The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (101 page)

The dead city of Kaliatha rose out of its sandy tomb, glowing purple in the cloudy light of day. A westward breeze whistled through its crumbling spires, portending a storm, and ghosts of dust flittered through the empty avenues. Darkened windows in the lifeless towers stared like black, unblinking eyes, forever watching the desolate horizon, and in the cracks along the ancient pavement the weeds grew up like serpents, indomitable amidst the sad and speechless city. The foreign sound of horse hooves echoed along the main thoroughfare as a single horseman rode through the city, his head spinning from the awesome sights. Lukien had seen Kaliatha before, months ago, and he had dreamed of it since. The impression it had left on him was like seeing a massive grave. He did not speak as he trotted through the city, nor direct his comrade to any particular sight. Next to him, the Akari spirit Malator walked in stunned amazement, rendered mute by the image of his forlorn home. It was the first time since Lukien had met the Akari that Malator was lost for words, and the oddness of it struck Lukien. They had ridden together from the grand city of Torlis, through the villages and swamps of Tharlara and across the desolation toward Jador. And all the while, Malator had been full of quips and questions, barely sparing Lukien time to sleep. Now, though, Malator’s tongue was still. His glowing eyes filled with the likes of ethereal tears.

‘Here I was a boy,’ he said in a whisper, ‘and then a man and a soldier and a summoner. I have thought of almost nothing else in the countless years of my death but Kaliatha. But I never thought it would look like this.’

Lukien had tried to warn Malator. A hundred times, he had told the spirit that the city of the Akari was nothing like he’d left it. It had fallen to ruin a thousand lifetimes ago, torn by the teeth of storms and ravaged by the claws of the relentless sun. Day by day, year after endless year, the glory of the city had been peeled away, fading to a shell full of memories and almost nothing else. Malator, a child-like optimist, had merely nodded at Lukien’s description of Kaliatha, assuring him that he
understood the depths of what had happened. Had he lied, Lukien wondered? Or was it just too much for the spirit to imagine?

‘It still stands, Malator,’ said Lukien. ‘It’s still here for you to see, after all these years. That’s something good, at least.’

Malator nodded, but grudgingly. Because he had no real body he did not tire the way Lukien did, and so he often came out of the sword to walk beside Lukien while the knight rode. They had spent hours telling each other about the lives they had lived, even laughing at times at each others jokes. Malator had surprised Lukien from the very start, looking not at all like the great warrior destined to defeat Kahldris. He was tall and reedy and even foppish at times, with a grin that seemed better for a jester than a soldier. He was entertaining company, always prepared to use his wit to disarm the sceptical Lukien. Seeing his new friend – his Akari – so broken-hearted made Lukien wilt.

‘You have no idea how grand this place was once,’ Malator continued. ‘And I treaded the world like a prince when I was alive. All of Kaliatha knew my name, and my brother’s. They looked to me for help.’ Malator trembled. ‘For help, Lukien.’

Lukien smiled reassuringly, understanding Malator’s pain. ‘You did what you could for them. You tried to help. Now you can explain that to them, Malator. That’s why we are here.’

‘We are here because there is no other way to your land of Jador, Lukien. If there were, I would not be here.’

‘You dissemble, my friend. Nothing would have kept you from seeing Kaliatha and you know it. And it is good that you see it. Look at it! You see ruins. I do, too. But I see glory here, still. I can imagine what a world your people made.’

‘Can you?’ Malator appeared heartened. ‘Then your one eye is clearer than my two.’

Lukien did not rise to Malator’s bait. He had the right to mourn for his city, Lukien supposed, and nothing he could say would assuage the spirit’s feelings. The Sword of Angels rested at Lukien’s hip, keeping him alive and filling him with vitality. The Eye of God still hung from his neck, but Lukien could no longer feel the presence of Amaraz within himself, and he knew that the great Akari had vacated his body, leaving the job of sustaining him to Malator, his one, true, Akari. Throughout their trip together, Malator had stayed close to Lukien, assuring him that he need not wear the sword at every moment. Eventually, Lukien had come to trust the spirit.

Still, the long ride from Torlis had been bittersweet. Without Jahan, the lush landscape of Tharlara seemed empty, and Lukien spent many hours of the trek mourning his kind-hearted friend. He missed Lahkali and Karoshin. He even missed Niharn. But Jahan he missed most of all, and
he knew that he could not pass by his village without telling his wife what had happened.

Oddly, his ride through the dead city reminded Lukien of that moment now, and in the high spires of deceased Kaliatha – a city Lukien knew Jahan would have loved – he saw the wonder-filled face of the villager. The memory put a dagger through his heart. He had told Jahan’s family that their beloved husband and father had died valiantly, saving him from a rass. He made sure that the children believed their father was a hero, and took pains to praise him and tell how much he missed him. Even in their crushed expressions, Lukien saw the love they had for him.

‘You are thinking of your friend?’ asked Malator.

Lukien grinned. He was not used to having an Akari who could so easily pick at his brain. ‘This is what Gilwyn warned me about,’ he jibed. ‘Yes, Malator, I am thinking of Jahan. He would have understood what you cannot. He would have seen the glory that’s still here in Kaliatha.’

‘Always on the past is your mind, Lukien,’ said Malator, shaking his vapourous head. ‘I grieve for a city, a whole world of people! You grieve for one man, though I have assured you that he lives on, not just in your memory but in a very real world beyond this one. Do not lament for him so.’

‘I know what you have told me, Malator. But it is hard.’

‘But you have seen the truth yourself, in the Story Garden!’

‘I have seen it, yes,’ said Lukien. Cassandra, too, he thought of often. And yet Malator never questioned him about her, as if he already knew all he needed to know. ‘You have been dead too long, my friend, not to know what it is to lose someone. Not a city, mind you, just one special person.’ He looked at Malator and shook his head. ‘I pity you for that. Truly, I do.’

Malator was not offended. His elfish ears perked up a little. ‘I see there is still so much to teach you, Lukien. I value life more than you think. More perhaps than you ever have yourself. Ah, but I do not want to argue with you!’ The spirit looked around, floating on his ghostly legs. ‘I want to see my city, Lukien, and I do not want the moment ruined.’

‘No,’ Lukien agreed. ‘No . . .’

Together they continued through the deserted streets, Malator taking the time to notice every tiny detail, Lukien gently guiding him toward their destination. Though he had only been in Kaliatha briefly, Lukien easily remembered the way toward the house where Raivik had lived, and where the dead man’s story stone still resided. He intended to repay every kindness that had been granted him on his long journey to Torlis, and that included the dead as well as the living. Raivik had been the first to tell him the truth about Malator and his brother. He had set Lukien’s feet on the right path. In return, Raivik had only wanted to know about the
world of the living. Because he had been in too much of a hurry to indulge Raivik’s craving, Lukien had left the Akari after only one brief night together. Now, though, he had something very special to give Raivik, the greatest gift anyone could give to an Akari.

Malator.

‘He will want to know what took me so long to return,’ said Malator. ‘He will question me incessantly.’

‘Get out of my head, Malator.’

‘I’m not complaining, Lukien. It will be good to tell my people the truth finally.’

Lukien shot the spirit a sceptical glance, then continued onward. His horse rode gamely through the city, exhausted beyond anything a horse should have to endure. Lukien knew his mount needed rest and water, and neither of these were plentiful in Kaliatha. But there was a stream a day’s ride away, and if they rested well tonight they might reach it by tomorrow’s end. Until then, the water they had brought with them in skins would have to do.

As the afternoon sun dipped below the highest towers, Lukien at last saw Raivik’s home. The dilapidated building had been a splendid home once, with a sprawling garden and high walls of stone that looked down imperiously on the structures around it. Long overrun by weeds and varmints, the garden nevertheless continued to produce a few wild roses from its thorn-covered bushes. Lukien slowed his horse as he reached the garden gate, a desiccated tangle of metal ready to crumble at his touch. The story stone was hidden among the weeds. He remembered its place precisely. In the shadow of the ancient house he dismounted his horse and stood at the edge of the garden, patting the Sword of Angels and smiling. The city of ghosts comforted Lukien. He felt at home among the countless bones. Beside him, Malator had once again lost his boyish grin. He was all seriousness now.

‘Malator, are you ready for this?’

The spirit sighed. ‘They know I am here, Lukien. I can hear them.’ He rolled his eyes about their surroundings. ‘So many voices . . .’

Lukien listened but heard nothing. ‘Can you hear Raivik?’

‘No. There are too many.’ Malator laughed. ‘They greet me, Lukien.’

‘I am glad for you. Welcome home.’

Malator smiled then entered the garden, not waiting for Lukien. The knight followed quickly at his heels, but Malator needed no guidance, homing in precisely on the story stone. Surrounded by tall, tangled grasses, the stone rose up only slightly from the lumpy earth. Malator studied the thing that looked like a grave marker and gently reached out his misty hand to touch it. When he did, the figure of Raivik appeared at once. Lukien stood back, amazed by seeing the dead man rise.

‘Miracles,’ he said. ‘Everyday, more miracles.’

Raivik knew him at once, and beamed excitedly at Lukien. But he did not speak, turning instead to stare at Malator. Raivik’s jaw dropped in reverence. His skin was the colour of a living man, flushing with excitement. Raivik, who had told Lukien all that he knew about Malator and his brother, now gazed dumbstruck at the ancient legend. Then, as if realizing all the millennia that had passed, he closed his mouth in a grimace and sadly shook his head.

‘Do you hear?’ Raivik asked Malator.

Malator nodded grimly. ‘I hear them.’

‘They wail for your return, like they wailed when you left us.’ Raivik’s tone was reproachful. ‘Look around you and see what you have wrought.’

‘No,’ said Lukien, stepping forward. ‘That’s not right, Raivik, and you know it. The Jadori destroyed Kaliatha, not Malator.’

Raivik turned to Lukien. ‘I thought to never see you again, Lukien, or to ever be called once more from my stone.’ He glanced down at the sword at Lukien’s belt. ‘You have found it.’

‘It is the sword that contains the soul of Malator, Raivik,’ Lukien explained. ‘I found it in Tharlara. It was just as you said. That’s why I’ve come back, to thank you and to tell you our story.’

‘A story.’ Raivik grinned. ‘You remember me well, Lukien. But this is more than a story! You cannot hear my people because you are not one of us, but the city cries all around you.’ He turned back to Malator. ‘I will listen to your story, Malator. Tell us where you have been.’

Malator sat himself down on the tall grass next to Raivik’s story stone, looking strange as he crossed his unreal legs beneath himself. He cocked his head to hear, and Lukien knew that he could hear the countless voices of the dead ringing through Kaliatha. He had agreed to explain himself to Raivik, and in so doing make his peace with what he had done.

‘You believe that I abandoned you,’ he said to Raivik. ‘If you listen, I will tell you the truth.’

Raivik floated closer to him. ‘Will you tell me why you never returned? When Kaliatha needed you most?’

‘There was nothing left for me to return to,’ said Malator. ‘By the time I could have come home, the Jadori had already ruined us.’ He bade the old man’s spirit to sit beside him. ‘Let me tell you my story,’ he said. ‘And then, when I am done, you may judge me.’

Lukien watched as Raivik sat down before Malator, agreeing to hear his tale. It was a long story, Lukien knew, and he had already heard it. He was also powerfully tired, and unlike a spirit he needed rest. Backing away from the Akari pair, he left the garden and went to his horse, unpacking the things he needed for his well-earned rest.