The Sword Of Angels eog-3

by John Marco

‘Your bargain was with her, yes,’ said Lukien to Lorn. ‘Not with me.’

  ‘So what will you do?’ challenged Lorn. He stood his ground, looking unafraid of the crazed knight.

  ‘I should put you down like a sick dog,’ hissed Lukien.

  ‘You may not find that so easy,’ said Lorn calmly.

  ‘Oh, I knew this was coming!’ cried Ghost, who jumped onto the table between them. He turned to Lukien, making sure to push the tip of the sword aside. ‘Put it down,’ he directed. ‘You don’t want to fight here, Lukien.’

  Lukien’s hand began to tremble as he stared into Lorn’s hard face. The Norvan was icy calm as he returned the glare. Aric hurried to Lukien’s side.

  ‘Put it down, Lukien,’ he echoed angrily. ‘I don’t care what your grievance is with Lorn. This is Daralor’s house!’

  ‘Right,’ sighed Lukien, at last relenting. He lowered his sword without ever having unsheathed it, shaking his head miserably. ‘Aric, do you want to know this man’s history? Ask him. He’ll tell you everything. He’s proud of it.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Aric, holding his gaze. ‘We’re all going to Liiria.’

  ‘That’s right,’ chirped Lorn.

  ‘Shut up,’ Ghost snapped at him.

  Lorn withdrew with a scowl. He began to leave the banquet chamber, then stopped to glance at Lukien. ‘Sooner or later you’ll have to trust me, Lukien.’

  Lukien shook his head. He said to Ghost, ‘Go with him.’

  Reluctantly, the albino followed Lorn out of the chamber, taking the stunned servants with them. Lukien laid his sword on the table, sorry for the things he had said to Aric, the scene he had caused. Aric waited a long moment before going back to his chair. But he did not sit down. He merely paused there expectantly.

  ‘I did care about her,’ said Lukien.

  Aric nodded. ‘I know you did. I did what I could for her, Lukien, just like you.’

  ‘When you see Raxor again, you must try to get her free.’

  ‘I’ll try, Lukien.’

  The awkwardness between them was intolerable. Lukien looked at Aric and smiled. ‘I’m drunk.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘King Lorn the Wicked?’ said Aric. ‘Is it him, really?’

  ‘Aye,’ lamented Lukien. ‘Truly, I am cursed.’

  Aric began to laugh more loudly, taking his seat. He licked his lips as if he still had a secret. Lukien eyed him, knowing the man too well.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ he asked.

  ‘Lorn.’ Aric stopped laughing abruptly. ‘Maybe it’s nothing. .’

  ‘What? Tell me, Aric.’

  ‘It’s really just a rumour.’

  ‘What?’ pressed Lukien.

  Aric looked around to make sure no one was listening. ‘He’s going to hear it from someone, it might as well be you. I didn’t mention this yet because it didn’t seem important, not until we started talking about Norvor. There’s something you should know, Lukien.’

  ‘Aric,’ groaned Lukien. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘It’s about Jazana Carr,’ said Aric. ‘We do get some news here in Nith. Lukien, we heard she’s dead.’

  72

  Old King Raxor knelt on the dirt floor of the arena, his face buried in warm, brown fur. Broud, the big male bear, wrestled him playfully, using its powerful jaws to tickle his shoulder and its big, clawed paws to leverage him aside. As Varsha looked on with mild interest, waiting for her own turn to entertain her master, Raxor lifted Broud to his hind paws, then let the bear dance backward, loudly calling out his approval. Broud, who seemed to get bigger every time Raxor saw him, remained upright for Raxor’s pleasure, balancing expertly the way he had been taught. Raxor clapped his hands and laughed, letting the bear fall gently forward, then called his sister forward.

  ‘Varsha, up,’ said Raxor, and with a wave of his hand brought the female upright. Varsha stretched her muscled body skyward, prancing the way she’d seen her brother do. The bag of treats at Raxor’s side brought a quick reward. ‘Good,’ praised Raxor happily. It would be the last he would see of his two beloved bears, and he wanted to remember them perfectly.

  Above the open-air arena, the morning waned quickly into afternoon. Sunlight leaned heavily on Raxor’s weathered face. He sweated in his velvet garments, not at all dressed for a day with his pets. Where he was going, he needed to look the part of a king, but his heart was here with the siblings, and he knew he would miss them horribly. One at a time he tossed the bears the bread balls from his bag, taking his time. He had asked General Moon to wait for him, and the old soldier had relented to the request, yielding to the king’s idiosyncrasies. There was a long march ahead of them and all was ready, prepared for months as Reec simmered from its many loses. Reec was hardly the country Raxor remembered. It had changed so much since he’d returned from Liiria.

  ‘Why do things have to change?’ he asked his bears. ‘Why do men have to get old?’

  Broud and his sister ignored the question, more interested in the treats being tossed into their snouts. Their silence reminded Raxor why he had come to the arena today. Today, he needed the solace of the place, the simple companionship of the bears. In all of Reec a storm was brewing, but not so in this peaceful place. As it had been for so many years, the arena and its inhabitants were a refuge for Raxor. His country had gone mad. Too many mothers had lost sons in Liiria, and too many fathers were crying for revenge. Raxor himself had lost his son, and the heartbreak of that gave him insight into the madness of his countrymen. He had tried to keep a lid on the boiling pot, to wait until Aric and their Nithin allies arrived, but he had heard nothing from Aric in months, not since getting his letter, and the rage of his Reecians would not be quelled.

  ‘Only blood,’ mused Raxor with a sigh. ‘That’s the only thing they want.’

  Raxor himself wanted blood. He wanted Baron Glass on the end of his lance for what had happened to Mirage. For weeks, the news of her death had spiraled him into depression, and when he had awoken from it the lament of his people had become too much to ignore.

  Raxor felt around in his bag of treats. It was empty. He looked at the bears apologetically.

  ‘That’s it.’

  Broud looked sad. His sister Varsha came up to nuzzle Raxor’s leg. Between them both, they had left a slick of brown hair on his fine garments. Seeing it made Raxor smile. His people loved him, but thought he was mad, and he did their bidding now because they demanded it. Raxor was not afraid of facing Thorin Glass again. He had hoped to do it with Nithin help and the aid of the enchanted sword, but those things had never happened, and wounded Reec could wait no longer.

  It was time for Raxor to go.

  He said his good-byes to his beloved twins, then turned to make his way down the corridor that would lead him to the street. In the shadow of the corridor he saw General Moon. The general nodded, realizing the king was ready, then escorted him out of the arena. Raxor could see the sunlight beckoning at the end of the rounded hall. General Moor moved stiffly as he walked. Like Raxor, his mood was morose. He was, however, a military man, and would do his duty no matter how distasteful. Raxor took the lead as the two of them moved out into the sunlight, stopping at the edge of the street to see the passing parade.

  The avenues of Hes were choked with marching soldiers, all the men that she could muster. Thousands of them, armed and gleaming, snaked their way past the king. West they marched, toward Liiria, toward the looming unknown of battle. King Raxor’s horse waited for him, surrounded by loyal bodyguards. General Moon motioned Raxor toward his mount.

  ‘If you’re ready, my lord,’ he said.

  Raxor was ready. For Roland and Mirage, he would once more face the Black Baron.

  73

  Alone in the library, a pile of unread books spread out before him, Gilwyn paged through the yellow leaves of a dusty tome, trying vigourously to read the foreign penmanship. His eyes stung as his mind wandered through the words. He had never been able to deciph
er the strange tongue of Marn, at least not as well as Figgis could, but this one book intrigued him and he continued, occasionally picking out a word he recognized. He read by sunlight, waves of which came though the big windows of the reading room. The empty library echoed with his tiny sounds as he gently turned the pages. It had been nearly two weeks since he had returned to the library, and he did so today only reluctantly. But time was running out and Gilwyn knew it. If he was ever to find a way to break the bond between Thorin and Kahldris, he had to do so quickly.

  Gilwyn leaned back with a doleful sigh, exhausted from his morning with the books. Nothing, not even the obscure texts from Marn, told him what he wanted to know. He gave a little curse for the catalogue machine. That vexing collection of rods and pulleys had been no use to him at all. Nor had the endless volumes of manuscripts. Nothing had helped Gilwyn unlock the secret he needed. He began to feel defeat creeping over his shoulders.

  Keep going, urged Ruana. Don’t give up.

  ‘It’s hopeless,’ Gilwyn rumbled. He slammed closed the book from Marn, sending up a cloud of dust. ‘I can’t even read it.’

  You’re tired. Rest a bit. Then try again.

  ‘No,’ said Gilwyn. He grit his teeth. ‘All right, yes.’

  Ruana smiled in his mind’s eye. If it’s here, you’ll find it.

  ‘Ah, but what if it’s not here? What if I’m wasting my time?’

  There is an answer, Gilwyn. You’re close.

  As tired as he was of reading through the book, Gilwyn was even more tired of Ruana’s encouragement. In all his life he had never met a more cheerful soul. To Ruana, every puzzle had a solution. Being an Akari herself, she should have known how best to beat Kahldris, Gilwyn thought. But she did not. She knew only as much as Gilwyn himself, and they had already been over that tired knowledge a hundred times.

  A noise outside the window snagged Gilwyn’s attention. He bolted upright with alarm, then realized it was the wind.

  ‘Damn it.’

  Calm yourself, Ruana urged.

  But Gilwyn could not. His feud with Kahldris had frazzled him. It was not enough that the demon had made him face his mother in the library that day, and every day since. Now his dreams were filled with poison. He woke up sweating every midnight. More than once Kahldris had turned his broth to blood and filled his shoes with maggots. They were illusions, but they were all too real for Gilwyn, so that now every small sound made him jump. He had endured Kahldris’ conjurings for two unendurable weeks. Keeping himself awake at night to avoid the nightmares had made him as brittle as an old branch. His hands shook and his eye twitched at the corner. He waited frantically for his mother’s agonized face to appear in every pool of water. Sometimes she spoke to him, other times she simply wailed, giving off a glass-shattering lament.

  Gilwyn closed his eyes, trying to refocus his mind. Kahldris had played the game well, and had driven Gilwyn to the edge. But the last two days had been blessedly quiet. There had been no nightmares, no unwanted visitations from his past. It was as if a truce had been called between the two of them, and Gilwyn had honoured it. He had not gone to Thorin or bad-mouthed Kahldris to Lionkeep’s staff. He had simply enjoyed the respite.

  Still, he had work to do. He surveyed the stack of books awaiting him, unsure where to start again. They were books on varied subjects, but all with an underlying theme of death and the spirit world. The fact that none of them even mentioned the Akari no longer bothered Gilwyn; he had given up on that tack. Now, all he wanted to know was how the bond between man and spirit was formed. And how it could be broken.

  He thought of White-Eye again, and how she had lost her beloved Akari, Faralok. It was pain that had driven him away from her, the intense pain of the desert sun. According to Minikin, the pain had shattered the bond between human and Akari forever. It seemed a simple enough plan, but how could anyone inflict such pain on Thorin Glass? When he wore his armour, he was invincible. And he had lost an arm in battle years ago. He knew pain already, and how to cope with it. To Gilwyn, the notion of inflicting such pain on Thorin seemed hopeless.

  ‘White-Eye was young,’ he mused aloud. He considered this, and how little pain she had really endured up until she lost Faralok. ‘She didn’t know pain until then, not really.’ He rubbed his temples distractedly. ‘And if I’d been there to protect her. .’

  Stop, said Ruana. There’s nothing to be gained.

  Gilwyn nodded, but in his heart felt the emptiness. It was good to be back in the Koth, among his books and his own people, but more than anything he wanted to see White-Eye again. He told himself that soon this nightmare would be over, and that Lukien would return to save Thorin from himself, but he didn’t really believe it. Too many months had passed. And he could not leave Thorin, not after the promise he had made to him.

  ‘I have to save him, Ruana,’ he whispered desperately. ‘It’s up to me.’

  Then, like a cold breeze, he felt Kahldris roll into the room. At first he did not see the demon. There was only the chill on his skin and the strange sense that they were not alone. Frightened, Gilwyn looked to the threshold of the chamber, then saw a shadow growing beneath the archway. The shadow poured itself like treacle, rising from floor to ceiling into the black shape of a man. A dark maw opened to speak.

  ‘There once was a boy named Gilwyn Toms,’ came the booming voice, ‘who thought he could save the world.’

  ‘Fate above,’ Gilwyn gasped.

  The black mass congealed and solidified, changing suddenly into Kahldris. The demon stood in the doorway, smiling, holding a book in his hand. The book opened effortlessly, the pages turning. Kahldris shook his white head.

  ‘You can look and look forever, boy,’ he taunted. He snapped the book closed and tossed it into the room where it landed near Gilwyn’s table. ‘What have you found? Anything? Is there anything at all in this whole cursed place that’s any help at all?’

  Gilwyn rounded the table to face the spirit. ‘You finally decided to come yourself, eh? No more apparitions of my mother?’

  ‘Your mother tires me,’ sighed Kahldris. ‘Don’t worry, boy — I will think of other nightmares for you.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ challenged Gilwyn. ‘I’m still here. You can’t frighten me away, no matter what form you come in.’

  Kahldris floated into the reading chamber. ‘I have frightened you. You haven’t come back here for days. My little trick scared you, didn’t it, boy?’

  Gilwyn hardened. The way Kahldris had turned the familiar library into a labyrinth had indeed frightened him, but he would never admit it to the demon. ‘You can’t keep me away from here. Somewhere in here there’s a book that will tell me what I want to know.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ said Kahldris. He waved his ethereal hand at the books on the table. ‘All this superstition and nonsense, writing of shamans and charlatans. What do you hope they will tell you? Your own Akari can’t tell you how to beat me!’

  ‘Get out,’ Gilwyn thundered. ‘Go, get away from me.’

  Kahldris looked hurt. ‘Oh, now you’re angry. What will you do? Tell Baron Glass? Go run to him like a little boy? You haven’t done that yet, and you won’t because he won’t have anyone speak against me. Don’t you see? You’re losing him.’

  Infuriated, Gilwyn stood his ground. ‘If I was losing him, you wouldn’t be here. You’re the one who’s afraid, Kahldris. That’s why you’re here to threaten me.’

  ‘No, indeed, Gilwyn Toms,’ said Kahldris. His expression was mischievous. ‘I’m here to warn you, that’s all.’ He cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Listen. .’

  Against the silent backdrop, Gilwyn heard footfalls suddenly. His heart tripped. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A surprise,’ said Kahldris.

  ‘Another of your tricks.’

  ‘Not a trick,’ said the demon. He stepped aside so that Gilwyn could see down the hall. ‘You have visitors.’

  Gilwyn heard voices rolling down the corridor, the rough sounds of m
en. He looked around suspiciously, but so far nothing in the library had changed.

  ‘I assure you, it is not my conjuring,’ said Kahldris. ‘Go and see for yourself. And remember what I said, Gilwyn Toms — you are losing Baron Glass.’

  As quickly as he’d come, Kahldris disappeared, blinking out of the chamber, leaving Gilwyn alone and bewildered. From the corridor outside, he heard the voices nearing, swarming through the library on booted feet. Alarmed, he hurried out of the chamber toward the noise. It wasn’t Thorin, Gilwyn knew — he would have recognized Thorin’s voice immediately. But Thorin hadn’t told him about any visitors to the library, and as Gilwyn rounded a bend in the hall he was stunned by what he saw at the other end.

  A man was moving through the library, backed up by a dozen Norvan soldiers. More soldiers moved behind them, fanning out through the halls and varied chambers. As Gilwyn came to a halt, the man caught sight of him and stopped, and suddenly a wide grin cut his rocky face. He was dressed like a nobleman, his vestments velvet and expensive looking, his black boots polished to an ebony shine. A blue cape drifted off his wide shoulders, flowing down his arrow-straight back. He acknowledged Gilwyn immediately, summoning him forward like a stable hand.

  ‘You, boy,’ called the man. ‘Come here.’

  Gilwyn hesitated. The soldiers were Norvan; he could tell by their dark uniforms. Norvans were common in Liiria, but he had never seen the stranger before. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘What are you doing here?’

  The man in the blue cape strode toward him, followed directly by his bodyguards. ‘Your name is Gilwyn Toms, yes? I expected to find you here. Baron Glass told me to find you.’

  ‘Thorin? What’s he to do with this? Who are you?’

  ‘I am Duke Cajanis,’ the man pronounced, as if offended Gilwyn didn’t know. ‘You are Gilwyn Toms, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gilwyn cautiously. He had heard the name Cajanis before, mostly among the Norvans who protected Lionkeep. ‘Duke Cajanis, from Hanging Man?’

  ‘There is no other Duke Cajanis, boy,’ laughed the nobleman. Like sycophants, his bodyguards laughed, too. ‘Why do you look so surprised?’