by John Marco
Dawn’s light splashed colour on the yard of Library Hill, illuminating the men gathered there for Thorin’s arrival. A huge, black charger awaited the baron, held by stable hands whose mouths fell open as Baron Glass entered the yard. Duke Cajanis, patiently waiting near his own horse and surrounded by Norvan bodyguards, straightened to attention as Thorin approached. Dressed completely now in the Devil’s Armour, his head encased in the frightful helmet, Thorin’s visage froze the waiting men. The long road leading up to the library bristled with men and weapons. At the base of the hill a thousand Liirians were positioned, ready to defend the stronghold. Throughout the city other divisions were scattered, all carefully positioned to rebuff the Nithin and Reecian advances. A cool breeze reached Thorin through his armour, which rested on his body as lightly as a feather. Kahldris pumped magic energy into his blood and muscles. His sword, an Akari weapon he had stolen from the cellars of Grimhold, bounced at his thigh. Thorin wasted no time as he bee-lined to Duke Cajanis.
‘Report.’
Cajanis said confidently, ‘We’re ready. Arand is waiting for us at the west end and Karris’ men are in Chancellery Square. The Reecians have started to move down on him. Lothon and his Liirians will stay at the hill. They’ll take care of anyone who makes it through.’
At the base of the hill Thorin caught a glimpse of Lothon as he rode slowly amongst his men, Liirians who had joined with Thorin to remake their army. It was a small band, only about a thousand men, but the terrain of Library Hill made their job of defending it much easier. Lothon was an old man now, a friend of the baron’s from the old days when Akeela had been king. Long retired, he had been one of the few to see the hope of a better Liiria. As Thorin spied the old man far below, he felt a pang of sorrow. Things hadn’t turned out the way either of them had hoped, and yet Lothon had stayed loyal to him.
‘Make sure no one gets through,’ Thorin told Cajanis as he headed for his mount. ‘If Lothon dies today, I’ll make sure you do as well, Duke Cajanis.’
Cajanis chuckled as if Glass was joking. ‘Not much chance of that, Baron Glass. Once the Nithins see you in your armour they’ll know they have no chance.’
‘They won’t be seeing me yet,’ said Thorin. Without the help of the stable hands he hoisted himself onto his horse. ‘You’ll be in charge of Arand and his men. I’m going to the square.’
‘What?’ puzzled Cajanis.
What? erupted Kahldris.
‘Chancellery Square,’ said Thorin. ‘That’s where Raxor will be. That’s where I’m going.’
Cajanis began to sputter. ‘But Baron Glass, the Nithins!’
Thorin spun his horse toward the road. ‘Go, Cajanis. You know what to do.’
Duke Cajanis stared at Thorin as the baron rode away. Passing the scores of soldiers positioned on the road, Thorin hurried down the hillside toward the waiting Liirians at the bottom. Lothon, hearing the commotion, looking skyward at the racing baron, raising his glove in greeting. But Thorin had no time for sentiment. Barely acknowledging his comrade’s wave, he focused on Chancellery Square instead. From the hillside he saw it, choked with tall buildings and Norvan mercenaries, its parade ground dotted with lancemen. Coming out from the distant hills toward the square, Raxor and his Reecian army slowly bore down on the Norvans.
What are you doing, Baron Glass? asked Kahldris angrily.
‘To do some good,’ Thorin replied. ‘To get my son back.’
My brother is with the Nithins!
‘Your brother will wait. First I have to rescue my son.’
No! Kahldris raged. Go west, Baron! West!
Thorin ignored the demon’s orders. At the bottom of the hill, he rode quickly through the amazed ranks of Liirians, passing Lothon and his lieutenants and heading for the heart of the capital where the spires of the old chancellery buildings stood.
‘I’ll kill for you today, Kahldris,’ he cried as he galloped through the open lane. ‘But first I want my son back!’
79
On a field filled with ghosts, Lukien and his comrades faced the city of Koth. In the shadows of the capital the Norvan mercenaries poured from the streets, lining up to fight for the duke that led them. Lukien, seated stoically atop his horse, watched as their enemies formed their ranks. Next to him, Prince Daralor minded his own men, calmly ordering his soldiers to hold their position. A great, green flag unfurled above him. Stately armour gleamed on his person, shining like copper in the new light of morning. His army stretched out proudly behind him, silently awaiting the coming battle, while dozens of war dogs strained at the leash, barely held back by their burly keepers. Deep in the ranks, the battle hawks stood tethered to their perches, madly screeching as they sighted the Norvans. Their cries scratched at Lukien’s ears. On a horse beside him, Ghost swiveled anxiously in his saddle, his arms and face covered in a Jadori gaka to protect his pale skin from the sun. Ghost’s grey eyes turned to slivers as he watched the Norvans. His hand twitched as he gripped his thin sword.
They had strategized and planned, and now they were ready, and Lukien saw confidence in Daralor’s men. They had marched to this foreign land to follow their beloved prince, and still Lukien wondered why. Daralor had puzzled him with talk of honour and of men living free, and now that the hour of battle had come, he saw that Daralor had meant every word of it. With his face shadowed by his high-flying flag, Daralor looked like a hero to Lukien.
Duke Cajanis was easily recognizable in his blue cape and long golden hair. At the front of his army, his horse prancing as if in a parade, he looked both fearsome and foppish as he entered the field. The force of Norvan mercenaries that followed him impressed Lukien with its numbers. Norvan regulars loyal to Cajanis peppered the group. Despite Jazana Carr’s death, her legacy lived on, and Lukien knew there was only one reason why so many men still followed Thorin. He was the big dog in this part of the world, and now had claim to Jazana’s vast fortune. He was also indestructible, which meant no one could challenge him.
‘Except today,’ he whispered.
Ghost heard his words and flicked his gaze toward Lukien. The young, cloud-coloured eyes sparked with fire. Of all the Inhumans, Ghost was certainly among the best fighters. Only Greygor, Grimhold’s guardian, was more frightening to behold in battle, and that was because Greygor was more monster than man. But Ghost wasn’t the only spirit on the field, and as Lukien watched the Norvans approach he remembered another time, not so long ago, when he had fought on this very same soil. Then, it had been Thorin who was the invader, leading these same Norvan whores to sack the city. It had been a brutal battle and his confrontation with Thorin had left Lukien near death, and remembering that made him shudder now.
No, Lukien, came Malator’s soothing voice. Do not be afraid.
At Lukien’s side the Sword of Angels burned against his body. Malator essence glowed within it, setting the blade strangely alight. There seemed to be no fear at all within the Akari, and the calmness he felt helped to soften Lukien’s mood.
‘I don’t see him,’ said Lukien, as much to Malator as to the others. ‘I don’t see Thorin.’
‘He has to come,’ said Daralor. ‘He knows you’re here, Lukien.’
But looking past the ranks of Norvans, no one could see Baron Glass or the slightest hint of his terrible armour. Lukien pondered Library Hill, clearly visible above the city.
‘He’s in the library, maybe,’ he surmised. ‘He doesn’t need to come and face us yet.’
‘He lets his hirelings do his dirty work,’ grunted Ghost. ‘He thinks he has us bested already.’
Baron Glass is not in the library.
‘Eh?’
My brother is with him, Malator explained, and they are not in the library. Baron Glass goes to find his son, Lukien.
‘Oh, gods, no. .’
‘Lukien?’ asked Daralor. ‘What is it?’
‘Thorin’s not here. He’s going after Raxor first,’ replied Lukien.
No one asked how he knew such a thing
. The magical sword at his side gave them their answer. Even the Eye of God, still burning against Lukien’s chest, bespoke of the sorcery Lukien commanded.
‘This changes things,’ said Ghost.
Daralor shook his head. ‘It changes nothing. You still must reach Baron Glass, Lukien.’
Ghost protested, ‘But he’s on the other side of the city. .’
‘No, Daralor’s right,’ said Lukien. ‘It doesn’t matter where he is, we have to get to him.’
Daralor grinned at the young albino. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem for a man who can make himself invisible.’
His levity broke the tension, and his lieutenants gave a laugh. Lukien nodded.
‘We’ll reach him,’ he promised Daralor. ‘We’ll find him once you loose the hawks.’
It had been agreed, and Daralor said nothing more about it. They had all approved the plan, even Lorn, who waited unseen within the ranks of Nithins, ready to appear at the proper time. Lukien put his hand on the pommel of his sword, letting Malator’s strength course through him as Duke Cajanis at last came to a stop. The duke’s army halted with amazing precision, spears and lances tipped skyward. At Cajanis’ flanks rode two men, one a mercenary Lukien remembered, one a Norvan nobleman. The mercenary, a man named Thon, smirked at Lukien distastefully.
‘You know him?’ whispered Ghost.
‘I know him,’ grumbled Lukien. ‘I was one of them, remember.’
He had spent years in Jazana Carr’s employment, and Lukien knew most of the mercenaries of any importance. Thon was from Jerikor, and like the warriors of that land he never wore armour or any coverings at all over his arms, preferring instead to display his many tattoos. He was an unsavoury character and Jazana had never liked him, but he was good at his work and so had earned a place in her vast army. Lukien was not surprised at all that he had remained with Thorin. Thon, like many mercenaries, cared only about money.
Duke Cajanis wheeled his horse to face his men. He had arranged his army so that his cavalry came first, just as Daralor had, with foot soldiers scattered among them. He had brought no archers with him, though they were surely stationed at the library, Lukien reasoned. Cajanis spoke loudly to his soldiers, rallying them, and his bold words were echoed by lieutenants in the ranks. Then, when he finished his speech, the duke turned around again toward the Nithins. Amazingly, he broke away from his army and began riding forward, accompanied by Thon and the Norvan noble.
‘Terms,’ spat Daralor in disgust. ‘Lukien, Godwin, come with me.’
Leaping at the chance to return the insult, Daralor broke from his army and trotted out toward Cajanis with his aide, Godwin. Lukien followed, leaving Ghost behind and sure that Lorn, hidden among the Nithins, was watching and fuming. Prince Daralor rode out grandly, his head held high, then reined his stallion to a halt just feet before Cajanis. The two leaders locked glares for a moment, until Cajanis noticed Lukien.
‘You are the Bronze Knight I have heard so much about,’ said the duke mockingly. He glanced over at Thon. ‘From what you told me, I expected more.’
Thon cracked a toothy grin. ‘You look old, Lukien.’
‘Do I?’ Lukien reached beneath his breast plate and pulled out the Eye of God. As the amulet hit the sunlight it blazed furiously. ‘I don’t feel old, Thon,’ he said, dropping the Eye against his chest. ‘I feel immortal.’
‘We’ve been warned of your magic, Lukien of Liiria,’ said Cajanis. ‘In truth it matters not. You already know what you’re up against. You don’t have a chance, not even with your pretty bauble.’
Daralor bristled at the duke’s arrogance. ‘You’re a man of big words, Duke Cajanis. I have found in my dealings that men of big words have the smallest stones. I can already see the fear in your eyes every time my war dogs bark.’
‘A thousand war dogs won’t bring down the Black Baron, Prince Daralor. You would be better off slaughtering them yourself. Do it humanely and they won’t suffer. Let me take pity on you, sir. I come to speak to you as a favour, to warn you of what will happen. This is not your fight, and you cannot win it.’
Lukien at last pulled free his sword. As he did, the blade burst with light. ‘I have the means to best your baron, Norvan. Behold!’ A ripple of surprise went through the Norvan ranks. Lukien pressed his advantage. ‘I know you men!’ he shouted to the mercenaries. ‘Listen to me now. The reign of Baron Glass is over. I have come to undo him!’ He laughed, full of malice suddenly, and looking straight at Cajanis hissed, ‘And I have not come alone.’
Lukien lowered his sword, pointing it at the rows of Nithins behind him. The signal caused the soldiers to part like a curtain, revealing a single rider who trotted out from the crowd. King Lorn the Wicked had dressed for the occasion, looking as princely as Daralor himself in a silver breastplate and gleaming chainmail, his arms covered in scarlet fabric, his head crowned with a feathered helmet that left his hard-bitten face naked. He held an axe in his hand with a sword at his belt, his white horse garbed in golden armour that reflected like rainbows on the field. His appearance stunned and confused Cajanis. The duke frowned as he tried to make out the rider’s identity.
‘That’s an old man,’ spat Cajanis, then began to chuckle. ‘It’s that your champion, Prince Daralor?’
Lorn held up the axe in his meaty fist. ‘I am Lorn,’ he declared. ‘And I live!’
As though they were arrows his words shot the men through, stunning Duke Cajanis and his soldiers. Whispers and shouts ran through the Norvan ranks. Cajanis, too shocked to speak, looking dumbly at his aide, and from the rows of mercenaries a cry went up.
‘It’s him!’ said the single, distant soldier. ‘That’s Lorn!’
Lorn drove his horse to a gallop, hurrying to Lukien’s side. To Lukien, he had never looked more like the manic king of legend. His rock hard eyes froze Cajanis in his glare as both Thon and the nameless noble drew back.
‘I am King Lorn of Norvor, rightful ruler of our land, and you Cajanis are a usurper’s lapdog. Save your warnings, coward. We are deaf to them.’
‘You can’t be Lorn,’ sputtered Cajanis. ‘Lorn is dead!’
Lorn tossed back his head and gave a shuddering cry. ‘I live!’ he shouted, half-mad with laughter. ‘And I’ve come back for my throne and to kill all who defy me. Look at me, wretched duke! Call me a ghost one more time and you will die first today.’
Duke Cajanis struggled with his horse. Behind him, his usually orderly soldiers had broken into gossip. He turned to Lukien, spitting with anger.
‘You’ve made an unholy alliance for yourself, Bronze Knight. You bring a devil back to Norvor!’
‘Yield to us now, Duke Cajanis,’ Lukien ordered. ‘You cannot kill me, and once the dogs are loosed you’ll have no chance of it. I have prayed for death and been denied it by heaven, and no Norvan fop will be the end of me.’
‘Don’t bargain with these piss buckets, Lukien,’ said Lorn. He forced his horse closer to Cajanis. ‘You may run from me, but wherever you go I will find you, Cajanis. And when I have my throne again you will be my jester.’
‘They taunt you, Cajanis!’ grumbled Thon. ‘Who are they? Look at them and look at us.’ The mercenary scoffed at Lukien. ‘You shouldn’t have come back, Lukien. You’re over.’
His filthy grin drove all the fear from Lukien’s mind. Now, like the old days, he hungered for a fight. ‘Well, Cajanis?’ he asked. ‘Which will it be? Will you let this pile of shit speak for you? Or will you use your brain and yield to us?’
Cajanis was frothing now. ‘You are outnumbered! Even without Baron Glass you have no chance against us.’
‘Shall I lose my war dogs, then?’ asked Daralor casually. ‘The kennel masters have kept them hungry.’
‘Damn your war dogs, you eight fingered freak.’ Duke Cajanis pulled his reins up. ‘Let them lose and we’ll show them what Norvan blades are made of.’
The duke swiveled his horse quickly about, barking at his comrades to follow him as he returned to h
is army. Before Lukien and Daralor could turn themselves back, Lorn heaved his axe after Cajanis, missing the duke by inches. Cajanis roared in hatred.
‘You are dead, old man!’ the duke promised. ‘Today Norvor will be free of you at last!’
‘Come and kill me, then!’ Lorn challenged. ‘The moment you’re man enough.’
Daralor had heard enough. The time for talk was over. He did not ride back to his army or tell his men to wait. He merely glanced at his lieutenants and with a nod gave the order to unleash the dogs.
80
In all his life, Aric Glass had only been in battle twice before. On both occasions others had protected him from the worst of it, but not today. Today, as a volley of arrows sailed overhead, the full stink of death singed his nose and the terrifying cries of dying men shook his skull. It had all happened so quickly, Aric had barely seen it coming. First there were the trumpets, the martial music of his Reecian comrades. The Norvans had seemed so far away, like toy soldiers on their horses. Then they had come like a wave across the battlefield, sweeping Aric into combat. His sword was up and his horse was charging with the rest of them, carrying him headlong into the clash. Beside him, the Nithin bodyguards Trace and Brenor rode at his flanks, into the teeth of Norvan lances. The stampede of cavalry shook the ground. And Aric was in chaos.
The world around him blurred. From atop his horse he saw Norvans and Reecians and his own slashing sword, blindly shooting out to parry. Time slowed and had no meaning, and though he heard the voices of the Reecian captains, he could not understand them over the din. Toward the rear of their ranks, King Raxor rallied his soldiers, shouting as he held a battle axe aloft. Horatin and others members of the Red Watch swarmed around him, protecting him as Norvan riders strained to reach him. Aric pivoted, trying to find his comrades in the me?le?e. Trace and Brenor, distinctive in their green Nithin garb, battled back the curved blades of a band of tattooed mercenaries. Aric had seen their likes before, in his first clash against them, each of them dark-skinned and crazy-eyed. Trace barreled his stallion into them, disappearing for a moment as a single, pony-tailed brute rose up in Aric’s sight. His blade fell quickly, knocking Aric back as he blocked it. The horse beneath him whinnied, then spun to help its master, letting Aric return the blow. The mercenary’s own horse reared, kicking dirt into the air as Aric broke away. He had no shield to slow him down, and when the big man’s horse came down Aric’s blade was there, mercilessly slashing its neck. Its rider cursed as the horse collapsed, falling headlong into a swinging Reecian mace.