The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.)

by John Marco

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ he told himself.

  Ruana had been strangely quiet throughout the morning, sensing Gilwyn’s many regrets. Together they had tried to work the catalogue machine, to make it give up its arcane secrets and to find a way to best Kahldris. They had struggled to discover any weakness in the Devil’s Armour, but they had failed, and Ruana shared Gilwyn’s misery about it. Kahldris was too strong for them. In many ways, they were lucky to still be alive.

  Gilwyn?

  Ruana’s voice surprised him. He replied with a sigh. ‘Yeah?’

  Look down below.

  ‘Huh?’

  There was a commotion going on at the base of the hill. Mostly the Liirians were hidden from him, but Gilwyn could see something was afoot. Some of the men were riding off, toward Chancellery Square. Others were arguing amongst themselves. Gilwyn cursed himself, wondering what he had missed in his daydreaming.

  It’s Thorin, said Ruana suddenly.

  ‘What about him?’

  He’s here! Gilwyn . . . he’s coming.

  Gilwyn raised himself as high as he could, craning to better see out of the locked glass portal. ‘I don’t see him.’

  No, I mean he’s here. In the library!

  ‘What?’

  Gilwyn pulled away from the window, then heard the stomping footfalls. Someone was coming, and he knew instantly it was Thorin. An unmistakable chill went through Ruana, icing Gilwyn’s blood. A moment later the door burst open and Thorin stumbled in. Gilwyn jumped back, shocked at the sight of him. The Devil’s Armour was glowing on him with a furious black light. Blood stained his breastplate, feeding the living figures molded there. Thorin’s eyes were wild as he searched the room, his jowls sunken, his skin a sickly white. Veins along his neck and forehead bulged as he gave a guttural howl.

  ‘Thorin!’

  Thorin spotted Gilwyn across the room. His hands shot up to hide his face. ‘Don’t look at me!’

  At once he stumbled toward the window, spitting obscenities at the sunlight. His hands clawed the heavy curtains, frantically pulling them closed. Then, like a wounded animal, he sank to the polished floor, dissolving in moans. Gilwyn stood frozen, astounded and appalled. Thorin began chattering to himself, making no sense as he looked at some unseen phantom. His rapid-fire words came spilling from his lips.

  ‘I know what you want and I won’t do it. I won’t do it, I won’t do it . . .’

  ‘Thorin!’

  Gilwyn’s shout broke the baron’s stupor. Thorin gasped as he looked Gilwyn, helpless. He raised a gauntleted hand, stretching out his metal fingers toward the boy.

  ‘Gilwyn,’ he rasped, ‘I killed Aric.’

  At first Gilwyn didn’t understand, so stunned was he by Thorin’s appearance. Slowly, though, the words sank in, and horror dawned on Gilwyn’s face.

  ‘Thorin, no . . .’

  ‘I killed him, Gilwyn.’ Thorin began to weep. ‘He’s dead.’

  Suddenly the armour began to glow again, this time with a strange white light. As the glow intensified Thorin shrieked, clearly in agony. The image of Kahldris appeared, swirling like a mist around Thorin, strangling him with tendrils of ether. In the mist Gilwyn saw the shape of the demon’s face, hissing hatefully into Thorin’s ear.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ Thorin bellowed.

  The enormous pain of it made the muscles of his face contract. Gilwyn had never seen such agony on a man before, and certainly never on

  Thorin. This time, the Devil’s Armour could not protect him.

  Gilwyn, look at him, insisted Ruana. Look at his pain!

  ‘I see it,’ said Gilwyn.

  No, you don’t understand me. He’s in pain, Gilwyn!

  Then at last Gilwyn did understand. His eyes widened with the idea. ‘Yes!’

  Quickly he considered the gambit. Only pain could sever the bond between Akari and host, just as it had broken the bond between White-Eye and Faralok. In all their musings, Gilwyn and Ruana had yet to figure out a way to cause Thorin so much pain, yet now the means was right before them.

  Not pain of the body, said Ruana. Pain of the mind! His son is dead. He killed him, Gilwyn.

  Gilwyn shook his head. ‘Ruana, I can’t . . .’

  Yes you can! You have to do it now!

  Thorin was writhing, his arms wrapped around himself as he fought off Kahldris’ attack. Man and demon both roared curses at each other, Thorin batting at the air as the insubstantial body of Kahldris clawed at him. They were in a battle Gilwyn scarcely understood, and he was to insert himself between them. Warily he stepped toward Thorin, crouching down close to him. His old friend’s eyes, shot through with blood, danced insanely in their sockets.

  Do it, Gilwyn, urged Ruana. Talk to him. Make him feel it.

  Gilwyn licked his lips, hating himself. How could he poke at such a wound? Yet the notion made sense to him, and he knew it was his only chance. And Thorin’s too.

  ‘Thorin, tell me what happened,’ said Gilwyn. ‘Tell me what happened to Aric.’

  Thorin stopped squirming and stared at Gilwyn. Kahldris’ ghostly essence swarmed over him. He shook his head desperately.

  ‘No. I won’t tell you,’ he huffed.

  ‘You killed him,’ said Gilwyn. ‘You killed Aric. That’s what you told me.’

  Tears squeezed from Thorin’s eyelids. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your own son!’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘He loved you,’ said Gilwyn relentlessly. He put his face right up to Thorin’s. ‘Don’t you remember? When he was a boy – he adored you!’

  ‘He loved me,’ Thorin echoed. He closed his eyes, his lips trembling. ‘And I loved him. My little boy . . .’

  ‘And you killed him.’ Gilwyn spoke carefully now. ‘Because of Kahldris, Thorin. He’s done this to you. He’s the one that made you kill your son.’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Get rid of him, Thorin!’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘No!’ shrieked Kahldris, pulling free of the armour and forming his figure out of the mists. He looked accusingly at Gilwyn. ‘Look at him, Baron Glass. He’s just another one who comes to harm you!’

  ‘I’m not,’ Gilwyn insisted. ‘Listen to me, Thorin – you know me. I’m here to help you, just like Aric wanted. And he’s dead! He’s dead because you killed him!’

  Thorin could take no more. Balling himself up like a child, his buried his face in his arms, screaming at them both to stop. But Gilwyn did not stop. Without mercy he pursued Thorin, peppering him with accusations, driving his pain to a fever. Thorin began seething, blathering to himself, while over him stood Kahldris, swearing in a tongue Gilwyn couldn’t understand. Gilwyn stayed close to them both, knowing Thorin was on the brink. Just a little nudge more . . .

  Gilwyn . . . Ruana’s voice sounded strange. Easy now.

  ‘Tell me how you did it, Thorin,’ Gilwyn went on. ‘Tell me what it felt like!’

  ‘Leave me, boy! Go!’

  Gilwyn knelt down next to Thorin. ‘I can’t Thorin! I want you to know what it felt like to kill your son!’

  Gilwyn, stop!

  ‘No!’

  The fist shot out too fast to see. Gilwyn glimpsed the gauntlet, a spikey blur flying toward him. A blast of pain filled his chest and he was falling, tumbling back into blackness.

  Baron Glass realized what he had done. Through the haze of rage and despair, he saw Gilwyn slide across the floor, then lay still on the stone tiles. Like Aric. The baron stopped breathing. At his side, the figure of Kahldris saw what had happened and was silent. The demon looked at his host. Thorin sat motionless, staring at Gilwyn, unable to speak. He had emptied himself of tears, spending them on Aric, and yet somehow this was so much worse, a thought so horrible that tears seemed inadequate. Thorin’s mind snapped like a twig. He got to his feet, glaring hatefully at Kahldris.

  ‘This is our work,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘This is all we have ever done!’

  Running from the chamber, screa
ming like a madman, Baron Glass tore at the latches of his Devil’s Armour, desperate to shed its unholy grasp.

  83

  The way to Library Hill was remarkably empty. Lukien, Lorn and Ghost rode on the outskirts of the city, avoiding the populated streets and sticking to the meadows and farmlands that surrounded Koth. Because the hill was clearly visible from almost everywhere in the city, Baron Glass’ hideout was plain to the companions as they rode, as was the small army of Liirians he had positioned at the bottom of the hill. The sight of them made Ghost groan. They had already fought their way through one army, and now it seemed Baron Glass had evaded them again. King Lorn looked dour, sizing up their situation.

  ‘It’s too late to turn back,’ he said, sensing Ghost’s wariness. ‘They’ve already seen us.’

  Common sense told them all to slow down, bringing their horses from a gallop to a canter. The Liirians milled under their own flag, looking disorganized. There were at least a few hundred of them, men who Thorin had somehow convinced to join his cause. Far too many for the three of them to fight through, Lukien knew. Already those soldiers closest to them were pointing, calling to their comrades. Some wore the midnight blue of Royal Chargers, though that fair breed was long extinct.

  ‘We have to go back,’ said Ghost, ‘wait for the others.’

  ‘The others may not get here at all,’ Lorn reminded him. ‘It’s up to us to get to Baron Glass, remember?’

  ‘Well I can get past them but what about you?’ challenged Ghost. He said to Lukien, ‘If I could make you invisible I would, my friend.’

  Lukien studied the men ahead of them. ‘They’re Liirians,’ he mused.

  Ghost shrugged. ‘So?’

  ‘He’s one of them,’ said Lorn, guessing at Lukien’s meaning. He asked the knight, ‘Will they listen to you, Lukien?’

  ‘Look at them – they don’t even know what they’re doing here.’ Lukien shook his head. ‘Something’s wrong. Why has Thorin left the battle? Why isn’t he out here with his men?’

  ‘If he knows you’re here, perhaps he fears you,’ Lorn suggested. ‘The demon in him senses the sword no doubt.’

  Lukien closed his eye, concentrating on his Akari. Malator was already probing the library.

  ‘Malator? What do you feel?’

  Emptiness, replied the spirit. Lukien could sense his confusion. Baron Glass is still in the library, but my brother . . .

  ‘What?’

  I do not know, Lukien. He hides himself from me. He knows we are here, and yet . . . I can’t tell.

  ‘Lukien?’ Ghost asked anxiously. ‘What’s he telling you?’

  Malator’s words worried Lukien. He told the others, ‘He’s in there. Malator can’t tell anything else.’

  Lorn braced himself as they neared the Liirians, who were crowding closer for a better look at them. Liirian riders were preparing to run them down. ‘Time to decide, Lukien. If we’re going to head back we have to do it now.’

  ‘It’s too late anyway,’ said Ghost as he drew his weapon.

  Lukien said firmly, ‘Put it away.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Both of you, don’t do anything. Just follow me.’

  Lorn and Ghost shared a worried glance but did as Lukien asked, riding at his flanks as the knight led them toward the hill. As the soldiers started to gather, a smaller group coalesced at its centre, all of them on horseback. A single man of rank stood out among them, looking weary beneath his flag. He and his captains waited for the riders to approach, ordering the hundreds of other soldiers to move aside and let them see. Lukien studied the man carefully. Once, he had known every man of rank in the Liirian military, but time had changed that and made them all too old to recognize. Still, it was obvious to Lukien that the man in charge was a Liirian, and that meant they had a kinship. Careful not to threaten them, Lukien remained relaxed in his saddle. Guards sprang out of the crowd to confront them. Near them, crossbowmen aimed at the trio. Ghost leaned over to Lukien and groaned.

  ‘This was a great plan, Lukien. Really.’

  ‘Go on, then disappear,’ snarled Lorn. ‘Any time you’re ready.’

  ‘Shut up, both of you,’ snapped Lukien. He took a moment to prepare himself, and before the guards could utter a word shouted, ‘My name is Lukien of Liiria! Brothers, hear me!’

  The mere utterance of his name sent a ripple through the army. For a moment the crossbowmen faltered. Lukien seized on it.

  ‘We’re not here to fight!’ he promised. ‘We’re here to help you!’

  The nobleman near the centre of the army came charging forward. ‘I know you, Lukien!’ he proclaimed with ire. ‘Do you not remember me?’

  He was still difficult to see so far away. Lukien shook his head. ‘I don’t know you,’ he said. ‘Who are you, then?’

  ‘I am Count Lothon. You should remember your betters, Sir Lukien. We all remember you, the one who bedded the king’s wife and left us all to rot here. How dare you show your face among us?’

  ‘I am Liirian, just as you, Count Lothon,’ replied Lukien. He did now remember the man, a member of the House of Dukes when that body held sway. That was many years ago, and time had not been kind to Lothon. ‘And just like you I’ve come here to save Liiria, not to bury her.’

  Count Lothon’s men began to bristle, wondering what was happening. Lothon himself came trotting out to face Lukien under the cover of his bowmen. The count stayed their weapons with a wave of his hand and the bowmen backed off a bit. The entire army seemed to have its eyes on the three riders.

  ‘Who are these you bring with you?’ Lothon asked.

  ‘Friends of Liiria,’ said Lukien. ‘Like myself.’ He said nothing about their identities, especially Lorn’s. ‘They ride with me because they want to rid us all of a tyrant. Count Lothon, I beg you – listen to me. Baron Glass is not the man you remember. You’ve seen him yourself, you know this to be true.’

  For the first time, Lukien noticed the object dangling from Lothon’s saddle. The count nodded as he saw Lukien’s expression darken. The thing was a helmet.

  ‘Baron Glass has been here today,’ sighed Lothon miserably. ‘And I will not lie and say he is anything but what you claim, Sir Lukien. He is a tyrant, true. And a madman now, too.’

  ‘I can stop him,’ Lukien promised. ‘You know my prowess, Count Lothon.’

  ‘Aye, and I know you bear the Sword of Angels. It does not matter, Bronze Knight. We are pledged to Baron Glass, all of us.’

  ‘You’re pledged to Liiria, first and always.’ Lukien addressed them all, letting his voice carry through the ranks. ‘Will you let the Norvans take everything from you? Your manhood, even? Baron Glass is no Liirian, not anymore. He’s as foreign to this land as Jazana Carr and the mercenaries she brought with her. The creature inside Baron Glass has no loyalty to you at all. It’s using you, all of you, to get its revenge on the people of Jador. That’s it. That’s all it’s ever wanted.’

  His words fell heavily on Lothon. The count hefted the helmet wearily from his side, unhitching it from the tack. He held it out disgustedly. ‘I despair to even touch this thing,’ he told Lukien, ‘but by no means is Baron Glass finished. He wears the armour still.’

  ‘Does he? You have seen him?’ Lukien asked.

  ‘I have not followed him into the library. None of us have,’ said Lothon.

  It was obvious to Lukien how much the men disliked Glass now, but the count seemed reticent to explain what had happened.

  ‘Then let me pass,’ said Lukien. ‘Let me end it, for us all.’ He put up his hands in a gesture of peace. ‘You know me, Count Lothon. You knew me before Liiria was the ruin it is now. Baron Glass left Liiria too, but you found forgiveness for him.’

  Lothon’s aides shot him worried glances. The nobleman stared with a grimace at the helmet in his fist. The army was hushed as Lothon considered Lukien’s proposal. Even the soldiers lining the long road up the hillside stood unmoving, wondering what was happening.

&nbs
p; ‘He’s mad,’ said Lukien sadly. ‘You said so yourself.’

  ‘Aye, mad,’ admitted Lothon. ‘Because of this wretched thing.’ His eyes filled with pity. ‘He was a good man once, you know. He loves Liiria dearly even still. But it’s a twisted love.’ He held the helmet out for Lukien. ‘Take it. Destroy it with your sword.’

  ‘You’ll let us pass?’

  Lothon nodded. ‘Do what you must, Bronze Knight, but do it with mercy.’

  Then he gave the order to his aides, calling to all of them to let the riders past. The word was quickly passed throughout the ranks, rising up to the hillside and the soldiers stationed there. Amazingly, the soldiers cheered. Lukien could not contain his smile, so relieved was he to have won his gambit. He rode up to Count Lothon and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  ‘I will best him,’ he promised, ‘and Liiria will be free again for men like you.’

  Lothon said nothing, overcome with regrets, and handed the helmet of the Devil’s Armour to Lukien. The metal felt cool in Lukien’s hand, but the death’s face was no longer alive, nor was the black surface glowing. Still, to hold the thing made Lukien shudder. He looked grimly at Lorn and Ghost.

  ‘Ready yourselves,’ he told them. ‘This isn’t over.’

  To Lukien, it seemed like a lifetime had passed since he’d last been inside the library. Then, it had been the Liirians who had held the place, holding it against the twin tides of Baron Glass and Jazana Carr. Hundreds of men had died that day, brave souls all, many of them friends. Under the punishing bombardment of Norvan catapults, the library had collapsed in places, but it had all been rebuilt with Jazana’s fortune and Thorin’s obsession, and as he walked within its great hall Lukien could not help but marvel at the way it sparkled. Thorin had spared no expense in remaking the library. It was every bit as fabulous as it had been in its heyday, or so Lukien supposed. He had never actually seen the place in its glory days. He had been away, in exile.