by John Marco
It was for him, said Kahldris. But he betrayed me.
“I don’t understand,” said Thorin. “Who is he?”
He is my brother.
Thorin leaned closer for a better look. “Your brother? You mean you made the armor for him?”
For any who would wear it, but he was the one who had promised me he would. To defend us.
“From the Jadori?”
Yes.
It made at least some sense to Thorin. According to Minikin, the Devil’s Armor wasn’t dangerous—or useful—unless someone wore it.
“Show me no more,” Thorin commanded. “Your brother was wiser than you, no doubt.”
My brother could have saved our race, but he did not. You can save the Liirians.
“You are a tempter, Kahldris. A devil, just as Minikin said.” Thorin turned away from the scene, wanting it desperately to be gone. “You will not have me. Leave me now. Take me from this place.”
One last thing . . .
“No! Leave my mind, monster!”
But Kahldris did not obey. The darkness swirled around Thorin once more. He cursed the Akari. The blackness that had swallowed the vision of the armor now brought forth a familiar scene. As the picture materialized, Thorin’s eyes widened.
“Liiria . . .”
He had not seen it for so long, the memory of his home was fading. Now it came into view before him, beckoning him with its unmistakable hills and sky. It was not Koth that he saw, but the outskirts of the country, near the border of Norvor he had become so familiar with during his exile. A city rose up from the rocks. Andola? Thorin smiled, finally pleased by something Kahldris had shown him.
Look closer. . .
Thorin did so, and what he saw made his heart skip. It was indeed Andola he saw, the city of Baron Ravel. Now, though, there were different troops milling about its streets, troops Thorin easily recognized. And above the city, blowing in the breeze, waved the flag of Norvor.
“You show me illusions,” Thorin gasped. “Kahldris, tell me this is not so.”
Jazana Carr has moved on your homeland, Baron Glass. Even now she lays plans to conquer all of Liiria.
Thorin could barely sputter a response. A desperate sense of helplessness squeezed the breath from him. From the looks of it, Andola was well in Jazana Carr’s hands. His old lover had seized the city with enough troops to make good her threat of taking Liiria.
This is no lie, Baron Glass. I can show you only the truth, those things that have come to pass.
“Why?” groaned Thorin. “Why do you taunt me with these visions?”
Because the time has come for you to choose.
Thorin could not tear his gaze away from the conquered city. Nor was there reason to be coy with Kahldris. He knew exactly what the spirit meant. Kahldris remained silent for a long while, letting the scourge he produced work on Thorin. The old baron stared at the offending Norvan flag. Once he had been one of them, plotting alongside Jazana Carr for the overthrow of Akeela. But that had been so long ago, and now her desire had been warped into a cruel vendetta.
Minikin does not help you. Meriel has forsaken you. The Inhumans care not at all for the fate of Liiria. You are their only hope, Baron Glass. And only I can help you.
“Yes,” sighed Thorin. “You and your cursed armor.”
Is it a curse to be powerful? asked Kahldris. Is it a curse to help your country? Or is it a curse to be old and weak? The Akari’s words ate at Thorin. You have thirsted long for this, Baron Glass. Now you must drink.
As he gazed at his homeland, watching the cancer of conquest eat at its fringes, the great aloneness of his predicament wore down Thorin’s resistance. Liiria needed him. The family he had left behind all those years ago stood no chance at all against Jazana Carr, and not even Lukien would help him. He was alone, and desperate for an ally.
“You will make a man of me again?” he asked. “A whole man?”
You will be more than a man, Thorin Glass. Together, we will be like a god.
A god. Or a devil. It no longer mattered to Thorin.
21
MORE THAN A MAN
There was no one in Grimhold to stop him.
Minikin was gone from the keep, back across the protecting desert to Jador. Gilwyn was in Jador too, as was Lukien. Baron Glass knew that any of them would have stopped him easily. Oddly, as he made his way purposefully down into the bowels of the fortress, he wished that the boy or the knight had been there to talk him out of his folly. But they were too far away to know his plans, and Meriel—Mirage—was too deep into her own affairs to give any thought to others.
More than anything, it was desperation that drove Baron Glass down into Grimhold’s catacombs. In the armory full of ancient Akari weapons, the Devil’s Armor waited. As he had for weeks now, he could hear the frightful, magnificent thing calling him. He thought of very little as he succumbed to its dark song. His thoughts were black, but determined.
The lateness of the hour saw the people of the keep already retired, and only a few passed Thorin on his way toward the stairs. Near the doorway, a small torch rested on the wall, lighting the area. Thorin paused for a moment, looked about himself, then took the torch from the wall when he was confident no one was watching. The door to the armory had been locked since he and the others had come to Grimhold. Minikin had sensed the stirring of Kahldris and had taken steps against him. Thorin looked at the lock, which was stout and well made, and felt his heart sink. At other times, he had found the locks to the armory undone, a phenomenon he had attributed to Kahldris, somehow.
“Damn,” he hissed in annoyance. Again he looked around, wondering what to do. His attention diverted, he heard the metallic click of a mechanism working. When he looked down again the padlock was open. His eyes rested on it uncertainly. It had not been a trick of the light.
Go.
Kahldris’ voice was anxious. Hastily Thorin put the torch back in its holder, unhooked the padlock from the door, then pulled the door open with his single hand. The portal gave a deathly squeal as it opened, alarming him. Still, no one seemed to notice the noise, and Thorin quickly retrieved the torch from the wall. Holding it out before him, he let it light the wide, dingy stairway. At once a musty smell assailed him. The strange song from the armor bid him forward. Determined, he stepped into the gloom and closed the door. The thud of the portal was followed by the dungeon’s profound silence. Thorin paused only for a moment before descending the stairs. He had secretly made the journey many times before, always to stare at the Devil’s Armor in wonder. He was sure-footed as he descended.
It was Lukien who had first discovered the Akari armory—and the Devil’s Armor. He had stumbled upon them a year ago when they’d first come to Grimhold. The armory itself held many different pieces of armor, all of ornate Akari design and all lovingly preserved by the Inhumans, who had only used the weapons once in their long history, again because of Lukien. It was he who had formed an army out of them to fight Akeela’s men. They had won that battle, and all the fine Akari weapons had once again retired to their gloomy home. The stairway wound its way down far into the catacombs, and the light from the torch struck the many weapons as Thorin neared the bottom. There he waited and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Not far ahead, the chamber of the Devil’s Armor waited. He could see it through the gloom, the preternatural light emanating from beneath its locked door. Only the door was not locked, of course. Thorin sensed this as he moved toward it.
He walked across the armory, ignoring the rich cache of weapons. He could feel Kahldris behind him. The Akari’s anxiousness was palpable, like a strong wind at Thorin’s back. This time, Thorin did not have to open the door.
It opened on its own.
The chamber flooded with light. Thorin stood in its wash and stared forward. There in its own little room stood the Devil’s Armor. It had been erected on a tiny dais, upright, as if animated by an unseen man. The black metal swirled with life. The breastplate gave a peculiar s
hine. Its many spikes sprouted in all directions. Its helmet stared back at Thorin with a demonic leer. The whole of it was startling, breathtaking to behold. It was unspeakably beautiful. And terrifying. Thorin lusted for it. In a way he had never felt for any woman, he wanted to possess it.
There was no longer need for light. Thorin found a holder along the brick wall and hung the torch there. It amazed him how calm he felt. He had made his decision, and it gave him a sense of peace.
Take it, urged Kahldris. The armor is yours.
As Thorin entered the small chamber the light from the armor warmed his face like a hand pressed against his cheek. He had always wondered what caused the armor to stand as it did, seemingly in the air. Now he had no such questions. The armor was alive. Standing before it, he reached out and—for the first time—touched its amazing metal. Like touching a beating heart, he felt the pulsing force within it. Electric life jolted through his fingers, flooding his arm, but there was no pain. Instantly he felt joined with the armor. In a way he had never felt before, he knew Kahldris. No more was the Akari something of the ether. Touching the armor was like touching the man himself. Kahldris seemed to sigh at Thorin’s gesture.
Your arm, Baron Glass . . . take the vambrace.
Thorin reached out for the vambrace and gauntlet that made up the armor’s right arm.
Your left arm, Kahldris corrected.
Thorin hesitated. “I don’t have a left arm.”
Your left arm. Do it.
Thorin did as Kahldris asked, reaching for the armor’s left vambrace. Leather ties and metal buckles kept the vambrace in place, holding it to whatever invisible figure kept the suit erect. With his one hand Thorin fumbled with the buckles. It took time to undo them all. The vambrace itself was metal and leather, and when Thorin finally pulled it free he was stunned by its lightness. There was almost no substance to the thing, yet somehow it felt remarkably strong. More remarkable though was the way the vambrace came away from the gauntlet.
The metal glove hung suspended in the air.
“Fate above . . .”
There were shoulder plates attached to the breastplate, and these stayed in place, leaving a long gap of air between the gauntlet and the shoulder. Then, the fingers of the gauntlet wiggled. The macabre surprise made Thorin jump back. He heard Kahldris laugh.
The vambrace, said the spirit. Put it on.
“Put it where? I don’t have an arm.”
Clear your mind, Baron Glass, and do as I say.
Confused, Thorin hesitated.
Question—when you die, will you have one arm in heaven?
“What?”
In the world where I dwell, you have two arms, Baron Glass. The armor exists in both worlds.
The idea tantalized Thorin. He stared at the place his left arm had been, now only a stump, and cautiously held the vambrace over it. A hinged joint held the two pieces of the vambrace together. Thorin slowly dropped it down over his upper arm. When he saw his lower arm move, he gasped.
The vambrace, moving with life, hung from his shoulder to a handless stump. Invisible hands quickly tied the leather straps and did up the buckles. Thorin watched it all with amazement. He moved the vambrace as though it were his own flesh, up and down and back and forth, laughing madly at the impossibility of it.
Now the gauntlet.
“Yes,” said Thorin eagerly. With his right hand he reached for the gauntlet and pulled it from the air where it floated. Like the vambrace, it was light and remarkably well-made, with a jointed wrist and knuckles and small spikes down its length. Thorin fitted the gauntlet into his vambrace, and for the first time in years had fingers.
“Look!” he cried, holding up his new hand and wriggling its metal digits. “My hand!”
Not only did it move, but it felt incredibly strong. Thorin banged against it with his other hand—his flesh hand—and found his new arm rock solid.
You will have the strength of ten men, Kahldris assured him. While you wear my armor, no harm will befall you.
“You mean I’ll be invincible? As Minikin says?”
The Mistress of Grimhold is right to fear the armor. She can do nothing to stop it.
Thorin considered the terrible possibilities. Now at last he had a weapon against Jazana Carr, one that not even her great fortune could surmount. He looked longingly at the rest of the armor.
“I want all of it,” he declared. He stared at the death-mask helmet. The great horns of the thing entranced him. “Kahldris, give it to me.”
It took nearly an hour for Baron Glass to assemble the rest of the armor on his body. Even with the help of his new arm, the Devil’s Armor was a complicated suit, intricately created to fit the wearer perfectly. It had dozens of plates and leather straps, all bolstered by a form-fitting suit of chainmail. Yet despite its complexity, Thorin had never worn anything so unrestrictive. In total, the armor seemed no heavier than a leather jerkin and trousers. The magic that infused each facet gave the wearer remarkable freedom. And with each new piece Thorin put on, he could feel Kahldris growing closer to him, until only a hair’s breadth separated them. He had a picture of the Akari in his mind now, not of a dead ancient, but of a living, breathing man. An ally in his coming war. Finally, there was but one item of the armor remaining.
The horned helmet hung magically in the air. As each piece of the armor had been stripped away, the helmet hadn’t stirred. It floated above the tiny dais, waiting. A headdress of black chainmail draped from its back. Its two horns gleamed. The grimacing faceplate urged Thorin to take it.
When he did, the helmet shook nervously in his hands. He studied it for a moment, wondering what it would mean to complete his transformation. Minikin’s warnings ran through his mind, and he knew that he was betraying her, and that putting on the helmet would make an enemy of her. That he regretted. He wished there was some other way.
“But there isn’t.”
Slowly he dropped the helmet over his head. He could see clearly through the narrow eyeslits, more clearly than should have been possible. A great charge shook his body. Within his bones he felt the power of the Devil’s Armor bolstering his mortal frame. His blood boiled with Akari magic. His old man’s eyes saw with a hawk’s clarity. Suddenly he was as agile as a wolf and he knew it, and that his muscles had grown instantly stronger, powerful enough to tear the bricks from the wall. He would not hunger or thirst the way a man did any longer. With the pent-up power of a catapult, he was ready to bound into the world.
Finally he could flee Grimhold. But he needed a mount, a horse to take him across the desert. He would find one in the stable, he decided. By morning he would be long gone.
Baron Glass stepped out of the tiny room and entered the ancient armory. There he paused for a moment, choosing a great Akari blade and scabbard and belted it across his waist. Without looking back he ascended the stairs and entered the keep again. Stepping out into the hall, he was grateful no one was around. He hoped to meet no resistance.
Confident he was alone, he headed for the stables to steal himself a horse.
22
THE SPIRIT IN THE EYE
In the palace of Jador, Minikin had a little bed in a room of her own. It had been hers for many years, more years than she cared to count, and was given to her by Kadar, her dead friend, during their first years together. Back then, the bond between Jadori and Inhuman was new and untested, but Kahan Kadar had trusted Minikin and so had given her a room in his fine palace, a place where she could be alone and rest whenever she came to the city after crossing the desert. In those days, Minikin had never stayed too long in Jador. Always anxious to return to Grimhold, the city was merely a place to rest and meet with her old friend Kadar, just long enough for them to catch up.
Lately, though, Minikin had been spending a great deal of time in the city. Jador had a myriad of problems that required her attention, and training Gilwyn had consumed most of her days. The boy who was now a young man was progressing well; Minikin was proud of
him. He was quickly mastering the gift the Akari had given him. Already he could see clearly through the eyes of the kreel Emerald and his monkey Teku, and day by day he found it easier to slide into the netherworld where his Akari Ruana dwelt. They were bonding, and that was good.
Minikin was content in Jador, except for the increasing frequency of raider sightings. Prince Aztar and his Voruni tribesmen had been bold lately. Though the Seekers continued to reach the city, more and more of them fell victim to the “Tiger of the Desert,” as Aztar called himself. He was a cruel man, certainly, for none but the crudest could cut down women and children. Minikin supposed Aztar had his reasons. But his logic was dark and twisted, turning his love for the desert into madness.
Thankfully for them all, Lukien continued to battle Aztar’s men. The Bronze Knight and his immortal-making amulet had become a legend among the raiders, and they were right to fear him. So far, none of them had stood successfully against Lukien, and Minikin knew that none of them ever would. Though they continued to challenge him, Lukien would continue to slay them. He had the Eye of God around his neck, and against such as the raiders, it made him invincible.
Tonight, Lukien was out in the desert. Again. He returned less often to Jador these days, preferring the quiet comfort of the endless sand dunes to the company of his Jadori hosts. On those occasions that he did return—tanned reddish-brown by the relentless sun—he told stories of his clashes with the Voruni, saying how badly he needed to continue the fight. He was not lying, Minikin knew, but she also knew that the desert gave Lukien solace. He was a soldier, and while he was soldiering he did not think of Cassandra or all that he had lost.
Tonight, Minikin slept. She had spent the day tutoring Gilwyn in the hills around the city and so fell easily to sleep when she climbed into bed. Around her neck the Eye of God glowed warmly, lulling her. Her bodyguard Trog slept in an adjacent room, in a bed much larger and sturdier than her own. They were not grand rooms but they were comfortable, and both giant and midget were content.
