The Devil's Armour (Gollancz S.F.) (60 page)

‘Where resides the duke so late?’ Lorn asked. He tossed the question off casually, not wanting to arouse the soldiers.

‘Duke Erlik keeps to the Blue Ram most nights,’ said the blond man.

‘A tavern?’ Eiriann asked.

‘Aye. He owns the Ram. Most nights he’s there.’

‘All night?’ probed Lorn.

‘Till he gets tired,’ the blond man replied. ‘Come. It’s not far . . .’

Lorn waited, pleased to see the crowds around them thinning. They were still on the main avenue, however, still too much in view. He scanned the dark windows of the storefronts and high apartments. Without looking he checked the sword at his side, then felt for the dagger in his boot. Blood and excitement coursed through his mind. In his ears he felt his pulse pound.

Turn off
, he thought, willing them out of the broad street. His eyes darted madly about.
Just turn off
. . .

He’d have to move quick, like a leopard. Waiting, he prepared himself with steady breaths. Next to him, Eiriann suspected nothing. Lorn let go of her hand as the avenue at
last began to darken. She had wanted to come, damn her. Arguing would have made the men suspicious.

At last, the two soldiers turned a corner. The street, far narrower than the avenue, funnelled the shadows from the high brick buildings into every crevice. Up ahead lay another street, brighter and broader. Lorn knew the moment had come.

And, like the leopard, he exploded.

With his left hand he pushed Eiriann aside; with his right he drew his sword. Metal rang as the blade sprang forth. The soldiers heard the sound and began to turn. Lorn’s sword swiped powerfully forward – severing the man’s neck. Eiriann screamed. The blond soldier faltered back as his comrade’s head somersaulted, sprinkling blood through the street. Before the corpse could fall Lorn was on the blond man. Before the soldier drew his sword Lorn had pinned him. Before he could shriek a single cry his head was battered against the nearby wall. Lorn manhandled him, driving his helmeted skull again and again against the bricks. Stunned, the young man went limp. As he slumped to the ground Lorn turned to Eiriann.

‘Go back to the others,’ he ordered, trying hard to check his volume. The soldier was still conscious. Eiriann stood, horror-struck.

‘What . . . ?’

‘Eiriann, hurry. Get back before we’re found!’

‘What happened?’ the girl stammered. There was blood on her face and shabby dress. Her wide eyes watched as Lorn hastily removed the soldier’s helmet.

‘They know it’s me,’ he said. ‘They must!’

He set the helmet aside and slapped the stunned man’s face, waking him. The soldier’s eyes fluttered open, confused. Blood from his fractured skull trickled down his forehead.

‘Do you want to live?’ Lorn asked pointedly.

He kept his big hand clamped around the man’s throat. Amazingly, the soldier nodded.

‘Then tell me the truth. Duke Erlik was waiting for us, wasn’t he?’

The man nodded, fighting to breathe.

‘Why?’

‘To bring you,’ croaked the soldier. ‘To kill you . . .’

‘What?’ Eiriann gasped. She looked at Lorn helplessly.

‘Erlik’s a snake, Eiriann,’ said Lorn. ‘I know of him from Norvor. Believe me, he’s no one’s benefactor. He must have gotten word I was coming south.’ He shook the dazed man savagely. ‘Tell me,’ he demanded. ‘Is that what happened? Were you waiting for us?’

Again the bloodied head nodded. ‘Yes,’ gasped the man. ‘Waiting . . .’

‘But why?’ asked Eiriann.

‘Eiriann, go!’ Lorn snapped. ‘Duke Erlik means to capture me, to sell me to Jazana Carr, no doubt. You and the others have to leave!’

‘We won’t abandon you!’

‘I’m a danger to you, don’t you see? You have to leave Dreel now, while you can. Take the road to Ganjor.’

‘Without you? Lorn, no . . .’

‘I’ll meet up with you if I can,’ Lorn said. He looked around, hunching over the soldier, trying to stay in the shadows. ‘Gods above, girl, I’ve just killed a man! No more arguing!’

‘But what will happen to you?’

‘Go!’

Eiriann started sputtering, then stopped herself. She looked desperately at Lorn and knew he was right. She turned and ran back down the street. Lorn watched her go, terrified for her safety. Already time was slipping away. He thought for a moment, steadying himself. The blond man’s groggy eyes looked up at him, pleading.

‘Don’t . . . kill me . . .’

Lorn tightened his fingers around the gasping throat. ‘Ah, but you’re fading fast, my friend. If you don’t get help soon, you will die. Shall I help you die?’

‘Please, no . . .’

‘Does Erlik know I’m here? Has he sent others after me?’

‘No, no others,’ the man fought to explain. ‘We were told . . . to look for you.’

That gem of information made Lorn smile. Suddenly he was in control again – at least until the bodies were discovered.

‘Where’s the Blue Ram?’ he demanded.

The blond man struggled to answer, consciousness fading fast.

‘Tell me!’ hissed Lorn.

‘Down . . . there . . .’

A feeble finger rose to point left. Lorn looked down the alley. Torches lit the area. Street noise tumbled toward them. Lorn was sure he’d find the tavern.

‘All right,’ he said, still holding his sword. ‘I mean to find your duke, assassin. And when I do I’m going to send him to the same hell as you.’

The man’s eyes filled with horror. A strangled plea rose from his throat. Ignoring it, Lorn quickly ran the edge of his blade over the man’s neck, cutting off his cry.

In less than an hour, Lorn was in the Blue Ram.

He had washed himself of blood, then taken the cape and helmet from the soldier. These he kept under his table, the helmet wrapped up in the cape, tied like a bundle of belongings. Lorn’s table was at the far end of the tavern, away from the hearth and a good distance from the busy bar. A tankard of ale that had gone flat sat before him, nursed carefully so he did not have to pay for another. A group of men played cards at a table nearby, ignoring him completely, while the barkeep kept occupied with a steady stream of patrons. It had not been hard for Lorn to locate Duke Erlik among them. The grand man sat at his own table near the hearth, laughing and drinking with a pair of fine-looking women and occasionally getting whispered
reports in his ear from his caped guardians, who seemed to be everywhere in the city.

Lorn averted his eyes, mostly, as he waited patiently in his wooden chair. His place afforded him a good view of Erlik and quick egress from the nearby door, but he was sure there was a back exit to the place, and that Erlik would be using it soon. Before entering the Blue Ram, Lorn had surveyed the place’s outhouse, a shabby structure of stone at the rear of the street. The hour was perfect; the outhouse itself had little traffic now. And Erlik was doing a good job filling his bladder with beer. Soon, Lorn knew, he would have to empty it.

Lorn took a sip from his own ale. A barmaid asked him pointedly if he wanted another. Lorn reached into his pocket and slapped a bronze coin onto the table, one of his very last.

‘Here,’ he said gruffly. ‘Bring me another, then stop bothering me.’

The harried-looking maid greedily took the coin, then went to the bar to bring him another drink. When she was gone Lorn settled down. Sitting in the Ram had given him time to think. He’d been surprised by Erlik’s ambush, but he knew he shouldn’t have been. He’d been a king once, and certainly there were too many flapping lips in Koth to keep them all closed. It annoyed him that he’d not foreseen this, and he wondered how many other assassins were waiting for him on the road to Ganjor.

So close
. . .

Too close now to be stopped by some greedy duke.

Duke Erlik himself was no less impressive than the ladies he entertained. Back in Norvor, Lorn had heard stories about the man and his handsome face. It was said that Erlik pampered himself like a princess, importing oils and perfumes to keep his skin supple. A foppish man, Erlik sat tall in his thronelike chair, his lean body draped in brightly coloured clothes and a coat that looked more suited for a woman. His face, powdered white and rouged at the cheeks,
held two glassy eyes that jumped insanely, admiring the bosoms of his laughing entourage. Surprisingly, Lorn did not hate Erlik. Though looking at the fop disgusted him, he nevertheless admired him, and all he had attained. Ransoming a criminal – even a noble one – was simply good business.

I would have done the same
, thought Lorn darkly.

He pondered that for a moment, wondering if it were true. In another life he would have ransomed a man without a second thought. Now? He wasn’t sure.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he mumbled. ‘Business or not, it won’t save him.’

A few long minutes later, Erlik finally rose from his seat and headed toward the rear of the tavern. A caped soldier saw him rise and followed him, no doubt a bodyguard. Lorn checked his eagerness, took a calm drink from his tankard, then got up himself, carefully taking his bundle from beneath the table. He gave one casual look over his shoulder as he headed for the front door. Then, sure nobody had noticed him, he went outside. The night wrapped him in its silent mantle. Up and down the street he saw only distant figures, too far away to see him clearly. With his stolen cape and helmet in hand, he walked around the brick building toward its rear, his boots sinking into the loamy earth as shadows swallowed him completely. There he fixed the cape around his neck and shoulders and put the helmet on his head. Hand on his sword, he stalked toward the outhouse.

As he’d hoped, only the single guardian awaited Duke Erlik. More lucky still, he had his back turned toward Lorn. Without pausing, Lorn drew his sword, walked up behind the man, and put the blade through his back. Quickly covering his victim’s mouth, Lorn held him as he convulsed, spewing blood from his throat onto Lorn’s hand. When he was sure the guard was dead, Lorn dragged him into the shadows next to the outhouse, where he quickly wiped his bloodied hands on the dewy grass. A glance
toward the Ram told him no one else was coming. Lorn seized the chance. Standing at the very threshold of the stone outhouse, he grabbed hold of the door very quietly, paused to prepare himself, then flung the door open.

Squatting over the seat was Erlik, his trousers around his ankles. Lorn had his blade at the duke’s throat at once.

‘Oh, Fate . . .’ gasped Erlik, holding up his hands. His head pinned to the wall by the sword, he looked desperately at Lorn. ‘Don’t kill me!’

‘Don’t say another bloody word,’ Lorn whispered. With his free hand he closed the outhouse door behind him, so that only a sliver of light entered through the chamber’s tiny window. ‘Scream and you die.’

‘I won’t,’ promised Erlik. His powdered face began to sweat. ‘You want to rob me, take it, whatever you want.’

‘Gods above, but you’re a coward,’ hissed Lorn. He pressed harder on his sword, nearly breaking the silky skin of Erlik’s throat. ‘At least act like a man, even if you can’t dress like one.’

The insult riled Erlik. ‘Who are you?’

‘Why don’t you figure that out for yourself? I’m Norvan. Does that help?’

The little colour fell from Erlik’s face. ‘Lorn . . .’

‘Indeed,’ replied Lorn hatefully. ‘How much did you think you’d get for me, Erlik? Did you really think I’d let you sell me to that bitch Jazana Carr?’

‘You’re insane,’ sneered Erlik. ‘A mad-dog king, just like everyone says.’

‘Maybe,’ said Lorn. ‘But at least I’m alive.’

Then, for the third time that night, Lorn bloodied his blade.

By dawn the next morning, Lorn had left Dreel far behind. Remarkably, he had escaped the city with ease, leaving through the main gate as soon as he’d emptied Erlik’s pockets. Travelling had been difficult without a horse, but he remained on the main road throughout the night, hiding
in the dark woods whenever he heard others approaching. When the sun finally rose he had put a good distance between himself and the city, and was sure no one had followed him. He did not look like an assassin, after all, and he knew it would take time for anyone to find the two bodies of the soldiers, which he stuffed down an old abandoned well. Erlik himself was probably found minutes after his death, but by then Lorn was already through the city gates.

Exhausted, he continued on the wooded road south, ignoring his blistered feet and enormous fatigue. He was glad Eiriann had followed his orders to leave the city; he had seen nothing of them on the road. With luck he would meet up with them in Ganjor. If not, he hoped they would go across the desert without him. Poppy didn’t need him to be healed – she needed the magic of Grimhold, and that was all. Perhaps he had taken her far enough. Perhaps Eiriann would take her the rest of the way.

‘A good woman,’ he told himself as he walked, and the thought of her pretty face eased his many aches. They were all good, and he trusted them. Poppy was in capable hands.

For an hour more Lorn continued on his weary way. His swollen feet threatened to burst from his worn-out boots, but he was driven by a mad urge to reach Ganjor. He remembered from the maps that it was a three-day ride between Ganjor and Dreel, and he knew it would take him much longer on foot. He had money now but that was little good to him, for he trusted no one on the road and could not risk buying passage south. If he came upon a town he might be able to purchase a horse, and it was that single hope that kept him going.