The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.)

by John Marco

  That night, Gilwyn found himself alone in the pavilion. Harani had left for a rendezvous with her husband, and Gilwyn had let her go with a promise that he would not get out of bed or try to leave the tent. Leaving, Gilwyn had already discovered, was impossible, for the Voruni guards posted at the exit would have no trouble at all stopping a groggy boy with a clubbed hand and foot. So he lay awake in his bed of colourful pillows, watching as moonbeams slanted through the walls and wondering how much longer he would have to remain. He had not forgotten his mission to find Thorin. Thoughts of his old friend plagued him. It had been weeks since he’d left Jador. By now, he should have been halfway to Liiria.

  ‘I may never get there,’ he whispered. ‘Or see White-Eye again.’

  Being morose wouldn’t help him, Gilwyn knew, but he had already struggled for days to find an answer. Maybe there wasn’t one, he realized. He was still weak. Worse, he remained in the clutches of a sworn enemy. He supposed Prince Aztar – if indeed he was still alive – was simply playing a cruel game with him and would kill him as soon as he was strong enough to walk up a gallows. Did the Voruni hang their prisoners the way Liirians did? Or did they just behead them with scimitars? Gilwyn rolled onto his side, thinking he would try to sleep, then glimpsed a shadowy figure entering the pavilion. It wasn’t Harani; Gilwyn knew that instantly. He held his breath, squinting for a better view. The figure paused in the threshold, then reached out a hand to pinch out the oil lamp, leaving only the one by Gilwyn’s bed lit.

  ‘Hello?’ Gilwyn called. He sat up, alarmed but curious. ‘Who’s there?’

  The figure – clearly a man – took a silent step closer. Gilwyn could barely see his face, shadowed as it was by darkness. Moonbeams and lamp light shone off his richly textured vest. A thick belt of gold surrounded his middle. He was tall, but stooped. He moved with effort, hiding himself in the darkness. An air of importance followed him into the tent. Gilwyn sat up tall, unsure what to expect.

  ‘You look well,’ said the man. His voice boomed in the silence, sounding neither pleased nor angry. ‘Better.’

  Gilwyn didn’t know whether to speak or stay quiet.

  ‘I am Aztar,’ the man pronounced. ‘And I live.’

  The words chilled Gilwyn. Aztar moved no closer.

  ‘Your name is Gilwyn Toms. You are from Jador?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are blessed by Vala.’

  ‘Your men saved me.’

  ‘You are blessed by Vala,’ repeated Aztar. ‘His hand is on your shoulder. It must be so for you to have survived the rass.’

  ‘Harani told me your men brought me here. I’m grateful for that.’ Gilwyn shifted, uncomfortable under the gaze of Aztar’s unseen face. ‘They could have left me to die.’

  ‘And you’re wondering why they didn’t.’

  ‘They saved me because you willed it,’ said Gilwyn. ‘That’s what I’m wondering about.’

  Prince Aztar stepped closer, still keeping himself in shadows. He was called the Tiger of the Desert, but he did not move like a tiger. His legs worked stiffly, as he compelled himself across the floor, going half the distance toward Gilwyn before pausing. When he stopped he looked at Gilwyn, studying him. Gilwyn stared back but could not make out Aztar’s features, except to note his beardless face, an odd thing among desert men.

  ‘You have a question,’ growled Aztar. ‘Ask it.’

  ‘I’m surprised is all,’ said Gilwyn. ‘You speak my language – I didn’t expect that.’

  ‘Voruni are not stupid.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’ Gilwyn struggled to see Aztar’s face. ‘You hate northerners.’

  Aztar seemed to sag. ‘Vala has taught me.’

  Gilwyn barely understood his meaning. ‘The battle of Jador,’ he said. ‘We thought you died.’

  ‘Disappointed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have waited months to speak to someone from Jador,’ said Aztar. ‘That is why my men pursued you. Not to kill you, but so I might speak to you.’

  ‘Speak to me? About what?’

  ‘I wronged Jador.’

  The confession shocked Gilwyn. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look at me, Gilwyn Toms. Have you not seen yet? Do you not know how beautiful I was before Vala’s fire?’

  Gilwyn asked, ‘You think it was Vala who made the fire?’

  ‘Your leader, the little one – she commanded the fire. I know that. But only Vala could have created such a thing. It was Vala’s hand coming down from heaven . . . to teach me.’ Aztar sighed, then finally stepped into the light of Gilwyn’s lamp. Instead of a handsome, confident face, Gilwyn glimpsed an ugly mask, reddened with scars and painful burns. ‘A lesson learned.’

  ‘I’m sorry for you,’ said Gilwyn. Beneath the scars and obvious confusion, there was kindness on Aztar’s face, even regret. ‘And I am grateful for you saving me.’

  ‘The rass would not have attacked you if my men had not given chase. You were theirs – and mine – to protect. Vala would have it no other way.’

  ‘Harani told me I’ve been here for twenty days,’ said Gilwyn. ‘I haven’t been out of this tent in all that time. I don’t even know where I am.’

  ‘We have kept you safe here,’ replied Aztar. ‘This is my place – my kingdom.’

  The boast made Gilwyn grimace. ‘The desert doesn’t belong to you, Prince Aztar,’ he said. It was why Aztar and Jador had warred in the first place.

  Aztar laughed, mocking himself. ‘Indeed no. Vala has already made that plain to me. But this camp is mine. This camp is my kingdom. It is all that’s left to me. And there are still those who follow me.’

  ‘Like Harani,’ said Gilwyn. ‘I’ve seen the way she speaks about you, like a god.’

  ‘Harani has a loyal heart. Not everyone is like her.’ Aztar shuffled closer, as though he were finally comfortable being seen by Gilwyn. ‘In the battle with Jador many were lost. Many others left soon after.’ The desert man paused in front of Gilwyn, cocking his head. ‘You look weary. Lay back while we speak.’

  Before Gilwyn could comply, Aztar sat himself down on the pillows near the bedding, just as Harani had many times before. Surprised, Gilwyn let himself relax. Still weak, he was happy to ease into the cushions.

  ‘Why have you come here?’ he asked. ‘Why do you want to speak to me?’

  Before she had gone, Harani had refreshed Gilwyn’s water, leaving two clean, golden cups near the basin. Aztar picked up one of the cups, filled it with sparkling water, and handed it to Gilwyn.

  ‘You are here to listen to my confession,’ Aztar replied, now filling his own cup. ‘I want you to know that I am no longer your enemy. I want you to know that Vala has changed me, and that I see his wisdom. And I wanted to see for myself the people He has chosen to touch.’

  Gilwyn held his cup but did not drink. ‘Chosen? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Do you know why I battled your people in Jador?’ asked Aztar. ‘Because I loved a woman. And because I thought the Serene One would allow me to spill the blood of innocents to get what I wanted.’ The prince looked contemplatively into his cup of water, frowning at his own reflection. ‘And now I am cursed. Vala has taken away my pride. But he has taught me much, too. He has humbled me.’

  Frustrated, Gilwyn leaned over and put his cup on the floor. ‘Prince Aztar, the people of Jador aren’t chosen by Vala. Many of them don’t even believe He exists. A lot of them are northerners, like me.’

  Aztar smiled. ‘You see how wise are the works of Vala? I could live a thousand years and never glimpse all his greatness. The Jadori do not even know the Serene One favours them, but he does. He allowed your people to summon the fire. He burned me and took away my pride.’

  ‘None of this makes sense to me,’ sighed Gilwyn. He knew it was Minikin who had summoned the fire, and that the fire had come from the great Akari, Amaraz. ‘I was riding through the desert. I don’t understand anything you’re talking about.’

  Pri
nce Aztar finally drank his water. He seemed endlessly patient. He sipped his water like tea, and when he was done placed the cup on the floor.

  ‘The woman I spoke of; she is no more than a girl, really. Her name is Salina, and you have never seen a more beautiful creature in all of creation. I craved her, and made a deal with her father to have her.’

  ‘Salina of Ganjor?’ Now Gilwyn was intrigued. ‘Yes, I know of her.’

  ‘Salina’s father Baralosus rules Ganjor. You must know that as well. And Baralosus is an ambitious beast. He loves his daughter dearly, but would cut her up and sell the pieces if it earned him the key to Jador and its powers. I had an argument with Jador and a burning passion for Salina. Baralosus knew this and bargained with me.’

  ‘A bargain. You would conquer Jador for Baralosus, and for that he would give you Salina.’

  ‘Just so. And I did not regret this bargain at all, because to me your people – you northerners especially – were rodents. You were soiling my desert, bringing disease. You needed to be destroyed, and truth be told I would have done so without the prize of Salina.’

  ‘But you were wrong?’ probed Gilwyn.

  Aztar nodded. ‘I was wrong. Before the battle, I prayed to Vala for victory. But I did not tell Him that I was doing this to win Salina, that I was killing in His name to slack my lust.’ He stuck his face out for Gilwyn to inspect. ‘Look at me. I have no beard. It does not grow now.’

  It was a profound admission. Aztar was Voruni, and Voruni men all had beards. They grew them from the earliest possible age, a sign of manhood and virility. Gilwyn knew that Aztar’s fire-smoothed face was an abomination to him.

  ‘Is that why your men have left you?’ he asked.

  ‘Some. Others left because their brothers died in the fire. More others because they felt the wrath of Vala on their own souls.’

  ‘But not everyone. Some have stayed.’

  ‘Yes. Even now Vala blesses me. He has not forsaken me. He teaches me. That is what I want you to know, Gilwyn Toms, and what I want you to tell the others. When you return to Jador, you must tell them that I am no longer their enemy. I release my claim to the desert. I will not kill those who come across it.’

  Gilwyn hesitated. He was relieved by the man’s words, but still afraid to tell too much. ‘Prince Aztar, that is difficult . . .’

  ‘Because of what I have done,’ said Aztar, nodding. ‘I do not expect you to trust me. But when you are able to return to Jador, tell them what I have said. Tell Shalafein.’

  ‘Shalafein? You mean Lukien?’

  ‘The one you call the Bronze Knight. Your protector. Many of my men have sought his head, but I have released the bounty. Tell Shalafein he is free now.’

  ‘I will when I can,’ said Gilwyn evasively, ‘but I am not going back to Jador, Prince Aztar, not yet. I have to go to Ganjor.’

  ‘When you have finished your business in Ganjor, then.’

  ‘No. When I am done in Ganjor I am going back north to Liiria, my homeland.’

  Aztar looked crestfallen. ‘But you will go back to Jador someday, yes?’

  The question saddened Gilwyn. ‘Yes. If I can.’

  ‘Good. Then you can give them my message when you return. I cannot tell them myself. I am too disgraced to face them.’ The prince rose from the floor. ‘I will not leave this camp.’

  ‘Ever?’

  ‘This is where I must remain, Gilwyn Toms. Alone.’

  ‘But what about Salina? What about your pact with Ganjor?’

  ‘My dealings with Baralosus are dead,’ Aztar declared. ‘And I will not see Salina again.’

  Aztar turned to go. And Gilwyn, feeling lost, looked blankly at his back as he retreated from the pavilion.

  ‘That’s it?’ he blurted. ‘Nothing more?’

  Aztar paused. ‘I have told you everything, boy. When you are able you can be on your way. I will not stop you.’

  ‘But I am going to Ganjor, Prince Aztar.’ Gilwyn thought for a moment, considering his words carefully. ‘If I can, I am going to meet with Princess Salina.’

  The mention of her name made the prince’s face slacken. ‘You know her?’

  ‘No. But she has helped us. She warned us of your attack. She was an ally to us, Prince Aztar, and I was told to seek out her help once I got to Ganjor.’

  Aztar blinked at the news, and Gilwyn could not read the strange expression on his face. Though he had just been told of betrayal, he simply looked empty. ‘If her father ever knew . . . he would kill her.’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ said Gilwyn. ‘There are men in the city I’m supposed to find, agents who work with Salina. They can take me to her.’

  ‘And what will you do when you find her?’ Aztar asked.

  Gilwyn shrugged. ‘Ask for her help. I’ll need a horse to take me the rest of the way north. Food and water, too.’

  ‘I can give you those things. You need not endanger Salina.’

  ‘You still care for her, then.’

  The prince’s face grew stormy. ‘Rest. And when you are ready be on your way.’

  Aztar left quickly through the tent flap. Gilwyn watched him go, confused by everything that had happened.

  A week later, Gilwyn was at last ready to leave Aztar’s camp. He had not seen the prince since that first moonlight meeting, and could not get any more information out of Harani. She cooked his food, mended his body, and entertained him with gossip from the camp, but when the subject turned to Aztar she refused to indulge. Only once did she hint at her master’s love for Salina, and only then obscurely. Eventually, Gilwyn gave up pursuing her. Deciding he needed to be on his way, he put his energies toward healing himself, alternating between rest and exercising his sore muscles, until at last he could walk without getting winded. The rass poison had done a remarkable job of weakening him, but the kindness of Harani and the generosity of Prince Aztar had healed him.

  And for that, Gilwyn was grateful.

  He had been in Aztar’s camp for almost a month, and knew it was time to leave. This he explained to Harani, who prepared for his departure the next morning. Good to her promise, she had a horse waiting for him and all the things he had brought with him from Jador, including the kingship ring Lorn had given him. His own horse had died in the rass attack, but the new one Aztar provided was a prize, indeed, a great, stout-hearted stallion of obvious breeding. Certainly, the horse had been worth more than Gilwyn could ever pay for it, and he puzzled over the grand beast as he prepared to leave the camp. Harani and her black-eyed husband watched as he studied the animal. Other Voruni had gathered as well. They had all grown accustomed to seeing Gilwyn in camp, and Gilwyn had grown to like them. Despite losing many of his followers, Aztar still had hundreds of people calling him master.

  Still, Aztar himself had not come to bid Gilwyn farewell. For a reason that confused Gilwyn, the prince’s absence disturbed him. He fiddled with the stallion’s tack, making sure his belongings were secure while Harani looked on, confused. The morning sun was already hot on his back, and when he looked eastward he saw the great expanse of desert still needing to be crossed.

  ‘Be well on your journey,’ said Harani, ‘and when you return, you will be welcome here.’

  Gilwyn smiled at her, pleased to see her husband agreeing with a nod. He had hardly spoken to Mazal at all, but had found him to be less fierce than his appearance.

  ‘I will,’ said Gilwyn. ‘Thank you for everything, Harani.’ He looked around at all the gathered faces. ‘Thank you to everyone.’

  ‘You are well enough now?’ asked Harani. ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gilwyn. ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Then why do you wait?’

  Gilwyn didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure why he hesitated. It might have been fear, he supposed, but then he realized it was not. It was unfinished business that kept him.

  ‘Harani, I want to see Prince Aztar,’ he said.

  Harani blanched at the suggestion. ‘No, Gilwyn.’
r />   ‘Please. I want to speak with him. It’s important.’

  ‘Tell me what you want to tell him. I will speak for you after you have gone.’

  ‘That won’t work,’ said Gilwyn. ‘I want to talk to him about Salina. Please . . .’

  Harani looked at her husband, who shrugged in confusion. The request left them both uncomfortable, but seeing that Gilwyn would not leave, Harani relented.

  ‘Come, then,’ she said, and started off into camp. Gilwyn followed eagerly. Aztar had been good to him, despite the plans he had laid against Jador. Gilwyn picked his way carefully across camp, trying to keep up with Harani, the special boot for his clubbed foot sinking heavily into the loose earth. Soon, Harani had taken him through the centre of the camp, across the outskirts and toward an outcropping of rock surrounded by desert sand. Here the morning sun beat down hotly, sending up a blinding reflection from the shimmering land. Gilwyn slowed, squinting to see better. They were alone now, a good distance from the pavilions. The noise of the Voruni and their animals fell away under the whisper of the wind.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Gilwyn asked.

  ‘To Aztar,’ said Harani. She pointed toward the outcropping. ‘There.’

  The rock itself rose out of the rugged desert, its jagged silhouette cutting the daylight. It was, Gilwyn realized, the tallest structure for miles, like a tiny mountain that had somehow wandered away from its mother range. There were no other people in the distance, only the sweeping dunes, but on the crest of the hill Gilwyn spotted a lone figure, cloaked in plain robes and kneeling, his head bowed, his hands flat against the stone.

  ‘Is he praying?’ asked Gilwyn.

  ‘Every morning he comes here to be near Vala,’ Harani answered.

  Gilwyn stared, struck by Aztar’s devotion. He seemed so alone on the rock – and so lonely. He took no notice of his visitors far below, but instead raised his voice in a musical chant, singing mightily as he turned his face toward the cloudless sky.

  ‘What is he praying for?’ Gilwyn wondered aloud.