The Sword Of Angels eog-3

by John Marco

  ‘What’s happened?’ White-Eye asked.

  King Lorn carefully shielded her from the battle. ‘Your charge has changed her mind,’ he replied ruefully.

  ‘Salina?’ A huge smile filled White-Eye’s wild face. ‘Thank Vala for that.’

  ‘Baralosus is retreating,’ Lorn told her. The scene left him oddly disappointed. White-Eye, however, was plainly relieved. She shouted as loud as she could for her Hotas, ordering the commanders to reform their lines.

  ‘It’s over, then,’ she said wearily. Her eyelids closed with a giant sigh. ‘Over. .’

  King Lorn smirked despite the turn of events. ‘I am proud of you, Night Queen,’ he said. ‘Now you are truly Jador’s Kahana.’

  58

  To Lukien, the Bronze Knight of Liiria,

  How have the days passed for you, my friend? Are you well? Are you happy? So much has happened to me these past months, I have not the ink to write it all. The long days since our parting have exhausted me, but now I rest. I am in the company of Prince Daralor of Nith, and Nith is a very fine place. There is peace here, a kind of peace that I never thought to find again. The word from Liiria is terrible, but here at least I am sheltered from it. I have rested. And still I am waiting for you.

  I am writing in the hopes that this correspondence will find you, Lukien, for I know not where you are or even if you still draw breath. With Daralor’s help I am sending this note across the desert to Jador in the prayer that you are there. There is still great need of you, and the sword you quest to find. I still have faith in you. You must know that I do not wait here alone for you now. I have ridden the world it seems, and in all of its kingdoms I have found only two brave men. Prince Daralor has kept me kindly, and is ready to join us when we ride again to Liiria. My father still holds sway there. I have seen him, Lukien, and he has truly fallen into madness. I have fought him, too, and seen him now in battle. He is like a demon possessed of hell, and surely only the sword can stop him.

  My news is this — in Nith I wait for you, but in Reec they wait as well. I have been to Reec and fought alongside King Raxor, and he too is ready to fight when you return. There is so much to tell you, Lukien, things that I should say to you in proper talk, face to face when finally we meet. Time is running short for us, and so I send this letter in the hopes that it will speed you north to Nith. I will be waiting here when you come.

  Aric Glass paused, the quill in his hand stopping cold. His mind rambled with all the things he could tell his friend, the terrible confessions about Mirage or Roland or the battle at the Kryss. These things would have to wait, Aric knew. Still, his hand would not move. He stared at the last line he had written, wondering how long it would be until the knight returned. It took a mighty faith to believe in Lukien these days, when all chaos had erupted in Liiria and the Bronze Knight seemed nothing more than a quaint fable. Yet Aric forced himself to believe that Lukien would return. To think otherwise would make a waste of all his efforts.

  I will see you again, he wrote finally. My heart tells me you are coming.

  Aric signed the letter and released a sigh of melancholy. Outside the window near his little desk, the afternoon beckoned him into the sunshine. Nith’s green hills shimmered. Aric dropped his eyes to the letter he had written, feeling cathartic. It had been weeks since he had come again to Nith, and he had spent his days luxuriating in the bosom of Daralor’s hospitality. Guilt gnawed at him, for he knew that away from Nith’s green borders the world of his father was in peril. But he had been so exhausted, and Daralor’s people had been so kind to him.

  ‘But I am rested now,’ he resolved. ‘And there is work to do.’

  Before he could go in search of Daralor, before he could feel that precious sunlight on his face, Aric Glass had another letter to pen, and so he picked up his quill again and began.

  An hour later, Aric was out of the charming little castle and walking across the green grass of the hunting grounds in search of Prince Daralor. Tall trees lined the ways, the forests ribboned with paths for the huntsmen and their dogs. A great field cut through the forest, still in view of the castle and canopied by the blue sky. The land rolled in gentle swales and the grass grew barely ankle high. Across the field, looking regal as he stood alone in the sunshine, Prince Daralor watched the sky, oblivious to the distant young man approaching him. Aric watched the prince carefully, not sure if he should disturb him. It had been a perfect day, the kind of day that always seemed to bless the tiny nation, and Prince Daralor had left the castle early after breaking his fast. His wife, a lovely blonde thing named Laurena, had told Aric where to find her husband. He was the kind of man that often went out on his own, enjoying a long ride with just the company of a fine horse. At times, he had invited young Aric to join him, and Aric had always eagerly agreed. To Aric’s great surprise, he had found a friend in the enigmatic prince. It was one more reason why he yearned to stay in Nith.

  A speck of something caught Aric’s eye, sailing quickly through the air. Prince Daralor lifted his arm expectantly. Curious, Aric watched as the speck became a hawk and the hawk spread its feathered wings, flapping vigourously to hover before the prince before resting on his gloved hand. Daralor beamed at the bird and used his other hand to gently knead the feathers of its neck. The hawk’s keen eyes turned to Gilwyn, alerting Daralor of his presence. Aric paused to wave at the prince, who happily waved him onward.

  ‘Come ahead, Aric,’ called Daralor. ‘Don’t be afraid of old Echo.’

  Still, Aric hesitated. He remembered how his father had kept game birds when he was a boy, and he recognized the hawk at once. Bigger than a falcon, the hawk that Daralor held had speckled tail feathers and a bright ivory breast. Its dark eyes watched Aric carefully as he neared. Daralor grinned proudly at the bird. It was then that Aric noticed the mouse in its talons.

  ‘She’s nearly ten years old, yet she sees like a youngster,’ the prince declared. He put out his bare hand, and the hawk opened its talons, dropping the grisly prize into its master’s palm. Daralor dangled the dead creature before the hawk, letting the bird’s beak snap forward to snatch it. Aric watched as the mouse disappeared down the hawk’s gullet.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ Aric remarked. ‘She reminds me of my father’s birds. He had a kettle of hawks when I was a boy. I think of them sometimes.’ He laughed. ‘When I was young I was afraid of them.’

  ‘There is nothing to fear from Echo,’ Daralor promised. ‘She would never hurt anyone, not unless I order it.’

  ‘You mean she fights?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the prince. ‘All of my birds fight. That is what they are best at — fighting and hunting. When we go against your father, Echo will come with me. She’s smaller than the others, though. A lot smaller.’

  Aric, who had brought the letters he’d written with him, let the hand carrying them drop to his side. ‘I should like to see that,’ he said. ‘I have never seen hawks used in battle.’

  ‘You will see — Echo will protect me like one of her chicks. So will they all.’

  ‘How many will you bring?’

  ‘I have many birds like Echo,’ said Daralor, admiring his hawk. ‘I will bring them all.’

  Aric nodded, not sure what to say. Unlike himself, Prince Daralor was already preparing for the fight against his father. The prince’s determination shamed Aric, who had spent too long in Nith’s soft valleys. Prince Daralor hoisted the bird above his head and gave the order for the bird to fly. In a great flurry of feathers the hawk lifted from his hand and ascended. Aric watched the bird wing skyward, smiling.

  ‘Where’s she going?’

  ‘To hunt,’ said Daralor. ‘When I call her, she’ll return.’

  Daralor took the leather glove from his left hand, pulling it free with his right, wounded hand, the one missing fingers. The glove dangled awkwardly in the remaining digits as the prince watched Echo slipping into the blue. Not far from the field, the village of Nith rested quietly in its valley, looking sl
eepy, but in the field they were all alone and the silence soon engulfed them. Aric shifted, waiting for the chance to ask his favour. Daralor had yet to comment about the letters in his hand, but Aric was sure the prince had noticed them.

  ‘You were long in your chambers this morning, Aric,’ said Daralor. ‘I would have asked you here to hunt with me, but your mind was elsewhere, I could tell.’

  ‘Aye, Your Grace,’ replied Aric. ‘I was occupied.’

  ‘Pensive, I would say. These last few days I’ve seen you only seldom.’ Daralor turned to study the younger man. ‘My wife told you where to find me?’

  Aric smiled. He had been caught admiring the lovely Laurena more than once. Surprisingly, Daralor didn’t seem to mind. ‘Yes, Your Grace. She was about the kitchens with the other women when I came to find you. She told me you were on the field with your hawk.’

  ‘Discovered,’ said Daralor with a grin. ‘That woman gives me up too easily.’

  ‘I can go, Your Grace. .’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I joke with you, is all. I wanted you here. Did she offer you supper yet?’

  ‘She did, Your Grace, but I will wait first, I think. She is very kind, your wife.’

  Daralor gave him a wink. ‘She is that and more, Aric. A fine woman like Laurena should be the goal of every man.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  They watched the sky for Echo, who had flown to a great height to circle the field.

  ‘What about you, then? When will you find a woman, do you think?’ asked Daralor.

  ‘Me?’ Aric shrugged. ‘Not for some time, I should say. There’s so much to do first.’

  ‘Your day will come,’ Daralor assured him. ‘Nightmares do not last forever, Aric. In time we wake, and a new day greets us.’

  Aric laughed. ‘You are optimistic, Your Grace. Thank you for that.’

  ‘And you are not optimistic enough, Aric. You have brooded since you returned here. Tell me — what is in your hand?’

  Aric cleared his throat. ‘Letters, Your Grace. That is what I was doing this morning — writing letters.’

  Daralor smiled. ‘To whom?’

  ‘This one is to King Raxor,’ said Aric, handing that particular piece of paper to the prince. It was sealed in an envelope of parchment, and Daralor merely nodded at it. ‘I thought it was time for me to tell him that I arrived here safely. He was a kindly man, and I’m sure he thinks of me.’

  ‘Aric, it is very much past the time for you to have written this letter. I have wondered when you would do so.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Your Grace,’ offered Aric. ‘I know you’re right. I’ve just been. .’

  ‘Pensive?’

  Aric nodded. ‘All right, then.’

  Daralor handed him back the letter. ‘It is well. You have been through much, and no one here faults you, not after the things you have seen. I will have my messengers deliver your letter to Raxor.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ Aric tucked the letter behind the other one. ‘I have told King Raxor in my letter that I still await Lukien, and that you are ready to ride with us when Lukien returns with the sword.’ He bit his lip uncertainly. ‘It’s been some time now, though. I hope Raxor still believes.’

  ‘Have more faith than that, boy! You have told me that Raxor is a brave man, and I believe you. He has lost his son, remember. He will not forget, not ever, not even if you take a decade more to ride to him.’ Daralor jabbed the thumb of his wounded hand into Aric’s chest. ‘You’re the one that must believe, Aric. You’re the one whose faith is flagging. I can see it. Raise yourself up, man! The Bronze Knight will come again.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Aric. ‘I believe.’

  Daralor gestured to the letters in his hand. ‘And that other letter? That one is to Lukien?’

  Aric’s brows went up. ‘You know? I’m too obvious.’

  ‘It is time, that is all,’ said Daralor. But he grimaced. ‘You mean to have it taken across the desert?’

  ‘Lukien will go to Jador and Grimhold first, I am sure,’ said Aric. He looked down at the letter. ‘I know it’s asking a lot, Your Grace. Taking this across the desert won’t be easy.’

  ‘None of this is easy, Aric,’ said Daralor. He brightened suddenly. ‘This is a great quest, and from all the mortals the gods have chosen us for it. I have come to believe that, truly! The gods have their hands in all of this, for they know the evil your father has unleashed.’

  ‘Is that why you’re willing to help us, Prince Daralor?’ It was the one question Aric had never really got answered, at least not to his satisfaction. In all the time they’d spent together, it was a subject Daralor rarely broached. ‘I have wondered this, is all. You have more faith than I do sometimes, and it bewilders me.’

  ‘Does it? It should not. The answer is all around you, Aric.’ Daralor held out his falconry glove. ‘Put this on.’

  Aric did so without question, slipping the heavy leather glove onto his left hand.

  ‘Good. Now hold up your hand,’ directed Daralor. ‘That’s right. Just the way I did.’

  With the two remaining fingers of his right hand, Daralor gave a powerful whistle, watching the sky for his hawk, Echo. Hearing the call, the bird wheeled around and spotted its master beside the stranger with the outstretched hand. Aric braced himself, knowing what was coming.

  ‘Steady,’ laughed Daralor. ‘I told you, she won’t hurt you. Just keep your hand strong for her. She’ll land on it like a butterfly.’

  The hawk bore down on them, folding back its wings to dive. Aric grimaced.

  ‘A butterfly? The biggest damn butterfly I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Oh, they get bigger,’ said Daralor. ‘Steady. .’

  Despite his trepidation Aric kept the perch out for the bird. Gaining speed, the fabulous hawk drove through the air, making a perfect line for Aric. Then, when it was only yards away, its great wings flared out, striking Aric’s face with their breeze. The talons stretched, the head reared back, and the beautiful bird lilted gently onto Aric’s hand.

  ‘Beautiful!’ Aric exclaimed. Exhilarated, he raised the hawk above his head, turning his face slightly from the fierce wings. ‘Echo, you are fabulous!’ Aric turned to Daralor, who was smiling at him. ‘That was amazing. Can we do it again?’

  ‘I can teach you, if you like. We’ll have time, I think, until that letter of yours reaches Jador.’

  ‘Time? Oh, yes, Your Grace, a great deal of time.’ Aric looked at him hopefully. ‘Then you will have your messengers send my letters for me? Both of them?’

  ‘Of course.’ Daralor grinned admiringly at his prized hawk. ‘This is a fine place, don’t you think?’

  ‘You mean Nith? Yes, a very fine place, Your Grace.’

  ‘It’s worth saving, isn’t it?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Puzzled, Aric held the bird aloft. ‘I’m happy here. It’s a fine country. Peaceful.’

  ‘Raise your hand quickly,’ said Daralor. ‘Like this. .’

  He made a fast gesture, snapping his hand upward the way he had before. Aric mimicked the act, sending the bird skyward again. Together the two of them watched Echo reach once more for the sun.

  ‘I think I have answered your question, Aric,’ said Prince Daralor.

  Aric nodded grimly. ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ he agreed. ‘You have.’

  For now, it was enough just to watch the sky.

  59

  With Thorin away at Richter estate, Jazana Carr spent most of her time alone, drinking too much wine and pining for the love she knew she had lost. Lionkeep seemed to shrink without Thorin’s enormous presence. The halls were too large, the tables too empty, and the faces of the many servants were just too damn unfriendly for Jazana to care. She had lost the man she loved to a woman who was much younger and prettier, and for Jazana Carr that was the worst of it. She had done her best to keep herself beautiful, sparing no expense in the care she lavished on her face and body. But the girl called Mirage had cast a spell over Thorin, stealing him, an
d Jazana knew she had lost him.

  Still, she considered things while Thorin was away, hatching plans to win him back. Whatever the cost, she intended to please her lover again. It was her fault that Thorin had turned away from her, she decided. She had come to this realization over an expensive bottle of wine, sipping it alone in her private chamber as she counted the diamonds in a golden urn near her bedside. The urn overflowed with the gems, jagged little reminders of her life in Norvor, lost to her now. She had been a shrew to Thorin. Picking up the diamonds, she dropped them slowly back into the urn, counting all the times she had nagged and needled him. She talked incessantly about Norvor. She nagged him constantly about regaining her throne. And she had threatened to leave him. No wonder he sought refuge in Mirage’s tender arms. She had driven him to her.

  Of all the people left to her in Lionkeep, only Rodrik Varl had remained steadfast. Good Roddy, so loyal and true, the kind of man Jazana wished she could love. She had always fallen for cruel men like Thorin, but Roddy would have been the perfect mate. Drunk, she wondered what her life would have been like with him as her husband. Even now, with all her mercenaries siding with Thorin — mostly because they feared him — Rodrik stayed close to her, always checking on her welfare, never wandering far. Jazana leaned back in her bed, letting her head sink into the plush pillow, and stared at the dark ceiling. The taper by her bedside had burned down nearly to a nub, but it still cast shadows on the stone walls and tapestries. The hours had slipped away and Lionkeep was silent. Jazana could hear only her own breath and the breeze outside her window. She stretched out her arm, reaching again for the urn full of diamonds, casually letting them slip out of her hand as her eyelids grew heavy.

  Sleep did not come easily for Jazana any more. Unused to sleeping alone, she preferred a man beside her, be it Thorin or one of her numerous suitors. And Lionkeep, despite its quiet, had hardly been a relaxing place for her. As she stared at the ceiling she wondered how things were in Richter, and if Thorin and his new woman were laying together even now, under the same dark sky. Like grains of sand, the diamonds slipped lifelessly through Jazana’s fingers, a fortune in gems that no longer brought her happiness. Drunk, sullen, she rolled over and blew out the candle, encasing herself in darkness.