The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (115 page)

‘The woman Mirage was at Richter with Baron Glass, not Jazana Carr. I’m sorry, Sir Lukien. Mirage is dead.’

Lukien stared at Horatin, his breath stopping in his throat. ‘Dead?’ He swallowed, feeling his legs grow wobbly. ‘Mirage is dead?’

Horatin’s blue eyes filled with pity. ‘She died in the fire. No one made it out of Richter alive. Only Glass.’

‘A fire.’ Something inside Lukien crumbled. ‘A fire . . .’

He turned, walking off and shaking his head. Horatin was saying something, but Lukien heard none of it. All he could think of was Mirage, and how she had burned to death. She who could control flame, who had given up that gift for a mask of beauty.

‘Just so I would love her,’ said Lukien, and went numb with horror.

Since the arrival of Duke Cajanis, Library Hill had become an armed camp.

Gilwyn hardly recognized his beloved library any longer. The emptiness – the solitude he had come to worship – had been replaced by the constant clang of metal and the shouts of armoured soldiers. Nearly every room of the place had been turned into barracks for the Norvans and Liirians who poured through the great doors, all of them bearing weapons and provisions and other things for the siege ahead. Books, scrolls and manuscripts had been carefully laid aside, packed into the cellars while the shelves were lined with swords and the oiled book cases burdened with clothing. Even the fabulous entry hall had been stuffed with bunks and bed rolls, so that the men lucky enough to sleep there for the night could look up at the magnificently painted ceiling as they fell away to sleep.

It had taken nearly a week for the transformation to take hold, but now it was nearly complete, leaving Gilwyn bewildered and displaced. Surprisingly, Duke Cajanis had been kind to Gilwyn during the changes, even sympathetic. The Norvan noble was careful not to upset the young librarian too much, and made sure that Gilwyn always was consulted when books were moved or rooms commandeered. It was in fact an orderly transformation, done with military precision, and Duke Cajanis was proud of his quick accomplishment. Now, when one looked out from the library’s many windows, the sight of the road leading up to the hill was fortified with men and battlements and the courtyard filled with weaponry. The library had swelled into a formidable fort under Cajanis’ hand, and the soldiers who milled about its grand halls readied themselves for the coming assault.

Rumours abounded in Koth these days. Norvan spies returning from the border spoke of Raxor’s army, an impressive force of many thousands said to be waiting to cross the river Kryss. Raxor himself led the forces, just as he had done the first time, determined to finish the job he had
started months earlier. Retribution was in the air, said the Norvan spies, and King Raxor was ready to avenge his fallen son, telling all who would listen of his intention to slay Baron Glass. Rumours from the south were no less ominous, telling of the Nithins who marched freely up from Farduke with their fighting hawks and broods of battle dogs. Prince Daralor had summoned every able man in his tiny country, claimed the rumours, and had given orders that none of them were to return home while Baron Glass remained alive. Gilwyn listened to the rumours with interest, frightened and exhilarated by them, but one claim in particular had him galvanized – the Bronze Knight was returning.

Even Thorin knew this one rumour to be true. Through Kahldris, he could sense the approach of Lukien and his magic sword, and had told Gilwyn that the final battle was nearing. After days without seeing each other, Thorin had called Gilwyn to him in his little parlour in Lionkeep, looking haggard from the endless hours of preparation. By the light of the crackling fireplace, Thorin had leaned forward in his big leather chair as if to tell a terrible secret.

‘Our days are numbered now, Gilwyn.’ Thorin’s tone bespoke his misery. ‘Lukien comes.’ He shook his head as if there could be no doubt. ‘And we will certainly battle.’

Gilwyn did not question Thorin that night. Since Cajanis had arrived, the two of them had slipped the bonds of friendship growing strong between them, growing apart instead as the demands of war took Thorin further away. And though Gilwyn had not yet given up his hopes of reaching Thorin, he realized now that Kahldris’ hold on his friend was stronger than he’d imagined, and that only the supernatural power of Lukien’s sword might be able to break it. Along with Ruana, Gilwyn had racked his brain to think of a way to shatter the demon’s grip on Thorin, but he had always come back to the same, impossible puzzles. Intense pain could sever the bond between host and Akari, but Thorin no longer knew pain. Ensconced in his enchanted armour, he was truly untouchable.

Twelve days after Cajanis’ arrival, Thorin finally called all of his commanders together. Using the finest of the library’s grand meeting chambers, he ordered the shelves removed and rows of chairs placed in their stead, along with a table he could use to speak from. Duke Cajanis organized the event, and with his usual aplomb had the meeting scheduled sharply at noon. By a half hour prior to the hour, the great chamber swelled with officers, all of them eager to hear the words of their benefactor, Baron Glass. Gilwyn, who was surprised to be invited to the event, sat not far from Cajanis himself, occupying a chair in the very first row. Because it was a formal meeting, no drinks or food were provided at all. The ranks of officers sat sombre-faced in their chairs, chatting quietly to each other. Norvans made up the bulk of the audience, though there
were many Liirians in the crowd as well. Thorin had done an impressive job over the past months of bringing the Liirian military back to life and had openly declared himself their supreme commander, a boast no one dared challenge. Among the Liirians were soldiers who Gilwyn had got to know during his time in Lionkeep, including the good-hearted commander Kilvard. Kilvard, who was not a handsome man like Cajanis, wore a hang-dog expression as he waited for Baron Glass. Unlike most of the soldiers, Kilvard had no interest in the diamonds that kept the others loyal to Thorin. He was a true nationalist, motivated by the need to protect his country. He was loyal to Baron Glass because no one else had taken control of the chaos engulfing Liiria, and that was all. Gilwyn eyed Kilvard curiously as he sat back and waited. The pipe in the old man’s mouth spouted patient puffs of white smoke.

At noon precisely, the big mahogany clock at the end of the chamber announced the hour. A moment later, Thorin stepped into the room, even the clock seemed to go dead.

He had dressed for the occasion, donning the Devil’s Armour, which shined with blinding. His enormous figure filled the doorway, his steps heavy from his armoured feet. The skin of metal clung to his muscles, fitting perfectly to them, flexing with life at every breath. Thorin’s eyes scanned the room, his smile wide and frightening. He wore no helmet, but rather left his head bare, displaying his white yet youthful hair. His two big fists rested at his sides, covered in spiky gauntlets. Stepping into the chamber, he paused to the gasps of the gathered, swelling at their astonishment. Duke Cajanis was first to his feet. Taking one step forward, the Norvan clapped at Thorin’s arrival, first alone, then joined by others until at last the gathering was up and cheering. Gilwyn looked around, shocked at the outpouring of affection. He knew it was fear that motivated most of them, and could not help but pity them all. Thorin strode proudly to the table, waiting for the cheers to die away. His eyes met Gilwyn’s with a twinkle of approval that Gilwyn did not return.

‘Sit, all of you,’ boomed Thorin.

He raised his hand to quiet the crowd, repeating his request until the noise relented and the soldiers took their seats. Thorin took a deep, satisfying breath, his hands resting palms down on the table. Behind him, two huge flags were draped side by side along the wall, one Liirian, the other Norvan. The scene appalled Gilwyn. Just months ago, Thorin had murdered Norvor’s queen.

‘Friends,’ began Thorin, ‘you honour me. You are the saviours of Liiria, and of Norvor too. Together we will do great things, but first we have a challenge. Once again our enemies are upon us. Once again we are called to fight and to sacrifice.’

There was nodding within the crowd. The most loyal of the soldiers vocally agreed. Others, Gilwyn noticed, squirmed a little.

Thorin continued, ‘On our eastern border, our enemy Raxor has returned. Last time we were merciful. Last time, we let Raxor and his army flee our land. And how do they repay us? By threatening us once again. Once more they seek to take what is ours.’ The baron clenched his fist. ‘But this time, we will not be merciful. This time, we will crush them utterly.’

The chamber rang with dutiful applause. Duke Cajanis cheered the bellicose words.

‘Raxor comes with another great army,’ Thorin went on. ‘As large as his last one. He is beloved by his people and we are sorely hated by them. They fear our strength, and that is wise of them. But they are not alone. This time, they have allies.’

‘Nithins,’ spat Cajanis.

‘Aye,’ Thorin agreed. ‘What could possibly tempt the Nithins from their long hiding if not madness? Do you see? Madness grips our world! This hatred for our nations – for Liiria and Norvor both – is a jealousy that compels the world to hate us. Look how the nobles of Farduke have turned on us, too. With not a word of complaint they have let the Nithins soil their land just so they could come to conquer us. In Marn they are just as silent, and in Jerikor too. Does anyone come to our aid? Has any one of these nations sent their ambassadors here? Have they offered the smallest kindness to us? No they have not.’

It went on like this, Thorin laying out his case for war, the officers of his combined armies nodding in agreement. Gilwyn listened, disgusted by the speech, sure that it was Kahldris stoking Thorin’s madness. The man who had once been so kind to Gilwyn had vanished, and in his place stood a ranting lunatic, fanning the fires of suspicion. Thorin’s big voice rose and fell, filled with emotion as he worked the crowd. He told them about the force of the Nithins coming toward them, and how they numbered in the thousands. They had their creatures with them, he said, their slobbering dogs and their fierce birds of prey, merciless monsters both. And with them came Jadori, Thorin claimed, foreigners who had joined the alliance against them. Here, Thorin’s words had special meaning to Gilwyn. Thorin actually seemed saddened.

‘Who knows what baneful magic they bring against us,’ he lamented. ‘I have been among them. I know they are powerful. They are good and decent, too, but they have joined against us and so they too are our enemies. Perhaps, when we are done with this grisly work, we will settle the score with Jador as well.’

Gilwyn sat bolt upright at this. They were Kahldris’ words, without a doubt. It was Kahldris who threatened Jador, Kahldris who hated the
Jadori and their alliance with the Akari. Gilwyn shook his head vehemently at Thorin, but the baron ignored him. Before he could protest, however, another voice joined the fray.

‘What of your son, Baron Glass?’

The question shattered Thorin’s oratory. He searched the room for the culprit, fixing on a Liirian officer in the second row.

‘What?’

‘Your son, Baron Glass. What about Aric?’

‘What about him?’ Thorin growled.

The officer held fast. ‘It is well known that your son was in league with the Reecians at the battle of the Kryss, and that he was one of the Royal Chargers defending the library when you invaded Koth with Norvor. I’m asking only what part he might play in the coming battle.’

The crowd held its breath. Stunned, Gilwyn watched as Thorin’s face twisted with discomfort. He almost never spoke of his son Aric, and certainly never in such a public forum. His suffering looked unbearable.

‘My son has decided to defy me,’ he said. ‘He will ride against us when the time comes, I have no doubt.’

‘Will he rejoin the Reecians?’ asked the officer. ‘I ask because that might make a difference in our plans. We may attack Raxor’s forces, but none of us has the wish to harm your son, Baron.’

Thorin shrugged off his concerns. ‘When the library fell to us, the Royal Chargers who were left alive melted away. They are brigands now. Some will join with the Reecians, certainly, others with the Nithins. And others will not have the courage to join either one. My son has courage, but it makes no difference.’

The reply confused the audience, prompting Duke Cajanis to speak. ‘Baron Glass, if your son goes to Raxor’s side, then the man unlucky enough to slay him in battle will have your doubts to deal with. How can you assure us that it matters so little to you? He is your flesh and blood.’