The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (26 page)

‘This is what you wanted to show me?’ asked Lukien. ‘Why?’

‘To make you understand. You cannot go through our lands without understanding the rass. What would the Red Eminence think of you? No, you must see the truth of them, how glorious they are.’

‘Jahan, they are not glorious to me,’ said Lukien. ‘Where I come from, the rass are dangerous.’

‘Dangerous?’ said Jahan. ‘Yes, of course. But that is their nature. They are hunters.’

Lukien sank down in the grass, studying the rass. The creature was immense, yet moved with grace along the river bank, deliberately slithering through the mud, its colourful skin glistening. ‘All right,’ Lukien admitted. ‘It is beautiful. But dangerous. Why don’t the rass attack your village?’

‘The rass come to the river at night,’ Jahan explained. ‘We light the torches to keep them away.’

‘Ah, you mean that smell?’

‘That’s right. There is a tree that grows nearby. When the leaves are dried and burned, they make a scent that keep the rass away.’

‘So you fear them. Yet you love them?’

‘It is the balance. Seeing the rass means that the Great Rass will come. Do you see?’

‘I think so,’ said Lukien, trying to understand. It made at least some sense. ‘So the Red Eminence kills the Great Rass, and the land lives on.’

Jahan smiled, pleased with his pupil. ‘Precisely so.’

‘And when you see the rass, you know that the Great Rass will come and be killed.’

‘Good.’

‘I understand. But I still don’t like them.’

Jahan sighed. ‘You are hopeless.’

Together they continued to watch as the rass made its way along the bank, pausing occasionally before disappearing into the darkness. Jahan remained transfixed by the creature until the end, when at last he leaned back, his expression oddly satisfied. Lukien relaxed, glad to be rid of the beast. Tharlara might be the land of serpents, but that didn’t mean he had to court them.

‘Thank you, Jahan,’ he said, not sure what else to say. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe they are special. They’re special to you, at least.’

‘They are sacred creatures, Lukien. You must respect that when you go to Torlis.’

‘I’ll try,’ said Lukien. He got up from his knees, stretching his aching muscles. ‘Can we go back now?’

Jahan looked disappointed. ‘There will be others, but I suppose you do not care to see them. Yes, we can go back now, Lukien.’

The two men began the long walk back to the village. As they walked, Lukien spied the grasses warily. He felt safe with Jahan, though, and liked the village man’s company. In the brief time he had spent with Jahan, he had learned a great deal. Finally, when they left the tall grasses and the village came into sight, Jahan stopped.

‘Lukien,’ he said, ‘will you tell me now what you’re looking for in Torlis?’

Lukien thought for a moment. ‘Yes, Jahan, all right. A sword. I’m looking for a sword.’

Jahan considered the statement. ‘This must be a very special sword. And you must have it?’

‘Yes,’ Lukien nodded. ‘I must.’

‘Then you cannot take the chance of failing.’ The man’s expression grew pensive. ‘You have given me much today, Lukien. You have told me about the world beyond my village. You have saved my son. But what you’re doing now . . .’ Jahan grimaced. ‘Dangerous.’

‘I know. It’s been a long journey for me already,’ Lukien said wearily. ‘But I have to go on. This sword is very important to me. If I don’t find it, many will die. Friends.’

‘I do not think you can find the way to Torlis on your own, Lukien. You do not even know that the rass are sacred! You need help on your journey.’ Jahan folded his arms across his wide chest. ‘I will come with you.’

‘What? Jahan, no.’

‘Yes,’ Jahan insisted. ‘It is my duty. You saved Naji from the hooth. If not for you, I would have been grieving tonight instead of learning from a new friend. I will go with you, Lukien. I will help you find this sword.’

The offer was more than generous – it was genuine. Lukien put his hand on Jahan’s shoulder. ‘You are the founder of this village, Jahan. I can’t take you away from it. You’re needed here.’

‘You need me more,’ said Jahan. ‘When we have quested and found the sword, the village will still be here, and all its troubles, too. Remember, Lukien, the village is the people. All the people. They are strong. They do not need me the way you do.’

‘Jahan, I saved your son because it was the right thing to do, and if it
wasn’t for me the other children wouldn’t have been distracted. I’m just as much to blame for what almost happened as I am for saving Naji. There’s nothing you need to repay.’

Jahan’s face became stormy. ‘Perhaps where you come from, men are different,’ he said ‘But the Simiheh know when a debt is owed. I cannot let you go to Torlis alone. I cannot, and that is the end of it. Now, we will go to the village and sleep, and tomorrow we will leave for Torlis.’ Jahan took Lukien’s hand and held it firm. ‘Together.’

Seeing his argument lost, Lukien did not pull away from Jahan’s grasp. ‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘Come with me.’

Jahan beamed. ‘Good.’

They walked back to the village together, and when they were almost at Jahan’s house Lukien paused.

‘I think you’ll be a very good guide, Jahan,’ he said. ‘One thing, though – you’ve never been to Torlis, either.’

Jahan shrugged. ‘Better for two men to be lost than one, yes?’

Lukien frowned. ‘That makes no sense at all.’

Ignoring the jibe, Jahan headed eagerly for his little house. Completely unsure he had made the right choice, Lukien followed his odd new friend inside.

Jahan rode a donkey on his way to Torlis, a wide, floppy-eared beast with a coat the colour of rust and dark, disinterested eyes that only perked up when being bothered by a fly. Jahan bounced happily upon the donkey’s back, his pony-tail swaying from side to side, his face perpetually smiling as he spoke. Lukien rode beside Jahan along the river. Upon his horse, he sat at least three feet higher than Jahan, occasionally glancing down at his companion, more interested in their surroundings than by anything Jahan was saying. The morning had been bright and clear, a good omen for their long trip, but the afternoon was turning hot. Lukien pulled at his shirt, pumping the fabric to blow a breeze down his chest. He still wore the clothes Jahan had given him the night before, leaving his own filthy garb in the village for Kifuv to burn. With his white skin and golden hair, Lukien still did not look like one of Jahan’s people, but he supposed the native clothing would give him some cover. It had been at least five hours since they had left the village, following the river eastward, trotting casually along its muddy banks. So far, they had passed through two villages like Jahan’s, both without incident, stopping only to give respect to the elders and not bothering to explain Lukien’s odd appearance. Though the men and women of the villages eyed Lukien with surprise, they did not stare, keeping their conversation polite and blessedly brief. Later, Jahan explained how rude it would have been for them to do anything else.

‘You are with me,’ Jahan stated. ‘That is enough.’

As they rode, Jahan told stories to Lukien, heartfelt tales about his village and his family, and about his place in the small world he inhabited. Lukien listened to the stories, rarely interrupting. Jahan’s pleasant voice rose and fell with each adventure, babbling like the river while the sun burned their necks. They stopped occasionally to rest their mounts, letting the beasts sip from the river while they slacked their own thirst from waterskins and fed themselves from supplies Jahan’s wife had packed for the trip.

Then, at last, Jahan ran out of stories. He simply fell silent, looking satisfied as he rode his donkey. He glanced at Lukien, who smiled back at him, grateful for the silence. Sometimes, it was better for men to ride in silence, thought Lukien, rather than gossip like women. Did Jahan ever think so? Lukien doubted it. He watched as Jahan reached into his goatskin bag, the repository of everything important to him. From the bag Jahan produced a wand of wood, which he showed to Lukien.

‘A yuup,’ he pronounced. ‘For music.’

Lukien nodded at the simple instrument. ‘A flute. That’s what we call them.’

Jahan put the yuup to his lips and began to play. Not needing his hands to guide the donkey, he blew into the instrument and produced a lively tune. The tune he made soothed Lukien. Lukien looked into the river and saw a fish jump for a fly. A bird circled against the blue sky. Without another village in sight, the two travelers seemed alone in the world, and the world seemed at peace.

Jahan played his flute for almost an hour, rarely stopping to catch his breath. At last he lowered the instrument, returning it to his goatskin bag. He did not remain quiet for long. Instead, he looked searchingly at Lukien.

‘You are very quiet,’ he remarked.

‘You were playing. I was listening.’

Jahan nodded, not quite satisfied with the answer. ‘I have told you stories. I have played for you.’

‘Yes,’ said Lukien. ‘Thank you.’

‘Where you are from, do the people not tell stories?’

Lukien shrugged. ‘Sometimes.’ Then he realized what Jahan was saying. ‘Oh, I see,’ he sighed. ‘There’s a place I know called Ganjor, a great city near the desert. The people there tell stories. That’s how they talk to each other.’

‘Yes,’ said Jahan brightly. ‘This is how people speak. You see, Lukien?’

‘So you want a story?’

‘
Your
story. Tell me about the sword.’

‘The sword? I don’t know much about it.’

‘But you are here, Lukien. You have come all this way to find it. Yet you will not tell me why. What is this sword? Why must you find it?’

The question irked Lukien, not because it wasn’t genuine, but because it had come to define him. ‘Is that my story? I suppose it is.’

Jahan noted his dark tone. ‘It is something you must want very much. It is the desire of your heart?’

‘No,’ said Lukien. ‘If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be looking for it at all. I have to find it, that’s all.’

‘That cannot be all,’ said Jahan. A peculiar expression crossed his face,
not quite angry, not quite confused. ‘Lukien, that thing you wear around your neck – it is a magic thing. You have told me so. You speak my language. You say that you cannot, yet I hear your words and understand them. You are remarkable! There is much to your story. Tell me what it is, please.’

‘You’re right – there is a lot to my story. A lot of it I don’t understand. Like the sword. I don’t even know what it is, or if it even exists.’ Lukien grew anxious as he began to tell his tale. ‘It’s called the Sword of Angels. I think it’s magical, but I don’t know for certain. It must be, I suppose. All I know is that I have to find it. Someone told me to find it.’

‘Who told you?’

The questions seemed impossible to answer. How could Lukien explain it all to Jahan, a man of such simple experience?

‘A spirit told me,’ he said. ‘A spirit of someone who was important to me once. Do you believe in spirits, Jahan?’

‘Of course,’ said the village man. ‘There are spirits all around us. Lukien, you must know that.’

Lukien smiled. ‘Yes, I do. I didn’t always believe it, but I do now. This spirit who came to me, she told me about the sword. She told me that it was hidden somewhere here in your land, Jahan. In the Serpent Kingdom.’

‘This spirit was a woman?’

‘Yes.’

‘A lover, Lukien?’

Lukien laughed. ‘Yes.’

Jahan grinned. ‘Tell more.’

‘Well, I have a friend named Thorin,’ Lukien continued. ‘Thorin Glass. He was a great man once. Everyone in Liiria – that’s where I’m from – they all admired him once. He wears a suit of armour. Do you know what that is?’ When Jahan shook his head, Lukien explained, ‘It’s like clothing made of metal, very strong. Where I come from, men wear armour into battle.’

‘Men wear metal?’ Jahan exclaimed. ‘That is stupid. Metal is too heavy.’

‘No, it’s not. Not if it’s made right,’ said Lukien. ‘My friend’s armour has a spirit inside of it. Here, let me show you something . . .’ Lukien took the Eye of God out from beneath his shirt. ‘Remember what I told you last night? This amulet has magic, Jahan. There’s a very powerful spirit inside it. He makes the magic so that you and I can speak.’