by John Marco
Even Thorin knew this one rumour to be true. Through Kahldris, he could sense the approach of Lukien and his magic sword, and had told Gilwyn that the final battle was nearing. After days without seeing each other, Thorin had called Gilwyn to him in his little parlour in Lionkeep, looking haggard from the endless hours of preparation. By the light of the crackling fireplace, Thorin had leaned forward in his big leather chair as if to tell a terrible secret.
‘Our days are numbered now, Gilwyn.’ Thorin’s tone bespoke his misery. ‘Lukien comes.’ He shook his head as if there could be no doubt. ‘And we will certainly battle.’
Gilwyn did not question Thorin that night. Since Cajanis had arrived, the two of them had slipped the bonds of friendship growing strong between them, growing apart instead as the demands of war took Thorin further away. And though Gilwyn had not yet given up his hopes of reaching Thorin, he realized now that Kahldris’ hold on his friend was stronger than he’d imagined, and that only the supernatural power of Lukien’s sword might be able to break it. Along with Ruana, Gilwyn had racked his brain to think of a way to shatter the demon’s grip on Thorin, but he had always come back to the same, impossible puzzles. Intense pain could sever the bond between host and Akari, but Thorin no longer knew pain. Ensconced in his enchanted armour, he was truly untouchable.
Twelve days after Cajanis’ arrival, Thorin finally called all of his commanders together. Using the finest of the library’s grand meeting chambers, he ordered the shelves removed and rows of chairs placed in their stead, along with a table he could use to speak from. Duke Cajanis organized the event, and with his usual aplomb had the meeting scheduled sharply at noon. By a half hour prior to the hour, the great chamber swelled with officers, all of them eager to hear the words of their benefactor, Baron Glass. Gilwyn, who was surprised to be invited to the event, sat not far from Cajanis himself, occupying a chair in the very first row. Because it was a formal meeting, no drinks or food were provided at all. The ranks of officers sat sombre-faced in their chairs, chatting quietly to each other. Norvans made up the bulk of the audience, though there were many Liirians in the crowd as well. Thorin had done an impressive job over the past months of bringing the Liirian military back to life and had openly declared himself their supreme commander, a boast no one dared challenge. Among the Liirians were soldiers who Gilwyn had got to know during his time in Lionkeep, including the good-hearted commander Kilvard. Kilvard, who was not a handsome man like Cajanis, wore a hang-dog expression as he waited for Baron Glass. Unlike most of the soldiers, Kilvard had no interest in the diamonds that kept the others loyal to Thorin. He was a true nationalist, motivated by the need to protect his country. He was loyal to Baron Glass because no one else had taken control of the chaos engulfing Liiria, and that was all. Gilwyn eyed Kilvard curiously as he sat back and waited. The pipe in the old man’s mouth spouted patient puffs of white smoke.
At noon precisely, the big mahogany clock at the end of the chamber announced the hour. A moment later, Thorin stepped into the room, even the clock seemed to go dead.
He had dressed for the occasion, donning the Devil’s Armour, which shined with blinding. His enormous figure filled the doorway, his steps heavy from his armoured feet. The skin of metal clung to his muscles, fitting perfectly to them, flexing with life at every breath. Thorin’s eyes scanned the room, his smile wide and frightening. He wore no helmet, but rather left his head bare, displaying his white yet youthful hair. His two big fists rested at his sides, covered in spiky gauntlets. Stepping into the chamber, he paused to the gasps of the gathered, swelling at their astonishment. Duke Cajanis was first to his feet. Taking one step forward, the Norvan clapped at Thorin’s arrival, first alone, then joined by others until at last the gathering was up and cheering. Gilwyn looked around, shocked at the outpouring of affection. He knew it was fear that motivated most of them, and could not help but pity them all. Thorin strode proudly to the table, waiting for the cheers to die away. His eyes met Gilwyn’s with a twinkle of approval that Gilwyn did not return.
‘Sit, all of you,’ boomed Thorin.
He raised his hand to quiet the crowd, repeating his request until the noise relented and the soldiers took their seats. Thorin took a deep, satisfying breath, his hands resting palms down on the table. Behind him, two huge flags were draped side by side along the wall, one Liirian, the other Norvan. The scene appalled Gilwyn. Just months ago, Thorin had murdered Norvor’s queen.
‘Friends,’ began Thorin, ‘you honour me. You are the saviours of Liiria, and of Norvor too. Together we will do great things, but first we have a challenge. Once again our enemies are upon us. Once again we are called to fight and to sacrifice.’
There was nodding within the crowd. The most loyal of the soldiers vocally agreed. Others, Gilwyn noticed, squirmed a little.
Thorin continued, ‘On our eastern border, our enemy Raxor has returned. Last time we were merciful. Last time, we let Raxor and his army flee our land. And how do they repay us? By threatening us once again. Once more they seek to take what is ours.’ The baron clenched his fist. ‘But this time, we will not be merciful. This time, we will crush them utterly.’
The chamber rang with dutiful applause. Duke Cajanis cheered the bellicose words.
‘Raxor comes with another great army,’ Thorin went on. ‘As large as his last one. He is beloved by his people and we are sorely hated by them. They fear our strength, and that is wise of them. But they are not alone. This time, they have allies.’
‘Nithins,’ spat Cajanis.
‘Aye,’ Thorin agreed. ‘What could possibly tempt the Nithins from their long hiding if not madness? Do you see? Madness grips our world! This hatred for our nations – for Liiria and Norvor both – is a jealousy that compels the world to hate us. Look how the nobles of Farduke have turned on us, too. With not a word of complaint they have let the Nithins soil their land just so they could come to conquer us. In Marn they are just as silent, and in Jerikor too. Does anyone come to our aid? Has any one of these nations sent their ambassadors here? Have they offered the smallest kindness to us? No they have not.’
It went on like this, Thorin laying out his case for war, the officers of his combined armies nodding in agreement. Gilwyn listened, disgusted by the speech, sure that it was Kahldris stoking Thorin’s madness. The man who had once been so kind to Gilwyn had vanished, and in his place stood a ranting lunatic, fanning the fires of suspicion. Thorin’s big voice rose and fell, filled with emotion as he worked the crowd. He told them about the force of the Nithins coming toward them, and how they numbered in the thousands. They had their creatures with them, he said, their slobbering dogs and their fierce birds of prey, merciless monsters both. And with them came Jadori, Thorin claimed, foreigners who had joined the alliance against them. Here, Thorin’s words had special meaning to Gilwyn. Thorin actually seemed saddened.
‘Who knows what baneful magic they bring against us,’ he lamented. ‘I have been among them. I know they are powerful. They are good and decent, too, but they have joined against us and so they too are our enemies. Perhaps, when we are done with this grisly work, we will settle the score with Jador as well.’
Gilwyn sat bolt upright at this. They were Kahldris’ words, without a doubt. It was Kahldris who threatened Jador, Kahldris who hated the Jadori and their alliance with the Akari. Gilwyn shook his head vehemently at Thorin, but the baron ignored him. Before he could protest, however, another voice joined the fray.
‘What of your son, Baron Glass?’
The question shattered Thorin’s oratory. He searched the room for the culprit, fixing on a Liirian officer in the second row.
‘What?’
‘Your son, Baron Glass. What about Aric?’
‘What about him?’ Thorin growled.
The officer held fast. ‘It is well known that your son was in league with the Reecians at the battle of the Kryss, and that he was one of the Royal Chargers defending the library when you invaded Koth with Norvo
r. I’m asking only what part he might play in the coming battle.’
The crowd held its breath. Stunned, Gilwyn watched as Thorin’s face twisted with discomfort. He almost never spoke of his son Aric, and certainly never in such a public forum. His suffering looked unbearable.
‘My son has decided to defy me,’ he said. ‘He will ride against us when the time comes, I have no doubt.’
‘Will he rejoin the Reecians?’ asked the officer. ‘I ask because that might make a difference in our plans. We may attack Raxor’s forces, but none of us has the wish to harm your son, Baron.’
Thorin shrugged off his concerns. ‘When the library fell to us, the Royal Chargers who were left alive melted away. They are brigands now. Some will join with the Reecians, certainly, others with the Nithins. And others will not have the courage to join either one. My son has courage, but it makes no difference.’
The reply confused the audience, prompting Duke Cajanis to speak. ‘Baron Glass, if your son goes to Raxor’s side, then the man unlucky enough to slay him in battle will have your doubts to deal with. How can you assure us that it matters so little to you? He is your flesh and blood.’
Thorin said simply, ‘If my son chooses to join my enemies, then it is his conscience that should be troubled, not mine.’ He clamped his hands together and smiled. ‘That is all I have to say. We are done.’
They had their orders, and the officers of Thorin’s armies rose and took up their noisy conversations, some thanking Thorin for his time, others shaking their heads. Gilwyn remained seated, unsure what to do next. Duke Cajanis was always in need of him these days, but the duke was one of the first to exit the chamber, off on one of his many errands. Thorin stayed at the table for a long while, shaking hands and making promises to the sycophants in the crowd. Eventually, the chamber thinned of people. Gilwyn stood and watched them go, waiting for his chance. Finally, when the last of the stragglers left the room, Thorin strode softly toward Gilwyn.
‘I’m glad you came,’ he said warmly. ‘It is important that you know what we’re up against.’
Gilwyn tried hard not to look the way he felt – angry and dejected. ‘You asked me to come, so I came,’ he said.
‘What did you think?’
‘You were very . . . spirited.’
Thorin nodded. ‘To lead men in battle, one must have spirit, Gilwyn. These men need to see that I am committed to them completely.’
‘Oh, I’m sure they saw that,’ sighed Gilwyn.
‘You are upset with me.’ Thorin put his hand on Gilwyn’s shoulder and led him back to his chair. They both took seats facing each other. ‘I know I have not spent much time with you lately. I’m sorry.’
Gilwyn laughed. ‘Is that why you think I’m angry? No, Thorin.’
‘No? Then what?’
‘All of this!’ Gilwyn swept his arm across the chamber. ‘All the things that have been done to the library. The war, Thorin!’
‘Ah, the war. Yes, of course. Gilwyn, how many times have I told you this day would come? I never lied to you. I could not have been clearer.’
‘I know,’ said Gilwyn. ‘You did tell me. But I thought—’
‘You thought to save me from Kahldris! Yes.’ Thorin stood up, exasperated. ‘Have I not told you a thousand times that I owe Kahldris everything? And look! Did he not prophesize all of this? My enemies are coming for me, Gilwyn, just as Kahldris said they would. Just as I told you they would!’
‘I know!’ cried Gilwyn in frustration. ‘But you’ve given up on yourself! You don’t even want to think that I might be right, that maybe somewhere inside of you is the man you used to be.’
Thorin said calmly, ‘That man is a memory now.’
‘Like Jador, you mean? Have you forgotten them, too?’
His accusation stung Thorin. ‘Jador should no longer concern you. You’re here now, with me.’
‘Yes, I am, but I’m still a person of Jador, Thorin. And you are too, like it or not. How can you turn on them? How can you even think of such a thing?’
‘I am the ruler of Liiria. I do not have time for sentiment.’
‘No,’ said Gilwyn bitterly. ‘Not even for your own son.’
‘My son? You have no idea how my son has broken my heart, Gilwyn. He’s not like you. You came here to save me. Aric comes to kill me.’ Thorin turned away. ‘But he is still part of me, damn all. I won’t let Raxor take him from me.’
Gilwyn looked up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ said Thorin, ‘that I will not let anyone claim him for their own. He already has a father who is a king, he does not need to look to
Raxor for that.’
‘You can’t stop him, Thorin. He’s probably already there.’
‘I have no doubt of it,’ grumbled Thorin. ‘But he cannot remain with Raxor. I will not allow it.’ Thorin smiled suddenly. ‘But let’s not talk of that now. Gilwyn, I am afraid for you. Things will not be safe here much longer. You cannot stay.’
Gilwyn was startled. ‘What?’
‘It’s too dangerous here in Koth.’ Thorin touched his shoulder again. ‘I am grateful for your loyalty, boy. You are braver than most. But this is no place for a librarian.’
‘Thorin, it’s a library.’
Thorin laughed. ‘Not anymore. Until the battle is over it is a fortress. And you are a civilian.’
‘But where will I go?’
‘I’ve already made arrangements. You’ll leave in two days for Borath. There’s a farm there where you’ll be safe. You’ll have bodyguards to protect you. When this is over I’ll send for you.’
Gilwyn got to his feet. ‘No.’
‘Yes, Gilwyn.’
‘No,’ said Gilwyn adamantly. ‘I’m not leaving. I told you I’d stay by you. You’re not pushing me away, Thorin.’
‘You’re being stubborn . . .’
‘I don’t care.’ Gilwyn folded his arms over his chest, living up to the accusation. ‘I made a promise to you, Thorin. You can’t make me break it.’
Instead of looking angry, Thorin beamed. ‘You are brave,’ he crowed. ‘Stupid, but brave. Very well, then, Gilwyn, you may stay.’
He started toward the exit. Gilwyn called after him.
‘Thorin?’
‘Yes?’
‘What about your son? What are you going to do?’
The baron thought for a moment, then replied, ‘I’m going to do just what you’re trying to do, Gilwyn. I’m going to get him back.’
Then he left, leaving Gilwyn behind and bewildered.
76
Through the hard sheets of rain, Aric glimpsed the village nestled between the mountains, surrounded by Raxor’s resting army. The village was called Kreat and it had taken Aric and his cohorts four days to reach it, riding through the never ending rain and the sad, familiar terrain of Liiria. Raxor’s army had been too big to keep a secret, and in fact the old king had not even tried to hide his presence. In all the towns they crossed to reach Kreat and all the travelers they questioned on their way, the five riders heard the same predictable tale. King Raxor’s army had come across the border days earlier and had made camp in Kreat, waiting for their chance to march on Koth. No one had challenged them, either, not a single of Baron Glass’ men. In the midnight rain, Aric could see the sleepy village ensnared like a noose by the rolling encampment, smothered by the countless Reecian soldiers. Pinpoints of light glowed from smouldering campfires, and in the little homes of the village candles flickered against the night. Aric blew into his hands, frozen now from the chill and breathing a sigh of utter relief. The last few days had been an agony, a break-neck trek across Liiria that had tested all of them, even Horatin. Next to Aric, the trio of Nithin bodyguards let their own relief show on their wet faces. Cold and hungry, each of them longed for the peace of the village.
‘No one’s seen us yet,’ said Horatin. Of the five, the Reecian was the most understated, and seemed disappointed at the lack of fanfare. The lateness of the hour had mos
t of Raxor’s army asleep, and it had been Horatin that had insisted on the night-time ride. ‘Stay with me,’ he instructed the others. ‘Don’t say anything – let me do all the talking.’
Aric and the Nithins happily agreed, driving on their weary mounts. Despite the desperation of their pace, it had been a mostly uneventful ride through Liiria, and the quiet had unnerved them. They had all expected to encounter trouble, especially Aric, but the countryside had been unusually silent and only once had they encountered any soldiers. That had been two days ago, when Horatin had spotted a platoon of Norvan mercenaries marching north toward Koth. The encounter had forced them into a detour, taking them further out of their way, but they had ridden hard and fast to make up the time, and had reached the Reecian border in short order. Amazingly, they discovered the truth of the rumours they’d heard. Raxor wasn’t on the border – he had already crossed it.
Tucked into the side of his horse’s tack, Horatin carried a small, unlit torch, its head wrapped with old fabric. As they neared the village he pulled the torch free and turned to his Nithin comrades.
‘Trace,’ he said, ‘let me have your lamp.’
The bodyguard named Trace kept an oil lamp in his hand as they rode, containing a tiny flame that helped to cut the dark night. Even in the rain the glass lamp had managed to retain its flame, but now they needed a signal to announce them. Trace, who was not much older than Aric, handed the lamp to Horatin, who unceremoniously lifted the glass portion and touched the flame to his torch, setting it quickly ablaze.
