The Sword Of Angels

19

Alone on his weary horse, the last Royal Charger of Liiria rode into Nith. His name was Aric Glass, and like that long line of soldiers from his homeland he dressed in the uniform of a cavalryman, with black boots riding up his calves and a hat pulled down across his brow. The dirt of a thousand miles clung to his cape. Wind and rain had weathered young skin. Beneath his hat, dark, cow-licked hair hung in tendrils down his neck, but he kept his face clean-shaven, the way a good soldier should. Plagued with hunger, his body looked older than his twenty years. His eyes searched the valley warily, but he was not afraid. Like a vagabond with a begging bowl, he had been to the kings of the nations surrounding Liiria, asking for their aid and always being turned away. Finally, he had come to knock on Daralor’s door.

Aric Glass stopped his horse on top of a small hill. Below him lay a village, quaint and pretty, and beyond the village stood a castle, the modest home of Prince Daralor. Daralor Eight Fingers they called him now, though Aric supposed he loathed that nickname. In the Principality of Nith, Daralor was the only man that really mattered, the lord of a small but fanatical army who guarded their land jealously. Having just come from Marn days ago, Aric knew why the Nithins shunned their neighbours. Like all the other rulers, the Marnan king had sent him away empty handed. Even Sithris of Farduke, a man with no love at all for Baron Glass, had refused to pledge support, choosing instead to wait and see what plans the Black Baron might have.

Aric spied the prince’s castle, so small compared with all the others. In Marn, he had seen a palace with spires that reached into heaven, with so many rooms a man could lose himself in its labyrinthine halls. Yet still King Deborba had refused him, too fearful of Aric’s father to even hint at support. Like Sithris in Farduke, King Deborba had been watching the goings-on in Reec, waiting for the bloodshed to begin.

Aric Glass knew the Reecians were fighters, but he had seen what his father and the Devil’s Armour had done to Lukien, and he knew that Raxor’s men had little chance. In all the days since the library had fallen, Aric had spent his time wandering the lands around Liiria, begging kings to join his cause. And all the while rumours reached his ears about Liiria and Norvor, and about the great army his father had built to secure his kingdom. Aric missed his father. He missed that brief moment they had enjoyed together in Koth, before the armour had taken him. After years of estrangement, he had finally rediscovered the man who had bounced him on his knee.

But it had all ended too quickly.

As he sat upon his horse, Aric thought about his father, feeling like a little boy again. Once the library had fallen, he and the other survivors had fled, promising Lukien they would wait for him. That had been months ago, and but Aric had not lost faith in Lukien. Sure the Bronze Knight would someday return, he had kept his promise to Lukien, patiently waiting, always believing. When the night grew dark and cold, Aric believed, and when he was all alone in strange lands, penniless and hungry, Aric believed. He had believed in Lukien all through his father’s mad rise to kingship, tracking the rumours that followed him from place to place, listening helplessly as Liiria fell ever more under the thumb of the demon in the armour.

In all those months, Aric had never once returned home to Koth. He had considered it, when he was desperate, wondering if perhaps he could reach his father and talk sense to the man he had once loved. But then he remembered Lukien, and how the knight had tried that same folly. They had battled, his father and Lukien, and Lukien had so effortlessly been defeated, left to die in the middle of a muddy road. That’s when Aric knew his father was lost, and that the old man needed to be defeated.

Somehow.

A breeze strirred along the hill, carrying to Aric the scent of lilacs. He had seen lilacs all through the valley of Nith, and the smell brought a forlorn smile to his face. Nith was certainly the most peaceful place Aric had seen in years, like a pleasant memory from his boyhood. He breathed deeply, reminded of the days when he was a child and Koth was strong and whole and all the worries of a little boy could be dispersed with just a word from a well-loved father. Those days were gone now, like the glory of Koth, and Aric Glass could only hold on to the memory of them. He was more than just a stranger in Nith. He was like a ghost from the past, the last man alive willing to wear the uniform of a Royal Charger.

Aric straightened his hat and brushed the dust from his sleeves. Prince Daralor might hang him for invading his tiny nation, but the thought of the gallows did not dissuade Aric. He had grown accustomed to threats. They had only hardened him. Past the pretty village with its taverns and flower boxes, the castle of Prince Daralor rose up from the green earth, blocking the sun with its single, stout tower. Shepperds guided their flocks along the tiered hillsides, and somewhere in a distant farm a cowbell rang. Aric imagined bread baking in the homesteads and the taste of fresh milk. Hunger made his stomach clench. He put a hand to his belly to silence the rumbling.

‘Maybe later,’ he told himself. If Prince Daralor was generous and didn’t kill him on sight, he might at last have a decent meal. Then, down the hillside he rode, not quickly nor slowly, and not hiding from those in the village who might see him. At the bottom of the hill he found the road again, a winding dirt path that led toward the village, then forked. Guiding his horse onto the road, Aric ignored the village to his left and took the fork that led toward Daralor’s castle. Children in the village spotted him and pointed. A handful of men gathered at the edge of the street to watch him. Aric ignored them, not turning to make eye contact. In Nith, strangers were a rare and troubling thing, and Daralor’s people were not known for hospitality. Yet Aric did not flinch as he rode past the village, but rather sat tall atop his wearied mount, trotting undeterred toward the castle. Behind him, he heard the curious murmurs growing as the Nithins in the village gaped, forgetting their work. Ahead, Daralor’s home rose up on its green tor, surrounded by a meadow of wild flowers instead of iron gates. At the entrance to the meadow the road widened considerably, paved with cobblestones. A lone sentry patrolled the road, stationed at the mouth of the meadow. Spear in hand, the sentry wore an emerald cape around his slight shoulders. His eyes blinked in disbelief as he saw Aric riding toward him.

‘Halt,’ said the young man, sounding as if he’d never issued the order before. His tongue darted out to nervously lick his lips. Crossing the spear over his person, he asked, ‘Who are you?’

Aric Glass drew his horse to a stop in front of the soldier. ‘A stranger,’ he said. ‘Here to see your prince.’

The throne room was immaculate. And empty. Aric Glass stared at the seat of Prince Daralor, standing vacant in the spartan chamber. Tall windows flooded the room with afternoon light. A pair of emerald-draped guards stood at the entrance. Standing alone before the throne, Aric felt his legs slowly growing numb. The throne before him was a simple thing, not at all like King Deborba’s grand chair. Made of smooth white stone, the throne rested on a modest dais, shining dully in the dusty light. Twin lions had been carved into the armrests; the feet looked like bird claws. Behind the throne hung a tapestry. For nearly an hour Aric had stared at the tapestry and the battle it depicted. He recognized the flag of Marn, shown falling as a band of bloodied Nithins brought it down. The giant tapestry was the only remarkable thing in the chamber, and it seized Aric’s attention while he waited for the prince.

His feet throbbing in his boots, Aric took off his hat, holding it respectfully in both hands before him. The guards who had escorted him into the throne room had said almost nothing, ordering him to wait before disappearing. He had told them his name and his business with Prince Daralor, and he had expected the tiny castle to fly into activity. Yet the castle remained quiet. Prince Daralor had not come to confront him, nor had anyone else of importance. Only the lowly guards in the emerald capes watched over him. Aric began to twitch uncomfortably. Though he was young, he was quickly learning the games that men of power liked to play. This one, he knew, was meant to unbalance him.

So Aric calmed himself, waiting patiently, studying the tapestry and doing his best to ignore his own exhaustion. Finally, after another half hour had past, he heard the sound of people approaching through the connecting hall, then turned to see the guards parting at the rounded entrance. A splendid looking man paused at the threshold for a moment, spied Aric with his brilliant blue eyes, then entered the chamber with an entourage of stoic advisors, heading purposefully for the throne. Aric felt his mouth go dry as Prince Daralor glided up the dais in his flowing garb of sapphire silk. A black leather belt wrapped his waist, buckled with a golden lion’s head. Around his shoulders he wore the same emerald cape as his soldiers, though his was trimmed with fur and gold embroidery. Prince Daralor sat gracefully on his throne, flanked at once by his gaggle of advisors, all sharp-eyed men who fixed Aric with suspicious glares. The prince made himself comfortable, placing his hands on the armrests of his throne. At once Aric noticed the missing fingers of his right hand. The little pinky and ring finger were gone, terminating in stumps. The three remaining fingers drummed the lion’s head of the armrest as Daralor took his measure of Aric.

Aric cleared his throat, then gave a little bow. ‘Prince Daralor. Thank you for seeing me.’

The prince’s youthful face remained unreadable. An advisor approached the throne to whisper in his ear. Daralor nodded. His good hand went to his chin thoughtfully, as if he had no idea what to make of the man who had dared to interrupt him.

‘You have your father’s brass,’ he said finally. ‘Every time a Liirian comes to Nith, there is trouble.’

‘Your Grace-’

‘No,’ Daralor interrupted. ‘Don’t speak. Let me look at you.’

Aric straightened, allowing the prince to study him. Daralor’s expression seemed distant, as if lost in thought.

‘Your father has been a great menace,’ said the prince at last. ‘Not just to Liiria, but to us in Nith as well. Did you know he came through here? He was wearing his accursed armour.’

‘No, Your Grace, I did not know that. I-’

‘He’s a single-minded man, your father. He could have easily gone around Nith but he must have been in a great hurry to reach Liiria. He killed one of my men in a tavern in the village. It was unprovoked murder.’

Aric didn’t know what to say, or even if he should speak at all.

‘Your Grace, I spent very little time with my father. We were defending Koth against Jazana Carr. My father came to join us.’

‘And then betrayed you.’

Aric nodded. ‘Yes.’

Prince Daralor looked quietly puzzled. ‘I am wondering, Aric Glass, why in the world you have come here. Speak now. Tell me your story.’

‘Your Grace, I have come for your help. Since the fall of Koth I have been to all the kings of the countries surrounding Liiria, asking them to aid us.’

‘Us? Who are you referring to, Aric Glass?’

‘The defenders of Koth, Your Grace. The ones who survived.’

Daralor held back a chuckle. ‘But you’ve come here alone. Where are these others?’

‘They are scattered,’ Aric admitted. ‘There were maybe three-hundred of us who survived the battle at Koth. None of us could remain in the city, so we left to find safety before Jazana Carr’s mercenaries could hunt us down.’

‘But only you have come here,’ Daralor pointed out. ‘Aric Glass, you are all alone. That tells me that the others are lost to you, that they want no part in your crusade. I’ll ask you again — what are you doing here?’

‘Your Grace, you must see the danger you’re in. My father has made himself the King of Liiria, but he is not a man any more. He is possessed by a demon that knows no rest, and he is backed up by a woman with more gold then you can possibly imagine. I have told this to all the kings, but they all sent me away. They refuse to see the truth in what I’m saying.’

‘So you’re here to warn me, then?’ asked Daralor with a smirk. ‘Thank you for that.’

Aric felt the wind going out of his sails. ‘Prince Daralor, I have come to beg your aid. I’m here to make you see the danger that’s growing and to ask you to help fight it. Do you think that Nith is too small to interest my father? That he’ll overlook you? He won’t, because the demon that controls him will never let him rest. The demon thirsts for blood, and he doesn’t care if it’s Nithin blood or Liirian blood.’

‘You’ve come a long way just to try and frighten me,’ said Daralor. ‘But I already know these things you’ve told me. I have kept my eye on your father, believe me, and I no more trust him or that whore that shares his bed than I would any devil. You’ve told me nothing new. And if Baron Glass and his armour should come to Nith, then we will fight him.’

‘And you will lose, Your Grace, because you will not be enough. Your army is great, but small. If you wait for all the others to fall first, then there will be nothing to stand in my father’s way. All of the kings, one by one, will be picked off, because none of you will stand together.’

‘We are waiting,’ said Daralor. ‘We are cautious.’

‘Yes,’ said Aric with disgust. ‘Waiting to see what happens with Reec. That’s what all the kings have told me. They’re all waiting. They’re just going to sit back and watch the Reecians be slaughtered. And then what? Will you sit by and watch Marn fall?’

‘Watch your tongue,’ hissed one of the advisors. A fat man, he stepped forward and touched the throne. ‘Prince Daralor, let us be done with this boy. His father is a butcher. Let’s not waste our time.’

‘You’re wasting my time,’ Aric answered back. He was fearless suddenly, possessed of a desperate strength. ‘Maybe I’m the fool here. All of you are the same, everyone of you power mad kings. You don’t care what happens to your neighbours, just so long as you’re left alone. Well, Baron Glass and Jazana Carr won’t leave you alone. Not any of you. That’s my message, Prince Daralor. Mark it well.’

Aric turned and stormed toward the archway, to the gasps of Daralor’s advisors. Before he reached the exit, however, the prince clapped his hands and the guards at the threshold crossed their halberds to stop him. Aric paused, then angrily turned back to the prince.

‘You can kill the messenger but it won’t change the truth.’

Prince Daralor laughed. ‘You are an absurd boy. But Fate above you’re spirited! Come here. We have not concluded.’

Surprised, Aric went back to his place before the throne, looking up at Prince Daralor in confusion. Daralor lost his humour quickly, his face growing serious.

‘You are in Nith. Do you realize what that means? We do not make alliances. And we never allow foreign soldiers on our soil.’ The Prince lifted his three-fingered hand, holding it out for Aric to see. ‘Look at my hand. Do you know how this happened?’

‘Yes,’ said Aric, because everyone knew the story. ‘King Akeela did that to you.’

‘More precisely it was his henchman, Trager. But you are mostly right. We fought Akeela and his army because we would not allow them through our territory. That day, they butchered hundreds of my men. So forgive me if I don’t seem overjoyed to see you, Aric Glass. Nithins are never happy to see Liirians.’

‘It doesn’t change what I’ve told you, Prince Daralor.’

‘No,’ agreed the prince. ‘Everything you’ve spoken has been the truth. I’m not a fool, despite what you might think. I know what a danger your father is. But they say the Devil’s Armour cannot be defeated. They say your father is indestructible. You cannot blame us for wanting to see how the Reecians fare against him in battle, for if these rumours are true. .’

‘They are true, Your Grace,’ said Aric. ‘I won’t lie to you. It may be that men have no chance at all against the armour. But there is a way.’

Daralor leaned forward. ‘What way?’

‘A sword. A magical sword, I think. It’s called the Sword of Angels, and it’s said to be the only way to defeat the Devil’s Armour.’

‘I have never heard of such a sword.’

‘Nor had I until just a few months ago. But the Bronze Knight Lukien has gone to quest for it. It’s said to lie beyond the desert somewhere, in a kingdom of serpents.’

‘A fanciful tale,’ Daralor snorted.

‘I believe it’s more than that, Your Grace. I believe the Sword of Angels exists and that Lukien will find it. That’s why all the others have disbanded. They’re waiting for Lukien to return.’

‘Or they’ve lost faith,’ Daralor suggested. He waited for Aric’s reaction. ‘Hmm?’

‘No,’ said Aric. Then he shrugged. ‘Or maybe.’ Admitting the truth to Daralor was difficult. ‘Some of them have lost faith, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll wait until Lukien returns with the sword, and if only the two of us have the courage to fight my father then so be it.’

‘And what will you do? Kill your father? This is your father, Aric Glass. Am I to believe you hate him so much?’

‘I loved my father once, Your Grace. But that thing on the throne of Liiria isn’t my father. I’m doing this to save my father.’

Prince Daralor leaned back in his throne, considering Aric’s words. The fat advisor who had asked for Aric’s dismissal came forward again, but before he could speak the prince waved him off.

‘You are a boy of great faith, to have undertaken this mission,’ sighed Daralor. ‘I am moved by you, Aric Glass.’

‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ said Aric, astonished.

‘Tell me again — what did King Deborba say to you?’

‘Very little,’ Aric replied, recalling the arrogance of the Marnan king. ‘He granted me an audience once he knew who I was, but mostly he just wanted to gloat. I think he likes what’s happened to Liiria.’

‘Of course he does. Deborba is a pig. That is why we have no use for Marnans. But Reecians are another story entirely. They are good people. Tell me what you’ve heard on that front.’

‘The Reecians?’ Aric shrugged. ‘Not very much. They’ve placed an army on their border with Liiria, near the river Kryss. They’re determined to defend themselves.’

Daralor nodded. ‘We hear the same. But old King Raxor is not well. They say he is demented. I wonder if he is sharp enough still to avoid a war with Liiria and Norvor.’ The prince put his head back against his throne and sighed. ‘A brave man.’ He looked at Aric. ‘Have you gone to Reec yet?’

‘No, Your Grace. It was easier for me to head southeast. I thought I would find more friends this way, but even Farduke turned me down.’

‘Farduke,’ Daralor scoffed. ‘More fops and cowards. You should have gone to Reec. They would have listened to you.’

Aric smiled hopefully. ‘I came to Nith instead, Your Grace.’

‘But these others you’ve gone to — they will never join in this alliance you seek, not until they are threatened directly. Until Baron Glass and his mercenaries are at their doorstep, they won’t lift a finger to help you, or to help Reec.’

‘And you? What will you do, Your Grace?’

‘We are Nithins. We are not afraid of anything. But we’re not fools, Aric Glass. Even if the Bronze Knight finds this magic sword, we haven’t the men to charge against Liiria. Not alone.’

‘But if no one joins us. .’

‘The Reecians,’ said Daralor. ‘They are the only ones. They are the first ones to feel the threat of your father, and so they will accept our help if offered.’

Aric brightened. ‘So you’ll fight with them?’

‘Not yet. Not until they need us. And they must ask for our help first. If you want to make this alliance, you must ask them.’

‘You mean go to Reec?’

‘Of course. Or you may wait here for the Bronze Knight to return. The choice is yours.’

‘But Your Grace, you could march men to Reec now. Perhaps the show of force-’

‘No. Any show of force will only provoke your father. We have heard that the armour has maddened him. He is suspicious and afraid.’

‘Yes,’ said Aric, knowing it was so. ‘Then what?’

‘Go to Reec, Aric Glass. Tell them that we of Nith are ready to stand with them. When the Bronze Knight returns, we will march with him into Liiria, and together we will battle Baron Glass and his Diamond Queen.’

Aric stood staring at Prince Daralor. ‘Your Grace? You’re really going to help?’

‘You’re young,’ Daralor said with a laugh. ‘It’s not your fault you went to cowards first. But you’re not in Deborba’s throne room this time, boy. There are no cowards in Nith.’ He put his hands together, rubbing the stumps of his missing fingers. ‘Whenever my hand aches, I think about my unfinished business with Liiria.’ He gave a sardonic smile. ‘Do you understand me?’

Aric smiled. ‘I think so, Your Grace.’

‘Good. It’s not vengeance, boy. Just a need to right some old wrongs, and do the world a favour at the same time. Now, you look hungry. Are you?’

‘Starving, Your Grace.’

‘Then eat, Aric Glass. Eat your fill and rest. You have a long road ahead of you to Reec.’

Aric went to the dais, then knelt before Prince Daralor. ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ His voice crackled with relief. ‘Thank you.’

Prince Daralor rose from his throne and stepped down off the dais, putting his maimed hand atop Aric’s head. ‘Liirians are brave, too,’ he said, then walked slowly out of the chamber.