The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.)

by John Marco

  Alena laughed, not unkindly. ‘Then you will see what I mean. There is no love in Liiria for Baron Glass. We welcome the Reecians. Anything would be better for Liiria.’

  Without another word, the girl turned and left the room. Aric sat and watched her go, sure that his world was upside down.

  77

  At the edge of Koth, on a ridge of hills overlooking the sleeping city, Lukien paused amidst the rolling fog to ponder the place he had long called home. The rain that had plagued them for days had finally stopped, leaving the night sky clear and star-filled. A great, bare-faced moon hung overhead, shining with milky light. Down in the valley, tucked safely away from the Nithin army, Koth rested uneasily as it waited for the morning. The armies ringed the city like vultures, but old, enduring Koth seemed unafraid. The streets of the ancient city yawned with quietness. High on its hill, the great library loomed above the homes and shops. In the yards around the hill, Lukien could see the unmoving brigades of Norvan soldiers, still asleep as morning neared, their numerous war machines and horses poised for the coming battle. They were so far away, and yet like a great dragon Lukien could hear them breathing. Lights gleamed in the tower of the library. Inside, Thorin waited with his demon, and the sword at Lukien’s side pulsed with unease.

  Far behind him, the army of Prince Daralor slept, too. It was hours yet until dawn, when all of them would march for Koth. Amazingly, the coming battle had kept only handfuls of them awake. The rest of them – exhausted from the long trip north – slept soundly in their bedrolls. The dogs slumbered in their makeshift kennels while their keepers slept just outside, the keys to the long leashes jangling at their belts. Horses clopped at the earth, snorting in the cool night air. Like the armies of the Norvans occupying Koth, Daralor’s army stretched deeply into the darkness, lit by smouldering campfires and torches. The Nithin flag snapped in the breeze, standing tall atop Daralor’s distant pavilion.

  Tonight, it seemed to Lukien as though the whole world had gathered at this one place, for on the other side of the city, barely visible even through the clear sky, glowed the pinpricks of another army. Raxor’s forces had marched for Koth, too. Two days ago they had arrived. Daralor and the Reecian king had already sent emissaries to each other, sharing what they knew about the forces poised against them. Just like the Nithins, the Reecians had met no resistance either, marching effortlessly toward the Liirian capital. Now, though, the numbers of their foes showed themselves at last. Lukien paled as he considered them.

  I can feel him, said Malator in his silent voice. He directed Lukien’s gaze back toward the library. Your baron is restless tonight, Lukien. My brother speaks with him.

  Lukien was immediately intrigued. ‘What are they saying?’

  Malator thought for a moment, then replied, They are together. That’s all I can tell.

  ‘Well, then, they’re not the only ones who are restless.’ Lukien put his hand on the sword, as if to put his Akari at ease. ‘They can plan all they want. It won’t change what’s going to happen tomorrow. They should never have let us get this far.’

  And yet we are still far away, Malator reminded him. My brother is not stupid, Lukien. Look how he protects himself in the library.

  ‘Even the library isn’t impregnable, Malator. They can’t hide in there forever.’

  Get us to Baron Glass. That is all you need to do.

  Lukien nodded, but the task was daunting indeed. They were outnumbered, and would have to fight their way through the streets and the all the ranks of Norvan soldiers first. As he looked over the city, a thousand memories – happy and unhappy – flooded over Lukien. He had a been a boy in those streets, struggling to survive, and later he had risen to knighthood, though never to nobility. Those had been good days, when Koth had been at peace. When Koth had been great. She was not great anymore. Now she was an old cripple, groping her way through the world, decrepit and soiled, spoiled by war and corruption. And she had been torn apart by battles. Thinking of that, Lukien remembered that time not so long ago when last he had stepped foot inside the city. The memory made him shudder.

  Do not think of it, Malator advised.

  But it was impossible for Lukien not to remember, and he could not pull his eyes from the city or forget the faces of those he had fought with there. Breck and all his other friends, dead or scattered to the winds, and all because of Thorin’s mad designs. And then, without wanting to, Lukien thought of Meriel.

  His throat tightened. A grimace of pain gripped his expression. Malator eased closer to him, sensing his loss.

  Listen to me now, Lukien. It’s not your fault.

  Lukien nodded. ‘Right. I know. But . . .’

  She is gone. Remember what Horatin told you. She went to him of her own accord.

  ‘Yes. I know,’ Lukien sighed. ‘It’s just . . .’ He considered Meriel and all the others. ‘There are so many who might still be alive if not for me.’

  Malator started to speak, then stopped himself. His alarm jolted Lukien into turning around, revealing a figure coming toward him through the mist. At first he thought it was Lorn, but then he noted the royal garb and the confident gait and realized with surprise that it was Daralor. The prince paused a moment, regarding him.

  ‘May I come ahead?’ asked Daralor.

  Startled, Lukien did not know what to say, so he waved the prince forward. ‘Yes,’ he bumbled, ‘of course.’

  Prince Daralor glided soundlessly to the edge of the hill, standing beside Lukien and taking the time to look out over Koth. Lukien eyed him curiously, not sure why the prince had come at all. So far, Daralor had never bothered to speak with Lukien alone. He had a thousand other things to do, and dozens of advisors to deliver his messages. Through the long ride north he had treated Lukien with respect, but that was all, preferring to get close to Aric. Now, though, Daralor Eight-Fingers didn’t wear his usual, unapproachable air. He seemed calm, which was normal, but also oddly melancholy.

  Neither man spoke for a few long minutes. Daralor, preoccupied by Koth, imbibed every tiny detail of the city. Then, at last, he turned away from the scene, anxiously rubbing the stump of his missing fingers.

  ‘When it’s near time for battle I walk among my men.’ Daralor smiled strangely. ‘It’s been a very long time since I’ve been in battle.’

  Lukien was unsure of his meaning. ‘Your men are brave,’ he offered. ‘They’ll make you proud, I’m sure.’

  Daralor nodded in thanks, then looked out past the city toward the faraway lights of Raxor’s army. Tomorrow, probably, they would join the Reecians and lay siege to the library. And then the real battle would begin.

  ‘Even with the Reecians we are not as many as the Norvans,’ said Daralor. ‘How will they fight, do you think?’

  ‘They’re mercenaries, mostly,’ said Lukien, ‘but they’re loyal enough.’

  ‘Loyal to Baron Glass, or loyal to his gold?’

  ‘To his diamonds,’ Lukien corrected mildly. ‘They’re afraid of him, and they know no one can defeat him. He’s not just the ruler of Liiria. He’s the lord of Norvor now and they know it.’

  Daralor considered this. ‘Than he must be got to quickly.’ His eyes met Lukien straight on. ‘We will make the way for you, Lukien, but the rest will be up to you. And your sword.’

  ‘I’m ready,’ said Lukien.

  Daralor smiled. ‘Are you? Your pardon, Sir Lukien, but I see fear in you. I have seen it since we met, and I saw it grow when you learned about the woman Mirage.’

  ‘What?’ Lukien bristled. ‘Who told you this? Lorn?’

  ‘No,’ said Daralor gently. ‘Though King Lorn has his suspicions of you. You’re not surprised by that, certainly.’

  ‘No,’ Lukien spat. ‘Lorn saw me one night, speaking with the spirit of the sword. I should have trusted him to keep what he heard secret.’

  ‘He has told me nothing, Lukien. My doubts are my own.’

  ‘Do not doubt me, Prince Daralor.’ Lukien’s tone hardened. ‘I
have looked into the eyes of this demon before. I’ll do it again and I won’t flinch.’

  ‘Then my men and I will do my part for you, Sir Lukien. You have my promise. Stay alive long enough to reach Baron Glass. That’s all you need to do.’

  ‘Ah, well then, that will be easy enough,’ said Lukien darkly. ‘For there is no way for me to die, even if I wished it.’

  Daralor looked at him through the mist. ‘Some say you do wish it, Bronze Knight.’

  The accusation made Lukien grin. ‘Believe what you want, Prince Daralor.’

  ‘Tell me, what will you do when this is over?’ Daralor eased away from the vision of Koth, smiling at Lukien. ‘Will you go back to Jador or will you remain here?’

  Lukien shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘No?’ Daralor motioned toward the sword at Lukien’s waist. ‘And what of that? Will you keep it?’

  ‘If I don’t I’ll die.’

  ‘Yes. You will.’

  The two men understood each other, but Lukien wanted no part of it. He told the prince, ‘Whatever I decide after we are done here is no matter to you or to anyone. Tomorrow or the next day, when Thorin is free or dead, I will have finished my service to the gods that have ruled me. My life will be mine again.’

  ‘To live it?’ asked Daralor. ‘Or to end it?’

  His questions irked Lukien. ‘To decide for myself,’ he said icily.

  Daralor seemed satisfied with his answer. The prince looked back toward his waiting army. ‘They want you to stay alive until they can get you to Baron Glass. The rest is up to you.’

  He said no more, ending his visit with those final words and going back toward his men. Lukien waited, perturbed, trying to figure out why the prince had come to him at all. Was he being tested? Did Daralor not trust him?

  ‘You needn’t worry, Daralor,’ Lukien muttered after him. ‘I’ll do my part.’

  Afraid or not, he was prepared to meet Thorin on the morrow.

  Lukien remained alone on the hillside, but his daydreams had been ruined and he knew that rest was necessary. Abandoning the private spot, he walked slowly back toward camp, passing men and horses as he picked his way back to his own bedroll. Night had settled like a mantle over the camp, filling the air with the sounds of slumber and anxious animals. Lukien greeted a few soldiers on his way, giving them a casual nod until at last he had returned to the campfire he had made with Lorn. There, he saw the old king sitting by the fire, warming himself and gently sharpening his sword. The weapon gleamed in the jumping firelight. Lorn’s eyes shined with anticipation. He looked up at Lukien as the knight approached, then glanced away again without a word of greeting. The two men had barely spoken at all during the past few weeks, the rift between them growing ever wider. For a reason he could not quite comprehend, Lukien regretted that now.

  And yet, he could think of nothing to say to Lorn. An apology certainly wasn’t in the offing; he still believed Lorn was a butcher. There was too much history to change his mind about that. He wanted only an understanding between them before tomorrow, when they rode together into battle.

  ‘Lorn.’

  His voice – the only voice – sounded loudly through the camp. Lorn cleared his throat with disinterest.

  ‘Yes?’

  Lukien sidled closer to him. He searched for the right words. They came to him out of nowhere. ‘Gilwyn is a smart boy. He may be young, but he’s smart.’

  Lorn grumbled, ‘What?’

  ‘Gilwyn,’ said Lukien, fumbling. ‘He trusted you enough to help him. So did Minikin.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Lorn. He didn’t bother looking up at Lukien, but rather ran his sharpening stone carefully across his blade. ‘So did White-Eye. What’s your point?’

  ‘Did you tell Daralor what you saw that night when I was speaking with Malator?’

  ‘No I did not,’ hissed Lorn. ‘Did he tell you I did? If he did he is a liar.’

  Lukien quickly shook his head. ‘No. He . . .’ He paused. ‘Never mind.’

  Lorn stopped his sharpening. ‘Sit if you want.’

  It was the first kind gesture either man had offered the other since Lukien could remember. He seized on it, sitting down on the hard earth next to Lorn. The warmth of the fire felt good. It seemed like forever since Lukien had enjoyed a proper bed.

  ‘Lorn,’ Lukien asked quietly. ‘Why aren’t you asleep?’

  ‘Can’t sleep.’ The old king took a deep breath. ‘I’m too close now to sleep.’

  ‘Too close?’

  ‘To Norvor, Lukien. To home.’

  Lukien stared into the fire. ‘This was my home once. Maybe it can be again.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lorn turned toward him. ‘You’ll stay here, then?’

  It was the same question Daralor wanted answered. ‘Tomorrow you’ll have a chance to prove yourself,’ said Lukien, changing the subject.

  ‘No,’ Lorn grunted. ‘I have proven myself, again and again. Tomorrow, Lukien, will be your chance, not mine. Whatever happens tomorrow, my conscience is clear. If we win, Norvor will be mine again. Then I can send for my daughter and Eiriann and return to my life. My real life.’ Lorn looked imploringly at Lukien. ‘That’s all I want. Don’t you see?’

  Lukien did see. Finally, it was clear to him.

  ‘We all want that,’ he replied. ‘Just to be home. To be with a woman we love. We all want that, Lorn.’

  It was a single, simple point of agreement, but for Lukien it was enough.

  78

  Like a slithering tentacle, Kahldris’ words wrapped themselves around Thorin as he stood by the window. The great expanse of the city lay beneath them, brightening in the rising sun. On the grasses on the outskirts of Koth, the army of their Nithin enemies watched the coming dawn, poised for battle. The sight thrilled Kahldris. The old general within him stirred, filling Thorin with his unholy passions.

  ‘Today I will watch you shine, Baron Glass. Today your life will change forever, and the whole world will know you are its master.’

  As he had done so frequently lately, Kahldris did not hide himself within Thorin’s mind, but rather stood next to him bodily, his figure dressed in his ancient battle garb, his form shimmering in the weak light coming through the window. From their place within the library’s tower they could see the entire west side of the city, its houses and store fronts locked up tight against the coming mêlée. Green Nithin flags waved in the breeze. Men and dogs scurried through the ranks of cavalry, preparing to march into the city. At the forefront of the army sat its leader, the strange and stately Daralor, barely visible at such a distance yet somehow unmistakable. Thorin let his gaze linger on the prince and the men around him. His preternatural eyesight – like a hawk’s or better – spied their tense faces. Among them sat Lukien, stoic and one-eyed, his blond hair slowly greying, his weathered face full of pain. It should have been impossible for Thorin to make out such detail, but it was not. Kahldris’ magic swelled in him, filling his mind’s eye with the image of his old friend.

  ‘He bears the sword,’ said Kahldris. ‘Look . . .’

  Through the wavy glass Thorin could see across the miles, could see in the hand of his good old friend the weapon of his demise. Crude and plain, the sword seemed no more than the Akari sword Thorin himself would wield today. He closed his eyes to see it better. Letting the demon’s magic guide him, he saw the weapon perfectly, then felt Kahldris shutter madly. The potent force within the sword shook the spirit.

  ‘Your brother,’ Thorin muttered. He opened his eyes and expelled a sigh. ‘I can feel him. He’s powerful. Like you.’

  Kahldris nodded his ethereal head. In the darkened chamber, he gave off a ghostly light. ‘He has found a willing ally in your friend, Baron Glass. You are sentimental about the knight Lukien. I warn you, do not be. Great things are undone by such feelings.’

  Thorin stared out across the city. On the eastern side of Koth, invisible from his westerly perch, Raxor and his Reecians had gathered for the
siege, weighing in from the farmlands to press against the city. His army had swelled considerably in the last few days, bolstered by loyalists ready to die for the old king. Because they were so near their own homeland, their supply lines had been easy to maintain. Raxor’s men were rested and well fed, and armed with everything they could drag across the border. Thousands of men, most on horses, had heeded Raxor’s call to battle, eager to avenge their dead Prince Roland and regain the pride Thorin had stripped from them. It had been an awful miscalculation, letting Raxor live that day. Thorin saw that now. He should have pursued his adversary across the Kryss and ended things. He should have cut the old man’s heart out and eaten it.

  Why hadn’t he, then?

  ‘I was covered in blood,’ he mused aloud, addressing Kahldris without turning toward him. He felt grossly alone suddenly, the chamber echoing and empty. Beneath him, his own armies massed around Library Hill or spread out through the city, ready to defend him. They too numbered in the thousands, and yet not one of them loved him. Not the way they loved Lukien. Or Daralor. Or Raxor. Only Gilwyn loved him now, and that was a mystery Thorin could barely understand.

  ‘Baron Glass?’ Kahldris was staring at him now. Amazingly, he smiled. Putting his hand on Thorin’s shoulder, he said, ‘Thorin. Do you believe in me?’

  Thorin looked at him but could not return his grin. ‘I am grateful to you.’

  ‘That is not enough. Not today.’ Kahldris pointed out the window. ‘Those men come to kill us. Your friend, Lukien – he comes to destroy you, not to save you. He is not Gilwyn, with all his stupid innocence. He and the rest of them want to take what you have fought so long for, Baron Glass.’

  ‘I’ve killed so many . . .’

  ‘It does not matter!’ thundered Kahldris. ‘Their blood fed us, made us strong!’

  ‘No,’ said Thorin, unable to shake the nightmarish memories. ‘They are men, not goats to be slaughtered.’ He stepped back from the window. ‘Will today be like that again?’ He glanced down at the armour covering his person. Like Kahldris, he was dressed for battle, every inch of him shielded in his shiny black suit. The hideous helmet with its upturned horns waited on a nearby table. Kahldris followed his gaze to the helmet.