The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (96 page)

Out of the darkness they came with speed, spears lowered against the Night Queen’s protectors. Lorn cried for White-Eye to retreat, then spat a string of obscenities as she ignored him. Too busy to argue, he took on the first of the riders to break through the kreels, batting aside the Ganjeese spear and driving his sword headlong through the man’s throat. A kreel leapt across his vision, tackling the drowa and tearing open its gut. Lorn spun about, grabbed angrily at White-Eye’s kreel, and yanked the rein away from her, pulling girl and beast back toward the city.

‘Go!’ he bellowed.

‘I won’t!’

Through the meˆle´e Lorn could see King Baralosus battling through the Jadori. Surrounded but undeterred, the king’s men swarmed around him, swatting at the kreels and dodging the flailing whips. Another rider broke through, heading again for White-Eye. Lorn exploded after him, slashing his sword and hacking off his head. Confused, White-Eye called to him, and as Lorn turned he saw her riding toward him.

‘You get back!’ he railed. ‘Damn you, girl, listen to me!’

‘Tell me what’s happening!’ demanded White-Eye. Her kreel loped forward, landing at Lorn’s feet and sniffing at the air with its tongue. White-Eye looked like a wild child on its back, her black hair flying, her milky eyes madly scanning the field. Lorn reached out for her again, snatching up the kreel’s tack and spuring his horse back toward the city. This time the kreel resisted, pulling free. Lorn swore at the monster. ‘Come with me!’ he spat. ‘It’s not safe here!’

Over White-Eye’s head he saw Baralosus. The king had spotted the kahana and fixed her in his sight. With his men tangled in kreels, Baralosus saw his opportunity and blasted forth, galloping for the defenseless girl. Lorn leapt after him, passing White-Eye and lowering his sword. He heard a commotion behind him, someone screaming. Ignoring it, he brought up his blade and collided his horse against Baralosus’ huge drowa. The king’s face burst with sweat and hatred. His big beast muscled back Lorn’s steed. Lorn worked his sword, ducking the king’s own as the silver scimitar flashed. The head of the drowa darted forward, smashing against Lorn like a ram. He collapsed, gripped hard on his reins and pulled himself upright. White-Eye was shouting. Another voice joined her. Unable to spare even a glance, Lorn slashed madly at Baralosus, trying to regain his momentum. The two kings crossed swords, again and again battering each other back. Kreels and drowamen crashed around them. A big man, Baralosus held his own, bolstered by his powerful mount. Lorn skirted around him, searching for a weakness, but the well-trained drowa moved with him, dancing on its gangly legs, avoiding every blow.

Then, another kreel slipped onto the field, barreling towards the battling kings. Again Lorn heard the unfamiliar cry, this time seeing Salina. She rode atop the kreel with Trog, Minikin’s monstrous henchman. The kreel that carried the girl and giant sped across the sand. White-Eye’s head swiveled quickly, hearing Salina’s cry. King Baralosus saw his daughter and dropped his guard.

And there it was, the opening Lorn needed. He glanced at Salina, then at White-Eye. White-Eye was screaming, calling for him. Salina’s arms flailed madly. Lorn raised his sword, cocked to strike.

‘Salina!’

Baralosus cry rose out of him like a prayer, smothering every other sound. Stunned by his daughter’s appearance, he forgot the fight, ignoring Lorn even as the Norvan’s sword hovered. Lorn trembled, aching to loose his final barrage, but Salina’s face filled his vision suddenly, tearfully pleading for peace. Baralosus bolted toward her, out of Lorn’s range, and King Lorn the Wicked merely sat atop his horse and watched his quarry escape. Guided by Trog, Salina’s kreel raced to meet her father. All around them the battle raged, but they were lost in each other suddenly.

‘White-Eye,’ called Lorn, ‘it’s Salina.’ He lowered his sword, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Call it off.’

White-Eye’s mouth fell open. ‘Salina?’

‘Call off your men,’ said Lorn. ‘It’s over.’

Princess Salina jumped from the kreel and onto the battlefield, pleading with her father to retreat. King Baralosus reached down from his drowa, grabbed hold of his daughter’s hand, and hoisted her onto the back of his mount. He turned toward his troops, shouting at them to break off their attack. Lorn galloped past them toward White-Eye.

‘What’s happened?’ White-Eye asked.

King Lorn carefully shielded her from the battle. ‘Your charge has changed her mind,’ he replied ruefully.

‘Salina?’ A huge smile filled White-Eye’s wild face. ‘Thank Vala for that.’

‘Baralosus is retreating,’ Lorn told her. The scene left him oddly disappointed. White-Eye, however, was plainly relieved. She shouted as loud as she could for her Hotas, ordering the commanders to reform their lines.

‘It’s over, then,’ she said wearily. Her eyelids closed with a giant sigh. ‘Over . . .’

King Lorn smirked despite the turn of events. ‘I am proud of you, Night Queen,’ he said. ‘Now you are truly Jador’s Kahana.’

To Lukien, the Bronze Knight of Liiria,

How have the days passed for you, my friend? Are you well? Are you happy? So much has happened to me these past months, I have not the ink to write it all. The long days since our parting have exhausted me, but now I rest. I am in the company of Prince Daralor of Nith, and Nith is a very fine place. There is peace here, a kind of peace that I never thought to find again. The word from Liiria is terrible, but here at least I am sheltered from it. I have rested. And still I am waiting for you.

I am writing in the hopes that this correspondence will find you, Lukien, for I know not where you are or even if you still draw breath. With Daralor’s help I am sending this note across the desert to Jador in the prayer that you are there. There is still great need of you, and the sword you quest to find. I still have faith in you. You must know that I do not wait here alone for you now. I have ridden the world it seems, and in all of its kingdoms I have found only two brave men. Prince Daralor has kept me kindly, and is ready to join us when we ride again to Liiria. My father still holds sway there. I have seen him, Lukien, and he has truly fallen into madness. I have fought him, too, and seen him now in battle. He is like a demon possessed of hell, and surely only the sword can stop him.

My news is this – in Nith I wait for you, but in Reec they wait as well. I have been to Reec and fought alongside King Raxor, and he too is ready to fight when you return. There is so much to tell you, Lukien, things that I should say to you in proper talk, face to face when finally we meet. Time is running short for us, and so I send this letter in the hopes that it will speed you north to Nith. I will be waiting here when you come.

Aric Glass paused, the quill in his hand stopping cold. His mind rambled with all the things he could tell his friend, the terrible confessions about Mirage or Roland or the battle at the Kryss. These things would have to wait, Aric knew. Still, his hand would not move. He stared at the last line he had written, wondering how long it would be until the knight
returned. It took a mighty faith to believe in Lukien these days, when all chaos had erupted in Liiria and the Bronze Knight seemed nothing more than a quaint fable. Yet Aric forced himself to believe that Lukien would return. To think otherwise would make a waste of all his efforts.

I will see you again, he wrote finally. My heart tells me you are coming.

Aric signed the letter and released a sigh of melancholy. Outside the window near his little desk, the afternoon beckoned him into the sunshine. Nith’s green hills shimmered. Aric dropped his eyes to the letter he had written, feeling cathartic. It had been weeks since he had come again to Nith, and he had spent his days luxuriating in the bosom of Daralor’s hospitality. Guilt gnawed at him, for he knew that away from Nith’s green borders the world of his father was in peril. But he had been so exhausted, and Daralor’s people had been so kind to him.

‘But I am rested now,’ he resolved. ‘And there is work to do.’

Before he could go in search of Daralor, before he could feel that precious sunlight on his face, Aric Glass had another letter to pen, and so he picked up his quill again and began.

An hour later, Aric was out of the charming little castle and walking across the green grass of the hunting grounds in search of Prince Daralor. Tall trees lined the ways, the forests ribboned with paths for the huntsmen and their dogs. A great field cut through the forest, still in view of the castle and canopied by the blue sky. The land rolled in gentle swales and the grass grew barely ankle high. Across the field, looking regal as he stood alone in the sunshine, Prince Daralor watched the sky, oblivious to the distant young man approaching him. Aric watched the prince carefully, not sure if he should disturb him. It had been a perfect day, the kind of day that always seemed to bless the tiny nation, and Prince Daralor had left the castle early after breaking his fast. His wife, a lovely blonde thing named Laurena, had told Aric where to find her husband. He was the kind of man that often went out on his own, enjoying a long ride with just the company of a fine horse. At times, he had invited young Aric to join him, and Aric had always eagerly agreed. To Aric’s great surprise, he had found a friend in the enigmatic prince. It was one more reason why he yearned to stay in Nith.

A speck of something caught Aric’s eye, sailing quickly through the air. Prince Daralor lifted his arm expectantly. Curious, Aric watched as the speck became a hawk and the hawk spread its feathered wings, flapping vigourously to hover before the prince before resting on his gloved hand. Daralor beamed at the bird and used his other hand to gently knead the feathers of its neck. The hawk’s keen eyes turned to Gilwyn, alerting Daralor of his presence. Aric paused to wave at the prince, who happily waved him onward.

‘Come ahead, Aric,’ called Daralor. ‘Don’t be afraid of old Echo.’

Still, Aric hesitated. He remembered how his father had kept game birds when he was a boy, and he recognized the hawk at once. Bigger than a falcon, the hawk that Daralor held had speckled tail feathers and a bright ivory breast. Its dark eyes watched Aric carefully as he neared. Daralor grinned proudly at the bird. It was then that Aric noticed the mouse in its talons.

‘She’s nearly ten years old, yet she sees like a youngster,’ the prince declared. He put out his bare hand, and the hawk opened its talons, dropping the grisly prize into its master’s palm. Daralor dangled the dead creature before the hawk, letting the bird’s beak snap forward to snatch it. Aric watched as the mouse disappeared down the hawk’s gullet.

‘She’s beautiful,’ Aric remarked. ‘She reminds me of my father’s birds. He had a kettle of hawks when I was a boy. I think of them sometimes.’ He laughed. ‘When I was young I was afraid of them.’

‘There is nothing to fear from Echo,’ Daralor promised. ‘She would never hurt anyone, not unless I order it.’

‘You mean she fights?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the prince. ‘All of my birds fight. That is what they are best at – fighting and hunting. When we go against your father, Echo will come with me. She’s smaller than the others, though. A lot smaller.’

Aric, who had brought the letters he’d written with him, let the hand carrying them drop to his side. ‘I should like to see that,’ he said. ‘I have never seen hawks used in battle.’

‘You will see – Echo will protect me like one of her chicks. So will they all.’

‘How many will you bring?’

‘I have many birds like Echo,’ said Daralor, admiring his hawk. ‘I will bring them all.’

Aric nodded, not sure what to say. Unlike himself, Prince Daralor was already preparing for the fight against his father. The prince’s determination shamed Aric, who had spent too long in Nith’s soft valleys. Prince Daralor hoisted the bird above his head and gave the order for the bird to fly. In a great flurry of feathers the hawk lifted from his hand and ascended. Aric watched the bird wing skyward, smiling.

‘Where’s she going?’

‘To hunt,’ said Daralor. ‘When I call her, she’ll return.’

Daralor took the leather glove from his left hand, pulling it free with his right, wounded hand, the one missing fingers. The glove dangled awkwardly in the remaining digits as the prince watched Echo slipping into the blue. Not far from the field, the village of Nith rested quietly in its valley, looking sleepy, but in the field they were all alone and the silence soon engulfed them. Aric shifted, waiting for the chance to ask his favour.
Daralor had yet to comment about the letters in his hand, but Aric was sure the prince had noticed them.