The Sword Of Angels

54

By the afternoon of Mirage’s second day in Richter, the rain had finally stopped. After the long deluge, it was good to see the sun, but Mirage continued to stay indoors. All the day before — when the rain had been relentless — she had stayed with Thorin inside the estate, letting him show her its quaint wonders and listening to his stories about how life used to be. Despite the downpour, the day went remarkably quickly, as did the following evening. Mirage had been given a splendid room on the second floor of the house, overlooking the impenetrable woods. The room was much like the one she had left behind in Hes, well appointed and quiet, with a huge, comfortable bed thick with downy linens and fine old furniture. Though not a large room, it was more than serviceable for the Mirage, who slept like the dead as the rain pelted her window, secure in the knowledge that Thorin and his Devil’s Armour was protecting her.

That next morning, while the rain still fell, Mirage broke her fast with Thorin, seated in a room near the kitchen. The estate had a lovely dining room, but Thorin had not wanted to waste such splendour on their morning meal. Instead he told her that tonight his servants would treat her to a feast. Mirage had no idea of the romantic scene that awaited her. She spent most of the day away from Thorin, who decided to go riding. Alone with the quiet servants and the handful of bodyguards, Mirage enjoyed the tranquility of the estate, venturing outside only briefly to feed the ducks in the nearby pond. She ate her midday meal alone, napped in her giant bed, and when the day was over felt surprise at how quickly it had gone. By the time the maid Stella came to retrieve her for dinner, Mirage was extremely well rested. She set aside the book she was perusing — a volume of poetry Thorin had selected just for her — and went to the door to let Stella inside. The maid, who looked as though she had spent her entire life in the remote estate, politely averted her eyes.

‘My lady, Baron Glass has returned,’ she told Mirage. She wore a perfectly pressed uniform of grey and black, complimenting her salty hair. Mirage, on the other hand, had dressed for the evening, and looked radiant in a gown that Thorin had purchased for her. The surprise had been waiting for her when she returned to her room, including a note from Thorin requesting that she wear it for him. Made of silk and threaded with gold, the emerald gown fit her perfectly, and in it Mirage felt like a queen.

‘Thank you, Stella,’ said Mirage, still not sure how to address the servants. In Hes, she had become friends with the maids, and never liked ordering them about. Giving orders was counter to everything she had learned in Grimhold, a place that worshipped equality. Mirage stepped back from the door. ‘How do I look?’

Surprised, the old woman raised her gaze. ‘My lady looks lovely.’ Then she smiled. ‘You are beautiful.’

‘Beautiful? Really?’ Mirage still couldn’t believe that word applied to her.

‘Yes, my lady. Baron Glass will not be bothering much with his meal, I think. He will not be able to take his eyes off you.’

Mirage blanched. All the people in Richter seemed to think they were lovers, though they plainly knew of Thorin’s relationship to Jazana Carr. ‘Let’s pray that the food is excellent, then,’ laughed Mirage, ‘for I myself won’t be on the baron’s plate.’

Stella looked rebuffed. ‘No, my lady, I am sorry. .’

‘Do not be,’ said Mirage gently. ‘And thank you. I’ll be down presently.’

Mirage waited another few minutes before going downstairs. Stella’s comment had unnerved her. Throughout the long ride to Richter and all during the first day, she had felt Thorin’s love for her, burning into her like a brand. He had treated her better than his own queen, talking sweetly to her and buying her expensive gifts, and she knew that tonight was a prelude to something more than she’d expected. When at last she went down to dinner and saw the elaborate dining room decorated with candles and gleaming silverware, she realized she had stumbled into a trap. And that she had done so willingly.

Thorin looked resplendent in a velvet jacket, brushed clean of every speck of dust. A vest tucked his white shirt neatly against his solid body. He had shaved for the evening, looking young and strangely handsome. And though he still wore the armour of his left arm, the sleeve of his jacket covered it almost precisely, custom tailored for his odd appendage. The enchanted gauntlet hung at his side, looking strange and out of place. Thorin kept it out of sight as he rose to greet Mirage. Behind him, a pair of smart-looking stewards waited to serve them. The smells from the kitchen grew in Mirage’s nose. She drifted like royalty into the dining room, smiling and letting her gown twirl prettily behind her.

‘A vision,’ Thorin declared. ‘That’s what you are.’

‘A Mirage, you mean,’ said Mirage wryly.

‘No,’ said Thorin. He reached out and took her hand. ‘That is not what I mean. That is never what I think when I see you.’

He led her to her chair at one end of the table, pulling it out for her and letting her sit. Then he went to his own chair, helped into it by one of the stewards. There were only a handful of servants in Richter Estate and Mirage already knew them all. These two, like everyone else in the house, performed multiple duties. Now they stood arrow-straight, waiting for Thorin’s orders. Mirage looked around, marveling at the room. Over the table hovered an ornate iron chandelier, each one of its candles lit with a gently wavering flame. The table itself was polished to a mirror shine, covered with linens and expensive looking silver. At Thorin’s request one of the stewards poured Mirage some wine. The red liquid shimmered in the crystal. Across the table, Thorin beamed at her.

He was like a boy again, happy, trying to impress her.

‘Whatever they’ve cooked up for us smells wonderful,’ Mirage commented. ‘They fed me well just hours ago and already I am hungry again.’

‘You see? I’ll take care of you,’ said Thorin. He unfolded his napkin and placed it over his lap with his one real hand, then self-consciously tucked his other hand out of sight. ‘After we eat we can go outside and have our drinks. The night has cleared. It’s beautiful now.’

‘I was out by the lake this afternoon,’ said Mirage. ‘I looked for you.’

‘I gave you some time to be by yourself. After all the time we spent getting here I thought you’d be tired of me by now.’

‘No,’ said Mirage. Her words felt awkward, and she groped for the right thing to say. Thorin came to her rescue.

‘No,’ he told her gently. ‘Relax. We don’t have to say anything at all. We can just eat.’

Mirage needed no more prodding. Instead of forcing herself into banter, she let the servants bring her meal, indulging herself with the fine food. Course after meticulous course came out of the provincial kitchen, stunning her. Even in Raxor’s court she had not eaten like this, and for a moment she lost herself in thought, wondering how her old benefactor was faring. She missed Raxor.

No, she scolded herself suddenly. Do not think of him.

Kahldris was powerful, and could probably read her thoughts. She wasn’t sure of that, but she suspected it. Still, the demon had been quiet since that first day in Koth. Had Thorin really tamed him?

Mirage didn’t know, and wasn’t willing to take the gamble. Instead she let the evening unfold, plate by plate, occasionally engaging Thorin in the most unimportant subjects, like the rains that had plagued them and his day in the woods. To this Thorin brightened, telling her that the forests and lakes around Richter were renowned throughout Liiria, a place of exceeding beauty that he insisted she see.

‘Tomorrow we will ride around the lake, just you and I. Forget the ducks, my lady — there is a spectacular brood of herons on the east side of the lake. They fly in like angels. We can boat there, if you like.’

‘Maybe,’ said Mirage cautiously. ‘That might be nice.’

The stewards moved gracefully around them as the dinner unwound, then finally came to an end. One of them, an old man named Jarel, produced a pipe for Thorin which he gratefully accepted.

‘Come,’ he said, pushing back his chair. ‘Let’s go outside. We can see the stars.’

Mirage hesitated. The night was going too quickly. Something told her to slow it down. ‘No,’ she declined. ‘I think I’d rather stay inside.’

Thorin looked surprised. ‘But you’ve been inside all day. Just a quick breath. .’

‘No. Thank you.’ Mirage rose and put her napkin on the table. She smiled at him. ‘That was wonderful. It was, really, but I’m tired now. I think I’d like to go upstairs.’

Thorin chaffed at this. ‘So soon?’

‘It’s what I want, Thorin.’

The fingers of his gauntlet flexed. ‘I had hoped we could talk some more tonight. In private. It’s very quiet by the lake.’

She could feel him drawing closer, craving her. His eyes smouldered. Mirage carefully backed away, feeling her own resolve loosening.

‘No, Thorin, no,’ she said, more firmly this time. ‘I have to go upstairs.’

He stalked closer to her, not menacingly. ‘Let me walk you upstairs.’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Yes, I want to.’

She put up her hands. ‘I’m fine.’ With a smile she added, ‘Thank you.’

Thorin came to stand before her, towering over her. Sensing the moment, the stewards disappeared. The house became still. ‘I think,’ said Thorin, ‘that you should let me see you upstairs.’

‘Why?’ asked Mirage, feeling weak.

‘I see something in your eyes.’

Whatever he saw, Mirage could not hide. She swallowed, looking away, but his gaze fell on her like a shadow, suffocating her. She glanced around, checked that they were alone and wished to heaven for someone — anyone — to stop them.

‘I can’t,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Please. .’

Thorin’s hand came up to touch her cheek. ‘What is this that you can’t do? You can’t make your own choices? You can’t betray some misplaced loyalty? You came to me. Remember that, Mirage.’

‘I remember,’ said Mirage. Did she regret that now? ‘I-’ Her words trailed off.

‘What? You want to tell me something — speak it.’

She looked squarely into his powerful eyes. ‘I am a maiden, Thorin.’

She expected to see conquest on his face. Instead, he softened.

‘What a sweet gift that would be, if you would give it to me.’

Mirage began to shake. Seeing this, he took her. His strong embrace propped up her failing knees. And then she was up, off of her feet and in his arms, sweeping out of the dining chamber toward the stairs. She put her arms around his neck, unable to speak, wanting to cry out for help.

But not a sound escaped her throat.

At midnight precisely, Corvalos Chane and his Watchmen broke camp. They took with them everything they needed for their task — their crossbows and daggers, their chains for the doors, and the flammable oil that would turn Richter Estate into a torch. The night was clear and cool, and in the light of the full moon it took less than an hour for them to get into position, staking out the woods around the estate and leaving their horses deep in the trees. The sacks of oil that they brought with them waited nearby, also hidden from view. The seven faces of the Watchmen peered invisibly out over the grounds of the estate, each two man team taking a different door. Because he was their leader, Chane remained near the front of the house, not far from the road that led up to the estate’s circular drive. From his place in the trees he could see the Norvans patrolling the grounds. Stupidly, a foursome of them had clutched near the covered walkway leading to the kitchens. One of them puffed languidly on a pipe. Kaprile and Horatin, who crouched with Chane in the brush, noted the guards with hand signals.

Chane shook his head. Kaprile raised his crossbow, putting his hand out to lower the weapon. Kaprile was the best shot of the group, and the crossbows the Watchmen carried had all been specially made for strength and silence. Even in the darkness, it would be no problem at all for Kaprile to kill two of the guards. But not four.

There were other guards as well, and these too would be dealt with. Robb and Noan, who had taken up position near the back of the estate, had already determined from earlier excursions that there was one man posted there at all times. Probably, he was already dead. Calan and Travor had the most difficult task. They had each been posted at opposite ends of the estate. They had no crossbows, but were armed with knives. It was up to them to sneak in first.

Horatin kept one hand on the stout chain. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He did not look nervous, just determined. It seemed to Chane that things were going wonderfully well. They had taken up their positions without being noticed and ostensibly had the house surrounded. They had everything they needed in place.

Still, there were those four guards. .

‘There’s no time,’ whispered Chane, his voice so low he himself could barely hear it. ‘We have to move on them.’

He knew that his men were waiting, and that Robb and Noan had probably already killed the rear guard. Other soldiers inside the house might come looking for him, and if he went missing things would get difficult fast.

‘Horatin,’ he said, ‘with me.’ Then he turned to Kaprile. ‘When we get close, hit them.’

There was no need for either of them to speak. Kaprile readied himself behind his crossbow. Horatin followed Chane through the woods. They both had their daggers drawn, moving likes cats through the brush, finally emerging out of sight of the four guards. The walkway leading to the kitchens had a roof that shadowed the men, making it difficult to see which way they were looking. Chane watched the glowing pipe in the lips of the one man, turned sideways to the grass. There was no easy way to reach them.

Chane and Horatin lingered in the shadows, their backs pressed against the stone of the house. The four Norvans stood beneath the roof, talking and laughing, fifty feet away. For Chane, killing four men was easy. Unless one of them ran. Or screamed. He looked to the trees where Kaprile was waiting, hidden somewhere in the mesh of leaves. Raising his hand, he gave the signal.

The crossbow’s silent mechanism fired.

Mirage lay awake, naked, her tattered clothes draped over the mantle where Thorin had thrown them. The sheets of her enormous bed lay in a tangle around her limbs. Through the window she saw moonlight slanting through the glass, striking Thorin’s happy face. Half asleep, his arm draped over her breasts, he smiled at her and kissed her ruddy cheek. A strange pain ached between her legs. Her body felt taught, like the strings of an instrument. Against her skin she felt the hotness of Thorin and the cool touch of his metal arm, that magnificent appendage that had brought her magically to life. Wrapped in it, he had lifted her effortlessly from the bed, again and again while he thrust against her, filling her mind with visions. Mirage had never known ecstasy, and had never really understood the word.

Until tonight.

He had been gentle at first, sweetly whispering in her ear as he undid the buttons of her gown. She had feared him but did not stop him, and when the moment of his own nakedness came she had gasped, astounded by him. Passion had taken them both like a swift river, and when it was over the current began again. As though he were a machine, Thorin took her again and again, each time more surely than the last, the magic of his armour giving him the virility of men half his age.

No, thought Mirage as she lay against him. Not a man. More like a god.

For no man could do what Thorin had done, or done it so flawlessly. She was in the arms of an avatar, and finally realized why Jazana Carr had never left him.

She rolled her head over to face him. Thorin’s heavy eyes opened a bit wider.

‘Sleep now,’ he said.

Mirage stared into his eyes. ‘I cannot. I feel strange.’

‘You are a woman now,’ he whispered. ‘You’re no longer a child. Everything will be different for you now.’

Without understanding him, Mirage simply nodded. He closed his eyes, drifting away to sleep, and a moment later Mirage did the same. Outside her window, she thought she heard a sound, something odd that she did not recognize. Too tired to pay it much heed, she ignored it.

Out of the blue came the bolt from Kaprile’s crossbow, streaking invisibly through the moonlight. A moment later, the man with the pipe fell to the ground. His head exploded so quickly that the others around him didn’t know what happened. He was talking and then he wasn’t, and the three remaining Norvans simply stood there, stunned. Chane and Horatin flew from the shadows, knives in hand, and by the time they had reached the guards another bolt came out of the darkness, this one felling the man nearest Chane. Changing tactics, Chane selected another of the doomed men, who was just turning around to face him. With his dagger in one hand, he grabbed hold of the man’s hair, snapped back his head, and ran the blade silently across his neck. Next to him, Horatin did the same, and before five seconds had ticked away both Norvans were dead.

Chane quickly glanced around. He listened for any sound. Out of the forest came Kaprile, his crossbow discarded, his back burdened with the heavy chain and padlock. Horatin wasted no time in dashing back for the oil. Chane kept watch on the door as he ran toward it, then put his ear against the wood. Inside the house he heard nothing, not even the idle chatter of servants or the footfalls of guards. Sure that the other teams had done just as well, he helped Kaprile loop the chain around the door.

Mirage awoke to the noise of breaking glass. At first it seemed like a dream, distant and unimportant, but then she heard it again, louder, closer, and her eyes snapped open in alarm. Thorin, still asleep beside her, his face slack after their love-making, barely stirred. Mirage listened intently, afraid and not knowing why. She thought to wake him, but feared his anger. She tried to lift her head but his weight pinned her down. Somewhere in the house something fell, bursting with sound. Another followed then another, and suddenly someone screamed.

Mirage bolted upright, waking Thorin instantly. Naked, she spotted her clothing flung against the mantle. Thorin groggily came awake, rubbing his eyes in confusion.

‘What is it?’ he croaked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Mirage. ‘Something’s happening.’

‘What’s happening? What?’ Thorin tossed his feet over the bedside. He shook his head a moment, then looked alarmed. ‘I smell fire.’

The word paralyzed Mirage. ‘What?’

‘Smoke.’ He looked at her. ‘Do you smell it?’

Then suddenly she did. All around her. Mirage leapt from the bed, dashing for the door. When she opened it a burst of heat gushed at her.

‘Thorin!’

All the memories of that horrible day rushed at her, those far flung nightmares of burning. Mirage stood in the door, frozen by the flames, stung by the heat as Thorin rushed up behind her.

‘Fate above, what’s happened?’ he gasped. He pulled her roughly from the door. ‘Get back! Get some clothes on!’

Mirage stumbled to the mantle, finding her gown clutching it. The whole downstairs seemed to be in flames. Through the roar she could hear the cries of people burning.

‘We have to get out of here,’ Thorin told her. He looked around for a way. ‘The window!’

He ran to it, breaking it open with his gauntleted fist and sticking his head outside to see. Mirage already knew it was impossible. They were too far up, even for Thorin to make it. As he cursed the danger, she saw him glimpse something troubling below them.

‘You there!’ he cried.

Mirage hurried toward him. ‘What is it?’

‘An attack,’ Thorin grumbled. His face went suddenly. ‘Great heaven. .’

‘Thorin, what’s happening?’

He backed away from the window, his face pensive. Then he took her in his big hands. ‘Listen to me — there are men here. They mean to kill me. They set the fire, Mirage. And they’ve locked us in.’

‘No!’

‘Don’t be afraid. I can get you out of here.’

‘You can’t! We’re on fire, Thorin!’

‘The fire won’t hurt me,’ Thorin insisted. ‘I’ll carry you out.’

Mirage tore away. ‘No!’

‘Meriel, you have to trust me. I can protect you. .’

‘No you can’t! I’m not like you, Thorin! I’ll die!’

‘You have to trust me,’ he said, then grabbed hold of her arm and dragged her forward. She fought him, screaming, but he lifted her up in his arms, tucking her head against his shoulder and pinning it there. Mirage was sobbing, pleading with him to let her go. Thorin ran headlong for the door.

Chane and his men gathered on the main lawn to watch the fire. Robb, the last of them to arrive, ran up to Chane quickly to give his report. With Noan’s help they had broken through most of the ground-floor windows, tossing in their containers of oil. Chane had helped on the other side of the house, lighting the oil with a tiny flame made by striking flint. He had been amazed at how quickly the oil had combusted, bursting into tall flames that quickly licked at the drapes and antique furniture. Now, as he massed with his Watchmen, Chane could hear the cries of the old wood beams, buckling and cracking as the fire consumed them.

‘Listen,’ Horatin directed. But it wasn’t the beams that had caught his attention. He motioned toward the main door, the one Chane had helped barricade. On the other side of it, someone was screaming. An insistent pounding rocked the thick wood.

‘Chane, I saw him,’ said Robb, gasping for air. ‘Glass.’

‘What happened?’

‘He looked down at me from one of the bedrooms. He broke the window trying to escape.’

‘Was he alone?’

Robb nodded, catching his breath. ‘He’s still up there.’

Kaprile raised his crossbow. ‘Maybe not for long.’

‘He can’t survive it,’ said Chane confidently. ‘No one can.’

He felt a surge of pride at what he’d done, and a wave of self-loathing. The battering at the door continued. A window shattered on the top floor. A man appeared, his clothes in flames, ready to leap. Kaprile raised his crossbow instantly, took aim, and mercifully killed him. The man fell backward, disappearing into the flames.

The pounding at the door died away.

Corvalos Chane, bathed in the light of the conflagration, imagined Baron Glass and his Diamond Queen, charred and dead within the house. Some twenty others had died with them, but to Chane the arithmetic seemed fair. How many men had Glass killed at the Kryss? How many more might he have killed?

The flames spread across the ground floor, leaping from the windows and scratching at the doors. Corvalos Chane bid his Watchmen to stand down.

‘Get the horses,’ he told them. ‘I want to be ready to leave.’

*

Thorin ran naked through the flames, leaping over burning beams and corpses. In his arms, Mirage was screaming, begging to be saved. The heat that licked their bodies had torn the skin from her back. Near tears, Thorin peered through the choking smoke, ignoring the pain. The armour on his arm glowed ferociously, lighting a path, but the fire was everywhere, blocking his way. Thorin turned desperately, trying each direction, beaten back by the inferno every time. His ears rang with Mirage’s pleas. She was dying, her hair on fire, her skin bubbling.

But not Thorin. The power of his armoured arm spread across his person, shielding him from the scorching flames. Enraged, he cried out to Kahldris.

‘Save her!’ he begged. ‘Kahldris, get us out of here!’

But the demon was silent, never entering Thorin’s mind. Confused, Thorin raced for nearest exit, passing the stairway as it collapsed. A shroud of burning curtains fell from the wall, sending up a storm of sparks. Mirage sobbed agonizingly into his shoulder.

‘Let us out of here!’ he bellowed. ‘Let us out!’

The fire raged in answer. All around him now, the flames touched his naked feet, climbing up his legs. His hair singed and curled back. The enormous pain drove him onward. Remarkably, he did not falter, and he realized that he never would — nothing could stop him.

‘Hold on to me,’ he told Mirage. ‘I’ll get you out of here.’

On his shoulder, Mirage was silent. Thorin stopped running. Terrified, he glanced at her face and saw that she no longer moved. Her body drooped in his arms.

‘No. .Oh,no. .’

With fire all around him, he laid her down on the floor, studying her lifeless face. Her skin had turned a frightening red. And all the scars from her old life were there, showing once again on her face. Her Akari had fled. Thorin knew it. Kneeling over her, both of them naked, he touched her face and thought she was beautiful.

Then Baron Glass rose and let the fire reach for him, effortlessly swatting back its deadly flames.

‘Who has done this?’ he hissed in rage.

Down in the cellar, safely locked away, his armour waited, calling to him.

Outside, standing on the great lawn of the estate, Corvalos Chane watched the burning, amazed by how quickly the fire had spread. The entire ground floor was engulfed in flame. The blaze had easily reached the top floor. He had watched the fire for nearly an hour, listening for any signs of life within the house. Happily, he heard nothing, just the screaming of the old timbers as they snapped and buckled. A great feeling of accomplishment came over the old soldier, bathed in the inferno’s eerie light. He was sure the blaze could be seen for miles, if only someone had been around to see it. It had been great hubris that had killed the Baron and his Queen, thought Chane. A man should never think himself so powerful.

Chane toyed with the dagger in his belt, fingering its hilt. He was tired, and he longed to return to Hes and give his king the news. After a long life of service, Corvalos Chane was done. He might at last take a woman. He would retire to a quiet corner of Reec and be happy.

‘Corvalos, I’ve cleaned up everything,’ said Kaprile, coming up quietly behind him. Only the two of them remained. Chane had sent the others back to camp, telling them to get rid of any evidence that might link them to the deed. The danger had passed, after all, and now there was nothing left to do but wait until morning and retrieve the Devil’s Armour. Kaprile, who read Chane’s thoughts easily, asked the question on both their minds. ‘Do you think it survived?’

Chane shrugged. ‘They say it’s indestructible.’

‘It didn’t help Glass much, though, did it?’ chuckled Kaprile. He looked at his old comrade. ‘We did good tonight, Corvalos.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Chane. ‘We did good.’

They would stay until morning, when the fire finally died and they could make their way through the rubble. Glass’ skull would make a fine trophy, and Chane hoped to find it in the ashes. The skull and the Devil’s Armour were the only things he wanted from the ruins. He planned to leave behind everything else, especially his memories. Chane turned to say something to Kaprile, but as he did he saw the main door explode outward. He ducked the flying splinters and sparks, shielding his face with his hand and reeling backward in surprise.

‘All the hells,’ gasped Kaprile. ‘Who’s that?’

In the burning threshold stood a man, big like a mountain, flames clawing at his back. He held a weapon in his fist, a long, straight-bladed sword that shined darkly in the firelight. Gleaming metal encased his body, covered with spikes, flowing with life, while atop his head rested a huge, horned helmet with a face like a death mask and two haunting eye slits. He stepped out of the flames and on to the cobblestone court, little drips of fire falling from his armour. The horrible helmet turned toward Chane and Kaprile.

It was impossible. Yet there he stood. Monstrous. Alive.

‘I am Baron Glass,’ he declared. ‘And I will make you pay for what you’ve done.’

Corvalos Chane stepped forward, drawing the dagger at his side. Kaprile raised his crossbow and took aim.

‘You’re a very hard man to kill, Baron Glass,’ said Chane. ‘I’m sorry to say, I can’t let you go further.’

‘You have killed my woman,’ Glass cried, ‘the most gentle creature on this god-cursed earth!’ His voice broke with sobs. ‘You are the worst kind of murderers. You deserve the worst kind of death.’

Kaprile fired his crossbow. The perfectly aimed bolt smashed into the baron’s breastplate. At such a range the weapon should have punctured, but it did not. Against the strange metal, the missile simply shattered. Baron Glass shook his head as Kaprile loaded up and fired again.

‘I wear the Devil’s Armour!’ he said.

Chane nodded. ‘That may be, Baron, but I have sworn an oath to kill you.’

‘You may try,’ said Glass.

Kaprile tossed his crossbow aside and drew his own Watchman’s dagger. He looked at Chane for guidance. It was hopeless, of course, but they had both sworn the same unending oath. Together, then, they would fight.

They both ran forward, daggers raised. Chane leapt for the baron, legs outstretched in a well aimed kick. Glass, unmoving, absorbed it easily, and Chane felt the bones in his leg crack instantly. He fell to the ground, crying out, rolling away as Kaprile launched his own attack. This time, Glass reached out with inhuman speed, snatching Kaprile from the air. By the neck he took the Watchmen, raised him off the ground, and popped his gasping windpipe. Chane, in agony, clawed away as Glass towered over him. The eye slits looked down upon him contemptuously.

‘Watch, brigand, and see how you will die.’

Kaprile’s body was like a doll in Glass’ grip, lifeless and limp, pendulating as if from a Hangman’s noose. Baron Glass held him out for Chane to see, then madly drove Kaprile’s head against the spikes of his shoulders, driving the iron daggers through his skull. Blood and brains splattered across the metal.

And the metal came alive.

‘You see?’ taunted Glass. ‘He feeds me.’

Spreading from the bloodied shoulder, the armour writhed and glowed, the figures and runes along it twisting and pulling from the metal until at last it wasn’t really metal at all, but a black, impenetrable skin that stuck to Glass like his own. Glass held up Kaprile’s body, showering himself with blood. Chane tried to look away, but the sheer horror of it kept his eyes pinned to the gory scene. His shattered leg burned with pain, and he knew he could not escape. All he could do was keep his secret, and take it with him into death.

When he was done with Kaprile, Baron Glass tossed aside his blood-drained husk, then glared insanely down at Chane. ‘Mercenary,’ he said, ‘who sent you to kill me?’

Corvalos Chane grinned. ‘Do you think I am afraid of you? I am not. I am not afraid of anything.’

‘No?’ Baron Glass stalked closer. ‘It is well, then. Do not tell me your secrets. You will find no mercy in me anyway.’

Stooping down, he grabbed hold of Chane’s broken leg, lifting him up by the ankle and dangling him like a fish. Chane braced himself but did not struggle. Closing his eyes, he said a prayer to the Great Fate and waited for the end to come.