The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.)

by John Marco

  ‘And you brought her to me and made me happy. Rise.’

  Chane got to his feet but could not bring himself to look at his king. In his heart, he had betrayed Raxor. He had even tried to bed Mirage. Would his king be so forgiving if he knew that too?

  ‘Let me show you my devotion, my lord,’ he begged. ‘Let me kill Baron Glass and his bitch queen. Say the word, please . . .’

  ‘You have your leave, Corvalos. Do it and be well. And when you are done and Baron Glass is dead, your service to me will be over.’

  ‘My lord,no . . .’

  ‘It’s time for you to live your life, Corvalos,’ said Raxor easily. ‘While you are young enough to enjoy a woman, you must find yourself one. Have children. Know that joy before you die. That is how you can serve me best.’

  The offer overwhelmed Chane. Since he could remember, he had been in Raxor’s service, first as a soldier, then as a bodyguard. He had devoted his whole life to the king and had never regretted it until he’d been alone with Mirage – when his own stupid drunkenness had made him forget his vow.

  ‘My lord, I promise you – Baron Glass will not return from Richter. Let him call his demon. Let him summon all the devils of hell. They will not save him from me.’

  51

  In the waning sun of twilight, a tiny mass of two-hundred men wound their way through the dunes of the desert, watching the eastern horizon for their unseen enemies. They had ridden for most of the day, leaving behind loved ones in the Skein and the meagre homes they had made for themselves among the brush and blowing sands. Mounted on drowas, the men had dressed for battle, bearing scimitars at their sides and carrying the long lances they would use for the charge. Around their faces they wore dark wraps. Black gakas draped their bodies. They had no long bows for distant combat, but some brought smaller, nimble bows with them, the kind that could be fired quickly from the back of a galloping drowa. The mass moved with purpose across the soft earth of the desert, determined to meet their foes by sun fall, sure to a man that they would not see the morning.

  Prince Aztar rode at the front of the force, sitting tall despite his pain and weariness, proud of the men he was leading to their deaths. They were Voruni, the hard and powerful nomads of the desert, and because he was their master they would follow him to hell. Without complaint, they had followed Aztar throughout the day, kissing their wives and children farewell and mounting their drowas to confront Baralosus’ army. Scouts returning from the desert had told Aztar that the Ganjeese were no more than a day’s ride from the Skein, riding slowly but undaunted toward Aztar’s humble camp. And Aztar, determined to keep the bloodshed as far as possible from the children, had ordered his men to make ready to ride. It was, he determined, as good a time as any to die, and he was not afraid. He had prayed mightily for guidance and Vala had given it to him. This time, he was sure he was on the right side.

  The plea he had sent to the other tribes had gone mostly unheeded, but in the last day before the march some fifty men had come to join him, bringing their own drowa and weapons with them. They had come from each of the five Voruni tribes peppered throughout the area, mostly lawless men who had no standing in their own tribes and who, like so many others, respected Aztar’s stance. They knew that this would be the prince’s last stand, and somehow that moved them. Knowing they would die, they could think of no better place to perish than at the side of a legend.

  Aztar himself had no such illusions. He had already led men to slaughter, and because he had chosen his enemies so poorly Vala had punished him. He was not the myth so many thought he was, but rather just a man with troubles. Still, he rode with confidence in the waning light, eager to glimpse Baralosus’ army. And because his brother Baraki had come he was not afraid at all. Bouncing atop his sauntering drowa, his scarred body burdened by heavy battle clothes, Aztar stole a glance at his brother Baraki, the man who had followed him into battle against Jador. Once, Baraki had been his most trusted Zarturk, but in the aftermath of battle he had fled with the others, sure that Aztar had blundered irreparably and unable to face him. Baraki had been one of the few who had survived the Jadori fire, and the magic had frightened him away. Aztar had never blamed him for that. But now, when Aztar needed him most, Baraki had returned. And Aztar, full of love for him, smiled at the man.

  ‘Not much more,’ said Baraki. He had lowered his wrappings to the cooler air of twilight, revealing his unreadable face. As always, his expression was a mask, but what feelings it hid Aztar could not say. Baraki glanced back at the men snaking behind them, riding quietly. ‘Look how weary they are. We should stop now, Aztar.’

  ‘We go on,’ said Aztar. ‘Before the sun rises again, I will speak to Baralosus and show him that we are not afraid of him.’

  Baraki nodded tacitly. Only a pace behind him, the other Zarturks rode together, having fallen quiet as they too sensed the closeness of the Ganjeese. Fahleen, the oldest of them, kept his eyes on the east, his gaze unwavering. When Aztar turned to look at him, Fahleen raised his hand. Aztar did the same, then did so to the others as well, urging Rakaar and Adnah on with confidence. Rakaar grinned. Adnah did not. Rakaar was not afraid of anything. Adnah had left a wife behind. Together they would command the little army they had left, each of them taking fifty or so men. Once, Aztar’s army had numbered far more, but the battle with Jador had decimated them. Now, the man who called himself the Tiger of the Desert had barely two-hundred men to face down Baralosus’ much larger force.

  Aztar continued to ride, ignoring the enormous pain racking his body, until his brother Baraki sidled up to his drowa. Baraki’s beast was a large, black drowa, powerfully built with armour across its flanks and a gleaming brass bit between its yellow teeth. The drowa snorted unhappily at Aztar’s mount.

  ‘So?’ asked Baraki. ‘What will you say to him?’

  ‘To who, brother?’

  ‘Who,’ scoffed Baraki. He lowered his voice. ‘Baralosus, of course. What will you tell him? You haven’t said yet. He will want to make a deal with you. He is a snake, remember.’

  ‘He has had his time to deal,’ said Aztar. ‘He has already sent his dogs to me. Baralosus knows I cannot be brought.’

  ‘Ah, but he will try! He will offer you anything for his daughter.’

  Aztar glowered at his brother. ‘I no longer have her to give. Our duty now is to protect her. You will remember that, Baraki, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ve come, haven’t I? I know what you expect of me, brother.’ Baraki grinned. ‘And I cannot wait to see his pompous face when you tell him Salina isn’t with you anymore. What will he say, do you think?’

  ‘He will rage like the witch winds,’ said Aztar, ‘because his heart will be broken.’

  There was no glee in Aztar’s statement. Unlike Baraki, he had no real hatred of Baralosus, despite the way the king had used him. But there were things he wanted to say to Baralosus, things that men of honour should say face to face. Thinking of that now, he was glad once again that Baraki was with him. He could not take an army into the presence of the king, but he could take his brother.

  ‘Keep your dagger close, brother,’ Aztar quipped. ‘You might need it sooner than you think.’

  King Baralosus was reclining in his coach when the carriage came to a sudden stop. He opened his eyes, shaking off the daydream he was having of the new young maid he had hired for his staff, and blearily peered out of his open window. The coach was unbearably hot, pulled along the soft ground on wide, giant wheels made especially for desert travel. Outside, he watched as the men of his army – mounted and unmounted – slowly halted one by one. Commanders at the front of the column were shouting orders back to the rear. Behind his own coach, the smaller, less elaborate conveyance of his friend Kailyr also ground to a stop. With almost no light left in the day, Baralosus supposed General Rhot had decided to camp for the night, a notion that suited the king fine. They were less than a day’s ride from the Skein now, and Baralosus wasn’t anxious to face Aztar.


  Then, someone up ahead shouted Aztar’s name. Baralosus’ heart began to charge.

  ‘What is it?’ he called out of the window. ‘What’s happening?’

  His driver shook his head and called back stupidly, ‘I don’t know, Majesty. There’s something ahead.’

  ‘Something?’ sputtered Baralosus. ‘Don’t move! I’m getting out.’

  The driver kept the drowas firm as the king opened the door of his coach, not waiting for his groomsman. Flinging himself to the sand, he raced up to where his driver sat, scanning the dark horizon. The sun setting behind the dunes turned the west pink with its fiery decent. Past the rows and rows of his own weary soldiers, Baralosus saw something unfamiliar in the distance, something not very large but not insignificant either. He fell back at the sight, dread rising in his gut.

  ‘Aztar . . .’

  The Prince’s army was unmistakable, staked out atop a large, unmoving hill of sand. With the last rays of the sun lighting their backs, they looked like ghostly silhouettes atop their battle drowas, the tips of their long lances pointed skyward. How numerous they were, Baralosus could not say, though an ugly feeling crept up his spine that they just might have blundered into a trap.

  ‘Majesty?’ called a voice from behind. ‘Is it them?’

  The voice was Kailyr’s, and the Minister sounded troubled as he raced out of his own carriage to stand beside his king. A handful of soldiers were hurrying toward them out of the front ranks, among them Kahrdeen, Rhot’s trusted commander.

  ‘Majesty, you should get back into your carriage,’ said Kahrdeen quickly. His drowa skidded to a halt before the king. ‘That’s Aztar, Majesty.’

  ‘I can see that,’ snorted Baralosus.

  ‘What does he want?’ wondered Kailyr. ‘To talk? Or to fight?’

  King Baralosus studied his enemy on the hill. If Jashien was right, Aztar would be able to field only two-hundred men, maybe slightly more. Even if they were hidden in the dunes, they would be no match for the Ganjeese army. The king thought very hard about his options, blocking out the shouts of men around him. All he really wanted was his daughter. If killing Aztar was the price, it mattered little now.

  ‘Look at him,’ whispered the king. ‘Look how he sits there, so confident, so calm. He knows he has no chance at all. He must know that.’

  ‘He knows,’ hissed Kailyr. ‘That’s why he’s come to face you, Baralosus. He must want to talk.’

  Baralosus agreed. ‘You are right. He is a man of honour, after all.’ The king turned toward the waiting commander. ‘Kahrdeen, get word to Rhot. I want to speak to Aztar myself. Make a drowa ready for me and an escort.’

  ‘You’re going out there?’ screeched Kailyr.

  ‘I have to face him,’ replied Baralosus. ‘I have to get my daughter back.’

  In less than an hour, Rhot had sent word out to Aztar on the hill and Aztar had responded. With only one Voruni as an escort, the Tiger of the Desert rode within arrow range of Baralosus’ army.

  The king himself had picked Rhot and Jashien to accompany him to the talks. Night had fallen by the time they rode out of camp, protected by a dozen other men bearing arms and torches. Baralosus waited on the back of his personal drowa, a beast of impeccable bearing and breeding with golden cloth draped across its flanks and hammered, iron armour. He watched curiously as Aztar approached, the breeze stirring his long black garments. Neither Aztar nor his escort bore a lance. Instead, both men kept their scimitars safely at their sides, riding casually toward the much more heavily armed Ganjeese. Baralosus felt a twinge of fear, not really sure what he would say. He had nothing left to offer Aztar. Only the threat of death might convince the Tiger to let his daughter go. It was how things had to be, he told himself. He simply could not return to Ganjor without Salina. And Aztar’s severed head.

  If Aztar knew these things, his gait did not show them. He looked as fearless as ever as he rode forward, his face not obscured by his usual Voruni wrappings. Baralosus squinted for a good look at him. He had not seen the prince since his maiming, but according to Jashien he had suffered badly in the fire. It surprised Baralosus that the man could ride at all. His pain must have been enormous.

  General Rhot kept his hands on the reins of his drowa. Mounted beside the king, his expression remained contemptuous. Slightly behind the general, Jashien waited with an uneasy grimace. The young soldier had been surprised by his king’s invitation to join the party, but had not wasted any time at all riding forth. He was, Baralosus knew, the only man among them who could talk to Aztar at all. Twice he had managed to leave the Tiger’s camp alive.

  At last, Aztar was close enough to see clearly. Baralosus gasped a little under his breath. Even in the darkness he could see the terrible scars that had clawed through Aztar’s once handsome face. His skin had a smooth quality, as if all the wrinkles had been burned away. The pain that Baralosus imagined showed now in Aztar’s eyes, but the prince managed to tame it. Still, Baralosus could not imagine that Salina – a perfect rose of a girl – could love a man so damaged. As Aztar neared the king’s party, he reined in his drowa, spinning the beast around a little to show its broadside. Next to him, his escort did the same. Baralosus recognized the man at once. He had thought that Baraki had abandoned Aztar.

  For a long moment, Aztar and Baralosus glared at each other. Once, they had been allies, conspirators in a mutual game against Jador. They had eaten the same food and spoke the same rhetoric, and they had enjoyed each other at least a little. Now, though, the wall between them rose up high and fast. To Baralosus, there seemed only one thing to say.

  ‘I’ve come for my daughter,’ he pronounced. ‘Give her to me.’

  Aztar’s face was firm. ‘I cannot. She is not mine to give you.’

  ‘Then why have you come?’ asked the king.

  ‘To speak with you,’ the prince replied. ‘To tell you that I cannot let you pass.’

  General Rhot gave a throaty laugh. ‘Who will stop us? You? That rabble on the hill? You forget yourself . . . Prince. You have no chance at all. Release Princess Salina to us and by the king’s grace go on your way.’

  ‘Princess Salina is not with me,’ said Aztar. He spoke directly to Baralosus, ignoring Rhot completely. ‘She has gone to Jador. They are protecting her now.’

  Baralosus’ jaw dropped. ‘You lie . . .’

  ‘Salina has not been in my camp for more than a week,’ said Aztar. ‘She is already safe within the White City, and they have vowed to defend her. As have I. You may be her father but—’

  ‘I am her king!’ Baralosus thundered. ‘And I am yours! You filthy mutt, bring her to me!’

  Aztar remained frustratingly calm. ‘She is in Jador,’ he repeated. ‘I sent her there to be free of you. You are a serpent, Baralosus. You used me and locked up your daughter as though she were a slave. Once I was like you, but I have seen the warm light of truth. Vala is with me now. He has spoken to me, and this time I hear clearly.’

  Baralosus could not believe his ears, or the audacity of the man before him. ‘I’m here to talk in good faith,’ he seethed. ‘And you have sent my daughter away? You spit in my face, Aztar! I offered you everything!’

  ‘You offered me slavery,’ said Aztar. ‘You meant only to make me one of your puppets. But Salina’s love is not yours to grant. It is the only thing I want, and she has already given it to me.’

  ‘Aztar, hold your tongue,’ cautioned Jashien. He drove his mount forward a little to confront the prince. ‘Don’t you see? I warned you of this. Look at the army massed against you! Have you any chance at all? You do not. Call the princess back from Jador. Do it, please, and spare yourself.’

  Jashien’s plea surprised Baralosus, but he did not object. He looked hopefully at Aztar, but the prince was steadfast.

  ‘I can’t do that. Nor can I let any of you pass. Salina is blessed by Vala because she is righteous, as the Jadori are righteous. They are beloved by Vala, all of them.’ Aztar looked mockingly at Baralosus. �
��For once I am on the right side, Majesty.’

  ‘Is that why you came to talk? To make your little speech?’ hissed Baralosus.

  ‘I wished to see you one more time, my old benefactor,’ said Aztar. ‘After all, it’s all about politics, isn’t it? That is why you are here – to kill me and keep your honour. So – I do what a man of honour does. I come to you, face to face. This is my threat, Majesty. I cannot let you pass.’

  Baralosus felt his hope fade away. Like grains of sand, the last of it slipped through his fingers. ‘I love my daughter,’ he said. ‘Whatever you may think of me, know that, Aztar. And she loves me. If you had not filled her mind with sweet talk and lies, she would be with me now, safe in Ganjor. She would be fed and clean and uncorrupted.’

  ‘She would be your slave, dancing when you clap,’ said Aztar. ‘She is free of you now, Baralosus. As am I.’

  ‘You are a dead man,’ said the king. ‘And I do not speak to dead men.’ Baralosus spat at the ground then wheeled his drowa around and headed back to camp. ‘Go back to your hill,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Pray to Vala with all your might, Aztar. Very soon, you will see him face to face.’

  52

  Aztar and his brother had barely reached the hill by the time he heard the horn sound. Behind them, Baralosus’ General was calling his troops to battle. Aztar urged his drowa up the hill, then swung it around to see the advancing army. His Zarturks hurried to his side. Baraki began calling out to their warriors, preparing them for the assault. The Ganjeese army came alive like a great, unified mass, spreading out across the desert as they took up their positions. Aztar watched them from the top of the dune, wondering about their tactics. He had riled Baralosus, surely, but he wasn’t sure it would be enough. The king was angry but not stupid.

  ‘They’re coming,’ said Rakaar excitedly. ‘Look!’

  The spreading stain of the Ganjeese army swarmed out toward them, moving slowly but perfectly to encircle the dunes. The hills were high and would protect them, Aztar knew, giving them a much needed advantage. With the sunlight gone, he would have a chance – if Baralosus made the hoped for mistake. Aztar continued to watch them as Baraki positioned their own troops. Most had already taken up positions in the dunes. Because of the size and arrangement of the hills, even Aztar could not see most of them, but he knew that his mounted bowmen had hidden themselves in the front, ready to fire at the advancing enemy.