The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (118 page)

‘Yes,’ admitted Aric. ‘I have been.’

Alena laughed, not unkindly. ‘Then you will see what I mean. There is no love in Liiria for Baron Glass. We welcome the Reecians. Anything would be better for Liiria.’

Without another word, the girl turned and left the room. Aric sat and watched her go, sure that his world was upside down.

At the edge of Koth, on a ridge of hills overlooking the sleeping city, Lukien paused amidst the rolling fog to ponder the place he had long called home. The rain that had plagued them for days had finally stopped, leaving the night sky clear and star-filled. A great, bare-faced moon hung overhead, shining with milky light. Down in the valley, tucked safely away from the Nithin army, Koth rested uneasily as it waited for the morning. The armies ringed the city like vultures, but old, enduring Koth seemed unafraid. The streets of the ancient city yawned with quietness. High on its hill, the great library loomed above the homes and shops. In the yards around the hill, Lukien could see the unmoving brigades of Norvan soldiers, still asleep as morning neared, their numerous war machines and horses poised for the coming battle. They were so far away, and yet like a great dragon Lukien could hear them breathing. Lights gleamed in the tower of the library. Inside, Thorin waited with his demon, and the sword at Lukien’s side pulsed with unease.

Far behind him, the army of Prince Daralor slept, too. It was hours yet until dawn, when all of them would march for Koth. Amazingly, the coming battle had kept only handfuls of them awake. The rest of them – exhausted from the long trip north – slept soundly in their bedrolls. The dogs slumbered in their makeshift kennels while their keepers slept just outside, the keys to the long leashes jangling at their belts. Horses clopped at the earth, snorting in the cool night air. Like the armies of the Norvans occupying Koth, Daralor’s army stretched deeply into the darkness, lit by smouldering campfires and torches. The Nithin flag snapped in the breeze, standing tall atop Daralor’s distant pavilion.

Tonight, it seemed to Lukien as though the whole world had gathered at this one place, for on the other side of the city, barely visible even through the clear sky, glowed the pinpricks of another army. Raxor’s forces had marched for Koth, too. Two days ago they had arrived. Daralor and the Reecian king had already sent emissaries to each other, sharing what they knew about the forces poised against
them. Just like the Nithins, the Reecians had met no resistance either, marching effortlessly toward the Liirian capital. Now, though, the numbers of their foes showed themselves at last. Lukien paled as he considered them.

I can feel him,
said Malator in his silent voice. He directed Lukien’s gaze back toward the library.
Your baron is restless tonight, Lukien. My brother speaks with him.

Lukien was immediately intrigued. ‘What are they saying?’

Malator thought for a moment, then replied,
They are together. That’s all I can tell.

‘Well, then, they’re not the only ones who are restless.’ Lukien put his hand on the sword, as if to put his Akari at ease. ‘They can plan all they want. It won’t change what’s going to happen tomorrow. They should never have let us get this far.’

And yet we are still far away,
Malator reminded him.
My brother is not stupid, Lukien. Look how he protects himself in the library.

‘Even the library isn’t impregnable, Malator. They can’t hide in there forever.’

Get us to Baron Glass. That is all you need to do.

Lukien nodded, but the task was daunting indeed. They were outnumbered, and would have to fight their way through the streets and the all the ranks of Norvan soldiers first. As he looked over the city, a thousand memories – happy and unhappy – flooded over Lukien. He had a been a boy in those streets, struggling to survive, and later he had risen to knighthood, though never to nobility. Those had been good days, when Koth had been at peace. When Koth had been great. She was not great anymore. Now she was an old cripple, groping her way through the world, decrepit and soiled, spoiled by war and corruption. And she had been torn apart by battles. Thinking of that, Lukien remembered that time not so long ago when last he had stepped foot inside the city. The memory made him shudder.

Do not think of it,
Malator advised.

But it was impossible for Lukien not to remember, and he could not pull his eyes from the city or forget the faces of those he had fought with there. Breck and all his other friends, dead or scattered to the winds, and all because of Thorin’s mad designs. And then, without wanting to, Lukien thought of Meriel.

His throat tightened. A grimace of pain gripped his expression. Malator eased closer to him, sensing his loss.

Listen to me now, Lukien. It’s not your fault.

Lukien nodded. ‘Right. I know. But . . .’

She is gone. Remember what Horatin told you. She went to him of her own accord.

‘Yes. I know,’ Lukien sighed. ‘It’s just . . .’ He considered Meriel and all the others. ‘There are so many who might still be alive if not for me.’

Malator started to speak, then stopped himself. His alarm jolted Lukien into turning around, revealing a figure coming toward him through the mist. At first he thought it was Lorn, but then he noted the royal garb and the confident gait and realized with surprise that it was Daralor. The prince paused a moment, regarding him.

‘May I come ahead?’ asked Daralor.

Startled, Lukien did not know what to say, so he waved the prince forward. ‘Yes,’ he bumbled, ‘of course.’

Prince Daralor glided soundlessly to the edge of the hill, standing beside Lukien and taking the time to look out over Koth. Lukien eyed him curiously, not sure why the prince had come at all. So far, Daralor had never bothered to speak with Lukien alone. He had a thousand other things to do, and dozens of advisors to deliver his messages. Through the long ride north he had treated Lukien with respect, but that was all, preferring to get close to Aric. Now, though, Daralor Eight-Fingers didn’t wear his usual, unapproachable air. He seemed calm, which was normal, but also oddly melancholy.

Neither man spoke for a few long minutes. Daralor, preoccupied by Koth, imbibed every tiny detail of the city. Then, at last, he turned away from the scene, anxiously rubbing the stump of his missing fingers.

‘When it’s near time for battle I walk among my men.’ Daralor smiled strangely. ‘It’s been a very long time since I’ve been in battle.’

Lukien was unsure of his meaning. ‘Your men are brave,’ he offered. ‘They’ll make you proud, I’m sure.’

Daralor nodded in thanks, then looked out past the city toward the faraway lights of Raxor’s army. Tomorrow, probably, they would join the Reecians and lay siege to the library. And then the real battle would begin.

‘Even with the Reecians we are not as many as the Norvans,’ said Daralor. ‘How will they fight, do you think?’

‘They’re mercenaries, mostly,’ said Lukien, ‘but they’re loyal enough.’

‘Loyal to Baron Glass, or loyal to his gold?’

‘To his diamonds,’ Lukien corrected mildly. ‘They’re afraid of him, and they know no one can defeat him. He’s not just the ruler of Liiria. He’s the lord of Norvor now and they know it.’

Daralor considered this. ‘Than he must be got to quickly.’ His eyes met Lukien straight on. ‘We will make the way for you, Lukien, but the rest will be up to you. And your sword.’

‘I’m ready,’ said Lukien.

Daralor smiled. ‘Are you? Your pardon, Sir Lukien, but I see fear in you. I have seen it since we met, and I saw it grow when you learned about the woman Mirage.’

‘What?’ Lukien bristled. ‘Who told you this? Lorn?’

‘No,’ said Daralor gently. ‘Though King Lorn has his suspicions of you. You’re not surprised by that, certainly.’

‘No,’ Lukien spat. ‘Lorn saw me one night, speaking with the spirit of the sword. I should have trusted him to keep what he heard secret.’

‘He has told me nothing, Lukien. My doubts are my own.’

‘Do not doubt me, Prince Daralor.’ Lukien’s tone hardened. ‘I have looked into the eyes of this demon before. I’ll do it again and I won’t flinch.’

‘Then my men and I will do my part for you, Sir Lukien. You have my promise. Stay alive long enough to reach Baron Glass. That’s all you need to do.’

‘Ah, well then, that will be easy enough,’ said Lukien darkly. ‘For there is no way for me to die, even if I wished it.’

Daralor looked at him through the mist. ‘Some say you do wish it, Bronze Knight.’

The accusation made Lukien grin. ‘Believe what you want, Prince Daralor.’

‘Tell me, what will you do when this is over?’ Daralor eased away from the vision of Koth, smiling at Lukien. ‘Will you go back to Jador or will you remain here?’

Lukien shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet.’

‘No?’ Daralor motioned toward the sword at Lukien’s waist. ‘And what of that? Will you keep it?’

‘If I don’t I’ll die.’

‘Yes. You will.’

The two men understood each other, but Lukien wanted no part of it. He told the prince, ‘Whatever I decide after we are done here is no matter to you or to anyone. Tomorrow or the next day, when Thorin is free or dead, I will have finished my service to the gods that have ruled me. My life will be mine again.’

‘To live it?’ asked Daralor. ‘Or to end it?’

His questions irked Lukien. ‘To decide for myself,’ he said icily.

Daralor seemed satisfied with his answer. The prince looked back toward his waiting army. ‘They want you to stay alive until they can get you to Baron Glass. The rest is up to you.’

He said no more, ending his visit with those final words and going back toward his men. Lukien waited, perturbed, trying to figure out why the prince had come to him at all. Was he being tested? Did Daralor not trust him?

‘You needn’t worry, Daralor,’ Lukien muttered after him. ‘I’ll do my part.’

Afraid or not, he was prepared to meet Thorin on the morrow.

Lukien remained alone on the hillside, but his daydreams had been ruined and he knew that rest was necessary. Abandoning the private spot, he walked slowly back toward camp, passing men and horses as he picked his way back to his own bedroll. Night had settled like a mantle over the camp, filling the air with the sounds of slumber and anxious animals. Lukien greeted a few soldiers on his way, giving them a casual nod until at last he had returned to the campfire he had made with Lorn. There, he saw the old king sitting by the fire, warming himself and gently sharpening his sword. The weapon gleamed in the jumping firelight. Lorn’s eyes shined with anticipation. He looked up at Lukien as the knight approached, then glanced away again without a word of greeting. The two men had barely spoken at all during the past few weeks, the rift between them growing ever wider. For a reason he could not quite comprehend, Lukien regretted that now.

And yet, he could think of nothing to say to Lorn. An apology certainly wasn’t in the offing; he still believed Lorn was a butcher. There was too much history to change his mind about that. He wanted only an understanding between them before tomorrow, when they rode together into battle.

‘Lorn.’

His voice – the only voice – sounded loudly through the camp. Lorn cleared his throat with disinterest.

‘Yes?’

Lukien sidled closer to him. He searched for the right words. They came to him out of nowhere. ‘Gilwyn is a smart boy. He may be young, but he’s smart.’

Lorn grumbled, ‘What?’

‘Gilwyn,’ said Lukien, fumbling. ‘He trusted you enough to help him. So did Minikin.’

‘That’s right,’ said Lorn. He didn’t bother looking up at Lukien, but rather ran his sharpening stone carefully across his blade. ‘So did White-Eye. What’s your point?’

‘Did you tell Daralor what you saw that night when I was speaking with Malator?’

‘No I did not,’ hissed Lorn. ‘Did he tell you I did? If he did he is a liar.’

Lukien quickly shook his head. ‘No. He . . .’ He paused. ‘Never mind.’

Lorn stopped his sharpening. ‘Sit if you want.’

It was the first kind gesture either man had offered the other since Lukien could remember. He seized on it, sitting down on the hard earth next to Lorn. The warmth of the fire felt good. It seemed like forever since Lukien had enjoyed a proper bed.