The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (125 page)

His words fell heavily on Lothon. The count hefted the helmet wearily from his side, unhitching it from the tack. He held it out disgustedly. ‘I despair to even touch this thing,’ he told Lukien, ‘but by no means is Baron Glass finished. He wears the armour still.’

‘Does he? You have seen him?’ Lukien asked.

‘I have not followed him into the library. None of us have,’ said Lothon.

It was obvious to Lukien how much the men disliked Glass now, but the count seemed reticent to explain what had happened.

‘Then let me pass,’ said Lukien. ‘Let me end it, for us all.’ He put up his hands in a gesture of peace. ‘You know me, Count Lothon. You knew me before Liiria was the ruin it is now. Baron Glass left Liiria too, but you found forgiveness for him.’

Lothon’s aides shot him worried glances. The nobleman stared with a grimace at the helmet in his fist. The army was hushed as Lothon considered Lukien’s proposal. Even the soldiers lining the long road up the hillside stood unmoving, wondering what was happening.

‘He’s mad,’ said Lukien sadly. ‘You said so yourself.’

‘Aye, mad,’ admitted Lothon. ‘Because of this wretched thing.’ His eyes filled with pity. ‘He was a good man once, you know. He loves Liiria dearly even still. But it’s a twisted love.’ He held the helmet out for Lukien. ‘Take it. Destroy it with your sword.’

‘You’ll let us pass?’

Lothon nodded. ‘Do what you must, Bronze Knight, but do it with mercy.’

Then he gave the order to his aides, calling to all of them to let the riders past. The word was quickly passed throughout the ranks, rising up to the hillside and the soldiers stationed there. Amazingly, the soldiers cheered. Lukien could not contain his smile, so relieved was he to have won his gambit. He rode up to Count Lothon and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.

‘I will best him,’ he promised, ‘and Liiria will be free again for men like you.’

Lothon said nothing, overcome with regrets, and handed the helmet of the Devil’s Armour to Lukien. The metal felt cool in Lukien’s hand, but the death’s face was no longer alive, nor was the black surface glowing. Still, to hold the thing made Lukien shudder. He looked grimly at Lorn and Ghost.

‘Ready yourselves,’ he told them. ‘This isn’t over.’

To Lukien, it seemed like a lifetime had passed since he’d last been inside the library. Then, it had been the Liirians who had held the place, holding it against the twin tides of Baron Glass and Jazana Carr. Hundreds of men had died that day, brave souls all, many of them friends. Under the punishing bombardment of Norvan catapults, the library had collapsed in places, but it had all been rebuilt with Jazana’s fortune and Thorin’s obsession, and as he walked within its great hall Lukien could not help
but marvel at the way it sparkled. Thorin had spared no expense in remaking the library. It was every bit as fabulous as it had been in its heyday, or so Lukien supposed. He had never actually seen the place in its glory days. He had been away, in exile.

‘Everyone’s gone,’ Ghost whispered.

It was as the servants in the yard had told them. They had seen Baron Glass stumble into the library like a drunkard, raving insanely, and had rightfully been afraid of him, abandoning the place for the protection of the soldiers outside. Count Lothon had known this but had not revealed that important bit of truth, a fact that made Lukien smile at his cleverness.

‘Lothon is a fox,’ he said with a nervous laugh. ‘Now he has us to do his dirty work.’

‘Never mind,’ said Lorn. ‘Where’s Glass? Lukien, can you tell?’

Lukien listened for Malator. The Akari was out ahead of them, searching the halls with his mind. The sword that held his essence burned in Lukien’s fist, thrumming musically through the hall. Ghost and Lorn had drawn their weapons as well.

I can feel my brother, said Malator. There was a trace of awe in his voice. He’s here
.

‘Where, Malator? Take us to him.’

Not precisely knowing what he would do when he found Thorin, Lukien let Malator guide his steps. The three men moved cautiously but with purpose, leaving the grand hall for another, smaller one, then finally up a long flight of winding steps. Like the main hall, the others were deserted as well, lending a sad aura to the place. Lukien remained as patient as he could, his heart galloping in his chest as he tried to bury the memories of his last encounter with Thorin. That one had left him near death. He glanced at Ghost and saw the same spark of dread in the young man’s eyes. Amazingly, Lorn showed no such fear. He was resolute as they rounded the halls, as hard as ever, like iron.

Then, Malator spoke again. He’s here.

Lukien stopped. ‘Where?’

Up ahead
. Malator seemed to sigh.
Don’t be afraid, Lukien. It’s over
.

‘Over?’ blurted Lukien. ‘What . . . ?’

Go on. See for yourself
.

Torchlight lit the way, guiding them through the hall. They were in the highest part of the library now, in the tower where Lukien himself had spent hours, laying plans for the hill’s defense. He knew that a chamber lay ahead, a kind of meeting room with a great view of the city. Before the chamber was another hallway, dimly lit. It beckoned to them as they turned a corner. When they did, all of them saw what Malator had seen already.

Balled up against the wall beneath a flickering oil lamp was Thorin, his face buried in his one remaining arm, his knees pulled up tightly to his chest. His shoulders shook; his legs and hands trembled. His white hair hung in limp, filthy strands down his back. Hunched like an animal, he took no notice of the others, nor of the suit of armour discarded in a pile beside him. Lukien gripped the Sword of Angels tightly, then let his grasp wane as pity overtook him. Ghost mumbled a prayer.

‘Thorin,’ Lukien said gently, ‘it’s me, Lukien.’

Slowly, Baron Glass lifted his head. His glassy gaze met Lukien, bloodshot and full of pain. He was barely recognizable, a withered shell of a man. Once again, there was only a stump where his left arm had been. His wizened face showed off his insanity, a mask of twisted muscles and thin, pale lips. Like a dog he began to pant when he saw Lukien, as if unable to speak. Lukien hurried over to him and dropped to his knees beside his old friend.

‘It’s over, Thorin, it’s over,’ he said, trying to comfort him. ‘Listen to me now, I’m here. Everything is all right now.’

Thorin’s haunted eyes widened. ‘Lukien . . .’

‘Yes, Thorin, it’s me.’ Lukien attempted a smile. ‘Just me.’

‘Lukien . . .’

‘Don’t speak too much, Thorin. Just tell me – where’s Gilwyn? Is he here with you?’

A shaking groan came out of Thorin then, his hand clutching Lukien. ‘Gilwyn and my son . . .I . . .’

‘Thorin?’ Lukien held him tightly. ‘What?’

The baron’s boney finger pointed to the chamber down the hall. ‘In there,’ he stammered. ‘Dead.’ He began to sob. ‘Gilwyn.’

Panic seized Lukien. He sprung to his feet. ‘No. No . . .’

Ghost dropped his weapon at once. ‘I’ll go see,’ he said quickly.

‘No!’ Lukien steeled himself. ‘Stay with him. Both of you, just stay with him.’

It was something Lukien wanted to face himself, because he knew what would happen if he saw Gilwyn dead. He would weep like a woman, and for that he wanted no audience. His legs like water beneath him, he made his way down the corridor, toward the chamber where Thorin had pointed, leaving his companions behind with the maddened baron. The Sword of Angels still rested in his hand, but as he reached the open doorway he sheathed the weapon, pausing at the threshold before peering inside. The chamber was quiet, and as big as he remembered it. A huge window – its curtains drawn – dominated an entire wall. In the feeble light it was difficult to see, but Lukien saw Gilwyn at once, not far from the window, sprawled and broken-looking on the tiles. Blood smothered his chest, collecting on the floor beneath him.

Lukien began to cry like he were a child.

‘Gilwyn . . .’

He went to him, stooping over him, looking down at his white face, the blood drawn from it. The wound in his chest ran deep, a jagged gash like one might get from a morning star. Lukien wiped his eyes with his fingers, then knelt down next to his beloved friend. He put a hand on his face and felt its chill. The moment he did, Malator popped into his mind.

He’s not dead!

‘What?’

He’s alive, Lukien, barely
.

‘Alive? Are you sure?’

His Akari has not left him. I can feel her, Lukien. She clings to him still
.

Lukien groped frantically for an idea. ‘How can I save him? Look at him, Malator!’

Lukien, the amulet. Give it to him. Put it on him quickly
.

Instantly Lukien reached under his shirt and pulled out the Eye of God. ‘Will it work?’

You give it to him freely, Lukien. The magic will keep him alive
.

‘Oh, Amaraz, I beg you,’ Lukien pleaded. He place the amulet on Gilwyn’s bloody chest, holding it there and praying to the Akari inside the Eye to spare his friend. ‘Bring him back to me, Amaraz, please. Heal him. Keep him alive.’

Keep it on him, Lukien, said Malator. You don’t need the amulet any longer. I will keep you alive
.

Without a thought for himself, Lukien pressed the Eye hard against Gilwyn’s motionless chest.

Out in the corridor, King Lorn stood apart from Ghost and the broken Baron Glass, staring at the heap of black armour laying uselessly nearby. The helmet of the armour had been left upright, deposited next to the rest of the metal suit by Lukien in his haste to save his friend. Doing just as Lukien had asked, Ghost remained with Baron Glass, kneeling next to him and comforting him. Glass himself was a pitiful mess, barely able to speak much less control his womanly tears. At first, Lorn had pitied him. But then he’d heard a voice.

The voice echoed inside his skull and was not his own. Lorn stared at the helmet. The helmet stared back. The voice spoke gently, like a lullaby, talking to him about his kingdom and all he had lost, and about the many people who had wronged him in his life. Somehow, Lorn knew instantly that the voice belonged to Kahldris. Yet he was not afraid. The demon’s words were so sensible.

*

For long minutes Lukien knelt over Gilwyn, pressing the amulet against his chest and waiting for any tiny sign of life. Malator assured him that his young friend was still alive and the Akari had not yet left his body, but Lukien could sense only the barest warmth within Gilwyn and a heartbeat he wasn’t even sure was there. The war that raged outside the library had flown from Lukien’s mind, forgotten. Now, he thought only of Gilwyn and the amulet, and did his best to will Amaraz to save the boy.

‘Amaraz, please,’ Lukien whispered, his hand trembling on the Eye of God. Gilwyn’s blood soaked his fingers. Lukien could feel the wound beneath the ruined shirt, the jagged bits of flesh torn, he supposed, by the spikes of Thorin’s gauntlet. Malator hung over him, watching and hoping with his host, assuring Lukien that Amaraz was up to the task and that the boy would live.

He has saved you twice now, remember
, said the Akari.

‘I was never this bad,’ Lukien retorted. ‘Not like this . . .’

Malator did not argue. He was there for Lukien, and that was enough. His presence comforted the knight. As the moments ticked away, Lukien kept up his vigil, mumbling pleas to Amaraz and holding the Eye of God fast to Gilwyn’s body.

Then, at last, Gilwyn breathed. He took a great gulp of air, shouting, his shoulders bunched with pain. Lukien reared back. Still holding the Eye, he laughed joyously.

‘It’s working!’ he exclaimed.

Beneath his fingers he could feel the wound begin to close, the ragged flesh miraculously knitting together. The blood began to bubble through Lukien’s fingers as Gilwyn’s heart grew stronger, and soon a warmth swept his body. Overjoyed, Lukien grinned as Gilwyn began to pant.

‘Thank you, Amaraz,’ Lukien cried. ‘Thank you!’

He began to place the amulet’s chain around Gilwyn’s neck when he heard a noise at the threshold. Someone was coming. Lukien called to the person over his shoulder.

‘He’s alive! Thorin didn’t kill him!’

‘Lukien . . .’

Alarmed, Lukien spun toward the door. ‘Ghost?’

The albino clung to the door, staggering as he tried to hold himself upright. Blood sluiced from a wound at his temple. Lukien leapt to his feet.

‘Ghost!’

Somehow Ghost managed to stumble into the chamber, falling into Lukien’s arms. ‘Lorn,’ he gasped. ‘The armour . . .’

Lukien helped his friend to the floor, letting him lie still on the tiles, then quickly began fumbling with the folds of his gaka so he could breathe better. ‘What happened, Ghost?’

Ghost’s hands clawed the tiles as he gulped for air. ‘I don’t know . . . Lukien, he has the armour.’

‘He attacked you?’

The albino nodded, squeezing his eyes closed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he moaned. ‘Damn him . . .’

‘What about Thorin?’

Ghost turned his face away in misery. ‘Lukien . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I think he’s dead.’