by John Marco
All around, chaos reigned. Lukien drew back to survey the field. Breck was nowhere to be seen, lost somewhere in the melee. Suddenly all the Chargers who had been his friends became little more than faceless heroes, fighting and dying in droves. Lukien raised his sword to rally the men, knowing their cause was hopeless.
‘For Liiria!’ he cried. ‘For your freedom, men, join me!’
His armoured horse bucking beneath him, Lukien let the red glare of the amulet light his furious face. Chariots thundered past, their men tossing javelins through the air like lightning bolts. Suddenly encircled, Lukien laughed insanely.
‘Fight me, pigs! I am cursed to live forever! I am the bane of your lives!’
Fixing his glare on the nearest chariot, Lukien raced after it, determined to gut its three riders.
51
The Fall
Major Nevins had sent all his horsemen into battle on the hill, but knew now it wouldn’t be enough. He hadn’t really expected to hold out until midmorning, and so he considered the rising sun a small victory. But dead men were piling up around him, and Major Nevins realised his time as a soldier was growing short indeed. As he battled on, wiping sweat and blood from his brow as he fought to hold the road, he called hoarsely to his men to regroup near the yard, to confront the spearlike attack of the enemy and quite probably die.
The defenders had started the day with less than six hundred men. Nevins had not taken a count of his dead, but he could tell by the bodies in the road that he had lost at least half of them already. There were still a handful of men in the library itself, including Van who had dug in at the west wing, but the bulk of Nevins’ force was by now slain or exhausted. Overhead, the shots from the catapults continued to hammer the library. They had torn a great rent in the main facade, sending it crumbling down around Nevins and his men. As he stared at the heartbreaking wound in the library, Nevins realised what a folly it had been for them to think they could defend it. Now they were trapped.
‘Fall back!’ he cried, continuing to rally his men. He galloped through the chaos, shouting for Murdon. ‘To the yards, Murdon! Get to the yards!’
Murdon heard his commander’s cries and tried desperately to disengage, but the enemy was everywhere suddenly, flooding against him and his brigade like a tidal wave. If they could make it to the yards. .
But they did not. Nevins watched in misery as a team of Norvan axe-men cut past the perimeter and made for Murdon’s position. Murdon, confused in all the combat, did not see the weapon slicing toward his head.
‘Fate no!’ cried Nevins, watching Murdon’s head split open, the axe-men storming over his fallen body.
Unstoppable, thought Nevins. The wall of Norvan mercenaries continued to rise up the road, gathering speed no matter how many barriers he threw in their way. With no choice but to fight on, Nevins raced for the yard to make his last stand.
Rodrik Varl was surprised it had taken all morning to secure the road, but at last it was done. As his mercenaries pushed the remains of the Liirians into the yards around the library, Varl and the men around him rode to the front of the battle. An uneasy quiet had settled over the hill as the Liirians dug into their positions around the broken walls of the library. Varl’s men were thick in the road, almost choking it in their own zeal to crest the hill. Behind them, a great battering ram was being dragged slowly up the winding avenue, large enough to splinter the doors of the place once the way was cleared. Rase and a handful of his men greeted Varl as he finally reached the hilltop. The Liirian arrows from the library had temporarily stopped.
‘Roddy, it’s ours,’ Rase called from horseback, waving his comrade closer.
Varl rode to him, keeping a careful eye on the library. The top of the hill was a vast plain with grounds much larger than Varl had anticipated. Though they had crested the road, the real work could now begin. It would be dirty work to dig out the defenders, he knew, with all the unknown dangers of the huge library itself.
‘Call a halt to the catapults,’ Varl said to one of his men. ‘Cease fire.’
The man, named Five-Finger Frain because he only had one hand, had already anticipated the order. He rode back down the hill toward the catapults, relaying Varl’s command.
‘Rase, keep your men back,’ said Varl.
Rase, too, already knew what to do. He called to his men to hold their positions. All at once the fighting stopped. The Liirians in the yard, some on horseback, many waiting behind rocks and fallen parts of the wall, stared out across the field. One man — an officer by the looks of him, sat atop a filthy horse at the forefront of the broken army. He glared contemptuously at the mercenaries as he waited for their move.
‘You there,’ Varl called to him, riding forward. ‘Do you speak for these men?’
The question baffled the officer, who looked around hesitantly, no doubt waiting for some Norvan trick. Chancing an arrow in the chest, Varl rode out from the safety of his men, until only fifty yards separated him from the Liirians.
‘I’m Rodrik Varl, commander of this army,’ he declared. ‘I offer you surrender.’
The officer stared at him in disbelief. Behind him a Liirian shouted an obscenity at the Norvans. The officer held up a hand to silence his men.
‘I’m Major Nevins,’ he said. ‘I’m in command here. What is this surrender you offer?’
‘Your lives spared, your territory ours,’ replied Varl. ‘It’s over, Major. You cannot win and you know it. In an hour you will certainly be dead. In twice that time so might everyone else.’
‘You’re a boaster, Norvan,’ sneered Nevins. ‘We are prepared to fight.’
‘Yes, I’m sure that’s so,’ said Varl. ‘But why die terribly when you can live? This library is ours, Major. Your city is ours. You are a Liirian, a man of the Fate? Then see the truth — the Fate has made this so, and you cannot change it.’
Nevins’ face went from defiant to ashen. There was no disputing Varl’s words, and both men knew it.
‘Look out there,’ said Varl, pointing to the city below. ‘That army is not this army. This army is mine. It follows my orders, but I have no sway over the army now taking your city or the monster that leads it. And we do not have all day for this, Major. Surrender now, and we’ll grant you safe passage off this hill, all of you, before Baron Glass can stop you.’
The impossibility of the offer showed on Nevins’ troubled face. ‘You would do this? Defy orders?’
‘I have no love for that madman,’ said Varl. This time he gestured to Glass’ far-away command post. ‘Even now he watches us from his hillside. Your time is short, Major.’
The men behind Nevins began coming out from their hiding places. A pair of lieutenants rode up beside him. All of them watched the major desperately.
‘There are women and children here, Norvan,’ he said. ‘What promise do you make us that they will be unharmed?’
‘You have my word, and that should be good enough for any man.’
‘Your word is useless to me,’ said Nevins.
‘Maybe, but it’s all any of us have. I could kill you right now, Major. Consider that at least.’ Varl threw his sword down into the dirt between them. ‘Trust me.’
Baron Glass spent the hours of morning hearing reports from his messengers and remaining as detached as possible from the battle unfolding below. Lord Demortris had made good progress and his Norvan army had taken the main avenue of Koth, pushing the fighting into side streets. According to their scouts, Kaj and his Crusaders had taken a good bit of the eastern city, too, forcing Breck’s commander, a man named Andri, into house-to-house fighting. In some places, Thorin could see plumes of smoke rising from the city. Around Lionkeep a leaping fire raged, spouting blackness into the air. Chancellery Square had become a battleground too, its once proud parade field flooded now with Vicvarmen and handfuls of Royal Chargers. At the library, Rodrik Varl’s men had taken the road. Messengers continued to return from Library Hill with encouraging reports, claiming the Liiria
ns had engaged them first but that the battle had quickly turned in their favour.
Bored with sitting atop his horse, Baron Glass had removed his helmet to stand beneath a tree where he could receive the constant flow of scouts and confer with his aides. They were in no danger at all on the hillside, surrounded by bodyguards and a safe distance from the fighting below.
But by the time noon came, Baron Glass had endured enough of the tedium. Sure that Koth’s main avenue was secure and eager to feed the demanding Kahldris, he dismissed his messengers and told his aides to make ready to ride. Hearing his orders, Kahldris flared to life within him. The armour seared Thorin’s flesh. He felt his head rush with staggering energy.
‘Baron Glass, what is it?’ queried his aide Colonel Thayus, noticing his distress.
Thorin steadied himself. On his body, the armour was coming to life again. Thayus and the others backed away at the sight, shocked by the animation in the armour’s many designs.
‘It’s all right,’ said Thorin. ‘Do not fear it. It is the magic of the armour making me strong.’
Along his breastplate and vambraces and pauldrons and skirt, the tiny figures of the armour came magically to life, moving like spirits over the metal. Their movements connected Thorin to the death world, the world of Kahldris. He suddenly felt indestructible. The Devil’s Armour glowed.
He should have ridden a dragon into battle, but he had only a horse. Baron Glass fixed his helmet on his head once again and saddled his stallion, then rode down the hillside to join the bloody combat.
Sweat and blood darkened Lukien’s vision as he battled through the street. For hours he had tried to hold the main avenue, but he had been pushed back into a side street by the relentless onslaught of Norvans. A company of Royal Chargers had joined him in the street, holding back the Vicvarmen as they swarmed through the nearby houses. Armed with axes and maces, the infantrymen stalked like wolves against the better trained Chargers, outnumbering and surrounding them. One by one, Lukien had watched his comrades fall. He could not guess at their losses. A chaotic haze had fallen over the city, blanketing it with noise and suffocating smoke.
Only the amulet gave Lukien strength. When he faltered, it filled his failing body again with power. He continued to fight now, dragging Norvans to their screaming deaths, forcing his weary horse through the crowded street. He had no idea how his comrades fared, or even if Breck was still alive. He had heard chatter about the east side of the city, and how it had fallen to Norvan mercenaries. Lionkeep, they said, was in flames. Lost and blind in the narrow street, Lukien couldn’t tell fact from rumour. He could only watch as Thorin’s army poured from the hills.
Then, a voice reached Lukien’s ears.
‘Lukien!’ it cried. ‘Here!’
Near the intersection rode Aric, waving frantically. Blood trickled down his face, staining his battered armour. He was alone, amazingly, having somehow pulled himself free of the melee. Lukien slashed his blade from left to right, cutting a path toward Aric through the men.
‘Where’s Breck?’ he cried. ‘Does he live?’
Young Aric sped his horse forward. ‘This way, Lukien,’ he called, pointing back toward the main avenue. ‘Near the Rolgan lord!’
Not really understanding, Lukien squeezed his warhorse through the street toward Aric, who turned his own mount and led the way back out. As they rounded the corner, Lukien saw what Aric had meant — the Rolgan commander had entered the city beneath his standard, pinning down a group of Chargers. Lukien peered through the storm of steel and arrows, stunned by the number of Norvans. He could barely make out the Chargers stuck between them, now surrounded and certainly doomed.
‘Breck!’
Mad with rage, Lukien ordered his horse into the horde, striking in every direction as he struggled toward Breck. Atop his wobbling horse, Breck’s exhausted face caught a glimpse of him, his expression grave and hopeless as he tried to break from the garrotte of men. Chargers fell around him, dying under Norvan swords. Lukien cursed as he tried to move forward, almost in tears as the mass frustrated his efforts.
‘Breck, hold on! I’m coming!’
Behind him, Aric Glass gave a shout. A trumpet sounded somewhere in the distance. Lukien looked toward the city gates. Beyond the Rolgan cavalry and soldiers from Vicvar, another standard was moving down the hillside. Lukien let his sword fall loosely at his side, stunned at the sight.
Thorin Glass, his body almost luminescent in his black armour, had come down from his hill to enter the city. With the great horned helmet shielding his face, he was the most unholy thing Lukien had ever seen. He gathered darkness to him as he rode, unhurried, sitting proud atop his snorting charger, keeping pace with the Norvan flagman marching beside him. Aric gasped when he saw the baron, almost forgetting the raging war.
‘Father. .’
Unable to reach Breck, Lukien cried out in anguish. The Rolgan commander had closed the distance between them, homing in on Breck with a feathered javelin. Breck saw the Rolgan racing toward him. Failing to free himself, he shook his fist over the crowd at Lukien.
‘Lukien!’ he cried. ‘Find Thorin!’
And then he was gone, lost behind the Rolgan horsemen. Lukien imagined him skewered on the javelin. There was nothing to be done for Breck now, he knew. Even the Rolgan lord was of no consequence. Breck’s last words rang in Lukien’s skull.
‘Aric, get out of the city,’ he said. ‘Get out now — take whoever you can with you and leave.’
‘What?’ sputtered Aric. ‘You mean retreat?’
‘Yes!’ said Lukien. He spun his mount to face the avenue. ‘Breck’s dead. Koth is lost. The library doesn’t stand a chance, either. Now do what I say, boy — get out now.’
‘What will you do?’ asked Aric. He looked around frantically for a way to escape. ‘Will you come with me?’
‘No,’ said Lukien, fixing his glare on Thorin as he made his way toward the city. ‘There’s something else that needs doing.’
52
Battle in Bronze
Thorin had made it halfway to the city when he saw the figure of Lukien riding furiously toward him. Amazingly, he had fought his way past the Norvans in his gore-slicked armour, shouting Thorin’s name over the din. The sight of him made Thorin rein back his horse. The rest of his company came to a sudden halt. Lukien was galloping like a maniac now, sword in hand, breaking away from the army that pursued him. As he approached Thorin’s aides rushed forward.
‘No!’ Thorin roared. ‘Let him come!’
His aides regarded him, stunned. Colonel Thayus could barely keep himself from riding toward the knight. ‘Baron Glass, think clearly, now,’ he protested. ‘That man comes to slay you. .’
‘Let him come,’ repeated Thorin. He did not draw his blade or make any move forward. ‘All of you, hold your positions. Tell the men to keep back and break off the chase.’
Thayus and the others unhappily complied, calling out Thorin’s orders. At once his bodyguards backed away; the men giving chase fell back. Lukien took no notice of any of it. When he was twenty paces from Thorin, he jerked his horse to a halt.
An angel of death. .
The words popped into Lukien’s mind the moment he saw Thorin. The Devil’s Armour had come alive on him, writhing with magic and shining blackly in the sun. The man that had once been Thorin Glass had been suffocated by it, his face hidden behind a horned death’s head. He looked enormous to Lukien, a giant from some netherworld, his eyes two dark orbs, his teeth like those in a flesh-stripped skull. He watched Lukien, unafraid, unmoving, all his loyal cutthroats standing aside. His terrifying head nodded in greeting.
‘Hello, my friend,’ he said, his voice booming. The sound of it was almost unrecognisable. Lukien fought hard to contain his revulsion.
‘Thorin. .’
‘I knew you would come, Lukien. I knew you would never let me be.’
‘Thorin, I’ve come to save you,’ said Lukien. Very carefully he trotted forward a f
ew paces, then stopped again. ‘Listen to me now — you are possessed. You’re not in control of yourself. That thing inside the armour — it has taken your mind.’
If the face behind the helmet moved, Lukien could not see so.
‘You are wrong, Lukien. Kahldris has helped me. He’s made me whole again.’ Thorin flexed his left arm, the arm that should not have been there. ‘You see? I am an entire man again! And better and stronger, too.’
‘No, Thorin, look!’ said Lukien, gesturing over his shoulder toward the smoking city. ‘You see how he’s maddened you? That is his doing! Baron Thorin Glass would never occasion such a thing!’
‘It is the way of things, Lukien. Liiria needs a ruler to be great again. Once I’ve conquered Koth I will take the whole of Liiria. Then there will be order.’
‘Whose order, Thorin? Yours?’ Lukien shook his head. ‘The Baron Glass I know would never harm Liiria. He loves Liiria.’
‘Love is cruel, my friend. Is not a father’s love as cruel sometimes? You would have Liiria suffer forever, wallowing in its own filth. It cannot be that way; I’ll not allow it.’
‘And I’ll not let you go any further, Thorin.’ Lukien put up his sword and glared at his friend. ‘If you will not listen to reason, you may not pass.’
The brave statement seemed to humour Thorin’s aides. The baron silenced them with a raised fist. ‘Lukien, you cannot stop me. I beg you, do not try.’
Quelling his fear, Lukien held on to his sword. ‘I wear the amulet, Thorin,’ he said, remembering what Amaraz had said months ago. ‘It will not let me die or be defeated.’
‘You are wrong, Lukien. Kahldris has told me about your Akari. He does not have the means to end this.’
Was that true? Lukien wondered. Amaraz had told him he would find the means to defeat the armour. But when? He was out of time. All he could do was trust the amulet.