The Devil's Armour (Gollancz S.F.) (52 page)

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.

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 armoury full of ancient Akari weapons, the Devil’s Armour 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 armoury 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 armoury 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 armour 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 Armour in wonder. He was sure-footed as he descended.

It was Lukien who had first discovered the Akari armoury – and the Devil’s Armour. He had stumbled upon them a year ago when they’d first come to Grimhold. The armoury itself held many different pieces of armour, 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 Armour
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 armoury, 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 Armour. 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 shine. 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 armour is yours
.

As Thorin entered the small chamber the light from the armour warmed his face like a hand pressed against his cheek. He had always wondered what caused the armour to stand as it did, seemingly in the air. Now he had no such questions. The armour 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 armour. In a way he had never felt before, he
knew
Kahldris. No more was the Akari something of the ether. Touching the armour 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 armour’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 armour’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 armour exists in both worlds
.

The idea tantalised 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 armour, no harm will befall you
.

‘You mean I’ll be invincible? As Minikin says?’

The Mistress of Grimhold is right to fear the armour. 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 armour.

‘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 armour on his body. Even with the help of his new arm, the Devil’s Armour was a complicated suit, intricately created to fit the wearer perfectly. It had dozens of plates and leather straps, all bolstered by a formfitting suit of chainmail. Yet despite its complexity, Thorin had never worn anything so unrestrictive. In total, the armour 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 armour remaining.

The horned helmet hung magically in the air. As each piece of the armour 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 Armour 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 armoury. There he paused for a moment, choosing a great Akari blade and scabbard and belting 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.