The Sword Of Angels eog-3

by John Marco

  Malator emerged headlong into the dead place, stepping into being as if born from a mist. Around him, he saw the place where he had died in Tharlara, full of story stones, the sky overhead pink with twilight. The serpent people who had sheltered him were nowhere to be found, but he was not alone in the garden. Ahead of him was Kahldris, looking youthful and fit, dressed as the general he had been in life. Resting in his fist was a hoka, the long sword with a slightly curved blade he had always favoured. Malator glanced down at his own hand and found the same type of blade there, emblazoned with the crest of their family. Unlike his brother, Malator did not wear the heady garb of a general. He had chosen to come to this world the way he had lived his final days, dressed in the simple garb of the Tharlarans. Kahldris, looking grand in his armour, smirked at Malator’s choice of uniform. The reunion between them had been ages in the making. Yet Malator could not think of a single thing to say. When they were alive, Malator did not hate his brother, and so did not hate him now. It was more important to fear Kahldris, Malator knew. The key to Kahldris was the depths of his obsessions.

  Kahldris’ smile widened as he studied his surroundings, looking completely out of place in the peaceful setting. ‘This is where you came,’ he said with a deep breath. ‘This is what you left us for. It reminds me of you, Malator. You’re like the flowers here — weak and pretty.’

  His brother was much as Malator remembered, larger in every proportion and much fiercer looking than Malator. Kahldris took after their father, also a man of the Akari military. Their delicate mother had gifted Malator with her bones, making him light on his feet, like a dancer. The older Kahldris had always envied his sibling’s speed. Where Kahldris was the thinker of the pair, a military mastermind, it was the smaller, slighter Malator who was the better with a sword — and in combat. Kahldris seemed not to remember that, however, looking supremely sure of himself. He touched the point of his hoka lightly with his finger, preparing himself for the battle.

  ‘Tell me, brother — did you find what you were looking for here? Were these sweet-minded gardeners willing to come to your aid?’

  ‘They were,’ said Malator. ‘They were brave and kind to me and they would have helped us in Kaliatha.’

  ‘But we were out of time,’ Kahldris reminded him angrily, ‘because you ran away. I made the armour for you, brother, and you turned your back on it, on all of us.’

  ‘And you’ve believed that lie forever,’ said Malator. ‘I pity you, brother. You’ve wasted your eternity hating me.’

  Kahldris grinned. ‘I’ll feel better once you’re gone. Then all the obstacles will be out of my way.’

  Flexing his hoka, Malator sprang toward his brother, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was done talking. The time had come at last.

  The Sword of Angels screamed as it cut through the air, a glowing tail of flames stretched out behind it. Each time it cracked against the Devil’s Armour, fire flew from its blade. Lukien’s hand burned with its power; his fingers coiled perfectly around its hilt. Like the living metal of Lorn’s black suit, the weapon came to life in Lukien’s grasp, writhing and stretching as it sang its magical tune. Lorn had withstood every blow, blocking some while others snuck through his defenses, ineffectually smashing the armour but nevertheless driving him back. He was a fine swordsman, nearly Lukien’s equal, and the Devil’s Armour made him fearless. His black limbs were everywhere, spinning and kicking, forcing Lukien to move like lightning to avoid his heavy blows. Time slipped from Lukien’s mind, meaningless. Had it been a minute since he’d climbed the hill? An hour? In the heat of the me?le?e, only movement mattered, the deadly ballet of combat.

  Fire erupted from Lukien’s sword as he swept low for the mid-section. Lorn moved faster than any man could, pivoting to smash the sword aside. The death’s head he wore was ablaze with rage, its skull-like features changing with its wearer. Lorn moved in, butting Lukien with his shoulder and sending him sprawling. The concussion knocked the wind from his lungs. He rolled back and sprang to his feet, summoning the magic from his blade.

  ‘Malator, help me send this beast to hell!’

  He had only to speak the spirit’s name to feel his other-worldly muscle. It flooded him, scintillating down the length of the sword and into his arm, filling his body with strength. Again he sprang, growling like a tiger and threading the sword past Lorn’s own, straight for the hateful helmet. Blinded by sparks of fire, Lorn staggered. For the first time his weapon came up clumsily, nowhere near Lukien. Pressing the advantage, Lukien slammed the flat of his weapon against Lorn’s head. Amazingly, he shouted, not in pain but in frustration.

  In the world of the dead, Malator too pressed his attack, smashing his own weapon against his brother’s armoured shoulder. No fire flew from his hoka, no magic music came off the blade. There was only the old-fashioned screech of steel as the siblings crashed again and again, trading blows and the advantage, each of them growing fatigued. It didn’t matter that they were dead already or that they had no bodies to exhaust. Here in this corporeal state, they had chosen to focus their hatreds, making them real. No one would die here in the dead place, but one would be vanquished even so, and in the world of the living they would perish, expunged from that realm forever. Both knew the stakes were impossibly high, and both Akari gave no quarter. Kahldris slashed relentlessly at Malator, using his greater strength to wear his brother down. Always too quick, Malator danced away from his brother’s hoka, spinning and jumping and then coming again to attack.

  ‘I’m your better, brother, face it,’ spat Malator. ‘We can fight forever and you would never win.’

  ‘Then let it be forever!’ Kahldris roared. He broke off his attack, fading back to catch his footing. Around them the world began to change. Slowly, others popped in to being, the ghostly bodies of fellow Akari coming to see the siblings duel. Unnerved, Kahldris looked at him with spite. ‘Cowards! I gave you all the means to save yourselves!’

  The spirits did not answer him, they simply kept coming, rising up from the story stones or drifting down from the sky until there were hundreds of them shimmering in the light of the undead sun.

  ‘They know you, Kahldris,’ said Malator. ‘They remember you for the madman you were.’

  Kahldris kept his distance from his brother, unable to look away from the accusing Akari. ‘They let themselves be slaughtered because they were too afraid,’ he said. His face showed more than loathing now. A hint of regret glimmered in his eyes. ‘Why were you such sheep?’ he asked them, looking up as more of them descended. ‘All I wanted was to save us all!’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ said Malator. ‘Every Akari knows the truth. You were a butcher, brother. You were depraved and they were right to fear you. Now they come to see your end.’

  Kahldris shook his head. ‘They are wrong, and so are you. No one knew my heart. Tell me I wasn’t right about the Jadori, Malator. Tell me they weren’t animals! They came and massacred us, and you were nowhere to be found.’ He turned to his unwanted audience, shouting as he spun to see the whole garden. ‘You hate me? He was the one who abandoned us!’

  Throughout the story garden, the spirits were silent. Enraged by them, Kahldris came again at his brother, screaming and raising his weapon. This time, though, his attack seemed slower. His maddened face twisted with a new kind of anguish. Malator ducked left, easily dodging the attack. His brother turned as he blew by, snarling into Malator’s face.

  ‘End me!’

  Malator reared back. His brother lowered his sword, looking pitiful.

  ‘I can’t beat you,’ Kahldris groaned. ‘And I can never win their hearts.’ The ancient general tossed his sword at Malator’s feet. ‘Damn you for being better. For being loved when I was hated. Damn you forever, Malator.’

  For a moment Malator was dumbstruck, too astounded to move. The audience of his fellow Akari moved in to circle the siblings, waiting for the end.

  ‘Send me back,’ said Kahldris. ‘Send me back so I never ne
ed look at them again.’

  Malator understood. There was no place so peaceful as that private place of death. Malator’s was this garden. Kahldris’ was a tomb-like temple full of stone and moss. Despite its coldness, he longed to return there. The old general no longer seemed young to him. To Malator, he was as ancient as the world, his face poisoned by rage and madness. He refused to look at his fellow Akari as they closed in around him, staring instead at the brother he despised. Even now, Malator realized, Kahldris hated him.

  ‘I do this out of mercy, brother,’ said Malator. He raised his hoka. ‘Not out of spite.’

  The blade came down at Kahldris’ neck, delivering a perfect killing blow. If Kahldris had been alive, his head would have split from his body in a fountain of blood. But in the world of the dead, he simply disappeared.

  Lukien fought until his arms and legs burned, until exhaustion turned to agony and his breath came in gasps. He had fought and given it his all, and he knew that no matter how much he gave he could never make the armour yield nor the man inside it submit. Lorn, too, seemed depleted from the fight, kept erect only by the Devil’s Armour, which still gleamed with unblemished perfection despite a hundred well-placed blows. Hopelessness took hold of Lukien. Down at the bottom of the plateau, Lothon and his fellow Liirians were watching, sure that the end was drawing near. Knowing he could not go on yet refusing to yield, Lukien wound back for one more attack. As he did, he felt Malator rush back into his sword.

  The tidal wave of new found strength dazzled Lukien. All at once his aching muscles filled with vigour. Holding high the Sword of Angels, he saw Lorn drop back, as if struck by some unseen force. Instantly the light of the armour died away. The skull-shaped helmet froze, lifeless. Lorn, clearly stunned, raised his eyes to Lukien and the sword hanging high above him. This time, the Norvan gave no defense.

  It was over. In the netherworld, Malator had won and both men knew it. Lorn, however, made no plea. Before the blade could fall he reached up and pulled off the helmet, looking death full in the face. He seemed to know it was deserved.

  Lukien thought only of Thorin. He brought down the sword, bringing an end to King Lorn the Wicked.

  PART FOUR

  THE LAST ADVENTURE

  85

  Ghost tore the gaka from his face when he saw Jador, shouting in triumphant glee. He held the long stretch of fabric high above his head, waving it like a flag, bouncing happily on the back of his drowa as the desert sun beat down on his pale pink skin. Ahead of him, barely visible in the blinding light, the white structures of Jador appeared, peeking over the dunes. Ghost let the howl trill from his throat, turning to see Lukien and Gilwyn. Lukien said nothing. The deep satisfaction of seeing Jador again was beyond words. Gilwyn too, was silent, his mind clearly on White-Eye.

  ‘There she is!’ cried Ghost. ‘I told you, Lukien. Did I tell you? We’ll be there before nightfall!’

  Lukien lumbered up to him on his drowa, happy to admit he was wrong. Neither he nor Gilwyn had thought they would reach Jador before the day ended, and had already began preparing themselves for another night in the desert. It had been four long days since they had left Ganjor, and the prospect of one more night spent beneath the stars did nothing for Lukien’s mood. Now, as he saw the city growing on the horizon, he knew his long journey was at an end.

  At last.

  You’re home, Lukien. Malator sounded almost melancholy. And so am I, I suppose.

  Lukien smiled, understanding his Akari’s — his friend’s — meaning. It was impossible to keep secrets from him, so Lukien never tried. This time, though, there was nothing to answer. Before he could reply to the spirit, Gilwyn sidled up to him, raising his eyebrows at Lukien.

  ‘Will she be waiting for me, do you think?’

  The boy’s mind was forever on White-Eye. White-Eye had been a major point of conversation on the long ride south, and Gilwyn had big plans for the two of them. Mostly, though, he just wanted to see her again.

  ‘I think,’ said Lukien wryly, ‘that she would walk across the desert to find you.’

  Gilwyn puffed, looking supremely confident. ‘I can’t wait to see what she’s like now. When I left she was more of a girl than a queen.’

  ‘She’s Kahana White-Eye now,’ said Lukien. ‘I think you’ll be pleased.’

  Ghost whipped around, scolding, ‘Come on, already! Enough talking. Let’s ride!’

  They were in no hurry, though, and so Lukien merely waved at Ghost, telling him to lead the way. After so many months trekking across the world, Lukien had learned a few things about patience. Instead of rushing, he was satisfied to savour the last leg of his journey, if it was in fact the last. His drowa loped slowly after Ghost. The remarkable beasts had been given to them by King Baralosus. Upon entering Ganjor, the king and his daughter Salina had welcomed them, letting them rest in the palace before setting off once more to Jador. They had spent four lavish days there, pampered by Baralosus’ servants and listening to Salina’s stories. She had greeted them like heroes, and Baralosus, who had kept the peace with Jador, had encouraged them to stay, even sending messengers to Jador with word that the three were alive and would soon be returning home. Lukien liked Baralosus. Some still thought him a tyrant, but Lukien had known real tyrants in his life and saw Baralosus more like a benign despot. His daughter, of course, was the real jewel of Ganjor, a beautiful girl with a sterling heart. She still grieved for Aztar and it showed, making her pretty face sad when it should have glowed with joy. During their time together, Lukien had found a moment to share a special truth with her, telling her that true love never dies.

  Thinking of Salina turned Lukien to thoughts of Cassandra once more, then to Gilwyn and his love for White-Eye. He stole a glance at his happy friend, noting the Eye of God glimmering beneath his shirt. The wound that Thorin had given him months ago had healed completely, leaving only a faded scar, and Gilwyn claimed he felt no pain from it at all. Adjusting to life with the amulet would prove far tougher, Lukien knew. So far, Amaraz had been as silent to Gilwyn as he’d always been with Lukien, but the aloofness of the great Akari gave Gilwyn no offense. The boy already had a spirit of his own, one to whom he was willingly bound. Amaraz had merely one duty to Gilwyn — to keep him alive.

  ‘How long will I live?’ Gilwyn had asked Lukien upon his return to the library. He was in a bed, looking frail and frightened, and Lukien had just returned from battling Lorn. He had no answers for his friend. He still did not. All he could do was beg Gilwyn’s forgiveness for saving him and cursing him with immortality.

  Hanging from Lukien’s drowa, a drab burlap sack bounced against the creature’s side. Inside, Lukien carried a gift for Minikin, one that he had brought with him all the way from Liiria. He would explain to her how Lorn had died, and he supposed he would have to tell Eiriann, as well. He barely knew the young woman, but for some reason she had loved the salty Norvan. Things were different in Liiria now. Not better, really, at least not yet, but at last the country had a chance, a start at a new day. Count Lothon and his small army of Liirians had begun the work of reconstruction, and King Raxor of Reec had pledged to help them, to protect them from Norvan bandits while that poor nation slid deeper into chaos. It was Lorn’s sad legacy that Norvor no longer had a leader. Once again, civil war and madness ruled there.

  But for Lukien, the fate of Norvan no longer mattered, and he had only small interest in the goings-on in Liiria, too. He had said his last farewells to his homeland. He had done the things he had promised to do, fulfilling every duty, every small point of honour. Now, at last, his time had come. For the first time in a long time, his destiny was his own.

  By the time they reached the outskirts of Jador, word had already spread of their arrival. The narrow streets of the ramshackle town outside the white wall had filled with onlookers, many of whom knew Lukien by name and shouted to him as he entered the city. Gilwyn, too, received accolades, many from young girls who had grown up adoring him. He blushed a little
as they blew him kisses, while Ghost jealously shook his head. Having replaced the gaka around his face, the albino had returned to anonymity. The crowds, however, were happy to see them all, and as they made their way across the township they returned the waves and shouts, basking in the warmth of their countrymen.

  The people of the town followed them as they rode on toward the white wall, becoming a long train of humanity by the time they reached the tower and its big brass gate. As expected, the gate was open wide, and the people of Jador had spilled out into the avenue, mingling with the town’s people. Near the gate stood Minikin, a little hunched over and supporting herself with a cane. Some of the Inhumans from Grimhold stood around her, and as always her bodyguard Trog was there, casting his giant shadow over the little woman. White-Eye stood close to Minikin, smiling excitedly as she heard the crowd approaching. Gilwyn saw her and cried out a greeting, lifting himself off the back of his drowa. Ghost tossed up his hands, waving at everyone, while Lukien simply smiled stoically, glad to be back. His happiness faded, however, when he saw Eiriann standing behind Minikin. Her father was with her, as were some of the other Seekers she had come with to Jador. In her arms she held Lorn’s daughter, Poppy. The child was much bigger than when Lukien left, squirming in Eiriann’s arms, sensing the excitement despite her blindness. She watched the men returning, her disappointment evident. In the message he had sent from Ganjor, Lukien had mentioned nothing of Lorn’s death, only Thorin’s.