by John Marco
Raxor screamed and bolted forward. With two hands upon his axe he plunged the weapon down, catching the unmoving baron squarely in the chest. Thorin felt the blow the way a mountain might, hardly feeling it as his magic armour repelled the blade. Raxor cried out, dropping his axe and staggering backward as the power of the armour numbed his arm. This time, Thorin didn’t use his sword. With only his gauntlet he struck the man across the face. Blood burst from Raxor’s lips as he tumbled to the ground. This time, his men rushed in to help him. The circle closed all at once as men on both sides took up the fight.
Don’t let him get away from you this time, Kahldris insisted. Kill him.
Thorin craned his neck over the surging crowd, looking for his son. ‘Where is he?’
Listen to me, Baron Glass. Your enemy is at your feet. End him!
A lurching rush of power flooded over Thorin, clouding his mind and strangling his judgment. Through the haze of Kahldris’ rage he saw Raxor on his knees, blood covering his face as he struggled to his feet. Aric was coming; Thorin could feel him. The thought of his son and the way he’d been stolen maddened Thorin.
‘You took him from me,’ he seethed. ‘You turned him against me.’
Before the king could rise again Thorin reached out and lifted him from the ground, hoisting him bodily into the air. Raxor tried to grab his sword but Thorin’s gauntlet stopped him, grabbing his wrist and crushing the bones.
‘He was all I had,’ Thorin groaned. He was shaking suddenly, overcome by emotion. ‘My only family . . .’
‘He despises you,’ Raxor spat. ‘And everything you stand for now . . .’
‘No!’ Thorin shook the king, snapping back his head. ‘He’s my son, not yours!’
‘Father!’
Thorin turned to see Aric blazing toward him. The boy had his weapon raised. The blade shot out, smashing hard on Thorin’s helmet. The surprise shot opened Thorin’s grip, dropping Raxor to the ground. As the king rolled away Aric turned again to face his father. His horse reared up, and Aric’s sword pointed hatefully at the baron.
‘Enough! You want me, I’m here!’
Raxor staggered to his feet. ‘No! I won’t let you take him,’ he cried, and finally drawing his sword came crashing back against Thorin. Again the blow did nothing and again the old man fell back. Thorin spun and kicked at him, pulling the blow.
What are you doing? asked Kahldris frantically. Kill him!
His rage unbalanced Thorin. His screaming rattled Thorin’s skull.
They’re your enemies, said the demon. All of them. Even your son tries to kill you. I’m your only friend.
‘Aric,’ Thorin cried. ‘Leave here!’
The armour moved on its own now. Thorin knew his mind was not his own. Raxor was coming again, the sword slicing down. Thorin brought his arm up, staying the blow, but the old man kept coming. He glanced around, searching for Aric and saw his son racing toward him. This time, Thorin acted. His sword was out in an instant, instinctively, and when Aric was upon him the great Akari blade broke through his son’s own sword, shattering it on the way to Aric’s chest. A stunned look of terror filled Aric’s face as he tumbled from his horse, his breastplate crumbling and filling with blood. He hit the earth hard.
And did not move.
Thorin stood for a moment, frozen. The Akari sword dropped from his hand. He stared at Aric, unable to speak. He could only scream. From deep within him, his agonized wail rocked the battlefield. Raxor, broken and defeated, stumbled and fell to his knees.
‘You’ve killed him,’ Thorin heard him say. The old Reecian started to weep.
‘I’ve killed him,’ Thorin cried. ‘I’ve killed my son!’
His keening continued as he faltered backward. The battle went on around him, but Raxor and his bodyguards were still, and all the mercenaries who followed Thorin looked at him in shock. Aric’s body lay in blood, his chest ripped up from the massive strike. His lifeless eyes stared blankly skyward. In his mind, Thorin could hear Kahldris speaking, urging him to fight on. The words fell deafly on the baron’s ears.
‘No,’ he stammered. He raised his hands in surrender. ‘No . . .’
His horse still waited where he’d left it. Thorin ran for it. Ignoring Kahldris’ spite-filled orders and the shouts of his own men, Baron Glass mounted the beast and quickly pointed it back toward Library Hill. Behind him, he heard Raxor’s hateful calls, swearing vengeance. Thorin buried his head against the neck of his galloping horse. All he could see was Aric, dead and helpless, and the image drove him on, back to the safety of his library.
81
Amid the mass of men and horses, Lukien and his cohorts rode through the heart of the Norvan enemies, their bodies slick with gore as their weapons swung overhead. The wild cries of war dogs echoed through the battlefield as the beasts ran between the legs of the startled horses, bringing down the steeds in ravenous packs. Daralor’s army numbered in the thousands, and Lukien was surrounded by them. He had ridden on the heels of the dogs, using them as shields as they tore through the front ranks. With Lorn and Ghost at his side, he had ridden right past Cajanis and his hireling Thon, stabbing at the heart of the Norvans in his mad bid to reach the other side. Prince Daralor was too far away to see now. All Lukien could see behind him were soldiers, the familiar scene of chaos as the battle engulfed him. The roaring in his ears told him that the Nithins had engaged, charging the Norvan lines with their lances, their foes softened by the mad jaws of the war dogs.
Lukien had seen dogs used in battle before, on both sides of the fight, and always been frightened when he’d seen the canines coming toward him. So he flinched a little now when he watched the beasts leap on the mercenaries, launching themselves against the horsemen to tear their throats out. It was a horrible way for a soldier to die, and watching it around him sickened him a bit. Just yards away from Lukien, Lorn fought like a man possessed, shouting the dogs on as he pushed his way deeper through the Norvan ranks. It had taken nearly an hour for them all to get this far, and the numbers of the war dogs had dwindled down to dozens. Along with the corpses of men and horses, the broken bodies of the deadly pets smothered the ground. Lukien did his best to add to the body count. With the Sword of Angels writhing in his grip, he slashed his way across the field, swaying from side to side as he cut down all-comers. The Eye of God tumbled on its chain, bouncing from his chest and burning with red fire. The power of it flooded him, mingling with the strength of his own Akari, and in his mind Lukien could hear the voice of Malator, spurring him onward. The enchanted blade was everywhere, blocking every blow, and those few that did get through dealt him only glancing strikes, cuts so minor that the magic of his two great artifacts healed them instantly. Lukien cried out in bloodlust as he muscled past the mercenaries. Sweat and blood flew from his face.
‘Keep going!’ he bellowed to his comrades. ‘Stay with me!’
Lorn was clearly visible beside him. The axe he had tossed at Cajanis had been replaced by a sword. The old man rode expertly, like a cavalryman half his age, using his weapon in every conceivable way, stabbing and striking and holding the blade in his metal-garbed hands to block the Norvan attacks. His face shone with a frightening glamour as he gutted his foes, mercilessly avenging his stolen kingdom.
Ghost, however, was nowhere to be seen, yet his handiwork was everywhere. The albino had used his magic early in the charge, horse and rider both disappearing as if slipping into a mist. He said nothing as he fought beside Lukien, not wanting to break the spell that kept him hidden, yet his sword worked quickly and dangerously, stabbing out from the ether to slay his unsuspecting enemies. Word spread quickly through the Norvans that a demon was among them, and men fell back as they sensed him approaching, noting the severed limbs that seemed to come from nowhere. With the dogs to help them and Ghost’s invisible blade, Lukien and Lorn had progressed halfway across Cajanis’ army. The thunder of the battle from the front of the line reached them like waves against a distant beach.
When at last the deadly birds were released, they would make their final charge. Lorn grunted in understanding, his face red with exhaustion. They had done a miraculous thing in getting this far, but they needed the help of Daralor’s other pets to get through the rest of the army.
Just as Lukien turned to see what was happening with the Nithins, a single rider came galloping out of the crowd, heading for Lukien with his sword raised. The bare, tattooed arms and bald pate were unmistakable. Thon’s charge came like lightening, catching Lukien unaware. He raised his sword a moment too late and felt the flat of Thon’s blade smash across his face. Dazed, Lukien nearly fell from his horse. He twisted blindly to the side, groping for Akari strength. The power came to him at once, and as he rose in his saddle he spat hatefully at Thon.
‘You stupid troll,’ he bellowed. ‘The likes of you could never kill me!’
Thon cried out, unleashing a hacking barrage, his big horse muscling back Lukien’s own. The Sword of Angels took each blow, singing with Malator’s irate voice.
‘You’re a traitor and a whore-monger!’ railed Thon. ‘You’ll bring ruin to us!’
Lukien parried his attack, playing with the man. Lorn and Ghost were at his back, keeping the other mercenaries at bay. ‘You’d follow a tyrant just for his gold,’ accused Lukien. ‘You’re a plague on Liiria!’
Thon came again, enraged by Lukien’s words. ‘I’ll end you!’ he cried. ‘I’ll—’
The words died in a gurgle as Lukien’s blade slipped through his gorget. Thon’s eyes widened with horror, knowing he was dead. As Lukien pulled free his sword, Thon’s body fell forward, spiraling down from his horse. Lukien looked at him as he hit the earth, feeling nothing but contempt.
‘Too easy,’ he whispered, frightened by the power his sword and amulet gave him. Across the field, Nithin soldiers were at last reaching his location, their green, feathered helmets bobbing up from the sea of bodies.
Throughout the battle, Prince Daralor had waited among his reserve soldiers, watching his war dogs and lancemen penetrate the enemy lines. For nearly an hour he had sat imperiously upon his horse, quickly calculating his army’s every move while his captains and lieutenants fed reports to him and the forces of Duke Cajanis scrambled to reach him. For the duke, the hour had not gone as hoped, but Prince Daralor wasn’t at all surprised. Accustomed to his Nithins being underestimated, he had already supposed he would win the day, despite the Norvans’ superior numbers. They were mostly mercenaries, after all, and mercenaries had very little to fight for once the tide began to turn. It was easy to turn the tide with war dogs. Daralor had learned that a long time ago, in his war against Marn. In the ensuing years he had perfected the breed, making them bigger, more fearless. That, along with having truth on their side, made his army the certain victors today.
Not far from where Daralor waited, the hawkers prepared their giant birds for battle, having opened the huge wooden cages. One by one the birds were unhooded, kept tethered to their perches by little collars around their talons. Daralor turned from his captains, spying Glok, the head keeper. Near Glok, on one of the many wagons brought onto the battlefield, a single hawk waited on its perch. Daralor nodded to Glok and the keeper undid the bird’s collar. The Prince then raised his arm, summoning the bird, and the hawk took wing, instantly sailing toward its master. Daralor smiled as his pet settled onto his forearm, gently digging its talons into his leather gauntlet. She was much smaller than the other hawks, but she was beloved by the prince nonetheless. It amused Daralor to think that Cajanis and his men expected birds the size of Echo.
‘Call your brothers and sisters now, Echo,’ Daralor crooned, his lips pursed like he was talking to a baby. The bird cocked back its head and released a peculiar cry. At once the bird’s lament was picked up by the others. Prince Daralor did not have to tell Glok to let the war hawks loose. Echo had already done it for him.
Still in the thick of the Norvan army, Lukien and his comrades managed to hold back the coil of mercenaries closing around them. Nearly all the dogs were dead or too badly wounded to keep up the fight. Fifty yards back, Nithin soldiers advanced through the Norvans. Duke Cajanis had taken up a command position on a nearby hill, returning to safety from the worst of the fighting. Through the crush of swords and swinging maces, Lukien could see the duke frantically surveying the battlefield. He still had the advantage of numbers, but the chaos of the fight baffled him, and his men suffered for it. The seasoned fighters sensed the weakness in their leader, but the Norvan regulars among them drove them on, shouting commands. In a moment, Lukien knew, they could easily regain their momentum. Unless one side called retreat, the battle could continue on for hours.
‘Lukien, look!’
The voice was Lorn’s, and when Lukien turned to him he saw the king pointing westward, toward the Nithin lines. Toward the sky. What Lukien saw there made him reel.
Over the heads of the Nithins, the blue sky darkened with wings. A storm cloud of talons rolled over the field with a pitched, unearthly screech. Daralor’s hawks filled the air above the soldiers, shooting up like arrows, their enormous wing spans blotting out the hills behind them. They moved swiftly toward the Norvans, sailing high at first then diving down with outstretched claws. They came in a tide, washing over the field, picking out the choicest flesh and digging their talons deep. Horses whinnied in terror, tossing off their riders while men dropped their swords to cover their heads. But the big, relentless birds took hold of them, working in teams to pull them from their saddles. Seeing this, King Lorn stared in amazement, his mouth dropping open.
‘Incredible.’
‘Yes, incredible. And they’re coming this way!’
This time it was Ghost who spoke. The sight of the war birds made his magic falter, and he reappeared in the middle of the field only yards away from Lorn and Lukien.
‘It’s time to go,’ he said with his usual wryness.
Lukien nodded, made almost mute by the sight of the freakish birds. They had only a few minutes before the shock of the attack wore off. Luckily, the Norvans around them were heading for cover.
‘Malator,’ said Lukien aloud, ‘is Thorin still at the square?’
The Akari was silent for a moment, removing himself from the battle and stretching his mind out to touch his brother. A jolt of surprise went
through him.
No, said Malator. He’s left the square. He’s riding to the library, Lukien.
The answer made no sense to Lukien, but he wasted no time. Raising his sword, he called to Ghost and Lorn.
‘Follow me!’ he cried, and with renewed vigour cut his way through the Norvans.
82
Thunder collected in Thorin’s skull as he raced back to the library. He had left behind his men, giving them over to their enemies, but the real guilt that plagued him came from the blow he’d given Aric. It had all happened far too quickly; Thorin could barely remember it. But nothing could expunge the image of Aric laying dead at his feet, twisted and broken and staring wide-eyed at nothing. Thorin choked back sobs as he rode, Kahldris’ angry voice ranting in his mind. The demon was screaming, demanding he return to the battle. Thorin girded himself against the assault, too consumed with thoughts of Aric to pay the spirit heed.
Up ahead loomed Library Hill, its winding road and flat yard dotted with soldiers. At the base of the hill milled Lothon and his Liirians, confused by the sight of the lone rider blazing toward them. With his face still hidden behind his grotesque helm, Thorin knew his men could not see his tears, but neither did he think he could control himself. Every twitch he made came with effort as Kahldris worked to turn him around.
‘I won’t go back!’ Thorin railed.
He drove his mount into the crowd of soldiers. Lothon, who had been watching him, hurried up on foot to meet him.
‘Baron Glass, what’s happened?’ asked the old nobleman. He looked genuinely concerned.
Thorin jerked back the reins of his stallion, trying to get it under control. He could barely speak. ‘My son,’ he stammered. ‘Lothon . . .’
Lothon took the horse forcefully by the tack. ‘Steady,’ he commanded. ‘Easy. Baron Glass, tell us what’s happened.’
All Thorin wanted was to get away, to climb up into the library and hide. His whole body began to shake. Lothon and his soldiers noticed the quaking instantly – and distastefully. The armour on Thorin’s body still writhed with life.
‘Fate above, Baron Glass – what’s happened to you?’ asked Lothon.
Thorin’s voice came out like a strangled cry. ‘He is taking me!’
‘Who?’ Lothon demanded.
Thorin wailed, then reached up and pulled the helmet from his head, tossing it hatefully to the ground. With chattering teeth he tried to explain what had happened, but found he could no longer talk. The muscles of his face contorted horribly, making the men stagger back. Lothon grimaced in disgust. He looked at his fellow Liirians in confused horror.
‘Look at him, he’s mad,’ said one of them.
‘Let him go,’ suggested another.
The baron ripped the reins from Lothon’s hands. This time, his old friend made no attempt to stop him. Pulling his horse around, Thorin squeezed his legs together, driving the horse onward and headed for the hill.
Gilwyn had not left the chamber where he’d said good-bye to Thorin. As the battles raged around Koth, he kept his quiet vigil high up in the library, away from the soldiers and staff, brooding as he wondered what was happening. He knew that Lukien was coming for Thorin, yet that happy fact didn’t hearten him. Thorin was lost to them, and not even Lukien could save him now.
The sun had reached the apex of the eastern hills, and as Gilwyn stared out the big window he could see the Nithin forces as they battled against the Norvans. From where he stood, Gilwyn couldn’t tell how the sides were faring. He supposed it would be a long and bloody day, and full of grief when it was over. Gilwyn touched his hand to the frame of the window. It felt good and solid on his fingers, the way Figgis had intended.
