The Sword Of Angels eog-3

by John Marco

  Horatin said, ‘He’s brought an army of at least three thousand with him, and more are on the way.’

  ‘And what about Jazana Carr?’

  The question, of course, came from Lorn, who could not contain himself any longer. Horatin turned to Lorn, seeming to recognizing him. Daralor nodded as if to confirm the Reecian’s suspicions.

  ‘You are King Lorn,’ said Horatin. ‘Then you most of all will want to know this. The rumour you have heard about the Diamond Queen is true. She is dead.’

  Lorn sat frozen in his chair. ‘Dead. You are sure?’

  ‘There is no doubt of it. I myself was sent to kill her at Richter, along with Baron Glass. But the queen wasn’t with him, and Baron Glass discovered our plot. Two good men of the Red Watch died that night by the baron’s own hand.’

  ‘And Jazana Carr?’ pressed Lorn. ‘What of her?’

  ‘A few days later she was dead,’ said Horatin. ‘When Baron Glass returned to Lionkeep he beat her. I don’t know why; no one knows why. After that she killed herself.’

  ‘You’re sure of this?’ asked Lukien.

  ‘There is no doubt of it, Sir Lukien.’

  The news left Lukien strangely empty. In the years he had spent in Jazana’s service, she had always been kind to him. Her conceits were legion, but her heart was bigger than her brain. Seeing Lorn’s glee over her death angered Lukien.

  ‘This is great news,’ said Lorn, sighing as though he had slipped into a warm bath. ‘Without Jazana Carr, Norvor has no leader. They will welcome me again.’

  Lukien gritted his teeth, holding back an insult. Daralor steadied Lorn’s excitement.

  ‘Your Norvans follow Baron Glass now, King Lorn. Until he is gone, you still have no kingdom.’

  ‘Excuse me, Prince Daralor, but Baron Glass is not a Norvan, and I think I know my people a bit better than you do. Baron Glass has the bitch-queen’s fortune, no doubt, but not her blood. The people need a rightful ruler.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Horatin sharply, ‘but Baron Glass won’t let go of Norvor easily. The dukes of Norvor flock to him still, because he is powerful and they are afraid of him. Listen to me, all of you — not one of you really knows what we are up against.’

  ‘I do,’ Aric spoke up. ‘I’ve seen my father close up, Horatin.’

  ‘As have I,’ said Lukien. ‘Your words are well meaning, Reecian, and I respect them. But I don’t need to be taken to school about Baron Glass or what he has become.’

  ‘And the rest of you?’ queried Horatin. He scoffed in their faces. ‘Be cocky at your peril.’

  ‘We are Nithins, Watchman,’ chastened Daralor. ‘We do not frighten easily.’

  ‘That is good,’ replied Horatin, ‘because once you see Baron Glass in his armour, you will know what hell looks like.’

  ‘Baron Glass is near his end,’ predicted Lorn. He pointed at Lukien. ‘The Bronze Knight holds the means to his undoing.’

  ‘Fate above, who knows?’ said Lukien, shaking his head. ‘I have the Sword of Angels. You’ve heard of it by now, Horatin. Whether or not it can beat Baron Glass, even I cannot say.’

  Daralor appeared disappointed. ‘Lukien, you will not be alone. We will all be fighting to beat Baron Glass.’

  Aric shrank at this. Lukien put a hand on his shoulder and said to him, ‘And some of us will be trying to save him.’

  ‘Baron Glass is our mutual enemy,’ said Lorn. ‘I have no problem with that. When he is done, I will return to Norvor as king.’ He looked pointedly at Lukien. ‘And then I will send for my family, just as I promised them.’

  The barb bounced off Lukien, who was wholly disinterested in the argument. ‘Horatin, tell us what else you know,’ said Lukien.

  Daralor took up a rolled parchment leaning against his chair and laid it flat across the table. ‘With what Horatin knows we can start planning our movements.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Prince Daralor, that’s not what I meant,’ said Lukien. ‘I have a personal question, if I may.’

  ‘Personal?’ said Horatin.

  Lukien leaned forward. ‘It’s about Baron Glass and Koth. There was another of us from Jador who went to north to Liiria, a boy named Gilwyn Toms. Have you heard anything about him?’

  ‘Ah, the boy!’ Horatin laughed. ‘He is Glass’ obsession.’

  ‘He’s alive?’ asked Lukien.

  ‘He is. Baron Glass protects him. He’s given the boy the library to run. He’s like a son to the baron. From what our spies have told us, the two of them are inseparable.’

  ‘I knew it!’ crowed Lukien. ‘I knew Gilwyn would still be alive!’ He clapped his hands together gleefully. ‘And if Gilwyn is alive he’s been trying to reach Thorin. Aric, there’s hope for your father yet.’

  Aric smiled grimly. ‘Maybe. But if there’s not and he must die, then that is how it should be.’

  But Lukien was in too good a mood to think such dour thoughts. Just hearing about Gilwyn had lifted his spirits out of the doldrums. Daralor continued to speak, tracing his finger over his map and quoting figures to his aides. The back and forth continued for nearly an hour. Lukien listened to all of it, satisfied that the prince had done his best. They would likely be outnumbered when they got to Koth, and Thorin would have the advantage perched high on Library Hill. Still, the Nithins had the heart and the charisma of Daralor to lead them. The Reecians had something even more powerful — a thirst for vengeance.

  Finally, when Daralor had said his peace, he glanced across the table at Aric, who had listened to the back and forth without adding a word. ‘Aric,’ said Daralor gently, ‘it’s time you went back to King Raxor. Horatin will be leaving in the morning. I want you to go with him.’

  Aric nodded, giving no complaint. ‘If that is best, Prince Daralor.’

  ‘We’ll need to ride fast,’ said Horatin. ‘My king still doesn’t know for certain that your army is coming north to join him. He has to have this news quickly.’

  ‘I can ride fast,’ Aric assured him.

  ‘Good,’ said Daralor. He gave Aric a warm wink. ‘We’ll be behind you, just as quick as we can. The rest of you, make yourselves ready. In a few days, we’ll be at war.’

  They were being dismissed, and Daralor’s aides knew it first. The Nithin officers got to their feet and began filing out of Daralor’s tent. Ghost and Aric did the same. Lorn lingered a bit longer, catching snippets of conversation on his way out, as did Lukien. Horatin took his time, still talking with Prince Daralor as the meeting broke up. Lukien watched the Reecian, hoping for an opportunity to speak with him. There was still one question pressing in his mind, a matter even more personal than that of Gilwyn. Deciding not to be rude, Lukien left the tent to wait for Horatin outside. Ghost and Aric had already headed back to the food line, while Lorn had cornered two of the Nithin officers, peppering them with questions. The camp had fallen silent as most of the army had settled down for a night’s rest. Daralor’s bodyguard’s outside the tent eyed Lukien but did not shoo him away.

  Finally, Horatin emerged, looking haggard and hungry. He walked past Lukien without noticing him until the knight hurried up behind him.

  ‘Horatin, wait,’ called Lukien. ‘I have a question.’

  The Watchman paused and turned toward him. ‘Yes?’

  Lukien was careful to keep his voice low. ‘It’s about your king. Aric Glass told me about a woman he keeps, a foreigner. Her name is Mirage.’

  Horatin drew back. ‘What of her?’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘I know of her,’ said Horatin. ‘Why?’

  Lukien decided to tread carefully. ‘Horatin, I know she is your king’s woman. Aric told me about them. I just want to know how she fares.’

  ‘She is a friend of yours?’

  Lukien nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see.’ Horatin averted his eyes. ‘Sir Lukien, the woman Mirage is not in Reec. She left my king some time ago to be with Baron Glass.’

  ‘She did?’ Lukien was stunned. ‘But
I thought King Raxor was in love with her.’

  ‘He was indeed,’ lamented Horatin. ‘That did not stop her. Nor did my king stop her, either. He gave her leave to go the baron.’

  ‘So what then?’ asked Lukien. ‘Have you had any word from her?’

  Horatin’s discomfort grew. ‘We have had no word from her, no. Sir Lukien, I did not tell you all of my story about our attack on Richter. Jazana Carr was not there. We were mistaken.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The woman Mirage was at Richter with Baron Glass, not Jazana Carr. I’m sorry, Sir Lukien. Mirage is dead.’

  Lukien stared at Horatin, his breath stopping in his throat. ‘Dead?’ He swallowed, feeling his legs grow wobbly. ‘Mirage is dead?’

  Horatin’s blue eyes filled with pity. ‘She died in the fire. No one made it out of Richter alive. Only Glass.’

  ‘A fire.’ Something inside Lukien crumbled. ‘A fire. .’

  He turned, walking off and shaking his head. Horatin was saying something, but Lukien heard none of it. All he could think of was Mirage, and how she had burned to death. She who could control flame, who had given up that gift for a mask of beauty.

  ‘Just so I would love her,’ said Lukien, and went numb with horror.

  75

  Since the arrival of Duke Cajanis, Library Hill had become an armed camp.

  Gilwyn hardly recognized his beloved library any longer. The emptiness — the solitude he had come to worship — had been replaced by the constant clang of metal and the shouts of armoured soldiers. Nearly every room of the place had been turned into barracks for the Norvans and Liirians who poured through the great doors, all of them bearing weapons and provisions and other things for the siege ahead. Books, scrolls and manuscripts had been carefully laid aside, packed into the cellars while the shelves were lined with swords and the oiled book cases burdened with clothing. Even the fabulous entry hall had been stuffed with bunks and bed rolls, so that the men lucky enough to sleep there for the night could look up at the magnificently painted ceiling as they fell away to sleep.

  It had taken nearly a week for the transformation to take hold, but now it was nearly complete, leaving Gilwyn bewildered and displaced. Surprisingly, Duke Cajanis had been kind to Gilwyn during the changes, even sympathetic. The Norvan noble was careful not to upset the young librarian too much, and made sure that Gilwyn always was consulted when books were moved or rooms commandeered. It was in fact an orderly transformation, done with military precision, and Duke Cajanis was proud of his quick accomplishment. Now, when one looked out from the library’s many windows, the sight of the road leading up to the hill was fortified with men and battlements and the courtyard filled with weaponry. The library had swelled into a formidable fort under Cajanis’ hand, and the soldiers who milled about its grand halls readied themselves for the coming assault.

  Rumours abounded in Koth these days. Norvan spies returning from the border spoke of Raxor’s army, an impressive force of many thousands said to be waiting to cross the river Kryss. Raxor himself led the forces, just as he had done the first time, determined to finish the job he had started months earlier. Retribution was in the air, said the Norvan spies, and King Raxor was ready to avenge his fallen son, telling all who would listen of his intention to slay Baron Glass. Rumours from the south were no less ominous, telling of the Nithins who marched freely up from Farduke with their fighting hawks and broods of battle dogs. Prince Daralor had summoned every able man in his tiny country, claimed the rumours, and had given orders that none of them were to return home while Baron Glass remained alive. Gilwyn listened to the rumours with interest, frightened and exhilarated by them, but one claim in particular had him galvanized — the Bronze Knight was returning.

  Even Thorin knew this one rumour to be true. Through Kahldris, he could sense the approach of Lukien and his magic sword, and had told Gilwyn that the final battle was nearing. After days without seeing each other, Thorin had called Gilwyn to him in his little parlour in Lionkeep, looking haggard from the endless hours of preparation. By the light of the crackling fireplace, Thorin had leaned forward in his big leather chair as if to tell a terrible secret.

  ‘Our days are numbered now, Gilwyn.’ Thorin’s tone bespoke his misery. ‘Lukien comes.’ He shook his head as if there could be no doubt. ‘And we will certainly battle.’

  Gilwyn did not question Thorin that night. Since Cajanis had arrived, the two of them had slipped the bonds of friendship growing strong between them, growing apart instead as the demands of war took Thorin further away. And though Gilwyn had not yet given up his hopes of reaching Thorin, he realized now that Kahldris’ hold on his friend was stronger than he’d imagined, and that only the supernatural power of Lukien’s sword might be able to break it. Along with Ruana, Gilwyn had racked his brain to think of a way to shatter the demon’s grip on Thorin, but he had always come back to the same, impossible puzzles. Intense pain could sever the bond between host and Akari, but Thorin no longer knew pain. Ensconced in his enchanted armour, he was truly untouchable.

  Twelve days after Cajanis’ arrival, Thorin finally called all of his commanders together. Using the finest of the library’s grand meeting chambers, he ordered the shelves removed and rows of chairs placed in their stead, along with a table he could use to speak from. Duke Cajanis organized the event, and with his usual aplomb had the meeting scheduled sharply at noon. By a half hour prior to the hour, the great chamber swelled with officers, all of them eager to hear the words of their benefactor, Baron Glass. Gilwyn, who was surprised to be invited to the event, sat not far from Cajanis himself, occupying a chair in the very first row. Because it was a formal meeting, no drinks or food were provided at all. The ranks of officers sat sombre-faced in their chairs, chatting quietly to each other. Norvans made up the bulk of the audience, though there were many Liirians in the crowd as well. Thorin had done an impressive job over the past months of bringing the Liirian military back to life and had openly declared himself their supreme commander, a boast no one dared challenge. Among the Liirians were soldiers who Gilwyn had got to know during his time in Lionkeep, including the good-hearted commander Kilvard. Kilvard, who was not a handsome man like Cajanis, wore a hang-dog expression as he waited for Baron Glass. Unlike most of the soldiers, Kilvard had no interest in the diamonds that kept the others loyal to Thorin. He was a true nationalist, motivated by the need to protect his country. He was loyal to Baron Glass because no one else had taken control of the chaos engulfing Liiria, and that was all. Gilwyn eyed Kilvard curiously as he sat back and waited. The pipe in the old man’s mouth spouted patient puffs of white smoke.

  At noon precisely, the big mahogany clock at the end of the chamber announced the hour. A moment later, Thorin stepped into the room, even the clock seemed to go dead.

  He had dressed for the occasion, donning the Devil’s Armour, which shined with blinding. His enormous figure filled the doorway, his steps heavy from his armoured feet. The skin of metal clung to his muscles, fitting perfectly to them, flexing with life at every breath. Thorin’s eyes scanned the room, his smile wide and frightening. He wore no helmet, but rather left his head bare, displaying his white yet youthful hair. His two big fists rested at his sides, covered in spiky gauntlets. Stepping into the chamber, he paused to the gasps of the gathered, swelling at their astonishment. Duke Cajanis was first to his feet. Taking one step forward, the Norvan clapped at Thorin’s arrival, first alone, then joined by others until at last the gathering was up and cheering. Gilwyn looked around, shocked at the outpouring of affection. He knew it was fear that motivated most of them, and could not help but pity them all. Thorin strode proudly to the table, waiting for the cheers to die away. His eyes met Gilwyn’s with a twinkle of approval that Gilwyn did not return.

  ‘Sit, all of you,’ boomed Thorin.

  He raised his hand to quiet the crowd, repeating his request until the noise relented and the soldiers took their seats. Thorin took a deep, satisfying breath, his ha
nds resting palms down on the table. Behind him, two huge flags were draped side by side along the wall, one Liirian, the other Norvan. The scene appalled Gilwyn. Just months ago, Thorin had murdered Norvor’s queen.

  ‘Friends,’ began Thorin, ‘you honour me. You are the saviours of Liiria, and of Norvor too. Together we will do great things, but first we have a challenge. Once again our enemies are upon us. Once again we are called to fight and to sacrifice.’

  There was nodding within the crowd. The most loyal of the soldiers vocally agreed. Others, Gilwyn noticed, squirmed a little.

  Thorin continued, ‘On our eastern border, our enemy Raxor has returned. Last time we were merciful. Last time, we let Raxor and his army flee our land. And how do they repay us? By threatening us once again. Once more they seek to take what is ours.’ The baron clenched his fist. ‘But this time, we will not be merciful. This time, we will crush them utterly.’

  The chamber rang with dutiful applause. Duke Cajanis cheered the bellicose words.

  ‘Raxor comes with another great army,’ Thorin went on. ‘As large as his last one. He is beloved by his people and we are sorely hated by them. They fear our strength, and that is wise of them. But they are not alone. This time, they have allies.’

  ‘Nithins,’ spat Cajanis.

  ‘Aye,’ Thorin agreed. ‘What could possibly tempt the Nithins from their long hiding if not madness? Do you see? Madness grips our world! This hatred for our nations — for Liiria and Norvor both — is a jealousy that compels the world to hate us. Look how the nobles of Farduke have turned on us, too. With not a word of complaint they have let the Nithins soil their land just so they could come to conquer us. In Marn they are just as silent, and in Jerikor too. Does anyone come to our aid? Has any one of these nations sent their ambassadors here? Have they offered the smallest kindness to us? No they have not.’

  It went on like this, Thorin laying out his case for war, the officers of his combined armies nodding in agreement. Gilwyn listened, disgusted by the speech, sure that it was Kahldris stoking Thorin’s madness. The man who had once been so kind to Gilwyn had vanished, and in his place stood a ranting lunatic, fanning the fires of suspicion. Thorin’s big voice rose and fell, filled with emotion as he worked the crowd. He told them about the force of the Nithins coming toward them, and how they numbered in the thousands. They had their creatures with them, he said, their slobbering dogs and their fierce birds of prey, merciless monsters both. And with them came Jadori, Thorin claimed, foreigners who had joined the alliance against them. Here, Thorin’s words had special meaning to Gilwyn. Thorin actually seemed saddened.