The Sword Of Angels eog-3

by John Marco

  ‘Amaraz, please,’ Lukien whispered, his hand trembling on the Eye of God. Gilwyn’s blood soaked his fingers. Lukien could feel the wound beneath the ruined shirt, the jagged bits of flesh torn, he supposed, by the spikes of Thorin’s gauntlet. Malator hung over him, watching and hoping with his host, assuring Lukien that Amaraz was up to the task and that the boy would live.

  He has saved you twice now, remember, said the Akari.

  ‘I was never this bad,’ Lukien retorted. ‘Not like this. .’

  Malator did not argue. He was there for Lukien, and that was enough. His presence comforted the knight. As the moments ticked away, Lukien kept up his vigil, mumbling pleas to Amaraz and holding the Eye of God fast to Gilwyn’s body.

  Then, at last, Gilwyn breathed. He took a great gulp of air, shouting, his shoulders bunched with pain. Lukien reared back. Still holding the Eye, he laughed joyously.

  ‘It’s working!’ he exclaimed.

  Beneath his fingers he could feel the wound begin to close, the ragged flesh miraculously knitting together. The blood began to bubble through Lukien’s fingers as Gilwyn’s heart grew stronger, and soon a warmth swept his body. Overjoyed, Lukien grinned as Gilwyn began to pant.

  ‘Thank you, Amaraz,’ Lukien cried. ‘Thank you!’

  He began to place the amulet’s chain around Gilwyn’s neck when he heard a noise at the threshold. Someone was coming. Lukien called to the person over his shoulder.

  ‘He’s alive! Thorin didn’t kill him!’

  ‘Lukien. .’

  Alarmed, Lukien spun toward the door. ‘Ghost?’

  The albino clung to the door, staggering as he tried to hold himself upright. Blood sluiced from a wound at his temple. Lukien leapt to his feet.

  ‘Ghost!’

  Somehow Ghost managed to stumble into the chamber, falling into Lukien’s arms. ‘Lorn,’ he gasped. ‘The armour. .’

  Lukien helped his friend to the floor, letting him lie still on the tiles, then quickly began fumbling with the folds of his gaka so he could breathe better. ‘What happened, Ghost?’

  Ghost’s hands clawed the tiles as he gulped for air. ‘I don’t know. . Lukien, he has the armour.’

  ‘He attacked you?’

  The albino nodded, squeezing his eyes closed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he moaned. ‘Damn him. .’

  ‘What about Thorin?’

  Ghost turned his face away in misery. ‘Lukien. .’ He hesitated. ‘I think he’s dead.’

  Lukien rose to one knee, furious. ‘Lorn did this?’ he seethed. ‘Lorn did this!’

  He wanted to go after him, to take the Sword of Angels and plunge it through the Norvan’s heart. But Gilwyn was only barely alive, and Ghost was badly wounded. And then, he thought of Thorin. He got to his feet, knowing that his old friend was dead. Malator did not have to tell him so. He could feel the emptiness of the world without Baron Glass.

  ‘I have to go get help,’ he told Ghost. ‘Don’t move.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ promised Ghost. He turned his head to look at Gilwyn. ‘Gilwyn. .’

  ‘He’ll live,’ said Lukien. All the joy had left him. ‘But King Lorn the Wicked will not.’

  84

  Along the rough terrain to Norvor, King Lorn rode on a borrowed horse toward his homeland, marveling at the feel of the Devil’s Armour on his body. He had ridden without rest for more than a day and he was not fatigued at all. He had no food or water with him, yet his person craved neither, nourished instead by the strange magic of the demon Kahldris. The south had been blessedly uneventful, and Lorn had exhausted more than one mount in his bid to get home, eventually stealing horses where he could find them from unsuspecting riders. Now, though, the badlands of Norvor stretched out in front of him, just beyond the swiftly running river. Here the hills rose up like sentinels, grey and wind swept, shaped by eons into twisted giants. There were no homesteads for Lorn to raid now, only the siren-song of his homeland playing on the breeze. The dust of the earth struck his face, peppering his skin. He had removed the armour’s helmet almost immediately after fleeing Koth, preferring instead to feel the air on his hair and beard. King Lorn examined the hills, choosing a single, rugged plateau from which to make his stand. The perch would afford him a view of both Norvor and the enemies he knew were chasing him.

  ‘There,’ he pronounced, not really speaking to anyone, though he knew that Kahldris shared his every thought. The odd union with the spirit had unbalanced him at first, as had the soaring power of the Devil’s Armour. Night was coming. Already the sun was starting to dip, making shadows grow. Lorn looked longingly at Norvor, knowing that just beyond the river his throne awaited him. It would be a struggle to reclaim it from Jazana’s loyalists, but with the armour his triumph was assured. ‘We’ve paid in blood for this,’ he sighed.

  Getting out of Koth had not been easy. Once again, he had earned the title ‘wicked.’ Ghost had tried to stop him first, and then the weakling Baron Glass. Too withered to stand the blow, Glass’ skull had cracked like an eggshell. Ghost, Lorn supposed, had survived. He wasn’t at all proud of the things he had done, but it had all been for a reason, and he rehearsed now what he would say to Lukien when the knight finally came after him, going over all the reasons in his mind, telling himself that Lothon’s men had died because they were fools. Surely they should have known they couldn’t stop him, and yet a dozen of them had tried before the old count himself had called them off. Lorn shook his head, genuinely disgusted with himself, and started up his horse again, beginning to climb the hillside.

  When night finally came, Lorn found himself staring at the death’s head helmet by the light of the fire he had made. Finally, he allowed himself to feel tired. Reclining against his elbow, he considered the helmet, which he had propped up opposite him like a companion. Kahldris had spoken to him very little since leaving Koth, and when he did it was always gently, as though the two had known each other forever. Lorn knew the demon’s treachery however. He had seen what Kahldris had done to Baron Glass and had no intention of becoming such a lunatic. Picking up a small stone, he tossed it at the helmet, pinging it against the faceplate.

  ‘You there,’ he snapped. ‘Listen good. You’re pretty pleased with yourself, I’d bet. You think you found yourself a new fool to take you where you want to go, don’t you? Well, forget it. I’m not some weak-minded fool like Thorin Glass, and you’ve already given me what I want most. I’m home, demon. Finally.’

  Kahldris said nothing. The lifeless helmet merely sat there.

  ‘Let’s understand each other,’ Lorn continued. ‘You’re going to help me get my kingdom back. It’s mine. It belongs to me, and so do you now. I’m the master and you’re the slave, and if ever I find you toying with my brain I will lock you in a dungeon so deep even the worms won’t ever find you. I didn’t want to kill Baron Glass or those others, and I don’t intend to be your plaything. If you need blood to stay strong I’ll slaughter some chickens for you. Right?’

  Again the spirit did not respond. Annoyed, Lorn tossed another pebble at it.

  ‘Nothing to say? All right, then. We understand each other. Lukien will be coming for us. He’ll never let us rest. So we’re going to face him, right here. And when that’s done we’re going to Carlion to get back my throne.’

  A saucer-like moon hung above the plateau. Lorn smiled up at it, satisfied. He was weary, tired of so much traveling. He had been on the road for months now, so long his journey seemed endless.

  ‘Enough talk,’ he said. ‘Get some rest, demon. Tomorrow we have work to do.’

  Lukien looked ahead to where the river cut across the terrain, finally noticing the familiar landscape of Norvor. His weary horse snorted beneath him, caked in the dust of the road and nearly lame from lack of rest. The sun had come up hours ago, marking their third day on the road to Norvor. They had ridden without stopping the entire morning, and all the horses of the company were faring no better than Lukien’s. Count Lothon and his men — ten of them in all �
�� scanned the horizon dotted with rocky hills. Lothon himself rode close to Lukien, staying at his side the whole way while the other Liirians trailed out in a long tail behind them. Lothon took his water skin from the loop at his saddle, offering it first to Lukien. When Lukien declined, the old man took a miserly pull from the skin, conserving its contents out of habit alone. With the river so close, they could water the horses and fill up their skins, but Count Lothon took only mild notice of the waterway. Like all of them, his eyes were fixed instead on Norvor.

  ‘Ugly,’ he pronounced. ‘How did you ever manage to spend so much time there?’

  ‘I had no choice, remember,’ Lukien said, mildly annoyed. ‘And not all of Norvor is like that. Those are the badlands.’

  ‘Hanging Man.’

  Lukien nodded. ‘Yes.’

  He thought about his days with Jazana Carr, the years they had spent together at Hanging Man with Thorin. He would not be seeing the fortress again, though. Lorn hadn’t got that far, nor was he still on the move. It had been an easy thing to track the traitor, because Malator could sense his brother and because King Lorn did nothing to hide his tracks. He expected them to come after him. He wanted them to come.

  ‘He’s close now,’ mused Lukien. ‘Another hour maybe. Maybe less.’

  Lothon grimaced at the prophecy. ‘I have had my fill of magic and demons. Pardon me if I say I do not trust yours, Lukien. He is sure of this?’

  Lukien’s gaze narrowed on the horizon, where a rise of plateaus hung above the flat earth. On one of them, Lorn waited. ‘Positive.’

  There was no doubt of it, not to Malator, and the fact made Lothon and his men grimace. After what had happened back in Koth, Lothon had insisted on going after Lorn with Lukien. He had lost five men when the Norvan had burst from the library, garbed in the Devil’s Armour in his hurry to flee. More would have died with them if Lothon hadn’t ordered them to stand down. They had let Lorn go, because Lothon knew they couldn’t stop him.

  Word had spread quickly about Thorin’s death. In the east, Duke Cajanis’ army collapsed, routed by Daralor and his Nithins and dispirited over the death of their benefactor. In Chancellery Square the same had occurred, where the Norvan mercenaries had first seen Baron Glass abandon them. King Raxor and the Reecians did not slaughter the Norvans, however, but rather pulled back from the city so that the Nithins and Lothon’s troops could take control. The city was still in chaos, but Gilwyn and Ghost were both safe within the library. Ghost’s wounds, though far less serious than Gilwyn’s, would take a long time to heal. Gilwyn, on the other hand, had healed miraculously. Already Lukien could not wait to return to his young friend. After so many months of separation, they had once again been separated. And because Gilwyn now wore the Eye of God, there were things Lukien needed to explain to him. When he had left the boy, he had seen the uneasiness on his face.

  For Lukien, the death of Baron Glass was the like the end of hope. All through his journey to Tharlara and back again, he had dared to imagine saving Thorin, bringing back the man he had once been. Instead, he had seen a shambling mound of humanity, with barely a hint of the once great and proud Thorin. But in the end, he had saved himself. That, at least, brought a sad smile to Lukien’s face.

  Count Lothon continued on without speaking, confident that soon they would find King Lorn. He was an old man now, but canny and fearless, with the same sense of righteousness Lukien remembered from years ago. Lukien was grateful for the noble’s company, but all of them knew they could do nothing against the Devil’s Armour. That bad business fell to Lukien alone, and to the sword slapping at his thigh. For Lukien, Malator had been like a bloodhound in leading them to his brother, but now the real battle was about to begin. As the plateaus began to rise up above them, Malator’s presence trembled with anticipation. The Akari spoke once again, his voice cool and certain.

  Lukien, he’s there, on the ledge ahead of us.

  Lukien looked up, and as he did the image of Lorn appeared, leaning out over the ledge. Lothon gasped, pointing up at him.

  ‘There he is!’

  The riders stopped immediately. Lukien put his hand on the pommel of his sword. Malator’s energy charged through him. Lorn gazed down and gave a small nod of regard. The helmet of the armour rested in the crux of his elbow. On his chest and arms, the black metal gleamed. He raised his chin and shouted down at his pursuers, his voice spilling down the hillside like a waterfall.

  ‘I’m here, Lukien,’ he declared. ‘I’m ready. To your left there’s a way up the hill. I’ll wait for you here.’

  Then he was gone, disappearing back behind the ledge. Lukien looked left and saw that there was indeed a grade to the hill, one that he could easily climb without his horse. The setting put him in a mind of another duel he had fought, just a few short years ago. There was no more time to rest or prepare himself. He had come this far with a purpose, and before he could ever return to Cassandra there was one more battle ahead. Knowing there was little he could do for the knight, Count Lothon once again took out his water skin and handed it to Lukien. This time, Lukien accepted.

  ‘We’ll be here. We won’t leave you,’ said the count.

  Lukien sipped at the water, then licked his sun-cracked lips. He handed the skin back to Lothon with thanks. ‘You’re a good man, Lothon, and you have good men following you. Whatever happens to me up there, remember to take care of Liiria.’

  ‘I have faith in you,’ said Lothon, smiling. ‘You’ve been dead more than once, but somehow you keep coming back again.’

  ‘It’s a curse,’ said Lukien. He slid down from his saddle. ‘No man should live forever, Count Lothon. Especially not King Lorn the Wicked.’

  ‘His head would make a fine trophy for my study. If you don’t mind. .’

  ‘I’ll oblige if I can,’ said Lukien, then turned and headed toward the grade.

  At the top of the plateau, Lorn waited with the helmet in his hands, quietly contemplating the view to his homeland. He regretted the need to kill Lukien, but was sure the knight would never relent. Kahldris began to speak to him, whispering in his mind, telling him about the greatness that awaited him in Carlion. They would rebuild Norvor together, said the demon. They would be invincible. It made no sense to mourn the death of a single man, Kahldris explained. Lukien and Malator were just two insignificant souls. In the great design of things, they mattered not at all.

  ‘Enough,’ Lorn muttered, shaking his head. ‘You are like a bad breakfast that won’t stay down, spirit. Get out of my mind.’

  The feeling of Kahldris faded from his brain, but not the energy he gave. Lorn flexed his fingers in their metal sleeves. He had never felt stronger, not even as a young man.

  ‘I’m not a man any more,’ he told himself. ‘I’m more than a man.’

  Silently he watched the edge of the plateau, waiting for Lukien to come.

  Lukien took his time climbing the grade, keeping the Sword of Angels sheathed to his side. Sweat dripped down his nose onto his boots as he walked, and he cursed himself for blundering so quickly into Lorn’s rocky lair. He should have waited, he supposed, and rested for the fight as Lorn had. But in the end Lukien didn’t really care. He wanted things to be over, and if that meant losing. .

  No, he told himself. I will not lose. For Thorin’s sake, I will have my vengeance.

  He reached the top of the grade a moment later, stepping onto the flat surface of the plateau and staring straight into Lorn’s eyes. The king surprised him by sighing.

  ‘You’re a mountain lion, Lukien,’ said Lorn. ‘I knew you’d find me wherever I hid.’

  Lukien looked around. The sky remained perfectly blue. ‘You picked a nice place to die, Lorn. You know what the Akari say — the place you die is where you spend eternity. I hope you like it here.’

  ‘Let me extend you a courtesy, Lukien. I know you won’t listen, but honour begs me to try. Turn around and go home. Go back to Liiria and find a hole to bury that sword. I don’t want to fight.�
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  Lukien stepped closer. ‘But I do. You’ve taken something dear to me, Norvan, and now I can’t get it back.’

  Lorn stood his ground. ‘Baron Glass tried to stop me, Lukien. Ghost, too. I am sorry Glass is dead, but he’s better off, I think.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Lukien. ‘The demon inside that suit of armour turned his brain to porridge. He’ll do the same to you unless you give him up.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Lukien. I can’t be king without the armour, and I can’t live without being king.’

  ‘And your daughter? What about her? What about the rest of the people in Jador and Grimhold? Once you get your kingdom back, will you ride against them next?’

  ‘I’ll send for my daughter and Eiriann once Carlion is mine again. With the help of the armour that should not be long.’

  He was still the Lorn that Lukien knew; there was no trace yet of Kahldris’ corruption. The old king was as hard and resolute as ever, and Lukien was sure there could be no reasoning with him. At last he drew his sword.

  ‘Then we are done talking.’

  Lorn frowned. ‘Regrettably, yes,’ he said, and placed the horned helmet over his head. Then he drew his own sword, not the Akari blade Thorin had used but the same one he had battled with against the mercenaries. As he stalked closer, he took the sword in both fists, making little circles in the air.

  Lukien parroted his dance, moving side to side, waiting for the first blow. Quickly he searched his mind for Malator, asking him the only question that mattered.

  When?

  Malator replied, When the metals touch, I will meet him in our world.

  ‘All right,’ said Lukien aloud, ‘get ready!’ and launched himself against Lorn. He was in the air, flying at the Norvan, and quickly plunging down his sword. Lorn moved just as quickly, but only with his forearm. Astonishingly, he released his sword with his right hand, bringing up his arm to block the Sword of Angels. Black and silver metals clashed, showering the men with sparks. Lukien felt the charge of it throughout his body like an icy rain. His sword skidded down the metal with a shriek, and he knew that part of Malator had left him, flying off to the world of the dead.