blocking his way. Thorin turned desperately, trying each direction, beaten back by the inferno every time. His ears rang with Mirage’s pleas. She was dying, her hair on fire, her skin bubbling.
But not Thorin. The power of his armoured arm spread across his person, shielding him from the scorching flames. Enraged, he cried out to Kahldris.
‘Save her!’ he begged. ‘Kahldris, get us out of here!’
But the demon was silent, never entering Thorin’s mind. Confused, Thorin raced for nearest exit, passing the stairway as it collapsed. A shroud of burning curtains fell from the wall, sending up a storm of sparks. Mirage sobbed agonizingly into his shoulder.
‘Let us out of here!’ he bellowed. ‘Let us out!’
The fire raged in answer. All around him now, the flames touched his naked feet, climbing up his legs. His hair singed and curled back. The enormous pain drove him onward. Remarkably, he did not falter, and he realized that he never would — nothing could stop him.
‘Hold on to me,’ he told Mirage. ‘I’ll get you out of here.’
On his shoulder, Mirage was silent. Thorin stopped running. Terrified, he glanced at her face and saw that she no longer moved. Her body drooped in his arms.
‘No. .Oh,no. .’
With fire all around him, he laid her down on the floor, studying her lifeless face. Her skin had turned a frightening red. And all the scars from her old life were there, showing once again on her face. Her Akari had fled. Thorin knew it. Kneeling over her, both of them naked, he touched her face and thought she was beautiful.
Then Baron Glass rose and let the fire reach for him, effortlessly swatting back its deadly flames.
‘Who has done this?’ he hissed in rage.
Down in the cellar, safely locked away, his armour waited, calling to him.
Outside, standing on the great lawn of the estate, Corvalos Chane watched the burning, amazed by how quickly the fire had spread. The entire ground floor was engulfed in flame. The blaze had easily reached the top floor. He had watched the fire for nearly an hour, listening for any signs of life within the house. Happily, he heard nothing, just the screaming of the old timbers as they snapped and buckled. A great feeling of accomplishment came over the old soldier, bathed in the inferno’s eerie light. He was sure the blaze could be seen for miles, if only someone had been around to see it. It had been great hubris that had killed the Baron and his Queen, thought Chane. A man should never think himself so powerful.
Chane toyed with the dagger in his belt, fingering its hilt. He was tired, and he longed to return to Hes and give his king the news. After a long life of service, Corvalos Chane was done. He might at last take a woman. He would retire to a quiet corner of Reec and be happy.
‘Corvalos, I’ve cleaned up everything,’ said Kaprile, coming up quietly behind him. Only the two of them remained. Chane had sent the others back to camp, telling them to get rid of any evidence that might link them to the deed. The danger had passed, after all, and now there was nothing left to do but wait until morning and retrieve the Devil’s Armour. Kaprile, who read Chane’s thoughts easily, asked the question on both their minds. ‘Do you think it survived?’
Chane shrugged. ‘They say it’s indestructible.’
‘It didn’t help Glass much, though, did it?’ chuckled Kaprile. He looked at his old comrade. ‘We did good tonight, Corvalos.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Chane. ‘We did good.’
They would stay until morning, when the fire finally died and they could make their way through the rubble. Glass’ skull would make a fine trophy, and Chane hoped to find it in the ashes. The skull and the Devil’s Armour were the only things he wanted from the ruins. He planned to leave behind everything else, especially his memories. Chane turned to say something to Kaprile, but as he did he saw the main door explode outward. He ducked the flying splinters and sparks, shielding his face with his hand and reeling backward in surprise.
‘All the hells,’ gasped Kaprile. ‘Who’s that?’
In the burning threshold stood a man, big like a mountain, flames clawing at his back. He held a weapon in his fist, a long, straight-bladed sword that shined darkly in the firelight. Gleaming metal encased his body, covered with spikes, flowing with life, while atop his head rested a huge, horned helmet with a face like a death mask and two haunting eye slits. He stepped out of the flames and on to the cobblestone court, little drips of fire falling from his armour. The horrible helmet turned toward Chane and Kaprile.
It was impossible. Yet there he stood. Monstrous. Alive.
‘I am Baron Glass,’ he declared. ‘And I will make you pay for what you’ve done.’
Corvalos Chane stepped forward, drawing the dagger at his side. Kaprile raised his crossbow and took aim.
‘You’re a very hard man to kill, Baron Glass,’ said Chane. ‘I’m sorry to say, I can’t let you go further.’
‘You have killed my woman,’ Glass cried, ‘the most gentle creature on this god-cursed earth!’ His voice broke with sobs. ‘You are the worst kind of murderers. You deserve the worst kind of death.’
Kaprile fired his crossbow. The perfectly aimed bolt smashed into the baron’s breastplate. At such a range the weapon should have punctured, but it did not. Against the strange metal, the missile simply shattered. Baron Glass shook his head as Kaprile loaded up and fired again.
‘I wear the Devil’s Armour!’ he said.
Chane nodded. ‘That may be, Baron, but I have sworn an oath to kill you.’
‘You may try,’ said Glass.
Kaprile tossed his crossbow aside and drew his own Watchman’s dagger. He looked at Chane for guidance. It was hopeless, of course, but they had both sworn the same unending oath. Together, then, they would fight.
They both ran forward, daggers raised. Chane leapt for the baron, legs outstretched in a well aimed kick. Glass, unmoving, absorbed it easily, and Chane felt the bones in his leg crack instantly. He fell to the ground, crying out, rolling away as Kaprile launched his own attack. This time, Glass reached out with inhuman speed, snatching Kaprile from the air. By the neck he took the Watchmen, raised him off the ground, and popped his gasping windpipe. Chane, in agony, clawed away as Glass towered over him. The eye slits looked down upon him contemptuously.
‘Watch, brigand, and see how you will die.’
Kaprile’s body was like a doll in Glass’ grip, lifeless and limp, pendulating as if from a Hangman’s noose. Baron Glass held him out for Chane to see, then madly drove Kaprile’s head against the spikes of his shoulders, driving the iron daggers through his skull. Blood and brains splattered across the metal.
And the meta
l came alive.
‘You see?’ taunted Glass. ‘He feeds me.’
Spreading from the bloodied shoulder, the armour writhed and glowed, the figures and runes along it twisting and pulling from the metal until at last it wasn’t really metal at all, but a black, impenetrable skin that stuck to Glass like his own. Glass held up Kaprile’s body, showering himself with blood. Chane tried to look away, but the sheer horror of it kept his eyes pinned to the gory scene. His shattered leg burned with pain, and he knew he could not escape. All he could do was keep his secret, and take it with him into death.
When he was done with Kaprile, Baron Glass tossed aside his blood-drained husk, then glared insanely down at Chane. ‘Mercenary,’ he said, ‘who sent you to kill me?’
Corvalos Chane grinned. ‘Do you think I am afraid of you? I am not. I am not afraid of anything.’
‘No?’ Baron Glass stalked closer. ‘It is well, then. Do not tell me your secrets. You will find no mercy in me anyway.’
Stooping down, he grabbed hold of Chane’s broken leg, lifting him up by the ankle and dangling him like a fish. Chane braced himself but did not struggle. Closing his eyes, he said a prayer to the Great Fate and waited for the end to come.
55
Thorin rode throughout the night, riding a horse he had commandeered from the dead assassins sent to kill him. He left behind the burning ruins of Richter, heading south along the valley road toward Koth, a journey that would take him days but which also allowed him the time he needed to grieve. Haunted by his memories of Meriel, he took no time at all to rest or eat or drink from the river. Instead, Thorin brooded over what had happened and the great stupidity of it all. Still fully garbed in the Devil’s Armour, he did not even try to make contact with Kahldris. Sensing his grief, the demon stayed far away from Thorin’s mind. Thorin remained strong as he rode, refusing to give way to the sobs threatening to break him. His mind reeled with questions, but mostly he thought about Meriel and how his vanity had killed her.