The Sword Of Angels eog-3

by John Marco

  Whatever he would find going after Teku, it had already been ordained. Gilwyn stiffened his resolve, refusing to let Kahldris best him. He took a resolute step forward. Teku’s calls stopped instantly. Silence engulfed the hall. Up ahead, a chamber beckoned, pouring out orange candlelight. Vaguely he remembered the room, calling it up from his past. Not a room from the library, this one was from Gilwyn’s first home. The place he had been born.

  ‘Lionkeep. .’

  Things had changed in Lionkeep over the years, but he was back there suddenly, nearly two decades in the past. Shadows grew in the chamber’s threshold, the frantic throes of a woman in labour. It was his birthday, and in that room he was being born.

  Inching forward, the illusion became complete as he heard his mother’s cries, screaming as the midwives consoled her. The agony of his birth drove her cries through the hallway. Gilwyn pushed himself onward, unable to look away as he neared the chamber. At first he saw Gwena, the midwife who had delivered him, half hidden behind a woman’s bloodied thigh. Gwena stared intently into the woman’s womb. Another woman — a girl, really — stayed beside Gwena, looking frightened as the one on the bed continued to scream. She was Beith, Gilwyn’s mother. Gilwyn could see her contorted face now, streamed with tears, the veins on her neck bulging with effort. Gwena urged her on, coaxing her to push the baby from her body, its head beginning to crown between her legs. Fluid rushed from the womb, staining the sheets. Beith screamed for it to end. Gilwyn reared back, the surroundings swimming and changing as the library more and more became Lionkeep. Then, inexplicably, his mother turned to look at him. When their eyes met, she scowled.

  Gilwyn couldn’t move. Like his mother, he wanted to scream, but even breathing became difficult as he forced himself to watch his own bloody birth. With one last momentous push, the infant that was him came tumbling out of Beith’s body, wet and wailing, the cord connecting them pulsing pink with life. The midwives looked at the infant and all at once their happy faces shrouded in dread. The baby — baby Gilwyn — writhed in its own wet bounty, its hands hooked, its fingers fused to clubs. Gwena shrieked at the hideous thing and the girl at her side fainted away. His mother was sobbing, somehow knowing the monster she had birthed. Gilwyn shook his head wildly, falling back.

  ‘That’s not how it was!’ he shouted.

  Beith’s wails followed him as he turned and ran down the shifting corridor. He was crazed by the vision and desperate to get away, and the hallway stretched out before him, changing in the darkness as he hobbled, part Lionkeep, part library. The screams of his mother fell away behind him as he manoeuvred through the coil halls, turning corners only to see another unfamiliar wall. Soon he was exhausted, and resting against the wall he caught his breath, trying to banish the horrible images. Ruana was talking to him, begging him to breathe. The long hall lead to darkness.

  At the end of the corridor, an apparition waited. Gilwyn turned toward it with a moan. His mother Beith waited there, dressed in saffron, her face tranquil and beautiful. She smiled at him, raising her gentle hand to call to him. Gilwyn gripped the stone wall. She was as she had been when she was healthy, before the cancers had eaten her flesh. Like sea foam she floated toward him, the hem of her saffron dress trailing silently across the floor. Gilwyn pulled himself from the wall and drifted toward her, fascinated by the image Kahldris had conjured. He knew she wasn’t real, but in every way she was his mother, picked from his memory and gloriously remade. He remembered the dress she wore, her favourite, and the way she kept her hair, straight and long around her shoulders. The serene expression on her face spoke only of her love for him, the child she missed so sorely.

  ‘Mother. .’

  Beith met him in the centre of the hall, reaching out to take his hands. Her warm touch brought him to tears.

  ‘My Gilwyn,’ she said, her voice a perfect likeness. ‘I’ve come back to you.’

  ‘It’s not you,’ sobbed Gilwyn. ‘You’re not real.’

  ‘I live on, Gilwyn. You know that. I watch you. Everyday I am with you.’

  He knew that spirits walked the world; he had learned that much at least in Jador. And the touch of his mother’s soft fingers made her seem so real to him.

  ‘No,’ he argued. He closed his eyes against the pain. ‘You’re the trick of a demon. I know you are!’

  His mother leaned in closer, kissing his cheek. ‘What a fine man you are now! I am so proud of you, Gilwyn.’

  ‘Stop,’ he begged, falling into her embrace. ‘No more. .’

  But his mother held him closer, taking him to her bosom the way she had in his youth, and later in all those dreams when she was dead. Gilwyn sank into her, surrendering, knowing she was made from smoke but unable to resist. So sorely did he miss her, so much had he missed in those years when she was gone. Sickness had taken her, but she was back now, and for a moment he believed.

  Gilwyn, stop! cried Ruana. She is a phantom!

  Her shout broke his spell, and he pulled himself from the visage of his mother. Looking at her, he watched her eyes began to bubble in her head, the skin on her face falling off in clumps. She screamed, clawing at her body as Kahldris’ magic ravaged her. Bones popped through her skin. The ivory complexion turned to dust. Then, in a heap of wailing flesh, she fell to the floor and shattered to bits.

  ‘No!’

  Horrified, Gilwyn ran. The long halls of Lionkeep became the library again, but he hardly noticed the transformation. Driven by the ghastly images, he dashed from the hall as quickly as his shriveled foot allowed, leaving behind his dead mother and the taunting laughs of Kahldris.

  70

  One day’s journey south of Nith, in a valley not unlike the tiny principality itself, Lukien and his cohorts from Jador had reined in their horses to bed down for the night. Dusk had settled over the surrounding hills, casting the long shadows of twilight across the road. In the nearby meadow, only a handful of trees obscured the flat landscape, inviting them to rest themselves and water their horses at a lake of clear water. Alsadair, the most anxious among them to reach Nith, agreed reluctantly to stop for the night, and as he and Lorn watered the horses Ghost and Lukien prepared the fire. The young albino worked fast and diligently, and by the time the others had unpacked their things he had the fire ready for them all, just in time for the encroaching darkness. The four of them went through their usual routine with ease, well-practiced in the tasks of making camp. They had ridden together for many long weeks, and over that time had developed a rhythm to things, each of them taking on their own set of duties. And in less than an hour, they were ready to eat.

  Amazingly, cooking their rations fell to Lorn, the only one of them with a genuine talent for it. Despite a lifetime spent being pampered by servants, the last few years of the deposed king’s existence had been marked by doing things for himself. He knew his way around a frying pan like an expert, and whatever meats or vegetables they had managed to find for themselves found their way into Lorn’s oddly capable hands. He was, Lukien had discovered, a man of many surprises.

  Tonight, Lukien remained unusually quiet, made thoughtful by their closeness to Nith. Alsadair, who had guided them all the way north, bore an unmistakable smile of anticipation. He had been gone from his homeland for months, but he was near enough to smell it now, and had spent the day regaling them all with the big history of little Nith. And Ghost, who almost always played his flute while they rode, made up ditties about Nith that had them all laughing.

  All but Lukien.

  The campfire leapt and crackled. On the other side of it, Ghost and Alsadair played cards while Lorn finished making the meal. Lukien watched them through the orange glow, glad that they were with him. In Jador, before he had left to rescue Thorin, he and Ghost had been fast friends. He was more than a companion on their mission — he was a confidant, and the only one of the three that Lukien really trusted. Lukien had grown to like Alsadair during their time together, but Ghost was an Inhuman, and because of that there was a sp
ecial bond between he and Lukien. They understood the magic of Grimhold better than the others. It made them like brothers.

  Lukien relaxed, quietly watching Lorn as he tasted the stew simmering in his iron pot. The old king gave a nod of satisfaction, then caught Lukien staring at him. Without a word Lorn went back to his work. The two of them rarely talked, though to his credit Lorn had tried. It was Lukien who kept the Norvan at arm’s length, because he neither liked Lorn nor trusted him, and he wanted no misunderstanding about that. Lorn had proven useful on the long journey, not only as a cook but also as a scout and a lookout and all the other talents martial men learn. He could fight, too. There was no doubt about that, and having his sword with them gave them all an added sense of security. Still, Lorn had only one mission in life, and it was not to free Thorin Glass.

  Above all else, it was this that made Lukien uneasy tonight, and it was this that lead him to step away from the fire. Beside him lay the Sword of Angels, resting inconspicuously in its battered sheath. He retrieved the weapon and got to his feet, eager to be away from the others. Ghost was the first to notice him leaving.

  ‘Lukien? Where you going?’ he asked, lowering his cards. Alsadair swiveled to give Lukien the same puzzled look.

  ‘I have something to do,’ replied Lukien vaguely. ‘Eat without me.’

  Lorn looked up from his pot but said nothing. Ghost crinkled his white nose. Now that the sun was down he had taken off his protective wraps. His grey eyes danced with firelight.

  ‘It’s dark out there!’ he shouted after Lukien.

  ‘Thanks, Mother,’ said Lukien. ‘I’ll be careful.’

  It wasn’t lack of appetite that drove Lukien out to the field. He was famished, as they all were, but a nagging feeling sent him away, one that he could not share with the others. So far, he had only spoken with Malator once on the long ride north, just before leaving Ganjor. His Akari had been as silent as Amaraz over the past few weeks, leading Lukien to worry. Now that they were nearing Nith, it would only be a couple of weeks more until they met Kahldris. And then?

  Lukien didn’t know, because Malator had done little to give him solace. And solace was what the knight needed more than anything this evening, more than food or friendship. He needed to see the face of his Akari and be told that everything would be alright. Leaving behind the light of the camp, Lukien walked through the tall weeds of the meadow, brushing aside the cattails and switches of grass. The ground was damp beneath his feet but solid. He could hear the rustle of wildlife from the nearby lake. Overhead, the moon glowed big and bright, lighting his way. He walked until the voices of his companions fell away and he could no longer see them. For what he was about to do, he needed privacy.

  Finally, near the centre of the sprawling meadow, Lukien stopped. He took a breath, glancing around then pausing to stare up at the moon and the stars that had come out to greet him. He saw the great sweep of milky cosmos, feeling small beneath it and confused. In his hand he held the Sword of Angels in its sheath, and through his fingers felt the pulsing of its steel, alive with Malator. The spirit in the metal sensed his trepidation, but said nothing. Lukien pulled the sword from its sheath and held it high toward the moon, not really sure if it was a ritual or not.

  ‘Malator,’ he said, ‘I need you. Show yourself to me, please.’

  It took only a moment for the spirit to respond. Shimmering into being, the figure of Malator came to stand before the knight, dressed as he had been that first time they’d met in a simple shirt and trousers. Malator, youthful and confident, smiled at Lukien, clearly reading the trouble on his host’s face. Lukien lowered the sword and looked at him, still amazed that a ghost accompanied him everywhere.

  ‘You don’t have to do that, you know,’ said Malator wryly.

  ‘Do what?’ asked Lukien.

  ‘Summon me like that. There’s no trick to it, Lukien. If you want me, just ask. I’m always with you.’

  A little embarrassed, Lukien put the sword back into its sheath. ‘I wanted to speak to you away from the others,’ he explained. ‘You haven’t come to me in a while. I was concerned.’

  ‘I know when you are concerned, Lukien, and when you are happy or tired or hungry. I know what you’re worrying about.’ Malator looked around, absorbing the night air into his ethereal body. ‘It’s cooler here,’ he said. He looked back at Lukien with a flash of mischief. ‘Almost time.’

  ‘It is almost time,’ agreed Lukien. ‘Are you ready? Have you been preparing yourself?’

  Malator studied him. ‘It’s not me that needs to prepare himself. It is you, Lukien.’ As though he were one of Lukien’s riding cohorts, Malator sat down cross-legged on the ground, a peculiar sight considering the ethereal state of his legs. He looked up at Lukien expectedly. ‘Talk,’ he directed.

  Lukien took his meaning, but knew not where to begin. He had a hundred worries running through his mind, and no way to quell them. Instead of sitting down in front of Malator he paced around him with his sword in hand.

  ‘This is Nith,’ he sighed. ‘We’re a day out. Soon I’ll be seeing Aric again, and then we’ll be riding for Liiria. Your brother, Malator.’

  ‘I know,’ said Malator. ‘I can feel him getting closer.’

  ‘But you haven’t spoken to me about him,’ argued Lukien. ‘You haven’t said a word about how you plan to fight him, nothing beyond what you’ve already told me. I want to know if you’re ready, Malator.’

  ‘And I want to know if you are ready, Lukien.’ Malator’s tone was surprisingly stern. ‘I have all the talents I need to fight my brother. What do you want from me? A promise that I will defeat him?’

  ‘That would be very nice, yes!’

  ‘Well I can’t give you that. So you can go on gnashing your teeth all you like. All I can do is go with you and do this thing you ask of me. But what I need is a host who won’t lose his nerve.’

  ‘What?’ Lukien stopped to stare at him. ‘My nerve is as steely as ever, Malator.’

  ‘No,’ said the spirit. ‘I don’t think it is. I’ve been in your head, remember. I’ve felt what you’ve felt. You see, I can’t do my best unless the one who wields the sword is prepared. And all you’ve been doing is thinking about your last battle with Baron Glass. You’re afraid.’

  The words struck Lukien hard. He made to strike back, then stopped himself.

  ‘Let me force you to face it,’ Malator went on, ‘since you won’t admit it yourself. I’ll be that little voice in your head that tells you when something’s not right.’ His eyes pierced Lukien, never blinking. ‘When you can’t sleep at night, it’s because you remember lying in your blood in the middle of the road. You remember what it was like to have your muscles set on fire. And all you could do was let Glass toss you around like a doll and hope he wouldn’t kill you.’

  Lukien stopped breathing, confronted by his own nightmares. In the meadow it seemed that time had collapsed, bringing him back to that awful moment in Koth when Thorin held his life in his hands like so many grains of sand. Malator’s hypnotic gaze held him, refusing to let him look away. Lukien shuddered.

  ‘There’s nothing I can hide from you, is there?’ he whispered. ‘You see me too clearly.’

  ‘It is good to be afraid, Lukien,’ said Malator gently. ‘And if you cannot tell the others, then you can tell me because I know already.’

  Lukien lowered his head. ‘I have never been afraid like this,’ he said. Even his words frightened him. ‘Never in my life. I have seen death a thousand times. Hell, I have craved it! But this. .’ He groped for an explanation. ‘Facing Kahldris was worse then death. Like being eaten by a dragon, slowly bit by bit.’

  Malator was plainly moved. His face twisted with sympathy. ‘When he and I were boys, even our mother was afraid of Kahldris. And then when he became a general, his men thought he was a demon and they were right. They followed him because he was strong and fearless, but they never loved him. No one ever loved Kahldris, because no one ever could. He ga
thers fear around him like a cloak, Lukien. He has had a thousand years to learn the craft. You are brave even to face him again.’

  ‘I don’t feel brave,’ whispered Lukien. ‘I feel like a little boy.’ It was hard for Lukien to face Malator. He raised his eyes slowly. ‘You are right about me, Malator. I’m afraid, and I do not know what I will do when I face him again.’

  ‘You will fight, I have no doubt of it,’ said Malator. ‘But you must be as strong as Kahldris, Lukien. It will not be easy for me to battle him. You will need all your skill to give me the time I need. That means you must be there completely. If you are afraid, they will sense it and use it against you.’

  ‘But I am afraid,’ said Lukien hopelessly. ‘And I cannot shake it.’

  Malator rose and floated closer to Lukien. Despite his slight frame, there was a tautness to him that gave Lukien confidence. ‘Then I will be strong for both of us. You must trust me.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Perhaps you do a little, but it must be complete.’ The Akari laughed to leaven the mood. ‘I have not been doing nothing, you know! I have been thinking, and I know I can beat my brother. I need you to believe in me, Lukien.’

  Lukien gave a wan smile. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said miserably.

  ‘Go back to your friends,’ said Malator. ‘And know that I am with you.’

  The Akari disappeared then, blinking out of the world as quickly as he’d come. Lukien stared blankly at the place he had been, feeling lost.

  71

  By the time the Bronze Knight reached the castle, Aric Glass had already learned of his arrival. It didn’t take long for the rest of the keep to spring into action, either, as the servants who regularly took care of things prepared for their new guests. Sentries at the castle gate reported that the quartet had entered the courtyard, where they were waiting for someone — anyone — to greet them. Aric, who had been occupied in his chambers when the news of their arrival came, pulled on a pair of boots and ran down the hallways of castle Nith, eager to see his old comrade. As bad luck would have it, Prince Daralor was not in the castle. The prince had been gone the last few days, visiting a cousin in a nearby province. His ministers, however, were already falling over themselves to see to the needs of their new visitors. As Aric raced toward the courtyard, he found Daralor’s trusted aide Gravis waiting for him, dressed in royal finery and just as anxious as Aric to meet the newcomers. He waved at Aric to hurry.