The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (102 page)

*

All the next day, Lukien rode alone. He had spent the night in Kaliatha under the clouded sky, and by the next morning he felt refreshed and eager to go on. Malator had returned to residing within the sword, and though Lukien fully expected the Akari to appear walking next to him, Malator never did. Even so, he could feel the presence of Malator inside him, nestled warmly in a little corner of his brain. As Lukien rode through the familiar territory on his way to Jador, he decided not to bother Malator by calling him forth. Obviously, the spirit’s conversation with Raivik had drained him, leaving him as quiet as when they’d first entered Kaliatha.

Lukien was glad to leave the dead city behind. At last, after weeks of riding, he was nearing the familiar world he had left. Soon, he would at last return to Jador, and the thought of seeing all of his old comrades heartened him. There was still much left to do, still hundreds of miles yet to go. And his next battle with Thorin loomed over Lukien like a terrible shadow. But he kept these blacker thoughts far from his mind as he rode along the dusty earth, preferring instead to think about Gilwyn and Minikin and all the others he missed so sorely.

The day went quickly for Lukien. The weather co-operated and his tired horse at last slaked its thirst properly as Lukien located a stream he had forgotten from his first ride through the area. Mountains to the north poured down their melting snowcaps in gushes of crystal clear water, inviting both man and beast to enjoy its pure taste. Lukien took his time filling up his water skins as his horse drank and rested. The remarkable beast had taken him miles more than any steed should ever endure. Horses were rare in Tharlara, and this one had been a gift from Lahkali. She had promised Lukien that its heart was stout and its legs strong, and she had been right. Lukien thought about the girl as he dipped his water skins into the stream. He missed her, and wondered if he would ever see her again.

After he and his horse had rested, Lukien continued on, still without the company of Malator. The Akari remained silent the rest of the afternoon, and then into evening as Lukien stopped riding for the day and made a camp in the shadow of the mountains. When he had tended his horse and prepared him for the night, Lukien made a fire to stave off the coming chill, settling down in front of it and staring into its jumping flames. He quieted his mind with a few deep breaths, letting out a sigh that traveled through the camp. Next to him, the Sword of Angels lay in its scabbard. Like his horse, the scabbard too had been a gift from Lahkali. Lukien reached over and picked up the weapon, pulling it free of its scabbard. He laid the blade across his lap and admired it. The ancient metal glowed warmly in the firelight. He touched its smooth surface, knowing that Malator dwelt within it. And within himself.

‘Will you stay in there all the way to Jador?’ asked Lukien. ‘I hope not. I can use your company.’

In the back of his mind he felt Malator shuffle. The spirit was uneasy.

‘We made good progress today,’ Lukien continued. ‘Tomorrow should be a good day, too. With luck we will be in Jador in a week or two.’

Still Malator did not appear, nor answer wordlessly in Lukien’s brain.

‘I would have you show yourself, Malator,’ said Lukien. ‘To know that you are not cross with me.’

‘You try to shame me?’ Malator’s voice appeared before the rest of him. His face shimmered into being on the other side of the campfire. His body came last, sitting in the same relaxed manner as Lukien. ‘I am not cross with you, Lukien. I have been thinking, that is all.’

Lukien gently kept his fingertips on the blade of the sword, making the bond between them stronger. ‘I did try to tell you what it would be like, Malator,’ he said. ‘And you could not have expected Raivik to welcome you like a hero.’

‘I did not expect that,’ said Malator. ‘And now I have made my peace with my people. I should thank you for that, Lukien. It was a burden I carried for too long.’

‘And now they know where you were, and they can be at peace as well. You see, Malator? It is good. Now you can go on.’

Malator nodded in agreement. The familiar grin returned to his elfish face. ‘You could go on as well, my friend. I have told you this a hundred times. You have don’t need as much rest as you give yourself. I’m here to give you strength, Lukien, but you must take it from me.’

‘I rest as much for the horse as I do myself, Malator,’ Lukien pointed out. ‘Unless you have another sword for the horse to wear, a little dagger on a chain perhaps . . .’

‘You know what I mean, Lukien.’ Malator gestured at him. ‘And look – you still wear the Eye of God around your neck, even though I have promised you there is no need for it.’

Lukien replied, ‘An old habit. I wear it for safe keeping now, Malator. I know that it is you who gives me my vitality. When we get to Grimhold I will return it to Mistress Minikin.’

‘And what will she do with it?’ asked Malator. He was always curious about the Akari and their relationship with the Inhumans. Even though he was an Akari himself, he knew nothing about their covenant with Minikin’s people, only the little that Lukien had told him. ‘Will she give it to someone else? Keep them alive forever?’

Lukien shrugged. ‘That’s a weighty matter for her to decide, not me. The amulet is hers to do with what she wishes.’

‘I am fascinated by these things you say, Lukien. To think that the Jadori are peaceful now! It is unbelievable to me. And now they protect
the Inhumans and Akari. The world has surely changed while I was gone.’

‘It has indeed, Malator. And the Inhumans will have questions for you, no doubt.’

‘Let them ask whatever they wish,’ said Malator. He leaned back on his palms and studied Lukien. ‘And let you ask the questions on your mind, Lukien. I know you have them.’

There was no way to hide anything from Malator, and it frustrated Lukien sometimes. He had tried to mask what he was thinking, but had easily been discovered. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I want to know how you plan on beating your brother. You have told me just about everything else about yourself, Malator. You have talked me nearly to death! Now tell me the thing I most need to know.’

‘Why Lukien, I will fight my brother, just as you have fought Baron Glass,’ replied the Akari. ‘What else would I do?’

‘No,’ said Lukien, growing angry, ‘don’t dodge me. Tell me how you’re going to beat him. Will this sword break his armour? Is that all there is to it?’

‘Think on what I have said, Lukien. I will fight my brother because I am a soldier. You will fight Baron Glass because you are a soldier.’

‘Malator, that makes no sense to me.’

‘Why doesn’t it?’ Malator leaned forward. ‘You expect some conjuring from me, is that it? Do you think I will cast a spell upon my brother and that all will be done? No, Lukien. My brother was a great summoner, but he was also a general, and he did not get that rank by being weak in battle. He was renowned for his abilities, but so was I, and when we settle this thing it will be with blades.’

‘But how?’ asked Lukien. ‘You are not even in this world. Not really.’

‘That’s right. I don’t intend to battle Kahldris in this world, Lukien. This is your world. Kahldris and I will fight in ours.’

‘In the world of the dead, you mean.’

Malator smiled. ‘Now you get it.’

‘And Thorin and I? We are to battle again, here in this world?’

‘That will bring us all together, Lukien. When you cross blade with Baron Glass next time, you will have my sword with which to defend yourself. And when the metal of my blade touches the metal of his armour, Kahldris and I will meet again.’

‘And then I will be able to crack his armour? I must be able to crack it, Malator . . .’

‘When I have beaten Kahldris, you will breach the armour, Lukien. But not until then.’

‘Oh.’ Lukien grew pensive. ‘And if you don’t beat him?’

Malator laughed and said, ‘You have no confidence in me!’

‘Well, it’s just that . . .’ Lukien struggled for the right thing to say. ‘Malator, you hardly look like a soldier.’

‘That may be, Lukien, but I was a fine soldier, finer than Kahldris some say. Find some good in me, Lukien, please.’

‘I’ll try,’ said Lukien unconvincingly. ‘But you have to admit, you look . . . out of practice.’

Malator bristled playfully at the insult. ‘You are such a sceptic, my friend. I will simply have to convince you.’

‘Yes,’ said Lukien. ‘Because if you can’t, Kahldris will beat us both.’

In the township outside the white wall of Jador, the days were long and filled with boredom. The drudgery of daily subsistence occupied most of the time, as the Seekers from the northern continent settled into the unending routine of the southern desert. Because they were unused to the sun and heat, most Seekers spent whatever time they could indoors, relaxing in the shrana houses or playing card games under the tin roofs of their shabby homes. For most Seekers, hope was something they had given up a long time ago. They had come across the Desert of Tears seeking healing, and had got a slum instead, a bustling conglomeration of tongues and skin tones that had once been a place of vibrant commerce, but had swelled to the world’s largest camp for refugees. And though Kahana White-Eye did her best to make the lot of the northerners easier, despair was the thing they had most in abundance. Returning north was out of the question, and gaining the magic of Grimhold was impossible. And so they were stuck in the netherworld between both, unable to go in either direction.

King Lorn loved the shrana houses. They were an import from Ganjor, a place where the desert folk – and now the Seekers – could enjoy a lively conversation over a stiff pull of hot, black shrana. Shrana was an acquired taste that almost everyone acquired late, but Lorn had learned to love the drink. In the shrana houses, he was no longer the counselor to the great Kahana, and the people there referred to him as a kind of good-natured jibe. For Lorn, who had been in Jador for more months then he could remember, the shrana houses were a strange whiff of home.

Tonight, Lorn relaxed as a pretty serving girl brought him and his comrades another pot of steaming shrana. He had spent the day in the township, helping the Marnan brothers repair their ramshackle home, replacing the sun-burned roof with another layer of thatch. Harliz, Garmin and Tarlan had all come to Jador with the same empty hope, wishing to be cured of the blood disease that made their bones ready to snap. Because none of them could climb a ladder, it had fallen to Lorn to
do the bulk of the work, which he had done with aplomb and a smile on his face. White-Eye was a queen now. She had taken to her role like a fish to water, and rarely needed Lorn’s counsel any more. The rise of confidence had left Lorn feeling like a proud father’s whose child moves away.

‘I think,’ said Tarlan as he watched the pretty servant walk away, ‘that we should have some food now.’ He turned to his brothers with a sly smile. ‘Let’s get her back here, yes?’

‘You’re a letch,’ commented Harliz. He blew on his steaming cup. ‘And ugly, in case you haven’t noticed.’

‘Leave her alone,’ agreed Garmin.

Lorn grinned, amused by the bickering brothers. Neither of them were remotely handsome, but that rarely stopped Tarlan from flirting with every girl he passed. His wandering eye constantly annoyed Harliz, leaving Garmin to make peace between them. Lorn tasted his shrana, burning his lips on the hot liquid. He never sweetened his shrana with honey or cane, liking its raw, bitter taste. Tonight, after his long day of labour, the shrana tasted particularly fine.

‘I’m going to talk to her,’ Tarlan decided. Making a great effort, he pulled his stooped body away from the dark table and meandered through the crowded chamber toward the serving girl. Harliz shooed him away with annoyance, plainly glad to be rid of him. Garmin, ignoring both his brothers, looked at Lorn instead.

‘What about you? Shouldn’t you be getting back?’

Lorn nodded. ‘I should.’

But he kept right on drinking.

‘Lorn, you’ve got your own pretty girl back inside the wall,’ Garmin pointed out. ‘And your child, too.’

‘Yes,’ Lorn drawled. ‘But Poppy will be sleeping when I get back, and Eiriann spends nights with her father. He’s not well at all, and I don’t like to keep them apart.’

‘And Kahana White-Eye doesn’t need him anymore,’ said Harliz playfully.

‘So?’ Garmin pressed. ‘What will you do? Become a roofer?’

Lorn laughed, but their jibes stung him. ‘Let me tell you – I am happy White-Eye doesn’t need me any more. She stood up to Baralosus and saved Jador, and that’s no less than any king or queen could ask. But, I have been thinking . . .’ He rolled the little cup between his palms. ‘I’ve been here a good long time now. Poppy is happy, and so is Eiriann. She’s a good woman, the second good woman I’ve had, and that’s saying a lot for a man like me. I didn’t deserve my first wife and I’ll be damned if I deserve Eiriann. Poppy doesn’t even know she’s not her mother.’

Garmin smiled. ‘What are you saying, Lorn? What’s on your mind?’
Harliz answered the question first. ‘He’s restless. He wants to go home.’

‘To Norvor?’ Garmin studied Lorn. ‘Is that it?’

Lorn shrugged. ‘I think about it. Of course I do. Look, we all came here to get a healing out of Grimhold, and none of us are any closer. Minikin will never take Poppy into Grimhold and I’d be a fool to hope otherwise. There’s no room for her. The mistress had made that plain. So what am I to do?’

The brothers glanced at each other. ‘What can any of us do?’ said Harliz. ‘We’re stuck here, Lorn, all of us. That means you, too, king or not.’

‘Aye, and it’s maddening,’ roiled Lorn. ‘I thought I could rest here and grow old and be content to see Poppy safe and happy. Oh, but Norvor calls to me! She does, and I miss her so.’

Harliz starting to say something, but his brother stopped him, putting up a hand. ‘Let’s just drink,’ suggested Garmin. ‘Let’s not talk about the past.’

For all the Seekers, the past was a subject of little interest, and Lorn was grateful to end the conversation. He made an effort to bring the talk to lighter things, commenting about the work they had done that day and about how crowded the shrana house was tonight, and soon they had all forgotten about the past once more. They had forgotten about Tarlan, too, who had disappeared somewhere among the crowd. Lorn assumed the man had found game somewhere or a benefactor willing to share some tobacco. Another hour passed. The light from the dingy windows on the other side of the shrana house had long gone dark. At last, Lorn decided it was time to leave. He said his good-byes to his unusual friends, left a couple of coins on the table, and headed toward the door. Suddenly, he was eager to see Eiriann and find out how her father Garthel was doing. Garthel was old and feeble, and though the desert air had done him good he was still fairing poorly. Tomorrow he would spend the day with them all, Lorn decided, and forget this nonsense about Norvor. But before he could exit the shrana house he heard Tarlan excitedly calling his name. Tarlan was coming through the beaded door, shouting for Lorn and dragging a stranger along behind him. His eyes bulged excitedly as he glimpsed Lorn.

‘There he is,’ he said excitedly, turning toward the stranger. The man with him had a circumspect look. ‘That’s Lorn.’ Tarlan quickly closed the gap between them. ‘Lorn, wait. This is someone you need to meet.’

Lorn stopped by the beaded entrance, stepping aside to greet his friend. Tarlan hurried them together. Lorn spied the man, then Tarlan. ‘Who’s this?’

‘A Nithin!’ Tarlan laughed giddily. ‘A Nithin, Lorn, come all the way from Nith!’

‘A Nithin?’ Lorn again focused on the man, this time more precisely. ‘Is that so?’

Nithins were known to be proud and rare like diamonds, and in his whole life Lorn had never met a single one. In all of the township, not one of the Seekers were Nithin, and so Tarlan’s surprise seemed appropriate. The stranger, a man of substantial bearing, wore riding clothes and a bright green cape caked in desert dust. He had been long on the road, that much was plain. His brown hair hung in dirty tangles around his unshaven neck.

‘My name is Alsadair,’ he pronounced. ‘You are King Lorn of Norvor?’

Lorn straightened. ‘I am unaccustomed to that title these days, sir. But yes, I am Lorn. And you are from Nith? Truly?’

‘I am,’ said Alsadair, ‘and I have just at last come across the desert with a Caravan from Ganjor. I am on a mission, King Lorn, and in this horrible little village they speak of you as the man to see.’

‘Do they?’ Lorn looked to Tarlan for answers. ‘Where’d you find him?’

‘He just come across, just as he says,’ replied Tarlan. ‘Started asking all kinds of questions, looking for a way into Jador. People told him to come looking for you. I ran into him outside while having a pipe.’

By now, Harliz and Garmin had noticed the little commotion, coming up to stand beside Lorn. They quietly eyed the stranger, listening intently to their brother’s explanation. Lorn, not liking the gathering attention, directed all of them back outside, pushing Tarlan toward the beaded curtain. The Nithin followed him out, trailed by Lorn and the Marnan brothers. At once the cool night air struck Lorn’s face. He pulled the Nithin away from the shrana house, speaking to him in a measured tone.

‘What is your business?’ he asked. ‘What do you want in Jador?’

‘To deliver a message,’ said Alsadair. He brushed the dust from his fine green cape. ‘I am a herald of His Grace, Daralor, Prince of Nith. I bear a letter with me from His Grace.’

‘A letter?’ asked Lorn. ‘For who?’

‘For the Bronze Knight,’ said Alsadair. ‘For the Liirian named Lukien.’

The name was instantly familiar to Lorn. ‘Lukien?’ He looked at Tarlan. ‘Did you know this?’

Tarlan shook his head. ‘No. He just said he was looking for you, and I told him we was friends.’

‘This letter you carry – it’s from your Prince?’ Lorn asked Alsadair.

‘The letter is from a charge of the prince,’ said the Nithin. ‘I cannot tell you more. It is private, and for the eyes of the Bronze Knight only.’

‘Lukien isn’t here,’ said Lorn. ‘I don’t know where he is, and neither does anyone else.’

Alsadair replied stoically. ‘It does not matter. He will return here, and when he does I will give him the letter.’

‘What? What makes you think he’ll be coming here?’

‘Because that is what I have been told, King Lorn. That is what the author of this letter has told my prince.’

Lorn was thoroughly bewildered. And intrigued. ‘This author – is he a boy?’

Alsadair looked surprised. ‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Because a boy named Gilwyn Toms left here some months ago. He was a friend of Lukien.’

Alsadair shook his head. ‘Then I will not keep you wondering, King Lorn. The one who penned this letter is not named Toms. But I cannot tell you more. I can speak only to the man in charge of this city.’

‘There is no man in charge of the city,’ said Garmin. ‘If you mean the township, we have no ruler.’

‘I mean Jador,’ said Alsadair. ‘Who rules there?’

‘A girl,’ said Tarlan.

‘The Kahana,’ said Lorn. ‘Her name is White-Eye.’

An hour later, Alsadair the Nithin got his audience with White-Eye. In one of the palace’s many open-aired chambers, the messenger of the Nithin Prince explained the long trek he had endured, and why he had come to Jador. With White-Eye seated imperiously before him, Alsadair delivered his tale standing, holding the letter he had carried with him for hundreds of miles. Lorn stood off to the side, allowing the Nithin to make his case and studying the letter clamped in his hands. The envelope of ivory-toned paper bore the wax stamp of Daralor, the Nithin ruler. Although Alsadair had been offered food and drink, he had remained standing in the chamber the entire time, waiting for the blind Kahana to arrive. Upon hearing the news of the Nithin’s request, White-Eye had come to him quickly, a favour for which the messenger seemed grateful. A pitcher of beer and some food lay on a table near him, but Alsadair’s eyes never wandered to them. Instead, he watched White-Eye as he spoke, his voice reverential and practiced.

‘. . . and from Dreel to Ganjor. In Ganjor I found the caravan that took me here, Kahana. When I came to the village – the township, you call it – I asked for a man who could help me. Someone of importance. The people there pointed me to King Lorn.’ Alsadair glanced briefly at the letter in his hands. He seemed unbalanced by White-Eye’s blindness, as though she was not only blind, but deaf to his words as well. ‘By my accounting I have been on the road for four weeks. I have expired many horses in my haste to get here. And now that I am here I ask your peace, Kahana. This letter may only be given to the Bronze Knight. I may not even give it over to your safe keeping. That is my mission.’

‘I understand your mission, Sir Alsadair,’ said White-Eye mildly. ‘And
you are welcome to stay here within Jador for as long as you wish. But be aware, Sir – your stay with us may be long indeed. We have no knowledge of Lukien’s whereabouts, and only hope that he will come to us again.’