The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (113 page)

Gilwyn wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone here today, my lord. I was working alone when I heard you and your men.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t understand why you are here.’

Duke seemed puzzled. ‘We’re here to protect the library. Don’t you know that?’

‘Protect the library? No, my lord . . .’

‘Yes, boy, yes,’ Cajanis insisted. ‘We’re here to see what’s needed.’ He looked over his shoulder, saying to his men, ‘It should be easy to defend. Frial, go with your men. Have them go around the back of the hill. I want to see if there’s any other way up here.’

One of the man nodded and broke away. Another offered his own appraisal. ‘We can dig in on the road, my lord. And barricade the courtyard. We can station archers in the towers to keep from being charged.’

‘What?’ Gilwyn blurted. ‘What’s going on here?’

Duke Cajanis turned on him, annoyed. ‘I told you, boy, we’re here to start defending the library. There’s a lot to do, you know, and you’ll just be in the way.’

‘Duke Cajanis, I don’t understand,’ Gilwyn pleaded. ‘No one told me anything about this. I wasn’t expecting you or anybody! Please tell me what’s going on.’

The duke’s eyebrows knitted, seeing Gilwyn’s distress. He told his men to go about their business, then put his big hand on Gilwyn’s shoulder as he led him down the hall. ‘Gilwyn Toms, you can help me,’ said the duke. ‘Baron Glass says you know this place better than anyone.’

‘Baron Glass hasn’t told me a thing about this!’

The duke guided Gilwyn away from the others. ‘I see that,’ he said, not unsympathetically. ‘How old are you, boy?’

‘Nearly nineteen,’ replied Gilwyn.

‘Nineteen? Then you are man enough to know the truth. Liiria is in danger. The Reecians are on the march again, and word from Marn is that Nithins are coming, too. They’re making ready to war on us, and we’re making ready to defend ourselves. That’s why I’m here.’

Gilwyn was shocked. ‘Thorin didn’t tell me about this . . .’

‘Baron Glass likes to keep you in the dark, it seems. No matter. You’ll know it all soon enough. He sent for me and my army to help defend Koth. The rest of them will be coming in the next week or so. We’re going to make sure nothing happens to the library this time, so don’t be afraid.’

‘No, this can’t be right.’ Gilwyn reeled away from the duke. ‘Thorin would have told me!’

Duke Cajanis stiffened. ‘Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me. War is coming, Gilwyn Toms. The Reecians have already reached the Kryss. There are five-thousand of them, and no telling how many Nithins are on the way.’

It was all too much for Gilwyn, who could barely believe what he was hearing. If the Nithins were on their way, that meant Lukien might be with them. But what about the Reecians? Hadn’t they been trounced already? Gilwyn tried gamely to keep calm, wondering just how much Thorin had withheld from him, his heart breaking with the thought.

‘Duke Cajanis, what’s going to happen now? I mean, what is Thorin planning?’

‘Planning? What he’s always been planning, boy! To kill his enemies.’

‘Yes,’ said Gilwyn with a nod. ‘His enemies . . .’

‘They’re all coming now. They mean to take Koth for themselves. Norvor too, if we let them.’ The Duke put his hands together, cracking his knuckles. ‘But we’re stronger than they think.’

‘Yes.’ Gilwyn grimaced, knowing the duke was infected by the same paranoia as Thorin. ‘So Thorin sent for you, then. He told you to come here to the library?’

‘This is where we’ll make our stand,’ proclaimed the duke. ‘Not in Lionkeep.’ He smiled at Gilwyn with warm insanity. ‘This time, we’re going to make sure nothing happens to the library.’

Speechless, Gilwyn could only watch as Duke Cajanis turned back to his men and began shouting orders. The Norvan soldiers swarmed through the library, checking through the windows for good vantage points and sizing up the thick walls. As the duke walked away, he waved for Gilwyn to join him.

‘Come along, Toms,’ he chirped. ‘You can help us.’

But Gilwyn couldn’t move. Distraught and deceived, he thought only about Thorin and all the good times they’d spent together. Had he made progress? He had thought so, but now he knew the truth. Then, like a flickering candle, Kahldris’ face flashed across his mind.

You see?
the demon whispered.
You are losing.

As he followed after Duke Cajanis, Gilwyn’s ears rang with Kahldris’ laughter.

Between the principality of Nith and the vast country of Liiria, only the city-state of Farduke stood as a barricade. For the army of Prince Daralor, that meant only a week-long march between home and their enemies, with only Farduke to stand in their way. The princes of Farduke had seen the army coming from their towers of bronze, having been made aware of the Nithins days before by Daralor’s heralds. Word had come back from Farduke’s rulers that they would not join the crusade to oust Baron Glass, but neither would they obstruct the Nithins in their march. Prince Daralor, who had openly voiced his disgust for Farduke during the trek north, laughed when his heralds returned with the news, and told his men to be careful when crossing Farduke territory.

‘Don’t crush the flowers,’ Daralor ordered his lieutenants.

It was the kind of contempt Lukien had come to expect from Prince Daralor, a man with so many contradictions he was impossible to predict. He kept to himself, surrounded by his council of trusted advisors, but he spoke openly and warmly with Aric Glass, treating the young man like a little brother. At times, he barked fierce orders at his men, hissing at them to keep their pace or to better groom their animals, but every night while the army camped Daralor made sure to visit every campfire and see that his men were all right.

For such a small country, Daralor had arrayed an impressive army. Besides his cavalry, which numbered close to a thousand, there were twice that many infantry marching alongside the horses, proudly displaying the green flag of Nith above their armoured heads. Daralor’s kennel masters had also brought with them nearly a hundred fighting dogs, great, hardheaded beasts with skin like leather and wide, slobbering jaws filled with sharp teeth. Lukien, who had fought against dogs in battle before, made sure to keep well away from the barred wagons that housed them. At night, when the men bedded down, Lukien could hear the soulful howling of the dogs. More than a few Norvan soldiers would lose their throats to the monsters, he was sure, but it was hawks that truly intrigued Lukien.
Prince Daralor had an obvious affinity for using animals in battle, and so had brought three dozen trained hawks with him to use against Thorin. Aric had explained to Lukien that Daralor was a master hawker, and that his flying pets would make awesome adversaries in battle. The birds, which were kept in giant mesh cages, looked at Lukien peculiarly as he trotted alongside them. Like the dogs, they frightened Lukien, because he could not understand how their little brains worked or what they were thinking. They were a mystery to Lukien, like Daralor himself, and whether or not any of them could be trusted still alluded Lukien.

Lukien had spent very little time with Daralor since meeting him in Nith. A few days after reaching the principality, Lukien, Ghost and Lorn were quickly on the march again, this time heading for Liiria with Daralor’s army. The prince himself had not taken the time to meet with Lukien privately. He was cordial to Lukien, seemed impressed by him, and that was all. In the brief exchanges they had at the castle, Daralor explained to Lukien how important it was that Baron Glass be stopped, and how much he detested the cowardly kings of Farduke and Marn and Jerikor, all of whom had spurned Aric Glass’ pleas to join them. Yet Daralor did not elaborate on his reasons for joining the crusade. He simply said that it was necessary, and that was all, leaving Lukien to wonder about his motives. They were pure, Lukien was sure, but that did not keep him from being curious.

Aric, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease with Daralor. Daralor was a man of principle, Aric told Lukien, one of only two such rulers on the entire continent. The other ruler was Raxor, of course, who Prince Daralor himself called a ‘courageous old fool.’ Now that they were nearing Liiria – and the border with Reec – Aric was looking forward to his reunion with Raxor. Rumours abounded that Raxor’s army had already taken up positions near the river Kryss, ready for his rematch with Baron Glass. Aric chaffed a little when he spoke of it, openly worried about the old king. Like the rest of them, he was eager to reach Liiria and find out what was really going on.

Out of all of them, however, Lorn was the most anxious to return home. As they drew farther north, the rumours about Jazana Carr’s death continued to grow. Some said she had killed herself. Others, amazingly, claimed Baron Glass had killed her. And to confound them even more, some people they met on the way north told them nothing at all about Norvor or the Diamond Queen, completely ignorant about both. To Lukien, the rumours were fascinating, even frightening. But to Lorn they were intoxicating, tantalizing him with the notion that he just might be able to win back Norvor without a fight. Lorn and Lukien had spent very little time together since leaving Nith. Day by day, Lorn became more withdrawn, keeping to the rear of the army as it snaked its way north and
rarely joining others at meal time. Mostly, the Norvan brooded, and while he rode his mind was a thousand miles away, his steely eyes hiding the dark workings going on behind them. No one in the company trusted Lorn, especially not Prince Daralor, but no one had forbidden Lorn to accompany them, either. He was a willing sword in the fight against Baron Glass, for that reason alone Daralor accepted him.

Lukien had spent a good part of his over-long life on the road with soldiers, and so it was easy for him to fall into the natural rhythm of the march. Even with his homeland looming ever-nearer, he managed to remain calm and appreciate the long days and quiet nights. He had almost given up on ever getting to know Prince Daralor, until at last the enigmatic prince called Lukien to his tent. It was on the second night out of Farduke. The army had marched for miles that day, making good progress in the cooperative weather. Men had begun to bed down for the night, and cooking fires were already roiling. Lukien and Ghost had prepared their own places for the night. Because both of them were famished, they waited in line with the other Nithins while the cooks prepared supper. Lorn, as usual, waited alone, not joining the line. As Ghost passed a comment about their quiet friend, the ubiquitous Alsadair made a surprise appearance, taping Lukien on the shoulder.

‘Prince Daralor wants to see you,’ he said. He looked at Ghost. ‘And you, too.’

Ghost perked up. ‘What’s this?’

‘A meeting,’ said Alsadair. He was uncharacteristically stiff as he spoke, his tone without humour. ‘We’ll be at the border soon. It’s time.’

‘Time for what?’ asked Lukien curiously.

‘He wants to speak to you,’ said Alsadair. ‘He’ll tell you why when he sees you. Bring Lorn, too.’

‘Aw, do we have to?’ groaned Ghost.

But Alsadair was already waving at Lorn, summoning him forward. Lorn put down the boots he was shining and sauntered over to the group. When he heard about Prince Daralor’s meeting, a grin bloomed on his wolfish face.

‘What’s it about?’ he asked.

‘Just follow me,’ said Alsadair, herding the men out of the food line and guiding them toward Daralor’s tent. As usual, Daralor’s pavilion had been hastily erected at the rear of the encampment, close to the river they had been following north. It took Daralor’s men less than half an hour to erect it, practicing the feat to perfection every night of their journey. A handful of guards milled outside the entrance to the tent, stepping aside as the newcomers approached. Lukien recognized most of the guards, soldiers he had got to know during their journey. Inside, he heard the eager voices of others who had already gathered. Alsadair pushed aside
the flap of the tent and stepped inside, revealing the big, stark interior. Though the sun had already gone down, the tent glowed with warm lamplight. A long, flat table had been brought in to accommodate Daralor’s guests, all of them his closest advisors. The men spoke nervously among themselves as they passed along the pitchers of wine and beer. Among them sat Aric, abstaining from the drink. Young Aric brightened when his eyes caught Lukien’s, motioning for him to sit in the chair he had saved for his friend. At the head of the table sat Daralor himself. The prince looked imperious, not saying a word as his gaze jumped from man to man. He greeted Lukien and the others with a cursory nod, his maimed hand awkwardly cupping a tankard. On the right side of Daralor sat Trayvor, his trusted lieutenant. Daralor rarely made a move without Trayvor. On the left side of the prince sat a man Lukien had never seen before. From the looks of him he was not a Nithin, either. As Lukien took his seat beside Aric, he noted the man’s heavy red beard and puffy blue eyes. The man looked exhausted, his grim clothes dirty from riding. To Lukien, he had the dangerous look of an assassin.