The Sword Of Angels

53

A jagged blade of lightning cut across the sky, making the forest road glow for a brief, frightening moment. Across the glass of the coach’s window, beads of rain fell hard and steady as Mirage pressed her nose against the glass, scanning the dark world for any signs of life. Up ahead she could barely hear the men above the storm’s incessant din. Straining, she saw the white rump of a horse struggling against the rain. The constant clouds had smothered the moon and stars, and with no light at all to guide them the little caravan snaked its way through the hidden hills, on toward Richter and the promise of warm beds. Mirage braced herself against the thunder. Seated across from her, Thorin had fallen asleep in the plush bench of the coach. His slack face leaned against his enchanted arm, his head bobbing steadily. He had ordered his men to keep going despite the rain and darkness, sure that his estate at Richter was only an hour or so away.

That had been more than three hours ago.

Still, Thorin slept, unperturbed by the noise and unafraid of the lightning. His self-assured manner gave Mirage a measure of ease. They had spent nearly two days together in the coach, far from Koth’s prying eyes, and except for the rain the trip had been wonderful. Without Jazana Carr and the pressures of kingship to hassle him, Thorin had become remarkably civil again, the way he had been when they’d first met in Grimhold. Amazingly, Kahldris had not come again either. Only once had he threatened Mirage, that first night when she’d come to Koth. Since then he had yet to rear his ugly face again, and Mirage knew it was because Thorin was controlling him. She knew she had come to Thorin at just the right time, and for that she was proud of herself.

Thorin’s invitation to join him in Richter had surprised Mirage. For her first week in Lionkeep, she had done her best to stay far from Jazana Carr, letting Thorin mend his relationship with her. The trip was to be for the two of them alone, a way for Thorin to prove to Jazana that he loved her. At first it had worked, and Jazana had been happy. But then Thorin had broached the subject of bringing Mirage along with them, and a giant, dangerous freeze set in. Mirage still didn’t know if she’d done the right thing by agreeing to come, but she was alone with Thorin now and that was good, surely. She had a mission to accomplish, and if she could save him from Kahldris it would all be worth the hurt. She knew that Thorin loved her again, the way he had in Grimhold. With her new, beautiful face, she was irresistible to him, and that was why he had willingly risked his relationship with Jazana Carr. He needed her, Mirage knew. He had almost begged her to come.

Just then, Thorin opened a single eye. He smiled at her. ‘We’re not there yet.’

‘No,’ replied Mirage. ‘Not yet.’

Thorin sighed. ‘And it’s still raining.’

‘Yes.’

‘You were looking at me when I woke up.’

‘I was thinking,’ said Mirage.

‘About me?’

Mirage nodded. ‘I am happy to see the change in you. I am happy I came with you, Thorin.’

Thorin beamed. There were not many men to witness the look in his eyes; they had come with only a handful of guards. It was how Thorin had wanted it. For him and Jazana, going to Richter was to be a private affair, a way to rekindle the sparks that war and ruling had smothered. Then, Mirage had come and changed that. Already things were moving faster than she had imagined. She had a way with men now, a power she had never known until her face was repaired. Raxor had fallen under it, and so had Corvalos Chane. Now it was Thorin’s turn to fall. This time, though, Mirage felt something different. She cared for Thorin. And she wasn’t completely sure it wasn’t love.

‘You’ll like the estate,’ Thorin told her. ‘It’s simple, a sad little place. Very old.’

‘And remote,’ joked Mirage.

Thorin let his arm rest on his thighs. ‘We’ll be there by the morning.’

‘That long?’

‘I can’t say. I can’t see anything in this darkness.’

‘But you can,’ said Mirage. She gave him a knowing look. ‘With your armour you can see.’

Thorin nodded grudgingly. ‘Yes.’

‘What else can you do with it? You haven’t told me yet, Thorin. What is it like?’

‘You want to know?’ Thorin laughed at this. ‘I remember, back in Grimhold — you warned me off the armour.’

‘And I was right. Look how it’s devoured you.’

Thorin grimaced. ‘I’m stronger now. Because of you.’

They shared a moment of beautiful silence. Thorin leaned forward on the bench. Their faces stood only a few feet apart, and Mirage could feel his warm breath. Thorin’s appearance was alternately grim and powerful. When she had first come to him in Koth, he had looked emaciated. Now, though, he seemed vital. Even youthful. The black armour encasing his arm gleamed with unnatural light.

‘You are good for me,’ he told her. ‘It does not matter what Kahldris thinks of you.’

‘What does he think of me?’ asked Mirage.

Thorin sat back without kissing her. ‘Kahldris is afraid. He fears anything that might come between him and me.’ He patted his arm with a smile. ‘I can feel him in me even now. He’s grumbling.’

The thought frightened Mirage. Of all the Akaris she had ever encountered, he was by far the most powerful. ‘He wants me dead,’ she said. ‘That’s why he exposed me.’

‘Kahldris wants only me,’ said Thorin. ‘And he has been good to me. You will see, Mirage — he is not the devil everyone thinks. Without him I would be nothing, just an old man with one arm. Instead I am a king! And Liiria is great again.’

There was room for argument in his statement, but Mirage let it go. She had made too much progress to fail now. Soon, she knew, Thorin would see the truth in her words. Kahldris was nothing more than a cancer. It time, she would convince him of that.

They rode on through the miserable night, unsure of the time even as midnight slipped away. Mirage fell into an untidy sleep as the lightning finally subsided, and groggily opened her eyes as she felt the coach come at last to a stop. Through blurred vision she saw the light of torches through the window, and bolted up for a better look. Thorin was making ready. Outside, the men on their horses began to dismount, and voices echoed across the night.

‘Are we here?’ Mirage asked hopefully.

Thorin went to the door of the coach. ‘We are.’ He undid the latch and pushed the door open, letting in a gust of wind. A sheet of rain struck his face, making him squint. ‘Get your cloak,’ he told Mirage.

Mirage quickly rummaged through the things beside her on the bench. She had taken very little to the estate, but her cloak was foremost among them. Clutching it in her hands, she waited until Thorin departed the coach before going to the door. Thorin, standing in the mud, held a hand out to help her. Mirage peered out and saw the looming estate, an ancient home of stone and wood brooding in the rain. The house was larger than Mirage had imagined, though only a small fraction of Lionkeep’s size. The men that had accompanied them from Koth — all mercenaries — waited in the rain with Thorin while a pair of servants hurried out from the house to join them.

‘It looks better in the light!’ Thorin assured her with a smile. ‘Come on.’

Without hesitation Mirage took Thorin’s hand. Jumping down from the coach, her boots hit the muddy ground with a splash. With her cloak over her head, she dashed for the warmth of the precious estate.

For Corvalos Chane, the ride to Richter was miserable, a lonely trek of muddy roads and never-ending rain. He had left behind his soft life in Hes nearly four full days ago, hurrying out of the capital to join his comrades near Baron Glass’ remote estate, hoping to beat the baron and his lady queen. But the rain and mud had made that impossible, and Chane had pressed on through the misery, crossing over the border and taking the valley road north toward Richter. Because the road was rarely traveled, used mostly by huntsmen and trappers, it was overgrown in most spots and not really much use at all. Still, it provided an easy to follow map for Chane, who followed it all the way into the mountains until it disappeared. There was, he knew, a better way to the estate, but Chane couldn’t risk it. The main road — the one the kings of Liiria maintained — would be the one that Glass and his people took to Richter. And because he wanted no mistakes, Chane avoided it.

Everything he did was meticulous. Corvalos Chane would take no chances. This one, wonderful opportunity to kill the Black Baron had fallen like a lucky star into his lap. Determined not to waste it, Chane worked over every detail with precision, confident that his plan would work.

Still, there was much that could go wrong, and as he made his way through the stormy night Chane considered the countless contingencies. Baron Glass might come late to his estate. He might not come at all. Worse, the men of the Red Watch might have already been discovered.

No, Chane told himself. That was impossible. He had trained the Watch himself, years ago. They didn’t make mistakes like that. In the days before the peace with Liiria, when Raxor was Reec’s War Minister, he had formed the Red Watch to assassinate the newly crowned Akeela. Years of attrition had convinced Raxor of the rightness of the move, but Akeela had proven to be more than anyone expected. The young king willingly gave Reec the river Kryss, and the Red Watch faded into obscurity, killing minor nobles and criminals instead. But they always kept their skills honed, and their loyalty to Chane was unshakable. Now they had been given another mission, this one far more difficult than any previous one. Chane knew that killing Thorin Glass would be difficult.

But he is just a man, he reminded himself. And all men die.

To Chane, it didn’t matter that some called Glass immortal, or that he wore a suit of god-forged armour. He could not let himself be swayed by talk. This would be his last, most important mission. Corvalos Chane would not taste failure.

At last he came to the place he was seeking. After hours of darkness, he saw the fork in the valley road. To the east the road branched upward, almost invisibly toward the mountains. To the west it meandered aimlessly, flat and overrun with weeds. Chane slowed his horse and shook the rain from his face. Up behind the clouds he could just make out the shimmering moon, peeking weakly through the storm. Richter Estate was about a mile away. After days of riding, he had finally arrived.

Chane began to sing.

‘Farewell to you, sweet lady of Torlna, farewell to you, sweet lady. .’

He kept his tone measured, loud enough to hear over the rain. As he sang he trotted slowly upon his stallion, keeping an eye on the surrounding trees. Listening, he heard the slight rustle of the branches, then glimpsed a tiny movement up ahead. Then, a figure spilled out onto the road.

‘Ah, sweet lady, there you are,’ crooned Chane.

A big smile bloomed on the figure’s face. A handful of men came out to join him.

‘You must have ridden that horse backwards to get here so slowly,’ said the man. He came forward to help Chane with the beast. ‘Believe it or not, I was starting to worry.’

Chane slid down from his saddle to face him. His name was Kaprile. He was about the same age as Chane, with the same lanky frame. His balding pate glistened with rainwater. He was dressed like a mercenary, as were they all, bearing no particular colours or insignia that would give them away as Reecians. Each man greeted Chane warmly. There were six of them in all, seven including their leader, Chane. All of them took turns embracing Chane and kissing his cheeks.

‘So?’ Chane asked impatiently. ‘Tell me.’

The man named Kaprile spoke first. ‘Glass is already at the estate, Corvalos. He arrived last night.’

‘What about Carr? Is she with him?’

‘She is. We watched them from the trees. The rain gave good cover.’

Chane turned toward Horatin, a man with a haggard red beard and puffy blue eyes. ‘You were supposed to get yourself inside. What happened?’

‘Couldn’t risk it,’ said Horatin. ‘Glass might have seen through the ruse.’

Chane was disappointed. He had expected at least one of the Watchmen to make it inside the estate, posing as a traveler in need of rest. ‘You should have tried,’ he said, not crossly. ‘We need someone inside.’

‘We don’t,’ said Kaprile. ‘I’ve seen the place, Corvalos. It isn’t big. Glass brought only a half dozen guards with him. He’s cocky, for sure.’

‘And how long have you been here?’

‘We set up camp a few days ago,’ said Horatin. ‘Me and Kaprile arrived first. Robb and the others came a day later.’

‘So, I’m the latest to the ball,’ sighed Chane. ‘I could use a fire.’

‘We could all use a fire,’ said Horatin, commenting about the rain. ‘This way, Corvalos — let us show you something.’

Chane left his horse with Noan and Robb, two more of the Watch, and followed Horatin back toward the trees. Kaprile and the two others — Calan and Travor — followed close behind. Pushing aside the wet branches, Horatin led them toward their makeshift camp, a clearing cut away among the trees and cleaned of debris. Here, the men had hidden their horses and supplies, including one item that struck Chane at once — a wagon filled with leather containers. Guessing immediately what they were, he went to the wagon and inspected the containers. The rain had stained them, but they were sturdy and stable, and when he poked them they moved like jelly.

‘You brought more than I thought you would,’ said Chane, pleased by the discovery. ‘Half this much should have the house burning.’

‘It’s the rain,’ said Kaprile. ‘We’ll need more oil to get it to burn good.’

‘True enough,’ agreed Chane. He had asked them to bring enough of the flammable fuel to get a good blaze going. Usually, the oil was used for lamps, but this special, viscous variety had been made for the Red Watch. Because it was so sticky, it wouldn’t wash away as easily as normal lamp oil. And it had very little odour, an advantage considering how they planned to use it. ‘How are you planning to get it inside? Have you thought about that?’

Kaprile said, ‘Once we take care of the guards we’ll get it through the windows. We’ll slit the bags and toss ‘em in.’

‘That’ll do it?’

‘The place is old,’ said Horatin. ‘Old drapes, old furniture. And there’s plenty of wood to burn. Believe me, Corvalos — it’ll go up like kindling.’

Like kindling. Chane tried to grin but couldn’t. Things had worked out perfectly, but it was a terrible way to die.

‘Even Glass won’t be able to survive it,’ he told himself. ‘What about the door?’

‘There,’ said Kaprile. He pointed toward a pile of chains and padlocks. ‘There are only three or four doors. Once we get those chains on, no one’s getting out.’

‘Three or four? Shouldn’t someone make sure?’

‘Can’t,’ said Kaprile. ‘Not without getting closer.’

‘All right. Crossbows for the guards?’

‘Probably. We’ll be able to get a shot at some of them. The others will have to be cut.’

Chane’s thoughts went at once to the dagger at this belt. Every member of the Red Watch carried the same weapon, so sharp it made no sound at all when dragged across a windpipe.

‘That’s everything, then,’ said Chane, satisfied.

Kaprile shifted and asked the obvious question. ‘When do we go?’

Chane looked at the wagon full of oil sacks. If they had forgotten something, he couldn’t think of it. ‘Tomorrow night,’ he told them. ‘Sharpen your knives, Watchmen. Tomorrow we draw blood.’