The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (123 page)

Just as Lukien turned to see what was happening with the Nithins, a single rider came galloping out of the crowd, heading for Lukien with his sword raised. The bare, tattooed arms and bald pate were unmistakable. Thon’s charge came like lightening, catching Lukien unaware. He raised his sword a moment too late and felt the flat of Thon’s blade smash across his face. Dazed, Lukien nearly fell from his horse. He twisted blindly to the side, groping for Akari strength. The power came to him at once, and as he rose in his saddle he spat hatefully at Thon.

‘You stupid troll,’ he bellowed. ‘The likes of you could never kill me!’

Thon cried out, unleashing a hacking barrage, his big horse muscling back Lukien’s own. The Sword of Angels took each blow, singing with Malator’s irate voice.

‘You’re a traitor and a whore-monger!’ railed Thon. ‘You’ll bring ruin to us!’

Lukien parried his attack, playing with the man. Lorn and Ghost were at his back, keeping the other mercenaries at bay. ‘You’d follow a tyrant just for his gold,’ accused Lukien. ‘You’re a plague on Liiria!’

Thon came again, enraged by Lukien’s words. ‘I’ll end you!’ he cried. ‘I’ll—’

The words died in a gurgle as Lukien’s blade slipped through his gorget. Thon’s eyes widened with horror, knowing he was dead. As Lukien pulled free his sword, Thon’s body fell forward, spiraling down from his horse. Lukien looked at him as he hit the earth, feeling nothing but contempt.

‘Too easy,’ he whispered, frightened by the power his sword and amulet gave him. Across the field, Nithin soldiers were at last reaching his location, their green, feathered helmets bobbing up from the sea of bodies.

Throughout the battle, Prince Daralor had waited among his reserve soldiers, watching his war dogs and lancemen penetrate the enemy lines. For nearly an hour he had sat imperiously upon his horse, quickly calculating his army’s every move while his captains and lieutenants fed reports to him and the forces of Duke Cajanis scrambled to reach him. For the duke, the hour had not gone as hoped, but Prince Daralor wasn’t at all surprised. Accustomed to his Nithins being underestimated, he had already supposed he would win the day, despite the Norvans’ superior numbers. They were mostly mercenaries, after all, and mercenaries had very little to fight for once the tide began to turn. It was easy to turn the tide with war dogs. Daralor had learned that a long time ago, in his war against Marn. In the ensuing years he had perfected the breed, making them bigger, more fearless. That, along with having truth on their side, made his army the certain victors today.

Not far from where Daralor waited, the hawkers prepared their giant birds for battle, having opened the huge wooden cages. One by one the birds were unhooded, kept tethered to their perches by little collars around their talons. Daralor turned from his captains, spying Glok, the head keeper. Near Glok, on one of the many wagons brought onto the battlefield, a single hawk waited on its perch. Daralor nodded to Glok and the keeper undid the bird’s collar. The Prince then raised his arm, summoning the bird, and the hawk took wing, instantly sailing toward its master. Daralor smiled as his pet settled onto his forearm, gently digging its talons into his leather gauntlet. She was much smaller than the other hawks, but she was beloved by the prince nonetheless. It amused Daralor to think that Cajanis and his men expected birds the size of Echo.

‘Call your brothers and sisters now, Echo,’ Daralor crooned, his lips pursed like he was talking to a baby. The bird cocked back its head and released a peculiar cry. At once the bird’s
lament was picked up by the others. Prince Daralor did not have to tell Glok to let the war hawks loose. Echo had already done it for him.

Still in the thick of the Norvan army, Lukien and his comrades managed to hold back the coil of mercenaries closing around them. Nearly all the dogs were dead or too badly wounded to keep up the fight. Fifty yards back, Nithin soldiers advanced through the Norvans. Duke Cajanis had taken up a command position on a nearby hill, returning to safety from the worst of the fighting. Through the crush of swords and swinging maces, Lukien could see the duke frantically surveying the battlefield. He still had the advantage of numbers, but the chaos of the fight baffled him, and his men suffered for it. The seasoned fighters sensed the weakness in their leader, but the Norvan regulars among them drove them on, shouting commands. In a moment, Lukien knew, they could easily regain their momentum. Unless one side called retreat, the battle could continue on for hours.

‘Lukien, look!’

The voice was Lorn’s, and when Lukien turned to him he saw the king pointing westward, toward the Nithin lines. Toward the sky. What Lukien saw there made him reel.

Over the heads of the Nithins, the blue sky darkened with wings. A storm cloud of talons rolled over the field with a pitched, unearthly screech. Daralor’s hawks filled the air above the soldiers, shooting up like arrows, their enormous wing spans blotting out the hills behind them. They moved swiftly toward the Norvans, sailing high at first then diving down with outstretched claws. They came in a tide, washing over the field, picking out the choicest flesh and digging their talons deep. Horses whinnied in terror, tossing off their riders while men dropped their swords to cover their heads. But the big, relentless birds took hold of them, working in teams to pull them from their saddles. Seeing this, King Lorn stared in amazement, his mouth dropping open.

‘Incredible.’

‘Yes, incredible. And they’re coming this way!’

This time it was Ghost who spoke. The sight of the war birds made his magic falter, and he reappeared in the middle of the field only yards away from Lorn and Lukien.

‘It’s time to go,’ he said with his usual wryness.

Lukien nodded, made almost mute by the sight of the freakish birds. They had only a few minutes before the shock of the attack wore off. Luckily, the Norvans around them were heading for cover.

‘Malator,’ said Lukien aloud, ‘is Thorin still at the square?’

The Akari was silent for a moment, removing himself from the battle
and stretching his mind out to touch his brother. A jolt of surprise went

through him.

No, said Malator.
He’s left the square. He’s riding to the library, Lukien
.

The answer made no sense to Lukien, but he wasted no time. Raising his sword, he called to Ghost and Lorn.

‘Follow me!’ he cried, and with renewed vigour cut his way through the Norvans.

Thunder collected in Thorin’s skull as he raced back to the library. He had left behind his men, giving them over to their enemies, but the real guilt that plagued him came from the blow he’d given Aric. It had all happened far too quickly; Thorin could barely remember it. But nothing could expunge the image of Aric laying dead at his feet, twisted and broken and staring wide-eyed at nothing. Thorin choked back sobs as he rode, Kahldris’ angry voice ranting in his mind. The demon was screaming, demanding he return to the battle. Thorin girded himself against the assault, too consumed with thoughts of Aric to pay the spirit heed.

Up ahead loomed Library Hill, its winding road and flat yard dotted with soldiers. At the base of the hill milled Lothon and his Liirians, confused by the sight of the lone rider blazing toward them. With his face still hidden behind his grotesque helm, Thorin knew his men could not see his tears, but neither did he think he could control himself. Every twitch he made came with effort as Kahldris worked to turn him around.

‘I won’t go back!’ Thorin railed.

He drove his mount into the crowd of soldiers. Lothon, who had been watching him, hurried up on foot to meet him.

‘Baron Glass, what’s happened?’ asked the old nobleman. He looked genuinely concerned.

Thorin jerked back the reins of his stallion, trying to get it under control. He could barely speak. ‘My son,’ he stammered. ‘Lothon . . .’

Lothon took the horse forcefully by the tack. ‘Steady,’ he commanded. ‘Easy. Baron Glass, tell us what’s happened.’

All Thorin wanted was to get away, to climb up into the library and hide. His whole body began to shake. Lothon and his soldiers noticed the quaking instantly – and distastefully. The armour on Thorin’s body still writhed with life.

‘Fate above, Baron Glass – what’s happened to you?’ asked Lothon.

Thorin’s voice came out like a strangled cry. ‘He is taking me!’

‘Who?’ Lothon demanded.

Thorin wailed, then reached up and pulled the helmet from his head, tossing it hatefully to the ground. With chattering teeth he tried to explain what had happened, but found he could no longer talk. The muscles of his face contorted horribly, making the men stagger back. Lothon grimaced in disgust. He looked at his fellow Liirians in confused horror.

‘Look at him, he’s mad,’ said one of them.

‘Let him go,’ suggested another.

The baron ripped the reins from Lothon’s hands. This time, his old friend made no attempt to stop him. Pulling his horse around, Thorin squeezed his legs together, driving the horse onward and headed for the hill.

Gilwyn had not left the chamber where he’d said good-bye to Thorin. As the battles raged around Koth, he kept his quiet vigil high up in the library, away from the soldiers and staff, brooding as he wondered what was happening. He knew that Lukien was coming for Thorin, yet that happy fact didn’t hearten him. Thorin was lost to them, and not even Lukien could save him now.

The sun had reached the apex of the eastern hills, and as Gilwyn stared out the big window he could see the Nithin forces as they battled against the Norvans. From where he stood, Gilwyn couldn’t tell how the sides were faring. He supposed it would be a long and bloody day, and full of grief when it was over. Gilwyn touched his hand to the frame of the window. It felt good and solid on his fingers, the way Figgis had intended.

‘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.