The Sword Of Angels

62

The dead city of Kaliatha rose out of its sandy tomb, glowing purple in the cloudy light of day. A westward breeze whistled through its crumbling spires, portending a storm, and ghosts of dust flittered through the empty avenues. Darkened windows in the lifeless towers stared like black, unblinking eyes, forever watching the desolate horizon, and in the cracks along the ancient pavement the weeds grew up like serpents, indomitable amidst the sad and speechless city. The foreign sound of horse hooves echoed along the main thoroughfare as a single horseman rode through the city, his head spinning from the awesome sights. Lukien had seen Kaliatha before, months ago, and he had dreamed of it since. The impression it had left on him was like seeing a massive grave. He did not speak as he trotted through the city, nor direct his comrade to any particular sight. Next to him, the Akari spirit Malator walked in stunned amazement, rendered mute by the image of his forlorn home. It was the first time since Lukien had met the Akari that Malator was lost for words, and the oddness of it struck Lukien. They had ridden together from the grand city of Torlis, through the villages and swamps of Tharlara and across the desolation toward Jador. And all the while, Malator had been full of quips and questions, barely sparing Lukien time to sleep. Now, though, Malator’s tongue was still. His glowing eyes filled with the likes of ethereal tears.

‘Here I was a boy,’ he said in a whisper, ‘and then a man and a soldier and a summoner. I have thought of almost nothing else in the countless years of my death but Kaliatha. But I never thought it would look like this.’

Lukien had tried to warn Malator. A hundred times, he had told the spirit that the city of the Akari was nothing like he’d left it. It had fallen to ruin a thousand lifetimes ago, torn by the teeth of storms and ravaged by the claws of the relentless sun. Day by day, year after endless year, the glory of the city had been peeled away, fading to a shell full of memories and almost nothing else. Malator, a child-like optimist, had merely nodded at Lukien’s description of Kaliatha, assuring him that he understood the depths of what had happened. Had he lied, Lukien wondered? Or was it just too much for the spirit to imagine?

‘It still stands, Malator,’ said Lukien. ‘It’s still here for you to see, after all these years. That’s something good, at least.’

Malator nodded, but grudgingly. Because he had no real body he did not tire the way Lukien did, and so he often came out of the sword to walk beside Lukien while the knight rode. They had spent hours telling each other about the lives they had lived, even laughing at times at each others jokes. Malator had surprised Lukien from the very start, looking not at all like the great warrior destined to defeat Kahldris. He was tall and reedy and even foppish at times, with a grin that seemed better for a jester than a soldier. He was entertaining company, always prepared to use his wit to disarm the sceptical Lukien. Seeing his new friend — his Akari — so broken-hearted made Lukien wilt.

‘You have no idea how grand this place was once,’ Malator continued. ‘And I treaded the world like a prince when I was alive. All of Kaliatha knew my name, and my brother’s. They looked to me for help.’ Malator trembled. ‘For help, Lukien.’

Lukien smiled reassuringly, understanding Malator’s pain. ‘You did what you could for them. You tried to help. Now you can explain that to them, Malator. That’s why we are here.’

‘We are here because there is no other way to your land of Jador, Lukien. If there were, I would not be here.’

‘You dissemble, my friend. Nothing would have kept you from seeing Kaliatha and you know it. And it is good that you see it. Look at it! You see ruins. I do, too. But I see glory here, still. I can imagine what a world your people made.’

‘Can you?’ Malator appeared heartened. ‘Then your one eye is clearer than my two.’

Lukien did not rise to Malator’s bait. He had the right to mourn for his city, Lukien supposed, and nothing he could say would assuage the spirit’s feelings. The Sword of Angels rested at Lukien’s hip, keeping him alive and filling him with vitality. The Eye of God still hung from his neck, but Lukien could no longer feel the presence of Amaraz within himself, and he knew that the great Akari had vacated his body, leaving the job of sustaining him to Malator, his one, true, Akari. Throughout their trip together, Malator had stayed close to Lukien, assuring him that he need not wear the sword at every moment. Eventually, Lukien had come to trust the spirit.

Still, the long ride from Torlis had been bittersweet. Without Jahan, the lush landscape of Tharlara seemed empty, and Lukien spent many hours of the trek mourning his kind-hearted friend. He missed Lahkali and Karoshin. He even missed Niharn. But Jahan he missed most of all, and he knew that he could not pass by his village without telling his wife what had happened.

Oddly, his ride through the dead city reminded Lukien of that moment now, and in the high spires of deceased Kaliatha — a city Lukien knew Jahan would have loved — he saw the wonder-filled face of the villager. The memory put a dagger through his heart. He had told Jahan’s family that their beloved husband and father had died valiantly, saving him from a rass. He made sure that the children believed their father was a hero, and took pains to praise him and tell how much he missed him. Even in their crushed expressions, Lukien saw the love they had for him.

‘You are thinking of your friend?’ asked Malator.

Lukien grinned. He was not used to having an Akari who could so easily pick at his brain. ‘This is what Gilwyn warned me about,’ he jibed. ‘Yes, Malator, I am thinking of Jahan. He would have understood what you cannot. He would have seen the glory that’s still here in Kaliatha.’

‘Always on the past is your mind, Lukien,’ said Malator, shaking his vapourous head. ‘I grieve for a city, a whole world of people! You grieve for one man, though I have assured you that he lives on, not just in your memory but in a very real world beyond this one. Do not lament for him so.’

‘I know what you have told me, Malator. But it is hard.’

‘But you have seen the truth yourself, in the Story Garden!’

‘I have seen it, yes,’ said Lukien. Cassandra, too, he thought of often. And yet Malator never questioned him about her, as if he already knew all he needed to know. ‘You have been dead too long, my friend, not to know what it is to lose someone. Not a city, mind you, just one special person.’ He looked at Malator and shook his head. ‘I pity you for that. Truly, I do.’

Malator was not offended. His elfish ears perked up a little. ‘I see there is still so much to teach you, Lukien. I value life more than you think. More perhaps than you ever have yourself. Ah, but I do not want to argue with you!’ The spirit looked around, floating on his ghostly legs. ‘I want to see my city, Lukien, and I do not want the moment ruined.’

‘No,’ Lukien agreed. ‘No. .’

Together they continued through the deserted streets, Malator taking the time to notice every tiny detail, Lukien gently guiding him toward their destination. Though he had only been in Kaliatha briefly, Lukien easily remembered the way toward the house where Raivik had lived, and where the dead man’s story stone still resided. He intended to repay every kindness that had been granted him on his long journey to Torlis, and that included the dead as well as the living. Raivik had been the first to tell him the truth about Malator and his brother. He had set Lukien’s feet on the right path. In return, Raivik had only wanted to know about the world of the living. Because he had been in too much of a hurry to indulge Raivik’s craving, Lukien had left the Akari after only one brief night together. Now, though, he had something very special to give Raivik, the greatest gift anyone could give to an Akari.

Malator.

‘He will want to know what took me so long to return,’ said Malator. ‘He will question me incessantly.’

‘Get out of my head, Malator.’

‘I’m not complaining, Lukien. It will be good to tell my people the truth finally.’

Lukien shot the spirit a sceptical glance, then continued onward. His horse rode gamely through the city, exhausted beyond anything a horse should have to endure. Lukien knew his mount needed rest and water, and neither of these were plentiful in Kaliatha. But there was a stream a day’s ride away, and if they rested well tonight they might reach it by tomorrow’s end. Until then, the water they had brought with them in skins would have to do.

As the afternoon sun dipped below the highest towers, Lukien at last saw Raivik’s home. The dilapidated building had been a splendid home once, with a sprawling garden and high walls of stone that looked down imperiously on the structures around it. Long overrun by weeds and varmints, the garden nevertheless continued to produce a few wild roses from its thorn-covered bushes. Lukien slowed his horse as he reached the garden gate, a desiccated tangle of metal ready to crumble at his touch. The story stone was hidden among the weeds. He remembered its place precisely. In the shadow of the ancient house he dismounted his horse and stood at the edge of the garden, patting the Sword of Angels and smiling. The city of ghosts comforted Lukien. He felt at home among the countless bones. Beside him, Malator had once again lost his boyish grin. He was all seriousness now.

‘Malator, are you ready for this?’

The spirit sighed. ‘They know I am here, Lukien. I can hear them.’ He rolled his eyes about their surroundings. ‘So many voices. .’

Lukien listened but heard nothing. ‘Can you hear Raivik?’

‘No. There are too many.’ Malator laughed. ‘They greet me, Lukien.’

‘I am glad for you. Welcome home.’

Malator smiled then entered the garden, not waiting for Lukien. The knight followed quickly at his heels, but Malator needed no guidance, homing in precisely on the story stone. Surrounded by tall, tangled grasses, the stone rose up only slightly from the lumpy earth. Malator studied the thing that looked like a grave marker and gently reached out his misty hand to touch it. When he did, the figure of Raivik appeared at once. Lukien stood back, amazed by seeing the dead man rise.

‘Miracles,’ he said. ‘Everyday, more miracles.’

Raivik knew him at once, and beamed excitedly at Lukien. But he did not speak, turning instead to stare at Malator. Raivik’s jaw dropped in reverence. His skin was the colour of a living man, flushing with excitement. Raivik, who had told Lukien all that he knew about Malator and his brother, now gazed dumbstruck at the ancient legend. Then, as if realizing all the millennia that had passed, he closed his mouth in a grimace and sadly shook his head.

‘Do you hear?’ Raivik asked Malator.

Malator nodded grimly. ‘I hear them.’

‘They wail for your return, like they wailed when you left us.’ Raivik’s tone was reproachful. ‘Look around you and see what you have wrought.’

‘No,’ said Lukien, stepping forward. ‘That’s not right, Raivik, and you know it. The Jadori destroyed Kaliatha, not Malator.’

Raivik turned to Lukien. ‘I thought to never see you again, Lukien, or to ever be called once more from my stone.’ He glanced down at the sword at Lukien’s belt. ‘You have found it.’

‘It is the sword that contains the soul of Malator, Raivik,’ Lukien explained. ‘I found it in Tharlara. It was just as you said. That’s why I’ve come back, to thank you and to tell you our story.’

‘A story.’ Raivik grinned. ‘You remember me well, Lukien. But this is more than a story! You cannot hear my people because you are not one of us, but the city cries all around you.’ He turned back to Malator. ‘I will listen to your story, Malator. Tell us where you have been.’

Malator sat himself down on the tall grass next to Raivik’s story stone, looking strange as he crossed his unreal legs beneath himself. He cocked his head to hear, and Lukien knew that he could hear the countless voices of the dead ringing through Kaliatha. He had agreed to explain himself to Raivik, and in so doing make his peace with what he had done.

‘You believe that I abandoned you,’ he said to Raivik. ‘If you listen, I will tell you the truth.’

Raivik floated closer to him. ‘Will you tell me why you never returned? When Kaliatha needed you most?’

‘There was nothing left for me to return to,’ said Malator. ‘By the time I could have come home, the Jadori had already ruined us.’ He bade the old man’s spirit to sit beside him. ‘Let me tell you my story,’ he said. ‘And then, when I am done, you may judge me.’

Lukien watched as Raivik sat down before Malator, agreeing to hear his tale. It was a long story, Lukien knew, and he had already heard it. He was also powerfully tired, and unlike a spirit he needed rest. Backing away from the Akari pair, he left the garden and went to his horse, unpacking the things he needed for his well-earned rest.

*

All the next day, Lukien rode alone. He had spent the night in Kaliatha under the clouded sky, and by the next morning he felt refreshed and eager to go on. Malator had returned to residing within the sword, and though Lukien fully expected the Akari to appear walking next to him, Malator never did. Even so, he could feel the presence of Malator inside him, nestled warmly in a little corner of his brain. As Lukien rode through the familiar territory on his way to Jador, he decided not to bother Malator by calling him forth. Obviously, the spirit’s conversation with Raivik had drained him, leaving him as quiet as when they’d first entered Kaliatha.

Lukien was glad to leave the dead city behind. At last, after weeks of riding, he was nearing the familiar world he had left. Soon, he would at last return to Jador, and the thought of seeing all of his old comrades heartened him. There was still much left to do, still hundreds of miles yet to go. And his next battle with Thorin loomed over Lukien like a terrible shadow. But he kept these blacker thoughts far from his mind as he rode along the dusty earth, preferring instead to think about Gilwyn and Minikin and all the others he missed so sorely.

The day went quickly for Lukien. The weather co-operated and his tired horse at last slaked its thirst properly as Lukien located a stream he had forgotten from his first ride through the area. Mountains to the north poured down their melting snowcaps in gushes of crystal clear water, inviting both man and beast to enjoy its pure taste. Lukien took his time filling up his water skins as his horse drank and rested. The remarkable beast had taken him miles more than any steed should ever endure. Horses were rare in Tharlara, and this one had been a gift from Lahkali. She had promised Lukien that its heart was stout and its legs strong, and she had been right. Lukien thought about the girl as he dipped his water skins into the stream. He missed her, and wondered if he would ever see her again.

After he and his horse had rested, Lukien continued on, still without the company of Malator. The Akari remained silent the rest of the afternoon, and then into evening as Lukien stopped riding for the day and made a camp in the shadow of the mountains. When he had tended his horse and prepared him for the night, Lukien made a fire to stave off the coming chill, settling down in front of it and staring into its jumping flames. He quieted his mind with a few deep breaths, letting out a sigh that traveled through the camp. Next to him, the Sword of Angels lay in its scabbard. Like his horse, the scabbard too had been a gift from Lahkali. Lukien reached over and picked up the weapon, pulling it free of its scabbard. He laid the blade across his lap and admired it. The ancient metal glowed warmly in the firelight. He touched its smooth surface, knowing that Malator dwelt within it. And within himself.

‘Will you stay in there all the way to Jador?’ asked Lukien. ‘I hope not. I can use your company.’

In the back of his mind he felt Malator shuffle. The spirit was uneasy.

‘We made good progress today,’ Lukien continued. ‘Tomorrow should be a good day, too. With luck we will be in Jador in a week or two.’

Still Malator did not appear, nor answer wordlessly in Lukien’s brain.

‘I would have you show yourself, Malator,’ said Lukien. ‘To know that you are not cross with me.’

‘You try to shame me?’ Malator’s voice appeared before the rest of him. His face shimmered into being on the other side of the campfire. His body came last, sitting in the same relaxed manner as Lukien. ‘I am not cross with you, Lukien. I have been thinking, that is all.’

Lukien gently kept his fingertips on the blade of the sword, making the bond between them stronger. ‘I did try to tell you what it would be like, Malator,’ he said. ‘And you could not have expected Raivik to welcome you like a hero.’

‘I did not expect that,’ said Malator. ‘And now I have made my peace with my people. I should thank you for that, Lukien. It was a burden I carried for too long.’

‘And now they know where you were, and they can be at peace as well. You see, Malator? It is good. Now you can go on.’

Malator nodded in agreement. The familiar grin returned to his elfish face. ‘You could go on as well, my friend. I have told you this a hundred times. You have don’t need as much rest as you give yourself. I’m here to give you strength, Lukien, but you must take it from me.’

‘I rest as much for the horse as I do myself, Malator,’ Lukien pointed out. ‘Unless you have another sword for the horse to wear, a little dagger on a chain perhaps. .’

‘You know what I mean, Lukien.’ Malator gestured at him. ‘And look — you still wear the Eye of God around your neck, even though I have promised you there is no need for it.’

Lukien replied, ‘An old habit. I wear it for safe keeping now, Malator. I know that it is you who gives me my vitality. When we get to Grimhold I will return it to Mistress Minikin.’

‘And what will she do with it?’ asked Malator. He was always curious about the Akari and their relationship with the Inhumans. Even though he was an Akari himself, he knew nothing about their covenant with Minikin’s people, only the little that Lukien had told him. ‘Will she give it to someone else? Keep them alive forever?’

Lukien shrugged. ‘That’s a weighty matter for her to decide, not me. The amulet is hers to do with what she wishes.’

‘I am fascinated by these things you say, Lukien. To think that the Jadori are peaceful now! It is unbelievable to me. And now they protect the Inhumans and Akari. The world has surely changed while I was gone.’

‘It has indeed, Malator. And the Inhumans will have questions for you, no doubt.’

‘Let them ask whatever they wish,’ said Malator. He leaned back on his palms and studied Lukien. ‘And let you ask the questions on your mind, Lukien. I know you have them.’

There was no way to hide anything from Malator, and it frustrated Lukien sometimes. He had tried to mask what he was thinking, but had easily been discovered. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I want to know how you plan on beating your brother. You have told me just about everything else about yourself, Malator. You have talked me nearly to death! Now tell me the thing I most need to know.’

‘Why Lukien, I will fight my brother, just as you have fought Baron Glass,’ replied the Akari. ‘What else would I do?’

‘No,’ said Lukien, growing angry, ‘don’t dodge me. Tell me how you’re going to beat him. Will this sword break his armour? Is that all there is to it?’

‘Think on what I have said, Lukien. I will fight my brother because I am a soldier. You will fight Baron Glass because you are a soldier.’

‘Malator, that makes no sense to me.’

‘Why doesn’t it?’ Malator leaned forward. ‘You expect some conjuring from me, is that it? Do you think I will cast a spell upon my brother and that all will be done? No, Lukien. My brother was a great summoner, but he was also a general, and he did not get that rank by being weak in battle. He was renowned for his abilities, but so was I, and when we settle this thing it will be with blades.’

‘But how?’ asked Lukien. ‘You are not even in this world. Not really.’

‘That’s right. I don’t intend to battle Kahldris in this world, Lukien. This is your world. Kahldris and I will fight in ours.’

‘In the world of the dead, you mean.’

Malator smiled. ‘Now you get it.’

‘And Thorin and I? We are to battle again, here in this world?’

‘That will bring us all together, Lukien. When you cross blade with Baron Glass next time, you will have my sword with which to defend yourself. And when the metal of my blade touches the metal of his armour, Kahldris and I will meet again.’

‘And then I will be able to crack his armour? I must be able to crack it, Malator. .’

‘When I have beaten Kahldris, you will breach the armour, Lukien. But not until then.’

‘Oh.’ Lukien grew pensive. ‘And if you don’t beat him?’

Malator laughed and said, ‘You have no confidence in me!’

‘Well, it’s just that. .’ Lukien struggled for the right thing to say. ‘Malator, you hardly look like a soldier.’

‘That may be, Lukien, but I was a fine soldier, finer than Kahldris some say. Find some good in me, Lukien, please.’

‘I’ll try,’ said Lukien unconvincingly. ‘But you have to admit, you look. . out of practice.’

Malator bristled playfully at the insult. ‘You are such a sceptic, my friend. I will simply have to convince you.’

‘Yes,’ said Lukien. ‘Because if you can’t, Kahldris will beat us both.’

In the township outside the white wall of Jador, the days were long and filled with boredom. The drudgery of daily subsistence occupied most of the time, as the Seekers from the northern continent settled into the unending routine of the southern desert. Because they were unused to the sun and heat, most Seekers spent whatever time they could indoors, relaxing in the shrana houses or playing card games under the tin roofs of their shabby homes. For most Seekers, hope was something they had given up a long time ago. They had come across the Desert of Tears seeking healing, and had got a slum instead, a bustling conglomeration of tongues and skin tones that had once been a place of vibrant commerce, but had swelled to the world’s largest camp for refugees. And though Kahana White-Eye did her best to make the lot of the northerners easier, despair was the thing they had most in abundance. Returning north was out of the question, and gaining the magic of Grimhold was impossible. And so they were stuck in the netherworld between both, unable to go in either direction.

King Lorn loved the shrana houses. They were an import from Ganjor, a place where the desert folk — and now the Seekers — could enjoy a lively conversation over a stiff pull of hot, black shrana. Shrana was an acquired taste that almost everyone acquired late, but Lorn had learned to love the drink. In the shrana houses, he was no longer the counselor to the great Kahana, and the people there referred to him as a kind of good-natured jibe. For Lorn, who had been in Jador for more months then he could remember, the shrana houses were a strange whiff of home.

Tonight, Lorn relaxed as a pretty serving girl brought him and his comrades another pot of steaming shrana. He had spent the day in the township, helping the Marnan brothers repair their ramshackle home, replacing the sun-burned roof with another layer of thatch. Harliz, Garmin and Tarlan had all come to Jador with the same empty hope, wishing to be cured of the blood disease that made their bones ready to snap. Because none of them could climb a ladder, it had fallen to Lorn to do the bulk of the work, which he had done with aplomb and a smile on his face. White-Eye was a queen now. She had taken to her role like a fish to water, and rarely needed Lorn’s counsel any more. The rise of confidence had left Lorn feeling like a proud father’s whose child moves away.

‘I think,’ said Tarlan as he watched the pretty servant walk away, ‘that we should have some food now.’ He turned to his brothers with a sly smile. ‘Let’s get her back here, yes?’

‘You’re a letch,’ commented Harliz. He blew on his steaming cup. ‘And ugly, in case you haven’t noticed.’

‘Leave her alone,’ agreed Garmin.

Lorn grinned, amused by the bickering brothers. Neither of them were remotely handsome, but that rarely stopped Tarlan from flirting with every girl he passed. His wandering eye constantly annoyed Harliz, leaving Garmin to make peace between them. Lorn tasted his shrana, burning his lips on the hot liquid. He never sweetened his shrana with honey or cane, liking its raw, bitter taste. Tonight, after his long day of labour, the shrana tasted particularly fine.

‘I’m going to talk to her,’ Tarlan decided. Making a great effort, he pulled his stooped body away from the dark table and meandered through the crowded chamber toward the serving girl. Harliz shooed him away with annoyance, plainly glad to be rid of him. Garmin, ignoring both his brothers, looked at Lorn instead.

‘What about you? Shouldn’t you be getting back?’

Lorn nodded. ‘I should.’

But he kept right on drinking.

‘Lorn, you’ve got your own pretty girl back inside the wall,’ Garmin pointed out. ‘And your child, too.’

‘Yes,’ Lorn drawled. ‘But Poppy will be sleeping when I get back, and Eiriann spends nights with her father. He’s not well at all, and I don’t like to keep them apart.’

‘And Kahana White-Eye doesn’t need him anymore,’ said Harliz playfully.

‘So?’ Garmin pressed. ‘What will you do? Become a roofer?’

Lorn laughed, but their jibes stung him. ‘Let me tell you — I am happy White-Eye doesn’t need me any more. She stood up to Baralosus and saved Jador, and that’s no less than any king or queen could ask. But, I have been thinking. .’ He rolled the little cup between his palms. ‘I’ve been here a good long time now. Poppy is happy, and so is Eiriann. She’s a good woman, the second good woman I’ve had, and that’s saying a lot for a man like me. I didn’t deserve my first wife and I’ll be damned if I deserve Eiriann. Poppy doesn’t even know she’s not her mother.’

Garmin smiled. ‘What are you saying, Lorn? What’s on your mind?’ Harliz answered the question first. ‘He’s restless. He wants to go home.’

‘To Norvor?’ Garmin studied Lorn. ‘Is that it?’

Lorn shrugged. ‘I think about it. Of course I do. Look, we all came here to get a healing out of Grimhold, and none of us are any closer. Minikin will never take Poppy into Grimhold and I’d be a fool to hope otherwise. There’s no room for her. The mistress had made that plain. So what am I to do?’

The brothers glanced at each other. ‘What can any of us do?’ said Harliz. ‘We’re stuck here, Lorn, all of us. That means you, too, king or not.’

‘Aye, and it’s maddening,’ roiled Lorn. ‘I thought I could rest here and grow old and be content to see Poppy safe and happy. Oh, but Norvor calls to me! She does, and I miss her so.’

Harliz starting to say something, but his brother stopped him, putting up a hand. ‘Let’s just drink,’ suggested Garmin. ‘Let’s not talk about the past.’

For all the Seekers, the past was a subject of little interest, and Lorn was grateful to end the conversation. He made an effort to bring the talk to lighter things, commenting about the work they had done that day and about how crowded the shrana house was tonight, and soon they had all forgotten about the past once more. They had forgotten about Tarlan, too, who had disappeared somewhere among the crowd. Lorn assumed the man had found game somewhere or a benefactor willing to share some tobacco. Another hour passed. The light from the dingy windows on the other side of the shrana house had long gone dark. At last, Lorn decided it was time to leave. He said his good-byes to his unusual friends, left a couple of coins on the table, and headed toward the door. Suddenly, he was eager to see Eiriann and find out how her father Garthel was doing. Garthel was old and feeble, and though the desert air had done him good he was still fairing poorly. Tomorrow he would spend the day with them all, Lorn decided, and forget this nonsense about Norvor. But before he could exit the shrana house he heard Tarlan excitedly calling his name. Tarlan was coming through the beaded door, shouting for Lorn and dragging a stranger along behind him. His eyes bulged excitedly as he glimpsed Lorn.

‘There he is,’ he said excitedly, turning toward the stranger. The man with him had a circumspect look. ‘That’s Lorn.’ Tarlan quickly closed the gap between them. ‘Lorn, wait. This is someone you need to meet.’

Lorn stopped by the beaded entrance, stepping aside to greet his friend. Tarlan hurried them together. Lorn spied the man, then Tarlan. ‘Who’s this?’

‘A Nithin!’ Tarlan laughed giddily. ‘A Nithin, Lorn, come all the way from Nith!’

‘A Nithin?’ Lorn again focused on the man, this time more precisely. ‘Is that so?’

Nithins were known to be proud and rare like diamonds, and in his whole life Lorn had never met a single one. In all of the township, not one of the Seekers were Nithin, and so Tarlan’s surprise seemed appropriate. The stranger, a man of substantial bearing, wore riding clothes and a bright green cape caked in desert dust. He had been long on the road, that much was plain. His brown hair hung in dirty tangles around his unshaven neck.

‘My name is Alsadair,’ he pronounced. ‘You are King Lorn of Norvor?’

Lorn straightened. ‘I am unaccustomed to that title these days, sir. But yes, I am Lorn. And you are from Nith? Truly?’

‘I am,’ said Alsadair, ‘and I have just at last come across the desert with a Caravan from Ganjor. I am on a mission, King Lorn, and in this horrible little village they speak of you as the man to see.’

‘Do they?’ Lorn looked to Tarlan for answers. ‘Where’d you find him?’

‘He just come across, just as he says,’ replied Tarlan. ‘Started asking all kinds of questions, looking for a way into Jador. People told him to come looking for you. I ran into him outside while having a pipe.’

By now, Harliz and Garmin had noticed the little commotion, coming up to stand beside Lorn. They quietly eyed the stranger, listening intently to their brother’s explanation. Lorn, not liking the gathering attention, directed all of them back outside, pushing Tarlan toward the beaded curtain. The Nithin followed him out, trailed by Lorn and the Marnan brothers. At once the cool night air struck Lorn’s face. He pulled the Nithin away from the shrana house, speaking to him in a measured tone.

‘What is your business?’ he asked. ‘What do you want in Jador?’

‘To deliver a message,’ said Alsadair. He brushed the dust from his fine green cape. ‘I am a herald of His Grace, Daralor, Prince of Nith. I bear a letter with me from His Grace.’

‘A letter?’ asked Lorn. ‘For who?’

‘For the Bronze Knight,’ said Alsadair. ‘For the Liirian named Lukien.’

The name was instantly familiar to Lorn. ‘Lukien?’ He looked at Tarlan. ‘Did you know this?’

Tarlan shook his head. ‘No. He just said he was looking for you, and I told him we was friends.’

‘This letter you carry — it’s from your Prince?’ Lorn asked Alsadair.

‘The letter is from a charge of the prince,’ said the Nithin. ‘I cannot tell you more. It is private, and for the eyes of the Bronze Knight only.’

‘Lukien isn’t here,’ said Lorn. ‘I don’t know where he is, and neither does anyone else.’

Alsadair replied stoically. ‘It does not matter. He will return here, and when he does I will give him the letter.’

‘What? What makes you think he’ll be coming here?’

‘Because that is what I have been told, King Lorn. That is what the author of this letter has told my prince.’

Lorn was thoroughly bewildered. And intrigued. ‘This author — is he a boy?’

Alsadair looked surprised. ‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Because a boy named Gilwyn Toms left here some months ago. He was a friend of Lukien.’

Alsadair shook his head. ‘Then I will not keep you wondering, King Lorn. The one who penned this letter is not named Toms. But I cannot tell you more. I can speak only to the man in charge of this city.’

‘There is no man in charge of the city,’ said Garmin. ‘If you mean the township, we have no ruler.’

‘I mean Jador,’ said Alsadair. ‘Who rules there?’

‘A girl,’ said Tarlan.

‘The Kahana,’ said Lorn. ‘Her name is White-Eye.’

An hour later, Alsadair the Nithin got his audience with White-Eye. In one of the palace’s many open-aired chambers, the messenger of the Nithin Prince explained the long trek he had endured, and why he had come to Jador. With White-Eye seated imperiously before him, Alsadair delivered his tale standing, holding the letter he had carried with him for hundreds of miles. Lorn stood off to the side, allowing the Nithin to make his case and studying the letter clamped in his hands. The envelope of ivory-toned paper bore the wax stamp of Daralor, the Nithin ruler. Although Alsadair had been offered food and drink, he had remained standing in the chamber the entire time, waiting for the blind Kahana to arrive. Upon hearing the news of the Nithin’s request, White-Eye had come to him quickly, a favour for which the messenger seemed grateful. A pitcher of beer and some food lay on a table near him, but Alsadair’s eyes never wandered to them. Instead, he watched White-Eye as he spoke, his voice reverential and practiced.

‘. . and from Dreel to Ganjor. In Ganjor I found the caravan that took me here, Kahana. When I came to the village — the township, you call it — I asked for a man who could help me. Someone of importance. The people there pointed me to King Lorn.’ Alsadair glanced briefly at the letter in his hands. He seemed unbalanced by White-Eye’s blindness, as though she was not only blind, but deaf to his words as well. ‘By my accounting I have been on the road for four weeks. I have expired many horses in my haste to get here. And now that I am here I ask your peace, Kahana. This letter may only be given to the Bronze Knight. I may not even give it over to your safe keeping. That is my mission.’

‘I understand your mission, Sir Alsadair,’ said White-Eye mildly. ‘And you are welcome to stay here within Jador for as long as you wish. But be aware, Sir — your stay with us may be long indeed. We have no knowledge of Lukien’s whereabouts, and only hope that he will come to us again.’

‘My lady, I have been promised that he will come here, and if it takes all of my life to wait for him, then that is what I will do.’

White-Eye grimaced in Lorn’s direction. They were both thinking the same things, he could tell.

‘Sir Alsadair,’ began White-Eye, ‘You have seen the way Jador is bursting with northerners. We of course have room for one more. We welcome you, and we wish only good relations with your Prince. But. .’

Lorn spoke up. ‘But you vex us. You have a letter for Lukien? Good. Then deliver it when he comes. But you cannot keep us in the dark. You must tell us more. Who wrote the letter?’

This time, Alsadair did not hesitate in his answer. ‘This was only a secret to the men you were with, King Lorn. I meant no offense by keeping things from you. Aric Glass is the name of the man who wrote the letter. He is in Nith even now, waiting for Lukien to return.’

‘Glass?’ Lorn almost laughed. ‘A relation to Baron Glass, I suppose?’

‘His son,’ said Alsadair. ‘He claims to have fought with Lukien against the baron in Koth, and now he waits for Lukien to return to the battle.’

‘That amazes us, Sir,’ said White-Eye. ‘We hear almost nothing of the battle for Liiria. What else can you tell us? Have you heard of a young man named Gilwyn Toms?’

Lorn shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, White-Eye, I asked him about Gilwyn. He has not heard of him.’

White-Eye suppressed her obvious sadness. ‘Any news would be welcome, Sir Alsadair.’

‘My news is at least two months old, Kahana,’ said Alsadair. ‘I know only what Aric Glass has told my Prince. Koth still lays in the hands of Baron Glass. So too does the rest of Liiria.’

‘And Norvor?’ asked Lorn. ‘What about Norvor?’

‘The Diamond Queen rules Norvor.’

Lorn frowned. ‘You are sure?’

‘As I told you, my news is old. But they are a formidable team, the Diamond Queen and Baron Glass. It is not likely that anyone has toppled them. King Raxor and his Reecians have tried, and they have paid heavily for it.’

‘They have warred?’ asked Lorn.

‘They battled at the river Kryss,’ said the Nithin. ‘And the victory for Baron Glass was unarguable. Raxor’s son was killed in the battle. Thousands of others, too.’

‘The armour?’ asked White-Eye.

Alsadair nodded gravely. ‘The baron’s armour is relentless, lady. It knows no blade that can harm it. That is why the Bronze Knight quests, to find a sword that can best the armour.’

‘What sword?’ Lorn asked.

‘Aric Glass says it is called the Sword of Angels. He had told us the knight Lukien seeks the sword in the Serpent Kingdom, a land beyond this one. That is why he will return here. When he finds the sword, he will come home to Grimhold first.’

For a moment White-Eye was too stunned to speak. Lorn watched her, seeing understanding dawn on her face. ‘There is a place of serpents,’ she said softly. ‘An ancient land very far from here. It is called Tharlara, but most Jadori do not know of it. I know because my father taught me these things.’

‘And Minikin?’ asked Lorn. ‘Does she know of it? Does she know of this sword?’

‘She must,’ said White-Eye. ‘Or if she wished to, she could find out.’

‘Then why didn’t she tell us?’ Lorn asked angrily. ‘How could she keep something like that from us?’

White-Eye turned to him, freezing him with her stare. ‘We should wait to speak of this.’

Lorn caught himself. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Kahana White-Eye, King Lorn, I can tell you only what I know myself,’ said Alsadair. ‘It does not even matter to me if this sword exists or not. I have my mission, and that is all that concerns me. With your leave I will wait here for the Bronze Knight to return.’

‘Yes,’ said White-Eye distractedly. ‘Of course. .’ Then she caught herself and turned her face up at him. ‘Tell me one more thing, Alsadair. What news can you give us of Ganjor?’

‘Ganjor? I’m not sure what my lady asks. .’

‘Anything,’ said Lorn. ‘How did Ganjor seem to you? Was it at peace?’

‘Oh, yes, King Lorn. A beautiful city. I had nothing to trouble me there, and I had heard that northerners were not always welcome in Ganjor.’

White-Eye smiled broadly. ‘That is well, Sir. Isn’t it, King Lorn?’

Lorn agreed heartily. ‘It is well indeed.’

‘Take your rest, Sir Alsadair,’ directed White-Eye. She rose from her chair. ‘We will make a place for you. But now, eat. And drink! You must have a thirst.’

‘I do, my lady,’ sighed the Nithin. ‘Thank you.’

White-Eye bade him toward the beer and food, then picked her way toward Lorn, offering the old king her arm so he could guide her. Lorn knew what was coming, and so walked the kahana gingerly toward the other side of the gigantic chamber, out of earshot of the eating Alsadair. Long shadows filled the room, cast by candlelight from the jumping tapers. White-Eye did not search for a place to sit, but rather stood, biting anxiously on her lower lip.

‘Lorn, I must explain something to you,’ she said. ‘You are troubled. You are right to be. But whatever Minikin might know about Lukien or about the sword or even about Gilwyn, she may not tell us.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Lorn. ‘There is too much at stake for her to keep secrets.’

‘Because it is not our place to know everything. Minikin may summon knowledge from the Akari, but they live in the world of the dead, and their knowledge may change the way we in this world live our lives. It is a great burden that she carries — and a great temptation.’

‘I understand that,’ said Lorn, ‘but this is life and death we’re talking about. Surely if she can look into some talisman-’

‘No,’ said White-Eye. ‘And I will not ask it of her, not even to find out Gilwyn’s fate.’ Her face softened then, and she said to Lorn, ‘You have taught me so much. Now, will you let me teach you how things are done here? We are still a mystery to you, I can tell.’

‘Yes,’ sighed Lorn. He glanced over his shoulder at Alsadair, who was gulping down great mouthfuls of beer. ‘Do you believe him, White-Eye?’

‘Should I not believe him? You can see his face, Lorn, and I cannot. Do you think he lies?’

‘No,’ replied Lorn. ‘I think everything he’s told us is true. And it troubles me, White-Eye.’

‘Yes, I can feel that,’ said the girl. ‘He reminds you of home. Of Norvor.’

Lorn nodded. ‘Aye.’

White-Eye felt for his hand. ‘You think of Norvor too much these day. Your home is here now, with Eiriann and Poppy.’

‘Yes.’ Lorn smiled faintly. ‘Of course it is.’

‘It is, Lorn.’ White-Eye squeezed his hand. ‘You can be content here, if you try.’

‘Ah, to be content!’ Lorn lifted her hand and kissed it. ‘Let me tell you something about men, Kahana. Men are never content. Their hearts are restless rivers, always running.’

‘Always running away, perhaps?’ suggested White-Eye.

Lorn didn’t like her perception. ‘You see very clearly,’ he said sourly, ‘for a blind woman.’

After the death of Jazana Carr, things slowly returned to normal in Koth. Word of what had happened to the Diamond Queen traveled quickly through the capital and then throughout the surrounding countryside. The people — who had learned to love the odd harlot from Norvor — mourned for her as if she were a Liirian. Great crowds gathered outside of Lionkeep, desperate for word of her demise. And Thorin, distraught over her death and rightfully blaming himself for it, walked among the throngs to speak to them and tell them how much he missed Jazana and how beloved they were to her. Not wanting a circus for a funeral, Thorin ordered Jazana’s body burned, cremating every beautiful bone of her in a blazing pyre that lit the courtyard. Norvan and Liirian soldiers kept the crowds far from the fire, and Thorin stood alone as he watched the smoke take Jazana’s remains to heaven. Two days later, he rode out alone to the apple orchard and spread her dust amid the winds.

Gilwyn watched the crowds gathering around Lionkeep from the safety of his high bedchamber. And when the pyre had burned to ashes, he watched the crowds disperse, returning to their sad lives without their Norvan patron. In the few short weeks he had been in Koth, Gilwyn had heard the remarkable tales about Jazana Carr and how generous she had been to the people of the city. The maids and stable boys of Lionkeep spoke of her with reverence, and everyone seemed to have a story about a kindness she had done for them. It was hard for Gilwyn to think of Jazana Carr like that, because he himself had met her once, years earlier in Norvor, and he not seen the side of her that so many people now worshipped. Still, he lamented her death, mostly because it had effected Thorin so badly, and while he recuperated in his bed Gilwyn was careful not to say anything that would bring his friend Thorin bad memories.

Aside from the excitement of the funeral, very little happened to Gilwyn those first weeks. He grew stronger, naturally, resting in his comfortable bed and eating the warm foods the kitchen provided in abundance. He had lost considerable weight during his trek across the continent, and was now determined to put back every single pound. At first he remained weak, the rass poison reasserting itself in his bloodstream. But as the days progressed he felt less and less of the lethargy that had plagued him for so long, and under the watchful eye of Lionkeep’s maids he soon grew strong again.

But Gilwyn was careful. It would be weeks or even months until Lukien returned again, and that meant he needed time. So Gilwyn kept to his bed for as long as he could, convincing Thorin that he was far too weak to start work in the library, or to even think about using its complicated catalogue machine. He whiled away his hours in his bedchamber, sometimes venturing out into Lionkeep’s halls, always keeping up the pretense of illness and lassitude.

Even so, the day finally came when Thorin decided that fresh air was all that Gilwyn really needed. It was nearly four weeks from the time Gilwyn had collapsed at the threshold of Lionkeep, and the day was sparkling and cool. That morning, Thorin came early to Gilwyn’s bedchamber, insisting that he dress himself and take a hearty breakfast. They were going riding, Thorin told him, and that meant he needed to be strong. Puzzled, Gilwyn did not argue with Thorin but instead did exactly as the baron requested. He pulled on the fine clothes that had been provided for him and slipped his feet into the boots that made walking with his clubbed foot possible. Downstairs, he found a steaming breakfast of eggs and bread waiting for him, which he quickly devoured. Then he went outside and found Thorin in the courtyard, waiting for him along with a pair of newly brushed geldings. There were no soldiers to accompany them, none of the Liirians who had been conscripted into service or the ubiquitous Norvan mercenaries, most of whom had stayed with Thorin even after the death of their queen. A sprinkling of stable hands moved in the distance, and that was all. With Thorin’s help, Gilwyn made his way into the saddle of his horse, then followed the baron out of Lionkeep.

Less than an hour later, he was staring up at the great library.

A stiff wind blew his curls into his eyes, but Gilwyn quickly brushed them aside. He wanted nothing to obscure his view. Knowing this, Thorin stood aside, watching him proudly, unveiling the magnificent structure he had destroyed and then rebuilt. Work had mostly stopped on the library, but from the outside it had been fully restored to its lost glory, and its shadow loomed over Gilwyn, striking him dumb. He had never thought to see this place again, and all the memories of all the years he had spent within its walls flooded over him, choking his voice and bringing a lump to his throat. Whatever other things Thorin had done — whatever wickedness he had occasioned — his new-found love for the library was obvious. He had spared no expense in returning it to glory, and the endless hours of toil showed. Gilwyn gazed up at the awesome edifice, the breeze whistling in his ears, and all at once he felt at home again.

‘It’s real, Gilwyn,’ said Thorin. ‘You should say something.’

There was only one thing Gilwyn wanted. ‘Can we go inside?’

‘Why would I bring you here if not to let you inside?’ said Thorin. ‘Of course, boy!’

He tossed himself off his horse, then helped Gilwyn down from his own mount, using his real, fleshy arm to guide him from the saddle. Thorin had not worn the entire suit of armour since Gilwyn had arrived, but had not once removed the parts of his enchanted arm, either. Gilwyn knew the armour gave Thorin strength, keeping him forever connected to Kahldris. And Thorin was careful not let anyone touch the black metal, especially not Gilwyn. With Gilwyn following close behind, he went to the great doors and pulled them open effortlessly, a feat that should have taken more than a little sweat. At once the candlelit interior of the library greeted them, calling to Gilwyn with its polished ceiling and walls of glowing marble. The scent of the place had changed, thought Gilwyn, but as he rushed up through the threshold he saw at once that it was just as before. Newer, perhaps, but mostly unchanged, honeycombed with reading rooms and staggered by rows and rows of dark wood shelves, all of them lined with precious books. Gilwyn moved like a dream through the main hall, his eyes wide, his head swiveling to take in every marvelous nuance. He laughed, giddy from the sense of homecoming.

‘It’s wonderful, Thorin!’ he called, racing ahead of the baron. ‘I can almost hear Figgis calling me!’

The sconces on the wall flickered with soft light. They had all been lit, every one of them, making a constellation along the smooth walls. Thorin beamed, proud of his accomplishment, and of the surprise he had been able to gift to Gilwyn. He followed Gilwyn through the hall, but not so close that the young man could not go exploring, peaking his head into every little cranny of the place and pulling manuscripts from the infinite shelves. Gilwyn could barely control his glee. It took him spinning through the library, his mind racing with happy memories. He shouted in the hall just to hear his voice echo. In the giant western study chamber, a place where he’d once seen an Andolan scholar fall asleep in a bowl of soup, he stood up on the table just to reach the highest shelves, balancing on his clubbed foot and pulling down a book of ancient maps with his badly fused hand. The book tumbled out of his buttery fingers, spilling to the floor, and like the good librarian he used to be Gilwyn hurried down to retrieve it.

‘Leave it,’ said Thorin. ‘There are people who clean up here now, Gilwyn.’

‘No,’ Gilwyn argued. ‘No, I can’t.’ He stooped, then smiled at the baron. ‘These are books, Thorin. Where did you get them all? I thought they were all lost.’

‘No, not all of them,’ said Thorin. ‘Too many, but not all. You see, Gilwyn? I have spared nothing to bring this place back to life.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Gilwyn, surveying all the new workmanship. ‘I can see that.’ He placed the map book onto the table. ‘But why, Thorin? I don’t understand. You never wanted the library built. You opposed Akeela when he built it.’

‘I did,’ said Thorin. He sauntered into the room, taking books nonchalantly from the shelves only to glance at them. Gilwyn watched a peculiar smile twist his face. He laid his hand on the smooth wood as if checking for warmth. ‘But I see now what a fine place this always was. You opened my eyes to it, Gilwyn, with all your stories! I never wanted it destroyed.’ Thorin made sure to get Gilwyn’s attention, going to stand in front of him. ‘It’s important to me that you believe that. I never gave the order for the library to be attacked. I gave orders for it to be protected!’

Gilwyn nodded, though he had his doubts. ‘I believe you, Thorin.’

‘I hope you do, boy. I would never want to harm this place, knowing how much it means to you.’

‘All right.’ Gilwyn managed to hoist himself onto one of the reading tables, letting his legs dangle. The quiet chamber soothed him, a good place for a serious talk. ‘But I still don’t understand why you rebuilt it. I mean, I’ve heard others talking about it. They say you want to bring Koth back to glory. But I want to hear it from you, Thorin. Make me understand.’

‘There is truth in those rumours you’ve heard,’ said Thorin. He stood before Gilwyn like a felon, letting the boy question him. ‘Koth cannot be great again if the library is not reborn. The library is the symbol of Koth, of all Liirian greatness. It must be reborn so that Liiria can live again.’

Gilwyn grinned. ‘Now you sound like Akeela himself!’

‘It’s not a joke, Gilwyn. The land bleeds. And the people have been hollowed out by war. There’s nothing left inside of them, just rottenness and helplessness. They have to believe in themselves again. They have to believe in me.’

‘I think I see your meaning,’ said Gilwyn. ‘But it’s going to take more than gold, Thorin. You can make this place a palace. You can fill it with every word ever written, but people won’t come unless there’s peace. And if people don’t come. .’

‘I know,’ Thorin lamented. ‘And there will be peace. Just as soon as my enemies are done with, Liiria will have peace. A thousand years of it!’

There was madness in the old man’s eyes, the kind Gilwyn hadn’t seen too much lately. Thorin had been better the past two weeks, looking less like a madman than he had that first night. Gilwyn decided not to press him.

‘Show me the rest,’ he said, sliding down from the table. ‘Show me the painting Lucio did for you.’

‘Ah, yes,’ crowed Thorin. ‘It is magnificent. He is still working on it. Still, Gilwyn! The man is a genius, but slow.’

Gilwyn laughed, heading back toward the hall. He had heard of the fabulous ceiling the legendary Lucio had done for Thorin, a gift to the people of Liiria, and was anxious to see it. But before Gilwyn could turn toward the chamber, Thorin’s words stopped him cold.

‘After you’ve seen the ceiling, we’ll go to the catalogue room.’

Gilwyn paused. ‘The catalogue room?’ He turned to face Thorin. ‘Today?’

‘Why not today?’ asked Thorin. ‘You are well enough, I think, and time is running out, Gilwyn.’

‘No,’ said Gilwyn. He made a grimace of pain. ‘I don’t think I should, not today, Thorin. I’m not ready for it.’

Thorin seemed disappointed. ‘Gilwyn, you did promise me. .’

‘I know, Thorin. And I will help you. I’ll do my best for you, but not today. Not yet.’ Gilwyn stalled, searching for an excuse. ‘You know how complicated it is,’ he said. ‘I’m not well enough to start trying to figure it out.’ He put his hand to his head. ‘My head still hurts terribly, and I’m not seeing well at all.’

‘You’re not?’

‘No.’ Gilwyn sighed, then coughed. ‘I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want you to worry. I’m fine, really, but. . tired.’

‘Tired.’ Thorin gave a sceptical frown. Then, as if someone were speaking in his ear, he cocked his head to listen.

‘What are you doing?’ Gilwyn asked.

Thorin hesitated. ‘Kahldris. He does not believe you, Gilwyn.’

‘No? Was Kahldris ever bitten by a rass?’

‘Kahldris thinks you should be well enough by now,’ said Thorin. ‘And in truth, you should be.’

Cornered, Gilwyn grew defensive. ‘I can’t work with the catalogue today, Thorin. It doesn’t matter what Kahldris thinks. I’m telling you I’m sick.’

In all the days that Gilwyn lay in bed, Kahldris had never come to him, not even at his weakest. He had expected the Akari to appear, to threaten him or cajole him out of his sickbed, but Thorin had forbidden it, Gilwyn supposed. It was a good sign, and Gilwyn knew Thorin was making progress. But he needed more time.

‘All right, Gilwyn,’ said Thorin gently. ‘You don’t have to look at the machine if you’re not ready.’

Gilwyn smiled. ‘Thank you, Thorin. I will look at it, just as soon as I’m able.’

Without another word, Thorin turned and headed back the way they’d come. Gilwyn followed him, his good mood deflated. Obviously, they were going back to Lionkeep without seeing Lucio’s painting. Gilwyn knew he had to play along and not make a fuss. But before they made it halfway to the entrance, he detoured himself into one of the smaller reading chambers. Annoyed, Thorin called for him to come out, but Gilwyn refused. There were a dozen chairs in the little room, each of them exactly the same, crammed among the books so that scholars could study peacefully. Gilwyn chose one of the chairs, faced it toward the entrance, and sat down to wait for Thorin. The baron came in after him, pausing in the threshold.

‘We’re going, Gilwyn.’

Gilwyn shook his head. ‘Not yet.’ Sullen, he asked Thorin, ‘Is that why you brought me here? Just to get me to work on the machine?’

‘Certainly not,’ said the baron. ‘I thought you were well enough to see what has been done here. It’s important that you see.’

‘Why?’ asked Gilwyn.

‘Because,’ said Thorin, sauntering into the room, ‘this will be your library soon.’

Gilwyn sat up. ‘Say that again?’

‘The library needs someone to run it,’ said Thorin. ‘I can’t do it. Neither can anyone else. That’s your job, Gilwyn. It’s your destiny.’

‘What? No! I mean, I can’t-’

‘Why can’t you?’ said Thorin. ‘Because you are promised to White-Eye? I have considered that already. It does not matter.’

‘But it does matter, Thorin. Of course it does! I love White-Eye. And someday I’m going to return to her.’

Thorin’s face darkened. ‘I know you think that.’

Gilwyn studied him. ‘What aren’t you telling me, Thorin? There’s something. .’

‘The library needs you, Gilwyn. This is where you belong. Not in Jador. You were born to this place.’

‘Thorin, White-Eye needs me too.’

‘No,’ said Thorin. ‘You may think she does, but she does not.’

‘She’s blind, Thorin,’ argued Gilwyn. ‘Your demon made her so. Do not tell me that she doesn’t need me. She does, more than ever now because of Kahldris.’

Thorin turned away, hiding his face. ‘Gilwyn, there are things you still haven’t worked out. You mean to save me from Kahldris. I understand. Others have tried, and believe it or not I am grateful to them all.’

‘But you are better now, Thorin,’ said Gilwyn. He went to the old man, speaking soothingly. ‘I have seen the change in you in just the past few weeks.’

‘I am better,’ Thorin admitted. ‘I am myself again, because I am happy you are here and because I have learned a little how to placate Kahldris. But it is not what you think, Gilwyn. I belong to Kahldris.’

‘No,’ spat Gilwyn. ‘I don’t believe that. You’re nothing like Kahldris, no matter what he makes you do.’

‘If you think that, you are a fool.’ Thorin’s eyes blazed. ‘Look at me, boy. I have my arm again, and all my manhood. I have my vigour back and a kingdom to rebuild. I have returned home. These are fabulous things, and it was Kahldris who bestowed them on me. I owe him a debt.’

‘He gets to live through you, just like any other Akari,’ retorted Gilwyn. ‘He uses you to walk through this world. He has drank a river of blood thanks to you, Thorin. You don’t owe him anything.’

Pain pinched Thorin’s face. ‘Will you take what I offer you, Gilwyn? The library is a great gift. You can be happy here.’

Gilwyn hesitated. ‘Thorin, I don’t know. I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

Thorin put his hand on Gilwyn’s shoulder. ‘I want so much to give you the things you lost when you left here. Can’t you see? I’m trying to rebuild all of it. And when you returned, you put something good in my heart.’

‘You’re scaring me, Thorin. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.’

‘But you can’t stop it! This is what I’m telling you, boy. Lukien is coming to kill me. What will you do when he gets here? You mean to stall until he arrives. That’s your plan, I know it is. You’re well enough to use the machine! Any fool can see that. You’re just waiting, hoping that something good will happen.’

‘All right,’ said Gilwyn, flushing with embarrassment. ‘So it’s true. But I’ve seen the change in you, Thorin. I have! I am reaching you. Don’t deny that; I see it too clearly. And if Lukien is coming to kill you, then I won’t let him. I’m going to stay with you, no matter what. Do you understand that?’

There was real warmth in Thorin’s touch as he tightened his hand on Gilwyn’s shoulder. ‘One day soon I’ll have to stop calling you ‘boy.’ You’re a man now. When did that happen, I wonder?’

‘Tell me what you’re keeping from me,’ pressed Gilwyn. ‘Why are you giving me the library? Why can’t I return to Grimhold?’

‘The reason should be obvious. What do you think Kahldris wants from me, Gilwyn?’

Gilwyn thought for a moment. ‘Your body. That’s what all the Akari want, a chance to be among the living.’

Thorin shook his head. ‘No. Think deeper. Think like a demon.’

‘Thorin, I don’t want these riddles. Tell me what he wants from you!’

‘Revenge!’ Thorin spun away, laughing mirthlessly. ‘Imagine a lifetime locked in that armour. A thousand lifetimes! Imagine the horror of it. Kahldris made the armour for his people and they shunned him. Not just his brother, but his whole damned race. They had the means to defeat the Jadori in their hands, and instead they let themselves be slaughtered like sheep.’

Finally, terribly, Gilwyn understood. ‘He wants revenge against the Akari.’

‘That’s right,’ said Thorin. Madness crackled on his tortured face. His voice became a twisted whisper as he stuck his nose close to Gilwyn. ‘I’m just a puppet on a string,’ he said. ‘So are you. So are all of us. Thank you for trying to save me, boy, but it’s already too late. Because once Kahldris takes care of his brother, he’s going back to Grimhold. And then he will destroy it.’

Lukien saw a distant kreel, its legs propelling it across the shimmering sands. The rider caught no sight of him, disappearing quickly through the dunes that led in a meandering line toward the white city. Lukien squinted against the powerful sun. His neck burned from long days on horseback. He stopped himself, leaning back in his saddle to admire the fleeing kreel, knowing he was home. The tall towers of Jador’s palace twinkled in the orange haze, stark and beautiful against the desert backdrop. The high wall surrounding the city blinded, its polished rock sending shards of sunlight in all directions. A great, wistful smile twisted the knight’s blanched lips. He had come across the world and back again, and the weight of his journey made his shoulders slump with exhaustion. Beneath him, the horse that had given him everything threatened to collapse, its legs made brittle from the impossible trek from Tharlara. Lukien patted the beast’s lathered neck.

‘You can rest forever now, my friend,’ he rasped. ‘That is home.’

Within him, Lukien felt the thrill of his Akari, Malator, as the long-dead spirit watched the city through the eye of his host. In Kaliatha Malator had mourned, but now his feelings soared like an eagle, buoyed by Lukien’s own indescribable joy. It was enough for the spirit to share the happiness, and Lukien honoured the moment by falling silent himself. So far, none within the city or on its walls had seen him approaching, the ragged knight in his bedraggled clothes, his face heavy with beard. Not even the fleet-footed kreel had smelled him. But soon they would know he had come. He was Shalafein — the defender — and they would feast and celebrate his homecoming. Lukien’s mind turned to the good foods and fine wines and the faces of his friends, and summoning the last fibres of his horse’s mettle he drove the weary mount onward to the city, through the sands that sucked at its hooves and along the dunes that swept dust into their eyes. The glorious city loomed ahead, growing ever taller as Lukien approached.

Together the silent trio approached the outskirts of Jador, and Lukien noticed for the first time the changes wrought in the city. How long had he been gone? A year, perhaps, he reasoned, and yet he saw a newness to the ancient wall. Battlements had been constructed along its length, and he knew these things did not belong. Puzzled, he drove on, and soon heard the murmur of the city. The populace in its hidden streets buzzed with mid-day business. Lukien steered his horse toward the palace, the grand structure clearly visible beyond the wall. When at last he reached the white edifice, he looked across its length to find egress, knowing there were gates built within it, the largest of which stood at the front of the city. Because he was miles away from there, Lukien waited, patiently trotting along the sands until he came at last to a gate manned by a trio of Jadori guardsmen. The gate was open, allowing kreel riders and people of commerce to flow in and out as they wished. The guardsmen, looking unconcerned, turned unexpectedly toward Lukien as he rode up to them. Not recognizing any of the young men, Lukien nevertheless smiled at them.

‘I am Lukien,’ he declared. ‘And I have returned.’

Word of the Bronze Knight’s return spread quickly through the city, reaching White-Eye in the palace while she and Lorn were playing with Poppy in one of the palace’s numerous alcoves. Eiriann, who had been mending garments with the other women, had been the first to hear about Lukien’s arrival, and had raced into the alcove to tell the news. Lorn stood up with Poppy in his arms, staring at the amazed White-Eye as they listened together to Eiriann’s tale. Lukien had entered the city, she told them, and was heading for the palace. Hearing this, White-Eye had hurriedly dispatched a contingent of men to fetch him and bring him to her. Now, as excitement buzzed within the royal residence, White-Eye and Lorn waited for Lukien in a shaded terrace of the palace, a sprawling area of polished flooring with a fountain that bubbled continuously and a low ceiling to protect White-Eye from the powerful sun. The terrace echoed with the excited voices of those who had gathered to greet the returning knight. More than two dozen Jadori — soldiers and citizens both — clamoured for a chance to see him. White-Eye stood apart from them, straight and regal, her blank eyes looking out over the encroaching garden. Lorn, still holding the two-year old Poppy, kept close enough to the queen to seem like one of her advisors, yet far enough away to give her the importance she deserved. Lorn’s beloved, the young Eiriann, stood next to the old king, as excited as any of them to be seeing the legendary Lukien.

‘What will he look like, do you think?’ Eiriann wondered, holding Lorn’s elbow. ‘I heard he was handsome once, but no more.’

Lorn smirked. ‘Should I worry?’

She laughed and pecked his rough cheek. ‘You are handsome. But are you not curious?’

‘I am. Don’t I seem so?’

Eiriann did not reply, giving Lorn a taste of her recent aloofness. It had been easy for the perceptive woman to sense his dissatisfaction the last few weeks. Ever since the retreat of Baralosus and his army, Lorn had felt less and less useful, and Eiriann had tried to ease his unrest. Now, though, she keened like the rest of the crowd, eager to glimpse the returning Lukien.

‘There’s much he doesn’t know, don’t forget,’ rumbled Lorn lowly. ‘He’ll be expecting to see Gilwyn.’

None of these things seemed to worry White-Eye, however. The Kahana had taken the time to brush her hair and change her dress for Lukien’s return. She looked proud and glamourous in the shade of the protective terrace, her back as straight as her pretty jet hair, her face flushed with anticipation. Even Poppy, deaf as she was, could feel the vibrations of the place, bringing a smile to her cheerful face. Lorn held his daughter close, unable to help himself from bristling. He had heard stories about the Liirian knight for years. Lukien had even helped his nemesis, the hated Jazana Carr, serving as one of her mercenary dogs for years with Baron Glass. As he waited for Lukien, Lorn prepared himself for the natural animosity he was sure would spring up between them.

Amid the chirping birds and gathered voices, Lorn soon heard the approach of men. The crowd went hush. A statue of a women holding a pitcher stood at the edge of the chamber’s floor, where the smooth stone met the sand. Lorn watched the statue as the outline of the men appeared behind it. First came a Jadori warrior, smiling. The man bowed hurriedly to his queen, then waved at the others to come into view. Poppy squirmed in Lorn’s arms as he craned for a better look, suddenly glimpsing a man come into view. The tall northerner turned toward the chamber of the queen, looking momentarily bewildered. His skin, red from the sun, bore the marks of a life lived hard. A black patch of cloth covered his eye, and his once golden hair hung now with streaks of grey. He wore plain, unadorned riding clothes and a beaten leather coat, giving him the look of a brigand. At his belt dangled a formidable looking sword. He paused at the edge of the terrace, his sole eye searching the crowd. It came to rest finally on White-Eye, followed by a wide, wolfish grin. Somehow knowing he had arrived, White-Eye stepped forward with her arms outstretched.

‘Lukien?’ she probed. ‘I can feel you!’

The Bronze Knight of Liiria paused, studying the girl. A trace of dread crossed his happy face. ‘White-Eye. .’ He looked puzzled as he searched her sightless eyes. ‘I’m here.’ He took another step toward her, ignoring the hushed crowd. ‘Can you see me, girl?’

White-Eye shook her head, remaining cheerful. ‘No, Lukien, I cannot. But I hear you and I know it is you! Come to me, Shalafein, come!’

Like a loyal servant, Lukien went to her, falling to his knees before the Kahana and bowing his head to the floor. A rush went through the crowd. Eiriann gripped Lorn’s arm. The show of dedication made the hardened Jadori soldiers sigh, as White-Eye put her hand atop the knight’s sun-burned head and gently stroked his hair.

‘I’ve come back to you, my lady,’ said Lukien.

‘Rise, Shalafein,’ said White-Eye, her voice breaking with emotion. ‘Look at me.’

Lukien rose, meeting her sightless gaze with a look of heartbreak. His hand came up to touch her, falling just short of her pretty face. ‘White-Eye,’ he said softly. ‘What has happened?’

Lorn could tell it took effort for White-Eye to speak. ‘I have lost my Akari, Lukien. I am blind now.’

‘How is that possible?’ Lukien asked. ‘How can you lose an Akari?’

‘The story is long, Lukien. I will explain it.’ White-Eye tried to brighten. ‘But you are home! That is what matters’ He put her hands to his face, running them over his skin with a great smile. ‘Oh! You are different. You have a beard now, and you are thinner. Lukien, I must hear everything!’

Lukien took her hand and kissed it. ‘You will, Kahana, I promise.’ He looked purposefully at the gathered faces. ‘Where is Gilwyn?’ he laughed. ‘Has he forgotten me already?’ Then he stopped himself. ‘White-Eye, why are you here at all? Why are you not in Grimhold?’ He glanced around in concern. ‘Is Minikin here?’

‘Lukien, you have questions, I know,’ said White-Eye. ‘Let me answer them for you my own way.’

‘What’s wrong?’ asked the knight.

White-Eye hesitated. To Lorn, she looked more frightened now than when she had confronted Baralosus. The old king fought the urge to stand beside her.

‘Minikin is in Grimhold, Lukien,’ said White-Eye. Her voice went brittle. ‘And Gilwyn is not here.’

Lukien started. ‘Is he all right?’

‘I do not know, Lukien. He has left Jador. He followed after you to Liiria.’

‘Liiria?’ the knight erupted. ‘Why? Damn the Fate, White-Eye, tell me what’s going on.’

White-Eye shook her head. ‘Not here, Lukien. Please. .’ She gestured to the crowd, all of whom had been so pleased to see the Liirian return. ‘They’re here to see you, Lukien.’

Lorn watched Lukien carefully as the knight struggled to control himself. The news about Gilwyn had overwhelmed him. ‘I want to talk now,’ he said softly. ‘Away from these others.’

‘I will tell you everything I can, Lukien,’ said White-Eye, ‘but first tell me this — did you find the sword you quested for?’

Lukien seemed surprised. ‘How did you know about that?’

‘Did you find it?’ pressed the girl.

‘Yes.’ Lukien dropped his hand to his side to touch his sword. ‘But you can’t see it. .’

White-Eye grimaced. ‘No.’

‘It’s called the Sword of Angels.’ Lukien’s tone fell flat. ‘It’s the means to beat the armour, White-Eye.’

‘I want to know all about it.’

‘And I want to know what’s happened to you,’ said Lukien. ‘And to Gilwyn.’

Something in Lukien’s tone made Lorn snap. He didn’t like the arrogant knight at all. Still holding Poppy, he stepped out to defend White-Eye. ‘Gilwyn left of his own accord,’ he said sharply. ‘White-Eye had nothing to do with it.’

The probing, single eye turned to Lorn angrily. ‘Who in all the hells are you?’ he growled.

White-Eye put up her hand. ‘Lorn, don’t. .’

‘I am Lorn, King of Norvor,’ declared Lorn. ‘And for a knight so devoted to his queen, you speak like a peasant.’

‘What?’ sputtered Lukien. He laughed in disbelief. ‘You are Lorn the Wicked? I say prove it.’

‘Lukien, stop now,’ ordered White-Eye. ‘He is who he claims. He is Lorn.’

Lorn held his ground. ‘The King of Norvor.’

‘The King of Norvor is dead,’ hissed Lukien. ‘Run off his throne by Jazana Carr.’

‘He is Lorn!’ spat Eiriann.

‘Stop this!’ White-Eye shouted, getting between them. ‘Lukien, you do not understand. You have been gone; you don’t know what has happened.’

‘Then tell me!’

‘Lorn came to us with others across the desert,’ said White-Eye. ‘He helped us. He helped me, Lukien!’ The Kahana carefully took Lukien’s hand again and gently led him away. ‘Let me explain it all to you.’

‘What do you mean, he put Lorn in charge?’ Lukien blared. In the tiny, private chamber, his voice boomed. ‘I don’t believe it. Gilwyn is smarter than that.’

White-Eye remained standing before him. All of them stood, in fact, including Lorn, who stayed close to White-Eye as he stared angrily at Lukien. With the three of them in the chamber, the room was hot with emotion. White-Eye had remained remarkably calm. Lukien, on the other hand, could not believe his ears.

‘Gilwyn saw no other choice,’ White-Eye explained. ‘Jador needed a leader, and I could not do it. Not then.’

‘Why not?’ Lukien pressed. He had never seen White-Eye so confident. She seemed the perfect queen. ‘You are your father’s daughter, White-Eye. Jador is your birthright, not his.’

Lorn bristled as Lukien jabbed a finger toward him. ‘I’ve made no claims on Jador.’

Lukien ignored him. ‘Explain this to me, White-Eye, because I’m starting to think I am dreaming all of this! You were blinded by Kahldris, so Gilwyn went after him?’

‘He wanted revenge,’ said Lorn.

‘And you let him seek it?’ Lukien turned with a hiss. ‘I know you, Lorn. I fought against you when Jazana Carr had you running with your tail between your legs! You’re a brigand and a butcher. Of course you would encourage a boy like Gilwyn to seek revenge. Of course you would!’

‘I did no such thing,’ said the Norvan. He was a big man, who despite his age still looked capable of combat. ‘Nor did I ask for the task of training your queen. Minikin herself asked me to do so.’

‘Minikin asked you?’ erupted Lukien. It was too unbelievable. ‘Why would she do that?’

‘Because I needed him!’ said White-Eye. ‘Because I was broken by my blindness and no one else could help me. Lorn was a king once. He knew what I needed to do to protect Jador.’

‘Ah,’ sighed Lukien, ‘now I see. Those battlements along the wall — he did that, didn’t he?’

Lorn stood his ground. ‘Jador was like a lamb ready for the wolves,’ he said. ‘The city could barely defend itself. Someone had to change that.’

‘And you’re just the man to make a city ready for siege,’ snarled Lukien. ‘White-Eye, this man is using you! He’s duped you, and Gilwyn. But I can’t believe he’s fooled Minikin, too.’

‘We know Lorn’s history, Lukien,’ White-Eye assured him. ‘But you don’t know what he has done for us.’ She paused, preparing herself. ‘Aztar is dead, Lukien.’

Lukien softened. ‘No one told me that,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

‘He had changed,’ said White-Eye, her face brightening with a smile. ‘He helped Gilwyn across the desert. He defended us from Baralosus of Ganjor. That is how he died.’

‘Aztar did that?’ The claim was unbelievable to Lukien, who had fought the minions of the desert prince many times. ‘I don’t understand. Why would Baralosus attack?’

‘Because he had designs on Jador from the starts,’ said Lorn, openly contemptuous of Lukien’s ignorance. ‘And because his daughter Salina came here for sanctuary.’

‘We would not give her up, Lukien,’ added White-Eye. ‘She helped us too many times for us to turn her over.’

‘So? What happened?’

‘Your Kahana stood up to them,’ declared Lorn, sounding surprisingly proud. ‘You see? She is not the little girl you left behind, Sir Lukien. And Jador is not the same, either.’

Lukien fought to stem his simmering temper. Too much was coming at him to make sense of, and Lorn clearly had the advantage. White-Eye’s adoration of him was frightening.

‘White-Eye, listen to me now,’ he said, mustering his calmest voice. He took the girl aside to press his point. ‘Your blindness has frightened you. And from what you’ve told me of Minikin, she is too distraught herself to be much use to anyone. But I tell you what I know in my heart — this wretched man is not the saviour you want him to be. Let us touch the bottom of this swamp and see the truth! I fought against him for years. I was in Norvor and I know him.’

‘But you do not, Lukien,’ said White-Eye sadly. ‘You have been gone.’

The accusation stung Lukien. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve been gone too long. And maybe I should never have left you. If I’d been here to protect you-’

‘Stop.’ White-Eye found his face and put a finger on his lips. She smiled at him. ‘You could not protect me. No one could. What Kahldris did to me was beyond anyone’s power to stop. I tried to tell that to Gilwyn, Lukien. I never wanted him to go.’

The profound loss in her voice proved her wounded love. Confused, Lukien relented.

‘I have to much to tell you,’ he lamented. ‘I wanted this homecoming to be a happy one.’

‘It is, Shalafein,’ said White-Eye. She pulled him down to her, kissing his forehead. ‘My Shalafein. I never doubted you would come back. And we will celebrate! We will feast and you will tell me everything that has happened to you.’ Her hand slipped down to his belt, feeling for his sword. ‘This is it. This is the sword.’

‘Yes,’ said Lukien darkly. ‘The Sword of Angels.’

White-Eye grinned. ‘I wish I could see it.’ She turned to Lorn. ‘Lorn, is it very grand?’

Lorn eyed the weapon at Lukien’s side. ‘It is sheathed,’ he said sourly. There was a trace of envy in his tone.

‘Will you let me touch it, Lukien?’ asked White-Eye.

Lukien hesitated. ‘White-Eye. . no. Not yet. I want to speak with Minikin. She should be the first to see it.’

White-Eye retreated from him. ‘I have sent for her. She will want to speak to you as well.’ Her blank eyes searched for the sword at his belt, then filled with sadness. ‘When will you tell us what happened to you, Lukien? We have waited so long.’

Her sincerity overwhelmed him. ‘I have come so far,’ he groaned, turning away from them both to stare at the stone wall. ‘All of this you’ve told me — I didn’t expect any of it.’

‘But you have the sword,’ Lorn pointed out.

‘So? What of it?’

‘You have found what you quested for. Now you have the means to defeat Baron Glass.’

‘What?’ Puzzled, Lukien stepped toward Lorn. ‘Why would you know about the sword anyway? No one in Jador knows I was looking for it.’ He searched White-Eye for an answer. ‘How did you know?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Was it Minikin? Did she find out somehow?’

White-Eye was clearly keeping something from him. Lorn shifted toward her. ‘You should tell him,’ he suggested.

‘Tell me? Tell me what?’ queried Lukien.

‘Lukien, there is someone else here to see you,’ said White-Eye reluctantly. ‘A man from Nith. He came to us some weeks ago, bearing a letter from Aric Glass.’

‘Thorin Glass’ son,’ said Lorn.

‘I know who he is,’ snorted Lukien. ‘I fought with him in Koth. White-Eye, what’s in the letter? What does it say?’

‘I do not know, Lukien. The messenger who brought it has orders not to give it to anyone but you. He said that you would return here. He was sure of it.’

Lukien grinned at the news. ‘Because Aric knows about the sword. That means he’s still alive.’

‘Alive, and waiting for you in Nith,’ said Lorn. The old king looked grave. ‘He thinks you mean to march on Koth again. Do you?’

‘Of course.’ Lukien patted his sword confidently. ‘I have this with me now.’

Lorn drew a breath of anticipation. ‘Then I want to go with you, Sir Lukien.’

White-Eye’s face collapsed. Lukien looked at Lorn in shock.

‘Why?’ he growled.

‘To fight with you, to help you free your land and my own,’ said Lorn. ‘Jazana Carr usurped me, Sir Lukien. She stole my soul from me.’

Lukien laughed. ‘For revenge, then? Forget it.’

‘But I can help you! I can fight, and there are still men in Norvor who would follow me. I can call them to your side.’ Lorn grew excited. ‘Even if you have the sword, you’ll still have to fight an army to get to Baron Glass.’

‘You forget yourself, King Lorn,’ Lukien mocked. ‘These Jadori may not know you, but I do. I would never let you have Norvor again. Better that Jazana Carr should let it rot.’

Thunder flashed across Lorn’s face. ‘You cannot keep me here,’ he seethed.

‘Would you leave us so easily?’ asked White-Eye, hurt by Lorn’s words.

‘Not easily,’ said Lorn. He softened as he looked at her. ‘White-Eye, look at you! You are a queen now, a real Kahana! You don’t need me anymore. Let me go with your blessing.’

‘It’s not up to her,’ said Lukien. ‘It’s up to me, and I say no.’ He moved toward the exit, angry suddenly and no longer wanting to talk to either of them. ‘White-Eye, I want to speak to Minikin,’ he said.

Looking forlorn in the light of the lanterns on the wall, White-Eye nodded. ‘She will be here. Perhaps tomorrow.’

‘Good,’ Lukien snapped. ‘I don’t want to be bothered until then.’

Not really sure where he was going, Lukien left the tiny chamber, his long-anticipated homecoming ruined.

In the main pool of the palace bathhouse, Lukien luxuriated in the warm, perfumed water, his arms stretched along the marble edge, keeping his chin just above the surface. Steam rose up from the placid pool, disappearing in wisps as it floated toward the domed ceiling. Tall columns lined the walls of the vast chamber, and the pool itself licked at them, surrounding them and stretching out to the dark edges of the bathhouse. There were five pools of crystal water in the house, but this one — the main pool — was by far the largest. Here, the water ranged in depth from many feet to just a few inches, so that the youngest members of the royal household could enjoy a bath as well. Lukien rested somewhere in the middle, still able to feel the bottom of the pool on his backside. He had forgotten how good it felt to relax and do nothing. The waters of the bathhouse washed away cares and woes as easily as desert dust.

Architecturally, the bathhouse was splendid, like everything in the palace. Kahan Kadar had never spared expenses while building his home, and the bathhouse reflected his good taste. Usually, the baths were filled with people, but today they had abandoned the warm waters, leaving them for Lukien to enjoy. The solitude did not bother Lukien in the least. He had only been in Jador for a day, but already he longed to be alone.

No, he told himself, closing his one eye and sighing. That wasn’t quite true. He had missed White-Eye and all the others, but her news had left him distraught and he no longer cared to speak with her about his long trek across the world. All the things he had seen and done — these were things to share with Gilwyn. But Gilwyn wasn’t here. Lukien let his naked body float in the steaming pool, feeling the warm waters untie the knots in his weary muscles.

His eye opened, and Lukien saw the dark end of the bathhouse shrouded in shadows. Around him, gurgling water soothed him with its music as it tumbled over fountains and rocks. The mosaic patterns on the ceiling calmed him with its colours of gold and coral. Protectively, he glanced over to where his clothing sat in a nearby pile. Along with his shirt and trousers lay the Sword of Angels, looking unloved in its battered sheath. Within an arms length of Lukien, the sword still managed to keep him alive, unlike the Eye of God which he still wore around his neck. Thinking of the amulet, Lukien lifted it off its chest and held it up, dripping wet. He saw his face reflected in the gold, wavy and curious, lit by the light of its ever-glowing ruby.

‘Amaraz,’ he said, ‘are you still there?’

As always, there was no answer from the Akari. Lukien laughed.

‘It doesn’t matter. Soon you’ll be back in Minikin’s care. And I will be done with you forever.’

The prospect made him strangely sad. He had never liked Amaraz, nor really appreciated the gift the spirit had given him. Now, though, the thought of parting with the great spirit made him pensive. He let go of the amulet, letting it sink back onto his chest. Like the rest of him, the skin of his chest bore numerous scars. Looking at his naked body, Lukien grimaced. There were battles yet to fight, still more scars to bear. But he was almost done.

‘Almost,’ he whispered drowsily. ‘Almost. .’

His eye began to close again, then he caught a glimpse of something at the other end of the bathhouse. A figure moved through the shadows, peering out its little head toward him. The unmistakable coat swam with colour, and the pointed ears twitched. Minikin stepped out from behind one of the columns to grin at him. Lukien smiled back at her, pleased beyond words to see the mistress.

‘I’m not wearing anything,’ he warned jokingly.

Minikin snorted at his modesty. ‘Please, Lukien. You are still a baby to me.’

‘Come ahead, then,’ he bade. ‘If you don’t mind getting wet.’

Moving like a cat, Minikin picked her way along the edge of the pool, avoiding the puddles of water that had collected on the marble. Her colourful coat shined as the tones of the water reflected in its strange fabric. Her quick movements gave her a bouncing look as she loped toward him. Lukien, unmoved by his nudeness, merely sat up a little to greet her, not bothering to cover himself at all. It was true what she had told him — despite his age, he was a comparative infant to the ancient Minikin, and there was nothing about a man’s physique she hadn’t seen a thousand times. There were no benches in this part of the bathhouse, no place at all for the little woman to sit. When she reached Lukien, she stood over him, smiling.

‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ said Lukien. ‘Forgive me if I don’t get up. Believe me, it is good to see you, Minikin.’

Her happy expression filled the sparkling chamber. ‘I came as quickly as I could. Lukien. .’ She stooped and put her hand to his face. ‘Sweet Shalafein. I cannot tell you how my heart leapt to hear you had come back.’

Lukien choked back his melancholy. ‘I ache, Minikin. I have been to every part of this world, and now all I want to do is lie here.’

‘Then do that,’ she said soothingly. ‘Take your ease.’ She went to her knees, ignoring the water soaking through her garments, and ran her fingers through his hair like a mother might. ‘I’ve spoken to White-Eye. She told me what has happened to you.’

Lukien nodded. He hadn’t told White-Eye everything, but enough. ‘Did she tell you I’ve been here all day? I’m soaked through my skin and I still don’t want to get out.’

‘White-Eye is afraid you have a stone in your shoe over her,’ said Minikin. ‘You are angry, I can tell.’

‘No. Well, yes!’ Lukien sank deeper. ‘Shouldn’t I be? I came home expecting things the way they were. Things have changed and I don’t like it.’

Minikin sat back on her haunches. ‘You were gone a very long time, Lukien. White-Eye did the best she could without you here. So did I. So did Gilwyn.’

‘I’m still angry,’ muttered Lukien.

‘And you wanted to unburden yourself on me. Very well. I am here.’ Minikin kicked off her shoes and began rolling up her pant legs. Positioning herself at the edge of the pool, she let out an exclamation of pleasure as she dipped her small white feet into the water. ‘Oh, that’s good.’

She looked comical sitting there, threading her fingers through the water and glowing ecstatically. Lukien knew she meant to soothe his anger.

‘You look different, Minikin,’ he said seriously. ‘Even you’ve changed. You look older. To be true, I didn’t think that was possible.’

‘I have been through a journey of my own, Lukien,’ said Minikin. ‘Without ever stepping foot out of Jador.’ She considered her feet as she spoke, unwilling to look at him straight. ‘Aztar is dead. You know that already. And White-Eye told you of how he attacked us?’

Lukien nodded. ‘I should have been here. Aztar was always after me. He was scum.’

‘No,’ said Minikin. ‘His heart was hard, but it changed. He was burned in a fire at the battle, and he was sure the fire came from Vala. He was sure it was a sign that he had wronged us and that we were favoured by Vala. But the fire didn’t come from Vala. It came from me. It was Akari fire, and I summoned it. I had to save Jador; I know that. And yet. .’ She closed her eyes. ‘It plagues me, Lukien. It was heinous.’

‘It was necessary, Minikin,’ Lukien assured her. ‘White-Eye told me all about it.’

‘Necessary, yes, I know. But you see, that doesn’t mend my heart.’ Minikin looked at him as though pleading for an answer. ‘It was a slaughter, and no matter how many days go by I cannot forget it.’

‘I think I know that feeling,’ said Lukien gently. ‘I would be lying if I told you it will pass. But it does get better, Minikin. With time.’

‘I have less time than you think, Lukien. I am old. Look at me!’

‘I am looking,’ said Lukien cheerfully. ‘I still think you’re beautiful.’

Minikin laughed, even blushed. Then she saw the pile of clothes and the sword placed gently upon them. ‘So, that is it. You haven’t told White-Eye much about it. Will you tell me, Lukien?’

There was so much to tell, Lukien wasn’t sure where to begin. So he blurted out, ‘Cassandra told me about the sword. It’s just like you told me all those months ago. We don’t just disappear when we die. We go on.’

‘Cassandra came to you?’ Minikin was truly interested now. ‘When did this happen?’

‘When I fought Thorin,’ said Lukien. ‘When he nearly killed me! He could have killed me easily, but he left me dying in the road. That’s when Cassandra came to me.’

Minikin’s almond eyes widened. ‘I believe you, of course. And she told you about the sword? She told you to go to the Serpent Kingdom?’

‘She did,’ said Lukien, then settled back to tell Minikin everything. The little woman listened, enthralled, as he told about his trip to Kaliatha, the dead city of the Akari, and how he had come to know the spirit of Raivik. He told Minikin about Jahan, too, and how his friend had gone with him to Torlis and about his wretched end in the mouth of a rass. But most importantly, he told Minikin about Lahkali, the Red Eminence who he trained and who he missed terribly now. And finally, about the Story Garden. ‘Cass is there right now,’ said Lukien, ‘waiting for me.’

Minikin was enchanted. She regarded him with astonishment, wanting more. ‘That’s beautiful. Lukien, I am so happy for you. To know that Cassandra still lives! I told you that, but to have it proven, well, that must amaze you.’

‘I have been amazed so many times since meeting the Inhumans, I don’t know what to feel anymore. Except to say that I miss her. I miss her, Minikin.’

‘I know,’ said the mistress gently. She looked at the sword again, eager for Lukien to unsheathe it. ‘And what of Malator? When will I meet him?’

‘That should be easy for you. Can’t you feel him?’

Minikin concentrated. ‘Yes. He is strong, like Amaraz.’

‘Malator is my Akari now, Minikin, in a way that Amaraz never was. Still. .’ Lukien picked the amulet up from his chest. ‘I will miss him. He never spoke to me. Well, he did, but only when I meant to give him to Lahkali. I enjoyed seeing him angry, I’ll tell you that!’

‘And this Malator — tell me what he is like.’

Lukien smirked as he recalled Malator’s boyish face. ‘He’s hardly what I expected. He acts like a child sometimes. He’s not at all like Kahldris, I don’t think.’

‘But he can beat Kahldris?’

‘That’s what he claims,’ Lukien sighed. ‘I have to believe him.’

‘Good,’ said Minikin. ‘It is like that when you have an Akari — you must believe in him. And you will not be alone when you head north again. Alsadair the Nithin will be with you, and Ghost, too.’

Lukien perked up. ‘Ghost? I haven’t seen him yet. Not that I would! He’s probably listening to us right now. He means to go with me? He told you that?’

‘He begged me, and I agreed,’ said Minikin. ‘We are all at risk from Kahldris. If there is anyone else you want to go with you, you have only to ask. I was thinking of Greygor.’

‘No,’ said Lukien. ‘I appreciate that, but Greygor should stay here to protect Grimhold.’

‘Baron Glass will still have an army to face, Lukien. You should consider that.’

Lukien did consider it. He had thought of little else, in fact. But Greygor was the guardian of Grimhold, a sacred duty. ‘I won’t take him away,’ said Lukien. ‘But I will take Ghost with me. And Alsadair, too.’

‘What do you think of him?’ asked Minikin.

‘Well, he’s loyal, that’s for sure. He brought me that letter at his own peril. I tell you, Minikin, I can’t wait to see Aric again. He’s the way his father used to be. He reminds me of Gilwyn, even.’

‘White-Eye tells me there will be an army of your own waiting for you in Nith. Do you believe that?’

‘I believe Aric,’ said Lukien. ‘He wouldn’t have written me anything that wasn’t true. And you know what else? I believe in Malator.’ At last Lukien removed the amulet from around his neck. ‘I don’t need this anymore, Minikin. It’s time you took it back.’

But Minikin did not take the Eye of God from Lukien. She merely studied it as it spun on its chain. ‘Giving it back to me must feel like a great burden being lifted.’

‘It does. Take it, please.’

‘It’s caused you so much trouble. But it’s also brought you life.’

‘I know. I’m thankful for that.’

‘And yet you still think of returning to Cassandra.’

Lukien lowered the amulet. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Nor did you have to. Lukien, you wear your thoughts on your sleeve even when you’re naked! You mean to return to her when you are done with Baron Glass, is that so?’

‘Yes,’ said Lukien, unashamed. ‘Why shouldn’t I? I’m done being a pawn of demons and gods. After I’ve dealt with Thorin, I’m going to make my own choices.’

‘What will happen to the sword then? What will you do with it?’

Lukien looked away. ‘Does it matter?’

‘If you get rid of it, you will die.’

There was an ugly pause between them. Lukien held out the amulet again. Again, Minikin refused it.

‘I want you to keep it,’ she told him. ‘Take it with you to Liiria.’

‘Why? Malator will keep me alive.’

‘Keep it,’ Minikin advised. ‘There’s a battle brewing, Lukien. Even if you don’t need it, someone else might.’

Thinking of his friend Ghost, Lukien saw the mistress’ logic. ‘If that’s what you want,’ he said, and tossed the amulet unceremoniously onto his pile of clothes. ‘I’m going to do my best, Minikin. Malator thinks he can beat his brother. I promise you, we will try. And hopefully find Gilwyn there in one piece.’

‘I think,’ said Minikin, ‘that Baron Glass will not harm Gilwyn.’

‘He’s a madman now. There’s no telling what he’ll do.’ Lukien tried to curb his tongue, but couldn’t. He added, ‘You should have known better than to let him go, Minikin. And then you let that snake Lorn take over for him!’

‘Lukien-’

‘No,’ Lukien snapped, ‘let me have my say. Do you think you know Lorn? You don’t. I don’t care how many roofs he’s put up for the Seekers or what a good teacher he was to White-Eye. That all might be true. But if you knew his history, really knew it, you would never have taken the chance you did. You’re lucky to all still be alive.’ Lukien sank back broodingly into the pool. ‘A lot of Norvans weren’t so fortunate.’

He expected Minikin to argue with him. She did not. Instead she rose from the edge of the pool, took off the coat that always covered her, and dropped the fabulous garment next to his own clothes, exposing the Eye of God that she wore around her neck. Hers contained Lariniza, the sister of Amaraz, but looked identical to Lukien’s amulet in every way.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Lukien.

‘Making myself comfortable,’ said Minikin. She began rolling up her sleeves.

‘How long are you planning to stay?’ Lukien quipped.

‘That depends on you, Lukien. You see, I am not leaving until you change your mind about Lorn.’

‘No, Minikin!’

‘Oh, don’t misunderstand. You don’t have to like him. I’m not expecting that. But I want you to take him with you.’

‘Fate above, no!’

‘You’re being petulant,’ crooned Minikin. She sat down at the poolside again, returning her white feet to the water. ‘Lorn doesn’t belong here. He is restless. He needs to return north.’

‘What about his family?’

Minikin darkened a little. ‘They will remain here.’

‘Even his daughter?’ prodded Lukien. ‘I know about her, Minikin. White-Eye told me. Lorn wanted her to have a place in Grimhold.’

‘There is no place for her,’ said Minikin sadly. ‘But we can care for her here. Lorn cannot. He is a restless tiger, and Jador is a cage to him. He must return home to Norvor.’

‘And then what?’ raved Lukien. ‘Fight Jazana Carr for power?’

‘He must do what he must do, Lukien. That is not for us to decide.’

This time, Lukien pulled himself out of the pool nearly completely. ‘I won’t do it,’ he said. ‘I won’t help Lorn get his throne back.’

‘He is a fighter, Lukien. Let him help you.’

‘He’s a butcher, Minikin!’

‘What if he’s changed?’

‘Come on,’ scoffed Lukien. ‘Men like him don’t change.’

‘No?’ Minikin grinned as she kicked water at him. ‘Some people said the same about you once, Lukien.’

Her words cut him, making him drift back into the pool. ‘That’s different. I never did the things Lorn has done.’

‘I know,’ said Minikin softly. ‘But you were not here to see the way he helped us. When Aztar attacked, he was there to battle with us. And when White-Eye needed him, he taught her what it means to be a ruler. He stood up to Baralosus, right alongside the rest of the Jadori, ready to die for the city. I had the same doubts about him once, Lukien. That’s why I am asking you to trust me.’

‘Minikin, please. .’

‘Can you do that, Lukien? Can you trust me?’

‘I always trust you. You know I do. But this. .’ Lukien clamped his fists together. ‘It makes no sense to me. None of this does!’

‘Lorn will leave here, with or without you, Lukien. Even now he prepares to leave us. Better that it should be with you, don’t you think so? It will give you a chance to know him better.’

The last thing in the world Lukien wanted was to know King Lorn the Wicked. The prospect of riding north with him made Lukien’s teeth hurt. And yet, there was nothing he could do to change Minikin’s mind. Despite her stature, she was made of steel.

‘This is going to be a very long trip,’ he groaned. ‘Do me a favour, will you please?’

‘Anything, Shalafein.’

‘Will you let me have this bath in peace?’

‘Of course,’ said Minikin, then picked up her coat and left.

Lorn moved cat-like through the darkened chamber, past the form of the sleeping Eiriann toward the little chamber where his daughter slept. The hour ticked past midnight, and the halls of the palace groaned with hollowness. With the long day behind him, Lorn stifled a yawn, longing to lay himself down to bed. It had been an eventful day, full of planning, and his eyes watered with sleep. He paused, hoping his squeaking boots would not wake Eiriann, who slept soundly in the sheets, looking beautiful as a shaft of moonlight caressed her face. Eiriann, young and perfect, had taken to his bed without shame, leaving behind the mores of her past life and adopting both Lorn and Poppy into her world. She was a fine woman, so much like the wife Lorn had buried, and he wondered at the good fortune that had brought him such a lovely lady. Full of fire, Eiriann had refused to speak to him the last few days, angered by his decision to head north with Lukien and the others.

Why couldn’t she understand?

Lorn looked at her, admiring her. She was always such a vocal woman, it seemed strange to him to see her so silent. He noticed her more closely now, in ways he had never stopped to see before. Her neck pulsed with every breath. He eyes flittered, deep with sleep. She would be fine without him, even if he never returned. But what of Poppy?

Lorn turned back to the nursery, tip-toeing toward his daughter’s alcove. The nursery sat just across from their main chamber, a comfortable little nook perfect for the baby girl. There was no door to the chamber, just a curtain that separated the two rooms. Lorn pushed the curtain aside, closing it behind him as he entered. Poppy slept inside her wooden crib, a crib he had made for her himself not long after arriving in Jador. She had grown long since then; she could walk now, though not well. Her blindness and deafness — the very ailments that had driven Lorn to Jador in the first place — still persisted, frustrating Poppy as she grew more aware. Tonight, though, his daughter didn’t fuss. She slept angelically in the crib, her slack, pretty face up toward the ceiling. Like a doll, her smooth skin glowed with the chamber’s tender light. Her small chest moved almost imperceptibly with the in and out of her tiny puffs of breath.

Lorn hovered soundlessly over her crib, staring down at her. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, but she was far too young to understand. She was remarkable, strong like her mother. She had survived the long trek across the desert because she was made of steel. Even deaf and blind, she would grow into a fine woman someday.

‘I want to tell you all those things,’ Lorn whispered carefully. His voice barely carried down to the sleeping girl. ‘I want you to know me, and that I thought the best of you.’

In Norvor, when he had been a king, some had argued for her murder. She was a burden, his advisors had told him, and could never be anything more. What kind of princess could she possibly make? Lorn remembered those words now, and how blithely he had said the same himself of other unfortunate infants. They were weak, weren’t they? They couldn’t be Norvans, because Norvans were strong.

‘But you are strong, little Poppy,’ said her father. ‘Never let anyone tell you otherwise. Never think yourself the weaker. You are my daughter. Your blood is my blood, and my blood is like fire. You are born to greatness.’ Lorn placed his palm lightly on the girl’s chest. ‘Don’t forget me.’

Poppy slept, undisturbed by her father’s words. He turned, and to his surprise saw Eiriann standing near the curtain. Her eyes drooped sadly, watching him. She shook her head in sorrow.

‘Why are you leaving us?’ she asked.

She had yet to confront him, but could no longer resist. Inexplicably, she loved him. To Lorn, there seemed no good answer to her query, nothing that could make her understand the need he had to go and fight for Norvor. He shrugged, almost an apology.

‘I am a leopard who cannot change his spots,’ he said.

Eiriann waited for him to say more. When he did not, she nodded and closed the curtain.

Gilwyn sat in the windowless catalogue room, pondering the massive machine sprawling out before him. His oil-covered hands drummed absently on the wooden desk, the portal that unlocked the machine itself. The hard chair beneath his rump creaked as he leaned back in it perilously, just as he had seen his mentor Figgis do a hundred times before. A bank of hastily lit candles illuminated the machine, setting its rods and pulleys aglow. For days now Gilwyn had tinkered with them, trying to figure out the ingenuity of their design. Now, thoroughly vexed, he let out a mumbling groan, not really hearing himself as he stared at the miraculous, confounding catalogue.

‘What in the world makes this thing go?’

The mystery of the machine made the young man bite his lip, mightily wishing he had paid Figgis more attention. Over their years together, Figgis had tried to teach Gilwyn the machine’s intricacies, but Gilwyn had always given up in frustration, sure that only the brilliant Figgis could understand its complexities. The machine had sprung from the genius’ own mind, like a dream made real. He had built the thing with his own feeble hands, somehow cobbling together the remarkable pieces from all across the continent. The catalogue machine was more than just a marvel. Some believed it could actually think, but Gilwyn knew better. To truly bring the machine to life had been the greatest part of Figgis’ ambition, and one he had never achieved. Still, the myth of the catalogue lived on.

For weeks now, Gilwyn had spent time stalling, pretending to try and work the machine in those hours he did not spend with Thorin. Thorin seemed to believe his endeavours, mostly. At least the old baron seemed satisfied. They had been good weeks for both of them, and Gilwyn had tried his best to keep Thorin’s madness at bay. But the catalogue machine still loomed over both of them, a nagging reminder that Malator was still on his way.

‘I think,’ said Gilwyn, ‘that this thing should have died with Figgis.’

He straightened out his chair, lowering his head to the desk and resting his chin atop his clubbed hand. It was hard for him to imagine Thorin ever killing White-Eye, or any of the other Inhumans. Yet that was the baron’s bleak promise. Claiming no choice in the matter, Thorin had told Gilwyn that the Akari — and their hosts — needed to pay for what they had done to Kahldris.

How did one kill a spirit, Gilwyn wondered? Really, wasn’t that what Thorin wanted? The Akari were already dead, and yet somehow Kahldris wasn’t satisfied. He wanted them removed forever from the earth, and there was, of course, only one way to do so. The Akari lived among the living because they had living hosts. Kill them, Gilwyn supposed, and the Akari would flee, leaving the world forever in the hands of the demon Kahldris.

At first, Thorin’s horrible proposition had kept Gilwyn awake for weeks. Thorin — who had once been so gentle — openly planned to do Kahldris’ bidding, surrendering bodily to the spirit. First, though, they would deal with Malator. And that alone gave Gilwyn hope. It gave him time to plan.

‘We’ll find a way, Ruana,’ muttered Gilwyn.

The great, inscrutable machine stretched out before him. With Thorin’s help he had managed to make the machine move, starting up its apparatus so that now it clanked and whistled with life. But that was all, and it frustrated Gilwyn. He did not really believe that the catalogue could help him find a way to stop Kahldris, but he had so few other options. He had combed the library for any scrap of information that might help him, but in all the books and scrolls there was almost nothing about the Akari, just vague references to spirits that might — or might not — live across the Desert of Tears.

Gilwyn, you are tired, said Ruana. Stop now and rest.

Gilwyn spied the food he had brought with him, sitting at the edge of the desk. He had not eaten for hours, and the smell of the cheese drew him to it like a mouse. Karlina, the woman who ran Lionkeep’s kitchen, had taken good care of him over the weeks he had been in Koth, fattening him on hearty cooking and tempting him every night with baked treats. Thinking of her now, Gilwyn smiled.

‘There’ll be raisin cake tonight,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Too bad you can’t have any, Ruana. You don’t know what you’re missing.’

You’ll eat enough for both of us, retorted the Akari.

‘I will,’ Gilwyn pronounced, then sat up to stretch his aching back. He realized that he had already been in Koth for nearly two months, and in that time had made many friends among Lionkeep’s prodigious staff of servants and stable hands. His arrival had lightened Thorin’s mood considerably, that’s what they all claimed, and because of it they were happy to have Gilwyn with them. Karlina was fond of saying that Gilwyn was their charm, like a talisman to ward off the baron’s black moods. Over the weeks he had kept his promise to Thorin, deciding not to abandon him no matter how bad things got. They would get bad, Gilwyn knew, but not yet. For now, life in Koth was good again, and even Thorin seemed better every day.

You are pleased, said Ruana, smiling in Gilwyn’s mind. You should be, Gilwyn. I am proud of the way you have handled Baron Glass.

Gilwyn nodded, feeling proud himself. ‘He is better, isn’t he, Ruana? He really is. I knew he would be. I knew I could reach him.’

Ruana paused. Gilwyn. .

‘I know. There’s still a lot to do. But I am reaching him, and we still have time. There’s no way Lukien could get here before another month or so. By then, who knows?’

I know, Gilwyn. And you know. And Baron Glass knows, too. He has surrendered to Kahldris. He told you so already, many times.

‘I have to hope, Ruana,’ countered Gilwyn. ‘It’s all I have.’

Ruana understood, graciously letting the matter go. You know him better than I do, Gilwyn. If you say that he is better, then it is so.

‘It’s the time we spend together,’ Gilwyn pointed out. ‘It makes him remember the way he used to be. You saw him when we were riding yesterday, Ruana. He was like a kid!’

A very big, demented kid perhaps.

‘No. He’s the way he was, before all of this happened to him.’ Gilwyn sighed, fondly recalling their ride through the countryside. Thorin had even sung while they rode. ‘When was the last time that he sang, do you think?’

A long time ago, Ruana conceded.

‘That’s right. And Karlina and the rest of them have seen the change in him. He hardly ever speaks of Kahldris any more. I tell you, Ruana, his grip is slipping.’

Ruana was quiet, which was really her way of saying she disagreed. Not really caring, Gilwyn collected his bag of food and left the catalogue room, happy to be out of the dark chamber. He stepped immediately into the light of a stained glass window, putting his face to the sunlight with a smile. The day was mild and pretty, a good day for being outside, but Gilwyn still had work to do. First, though, he would break his fast. Out in the hall, he pointed himself quickly to one of his favourite reading rooms, a little nook that let the afternoon sunlight splash through its windows. Bag in hand, he left the catalogue room far behind, happy to forget about it for an hour or so. As usual, the library was empty. While he worked with the machine, only a handful of artisans and carpenters had come to finish up their reconstruction, and today Gilwyn had the entire, massive building to himself. He had long ago grown accustomed to the eerie quiet of the place and it never frightened him, not even at night. To him, the library was always a place of fabulous peace.

Reaching the reading chamber, Gilwyn put down his bag of food beneath the window, then scanned the polished shelves for something promising to read. It didn’t really matter to him what he selected, because he found all of it fascinating, and after the dearth of books he’d endured in Jador, even the worst tome of poetry delighted him. Eventually, he selected just such a book, a collection of ancient prose from long-dead Marnan writers. Gilwyn paged through it as he made his way back to the window and sat down, absently opening up his bag of food and pulling out some fruit and cheese, which he nibbled happily while he read. The sun coming through the glass touched the ancient book, lighting the dust particles that took flight as he turned the pages.

As they always did when he read, the minutes ticked away unnoticed.

Gilwyn ate his fill, settling in for a long read which stretched well beyond his planned hour. When he realized how long he’d been away, he closed the book and leaned his head against the darkly paneled wall. Ruana was in his mind, skimming quietly across its surface. Something puzzled him. He glanced back at the book and remembered the last story he had read, about a man who would not tell his daughters the names of the princelings he had sent them to marry. The secret struck him as strange, and he didn’t know why. For some reason, he thought about Kahldris.

Kahldris hadn’t come to him again, not in all the long weeks he’d been in Koth. The demon had visited him only once, and only then when he was far from Koth, safely away from Thorin. Gilwyn chewed his lip pensively, sure that something plain was being overlooked. In the story, the man was frightened of his daughters, and so never told them of the princes they’d be promised to. The story made no sense to Gilwyn, and neither did his suspicions. His pensiveness snagged Ruana’s attention.

She asked him, What are you thinking, Gilwyn?

‘I’m thinking about Kahldris,’ said Gilwyn, still unsure why. ‘He still hasn’t come to us again. Don’t you think that’s odd? I mean, I expected him to, didn’t you?’

I’m sure he has nothing to say to either of us.

‘But isn’t that strange? He was the one who wanted me here, and now he ignores me. I thought for sure he’d be after me about the catalogue.’ Gilwyn set the book aside and stared blankly across the chamber. ‘It makes no sense.’

Thorin is protecting you from him, perhaps.

‘That’s what I thought, but. .’ He shrugged. ‘He hasn’t even mentioned Kahldris to me, which means that Kahldris isn’t pushing him.’

That’s good, then. Ruana thought for a moment. Isn’t it?

‘I don’t know.’ Gilwyn glanced at the book again, and then it came to him. ‘I think he’s afraid of me, Ruana. I think he’s afraid of the influence I have over Thorin. Remember? You told me that the first time he came to us in Roall. You were right, but he didn’t even know it then. Now he sees how Thorin feels about me.’

He stood up, then started pacing. His theory made sense. He was sure it did.

Yes, Ruana agreed after a moment. He knows that if he harms you, Thorin will be angry with him.

‘Right! So maybe he doesn’t have such a stranglehold on Thorin after all.’

Gilwyn’s mind was racing suddenly, thinking through the possibilities. He had been working like a madman to find out about Malator, any little scrap that might help him defeat Kahldris. Now, it seemed Kahldris himself was afraid of him. Surely that meant an opportunity.

‘I can drive them apart,’ he mused. ‘That’s what he’s afraid of.’

No. Ruana’s voice was adamant. Forget what you are thinking, Gilwyn.

But Gilwyn had already convinced himself. ‘Let’s see how tough he is, Ruana.’

No!

‘Yes! How can I know how to beat him if I don’t know anything about him? I have to face him!’

Gilwyn picked up the remnants of his lunch and hurried out of the chamber. There was a lot to do, a lot to plan. Somehow, he needed to tempt the demon out of hiding.

Gilwyn spent the next several days spending all the time that he could with Thorin. Rarely leaving the baron’s side, the two took every meal together, rode for long hours in the crisp countryside, and whiled away their time at the ponds that surrounded Lionkeep. Thorin, who still wore the arm of his Devil’s Armour everywhere, nevertheless ignored the subject of Kahldris completely, focusing instead on the progress he had made in Koth the last few months. Since Gilwyn’s arrival, Koth had prospered, he explained ecstatically, and for the first time in a long while Baron Glass seemed very much like the man Gilwyn had known before. They were good days, full of laughter, but Gilwyn had his own reasons for spending so much time with Thorin. Slowly, he wedged himself between the baron and the demon that controlled him.

On those rare times when he wasn’t with Thorin, Gilwyn carefully badmouthed Kahldris to anyone who would listen. He found a willing — even fascinated audience in Karlina — who listened intently as Gilwyn told her about how weak he thought the armour really was, and that the demon who dwelt within its metal was a coward. When he told this to the stable boys, he had them enraptured, and when he repeated this to the maids they were scandalized. Gilwyn was cautious, however, and never let Thorin hear what he was saying. He knew, however, that Kahldris heard everything. Day by day, he made it his mission to criticize the unseen spirit, sparing no insult in his attempt to rile Kahldris from his hiding place. After a week, however, Kahldris still had not appeared to him. Gilwyn kept up his verbal assaults, but knew that he needed to take a more direct approach.

Though he was certainly older than most in Lionkeep, Thorin rarely slept these days. The armour gave him unnatural strength, along with the ability to go for days on end without slumber. Gilwyn waited patiently for exhaustion to overtake his friend, knowing Thorin needed to be asleep for what he planned to do. Finally, on a night when rain clouds overtook the glorious day, Thorin retired late to his bedchamber, leaving Gilwyn on the other end of an unfinished game board. Gilwyn watched as Thorin excused himself, then waited an hour more to be sure the baron was asleep. At nearly midnight, the entire castle fell silent, leaving Gilwyn free to explore the cellar where he knew the Devil’s Armour waited.

He had prepared himself for the encounter, yet now felt a pull of fear holding him back. Ruana, who had never cared at all for his plan, muttered to him in his brain, warning him. Gilwyn ignored her counsel; he had made up his mind. There was only one way to find out the things he needed to know, and that was from Kahldris himself. The catalogue had proved useless. So had the library and its awesome stock of books. Not even Ruana knew how to defeat Kahldris. If he had any weaknesses at all, only he knew what they were. But getting him to reveal them was the challenge.

Remember, don’t let him into your mind, cautioned Ruana as Gilwyn made his way to the cellars beneath the keep. And never forget, he can kill you. No, wait — you have forgotten that. You must have.

‘I have to do this, so hush,’ snapped Gilwyn nervously. He peaked around the corner, making sure no one saw him. As expected, the corridors of Lionkeep were empty, and the doors leading down to the cellars stood unguarded. Amazingly, Thorin had never thought to post a guard to protect the Devil’s Armour. He claimed the armour needed no protection. Besides that, everyone in the keep was terrified of the enchanted suit, and could only rest knowing it was buried safely away in the bowels of the castle. Thorin, realizing how uneasy the armour made his servants, gladly tucked it away from sight. As long as he wore the pieces of his missing arm, he had no real use for the rest of the armour, except in battle.

Gilwyn went to the doors, twisting the ancient latches and pulling the portals open. The rusty hinges flaked and screeched, alarming Gilwyn as he hurried past them. He had brought a lantern with him, balanced expertly in his fused hand. As he closed the doors behind him, he saw the huge, curving staircase come darkly into view, spiraling down and disappearing in the murk. The light from the lantern bounced eerily off the stone walls, giving the descent a hellish quality. He moved carefully down the stairs, slowly working the boot of his clubbed foot so as not to slip. There was no hand rail for him to grip, just the wall that curved alongside the stairs. Gilwyn felt the coldness of it on his fingertips, a hundred years of grime and filth. His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, stretching out the time so that it seemed to take forever to reach the solid ground. Finally, as he stepped off the last riser, he looked around at the chamber, noticing dusty crates of wine piled high atop each other. Moving his lantern, he let the feeble beams of light crawl across the cellar, illuminating the tools and odd bits of metal that littered the walls. Across the floor he saw an archway leading into another chamber, and crossing through it he found more of the same. Gilwyn looked around despairingly, afraid he’d be lost forever in the endless catacombs, but as he shuffled further along he noticed one more chamber in the distance, this one glowing with peculiar light.

‘That’s it,’ he whispered, studying the dark radiance. The chamber dazzled him with its dancing light, a kind of black glow that might have been moonlight on a stormy night. He inched toward it, feeling Ruana’s trepidation.

I feel him, she warned. Protect yourself.

‘He can’t hurt me,’ Gilwyn reminded her. ‘He won’t.’

At least that was his theory. But now that the time had come to test it, his feet moved leadenly toward the glowing chamber. When at last he reached the archway, he peered inside to see the source of the marvelous light, frightened into stillness by the image of the armour. It hung upon a tiny dais, suspended there in perfect form without a hint of ropes or wires to hold it erect. The horned helmet gazed at Gilwyn as if upon a living head, but there was no man inside it, just the essence of the great Akari. The left arm was gone, of course, but the right one rested easily at the figure’s side, the fingers of its gauntleted hand open. The magnificent metal shined like black liquid, throwing off its strange light in all directions. Gilwyn lowered his lantern to the ground, having no need of it in the presence of the armour. He studied the evil suit, enthralled by its pulsing life-force.

‘He’s inside it,’ he said, putting up his hand to feel the cold, almost imperceptible breeze coming from it. ‘It’s just like when he came to us in Roall.’

Gilwyn stepped closer to the armour, feeling dwarfed by its enormity. He had practiced what he would say, and for a week he had done his best to anger the demon. Now it was time to draw him forth. Suddenly, all the fear that had accompanied him down the staircase gathered on his shoulders. His mouth went dry. Summoning his courage, he folded his arms over his chest.

‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said. ‘Why haven’t you come to me?’

The armour pulsed quietly atop its dais.

‘You’ve been watching me, I know. You’ve been listening. I’m surprised you haven’t tried to stop me yet.’

Still, Kahldris was silent. Gilwyn began to circle the dais as he spoke.

‘When you came to me in Roall you said you wanted something from me. But now you don’t, do you? I figured it out, Kahldris. It took me a while, but now I understand. The catalogue is useless to you now. Your brother is already on his way. That’s why Thorin hasn’t been pushing me to learn it anymore. It’s too late. You wanted to find your brother but Lukien found him first.’

Almost imperceptibly, the breeze from the armour grew. The metal glowed a little hotter.

‘Yes, you are listening, aren’t you?’ Gilwyn smiled mockingly. ‘Why don’t you come and face me, Kahldris? Are you afraid? I’ve never had someone be afraid of me before. To be honest it feels pretty good!’

Gilwyn, be careful, advised Ruana.

But Gilwyn continued, ‘You know I’m getting to Thorin. I’m reaching him, Kahldris.’ He paused in front of the armour, staring up into the glowing eyes of the helmet. ‘That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? You’re afraid I’m going to win. That’s why you haven’t come after me, because you know Thorin wouldn’t allow it. You’re not in control of him after all!’

Again the armour seethed, the light bending as the metal flexed.

‘I’ve been telling everyone what a coward you are. They couldn’t believe it at first, but now they’re seeing that they don’t have to be afraid of you. You don’t control them anymore, either. They have you locked down here in this cellar like some rusty old tool. You might never see the light of day again!’

That, at last, was enough to make the demon snap. The fleshless armour exploded to life, jumping down from the dais. Shocked, Gilwyn turned toward the exit, but the armour beat him there, clanking across the floor to block his out. The death’s head helmet leered at him as the metal feet stalked forward. Gilwyn backed away, wild-eyed as he stared at the possessed thing. The one hand came up, making a shaking fist, and suddenly a horrid laugh ripped from the mouthpiece.

‘Do you want me, boy?’ it taunted. ‘Here I am!’

The hand went up to pull away the helmet, revealing the visage of the withered Kahldris. Just as he had been in Marn, his face was old and leathery, topped with long white hair and fixed with two blazing eyes that pinned Gilwyn in place. Kahldris opened his mouth to hiss his curses, showing his rows of yellow teeth.

‘You are a damnable little troll, Gilwyn Toms. Why have you come here, you lying shit-eater?’

Gilwyn stayed his ground, managing to hold the demon’s gaze. ‘At last you have the stones to face me.’ He faked his own mocking laugh. ‘So now, what will you do to me?’

‘Shall I tear you into bits and eat you? Shall I spill your guts to the floor? There are a thousand things I could do to you.’

‘No, there’s nothing you can do,’ countered Gilwyn. ‘Because if you did, you’d lose your host. And you’re nothing without your host, Kahldris.’

Kahldris clamoured one stop closer. ‘You value yourself too highly, boy.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Gilwyn challenged. ‘I’ve figured you out, Kahldris.’

The demon’s face creased angrily. ‘Do not presume to frighten me.’

‘But I do! You’re scared of me,’ said Gilwyn, refusing to back away. ‘You should have killed me back on that farm in Roall, before Thorin ever had a chance to see me again. Now it’s too late. You’ve seen how he cares about me. If anything were to happen to me, he’d know who to blame.’

Kahldris cocked his head, his lips feigning a pout. ‘Oh, thank you, boy,’ he crooned, his voice sickly-sweet. ‘Your warning warms my heart. Have you not seen how the baron does my bidding? He is mine, body and soul.’

‘No, not anymore. He’s changing. And you can’t stand that, because then all your plans for revenge will be finished, and you’ll have to go back to living in a cage.’

Kahldris’ face began to boil. ‘Why are you here?’ he demanded.

‘To put you on notice, demon. I’m done being afraid of you. I’m going to keep telling everyone what you really are, and I’m going to show Thorin that he doesn’t need you. He’s remembering the man he used to be!’

‘Do that, and you will pay,’ spat Kahldris.

‘You can’t hurt me, Kahldris.’ Gilwyn relaxed, sure of his hunch. ‘If you do, you’ll lose everything.’

Kahldris smiled. ‘You are tasking me. But let’s not play this game. Tell me what you want. It is something, surely. Something you want me to reveal, perhaps?’

His guess unbalanced Gilwyn. Feigning disinterest, Gilwyn shrugged. ‘You’re not going to reveal anything you don’t want to,’ he said casually. He turned and rounded the dais again. ‘Anyway, I think you know you’re in trouble. Your brother is on his way, and you can’t stop him. You wanted me to help you find him, and now it’s too late.’

‘I will deal with my brother,’ Kahldris rumbled. ‘Happily.’

‘You’ll have to, because he’s coming. And until you do you won’t be able to have your revenge on the other Akari.’

‘But I have patience, Gilwyn Toms! Don’t you know? I have been entombed for eternity. I can wait.’ Kahldris put his gauntlet to his heartless chest. ‘And what will happen to your precious White-Eye then, do you think?’

Gilwyn saw his move and countered. ‘You may kill her, I know that. But it’s the same problem. Anything more you do to her will hurt me, and Thorin wouldn’t like that.’

Kahldris snorted. ‘You are very brave. And stupid. You may not be afraid of me, boy, but you should be.’

Gilwyn shook his head. ‘Nope, no longer. I’m here to tell you that the challenge is on, Kahldris. From now on I’m going to do my best to win back Thorin’s soul. I’m not leaving him. Who knows? By the time your brother Malator gets here, Thorin might already be rid of you.’

‘Stop talking about my brother, you wretched imp!’

‘Look at you,’ Gilwyn taunted. ‘You’re afraid of him, too. Why?’

‘You horrible little toad. .’

‘Everyone says what a powerful summoner you were, what a great general! I don’t believe them. You can’t be all those things and still be so afraid of a single Akari!’

Before Gilwyn saw it, the metal hand shot out and struck him hard across the face. He fell backward, skidding along the floor, his head striking the dais. Dazed, he looked up into Kahldris’ maddened face, and knew he’d hit the right note. With a grimace of pain he touched his crushed lip.

‘Go on,’ he said, staggering to his feet. ‘Hit me again!’

This time, Kahldris backed away. ‘Do not speak of my brother.’

‘Why? What’s he going to do to you? Why can’t you beat him?’

Kahldris was about to erupt, then stopped himself. His eyes turned to shrewd little slivers. ‘Oh, you clever little boy.’ He clenched his fist, holding back his rage. ‘Now I see what you’ve been up to. The library hasn’t been much of a help to you either, has it?’

Gilwyn smirked. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You’ve been trying to find a way to defeat me, but you haven’t yet. And you won’t, because there is no way. I am indestructible!’

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Gilwyn. ‘Your brother has the means.’

‘Then you’ll just have to wait for him,’ snarled the demon. ‘Because I won’t help you.’

Gilwyn knew his ploy was over. Angry, he stepped up to the Akari. ‘You’re still being challenged, Kahldris. I may not find a way to beat you, but I may not have to.’

‘Do not talk against me to the baron, boy,’ Kahldris warned. ‘I have other ways to harm you.’

Gilwyn began to walk past him. ‘I’m not listening to your threats anymore.’

Kahldris put out his arm to block him. ‘You should listen,’ he said with a grin. ‘I can turn you inside out with fear.’

For a moment Gilwyn paused, remembering Ruana’s warnings. He had seen what Kahldris had done to White-Eye, driving her madly into the desert, chasing a phantom that didn’t exist.

‘Good-bye, Kahldris,’ said Gilwyn calmly. ‘You can battle me for Thorin’s soul, but you’ll lose.’

The demon lowered his arm for Gilwyn to pass. ‘Don’t forget what I’ve said here tonight. Don’t forget that it’s you who’ve challenged me.’

The lantern burned on the floor, beckoning Gilwyn. Kahldris stepped aside. The armour would find its way back to the dais, Gilwyn knew, and no one else would know what had happened between them. Sure that he’d let a cobra out of its basket, Gilwyn picked up his lantern and left the chamber.

Gilwyn blew the dust off the row of books, smiling as he read the titles printed along the spines. Carefully balanced on his step stool, the branches of a birch tree tapping at his window, he ran his fingers lovingly along the top of the manuscripts, comforted by their permanence. The library had been destroyed and then rebuilt, but the words within its books were forever, and Gilwyn took care with them now that he was home again, treating them as though they were his own precious children. Tucked in his belt rested a feather duster, dirty from the morning’s work. He had spent hours alone in the rotunda, cleaning up the debris that had settled on the woodwork and books from all the recent construction. Once, the rotunda had been the library’s grandest reading room, and had been remarkably unscathed during the bombardment from Norvan catapults. Under Thorin’s direction, the wood paneling and plaster ceilings had all been carefully restored of cracks and blemishes, and nearly all of the books and manuscripts remained, just as they had been when Figgis was alive.

For Gilwyn, his work in the library was a joy, one he had never dared hope to have again during his long stay in Jador. He awoke early this morning, eager to return to the huge chore of getting the library back in order. If it was to ever reopen to the public — which was Thorin’s promise — it needed to not only be repaired, but also restocked and returned to its original order, and only Gilwyn knew how to do that. Figgis had taught him much in their years together, and Gilwyn remembered everything. Whenever a book was out of place, he knew exactly where it belonged. And so he worked diligently but carefully, using his stool to reach the higher ledges as best he could and wishing his friend Teku could help him. In the days when Gilwyn had been Figgis’ apprentice, the little monkey had helped the crippled boy with everything, even fetched books off the highest shelves. She had been given to Gilwyn by Figgis, but she was always meant to be more than a pet. She was more than a friend, even. Teku had made the challenge of working in the giant library a possibility for Gilwyn, and even seemed to sense his moods and needs. As his eyes absently scanned the shelves, Gilwyn thought about Teku. He

missed the little beast, just as he missed everyone in Jador.

His mind began to wander.

Another week had passed since he had confronted Kahldris in the cellars. Despite the demon’s dire pledges, it had been a wonderful seven days. Kahldris had remained quiet and aloof, allowing Gilwyn to continue bad-mouthing him, and Thorin gradually continued his slow-climb back to normalcy, taking interest in the small things in life again. He and Gilwyn continued to go riding almost every morning, and each night before he went to sleep Gilwyn made sure to spend an hour or so with the baron, usually playing cards or sampling from Lionkeep’s wine stores. Ruana continued to caution Gilwyn about Kahldris, but even she was forced to admit that the Akari’s threats had baffled her. He had done nothing to harm anyone, and soon Ruana, too, began to believe Gilwyn’s claims that they were untouchable.

Heartened by the recent events, Gilwyn spent more and more time in the library, imagining himself at the helm of the great edifice. When he had arrived in Koth, Thorin had offered the job to him, saying that the library needed him. It did, Gilwyn knew, but he still had a life and a lover to return to in Jador. Nevertheless, he daydreamed about remaining in Koth and reopening the grand ‘Cathedral of Knowledge,’ returning both the city and its icon to its glory days. How proud would his mother be to see him now, he wondered? She expected great things from him. Before she died, she had told him to reach for the stars.

Gilwyn pulled the duster from his belt, stretching to feather the higher books. Had he disappointed his mother? He thought so. But then, everyone in Koth was disappointed, because the city had fallen into ruin over the years, breaking all the dreams of it populace. The young face of Gilwyn’s mother burned brightly in his memory, and he held it while he dusted, unaware of the melancholy smile curling his lips. She had died young but he remembered her perfectly, and the memory of her gentle touch was never far from his mind. Thinking of her now, his hand stilled. His eyes drifted blindly from the books, seeing nothing but the image of her smiling face.

‘Oh. .’

He caught himself with a sigh, stepping down from his stool and laying his duster down on a shelf. He rarely felt alone in the huge library, but now the solitude of the place unnerved him. It was almost noon, he was sure, and he promised Thorin he would be back in Lionkeep for midday meal. He glanced around the rotunda, proud of the work he had done, and then glimpsed a tiny movement near one of the many long reading tables. He pivoted to see it better, catching sight of a bit of tawny fur. Still in his dream state, he grinned when he realized it was Teku.

And then froze.

Impossibly, unimaginably, Teku jumped from one table to another, stopping to chatter at him from across the room. The monkey who he’d left in Jador gave him her familiar grin of little teeth. Gilwyn barely breathed, trying to make sense of what was happening. His eyes scanned the chamber, but everything else was the same, without a hint of distortion.

‘Teku,’ he said softly. ‘You can’t be here.’

As she always did, Teku gave her little monkey bark, then climbed up onto one of the shelves, wrapping her tail around a pole of wood to support herself. She dangled down from the long appendage, urging Gilwyn forward.

‘It’s not you,’ said Gilwyn. ‘It can’t be.’

Teku frowned in annoyance. Always remarkably intelligent, her human-like expressions left no doubt to her thoughts. Pulling herself up again, she hopped to a bookshelf closer to the exit, then jumped up and down excitedly. In her language, that meant for Gilwyn to follow her, but Gilwyn shook his head.

‘Whatever you are, go away,’ he told her. He glanced around the rotunda. ‘Do you hear me, Kahldris? I know this is your doing. You’re in my mind.’

Teku seemed not to hear him. The monkey leapt to the floor, clapped its tiny hands together, then loped out of the rotunda, looking back at him to follow. Her chattering went with her out into the hall, where she screeched for Gilwyn to come. Sure that he was being duped, Gilwyn nevertheless went after her. Ruana touched his mind instantly.

Don’t, she urged. That’s not Teku.

‘I know,’ Gilwyn assured her.

You’re doing just what Kahldris wants. Don’t follow her.

Too curious to ignore the monkey, Gilwyn stepped out of the rotunda and into the corridor. Fleet-footed Teku was already well down the dim hall, but chattered happily when she saw Gilwyn following. Again she started off, heading down the corridor toward the private living chambers. The darkness of the hall gave Gilwyn some pause. He had spent very little time in that part of the library since returning, and still didn’t care to see the places where he and Figgis had lived. Teku, disappearing around a bend in the hall, called insistently for him to proceed.

‘What does he want?’ Gilwyn wondered. There was no sense of Kahldris in the air, yet he knew the spirit toyed with him.

To frighten you.

‘With a monkey?’

To Gilwyn it made no sense at all, and the puzzle of it propelled him down the hall. With Ruana’s cautions ringing in his mind, he hurried down the corridor after the monkey, catching glimpses of her as she continued rounding corners. Gilwyn’s clubbed foot ached in his special boot, trying gamely to keep up with her. Very quickly he was in the living area, a much less grand part of the library marked by plain stone walls and small, narrow chambers. This was where he had spent his adolescence, where he and Figgis had shared their lives, and the ghosts of the place were all around him suddenly, flooding him with memories. With only the light from the clouded windows to guide him, Gilwyn struggled to see where Teku had gone, peering into the many chambers to find her. Her chattering voice was coming from everywhere at once, and like a hall of mirrors the corridors all took on the same, confusing greyness. Gilwyn realized with dread that things were not exactly as they were before. The halls were impossibly narrow, and not because they’d been rebuilt. Just as he had when he’d come to Gilwyn in Roall, Kahldris was changing the landscape.

‘We should go,’ he told himself, but turning around did him no good at all, because the way he’d come was blocked. A wall that shouldn’t have been there had sprung up in seconds, and the only way out was forward. The panic of being trapped gripped Gilwyn. He forced himself to stay calm.

Wait, said Ruana. He means to trap you, Gilwyn. This is a game, but you don’t have to play.

‘Don’t I? There’s no way out now.’

Whatever he would find going after Teku, it had already been ordained. Gilwyn stiffened his resolve, refusing to let Kahldris best him. He took a resolute step forward. Teku’s calls stopped instantly. Silence engulfed the hall. Up ahead, a chamber beckoned, pouring out orange candlelight. Vaguely he remembered the room, calling it up from his past. Not a room from the library, this one was from Gilwyn’s first home. The place he had been born.

‘Lionkeep. .’

Things had changed in Lionkeep over the years, but he was back there suddenly, nearly two decades in the past. Shadows grew in the chamber’s threshold, the frantic throes of a woman in labour. It was his birthday, and in that room he was being born.

Inching forward, the illusion became complete as he heard his mother’s cries, screaming as the midwives consoled her. The agony of his birth drove her cries through the hallway. Gilwyn pushed himself onward, unable to look away as he neared the chamber. At first he saw Gwena, the midwife who had delivered him, half hidden behind a woman’s bloodied thigh. Gwena stared intently into the woman’s womb. Another woman — a girl, really — stayed beside Gwena, looking frightened as the one on the bed continued to scream. She was Beith, Gilwyn’s mother. Gilwyn could see her contorted face now, streamed with tears, the veins on her neck bulging with effort. Gwena urged her on, coaxing her to push the baby from her body, its head beginning to crown between her legs. Fluid rushed from the womb, staining the sheets. Beith screamed for it to end. Gilwyn reared back, the surroundings swimming and changing as the library more and more became Lionkeep. Then, inexplicably, his mother turned to look at him. When their eyes met, she scowled.

Gilwyn couldn’t move. Like his mother, he wanted to scream, but even breathing became difficult as he forced himself to watch his own bloody birth. With one last momentous push, the infant that was him came tumbling out of Beith’s body, wet and wailing, the cord connecting them pulsing pink with life. The midwives looked at the infant and all at once their happy faces shrouded in dread. The baby — baby Gilwyn — writhed in its own wet bounty, its hands hooked, its fingers fused to clubs. Gwena shrieked at the hideous thing and the girl at her side fainted away. His mother was sobbing, somehow knowing the monster she had birthed. Gilwyn shook his head wildly, falling back.

‘That’s not how it was!’ he shouted.

Beith’s wails followed him as he turned and ran down the shifting corridor. He was crazed by the vision and desperate to get away, and the hallway stretched out before him, changing in the darkness as he hobbled, part Lionkeep, part library. The screams of his mother fell away behind him as he manoeuvred through the coil halls, turning corners only to see another unfamiliar wall. Soon he was exhausted, and resting against the wall he caught his breath, trying to banish the horrible images. Ruana was talking to him, begging him to breathe. The long hall lead to darkness.

At the end of the corridor, an apparition waited. Gilwyn turned toward it with a moan. His mother Beith waited there, dressed in saffron, her face tranquil and beautiful. She smiled at him, raising her gentle hand to call to him. Gilwyn gripped the stone wall. She was as she had been when she was healthy, before the cancers had eaten her flesh. Like sea foam she floated toward him, the hem of her saffron dress trailing silently across the floor. Gilwyn pulled himself from the wall and drifted toward her, fascinated by the image Kahldris had conjured. He knew she wasn’t real, but in every way she was his mother, picked from his memory and gloriously remade. He remembered the dress she wore, her favourite, and the way she kept her hair, straight and long around her shoulders. The serene expression on her face spoke only of her love for him, the child she missed so sorely.

‘Mother. .’

Beith met him in the centre of the hall, reaching out to take his hands. Her warm touch brought him to tears.

‘My Gilwyn,’ she said, her voice a perfect likeness. ‘I’ve come back to you.’

‘It’s not you,’ sobbed Gilwyn. ‘You’re not real.’

‘I live on, Gilwyn. You know that. I watch you. Everyday I am with you.’

He knew that spirits walked the world; he had learned that much at least in Jador. And the touch of his mother’s soft fingers made her seem so real to him.

‘No,’ he argued. He closed his eyes against the pain. ‘You’re the trick of a demon. I know you are!’

His mother leaned in closer, kissing his cheek. ‘What a fine man you are now! I am so proud of you, Gilwyn.’

‘Stop,’ he begged, falling into her embrace. ‘No more. .’

But his mother held him closer, taking him to her bosom the way she had in his youth, and later in all those dreams when she was dead. Gilwyn sank into her, surrendering, knowing she was made from smoke but unable to resist. So sorely did he miss her, so much had he missed in those years when she was gone. Sickness had taken her, but she was back now, and for a moment he believed.

Gilwyn, stop! cried Ruana. She is a phantom!

Her shout broke his spell, and he pulled himself from the visage of his mother. Looking at her, he watched her eyes began to bubble in her head, the skin on her face falling off in clumps. She screamed, clawing at her body as Kahldris’ magic ravaged her. Bones popped through her skin. The ivory complexion turned to dust. Then, in a heap of wailing flesh, she fell to the floor and shattered to bits.

‘No!’

Horrified, Gilwyn ran. The long halls of Lionkeep became the library again, but he hardly noticed the transformation. Driven by the ghastly images, he dashed from the hall as quickly as his shriveled foot allowed, leaving behind his dead mother and the taunting laughs of Kahldris.

One day’s journey south of Nith, in a valley not unlike the tiny principality itself, Lukien and his cohorts from Jador had reined in their horses to bed down for the night. Dusk had settled over the surrounding hills, casting the long shadows of twilight across the road. In the nearby meadow, only a handful of trees obscured the flat landscape, inviting them to rest themselves and water their horses at a lake of clear water. Alsadair, the most anxious among them to reach Nith, agreed reluctantly to stop for the night, and as he and Lorn watered the horses Ghost and Lukien prepared the fire. The young albino worked fast and diligently, and by the time the others had unpacked their things he had the fire ready for them all, just in time for the encroaching darkness. The four of them went through their usual routine with ease, well-practiced in the tasks of making camp. They had ridden together for many long weeks, and over that time had developed a rhythm to things, each of them taking on their own set of duties. And in less than an hour, they were ready to eat.

Amazingly, cooking their rations fell to Lorn, the only one of them with a genuine talent for it. Despite a lifetime spent being pampered by servants, the last few years of the deposed king’s existence had been marked by doing things for himself. He knew his way around a frying pan like an expert, and whatever meats or vegetables they had managed to find for themselves found their way into Lorn’s oddly capable hands. He was, Lukien had discovered, a man of many surprises.

Tonight, Lukien remained unusually quiet, made thoughtful by their closeness to Nith. Alsadair, who had guided them all the way north, bore an unmistakable smile of anticipation. He had been gone from his homeland for months, but he was near enough to smell it now, and had spent the day regaling them all with the big history of little Nith. And Ghost, who almost always played his flute while they rode, made up ditties about Nith that had them all laughing.

All but Lukien.

The campfire leapt and crackled. On the other side of it, Ghost and Alsadair played cards while Lorn finished making the meal. Lukien watched them through the orange glow, glad that they were with him. In Jador, before he had left to rescue Thorin, he and Ghost had been fast friends. He was more than a companion on their mission — he was a confidant, and the only one of the three that Lukien really trusted. Lukien had grown to like Alsadair during their time together, but Ghost was an Inhuman, and because of that there was a special bond between he and Lukien. They understood the magic of Grimhold better than the others. It made them like brothers.

Lukien relaxed, quietly watching Lorn as he tasted the stew simmering in his iron pot. The old king gave a nod of satisfaction, then caught Lukien staring at him. Without a word Lorn went back to his work. The two of them rarely talked, though to his credit Lorn had tried. It was Lukien who kept the Norvan at arm’s length, because he neither liked Lorn nor trusted him, and he wanted no misunderstanding about that. Lorn had proven useful on the long journey, not only as a cook but also as a scout and a lookout and all the other talents martial men learn. He could fight, too. There was no doubt about that, and having his sword with them gave them all an added sense of security. Still, Lorn had only one mission in life, and it was not to free Thorin Glass.

Above all else, it was this that made Lukien uneasy tonight, and it was this that lead him to step away from the fire. Beside him lay the Sword of Angels, resting inconspicuously in its battered sheath. He retrieved the weapon and got to his feet, eager to be away from the others. Ghost was the first to notice him leaving.

‘Lukien? Where you going?’ he asked, lowering his cards. Alsadair swiveled to give Lukien the same puzzled look.

‘I have something to do,’ replied Lukien vaguely. ‘Eat without me.’

Lorn looked up from his pot but said nothing. Ghost crinkled his white nose. Now that the sun was down he had taken off his protective wraps. His grey eyes danced with firelight.

‘It’s dark out there!’ he shouted after Lukien.

‘Thanks, Mother,’ said Lukien. ‘I’ll be careful.’

It wasn’t lack of appetite that drove Lukien out to the field. He was famished, as they all were, but a nagging feeling sent him away, one that he could not share with the others. So far, he had only spoken with Malator once on the long ride north, just before leaving Ganjor. His Akari had been as silent as Amaraz over the past few weeks, leading Lukien to worry. Now that they were nearing Nith, it would only be a couple of weeks more until they met Kahldris. And then?

Lukien didn’t know, because Malator had done little to give him solace. And solace was what the knight needed more than anything this evening, more than food or friendship. He needed to see the face of his Akari and be told that everything would be alright. Leaving behind the light of the camp, Lukien walked through the tall weeds of the meadow, brushing aside the cattails and switches of grass. The ground was damp beneath his feet but solid. He could hear the rustle of wildlife from the nearby lake. Overhead, the moon glowed big and bright, lighting his way. He walked until the voices of his companions fell away and he could no longer see them. For what he was about to do, he needed privacy.

Finally, near the centre of the sprawling meadow, Lukien stopped. He took a breath, glancing around then pausing to stare up at the moon and the stars that had come out to greet him. He saw the great sweep of milky cosmos, feeling small beneath it and confused. In his hand he held the Sword of Angels in its sheath, and through his fingers felt the pulsing of its steel, alive with Malator. The spirit in the metal sensed his trepidation, but said nothing. Lukien pulled the sword from its sheath and held it high toward the moon, not really sure if it was a ritual or not.

‘Malator,’ he said, ‘I need you. Show yourself to me, please.’

It took only a moment for the spirit to respond. Shimmering into being, the figure of Malator came to stand before the knight, dressed as he had been that first time they’d met in a simple shirt and trousers. Malator, youthful and confident, smiled at Lukien, clearly reading the trouble on his host’s face. Lukien lowered the sword and looked at him, still amazed that a ghost accompanied him everywhere.

‘You don’t have to do that, you know,’ said Malator wryly.

‘Do what?’ asked Lukien.

‘Summon me like that. There’s no trick to it, Lukien. If you want me, just ask. I’m always with you.’

A little embarrassed, Lukien put the sword back into its sheath. ‘I wanted to speak to you away from the others,’ he explained. ‘You haven’t come to me in a while. I was concerned.’

‘I know when you are concerned, Lukien, and when you are happy or tired or hungry. I know what you’re worrying about.’ Malator looked around, absorbing the night air into his ethereal body. ‘It’s cooler here,’ he said. He looked back at Lukien with a flash of mischief. ‘Almost time.’

‘It is almost time,’ agreed Lukien. ‘Are you ready? Have you been preparing yourself?’

Malator studied him. ‘It’s not me that needs to prepare himself. It is you, Lukien.’ As though he were one of Lukien’s riding cohorts, Malator sat down cross-legged on the ground, a peculiar sight considering the ethereal state of his legs. He looked up at Lukien expectedly. ‘Talk,’ he directed.

Lukien took his meaning, but knew not where to begin. He had a hundred worries running through his mind, and no way to quell them. Instead of sitting down in front of Malator he paced around him with his sword in hand.

‘This is Nith,’ he sighed. ‘We’re a day out. Soon I’ll be seeing Aric again, and then we’ll be riding for Liiria. Your brother, Malator.’

‘I know,’ said Malator. ‘I can feel him getting closer.’

‘But you haven’t spoken to me about him,’ argued Lukien. ‘You haven’t said a word about how you plan to fight him, nothing beyond what you’ve already told me. I want to know if you’re ready, Malator.’

‘And I want to know if you are ready, Lukien.’ Malator’s tone was surprisingly stern. ‘I have all the talents I need to fight my brother. What do you want from me? A promise that I will defeat him?’

‘That would be very nice, yes!’

‘Well I can’t give you that. So you can go on gnashing your teeth all you like. All I can do is go with you and do this thing you ask of me. But what I need is a host who won’t lose his nerve.’

‘What?’ Lukien stopped to stare at him. ‘My nerve is as steely as ever, Malator.’

‘No,’ said the spirit. ‘I don’t think it is. I’ve been in your head, remember. I’ve felt what you’ve felt. You see, I can’t do my best unless the one who wields the sword is prepared. And all you’ve been doing is thinking about your last battle with Baron Glass. You’re afraid.’

The words struck Lukien hard. He made to strike back, then stopped himself.

‘Let me force you to face it,’ Malator went on, ‘since you won’t admit it yourself. I’ll be that little voice in your head that tells you when something’s not right.’ His eyes pierced Lukien, never blinking. ‘When you can’t sleep at night, it’s because you remember lying in your blood in the middle of the road. You remember what it was like to have your muscles set on fire. And all you could do was let Glass toss you around like a doll and hope he wouldn’t kill you.’

Lukien stopped breathing, confronted by his own nightmares. In the meadow it seemed that time had collapsed, bringing him back to that awful moment in Koth when Thorin held his life in his hands like so many grains of sand. Malator’s hypnotic gaze held him, refusing to let him look away. Lukien shuddered.

‘There’s nothing I can hide from you, is there?’ he whispered. ‘You see me too clearly.’

‘It is good to be afraid, Lukien,’ said Malator gently. ‘And if you cannot tell the others, then you can tell me because I know already.’

Lukien lowered his head. ‘I have never been afraid like this,’ he said. Even his words frightened him. ‘Never in my life. I have seen death a thousand times. Hell, I have craved it! But this. .’ He groped for an explanation. ‘Facing Kahldris was worse then death. Like being eaten by a dragon, slowly bit by bit.’

Malator was plainly moved. His face twisted with sympathy. ‘When he and I were boys, even our mother was afraid of Kahldris. And then when he became a general, his men thought he was a demon and they were right. They followed him because he was strong and fearless, but they never loved him. No one ever loved Kahldris, because no one ever could. He gathers fear around him like a cloak, Lukien. He has had a thousand years to learn the craft. You are brave even to face him again.’

‘I don’t feel brave,’ whispered Lukien. ‘I feel like a little boy.’ It was hard for Lukien to face Malator. He raised his eyes slowly. ‘You are right about me, Malator. I’m afraid, and I do not know what I will do when I face him again.’

‘You will fight, I have no doubt of it,’ said Malator. ‘But you must be as strong as Kahldris, Lukien. It will not be easy for me to battle him. You will need all your skill to give me the time I need. That means you must be there completely. If you are afraid, they will sense it and use it against you.’

‘But I am afraid,’ said Lukien hopelessly. ‘And I cannot shake it.’

Malator rose and floated closer to Lukien. Despite his slight frame, there was a tautness to him that gave Lukien confidence. ‘Then I will be strong for both of us. You must trust me.’

‘I do.’

‘Perhaps you do a little, but it must be complete.’ The Akari laughed to leaven the mood. ‘I have not been doing nothing, you know! I have been thinking, and I know I can beat my brother. I need you to believe in me, Lukien.’

Lukien gave a wan smile. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said miserably.

‘Go back to your friends,’ said Malator. ‘And know that I am with you.’

The Akari disappeared then, blinking out of the world as quickly as he’d come. Lukien stared blankly at the place he had been, feeling lost.

By the time the Bronze Knight reached the castle, Aric Glass had already learned of his arrival. It didn’t take long for the rest of the keep to spring into action, either, as the servants who regularly took care of things prepared for their new guests. Sentries at the castle gate reported that the quartet had entered the courtyard, where they were waiting for someone — anyone — to greet them. Aric, who had been occupied in his chambers when the news of their arrival came, pulled on a pair of boots and ran down the hallways of castle Nith, eager to see his old comrade. As bad luck would have it, Prince Daralor was not in the castle. The prince had been gone the last few days, visiting a cousin in a nearby province. His ministers, however, were already falling over themselves to see to the needs of their new visitors. As Aric raced toward the courtyard, he found Daralor’s trusted aide Gravis waiting for him, dressed in royal finery and just as anxious as Aric to meet the newcomers. He waved at Aric to hurry.

‘They’re waiting in the courtyard,’ said Gravis nervously. ‘They’re asking for you.’

‘Alsadair is with them?’ asked Aric as they walked briskly together through the hall.

‘Alsadair is with them!’ pronounced Gravis happily. He laughed, hardly believing it. ‘That wily bastard — he found them!’

Aric could barely contain his glee. How many months had it been since he’d parted with Lukien? It seemed a lifetime ago, and more than once he had doubted to ever face his friend again. He had a thousand things to tell Lukien, but right now all he wanted was to see the knight and embrace him. As a curious crowd began gathering around the main hall, Aric and Gravis pushed their way toward the courtyard, at last stepping through the castle’s portcullis into the cobblestone yard. At least a dozen Nithin soldiers were already there, all of them chattering as they crowded around the centre of the yard where — presumably — Lukien and his cohorts waited. Aric craned his neck for a better view, but all he could see over the heads of the people were a group of horses, their saddles empty. He cleared his throat to no avail, asking politely for the soldiers to move aside. Annoyed, Gravis made no such attempt.

‘Out of the way!’ barked the minister, grabbing one man by the shoulder and shoving him aside. ‘Clear off!’

Whatever magic his voice held, the soldiers parted when they heard it, moving to the sides of the courtyard to reveal a foursome of bewildered men. Aric grinned when he saw them, his eyes falling immediately on Lukien, who looked around with confusion. At last the knight’s probing gaze fell on Aric, and all at once a giant smile lit his face.

‘Aric!’ he cried. Gleefully he bolted forward, arms outstretched. Behind him, the Nithin soldier Alsadair was laughing. Lukien rushed to Aric, grabbing him in both hands. ‘Aric! Gods above, it’s you!’

‘It’s me, Lukien,’ laughed Aric. He let Lukien’s strong arms encircle him. ‘I can’t believe you’re here!’

The two men embraced for a long moment, each of them choked with surprising emotion. To Aric, Lukien looked like a changed man, wearied by whatever quest had taken him away. When at last they pulled apart, Aric stole a glance at Lukien’s weathered face. The knight nodded solemnly.

‘It’s been a hard road,’ he said.

Aric sighed and touched his shoulder. ‘You’re here now. You can rest.’ He smiled at Lukien’s companions. ‘All of you.’

Alsadair pushed the other two forward. One was an older man, big and fierce looking. The other, smaller man, wore desert wrappings around his face and gloves along his wiry hands. Only his two grey eyes peered out from his scarves, jumping with excitement. Aric studied them both, thinking them equally peculiar.

‘Welcome,’ he told them. ‘I’m Aric Glass.’ He gestured toward Gravis, still beside him. ‘This is Minister Gravis. He runs things here for Prince Daralor.’

Gravis bowed to them slightly. ‘Welcome to Nith,’ he said smoothly. ‘We have been waiting for you.’

Alsadair stepped up to them, bowing to Gravis and losing his giddy grin. ‘Gravis, this is Lukien of Liiria. These others are his companions, from Jador.’

Gravis smiled at him. ‘Well done indeed, Alsadair. We have waited for you as well. We are proud of you.’

Alsadair swelled at the compliment. ‘I should like to take them to Prince Daralor myself,’ he said.

Gravis shook his white head. ‘The prince is in Yaroo province,’ he said, ‘and won’t be back until the morrow.’

The news deflated Alsadair. ‘Oh. .’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Aric cheerfully. There was nothing that could spoil his good mood. ‘You’re here now, that’s what matters.’ His gaze dropped to Lukien’s belt. ‘And you found the sword.’

As though they all knew what Aric meant, the crowd fell quiet. Lukien gently patted the weapon at his side, a great blade resting in a threadbare scabbard. ‘I have found it, Aric.’

Aric felt a charge. ‘The serpent kingdom?’

‘It exists,’ said Lukien. ‘The sword was there, waiting for me.’

‘Amazing,’ Aric sighed. ‘I must see it. But first. .’ He gestured for the others to come closer. ‘Introduce your friends, Lukien.’

‘I am Ghost,’ said the one with the head scarves. He bounded forward like a child. ‘And I am not a Jadori.’

‘No?’ said Aric, confused. ‘What are you, then?’

‘I am an Inhuman,’ pronounced the man, who Aric guessed was young. ‘Do you know what that means?’

‘Easy,’ counseled Lukien.

Ghost laughed. ‘Oh, let me show them, Lukien. These brave people are helping us! Let them see that we are not ourselves helpless.’

Lukien sighed as though he had seen the young man’s performance before. ‘Very well,’ he said with a wave. ‘Watch him closely, Aric.’

Aric puzzled over the young man, waiting. The rest of the crowd did the same.

‘They call me Ghost,’ declared the stranger, ‘because I can simply disappear.’

And then he was gone. Aric gasped. Astonished, the crowd stepped back. The stranger’s laugh bounced through the courtyard.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Gravis. His serious face turned red with anger. ‘What’s this trickery?’

‘No trick,’ said the young man’s disembodied voice. ‘Magic!’

The astounded soldiers looked at Alsadair, but the Nithin merely smiled. ‘It’s what he does,’ he offered sheepishly. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’

‘It’s witchery!’ said Gravis.

Lukien rolled his eyes. ‘Show yourself, Ghost,’ he ordered.

The stranger popped back into view, this time standing right beside Aric, who jumped as he felt his arm around his shoulder.

‘What?’ Aric blurted. He looked at Lukien then back at the stranger. ‘What is this?’

‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Ghost with an audible smile. ‘I’m an Inhuman. Surely Lukien has told you what that means.’

Aric had only a vague idea. Uncomfortable, he squirmed out of the man’s grasp, then looked at the older man. ‘And what do you do?’ he asked. ‘Fly?’

The crowd laughed, even Minister Gravis. But the man with the fierce eyes merely shrugged. ‘Nothing so extravagant,’ he said. His answer left

mystery in the air. Lukien stepped between the man and Aric.

‘This is Lorn,’ said Lukien. ‘I’ll tell you about him later.’

‘Alright,’ agreed Aric. He laughed again, too pleased from seeing his old friend to let anything worry him. ‘Let’s go inside. You need to rest.’

‘And to eat,’ said the one called Ghost. ‘We’ve had nothing but Lorn’s cooking for months.’

Two hours later, Lukien found himself seated at a long table beneath a chandelier lit with glowing candles. The table had been set with fine silverware and crystal goblets full of wine and beer. Platters of steaming food and breads covered the linen tablecloth. Lukien and his cohorts had rested, the Nithin servants falling over themselves to make the strangers comfortable. Alsadair had said his goodbye’s to them, rushing off to see the family he had left behind so many months earlier. While Lukien and the others refreshed themselves, Aric disappeared until their supper was ready, reappearing in the splendid banquet hall to unveil the treasures the kitchen had cooked up for them. Minister Gravis, sure that the old friends wanted to be alone, excused himself from the feast, leaving just the four of them — Lukien, Ghost, Lorn and Aric — to enjoy the meal and catch up on all the news they had for each other.

Lukien revelled in the meal and Aric’s company. After so many weeks on the road, just having a roof over his head was a treat. The banquet room itself was an elaborate confection, full of expensive artwork hung on its mahogany walls and lit by a trio of wrought iron chandeliers that made the chamber glow with warmth. The long, striking table seemed to reach from wall to wall, surrounded by a collection of high-backed chairs, all of them richly upholstered in red velvet. The servants that darted in and out of the chamber paid no attention to the conversation, doing their best to keep the wine flowing and the good food hot. Ghost flirted with the prettiest servants, flashing his wolfish grin as he held out his tankard for more beer. Because they were inside and out of the sun, he had removed the cowl from around his face, smiling flirtatiously to any girl who would pay him attention.

Lorn, meanwhile, listened cagily to everything that Aric told him, breaking a mutton joint in his hands and eating slowly, never saying a word. Like Lukien, he sat diagonally across from Aric, who had placed himself at the head of the table. Lukien glanced at Lorn occasionally, taking in the sly way the old king hung on every word. So far, none of them had told Aric about his true identity, and Lorn didn’t seem to mind the pretense. With endless patience, he listened to Aric tell his story, relating every detail about his life since he had parted with Lukien in Koth a year earlier. Lorn chewed his food carefully, never making too much noise, always waiting for any mention of Norvor or his hated nemesis, Jazana Carr. Lukien knew this and did not mind. He would have to tell Aric the truth about Lorn, he realized, but saw no hurry in ruining their reunion.

Lukien leaned back in his chair, sipping on his wine as he listened to Aric tell of his days with Raxor of Reec. In years gone by, old Raxor had been an enemy of Lukien’s. More than once had the two of them met on the battlefield, but that was long ago, before the peace between Liiria and Reec. Lukien hardly knew Raxor at all now, but listening to the story of his son’s slaughter made the knight wistful.

‘And then I went to the bridge and saw my father,’ said Aric. His face grew dark, the memory of the day souring his mood. Young Aric lowered his eyes to stare into his wine goblet. ‘They told me he wasn’t a man any more,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking when I rode to the front. At first I couldn’t even see anything. It was all just a black swarm. And then I saw him on the bridge. I tell you, Lukien, he looked like a demon, sitting there on his horse. And the river was choked with bodies. Choked.’ Aric shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe what he’d seen. ‘After that I rode back to Raxor and begged him to retreat.’

The men around the table fell silent. Ghost had stopped grinning, and Lorn had pushed his plate aside. Lukien groped for the right thing to say, but nothing could erase what Aric had endured.

‘What happened then?’ Lukien asked. ‘You went back to Reec with him?’

Aric nodded. He hesitated, as though he were hiding something. ‘I didn’t stay with him long,’ he said. ‘By then he knew about Nith and wanted me to come back here and wait for you. He said that he’d be ready if the time ever came, and that he’d stand with us when we returned.’

Lukien was intrigued. ‘Do you believe him, Aric?’

‘I do, Lukien. I tell you, I have seen such strange things this last year! Raxor is a good man. He’s nothing like I’d thought he’d be. He’s as crusty as an old loaf of bread, but his heart is good and I trust him. He’ll be ready for us when we return, I know it.’

‘We’ll need him,’ said Lukien. ‘You say Daralor has only a few thousand men to bring with us?’

‘I don’t even think it’s that many, really,’ said Aric.

‘And Raxor? He’s already been beaten by Thorin. He can’t have that many men, either.’

‘Reec is still strong,’ said Aric confidently. ‘But it’s not about numbers, Lukien. Raxor could have thrown everything he had at my father, it wouldn’t have mattered. I’m telling you, you had to have seen him!’

‘I did see him,’ Lukien reminded Aric. ‘I fought him, remember.’

Aric grimaced. ‘I remember. But he’s changed even since then. He’s much worse now, Lukien.’

‘And he’s had time,’ said Lorn, finally breaking his silence. The big man looked at all of them seriously. ‘Without Reec to bother him he’s had all the time he needs to build up his forces, to call up reserves from Norvor. Tell me, Aric, what about that? You have hardly mentioned Norvor or Jazana Carr.’

Aric shrugged. ‘I have no news, not since leaving Liiria. Travelers don’t come here to Nith.’

‘Then we must assume the worst,’ Lorn concluded. ‘Baron Glass will be waiting for us, and Jazana Carr’s dogs will be surrounding him.’

Lukien nodded at the deduction. ‘When Daralor returns, we should speak to him, ask him just how many men he can muster for this.’

‘Lukien, it won’t matter,’ Aric insisted. ‘Three thousand men or a hundred thousand, my father could take them all if he wanted. Everything he told me about his armour is true — he’s invincible in it. Only your sword can stop him now.’

Leaning against Lukien’s chair rested the sword. If he listened very closely, he could almost hear its rhythmic humming. The awesome responsibility for bringing down Thorin rested with the sword now, and with the man who would wield it. Aric didn’t need convincing. He was sure that only Lukien and his magical sword could save them.

‘I think,’ said Lukien, ‘that I should like to speak with Daralor when he returns. Sword or not, I will still need to get to Thorin, and that will take men. He’s not just going to come out of Lionkeep and fight me this time.’

‘Then we’ll draw him out,’ said Lorn, ‘and his bitch-queen with him.’

Aric bristled at his tone. ‘Sir, it’s time you did explain yourself. .’

‘No,’ said Lukien. He smiled. ‘Forget him, Aric. I want to know more about what happened to you. Where did you go after I left?’ He paused, hoping Aric would take his meaning. ‘Where did everyone go?’

Young Aric blanched. ‘Oh. I think I see what you mean.’ He glanced at the others uncomfortably. ‘How much do you want me to say, Lukien?’

It was plain that Aric had bad news. Lukien braced himself. ‘What happened to her?’

‘Lukien, I haven’t told you this yet. I don’t know if I should.’

‘Tell me, Aric,’ Lukien insisted. ‘What happened to Meriel?’

Aric shifted. ‘She’s in Reec, Lukien. With Raxor.’

‘What?’

‘I know it’s hard to believe. I didn’t even believe it myself at first! She was captured, Lukien. She meant to go to my father as she threatened, but Raxor’s spies in Koth found her and brought her to him in Hes. When I went there, I saw her.’

Lukien’s mouth hung open in shock. ‘Aric, you left her there?’

Aric nodded, looking ashamed. ‘I had no choice. I spoke to her. We argued. I don’t know if she’s still there with him, but he wouldn’t let her go and I don’t think she would leave him, either.’

‘So you left her there.’ Lukien fought to still his anger. ‘Like she was just some harem girl, you left her behind.’

‘I had to, Lukien. I had to get back here, to tell Daralor what had happened and to wait for you!’

‘You should have demanded Raxor let her go!’

‘I did!’ snorted Aric. ‘But he loves her, Lukien. And I’m not sure, but I think she loves him, too. He’s a broken man. She’s all he has.’

‘She’s not a slave,’ Lukien rumbled. ‘She’s being kept as a prisoner.’ He pounded his fist on the table. ‘You should have stayed with her, Aric. You should have made Raxor let her go!’

‘You weren’t there!’ Aric shot back. ‘You went off without her, remember? You’re the reason she wanted to go to my father in the first place!’

Both Ghost and Lorn shrank away as Lukien got to his feet. With a face like thunder, Lukien said, ‘I brought her across the desert because she wouldn’t make a move without me. She hung around me like death because she loved me. I never wanted her love, but I never wanted her discarded, either.’

Aric remained seated, staying as calm as he could. ‘It’s not like that, Lukien. Raxor is good to her. He doesn’t treat her like a slave or plaything. He’s kind to her. Kinder than you were, probably. And you know what else? She was happy there!’

Lukien was about to erupt, then stopped himself. He reached for his chair as he stared at Aric — and at Aric’s accusations. ‘I’m supposed to trust Raxor now?’ He laughed. ‘I’m surrounded by men like that!’ He looked with disdain at Lorn. ‘Tell him who you are, Lorn. Let Aric have a good laugh.’

Lorn got up from his chair. ‘Sit down, Lukien. You’re drunk.’

‘Drunk! Yes!’ cackled Lukien. ‘All my enemies are here to help me. And why? To kill my best friend!’

‘What enemies, Lukien?’ said Ghost. ‘We’re not your enemies.’

‘Raxor is my enemy!’ roared Lukien. He picked up the sword, and with a swipe of his arm sent the plates and glassware near him flying off the table. The crash of dishes brought the servants running, but Lukien ignored them, pointing his sword — still in its sheath — at Lorn. ‘And this hideous pig of a man — he’s my enemy. He’s everyone’s enemy! I’m just Minikin’s messenger boy, bringing him back to Norvor!’

‘Lukien, that’s enough,’ hissed Ghost.

Aric stood puzzled, looked between Lukien and Lorn. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Lorn?’

Lorn, staring down Lukien’s sword, declared proudly, ‘I am Lorn, the rightful king of Norvor. I’m going home to reclaim my throne.’

‘You’re not,’ sneered Lukien. ‘I won’t have it.’

Lorn looked almost serene. His expression infuriated Lukien. ‘I’m the rightful king,’ he said. ‘You know I am, Lukien.’

‘You are a butcher and a tyrant,’ spat Lukien. ‘Minikin must be out of her mind to let you go.’

‘Minikin owes me. I lived up to my part of our bargain.’

‘Bargain?’ Aric piped up. ‘Lukien, I don’t understand this.’

‘Your bargain was with her, yes,’ said Lukien to Lorn. ‘Not with me.’

‘So what will you do?’ challenged Lorn. He stood his ground, looking unafraid of the crazed knight.

‘I should put you down like a sick dog,’ hissed Lukien.

‘You may not find that so easy,’ said Lorn calmly.

‘Oh, I knew this was coming!’ cried Ghost, who jumped onto the table between them. He turned to Lukien, making sure to push the tip of the sword aside. ‘Put it down,’ he directed. ‘You don’t want to fight here, Lukien.’

Lukien’s hand began to tremble as he stared into Lorn’s hard face. The Norvan was icy calm as he returned the glare. Aric hurried to Lukien’s side.

‘Put it down, Lukien,’ he echoed angrily. ‘I don’t care what your grievance is with Lorn. This is Daralor’s house!’

‘Right,’ sighed Lukien, at last relenting. He lowered his sword without ever having unsheathed it, shaking his head miserably. ‘Aric, do you want to know this man’s history? Ask him. He’ll tell you everything. He’s proud of it.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Aric, holding his gaze. ‘We’re all going to Liiria.’

‘That’s right,’ chirped Lorn.

‘Shut up,’ Ghost snapped at him.

Lorn withdrew with a scowl. He began to leave the banquet chamber, then stopped to glance at Lukien. ‘Sooner or later you’ll have to trust me, Lukien.’

Lukien shook his head. He said to Ghost, ‘Go with him.’

Reluctantly, the albino followed Lorn out of the chamber, taking the stunned servants with them. Lukien laid his sword on the table, sorry for the things he had said to Aric, the scene he had caused. Aric waited a long moment before going back to his chair. But he did not sit down. He merely paused there expectantly.

‘I did care about her,’ said Lukien.

Aric nodded. ‘I know you did. I did what I could for her, Lukien, just like you.’

‘When you see Raxor again, you must try to get her free.’

‘I’ll try, Lukien.’

The awkwardness between them was intolerable. Lukien looked at Aric and smiled. ‘I’m drunk.’

They both laughed.

‘King Lorn the Wicked?’ said Aric. ‘Is it him, really?’

‘Aye,’ lamented Lukien. ‘Truly, I am cursed.’

Aric began to laugh more loudly, taking his seat. He licked his lips as if he still had a secret. Lukien eyed him, knowing the man too well.

‘What are you laughing at?’ he asked.

‘Lorn.’ Aric stopped laughing abruptly. ‘Maybe it’s nothing. .’

‘What? Tell me, Aric.’

‘It’s really just a rumour.’

‘What?’ pressed Lukien.

Aric looked around to make sure no one was listening. ‘He’s going to hear it from someone, it might as well be you. I didn’t mention this yet because it didn’t seem important, not until we started talking about Norvor. There’s something you should know, Lukien.’

‘Aric,’ groaned Lukien. ‘Tell me!’

‘It’s about Jazana Carr,’ said Aric. ‘We do get some news here in Nith. Lukien, we heard she’s dead.’

Old King Raxor knelt on the dirt floor of the arena, his face buried in warm, brown fur. Broud, the big male bear, wrestled him playfully, using its powerful jaws to tickle his shoulder and its big, clawed paws to leverage him aside. As Varsha looked on with mild interest, waiting for her own turn to entertain her master, Raxor lifted Broud to his hind paws, then let the bear dance backward, loudly calling out his approval. Broud, who seemed to get bigger every time Raxor saw him, remained upright for Raxor’s pleasure, balancing expertly the way he had been taught. Raxor clapped his hands and laughed, letting the bear fall gently forward, then called his sister forward.

‘Varsha, up,’ said Raxor, and with a wave of his hand brought the female upright. Varsha stretched her muscled body skyward, prancing the way she’d seen her brother do. The bag of treats at Raxor’s side brought a quick reward. ‘Good,’ praised Raxor happily. It would be the last he would see of his two beloved bears, and he wanted to remember them perfectly.

Above the open-air arena, the morning waned quickly into afternoon. Sunlight leaned heavily on Raxor’s weathered face. He sweated in his velvet garments, not at all dressed for a day with his pets. Where he was going, he needed to look the part of a king, but his heart was here with the siblings, and he knew he would miss them horribly. One at a time he tossed the bears the bread balls from his bag, taking his time. He had asked General Moon to wait for him, and the old soldier had relented to the request, yielding to the king’s idiosyncrasies. There was a long march ahead of them and all was ready, prepared for months as Reec simmered from its many loses. Reec was hardly the country Raxor remembered. It had changed so much since he’d returned from Liiria.

‘Why do things have to change?’ he asked his bears. ‘Why do men have to get old?’

Broud and his sister ignored the question, more interested in the treats being tossed into their snouts. Their silence reminded Raxor why he had come to the arena today. Today, he needed the solace of the place, the simple companionship of the bears. In all of Reec a storm was brewing, but not so in this peaceful place. As it had been for so many years, the arena and its inhabitants were a refuge for Raxor. His country had gone mad. Too many mothers had lost sons in Liiria, and too many fathers were crying for revenge. Raxor himself had lost his son, and the heartbreak of that gave him insight into the madness of his countrymen. He had tried to keep a lid on the boiling pot, to wait until Aric and their Nithin allies arrived, but he had heard nothing from Aric in months, not since getting his letter, and the rage of his Reecians would not be quelled.

‘Only blood,’ mused Raxor with a sigh. ‘That’s the only thing they want.’

Raxor himself wanted blood. He wanted Baron Glass on the end of his lance for what had happened to Mirage. For weeks, the news of her death had spiraled him into depression, and when he had awoken from it the lament of his people had become too much to ignore.

Raxor felt around in his bag of treats. It was empty. He looked at the bears apologetically.

‘That’s it.’

Broud looked sad. His sister Varsha came up to nuzzle Raxor’s leg. Between them both, they had left a slick of brown hair on his fine garments. Seeing it made Raxor smile. His people loved him, but thought he was mad, and he did their bidding now because they demanded it. Raxor was not afraid of facing Thorin Glass again. He had hoped to do it with Nithin help and the aid of the enchanted sword, but those things had never happened, and wounded Reec could wait no longer.

It was time for Raxor to go.

He said his good-byes to his beloved twins, then turned to make his way down the corridor that would lead him to the street. In the shadow of the corridor he saw General Moon. The general nodded, realizing the king was ready, then escorted him out of the arena. Raxor could see the sunlight beckoning at the end of the rounded hall. General Moor moved stiffly as he walked. Like Raxor, his mood was morose. He was, however, a military man, and would do his duty no matter how distasteful. Raxor took the lead as the two of them moved out into the sunlight, stopping at the edge of the street to see the passing parade.

The avenues of Hes were choked with marching soldiers, all the men that she could muster. Thousands of them, armed and gleaming, snaked their way past the king. West they marched, toward Liiria, toward the looming unknown of battle. King Raxor’s horse waited for him, surrounded by loyal bodyguards. General Moon motioned Raxor toward his mount.

‘If you’re ready, my lord,’ he said.

Raxor was ready. For Roland and Mirage, he would once more face the Black Baron.

Alone in the library, a pile of unread books spread out before him, Gilwyn paged through the yellow leaves of a dusty tome, trying vigourously to read the foreign penmanship. His eyes stung as his mind wandered through the words. He had never been able to decipher the strange tongue of Marn, at least not as well as Figgis could, but this one book intrigued him and he continued, occasionally picking out a word he recognized. He read by sunlight, waves of which came though the big windows of the reading room. The empty library echoed with his tiny sounds as he gently turned the pages. It had been nearly two weeks since he had returned to the library, and he did so today only reluctantly. But time was running out and Gilwyn knew it. If he was ever to find a way to break the bond between Thorin and Kahldris, he had to do so quickly.

Gilwyn leaned back with a doleful sigh, exhausted from his morning with the books. Nothing, not even the obscure texts from Marn, told him what he wanted to know. He gave a little curse for the catalogue machine. That vexing collection of rods and pulleys had been no use to him at all. Nor had the endless volumes of manuscripts. Nothing had helped Gilwyn unlock the secret he needed. He began to feel defeat creeping over his shoulders.

Keep going, urged Ruana. Don’t give up.

‘It’s hopeless,’ Gilwyn rumbled. He slammed closed the book from Marn, sending up a cloud of dust. ‘I can’t even read it.’

You’re tired. Rest a bit. Then try again.

‘No,’ said Gilwyn. He grit his teeth. ‘All right, yes.’

Ruana smiled in his mind’s eye. If it’s here, you’ll find it.

‘Ah, but what if it’s not here? What if I’m wasting my time?’

There is an answer, Gilwyn. You’re close.

As tired as he was of reading through the book, Gilwyn was even more tired of Ruana’s encouragement. In all his life he had never met a more cheerful soul. To Ruana, every puzzle had a solution. Being an Akari herself, she should have known how best to beat Kahldris, Gilwyn thought. But she did not. She knew only as much as Gilwyn himself, and they had already been over that tired knowledge a hundred times.

A noise outside the window snagged Gilwyn’s attention. He bolted upright with alarm, then realized it was the wind.

‘Damn it.’

Calm yourself, Ruana urged.

But Gilwyn could not. His feud with Kahldris had frazzled him. It was not enough that the demon had made him face his mother in the library that day, and every day since. Now his dreams were filled with poison. He woke up sweating every midnight. More than once Kahldris had turned his broth to blood and filled his shoes with maggots. They were illusions, but they were all too real for Gilwyn, so that now every small sound made him jump. He had endured Kahldris’ conjurings for two unendurable weeks. Keeping himself awake at night to avoid the nightmares had made him as brittle as an old branch. His hands shook and his eye twitched at the corner. He waited frantically for his mother’s agonized face to appear in every pool of water. Sometimes she spoke to him, other times she simply wailed, giving off a glass-shattering lament.

Gilwyn closed his eyes, trying to refocus his mind. Kahldris had played the game well, and had driven Gilwyn to the edge. But the last two days had been blessedly quiet. There had been no nightmares, no unwanted visitations from his past. It was as if a truce had been called between the two of them, and Gilwyn had honoured it. He had not gone to Thorin or bad-mouthed Kahldris to Lionkeep’s staff. He had simply enjoyed the respite.

Still, he had work to do. He surveyed the stack of books awaiting him, unsure where to start again. They were books on varied subjects, but all with an underlying theme of death and the spirit world. The fact that none of them even mentioned the Akari no longer bothered Gilwyn; he had given up on that tack. Now, all he wanted to know was how the bond between man and spirit was formed. And how it could be broken.

He thought of White-Eye again, and how she had lost her beloved Akari, Faralok. It was pain that had driven him away from her, the intense pain of the desert sun. According to Minikin, the pain had shattered the bond between human and Akari forever. It seemed a simple enough plan, but how could anyone inflict such pain on Thorin Glass? When he wore his armour, he was invincible. And he had lost an arm in battle years ago. He knew pain already, and how to cope with it. To Gilwyn, the notion of inflicting such pain on Thorin seemed hopeless.

‘White-Eye was young,’ he mused aloud. He considered this, and how little pain she had really endured up until she lost Faralok. ‘She didn’t know pain until then, not really.’ He rubbed his temples distractedly. ‘And if I’d been there to protect her. .’

Stop, said Ruana. There’s nothing to be gained.

Gilwyn nodded, but in his heart felt the emptiness. It was good to be back in the Koth, among his books and his own people, but more than anything he wanted to see White-Eye again. He told himself that soon this nightmare would be over, and that Lukien would return to save Thorin from himself, but he didn’t really believe it. Too many months had passed. And he could not leave Thorin, not after the promise he had made to him.

‘I have to save him, Ruana,’ he whispered desperately. ‘It’s up to me.’

Then, like a cold breeze, he felt Kahldris roll into the room. At first he did not see the demon. There was only the chill on his skin and the strange sense that they were not alone. Frightened, Gilwyn looked to the threshold of the chamber, then saw a shadow growing beneath the archway. The shadow poured itself like treacle, rising from floor to ceiling into the black shape of a man. A dark maw opened to speak.

‘There once was a boy named Gilwyn Toms,’ came the booming voice, ‘who thought he could save the world.’

‘Fate above,’ Gilwyn gasped.

The black mass congealed and solidified, changing suddenly into Kahldris. The demon stood in the doorway, smiling, holding a book in his hand. The book opened effortlessly, the pages turning. Kahldris shook his white head.

‘You can look and look forever, boy,’ he taunted. He snapped the book closed and tossed it into the room where it landed near Gilwyn’s table. ‘What have you found? Anything? Is there anything at all in this whole cursed place that’s any help at all?’

Gilwyn rounded the table to face the spirit. ‘You finally decided to come yourself, eh? No more apparitions of my mother?’

‘Your mother tires me,’ sighed Kahldris. ‘Don’t worry, boy — I will think of other nightmares for you.’

‘Go ahead,’ challenged Gilwyn. ‘I’m still here. You can’t frighten me away, no matter what form you come in.’

Kahldris floated into the reading chamber. ‘I have frightened you. You haven’t come back here for days. My little trick scared you, didn’t it, boy?’

Gilwyn hardened. The way Kahldris had turned the familiar library into a labyrinth had indeed frightened him, but he would never admit it to the demon. ‘You can’t keep me away from here. Somewhere in here there’s a book that will tell me what I want to know.’

‘You’re wasting your time,’ said Kahldris. He waved his ethereal hand at the books on the table. ‘All this superstition and nonsense, writing of shamans and charlatans. What do you hope they will tell you? Your own Akari can’t tell you how to beat me!’

‘Get out,’ Gilwyn thundered. ‘Go, get away from me.’

Kahldris looked hurt. ‘Oh, now you’re angry. What will you do? Tell Baron Glass? Go run to him like a little boy? You haven’t done that yet, and you won’t because he won’t have anyone speak against me. Don’t you see? You’re losing him.’

Infuriated, Gilwyn stood his ground. ‘If I was losing him, you wouldn’t be here. You’re the one who’s afraid, Kahldris. That’s why you’re here to threaten me.’

‘No, indeed, Gilwyn Toms,’ said Kahldris. His expression was mischievous. ‘I’m here to warn you, that’s all.’ He cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Listen. .’

Against the silent backdrop, Gilwyn heard footfalls suddenly. His heart tripped. ‘What’s that?’

‘A surprise,’ said Kahldris.

‘Another of your tricks.’

‘Not a trick,’ said the demon. He stepped aside so that Gilwyn could see down the hall. ‘You have visitors.’

Gilwyn heard voices rolling down the corridor, the rough sounds of men. He looked around suspiciously, but so far nothing in the library had changed.

‘I assure you, it is not my conjuring,’ said Kahldris. ‘Go and see for yourself. And remember what I said, Gilwyn Toms — you are losing Baron Glass.’

As quickly as he’d come, Kahldris disappeared, blinking out of the chamber, leaving Gilwyn alone and bewildered. From the corridor outside, he heard the voices nearing, swarming through the library on booted feet. Alarmed, he hurried out of the chamber toward the noise. It wasn’t Thorin, Gilwyn knew — he would have recognized Thorin’s voice immediately. But Thorin hadn’t told him about any visitors to the library, and as Gilwyn rounded a bend in the hall he was stunned by what he saw at the other end.

A man was moving through the library, backed up by a dozen Norvan soldiers. More soldiers moved behind them, fanning out through the halls and varied chambers. As Gilwyn came to a halt, the man caught sight of him and stopped, and suddenly a wide grin cut his rocky face. He was dressed like a nobleman, his vestments velvet and expensive looking, his black boots polished to an ebony shine. A blue cape drifted off his wide shoulders, flowing down his arrow-straight back. He acknowledged Gilwyn immediately, summoning him forward like a stable hand.

‘You, boy,’ called the man. ‘Come here.’

Gilwyn hesitated. The soldiers were Norvan; he could tell by their dark uniforms. Norvans were common in Liiria, but he had never seen the stranger before. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘What are you doing here?’

The man in the blue cape strode toward him, followed directly by his bodyguards. ‘Your name is Gilwyn Toms, yes? I expected to find you here. Baron Glass told me to find you.’

‘Thorin? What’s he to do with this? Who are you?’

‘I am Duke Cajanis,’ the man pronounced, as if offended Gilwyn didn’t know. ‘You are Gilwyn Toms, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Gilwyn cautiously. He had heard the name Cajanis before, mostly among the Norvans who protected Lionkeep. ‘Duke Cajanis, from Hanging Man?’

‘There is no other Duke Cajanis, boy,’ laughed the nobleman. Like sycophants, his bodyguards laughed, too. ‘Why do you look so surprised?’

Gilwyn wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone here today, my lord. I was working alone when I heard you and your men.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t understand why you are here.’

Duke seemed puzzled. ‘We’re here to protect the library. Don’t you know that?’

‘Protect the library? No, my lord. .’

‘Yes, boy, yes,’ Cajanis insisted. ‘We’re here to see what’s needed.’ He looked over his shoulder, saying to his men, ‘It should be easy to defend. Frial, go with your men. Have them go around the back of the hill. I want to see if there’s any other way up here.’

One of the man nodded and broke away. Another offered his own appraisal. ‘We can dig in on the road, my lord. And barricade the courtyard. We can station archers in the towers to keep from being charged.’

‘What?’ Gilwyn blurted. ‘What’s going on here?’

Duke Cajanis turned on him, annoyed. ‘I told you, boy, we’re here to start defending the library. There’s a lot to do, you know, and you’ll just be in the way.’

‘Duke Cajanis, I don’t understand,’ Gilwyn pleaded. ‘No one told me anything about this. I wasn’t expecting you or anybody! Please tell me what’s going on.’

The duke’s eyebrows knitted, seeing Gilwyn’s distress. He told his men to go about their business, then put his big hand on Gilwyn’s shoulder as he led him down the hall. ‘Gilwyn Toms, you can help me,’ said the duke. ‘Baron Glass says you know this place better than anyone.’

‘Baron Glass hasn’t told me a thing about this!’

The duke guided Gilwyn away from the others. ‘I see that,’ he said, not unsympathetically. ‘How old are you, boy?’

‘Nearly nineteen,’ replied Gilwyn.

‘Nineteen? Then you are man enough to know the truth. Liiria is in danger. The Reecians are on the march again, and word from Marn is that Nithins are coming, too. They’re making ready to war on us, and we’re making ready to defend ourselves. That’s why I’m here.’

Gilwyn was shocked. ‘Thorin didn’t tell me about this. .’

‘Baron Glass likes to keep you in the dark, it seems. No matter. You’ll know it all soon enough. He sent for me and my army to help defend Koth. The rest of them will be coming in the next week or so. We’re going to make sure nothing happens to the library this time, so don’t be afraid.’

‘No, this can’t be right.’ Gilwyn reeled away from the duke. ‘Thorin would have told me!’

Duke Cajanis stiffened. ‘Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me. War is coming, Gilwyn Toms. The Reecians have already reached the Kryss. There are five-thousand of them, and no telling how many Nithins are on the way.’

It was all too much for Gilwyn, who could barely believe what he was hearing. If the Nithins were on their way, that meant Lukien might be with them. But what about the Reecians? Hadn’t they been trounced already? Gilwyn tried gamely to keep calm, wondering just how much Thorin had withheld from him, his heart breaking with the thought.

‘Duke Cajanis, what’s going to happen now? I mean, what is Thorin planning?’

‘Planning? What he’s always been planning, boy! To kill his enemies.’

‘Yes,’ said Gilwyn with a nod. ‘His enemies. .’

‘They’re all coming now. They mean to take Koth for themselves. Norvor too, if we let them.’ The Duke put his hands together, cracking his knuckles. ‘But we’re stronger than they think.’

‘Yes.’ Gilwyn grimaced, knowing the duke was infected by the same paranoia as Thorin. ‘So Thorin sent for you, then. He told you to come here to the library?’

‘This is where we’ll make our stand,’ proclaimed the duke. ‘Not in Lionkeep.’ He smiled at Gilwyn with warm insanity. ‘This time, we’re going to make sure nothing happens to the library.’

Speechless, Gilwyn could only watch as Duke Cajanis turned back to his men and began shouting orders. The Norvan soldiers swarmed through the library, checking through the windows for good vantage points and sizing up the thick walls. As the duke walked away, he waved for Gilwyn to join him.

‘Come along, Toms,’ he chirped. ‘You can help us.’

But Gilwyn couldn’t move. Distraught and deceived, he thought only about Thorin and all the good times they’d spent together. Had he made progress? He had thought so, but now he knew the truth. Then, like a flickering candle, Kahldris’ face flashed across his mind.

You see? the demon whispered. You are losing.

As he followed after Duke Cajanis, Gilwyn’s ears rang with Kahldris’ laughter.

Between the principality of Nith and the vast country of Liiria, only the city-state of Farduke stood as a barricade. For the army of Prince Daralor, that meant only a week-long march between home and their enemies, with only Farduke to stand in their way. The princes of Farduke had seen the army coming from their towers of bronze, having been made aware of the Nithins days before by Daralor’s heralds. Word had come back from Farduke’s rulers that they would not join the crusade to oust Baron Glass, but neither would they obstruct the Nithins in their march. Prince Daralor, who had openly voiced his disgust for Farduke during the trek north, laughed when his heralds returned with the news, and told his men to be careful when crossing Farduke territory.

‘Don’t crush the flowers,’ Daralor ordered his lieutenants.

It was the kind of contempt Lukien had come to expect from Prince Daralor, a man with so many contradictions he was impossible to predict. He kept to himself, surrounded by his council of trusted advisors, but he spoke openly and warmly with Aric Glass, treating the young man like a little brother. At times, he barked fierce orders at his men, hissing at them to keep their pace or to better groom their animals, but every night while the army camped Daralor made sure to visit every campfire and see that his men were all right.

For such a small country, Daralor had arrayed an impressive army. Besides his cavalry, which numbered close to a thousand, there were twice that many infantry marching alongside the horses, proudly displaying the green flag of Nith above their armoured heads. Daralor’s kennel masters had also brought with them nearly a hundred fighting dogs, great, hardheaded beasts with skin like leather and wide, slobbering jaws filled with sharp teeth. Lukien, who had fought against dogs in battle before, made sure to keep well away from the barred wagons that housed them. At night, when the men bedded down, Lukien could hear the soulful howling of the dogs. More than a few Norvan soldiers would lose their throats to the monsters, he was sure, but it was hawks that truly intrigued Lukien. Prince Daralor had an obvious affinity for using animals in battle, and so had brought three dozen trained hawks with him to use against Thorin. Aric had explained to Lukien that Daralor was a master hawker, and that his flying pets would make awesome adversaries in battle. The birds, which were kept in giant mesh cages, looked at Lukien peculiarly as he trotted alongside them. Like the dogs, they frightened Lukien, because he could not understand how their little brains worked or what they were thinking. They were a mystery to Lukien, like Daralor himself, and whether or not any of them could be trusted still alluded Lukien.

Lukien had spent very little time with Daralor since meeting him in Nith. A few days after reaching the principality, Lukien, Ghost and Lorn were quickly on the march again, this time heading for Liiria with Daralor’s army. The prince himself had not taken the time to meet with Lukien privately. He was cordial to Lukien, seemed impressed by him, and that was all. In the brief exchanges they had at the castle, Daralor explained to Lukien how important it was that Baron Glass be stopped, and how much he detested the cowardly kings of Farduke and Marn and Jerikor, all of whom had spurned Aric Glass’ pleas to join them. Yet Daralor did not elaborate on his reasons for joining the crusade. He simply said that it was necessary, and that was all, leaving Lukien to wonder about his motives. They were pure, Lukien was sure, but that did not keep him from being curious.

Aric, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease with Daralor. Daralor was a man of principle, Aric told Lukien, one of only two such rulers on the entire continent. The other ruler was Raxor, of course, who Prince Daralor himself called a ‘courageous old fool.’ Now that they were nearing Liiria — and the border with Reec — Aric was looking forward to his reunion with Raxor. Rumours abounded that Raxor’s army had already taken up positions near the river Kryss, ready for his rematch with Baron Glass. Aric chaffed a little when he spoke of it, openly worried about the old king. Like the rest of them, he was eager to reach Liiria and find out what was really going on.

Out of all of them, however, Lorn was the most anxious to return home. As they drew farther north, the rumours about Jazana Carr’s death continued to grow. Some said she had killed herself. Others, amazingly, claimed Baron Glass had killed her. And to confound them even more, some people they met on the way north told them nothing at all about Norvor or the Diamond Queen, completely ignorant about both. To Lukien, the rumours were fascinating, even frightening. But to Lorn they were intoxicating, tantalizing him with the notion that he just might be able to win back Norvor without a fight. Lorn and Lukien had spent very little time together since leaving Nith. Day by day, Lorn became more withdrawn, keeping to the rear of the army as it snaked its way north and rarely joining others at meal time. Mostly, the Norvan brooded, and while he rode his mind was a thousand miles away, his steely eyes hiding the dark workings going on behind them. No one in the company trusted Lorn, especially not Prince Daralor, but no one had forbidden Lorn to accompany them, either. He was a willing sword in the fight against Baron Glass, for that reason alone Daralor accepted him.

Lukien had spent a good part of his over-long life on the road with soldiers, and so it was easy for him to fall into the natural rhythm of the march. Even with his homeland looming ever-nearer, he managed to remain calm and appreciate the long days and quiet nights. He had almost given up on ever getting to know Prince Daralor, until at last the enigmatic prince called Lukien to his tent. It was on the second night out of Farduke. The army had marched for miles that day, making good progress in the cooperative weather. Men had begun to bed down for the night, and cooking fires were already roiling. Lukien and Ghost had prepared their own places for the night. Because both of them were famished, they waited in line with the other Nithins while the cooks prepared supper. Lorn, as usual, waited alone, not joining the line. As Ghost passed a comment about their quiet friend, the ubiquitous Alsadair made a surprise appearance, taping Lukien on the shoulder.

‘Prince Daralor wants to see you,’ he said. He looked at Ghost. ‘And you, too.’

Ghost perked up. ‘What’s this?’

‘A meeting,’ said Alsadair. He was uncharacteristically stiff as he spoke, his tone without humour. ‘We’ll be at the border soon. It’s time.’

‘Time for what?’ asked Lukien curiously.

‘He wants to speak to you,’ said Alsadair. ‘He’ll tell you why when he sees you. Bring Lorn, too.’

‘Aw, do we have to?’ groaned Ghost.

But Alsadair was already waving at Lorn, summoning him forward. Lorn put down the boots he was shining and sauntered over to the group. When he heard about Prince Daralor’s meeting, a grin bloomed on his wolfish face.

‘What’s it about?’ he asked.

‘Just follow me,’ said Alsadair, herding the men out of the food line and guiding them toward Daralor’s tent. As usual, Daralor’s pavilion had been hastily erected at the rear of the encampment, close to the river they had been following north. It took Daralor’s men less than half an hour to erect it, practicing the feat to perfection every night of their journey. A handful of guards milled outside the entrance to the tent, stepping aside as the newcomers approached. Lukien recognized most of the guards, soldiers he had got to know during their journey. Inside, he heard the eager voices of others who had already gathered. Alsadair pushed aside the flap of the tent and stepped inside, revealing the big, stark interior. Though the sun had already gone down, the tent glowed with warm lamplight. A long, flat table had been brought in to accommodate Daralor’s guests, all of them his closest advisors. The men spoke nervously among themselves as they passed along the pitchers of wine and beer. Among them sat Aric, abstaining from the drink. Young Aric brightened when his eyes caught Lukien’s, motioning for him to sit in the chair he had saved for his friend. At the head of the table sat Daralor himself. The prince looked imperious, not saying a word as his gaze jumped from man to man. He greeted Lukien and the others with a cursory nod, his maimed hand awkwardly cupping a tankard. On the right side of Daralor sat Trayvor, his trusted lieutenant. Daralor rarely made a move without Trayvor. On the left side of the prince sat a man Lukien had never seen before. From the looks of him he was not a Nithin, either. As Lukien took his seat beside Aric, he noted the man’s heavy red beard and puffy blue eyes. The man looked exhausted, his grim clothes dirty from riding. To Lukien, he had the dangerous look of an assassin.

‘Who’s the stranger?’ Lukien whispered as he sat beside Aric.

‘Don’t know,’ said Aric. ‘I just got here.’

Ghost took the seat beside Lukien. ‘What’s this about?’

Aric shrugged. ‘Don’t know that either.’

Lorn found an empty chair on the other side of the table, directly between two of Daralor’s aides. He spied the red-bearded stranger suspiciously, refusing a drink offered by the soldier to his left. The old king looked uncomfortable, as if dreading Daralor’s news. Lukien felt a similar shiver. None of them spoke, waiting for the prince to explain things. At last Daralor cleared his throat and got to his feet.

‘You want to know why you’re here. You can probably imagine why. We’re just days out of Liiria now. It’s time to plan.’

There was steel in Daralor’s voice. Every man around the table straightened.

‘By the end of this week we will be at the border. We’ve marched for miles and our journey is nearly ended. We are strong and we are ready to fight, and it’s time for all of us to get right with our hearts and with our heads.’ Daralor looked around the room at each of them. ‘We’re not all coming back.’

The men nodded quietly. At his side, Lukien felt Malator squirming within the Sword of Angels.

‘Horatin, stand up, please,’ said Daralor. He gestured to the stranger with the red beard. The man stood, his arms at ease at his sides. Daralor continued, ‘You’ve all noticed him. His name is Horatin. He’s a Reecian, a member of Raxor’s Red Watch.’

The prince waited for a reaction. It came quickly in gasps from the men. Lukien reared back a little, stunned. As one who’d fought the Reecians for years, he knew a thing or two about the Red Watch. They were indeed assassins, and the best spies on the continent. At once a hundred questions leapt to Lukien’s mind. Daralor stayed them with a raised hand.

‘He came this morning, in secret,’ said Daralor. ‘From Raxor himself. The Reecian King has prepared himself for battle.’ Prince Daralor gave a smile to Aric. ‘He’s kept his promise to us.’

‘I knew he would,’ Aric whispered faintly.

‘Horatin has risked his life to come here. Others of the Red Watch weren’t so lucky. He’s brought news with him from Liiria you all need to hear.’

Ghost leaned into Lukien’s ear. ‘He must be a good spy,’ he chirped. ‘I didn’t see him come in. You?’

Lukien shook his head, hushing Ghost. Daralor turned to the Reecian, bidding him to speak. In his weary voice, Horatin began, ‘My king sends his greetings, and his thanks. He is grateful to brave Nith. My country and king have suffered greatly, and we are grateful to have your help. I left my king three days ago. His army is at the river Kryss, waiting to cross the border into Liiria.’

‘He doesn’t know about us yet, not for certain at least,’ Daralor piped in. ‘But news of our army coming north has reached Liiria.’

‘Right,’ said Horatin. ‘We heard about you not even a week ago. My king sent me down to find you, and to find out if you were really coming north.’

‘King Raxor has been waiting for us, apparently,’ said Daralor, a bit ruefully. ‘And not very patiently, either. Horatin has told me that his king is. .’ The prince hesitated. ‘Let’s say he’s unwell.’

Horatin grimaced at the description. ‘King Raxor has lost his son. And thousands of other men, too. The people of Reec demanded he move against Baron Glass. They love Raxor and have rallied to him. He’s ready to die for them, but now he waits to see if the rumours of Nith coming to help are true.’

‘So he’s ready to fight?’ Lukien asked.

Horatin looked at him, then at Daralor. The prince said, ‘You can answer him.’

‘Yes, my king is ready,’ said Horatin to Lukien directly. ‘What is your name, sir?’

Lukien stood. ‘My name is Lukien of Liiria.’

Recognition flashed on Horatin’s face. He grinned wildly. ‘I thought as much.’

A charged moment passed between the two old adversaries. Daralor put himself between them quickly, saying, ‘I’ve told Horatin about all of you. Even you, King Lorn. But we will get to that. More importantly, Baron Glass has been making ready for us. He has his armies dug in around Koth, especially around the old library.’

‘Glass is obsessed with the library,’ said Horatin. ‘He’s making every effort to protect it this time.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Lukien. ‘Library Hill is better fortified than Lionkeep, and a lot higher. Aric and I have fought from Library Hill. It’ll definitely give Thorin an advantage this time.’

Aric nodded uncomfortably. ‘That’s right. Horatin, how many men does my father have?’

‘It’s hard to tell,’ replied the Reecian. ‘We’ve had spies in Koth, but too many of them have been captured or killed. Not many Liirians have come to Glass’ banner. They’re Norvans, mostly. And there’s a new man with Thorin, a duke from Hanging Man named Cajanis.’

Lorn grunted in disgust. ‘I know him. He’s loyal to Jazana Carr.’

Horatin said, ‘He’s brought an army of at least three thousand with him, and more are on the way.’

‘And what about Jazana Carr?’

The question, of course, came from Lorn, who could not contain himself any longer. Horatin turned to Lorn, seeming to recognizing him. Daralor nodded as if to confirm the Reecian’s suspicions.

‘You are King Lorn,’ said Horatin. ‘Then you most of all will want to know this. The rumour you have heard about the Diamond Queen is true. She is dead.’

Lorn sat frozen in his chair. ‘Dead. You are sure?’

‘There is no doubt of it. I myself was sent to kill her at Richter, along with Baron Glass. But the queen wasn’t with him, and Baron Glass discovered our plot. Two good men of the Red Watch died that night by the baron’s own hand.’

‘And Jazana Carr?’ pressed Lorn. ‘What of her?’

‘A few days later she was dead,’ said Horatin. ‘When Baron Glass returned to Lionkeep he beat her. I don’t know why; no one knows why. After that she killed herself.’

‘You’re sure of this?’ asked Lukien.

‘There is no doubt of it, Sir Lukien.’

The news left Lukien strangely empty. In the years he had spent in Jazana’s service, she had always been kind to him. Her conceits were legion, but her heart was bigger than her brain. Seeing Lorn’s glee over her death angered Lukien.

‘This is great news,’ said Lorn, sighing as though he had slipped into a warm bath. ‘Without Jazana Carr, Norvor has no leader. They will welcome me again.’

Lukien gritted his teeth, holding back an insult. Daralor steadied Lorn’s excitement.

‘Your Norvans follow Baron Glass now, King Lorn. Until he is gone, you still have no kingdom.’

‘Excuse me, Prince Daralor, but Baron Glass is not a Norvan, and I think I know my people a bit better than you do. Baron Glass has the bitch-queen’s fortune, no doubt, but not her blood. The people need a rightful ruler.’

‘Maybe,’ said Horatin sharply, ‘but Baron Glass won’t let go of Norvor easily. The dukes of Norvor flock to him still, because he is powerful and they are afraid of him. Listen to me, all of you — not one of you really knows what we are up against.’

‘I do,’ Aric spoke up. ‘I’ve seen my father close up, Horatin.’

‘As have I,’ said Lukien. ‘Your words are well meaning, Reecian, and I respect them. But I don’t need to be taken to school about Baron Glass or what he has become.’

‘And the rest of you?’ queried Horatin. He scoffed in their faces. ‘Be cocky at your peril.’

‘We are Nithins, Watchman,’ chastened Daralor. ‘We do not frighten easily.’

‘That is good,’ replied Horatin, ‘because once you see Baron Glass in his armour, you will know what hell looks like.’

‘Baron Glass is near his end,’ predicted Lorn. He pointed at Lukien. ‘The Bronze Knight holds the means to his undoing.’

‘Fate above, who knows?’ said Lukien, shaking his head. ‘I have the Sword of Angels. You’ve heard of it by now, Horatin. Whether or not it can beat Baron Glass, even I cannot say.’

Daralor appeared disappointed. ‘Lukien, you will not be alone. We will all be fighting to beat Baron Glass.’

Aric shrank at this. Lukien put a hand on his shoulder and said to him, ‘And some of us will be trying to save him.’

‘Baron Glass is our mutual enemy,’ said Lorn. ‘I have no problem with that. When he is done, I will return to Norvor as king.’ He looked pointedly at Lukien. ‘And then I will send for my family, just as I promised them.’

The barb bounced off Lukien, who was wholly disinterested in the argument. ‘Horatin, tell us what else you know,’ said Lukien.

Daralor took up a rolled parchment leaning against his chair and laid it flat across the table. ‘With what Horatin knows we can start planning our movements.’

‘I’m sorry, Prince Daralor, that’s not what I meant,’ said Lukien. ‘I have a personal question, if I may.’

‘Personal?’ said Horatin.

Lukien leaned forward. ‘It’s about Baron Glass and Koth. There was another of us from Jador who went to north to Liiria, a boy named Gilwyn Toms. Have you heard anything about him?’

‘Ah, the boy!’ Horatin laughed. ‘He is Glass’ obsession.’

‘He’s alive?’ asked Lukien.

‘He is. Baron Glass protects him. He’s given the boy the library to run. He’s like a son to the baron. From what our spies have told us, the two of them are inseparable.’

‘I knew it!’ crowed Lukien. ‘I knew Gilwyn would still be alive!’ He clapped his hands together gleefully. ‘And if Gilwyn is alive he’s been trying to reach Thorin. Aric, there’s hope for your father yet.’

Aric smiled grimly. ‘Maybe. But if there’s not and he must die, then that is how it should be.’

But Lukien was in too good a mood to think such dour thoughts. Just hearing about Gilwyn had lifted his spirits out of the doldrums. Daralor continued to speak, tracing his finger over his map and quoting figures to his aides. The back and forth continued for nearly an hour. Lukien listened to all of it, satisfied that the prince had done his best. They would likely be outnumbered when they got to Koth, and Thorin would have the advantage perched high on Library Hill. Still, the Nithins had the heart and the charisma of Daralor to lead them. The Reecians had something even more powerful — a thirst for vengeance.

Finally, when Daralor had said his peace, he glanced across the table at Aric, who had listened to the back and forth without adding a word. ‘Aric,’ said Daralor gently, ‘it’s time you went back to King Raxor. Horatin will be leaving in the morning. I want you to go with him.’

Aric nodded, giving no complaint. ‘If that is best, Prince Daralor.’

‘We’ll need to ride fast,’ said Horatin. ‘My king still doesn’t know for certain that your army is coming north to join him. He has to have this news quickly.’

‘I can ride fast,’ Aric assured him.

‘Good,’ said Daralor. He gave Aric a warm wink. ‘We’ll be behind you, just as quick as we can. The rest of you, make yourselves ready. In a few days, we’ll be at war.’

They were being dismissed, and Daralor’s aides knew it first. The Nithin officers got to their feet and began filing out of Daralor’s tent. Ghost and Aric did the same. Lorn lingered a bit longer, catching snippets of conversation on his way out, as did Lukien. Horatin took his time, still talking with Prince Daralor as the meeting broke up. Lukien watched the Reecian, hoping for an opportunity to speak with him. There was still one question pressing in his mind, a matter even more personal than that of Gilwyn. Deciding not to be rude, Lukien left the tent to wait for Horatin outside. Ghost and Aric had already headed back to the food line, while Lorn had cornered two of the Nithin officers, peppering them with questions. The camp had fallen silent as most of the army had settled down for a night’s rest. Daralor’s bodyguard’s outside the tent eyed Lukien but did not shoo him away.

Finally, Horatin emerged, looking haggard and hungry. He walked past Lukien without noticing him until the knight hurried up behind him.

‘Horatin, wait,’ called Lukien. ‘I have a question.’

The Watchman paused and turned toward him. ‘Yes?’

Lukien was careful to keep his voice low. ‘It’s about your king. Aric Glass told me about a woman he keeps, a foreigner. Her name is Mirage.’

Horatin drew back. ‘What of her?’

‘Do you know her?’

‘I know of her,’ said Horatin. ‘Why?’

Lukien decided to tread carefully. ‘Horatin, I know she is your king’s woman. Aric told me about them. I just want to know how she fares.’

‘She is a friend of yours?’

Lukien nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘I see.’ Horatin averted his eyes. ‘Sir Lukien, the woman Mirage is not in Reec. She left my king some time ago to be with Baron Glass.’

‘She did?’ Lukien was stunned. ‘But I thought King Raxor was in love with her.’

‘He was indeed,’ lamented Horatin. ‘That did not stop her. Nor did my king stop her, either. He gave her leave to go the baron.’

‘So what then?’ asked Lukien. ‘Have you had any word from her?’

Horatin’s discomfort grew. ‘We have had no word from her, no. Sir Lukien, I did not tell you all of my story about our attack on Richter. Jazana Carr was not there. We were mistaken.’

‘So?’

‘The woman Mirage was at Richter with Baron Glass, not Jazana Carr. I’m sorry, Sir Lukien. Mirage is dead.’

Lukien stared at Horatin, his breath stopping in his throat. ‘Dead?’ He swallowed, feeling his legs grow wobbly. ‘Mirage is dead?’

Horatin’s blue eyes filled with pity. ‘She died in the fire. No one made it out of Richter alive. Only Glass.’

‘A fire.’ Something inside Lukien crumbled. ‘A fire. .’

He turned, walking off and shaking his head. Horatin was saying something, but Lukien heard none of it. All he could think of was Mirage, and how she had burned to death. She who could control flame, who had given up that gift for a mask of beauty.

‘Just so I would love her,’ said Lukien, and went numb with horror.

Since the arrival of Duke Cajanis, Library Hill had become an armed camp.

Gilwyn hardly recognized his beloved library any longer. The emptiness — the solitude he had come to worship — had been replaced by the constant clang of metal and the shouts of armoured soldiers. Nearly every room of the place had been turned into barracks for the Norvans and Liirians who poured through the great doors, all of them bearing weapons and provisions and other things for the siege ahead. Books, scrolls and manuscripts had been carefully laid aside, packed into the cellars while the shelves were lined with swords and the oiled book cases burdened with clothing. Even the fabulous entry hall had been stuffed with bunks and bed rolls, so that the men lucky enough to sleep there for the night could look up at the magnificently painted ceiling as they fell away to sleep.

It had taken nearly a week for the transformation to take hold, but now it was nearly complete, leaving Gilwyn bewildered and displaced. Surprisingly, Duke Cajanis had been kind to Gilwyn during the changes, even sympathetic. The Norvan noble was careful not to upset the young librarian too much, and made sure that Gilwyn always was consulted when books were moved or rooms commandeered. It was in fact an orderly transformation, done with military precision, and Duke Cajanis was proud of his quick accomplishment. Now, when one looked out from the library’s many windows, the sight of the road leading up to the hill was fortified with men and battlements and the courtyard filled with weaponry. The library had swelled into a formidable fort under Cajanis’ hand, and the soldiers who milled about its grand halls readied themselves for the coming assault.

Rumours abounded in Koth these days. Norvan spies returning from the border spoke of Raxor’s army, an impressive force of many thousands said to be waiting to cross the river Kryss. Raxor himself led the forces, just as he had done the first time, determined to finish the job he had started months earlier. Retribution was in the air, said the Norvan spies, and King Raxor was ready to avenge his fallen son, telling all who would listen of his intention to slay Baron Glass. Rumours from the south were no less ominous, telling of the Nithins who marched freely up from Farduke with their fighting hawks and broods of battle dogs. Prince Daralor had summoned every able man in his tiny country, claimed the rumours, and had given orders that none of them were to return home while Baron Glass remained alive. Gilwyn listened to the rumours with interest, frightened and exhilarated by them, but one claim in particular had him galvanized — the Bronze Knight was returning.

Even Thorin knew this one rumour to be true. Through Kahldris, he could sense the approach of Lukien and his magic sword, and had told Gilwyn that the final battle was nearing. After days without seeing each other, Thorin had called Gilwyn to him in his little parlour in Lionkeep, looking haggard from the endless hours of preparation. By the light of the crackling fireplace, Thorin had leaned forward in his big leather chair as if to tell a terrible secret.

‘Our days are numbered now, Gilwyn.’ Thorin’s tone bespoke his misery. ‘Lukien comes.’ He shook his head as if there could be no doubt. ‘And we will certainly battle.’

Gilwyn did not question Thorin that night. Since Cajanis had arrived, the two of them had slipped the bonds of friendship growing strong between them, growing apart instead as the demands of war took Thorin further away. And though Gilwyn had not yet given up his hopes of reaching Thorin, he realized now that Kahldris’ hold on his friend was stronger than he’d imagined, and that only the supernatural power of Lukien’s sword might be able to break it. Along with Ruana, Gilwyn had racked his brain to think of a way to shatter the demon’s grip on Thorin, but he had always come back to the same, impossible puzzles. Intense pain could sever the bond between host and Akari, but Thorin no longer knew pain. Ensconced in his enchanted armour, he was truly untouchable.

Twelve days after Cajanis’ arrival, Thorin finally called all of his commanders together. Using the finest of the library’s grand meeting chambers, he ordered the shelves removed and rows of chairs placed in their stead, along with a table he could use to speak from. Duke Cajanis organized the event, and with his usual aplomb had the meeting scheduled sharply at noon. By a half hour prior to the hour, the great chamber swelled with officers, all of them eager to hear the words of their benefactor, Baron Glass. Gilwyn, who was surprised to be invited to the event, sat not far from Cajanis himself, occupying a chair in the very first row. Because it was a formal meeting, no drinks or food were provided at all. The ranks of officers sat sombre-faced in their chairs, chatting quietly to each other. Norvans made up the bulk of the audience, though there were many Liirians in the crowd as well. Thorin had done an impressive job over the past months of bringing the Liirian military back to life and had openly declared himself their supreme commander, a boast no one dared challenge. Among the Liirians were soldiers who Gilwyn had got to know during his time in Lionkeep, including the good-hearted commander Kilvard. Kilvard, who was not a handsome man like Cajanis, wore a hang-dog expression as he waited for Baron Glass. Unlike most of the soldiers, Kilvard had no interest in the diamonds that kept the others loyal to Thorin. He was a true nationalist, motivated by the need to protect his country. He was loyal to Baron Glass because no one else had taken control of the chaos engulfing Liiria, and that was all. Gilwyn eyed Kilvard curiously as he sat back and waited. The pipe in the old man’s mouth spouted patient puffs of white smoke.

At noon precisely, the big mahogany clock at the end of the chamber announced the hour. A moment later, Thorin stepped into the room, even the clock seemed to go dead.

He had dressed for the occasion, donning the Devil’s Armour, which shined with blinding. His enormous figure filled the doorway, his steps heavy from his armoured feet. The skin of metal clung to his muscles, fitting perfectly to them, flexing with life at every breath. Thorin’s eyes scanned the room, his smile wide and frightening. He wore no helmet, but rather left his head bare, displaying his white yet youthful hair. His two big fists rested at his sides, covered in spiky gauntlets. Stepping into the chamber, he paused to the gasps of the gathered, swelling at their astonishment. Duke Cajanis was first to his feet. Taking one step forward, the Norvan clapped at Thorin’s arrival, first alone, then joined by others until at last the gathering was up and cheering. Gilwyn looked around, shocked at the outpouring of affection. He knew it was fear that motivated most of them, and could not help but pity them all. Thorin strode proudly to the table, waiting for the cheers to die away. His eyes met Gilwyn’s with a twinkle of approval that Gilwyn did not return.

‘Sit, all of you,’ boomed Thorin.

He raised his hand to quiet the crowd, repeating his request until the noise relented and the soldiers took their seats. Thorin took a deep, satisfying breath, his hands resting palms down on the table. Behind him, two huge flags were draped side by side along the wall, one Liirian, the other Norvan. The scene appalled Gilwyn. Just months ago, Thorin had murdered Norvor’s queen.

‘Friends,’ began Thorin, ‘you honour me. You are the saviours of Liiria, and of Norvor too. Together we will do great things, but first we have a challenge. Once again our enemies are upon us. Once again we are called to fight and to sacrifice.’

There was nodding within the crowd. The most loyal of the soldiers vocally agreed. Others, Gilwyn noticed, squirmed a little.

Thorin continued, ‘On our eastern border, our enemy Raxor has returned. Last time we were merciful. Last time, we let Raxor and his army flee our land. And how do they repay us? By threatening us once again. Once more they seek to take what is ours.’ The baron clenched his fist. ‘But this time, we will not be merciful. This time, we will crush them utterly.’

The chamber rang with dutiful applause. Duke Cajanis cheered the bellicose words.

‘Raxor comes with another great army,’ Thorin went on. ‘As large as his last one. He is beloved by his people and we are sorely hated by them. They fear our strength, and that is wise of them. But they are not alone. This time, they have allies.’

‘Nithins,’ spat Cajanis.

‘Aye,’ Thorin agreed. ‘What could possibly tempt the Nithins from their long hiding if not madness? Do you see? Madness grips our world! This hatred for our nations — for Liiria and Norvor both — is a jealousy that compels the world to hate us. Look how the nobles of Farduke have turned on us, too. With not a word of complaint they have let the Nithins soil their land just so they could come to conquer us. In Marn they are just as silent, and in Jerikor too. Does anyone come to our aid? Has any one of these nations sent their ambassadors here? Have they offered the smallest kindness to us? No they have not.’

It went on like this, Thorin laying out his case for war, the officers of his combined armies nodding in agreement. Gilwyn listened, disgusted by the speech, sure that it was Kahldris stoking Thorin’s madness. The man who had once been so kind to Gilwyn had vanished, and in his place stood a ranting lunatic, fanning the fires of suspicion. Thorin’s big voice rose and fell, filled with emotion as he worked the crowd. He told them about the force of the Nithins coming toward them, and how they numbered in the thousands. They had their creatures with them, he said, their slobbering dogs and their fierce birds of prey, merciless monsters both. And with them came Jadori, Thorin claimed, foreigners who had joined the alliance against them. Here, Thorin’s words had special meaning to Gilwyn. Thorin actually seemed saddened.

‘Who knows what baneful magic they bring against us,’ he lamented. ‘I have been among them. I know they are powerful. They are good and decent, too, but they have joined against us and so they too are our enemies. Perhaps, when we are done with this grisly work, we will settle the score with Jador as well.’

Gilwyn sat bolt upright at this. They were Kahldris’ words, without a doubt. It was Kahldris who threatened Jador, Kahldris who hated the Jadori and their alliance with the Akari. Gilwyn shook his head vehemently at Thorin, but the baron ignored him. Before he could protest, however, another voice joined the fray.

‘What of your son, Baron Glass?’

The question shattered Thorin’s oratory. He searched the room for the culprit, fixing on a Liirian officer in the second row.

‘What?’

‘Your son, Baron Glass. What about Aric?’

‘What about him?’ Thorin growled.

The officer held fast. ‘It is well known that your son was in league with the Reecians at the battle of the Kryss, and that he was one of the Royal Chargers defending the library when you invaded Koth with Norvor. I’m asking only what part he might play in the coming battle.’

The crowd held its breath. Stunned, Gilwyn watched as Thorin’s face twisted with discomfort. He almost never spoke of his son Aric, and certainly never in such a public forum. His suffering looked unbearable.

‘My son has decided to defy me,’ he said. ‘He will ride against us when the time comes, I have no doubt.’

‘Will he rejoin the Reecians?’ asked the officer. ‘I ask because that might make a difference in our plans. We may attack Raxor’s forces, but none of us has the wish to harm your son, Baron.’

Thorin shrugged off his concerns. ‘When the library fell to us, the Royal Chargers who were left alive melted away. They are brigands now. Some will join with the Reecians, certainly, others with the Nithins. And others will not have the courage to join either one. My son has courage, but it makes no difference.’

The reply confused the audience, prompting Duke Cajanis to speak. ‘Baron Glass, if your son goes to Raxor’s side, then the man unlucky enough to slay him in battle will have your doubts to deal with. How can you assure us that it matters so little to you? He is your flesh and blood.’

Thorin said simply, ‘If my son chooses to join my enemies, then it is his conscience that should be troubled, not mine.’ He clamped his hands together and smiled. ‘That is all I have to say. We are done.’

They had their orders, and the officers of Thorin’s armies rose and took up their noisy conversations, some thanking Thorin for his time, others shaking their heads. Gilwyn remained seated, unsure what to do next. Duke Cajanis was always in need of him these days, but the duke was one of the first to exit the chamber, off on one of his many errands. Thorin stayed at the table for a long while, shaking hands and making promises to the sycophants in the crowd. Eventually, the chamber thinned of people. Gilwyn stood and watched them go, waiting for his chance. Finally, when the last of the stragglers left the room, Thorin strode softly toward Gilwyn.

‘I’m glad you came,’ he said warmly. ‘It is important that you know what we’re up against.’

Gilwyn tried hard not to look the way he felt — angry and dejected. ‘You asked me to come, so I came,’ he said.

‘What did you think?’

‘You were very. . spirited.’

Thorin nodded. ‘To lead men in battle, one must have spirit, Gilwyn. These men need to see that I am committed to them completely.’

‘Oh, I’m sure they saw that,’ sighed Gilwyn.

‘You are upset with me.’ Thorin put his hand on Gilwyn’s shoulder and led him back to his chair. They both took seats facing each other. ‘I know I have not spent much time with you lately. I’m sorry.’

Gilwyn laughed. ‘Is that why you think I’m angry? No, Thorin.’

‘No? Then what?’

‘All of this!’ Gilwyn swept his arm across the chamber. ‘All the things that have been done to the library. The war, Thorin!’

‘Ah, the war. Yes, of course. Gilwyn, how many times have I told you this day would come? I never lied to you. I could not have been clearer.’

‘I know,’ said Gilwyn. ‘You did tell me. But I thought-’

‘You thought to save me from Kahldris! Yes.’ Thorin stood up, exasperated. ‘Have I not told you a thousand times that I owe Kahldris everything? And look! Did he not prophesize all of this? My enemies are coming for me, Gilwyn, just as Kahldris said they would. Just as I told you they would!’

‘I know!’ cried Gilwyn in frustration. ‘But you’ve given up on yourself! You don’t even want to think that I might be right, that maybe somewhere inside of you is the man you used to be.’

Thorin said calmly, ‘That man is a memory now.’

‘Like Jador, you mean? Have you forgotten them, too?’

His accusation stung Thorin. ‘Jador should no longer concern you. You’re here now, with me.’

‘Yes, I am, but I’m still a person of Jador, Thorin. And you are too, like it or not. How can you turn on them? How can you even think of such a thing?’

‘I am the ruler of Liiria. I do not have time for sentiment.’

‘No,’ said Gilwyn bitterly. ‘Not even for your own son.’

‘My son? You have no idea how my son has broken my heart, Gilwyn. He’s not like you. You came here to save me. Aric comes to kill me.’ Thorin turned away. ‘But he is still part of me, damn all. I won’t let Raxor take him from me.’

Gilwyn looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ said Thorin, ‘that I will not let anyone claim him for their own. He already has a father who is a king, he does not need to look to

Raxor for that.’

‘You can’t stop him, Thorin. He’s probably already there.’

‘I have no doubt of it,’ grumbled Thorin. ‘But he cannot remain with Raxor. I will not allow it.’ Thorin smiled suddenly. ‘But let’s not talk of that now. Gilwyn, I am afraid for you. Things will not be safe here much longer. You cannot stay.’

Gilwyn was startled. ‘What?’

‘It’s too dangerous here in Koth.’ Thorin touched his shoulder again. ‘I am grateful for your loyalty, boy. You are braver than most. But this is no place for a librarian.’

‘Thorin, it’s a library.’

Thorin laughed. ‘Not anymore. Until the battle is over it is a fortress. And you are a civilian.’

‘But where will I go?’

‘I’ve already made arrangements. You’ll leave in two days for Borath. There’s a farm there where you’ll be safe. You’ll have bodyguards to protect you. When this is over I’ll send for you.’

Gilwyn got to his feet. ‘No.’

‘Yes, Gilwyn.’

‘No,’ said Gilwyn adamantly. ‘I’m not leaving. I told you I’d stay by you. You’re not pushing me away, Thorin.’

‘You’re being stubborn. .’

‘I don’t care.’ Gilwyn folded his arms over his chest, living up to the accusation. ‘I made a promise to you, Thorin. You can’t make me break it.’

Instead of looking angry, Thorin beamed. ‘You are brave,’ he crowed. ‘Stupid, but brave. Very well, then, Gilwyn, you may stay.’

He started toward the exit. Gilwyn called after him.

‘Thorin?’

‘Yes?’

‘What about your son? What are you going to do?’

The baron thought for a moment, then replied, ‘I’m going to do just what you’re trying to do, Gilwyn. I’m going to get him back.’

Then he left, leaving Gilwyn behind and bewildered.

Through the hard sheets of rain, Aric glimpsed the village nestled between the mountains, surrounded by Raxor’s resting army. The village was called Kreat and it had taken Aric and his cohorts four days to reach it, riding through the never ending rain and the sad, familiar terrain of Liiria. Raxor’s army had been too big to keep a secret, and in fact the old king had not even tried to hide his presence. In all the towns they crossed to reach Kreat and all the travelers they questioned on their way, the five riders heard the same predictable tale. King Raxor’s army had come across the border days earlier and had made camp in Kreat, waiting for their chance to march on Koth. No one had challenged them, either, not a single of Baron Glass’ men. In the midnight rain, Aric could see the sleepy village ensnared like a noose by the rolling encampment, smothered by the countless Reecian soldiers. Pinpoints of light glowed from smouldering campfires, and in the little homes of the village candles flickered against the night. Aric blew into his hands, frozen now from the chill and breathing a sigh of utter relief. The last few days had been an agony, a break-neck trek across Liiria that had tested all of them, even Horatin. Next to Aric, the trio of Nithin bodyguards let their own relief show on their wet faces. Cold and hungry, each of them longed for the peace of the village.

‘No one’s seen us yet,’ said Horatin. Of the five, the Reecian was the most understated, and seemed disappointed at the lack of fanfare. The lateness of the hour had most of Raxor’s army asleep, and it had been Horatin that had insisted on the night-time ride. ‘Stay with me,’ he instructed the others. ‘Don’t say anything — let me do all the talking.’

Aric and the Nithins happily agreed, driving on their weary mounts. Despite the desperation of their pace, it had been a mostly uneventful ride through Liiria, and the quiet had unnerved them. They had all expected to encounter trouble, especially Aric, but the countryside had been unusually silent and only once had they encountered any soldiers. That had been two days ago, when Horatin had spotted a platoon of Norvan mercenaries marching north toward Koth. The encounter had forced them into a detour, taking them further out of their way, but they had ridden hard and fast to make up the time, and had reached the Reecian border in short order. Amazingly, they discovered the truth of the rumours they’d heard. Raxor wasn’t on the border — he had already crossed it.

Tucked into the side of his horse’s tack, Horatin carried a small, unlit torch, its head wrapped with old fabric. As they neared the village he pulled the torch free and turned to his Nithin comrades.

‘Trace,’ he said, ‘let me have your lamp.’

The bodyguard named Trace kept an oil lamp in his hand as they rode, containing a tiny flame that helped to cut the dark night. Even in the rain the glass lamp had managed to retain its flame, but now they needed a signal to announce them. Trace, who was not much older than Aric, handed the lamp to Horatin, who unceremoniously lifted the glass portion and touched the flame to his torch, setting it quickly ablaze.

‘That should get their attention,’ quipped Aric. ‘It feels good not to be hiding anymore.’

The five men rode purposefully toward the encampment, Horatin holding aloft his torch, waving it from side to side. The rain poured down from the black heavens, blinding Aric and stinging his face. He longed for a warm place to spend the night, but the size of the homes and the many men already camped outside told him how unlikely that was. Horatin called out to his fellow Reecians, and before long they were sighted. Men began climbing out of the sodden bedrolls or mounting their horses to greet them. A trumpet sounded somewhere in the darkness, and all at once the camp roiled to life, undulating like a big, black mass. Aric kept close to Horatin as the Watchman had instructed. Trace and the other Nithins crowded around to protect him.

‘It is I, Horatin of the Red Watch!’ bellowed Horatin. ‘I have returned!’

Men gathered around them as they reached the outskirts of the huge camp, squinting to see them through the darkness. A few bold soldiers drew their swords to challenge them. Horatin quickly reined in his horse, holding up both hands.

‘Hold,’ he ordered the soldiers.

‘It’s him,’ someone mumbled, and then the others quickly agreed. Another man, an officer, shouldered through the crowd.

‘Horatin?’ he queried.

Horatin peered through the rain, unsure of the voice alone. When at last he saw the man’s face clearly he laughed.

‘Corvat, it’s me,’ said Horatin. ‘I found them — I found the Nithins!’

‘Living Fate, did you?’ The Reecian spied Aric and laughed. ‘Just the four of them?’

‘There are many others,’ said Horatin. ‘Where’s the king?’

The man named Corvat pointed toward the village. ‘In the house by the river,’ he said ‘I’ll take you.’

Horatin agreed, and let Corvat lead them through the throngs of men, shouting out orders to make way and inform the king of Horatin’s return. Aric and his companions remained on their horses, trotting slowly through the rain under the curious gazes of the soldiers. Corvat shouted at them to disperse, ordering them back to bed, and soon the way ahead was clear. At last Aric could see the flapping flags of the Reecians through the gloom. The chimneys of the village houses belched smoke into the air. It occurred to Aric as they rode that he was still shrouded by the darkness and rain, and that no one had yet recognized him. Horatin picked up on this immediately, leaning over to whisper to Aric.

‘Say nothing,’ he said lowly. ‘I’ll get you into see the king. It will be our surprise.’

They rode on, passing a number of small houses and farmsteads, some of which still were occupied by Liirian families. Aric could see them through the windows, toiling with housework even at midnight. Surprised, he wanted to pepper Corvat with questions, wondering why the villagers had not fled. He supposed they were being held prisoner by the Reecians, a notion that infuriated him, but he held his tongue as they continued on toward the river, where a small, pretty house of cobblestones rose up from the rolling green grass, surrounded by a fence and a yard filled with soldiers. The men in the yard all stood, obviously awaiting them.

‘That’s it,’ said Corvat. The soldiers dragged his palm across his forehead to wipe away the rain. ‘He’ll be waiting for you by now.’

‘Tell me, Corvat, how does he fare?’ asked Horatin.

‘Some days better than others. You’ll see what I mean. Just don’t expect too much of him. It’s late.’

‘He’ll want to talk about what I have to tell him. You should gather your officers.’

Corvat agreed, and as Horatin and the others dismounted the Reecian started giving orders to the men in the yard. A captain came forward, introduced himself to Horatin as Grenel, and offered to take them inside while Corvat gathered the other officers. Aric and his Nithin bodyguards got in line behind Horatin. Captain Grenel looked them over, but did nothing to question them or Horatin’s judgment. Horatin, whose reputation obviously proceeded him everywhere, told Grenel firmly to take them to King Raxor.

‘He’s waiting for you,’ said Grenel. ‘This way.’

The little house was warm and quaint, and the moment Aric stepped inside he felt its homey embrace. Typical of Liirian farmsteads, it had one main room where the family gathered, furnished sparsely with wooden chairs and chests and a table where the occupants could take their meals. Because this home was slightly grander than the rest, it had an open-air hallway leading to the kitchen, a common way of keeping fires at bay. Aric could see the kitchen across the covered walkway, noting an older woman working there over the fiery pots. Hearing them come into her home, she shot a glare at Aric, who quickly looked away.

The newcomers had barely taken two more steps when out of the adjoining chamber stepped Raxor, startling them all. Raxor paused when he saw Horatin, looking immensely pleased. Horatin bowed quickly to his king.

‘My lord, I’ve returned,’ he told his liege, and in his bow revealed the young man behind him. Raxor’s old eyes danced quickly from face to face, then stopped dead when he spotted Aric.

‘Great Fate above,’ he gasped. His weary face broke with emotion. ‘Aric. .’

Aric quickly parroted Horatin’s bow. ‘King Raxor,’ he said solemnly, but there was more than ceremony in his tone. Straightening, he smiled broadly at the king. ‘I’m back.’

Raxor went from exhausted to glowing. ‘And it is good to see you back, boy! Horatin, you surprise me!’ The king stepped forward, surmising Aric’s bodyguards. ‘And Nithins, too! You’ve brought the news I want, then?’

‘I have, my lord,’ reported Horatin happily. ‘These are Prince Daralor’s men, my lord. They came with us to protect Aric Glass, and to prove to you their prince has come.’

All the Nithins bowed to Raxor, but it was Brenor, the eldest who spoke for them. ‘Prince Daralor sends you greetings, King Raxor. He is honoured to be joining you in your struggle against Baron Glass.’

‘Is he?’ Raxor asked. ‘That is well. Your prince is a brave man, far braver than the cowardly kings who’ve turned their backs on us. Where is your prince now, Sir. .?’

‘My name is Brenor, my lord, of the Green Brigade. This Trace and Jason, both under my command. We’ve come to tell you that Prince Daralor is on the march as well. His armies have crossed the border by now, I am certain, and march toward Koth.’

‘As do we,’ said Raxor, pleased by the news. ‘Your prince and his army will have little resistance. These Liirians are like sheep this time. No one has even tried to stop us.’

‘Yes, what about that?’ Aric asked. ‘We didn’t expect to find you this far from the Kryss.’

‘I will tell you about it,’ said Raxor, ‘but first. .’ He turned to his Watchman, Horatin. ‘You have things to tell me, my friend, I’m sure.’

Horatin nodded. ‘Corvat is gathering the others, my lord.’

‘Good. Then there is time. Grenel, see to their needs. Horatin, all of you, rest now.’ Raxor sidled up to Aric and put his arms around the young man. At last, Aric could smell the heavy liquor on his breath. ‘You and I will talk first, boy.’

‘My lord?’

‘Come with me,’ said Raxor, turning Aric toward the adjoining chamber. ‘It is private this way. We can talk.’

Horatin surprised Aric by not saying another word. Instead he herded the Reecians back toward the main chamber, telling them to feel at ease while Raxor and Aric disappeared. Aric glanced over his shoulder as Raxor guided him away, not sure what the drunken king wanted from him. His Nithin companions, relieved to be out of the rain, seemed unperturbed as they began removing their wet coats and heading for the hearth. In the next chamber, Aric saw a table and a handful of plain wooden chairs. On the table sat a bottle of wine and an iron goblet, half-filled. Food had been prepared for the king, also half-consumed. A map and a few other documents lay across the table. Most striking of all, though, was the other occupant of the room, an attractive young woman dressed in a plain frock, her blonde hair brushed straight down her shoulders. She was collecting dishes off the table, but stopped when she saw Raxor reappear.

‘That’s fine, Alena,’ said Raxor. ‘Leave it. Go and bring some hot food.’

The woman — a girl really — made sure not to meet their eyes completely. ‘Yes, my lord,’ she answered curtly, then scurried past Aric to leave the room. Aric watched her go, confused.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

‘Alena lives here,’ said Raxor. He motioned toward the chairs. ‘Sit, Aric.’

Aric began taking off his coat, laying the sodden garment over one of the chairs. His whole person was similarly soaked, and the little fire built for Raxor in the corner of the room felt fine on his wet skin.

‘I’ll have dry clothes brought for you,’ said Raxor. Seeing Aric’s predicament, he dragged two chairs close to the fire and sat himself down.

‘I’m soaked to the bone,’ said Aric. Taking his chair, he started pulling off his boots, freeing his icy toes. ‘My lord, I’m not sure I understand your meaning. That girl lives here?’

‘This is her home, along with her mother and younger brother. There’s no father.’

‘They didn’t flee? When they saw you coming, I mean?’

‘Some did,’ Raxor recounted. ‘Others saw no need. We’re not mistreating anyone here, Aric. They’re taking care of us and that’s all. We needed a place to stop and this was as good as anywhere.’

‘But they’re Liirians.’

‘So? They hate your father as much as we do, I think. It’s as I said, boy; we’ve had no resistance. And I’ll wager your Prince Daralor has none either. We’re on the march toward Koth now. That’s where your father is making his stand.’

‘We heard that,’ said Aric. ‘Horatin told us. He’s holding up at the library.’

‘Just as you did last time,’ said Raxor with a grin. ‘A good enough tactic, though. He doesn’t really care about the rest of Liiria anyway. Just Koth. And that blasted library.’

Aric sat back. ‘That’s a painful thing to hear, my lord.’

‘It’s like a plague that’s swept the whole world. Liiria is dispirited, Aric. And Reec, too. We are all ruined. And only tiny Nith has come to save us!’

‘But I don’t understand,’ Aric protested. ‘Why are you here at all? You were going to wait until you had word from us. Why make war before you even knew the Nithins were coming?’

‘Because it is the time for war, Aric. Because it is forced on us. On me.I knew you would be wondering, that’s why I wanted to speak with you.’ King Raxor paused, then sat back to prepare himself. ‘Your friend Mirage. She is dead, Aric.’

The confession seemed to tear the old king apart. His words trembled. ‘Horatin told us,’ said Aric. ‘I’m sorry. For her and for you, my lord.’

‘I know what your father is like, Aric,’ said Raxor. ‘I let her go to him even so. That is shame enough.’

‘Is that why you’re here to fight him? Because of Mirage?’

‘No. Some people think that but they’re wrong. It is not just Mirage that brings me here. Not even Roland. Oh, I want my vengeance, yes, but it is Reec whose heart is broken. The people demand this war, Aric, and I cannot resist them.’

Raxor poured himself more of the wine and began to drink. His hands shook as he held the goblet. Looking at his eyes, Aric could see how bloodshot they were.

‘The world has gone mad,’ Raxor went on. ‘These men that follow me — they know what carnage they’re up against. It’s hopeless yet they yearn for it.’

‘They yearn for death?’

‘Aye, because they have nothing else! Your father took a thousand sons at the Kryss. Have you ever heard the wailing of a thousand mothers, Aric? No one can stand against that kind of noise. So now they send their husbands with me.’ King Raxor looked blackly into his wine. ‘I’m sure their fate will be the same.’

‘Not this time,’ said Aric. ‘My lord, I have good news. It’s not just the Nithins who’ve come to join you. Lukien comes with them.’

Raxor smiled. ‘Ah. And what about that fairy tale you told me? About the sword?’

‘It’s no fairy tale, my lord. The sword is real and Lukien has it. He’s come to fight my father again. This time he can win.’

Raxor scoffed, ‘No one can win against your father.’

‘You don’t believe that,’ said Aric. ‘If you did you wouldn’t be here.’

‘Look into my eyes, Aric.’ Raxor opened his eyes wide. ‘Tell me what you see there.’

Aric looked, and to his deep regret saw nothing, not a hint of the twinkle he had always found there.

‘Do you see hope in me?’ asked Raxor.

‘No,’ admitted Aric. ‘I don’t.’

‘Nor will you.’ Raxor leaned back again, annoyed. ‘Only a fool would believe that Baron Glass can be beaten. I’m not a fool, Aric. I’ll fight him gladly. I have no use for hiding in Hes any longer. But no one will beat him. We will all die. Even your vaunted Lukien.’

Raxor’s certainty riled Aric. He was about to speak when the girl named Alena returned, this time bearing a tray full of hot food. The temptation of the food distracted Aric, but only half as much as the pretty girl. Alena quietly floated into the room, setting down her tray and waiting for Raxor’s orders.

‘Alena, this is Aric,’ said the king. ‘We’ll need clothes for him and a place to sleep.’

Alena looked surprised. ‘He’ll sleep here, my lord?’

‘Yes. Make a place for him.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ agreed the girl, then turned and left the room. Raxor waited until she was gone before speaking again, keeping his voice low.

‘Aric, your father means to keep Koth at any cost. He’s already forsaken the rest of Liiria. Norvans are pouring over the border to help him because even they know how strong he is.’

‘You don’t know, Lukien, my lord,’ said Aric icily. ‘He’s strong, too.’

‘Yes, I know you think that,’ said Raxor. ‘But do not forget what you saw that day at the river. Remember?’

Aric remembered. He remembered far more than he could ever forget. It was the stuff of nightmares.

‘My father may not exist any more,’ he admitted, ‘but he is still just a man behind all that armour. Surely you see that, my lord. You must, or you wouldn’t be here yourself.’

Raxor glanced thoughtfully at his wine. ‘Aric,’ he said softly, ‘I do not believe we will best your father. For most of us, this will be the end.’ He looked at Aric, emphasizing his meaning. ‘I have crossed into Liiria now. I will not be going home this time.’

The admission hit Aric like a thunderbolt. For a moment he was speechless. He saw the certainty in Raxor’s eyes and did not know how to counter it.

‘No, my lord,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You will live! Don’t think such black thoughts. Believe what I tell you — Lukien has the Sword of Angels.’

‘Bah!’ Raxor pushed his goblet aside. ‘An army of angels with an army of swords — that’s what we need to defeat your father.’

‘No, my lord,’ Aric insisted. ‘You can’t go into this fight thinking that way. You need to lead! Where’s that bear-hearted king we all remember? That’s the Raxor that will make my father tremble!’

‘That Raxor is old,’ groaned the king. ‘Old and afraid.’

‘Not so afraid.’ Aric gently poked him. ‘He’s brave enough to face death.’

‘Death is what old people have to look forward to,’ laughed Raxor. ‘But all right, boy, you’ve made your point. I wouldn’t have come here to face your father if I wasn’t ready.’

‘Good,’ Aric pronounced, ‘because I’m ready to face him too.’

The king got to his feet. ‘I’m glad to hear that, because we’ll need you. I won’t keep you from the battle this time, Aric. Now eat and get some rest. Soon we’ll be marching again.’

As always happened when the king left the room, a great emptiness swept in after him. Aric glanced around, stunned by everything that had happened. Exhaustion began to creep over his body, but the pull of the food on the table was greater than the pull of sleep and so he dragged his chair to the table and began to eat, slowly at first, then ravenously. As he reached for the wine, the girl named Alena reappeared, this time bearing an armful of clothing. She paused in the doorway, waiting for Aric’s invitation. Aric stopped eating and stared at her.

‘Come in,’ he said clumsily.

The girl’s face was stern but pretty. She avoided looking at Aric as she came forward. ‘I did not want to disturb you.’

‘This is your house,’ said Aric.

Alena seemed amazed. At last she met his eyes directly. ‘It is.’ Catching herself, she held out the clothes. ‘These are for you.’

Aric stood up. ‘Thank you.’ He took the offering with a smile. ‘I’m truly grateful for this. I think I’ll have to burn what I’m wearing!’

Alena didn’t laugh. ‘If you don’t need anything else. .’

‘No.’ Aric hesitated. ‘I’m fine. Just a question — why are you still here?’

The question surprised the girl. ‘My lord?’

‘I’m a Liirian,’ said Aric. ‘I know this is your home. But these men are Reecians. Your mother and you. .’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘King Raxor’s men have not been cruel to us,’ said Alena. ‘They have taken nothing from our home, only our food and service, and have paid us for both.’

‘But they’re invaders,’ said Aric, still not understanding. ‘They mean to kill your king, you know.’

‘What king?’ spat Alena. ‘Baron Glass? He is king in name only. And we will all be better off when he is gone.’ She made a face at Aric that was almost pitiful. ‘You must have been gone from Liiria a very long time not to know this.’

‘Yes,’ admitted Aric. ‘I have been.’

Alena laughed, not unkindly. ‘Then you will see what I mean. There is no love in Liiria for Baron Glass. We welcome the Reecians. Anything would be better for Liiria.’

Without another word, the girl turned and left the room. Aric sat and watched her go, sure that his world was upside down.

At the edge of Koth, on a ridge of hills overlooking the sleeping city, Lukien paused amidst the rolling fog to ponder the place he had long called home. The rain that had plagued them for days had finally stopped, leaving the night sky clear and star-filled. A great, bare-faced moon hung overhead, shining with milky light. Down in the valley, tucked safely away from the Nithin army, Koth rested uneasily as it waited for the morning. The armies ringed the city like vultures, but old, enduring Koth seemed unafraid. The streets of the ancient city yawned with quietness. High on its hill, the great library loomed above the homes and shops. In the yards around the hill, Lukien could see the unmoving brigades of Norvan soldiers, still asleep as morning neared, their numerous war machines and horses poised for the coming battle. They were so far away, and yet like a great dragon Lukien could hear them breathing. Lights gleamed in the tower of the library. Inside, Thorin waited with his demon, and the sword at Lukien’s side pulsed with unease.

Far behind him, the army of Prince Daralor slept, too. It was hours yet until dawn, when all of them would march for Koth. Amazingly, the coming battle had kept only handfuls of them awake. The rest of them — exhausted from the long trip north — slept soundly in their bedrolls. The dogs slumbered in their makeshift kennels while their keepers slept just outside, the keys to the long leashes jangling at their belts. Horses clopped at the earth, snorting in the cool night air. Like the armies of the Norvans occupying Koth, Daralor’s army stretched deeply into the darkness, lit by smouldering campfires and torches. The Nithin flag snapped in the breeze, standing tall atop Daralor’s distant pavilion.

Tonight, it seemed to Lukien as though the whole world had gathered at this one place, for on the other side of the city, barely visible even through the clear sky, glowed the pinpricks of another army. Raxor’s forces had marched for Koth, too. Two days ago they had arrived. Daralor and the Reecian king had already sent emissaries to each other, sharing what they knew about the forces poised against them. Just like the Nithins, the Reecians had met no resistance either, marching effortlessly toward the Liirian capital. Now, though, the numbers of their foes showed themselves at last. Lukien paled as he considered them.

I can feel him, said Malator in his silent voice. He directed Lukien’s gaze back toward the library. Your baron is restless tonight, Lukien. My brother speaks with him.

Lukien was immediately intrigued. ‘What are they saying?’

Malator thought for a moment, then replied, They are together. That’s all I can tell.

‘Well, then, they’re not the only ones who are restless.’ Lukien put his hand on the sword, as if to put his Akari at ease. ‘They can plan all they want. It won’t change what’s going to happen tomorrow. They should never have let us get this far.’

And yet we are still far away, Malator reminded him. My brother is not stupid, Lukien. Look how he protects himself in the library.

‘Even the library isn’t impregnable, Malator. They can’t hide in there forever.’

Get us to Baron Glass. That is all you need to do.

Lukien nodded, but the task was daunting indeed. They were outnumbered, and would have to fight their way through the streets and the all the ranks of Norvan soldiers first. As he looked over the city, a thousand memories — happy and unhappy — flooded over Lukien. He had a been a boy in those streets, struggling to survive, and later he had risen to knighthood, though never to nobility. Those had been good days, when Koth had been at peace. When Koth had been great. She was not great anymore. Now she was an old cripple, groping her way through the world, decrepit and soiled, spoiled by war and corruption. And she had been torn apart by battles. Thinking of that, Lukien remembered that time not so long ago when last he had stepped foot inside the city. The memory made him shudder.

Do not think of it, Malator advised.

But it was impossible for Lukien not to remember, and he could not pull his eyes from the city or forget the faces of those he had fought with there. Breck and all his other friends, dead or scattered to the winds, and all because of Thorin’s mad designs. And then, without wanting to, Lukien thought of Meriel.

His throat tightened. A grimace of pain gripped his expression. Malator eased closer to him, sensing his loss.

Listen to me now, Lukien. It’s not your fault.

Lukien nodded. ‘Right. I know. But. .’

She is gone. Remember what Horatin told you. She went to him of her own accord.

‘Yes. I know,’ Lukien sighed. ‘It’s just. .’ He considered Meriel and all the others. ‘There are so many who might still be alive if not for me.’

Malator started to speak, then stopped himself. His alarm jolted Lukien into turning around, revealing a figure coming toward him through the mist. At first he thought it was Lorn, but then he noted the royal garb and the confident gait and realized with surprise that it was Daralor. The prince paused a moment, regarding him.

‘May I come ahead?’ asked Daralor.

Startled, Lukien did not know what to say, so he waved the prince forward. ‘Yes,’ he bumbled, ‘of course.’

Prince Daralor glided soundlessly to the edge of the hill, standing beside Lukien and taking the time to look out over Koth. Lukien eyed him curiously, not sure why the prince had come at all. So far, Daralor had never bothered to speak with Lukien alone. He had a thousand other things to do, and dozens of advisors to deliver his messages. Through the long ride north he had treated Lukien with respect, but that was all, preferring to get close to Aric. Now, though, Daralor Eight-Fingers didn’t wear his usual, unapproachable air. He seemed calm, which was normal, but also oddly melancholy.

Neither man spoke for a few long minutes. Daralor, preoccupied by Koth, imbibed every tiny detail of the city. Then, at last, he turned away from the scene, anxiously rubbing the stump of his missing fingers.

‘When it’s near time for battle I walk among my men.’ Daralor smiled strangely. ‘It’s been a very long time since I’ve been in battle.’

Lukien was unsure of his meaning. ‘Your men are brave,’ he offered. ‘They’ll make you proud, I’m sure.’

Daralor nodded in thanks, then looked out past the city toward the faraway lights of Raxor’s army. Tomorrow, probably, they would join the Reecians and lay siege to the library. And then the real battle would begin.

‘Even with the Reecians we are not as many as the Norvans,’ said Daralor. ‘How will they fight, do you think?’

‘They’re mercenaries, mostly,’ said Lukien, ‘but they’re loyal enough.’

‘Loyal to Baron Glass, or loyal to his gold?’

‘To his diamonds,’ Lukien corrected mildly. ‘They’re afraid of him, and they know no one can defeat him. He’s not just the ruler of Liiria. He’s the lord of Norvor now and they know it.’

Daralor considered this. ‘Than he must be got to quickly.’ His eyes met Lukien straight on. ‘We will make the way for you, Lukien, but the rest will be up to you. And your sword.’

‘I’m ready,’ said Lukien.

Daralor smiled. ‘Are you? Your pardon, Sir Lukien, but I see fear in you. I have seen it since we met, and I saw it grow when you learned about the woman Mirage.’

‘What?’ Lukien bristled. ‘Who told you this? Lorn?’

‘No,’ said Daralor gently. ‘Though King Lorn has his suspicions of you. You’re not surprised by that, certainly.’

‘No,’ Lukien spat. ‘Lorn saw me one night, speaking with the spirit of the sword. I should have trusted him to keep what he heard secret.’

‘He has told me nothing, Lukien. My doubts are my own.’

‘Do not doubt me, Prince Daralor.’ Lukien’s tone hardened. ‘I have looked into the eyes of this demon before. I’ll do it again and I won’t flinch.’

‘Then my men and I will do my part for you, Sir Lukien. You have my promise. Stay alive long enough to reach Baron Glass. That’s all you need to do.’

‘Ah, well then, that will be easy enough,’ said Lukien darkly. ‘For there is no way for me to die, even if I wished it.’

Daralor looked at him through the mist. ‘Some say you do wish it, Bronze Knight.’

The accusation made Lukien grin. ‘Believe what you want, Prince Daralor.’

‘Tell me, what will you do when this is over?’ Daralor eased away from the vision of Koth, smiling at Lukien. ‘Will you go back to Jador or will you remain here?’

Lukien shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet.’

‘No?’ Daralor motioned toward the sword at Lukien’s waist. ‘And what of that? Will you keep it?’

‘If I don’t I’ll die.’

‘Yes. You will.’

The two men understood each other, but Lukien wanted no part of it. He told the prince, ‘Whatever I decide after we are done here is no matter to you or to anyone. Tomorrow or the next day, when Thorin is free or dead, I will have finished my service to the gods that have ruled me. My life will be mine again.’

‘To live it?’ asked Daralor. ‘Or to end it?’

His questions irked Lukien. ‘To decide for myself,’ he said icily.

Daralor seemed satisfied with his answer. The prince looked back toward his waiting army. ‘They want you to stay alive until they can get you to Baron Glass. The rest is up to you.’

He said no more, ending his visit with those final words and going back toward his men. Lukien waited, perturbed, trying to figure out why the prince had come to him at all. Was he being tested? Did Daralor not trust him?

‘You needn’t worry, Daralor,’ Lukien muttered after him. ‘I’ll do my part.’

Afraid or not, he was prepared to meet Thorin on the morrow.

Lukien remained alone on the hillside, but his daydreams had been ruined and he knew that rest was necessary. Abandoning the private spot, he walked slowly back toward camp, passing men and horses as he picked his way back to his own bedroll. Night had settled like a mantle over the camp, filling the air with the sounds of slumber and anxious animals. Lukien greeted a few soldiers on his way, giving them a casual nod until at last he had returned to the campfire he had made with Lorn. There, he saw the old king sitting by the fire, warming himself and gently sharpening his sword. The weapon gleamed in the jumping firelight. Lorn’s eyes shined with anticipation. He looked up at Lukien as the knight approached, then glanced away again without a word of greeting. The two men had barely spoken at all during the past few weeks, the rift between them growing ever wider. For a reason he could not quite comprehend, Lukien regretted that now.

And yet, he could think of nothing to say to Lorn. An apology certainly wasn’t in the offing; he still believed Lorn was a butcher. There was too much history to change his mind about that. He wanted only an understanding between them before tomorrow, when they rode together into battle.

‘Lorn.’

His voice — the only voice — sounded loudly through the camp. Lorn cleared his throat with disinterest.

‘Yes?’

Lukien sidled closer to him. He searched for the right words. They came to him out of nowhere. ‘Gilwyn is a smart boy. He may be young, but he’s smart.’

Lorn grumbled, ‘What?’

‘Gilwyn,’ said Lukien, fumbling. ‘He trusted you enough to help him. So did Minikin.’

‘That’s right,’ said Lorn. He didn’t bother looking up at Lukien, but rather ran his sharpening stone carefully across his blade. ‘So did White-Eye. What’s your point?’

‘Did you tell Daralor what you saw that night when I was speaking with Malator?’

‘No I did not,’ hissed Lorn. ‘Did he tell you I did? If he did he is a liar.’

Lukien quickly shook his head. ‘No. He. .’ He paused. ‘Never mind.’

Lorn stopped his sharpening. ‘Sit if you want.’

It was the first kind gesture either man had offered the other since Lukien could remember. He seized on it, sitting down on the hard earth next to Lorn. The warmth of the fire felt good. It seemed like forever since Lukien had enjoyed a proper bed.

‘Lorn,’ Lukien asked quietly. ‘Why aren’t you asleep?’

‘Can’t sleep.’ The old king took a deep breath. ‘I’m too close now to sleep.’

‘Too close?’

‘To Norvor, Lukien. To home.’

Lukien stared into the fire. ‘This was my home once. Maybe it can be again.’

‘Oh?’ Lorn turned toward him. ‘You’ll stay here, then?’

It was the same question Daralor wanted answered. ‘Tomorrow you’ll have a chance to prove yourself,’ said Lukien, changing the subject.

‘No,’ Lorn grunted. ‘I have proven myself, again and again. Tomorrow, Lukien, will be your chance, not mine. Whatever happens tomorrow, my conscience is clear. If we win, Norvor will be mine again. Then I can send for my daughter and Eiriann and return to my life. My real life.’ Lorn looked imploringly at Lukien. ‘That’s all I want. Don’t you see?’

Lukien did see. Finally, it was clear to him.

‘We all want that,’ he replied. ‘Just to be home. To be with a woman we love. We all want that, Lorn.’

It was a single, simple point of agreement, but for Lukien it was enough.

Like a slithering tentacle, Kahldris’ words wrapped themselves around Thorin as he stood by the window. The great expanse of the city lay beneath them, brightening in the rising sun. On the grasses on the outskirts of Koth, the army of their Nithin enemies watched the coming dawn, poised for battle. The sight thrilled Kahldris. The old general within him stirred, filling Thorin with his unholy passions.

‘Today I will watch you shine, Baron Glass. Today your life will change forever, and the whole world will know you are its master.’

As he had done so frequently lately, Kahldris did not hide himself within Thorin’s mind, but rather stood next to him bodily, his figure dressed in his ancient battle garb, his form shimmering in the weak light coming through the window. From their place within the library’s tower they could see the entire west side of the city, its houses and store fronts locked up tight against the coming melee. Green Nithin flags waved in the breeze. Men and dogs scurried through the ranks of cavalry, preparing to march into the city. At the forefront of the army sat its leader, the strange and stately Daralor, barely visible at such a distance yet somehow unmistakable. Thorin let his gaze linger on the prince and the men around him. His preternatural eyesight — like a hawk’s or better — spied their tense faces. Among them sat Lukien, stoic and one-eyed, his blond hair slowly greying, his weathered face full of pain. It should have been impossible for Thorin to make out such detail, but it was not. Kahldris’ magic swelled in him, filling his mind’s eye with the image of his old friend.

‘He bears the sword,’ said Kahldris. ‘Look. .’

Through the wavy glass Thorin could see across the miles, could see in the hand of his good old friend the weapon of his demise. Crude and plain, the sword seemed no more than the Akari sword Thorin himself would wield today. He closed his eyes to see it better. Letting the demon’s magic guide him, he saw the weapon perfectly, then felt Kahldris shutter madly. The potent force within the sword shook the spirit.

‘Your brother,’ Thorin muttered. He opened his eyes and expelled a sigh. ‘I can feel him. He’s powerful. Like you.’

Kahldris nodded his ethereal head. In the darkened chamber, he gave off a ghostly light. ‘He has found a willing ally in your friend, Baron Glass. You are sentimental about the knight Lukien. I warn you, do not be. Great things are undone by such feelings.’

Thorin stared out across the city. On the eastern side of Koth, invisible from his westerly perch, Raxor and his Reecians had gathered for the siege, weighing in from the farmlands to press against the city. His army had swelled considerably in the last few days, bolstered by loyalists ready to die for the old king. Because they were so near their own homeland, their supply lines had been easy to maintain. Raxor’s men were rested and well fed, and armed with everything they could drag across the border. Thousands of men, most on horses, had heeded Raxor’s call to battle, eager to avenge their dead Prince Roland and regain the pride Thorin had stripped from them. It had been an awful miscalculation, letting Raxor live that day. Thorin saw that now. He should have pursued his adversary across the Kryss and ended things. He should have cut the old man’s heart out and eaten it.

Why hadn’t he, then?

‘I was covered in blood,’ he mused aloud, addressing Kahldris without turning toward him. He felt grossly alone suddenly, the chamber echoing and empty. Beneath him, his own armies massed around Library Hill or spread out through the city, ready to defend him. They too numbered in the thousands, and yet not one of them loved him. Not the way they loved Lukien. Or Daralor. Or Raxor. Only Gilwyn loved him now, and that was a mystery Thorin could barely understand.

‘Baron Glass?’ Kahldris was staring at him now. Amazingly, he smiled. Putting his hand on Thorin’s shoulder, he said, ‘Thorin. Do you believe in me?’

Thorin looked at him but could not return his grin. ‘I am grateful to you.’

‘That is not enough. Not today.’ Kahldris pointed out the window. ‘Those men come to kill us. Your friend, Lukien — he comes to destroy you, not to save you. He is not Gilwyn, with all his stupid innocence. He and the rest of them want to take what you have fought so long for, Baron Glass.’

‘I’ve killed so many. .’

‘It does not matter!’ thundered Kahldris. ‘Their blood fed us, made us strong!’

‘No,’ said Thorin, unable to shake the nightmarish memories. ‘They are men, not goats to be slaughtered.’ He stepped back from the window. ‘Will today be like that again?’ He glanced down at the armour covering his person. Like Kahldris, he was dressed for battle, every inch of him shielded in his shiny black suit. The hideous helmet with its upturned horns waited on a nearby table. Kahldris followed his gaze to the helmet.

‘Take up the helmet, Baron Glass.’

Thorin shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

‘It is time. The sun comes quickly.’

‘I have questions,’ said Thorin softly.

Kahldris looked surprised. ‘Now? It’s not the time to be pensive.’

‘I want to know things. Before I become a butcher again, I want to know what you know, Kahldris.’

‘You know everything I know, Baron Glass. I have never hidden anything from you.’

‘No, it’s not so simple.’ Thorin stalked back to the window, biting his lip as he looked toward the horizon. Already Daralor’s forces were on the move, slowly cantering into the city. The start of the march made Kahldris uneasy, but Thorin held firm. ‘I am unstoppable in this armour, but they will try to stop me anyway,’ he said. ‘And I’ll be forced to kill them. You will blind me to their agonies and I’ll feel nothing, but right now my mind is clear, Kahldris, and I know what they are facing.’

Kahldris’ old face twisted. ‘Get on with your question.’

‘My question is this — what will happen to them?’

‘You know what will happen,’ growled Kahldris. ‘They will die. Why do you care? They come to kill you, Baron!’

‘No,’ Thorin argued, ‘that’s not what I mean.’ He looked imploringly at the spirit. ‘I mean what will happen to them after they die?’

Kahldris reared back, looking thoughtful. ‘Ah. .’

‘I need to know this, Kahldris. Ease my conscience. Tell me what will happen. They will live on, yes? I send them only to their glory?’

‘Is that what you have believed?’ The Akari’s tone was slightly mocking. ‘All our time together, and now you want enlightenment.’ He shook his head doubtfully. ‘I wonder, Baron Glass, if you have truly looked outside that window.’

‘I know what we’re facing,’ said Thorin calmly. Truly, it hardly mattered to him. His mind was full of questions, because his hands were full of blood. ‘I killed Jazana and all those others. What’s happened to them? They live on, yes?’

Kahldris smirked with impatience. ‘Yes, they live on. You know this already.’

‘Where do they live on? In a world like this? Or in the kinds of worlds you’ve shown me?’

‘The world of the dead is different for everyone,’ said Kahldris.

‘But they do live on. Minikin told me that once. It’s not just Akari who go on.’

‘Why do you ask me this now?’

‘Because I’m going out there!’ Thorin raged. ‘Because I’ll kill a thousand men today. Do I send them to hell or to heaven? Tell me, Kahldris, please.’

Kahldris glanced away, turning from Thorin to stare contemplatively out the window. The pull on him was mighty; Thorin could see him struggling. ‘My brother is coming,’ he whispered. His voice cracked with nervousness. ‘There’s just no time to unravel this mystery for you. It is unknowable.’

The answered vexed Thorin. ‘How can that be? You exist in their world. Do you not see them, encounter their spirits?’

‘I am in your world as much as their worlds,’ Kahldris explained. He put his unearthly hands to the window, leaving no mark at all as he looked longingly at the armies ready to clash. ‘Let us go, Baron Glass.’

‘How is this unknowable? You have said there is a world beyond this one.’

‘Yes, yes. .’

‘And what is beyond that? What gods are there? What angels or heavens?’

‘It is unknowable!’ shrieked Kahldris. ‘I have no answers for you! I live, and that is all. Those you kill will find their own worlds. Or they will not. I cannot know everything!’

Thorin stared in amazement. ‘You don’t know what lies beyond your world? What gods rule you?’

‘I rule myself,’ said Kahldris, desperate to end the talking. ‘You rule yourself. We are our own gods! We decide who lives and dies. Do you not see that? That is the power I have given you’ He fixed on Thorin, trying to make him understand. ‘Today, you will be the only god who matters to those men out there. Forget the Great Fate, Baron Glass. This day, you are a god.’

His awesome words left Thorin dumbstruck. It was a terrible gift he had taken from Kahldris, one that had rotted his mind and his morals both. There was no turning back from it; he knew that plainly. Liiria still needed him. There was still good he could do in the world, surely. Suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to see his son again. Thorin swallowed down the questions plaguing him, glancing one last time at the vision through the window. Kahldris, satisfied that he had convinced Thorin, dissolved into the air. His wordless voice rippled through the baron’s mind.

Now, Baron Glass. It’s time.

Thorin agreed reluctantly. Despite everything he’d done, only Kahldris had carried him so far. It was time to repay the demon’s kindnesses. As Thorin turned from the window, however, he spotted Gilwyn at the end of the chamber, the boy’s face partially hidden in shadows. Thorin had not heard him come in. Gilwyn stared at Thorin with a hopeless frown. His empty hands hung at his sides. Every other man in the library was dressed for battle, but not Gilwyn. Attired in his usual shirt and trousers, his boot with the special hinge wrapped around his clubbed foot, he looked as if the day was like any other, to be spent studying the library’s vast shelves. His gaze told a different story, though, penetrating Thorin with his odd mix of love and shelter. Despite Kahldris’s insistence, the baron could no longer rush away.

‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he told Gilwyn gently. ‘This is my quiet time. I won’t have any more of it today.’

‘It’s dawn,’ said Gilwyn. ‘I had to come.’

Thorin made his way to the table where his helmet waited. There he paused, reaching for it then stopping. The death’s head face of the thing leered at him, taunting him to pick it up.

‘I wish you had listened to me,’ said Thorin. ‘I wish you had gone when I told you, left when you had the chance. Now. .’ He shrugged. ‘You’re stuck here.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ said Gilwyn. He managed to smile at his old friend. ‘I told you, I’m not leaving you.’

‘You should have given up on me, instead of trapping yourself here,’ Thorin groaned. ‘I can’t change, and the dead are dead.’ Finally, he picked up the helmet, holding it by one shining horn. ‘After all this, how can you still see the good in me?’

Gilwyn’s face darkened with sadness. ‘I remember it. So I know it’s there. But I failed you, Thorin. I thought I could break the hold Kahldris has over you, but I can’t. I tried to find a way in the library, but. .’ He shrugged hopelessly. ‘Maybe there is no way, not if you don’t help me. You have to fight him. You have to want to give him up.’

‘Then I am doomed,’ said Thorin with a crooked smile. ‘No matter how I try to explain this, I don’t think you could ever understand. I cannot give up Kahldris, Gilwyn. He’s part of me now.’

Gilwyn made no effort to argue with the baron. Instead, he simply stepped aside and let Thorin leave the room.

Dawn’s light splashed colour on the yard of Library Hill, illuminating the men gathered there for Thorin’s arrival. A huge, black charger awaited the baron, held by stable hands whose mouths fell open as Baron Glass entered the yard. Duke Cajanis, patiently waiting near his own horse and surrounded by Norvan bodyguards, straightened to attention as Thorin approached. Dressed completely now in the Devil’s Armour, his head encased in the frightful helmet, Thorin’s visage froze the waiting men. The long road leading up to the library bristled with men and weapons. At the base of the hill a thousand Liirians were positioned, ready to defend the stronghold. Throughout the city other divisions were scattered, all carefully positioned to rebuff the Nithin and Reecian advances. A cool breeze reached Thorin through his armour, which rested on his body as lightly as a feather. Kahldris pumped magic energy into his blood and muscles. His sword, an Akari weapon he had stolen from the cellars of Grimhold, bounced at his thigh. Thorin wasted no time as he bee-lined to Duke Cajanis.

‘Report.’

Cajanis said confidently, ‘We’re ready. Arand is waiting for us at the west end and Karris’ men are in Chancellery Square. The Reecians have started to move down on him. Lothon and his Liirians will stay at the hill. They’ll take care of anyone who makes it through.’

At the base of the hill Thorin caught a glimpse of Lothon as he rode slowly amongst his men, Liirians who had joined with Thorin to remake their army. It was a small band, only about a thousand men, but the terrain of Library Hill made their job of defending it much easier. Lothon was an old man now, a friend of the baron’s from the old days when Akeela had been king. Long retired, he had been one of the few to see the hope of a better Liiria. As Thorin spied the old man far below, he felt a pang of sorrow. Things hadn’t turned out the way either of them had hoped, and yet Lothon had stayed loyal to him.

‘Make sure no one gets through,’ Thorin told Cajanis as he headed for his mount. ‘If Lothon dies today, I’ll make sure you do as well, Duke Cajanis.’

Cajanis chuckled as if Glass was joking. ‘Not much chance of that, Baron Glass. Once the Nithins see you in your armour they’ll know they have no chance.’

‘They won’t be seeing me yet,’ said Thorin. Without the help of the stable hands he hoisted himself onto his horse. ‘You’ll be in charge of Arand and his men. I’m going to the square.’

‘What?’ puzzled Cajanis.

What? erupted Kahldris.

‘Chancellery Square,’ said Thorin. ‘That’s where Raxor will be. That’s where I’m going.’

Cajanis began to sputter. ‘But Baron Glass, the Nithins!’

Thorin spun his horse toward the road. ‘Go, Cajanis. You know what to do.’

Duke Cajanis stared at Thorin as the baron rode away. Passing the scores of soldiers positioned on the road, Thorin hurried down the hillside toward the waiting Liirians at the bottom. Lothon, hearing the commotion, looking skyward at the racing baron, raising his glove in greeting. But Thorin had no time for sentiment. Barely acknowledging his comrade’s wave, he focused on Chancellery Square instead. From the hillside he saw it, choked with tall buildings and Norvan mercenaries, its parade ground dotted with lancemen. Coming out from the distant hills toward the square, Raxor and his Reecian army slowly bore down on the Norvans.

What are you doing, Baron Glass? asked Kahldris angrily.

‘To do some good,’ Thorin replied. ‘To get my son back.’

My brother is with the Nithins!

‘Your brother will wait. First I have to rescue my son.’

No! Kahldris raged. Go west, Baron! West!

Thorin ignored the demon’s orders. At the bottom of the hill, he rode quickly through the amazed ranks of Liirians, passing Lothon and his lieutenants and heading for the heart of the capital where the spires of the old chancellery buildings stood.

‘I’ll kill for you today, Kahldris,’ he cried as he galloped through the open lane. ‘But first I want my son back!’

On a field filled with ghosts, Lukien and his comrades faced the city of Koth. In the shadows of the capital the Norvan mercenaries poured from the streets, lining up to fight for the duke that led them. Lukien, seated stoically atop his horse, watched as their enemies formed their ranks. Next to him, Prince Daralor minded his own men, calmly ordering his soldiers to hold their position. A great, green flag unfurled above him. Stately armour gleamed on his person, shining like copper in the new light of morning. His army stretched out proudly behind him, silently awaiting the coming battle, while dozens of war dogs strained at the leash, barely held back by their burly keepers. Deep in the ranks, the battle hawks stood tethered to their perches, madly screeching as they sighted the Norvans. Their cries scratched at Lukien’s ears. On a horse beside him, Ghost swiveled anxiously in his saddle, his arms and face covered in a Jadori gaka to protect his pale skin from the sun. Ghost’s grey eyes turned to slivers as he watched the Norvans. His hand twitched as he gripped his thin sword.

They had strategized and planned, and now they were ready, and Lukien saw confidence in Daralor’s men. They had marched to this foreign land to follow their beloved prince, and still Lukien wondered why. Daralor had puzzled him with talk of honour and of men living free, and now that the hour of battle had come, he saw that Daralor had meant every word of it. With his face shadowed by his high-flying flag, Daralor looked like a hero to Lukien.

Duke Cajanis was easily recognizable in his blue cape and long golden hair. At the front of his army, his horse prancing as if in a parade, he looked both fearsome and foppish as he entered the field. The force of Norvan mercenaries that followed him impressed Lukien with its numbers. Norvan regulars loyal to Cajanis peppered the group. Despite Jazana Carr’s death, her legacy lived on, and Lukien knew there was only one reason why so many men still followed Thorin. He was the big dog in this part of the world, and now had claim to Jazana’s vast fortune. He was also indestructible, which meant no one could challenge him.

‘Except today,’ he whispered.

Ghost heard his words and flicked his gaze toward Lukien. The young, cloud-coloured eyes sparked with fire. Of all the Inhumans, Ghost was certainly among the best fighters. Only Greygor, Grimhold’s guardian, was more frightening to behold in battle, and that was because Greygor was more monster than man. But Ghost wasn’t the only spirit on the field, and as Lukien watched the Norvans approach he remembered another time, not so long ago, when he had fought on this very same soil. Then, it had been Thorin who was the invader, leading these same Norvan whores to sack the city. It had been a brutal battle and his confrontation with Thorin had left Lukien near death, and remembering that made him shudder now.

No, Lukien, came Malator’s soothing voice. Do not be afraid.

At Lukien’s side the Sword of Angels burned against his body. Malator essence glowed within it, setting the blade strangely alight. There seemed to be no fear at all within the Akari, and the calmness he felt helped to soften Lukien’s mood.

‘I don’t see him,’ said Lukien, as much to Malator as to the others. ‘I don’t see Thorin.’

‘He has to come,’ said Daralor. ‘He knows you’re here, Lukien.’

But looking past the ranks of Norvans, no one could see Baron Glass or the slightest hint of his terrible armour. Lukien pondered Library Hill, clearly visible above the city.

‘He’s in the library, maybe,’ he surmised. ‘He doesn’t need to come and face us yet.’

‘He lets his hirelings do his dirty work,’ grunted Ghost. ‘He thinks he has us bested already.’

Baron Glass is not in the library.

‘Eh?’

My brother is with him, Malator explained, and they are not in the library. Baron Glass goes to find his son, Lukien.

‘Oh, gods, no. .’

‘Lukien?’ asked Daralor. ‘What is it?’

‘Thorin’s not here. He’s going after Raxor first,’ replied Lukien.

No one asked how he knew such a thing. The magical sword at his side gave them their answer. Even the Eye of God, still burning against Lukien’s chest, bespoke of the sorcery Lukien commanded.

‘This changes things,’ said Ghost.

Daralor shook his head. ‘It changes nothing. You still must reach Baron Glass, Lukien.’

Ghost protested, ‘But he’s on the other side of the city. .’

‘No, Daralor’s right,’ said Lukien. ‘It doesn’t matter where he is, we have to get to him.’

Daralor grinned at the young albino. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem for a man who can make himself invisible.’

His levity broke the tension, and his lieutenants gave a laugh. Lukien nodded.

‘We’ll reach him,’ he promised Daralor. ‘We’ll find him once you loose the hawks.’

It had been agreed, and Daralor said nothing more about it. They had all approved the plan, even Lorn, who waited unseen within the ranks of Nithins, ready to appear at the proper time. Lukien put his hand on the pommel of his sword, letting Malator’s strength course through him as Duke Cajanis at last came to a stop. The duke’s army halted with amazing precision, spears and lances tipped skyward. At Cajanis’ flanks rode two men, one a mercenary Lukien remembered, one a Norvan nobleman. The mercenary, a man named Thon, smirked at Lukien distastefully.

‘You know him?’ whispered Ghost.

‘I know him,’ grumbled Lukien. ‘I was one of them, remember.’

He had spent years in Jazana Carr’s employment, and Lukien knew most of the mercenaries of any importance. Thon was from Jerikor, and like the warriors of that land he never wore armour or any coverings at all over his arms, preferring instead to display his many tattoos. He was an unsavoury character and Jazana had never liked him, but he was good at his work and so had earned a place in her vast army. Lukien was not surprised at all that he had remained with Thorin. Thon, like many mercenaries, cared only about money.

Duke Cajanis wheeled his horse to face his men. He had arranged his army so that his cavalry came first, just as Daralor had, with foot soldiers scattered among them. He had brought no archers with him, though they were surely stationed at the library, Lukien reasoned. Cajanis spoke loudly to his soldiers, rallying them, and his bold words were echoed by lieutenants in the ranks. Then, when he finished his speech, the duke turned around again toward the Nithins. Amazingly, he broke away from his army and began riding forward, accompanied by Thon and the Norvan noble.

‘Terms,’ spat Daralor in disgust. ‘Lukien, Godwin, come with me.’

Leaping at the chance to return the insult, Daralor broke from his army and trotted out toward Cajanis with his aide, Godwin. Lukien followed, leaving Ghost behind and sure that Lorn, hidden among the Nithins, was watching and fuming. Prince Daralor rode out grandly, his head held high, then reined his stallion to a halt just feet before Cajanis. The two leaders locked glares for a moment, until Cajanis noticed Lukien.

‘You are the Bronze Knight I have heard so much about,’ said the duke mockingly. He glanced over at Thon. ‘From what you told me, I expected more.’

Thon cracked a toothy grin. ‘You look old, Lukien.’

‘Do I?’ Lukien reached beneath his breast plate and pulled out the Eye of God. As the amulet hit the sunlight it blazed furiously. ‘I don’t feel old, Thon,’ he said, dropping the Eye against his chest. ‘I feel immortal.’

‘We’ve been warned of your magic, Lukien of Liiria,’ said Cajanis. ‘In truth it matters not. You already know what you’re up against. You don’t have a chance, not even with your pretty bauble.’

Daralor bristled at the duke’s arrogance. ‘You’re a man of big words, Duke Cajanis. I have found in my dealings that men of big words have the smallest stones. I can already see the fear in your eyes every time my war dogs bark.’

‘A thousand war dogs won’t bring down the Black Baron, Prince Daralor. You would be better off slaughtering them yourself. Do it humanely and they won’t suffer. Let me take pity on you, sir. I come to speak to you as a favour, to warn you of what will happen. This is not your fight, and you cannot win it.’

Lukien at last pulled free his sword. As he did, the blade burst with light. ‘I have the means to best your baron, Norvan. Behold!’ A ripple of surprise went through the Norvan ranks. Lukien pressed his advantage. ‘I know you men!’ he shouted to the mercenaries. ‘Listen to me now. The reign of Baron Glass is over. I have come to undo him!’ He laughed, full of malice suddenly, and looking straight at Cajanis hissed, ‘And I have not come alone.’

Lukien lowered his sword, pointing it at the rows of Nithins behind him. The signal caused the soldiers to part like a curtain, revealing a single rider who trotted out from the crowd. King Lorn the Wicked had dressed for the occasion, looking as princely as Daralor himself in a silver breastplate and gleaming chainmail, his arms covered in scarlet fabric, his head crowned with a feathered helmet that left his hard-bitten face naked. He held an axe in his hand with a sword at his belt, his white horse garbed in golden armour that reflected like rainbows on the field. His appearance stunned and confused Cajanis. The duke frowned as he tried to make out the rider’s identity.

‘That’s an old man,’ spat Cajanis, then began to chuckle. ‘It’s that your champion, Prince Daralor?’

Lorn held up the axe in his meaty fist. ‘I am Lorn,’ he declared. ‘And I live!’

As though they were arrows his words shot the men through, stunning Duke Cajanis and his soldiers. Whispers and shouts ran through the Norvan ranks. Cajanis, too shocked to speak, looking dumbly at his aide, and from the rows of mercenaries a cry went up.

‘It’s him!’ said the single, distant soldier. ‘That’s Lorn!’

Lorn drove his horse to a gallop, hurrying to Lukien’s side. To Lukien, he had never looked more like the manic king of legend. His rock hard eyes froze Cajanis in his glare as both Thon and the nameless noble drew back.

‘I am King Lorn of Norvor, rightful ruler of our land, and you Cajanis are a usurper’s lapdog. Save your warnings, coward. We are deaf to them.’

‘You can’t be Lorn,’ sputtered Cajanis. ‘Lorn is dead!’

Lorn tossed back his head and gave a shuddering cry. ‘I live!’ he shouted, half-mad with laughter. ‘And I’ve come back for my throne and to kill all who defy me. Look at me, wretched duke! Call me a ghost one more time and you will die first today.’

Duke Cajanis struggled with his horse. Behind him, his usually orderly soldiers had broken into gossip. He turned to Lukien, spitting with anger.

‘You’ve made an unholy alliance for yourself, Bronze Knight. You bring a devil back to Norvor!’

‘Yield to us now, Duke Cajanis,’ Lukien ordered. ‘You cannot kill me, and once the dogs are loosed you’ll have no chance of it. I have prayed for death and been denied it by heaven, and no Norvan fop will be the end of me.’

‘Don’t bargain with these piss buckets, Lukien,’ said Lorn. He forced his horse closer to Cajanis. ‘You may run from me, but wherever you go I will find you, Cajanis. And when I have my throne again you will be my jester.’

‘They taunt you, Cajanis!’ grumbled Thon. ‘Who are they? Look at them and look at us.’ The mercenary scoffed at Lukien. ‘You shouldn’t have come back, Lukien. You’re over.’

His filthy grin drove all the fear from Lukien’s mind. Now, like the old days, he hungered for a fight. ‘Well, Cajanis?’ he asked. ‘Which will it be? Will you let this pile of shit speak for you? Or will you use your brain and yield to us?’

Cajanis was frothing now. ‘You are outnumbered! Even without Baron Glass you have no chance against us.’

‘Shall I lose my war dogs, then?’ asked Daralor casually. ‘The kennel masters have kept them hungry.’

‘Damn your war dogs, you eight fingered freak.’ Duke Cajanis pulled his reins up. ‘Let them lose and we’ll show them what Norvan blades are made of.’

The duke swiveled his horse quickly about, barking at his comrades to follow him as he returned to his army. Before Lukien and Daralor could turn themselves back, Lorn heaved his axe after Cajanis, missing the duke by inches. Cajanis roared in hatred.

‘You are dead, old man!’ the duke promised. ‘Today Norvor will be free of you at last!’

‘Come and kill me, then!’ Lorn challenged. ‘The moment you’re man enough.’

Daralor had heard enough. The time for talk was over. He did not ride back to his army or tell his men to wait. He merely glanced at his lieutenants and with a nod gave the order to unleash the dogs.

In all his life, Aric Glass had only been in battle twice before. On both occasions others had protected him from the worst of it, but not today. Today, as a volley of arrows sailed overhead, the full stink of death singed his nose and the terrifying cries of dying men shook his skull. It had all happened so quickly, Aric had barely seen it coming. First there were the trumpets, the martial music of his Reecian comrades. The Norvans had seemed so far away, like toy soldiers on their horses. Then they had come like a wave across the battlefield, sweeping Aric into combat. His sword was up and his horse was charging with the rest of them, carrying him headlong into the clash. Beside him, the Nithin bodyguards Trace and Brenor rode at his flanks, into the teeth of Norvan lances. The stampede of cavalry shook the ground. And Aric was in chaos.

The world around him blurred. From atop his horse he saw Norvans and Reecians and his own slashing sword, blindly shooting out to parry. Time slowed and had no meaning, and though he heard the voices of the Reecian captains, he could not understand them over the din. Toward the rear of their ranks, King Raxor rallied his soldiers, shouting as he held a battle axe aloft. Horatin and others members of the Red Watch swarmed around him, protecting him as Norvan riders strained to reach him. Aric pivoted, trying to find his comrades in the me?le?e. Trace and Brenor, distinctive in their green Nithin garb, battled back the curved blades of a band of tattooed mercenaries. Aric had seen their likes before, in his first clash against them, each of them dark-skinned and crazy-eyed. Trace barreled his stallion into them, disappearing for a moment as a single, pony-tailed brute rose up in Aric’s sight. His blade fell quickly, knocking Aric back as he blocked it. The horse beneath him whinnied, then spun to help its master, letting Aric return the blow. The mercenary’s own horse reared, kicking dirt into the air as Aric broke away. He had no shield to slow him down, and when the big man’s horse came down Aric’s blade was there, mercilessly slashing its neck. Its rider cursed as the horse collapsed, falling headlong into a swinging Reecian mace.

‘Aric, watch yourself!’ Brenor screamed. It was his mace that had split the man’s skull. He sidled up to Aric through the battle.

‘I can look after myself!’ Aric shouted.

‘Stay close! That’s what we all do!’

Already another band of Norvans were breaking toward them. Trace emerged from the crowd, fighting his way back to Aric and Brenor, his emerald armour splashed with blood. As he reached his comrades an arrow plunged down, piercing his shoulder. He roared, spitting obscenities, and with two hands forced the pommel of his sword through the eye of a coming mercenary. Aric hurried toward him. Other Norvans had sighted Trace. Bearing down on the young man, they had almost reached him when the Reecian catapults began. Fire filled the sky as the burning missiles arced toward the Norvans, exploding like sunbursts amid the frenzied horses. Aric and Brenor pressed the distraction, and joined by charging Reecians forced the Norvans back. The slashing sword and flying spears blinded Aric but he kept on, faithfully fighting the way he had learned, the way his own father had once taught him. So far the battle was only minutes long, but Aric had not even taken a scratch, and a glamour of invincibility fell on him. He cried out in gleeful triumph, sure they would win the day, sure that his Reecian friends would easily best the dogs of Norvor. .

Until Trace fell.

Aric was laughing, cocksure and strong, and he had not even seen the lanceman’s charge. The weapon came from nowhere, like a cobra out off the crowd, striking Trace dead in the chest and blowing him backward. Aric’s laugh died in his throat as the Norvan lance carried off the impaled Trace, and as though a gentle rain had fallen, his spraying blood struck Aric’s face.

Dazed, Aric let his guard down. He stared dumbly at Trace as the Norvan shook the corpse from his weapon. ‘Trace?’

‘Damn all!’ roared Brenor. ‘Aric!’

His cry broke Aric’s stupor. The Nithin glared at him. ‘Brenor, Trace-’

‘He’s dead, now pay me some heed! Forget him and fight, Aric!’

Aric shook himself, lifting his sword again. Trace’s blood tasted salty on his lips. He looked around, not sure where to go, the battlefield swollen with friends and enemies. Brenor was calling him, waving him on. Aric steeled himself again. Then, he heard a distant trumpet sound behind him, calling the Reecians soldiers’ attention. Something was happening, confusing Aric. The Reecians grew pale-faced. The Norvans cheered.

‘What’s happening?’ Aric asked.

Then, he saw him. Baron Glass. His Father.

Alone on his black charger, galloping toward them, his body glistening in living metal, Baron Glass drove toward the battle, towering over the men around him. The Norvans drew back, surrounding him at once, but Aric’s father remained clearly visible, like a giant, shaking his fist and shouting.

‘Fate alive, what’s he doing here?’ Brenor asked.

The clash around them softened as Norvans and Reecians both looked to their captains. At the rear of his army, King Raxor had seen the Black Baron enter the fray. The old monarch’s face twisted with rage. Captain Grenel flew to his side, then barked orders at his men to regroup. Norvan leaders did the same, and soon the battle reignited. Aric and Brenor both fell back, sure that things had changed. Amazingly, King Raxor was riding forward.

Then, realizing what was happening, Aric reined back his mount. Looking toward the Norvan line, he saw his father madly scanning the field.

‘It’s me,’ he said, coldly certain. ‘Brenor, it’s me.’

‘What?’

‘He’s here for me, I know it,’ said Aric.

‘Well you’re not going to him, that’s for sure.’ Brenor positioned himself between Aric and the Norvans. ‘Head to the rear, Aric. I promise, I won’t let him take you.’

‘No,’ said Aric, then turned his steed to fully face his father. ‘I’m staying.’

‘You’re not!’

Brenor reached out and snatched the reins of his horse, jerking him forward.

‘Let me go, Brenor,’ argued Aric. ‘Let me face him!’

Before Brenor could speak again the battlefield filled with Glass’ voice. ‘Raxor! I have come for my son!’

Impossibly, the voice squashed every sound, effortlessly reaching over the armies. Already Aric’s father was cutting his way forward. Reecian soldiers swarmed to stop him, forgetting their private skirmishes. The baron’s mercenaries fanned out to meet them. Unsure what to do, Aric watched as his father churned toward him, his crazed voice ringing from his helmet. The Devil’s Armour swam on him, the tiny figures on it writhing with life. A Reecian spear crashed against it, splintering. The strange sword in his father’s hand pointed its way toward Raxor.

‘My son, Raxor! Give him to me!’

King Raxor and his captains galloped forward. The old man raised his axe hatefully at Baron Glass.

‘You’ll not take him! You’ve taken a boy from me already, monster. You’ll not have this one!’

His pledge brought a cheer from the Reecians, who surged forward again to fight. From the rear the catapults renewed their fire, tossing up their burning missiles. Reecian archers drew their beads, loosing their arrows against the baron. One by one the shafts bounced off Glass’ breastplate. Aric’s father took the blows, raising his strange sword high in the air and cursing Raxor’s cowardice.

‘King Raxor, stay back,’ said Captain Grenel. ‘Take the boy with you, back to the rear.’

‘No, I won’t run from him,’ swore Raxor. He looked at Aric. ‘You stay, hear me?’

‘My lord, no!’

‘Stay put,’ said Raxor. He hefted his battle axe and prepared to ride. ‘I won’t let him take you.’

‘He’ll kill you!’

‘Let him. He’s taken my son and the woman I loved. He’s taken everything from all of us.’ The old king took a deep breath and smiled sadly at Aric. ‘I told you, I wasn’t coming back from this one.’

The argument was lost and Aric knew it. Raxor ordered Brenor and his Watchmen to stay with Aric, then galloped off with Captain Grenel toward the Norvans. Aric moved to follow him, but Brenor and the others held him back. All he could do was cry for Raxor to come back.

The old king heard him, Aric was sure, but he rode off anyway, toward a fate of certain doom.

Thorin had cleared the first wave of Reecians, easily batting them back. His body roared with burning energy as the magic of the armour filled his muscles. Eye-sight and endurance, vigour and strength, all were enhanced by the Devil’s Armour, which hung nearly weightlessly on Thorin’s frame so that he moved more like a cat than a soldier. His Akari sword flashed menacingly, too swift for the normal eyes of his enemies. Just as he had been upon the bridge that day, he had become a killing machine. Unstoppable.

Look! Kahldris’ voice exploded in his head. He comes!

Without needing to look up, Thorin saw the king approaching. He had brought a band of bodyguards with him, all dour-faced men eager to bring the baron down. Past them, Thorin could make out the figure of his son, Aric, struggling to join the fight. Other men, Watchmen, surrounded him.

‘Let him go!’ Thorin thundered, and without knowing how he heard his voice carry across the field. ‘Aric! Son, I’m here for you!’

‘No!’ Raxor shouted. ‘You won’t take him!’

The king’s men cleared a path for him, letting him ride into Thorin’s view. Thorin held his own men back, ordering them to let the Reecian come. Around them the battle raged on, but in that small space a circle was cleared, allowing the rivals to tangle.

‘You won’t have your son today, Baron Glass,’ said Raxor. ‘By all the gods, you won’t.’

Thorin trotted closer to his nemesis. Aric was shouting in the distance, begging Raxor to come back.

You see, Baron Glass? He taunts you! Kahldris was in a rage, and in his rage drove Thorin mad. He keeps your son from you, your flesh and blood. He has turned your son against you!

‘Come, then, damn Reecians!’ bellowed Thorin. He fought the temptation to tear the helmet from his head and spit at Raxor. ‘Finally you are man enough to face me, old man!’

King Raxor jerked his horse to a halt. He wore no helmet himself, only a golden crown of kingship. He looked remarkably calm as he studied his opponent.

‘Murderer. You have slain my son and taken the flower of Reecian manhood. Be warned, Baron Glass, we will not leave the field today until you are dead.’

‘Then it will be a long day of butchery,’ said Thorin wearily. He knew that Kahldris was driving him, and yet he barely cared. All he wanted was his son returned. After that, he would be the demon’s plaything. With the finger of his gauntlet he waved Raxor closer. ‘Come and face me, old man.’

Raxor’s men surrounded him, preventing him from riding closer. But the king ordered them away.

‘Back away, all of you,’ he said. ‘Let me face him alone.’

‘Yes, let them see how a real man dies,’ said Thorin. He shook his head, almost pitying his rival. ‘You have no chance at all, Raxor.’

‘And you have no heart, but it matters not, Baron Glass. My death will be an example to the others.’

‘A martyr? Fine,’ sighed Thorin. He slid down from his horse, stepping into the empty circle. The arrows had ceased firing, but the sky still whistled with catapult shots. Behind him his men scattered to avoid the burning blasts. ‘Man to man, Raxor. Just you and me.’

King Raxor did not hesitate. Against the calls of his men he dropped from his mount and, axe still in hand, prepared to face the baron. Around him his men fell back. The fighting closest to them ceased as soldiers on both sides watched. Many yards back, Thorin could see his son Aric struggling with the Watchmen, shouting as he tried to break free of them. As their king closed in on his opponent, Aric’s protectors faltered, too fascinated by what they were seeing. At last Aric broke away and began galloping toward his father.

‘Look, Raxor,’ said Thorin gleefully. ‘My son comes to me!’

‘He comes to save me,’ Raxor gloated. ‘Not to help his father.’

The accusation stung Thorin, and he lashed out at Raxor, just enough to clip the old man’s armour. Raxor stumbled back, dazed by the blow. Thorin stalked after him, spreading his arms wide and dropping his defenses.

‘Here I am, Raxor,’ he declared. ‘Put your axe through my heart!’

Raxor screamed and bolted forward. With two hands upon his axe he plunged the weapon down, catching the unmoving baron squarely in the chest. Thorin felt the blow the way a mountain might, hardly feeling it as his magic armour repelled the blade. Raxor cried out, dropping his axe and staggering backward as the power of the armour numbed his arm. This time, Thorin didn’t use his sword. With only his gauntlet he struck the man across the face. Blood burst from Raxor’s lips as he tumbled to the ground. This time, his men rushed in to help him. The circle closed all at once as men on both sides took up the fight.

Don’t let him get away from you this time, Kahldris insisted. Kill him.

Thorin craned his neck over the surging crowd, looking for his son. ‘Where is he?’

Listen to me, Baron Glass. Your enemy is at your feet. End him!

A lurching rush of power flooded over Thorin, clouding his mind and strangling his judgment. Through the haze of Kahldris’ rage he saw Raxor on his knees, blood covering his face as he struggled to his feet. Aric was coming; Thorin could feel him. The thought of his son and the way he’d been stolen maddened Thorin.

‘You took him from me,’ he seethed. ‘You turned him against me.’

Before the king could rise again Thorin reached out and lifted him from the ground, hoisting him bodily into the air. Raxor tried to grab his sword but Thorin’s gauntlet stopped him, grabbing his wrist and crushing the bones.

‘He was all I had,’ Thorin groaned. He was shaking suddenly, overcome by emotion. ‘My only family. .’

‘He despises you,’ Raxor spat. ‘And everything you stand for now. .’

‘No!’ Thorin shook the king, snapping back his head. ‘He’s my son, not yours!’

‘Father!’

Thorin turned to see Aric blazing toward him. The boy had his weapon raised. The blade shot out, smashing hard on Thorin’s helmet. The surprise shot opened Thorin’s grip, dropping Raxor to the ground. As the king rolled away Aric turned again to face his father. His horse reared up, and Aric’s sword pointed hatefully at the baron.

‘Enough! You want me, I’m here!’

Raxor staggered to his feet. ‘No! I won’t let you take him,’ he cried, and finally drawing his sword came crashing back against Thorin. Again the blow did nothing and again the old man fell back. Thorin spun and kicked at him, pulling the blow.

What are you doing? asked Kahldris frantically. Kill him!

His rage unbalanced Thorin. His screaming rattled Thorin’s skull.

They’re your enemies, said the demon. All of them. Even your son tries to kill you. I’m your only friend.

‘Aric,’ Thorin cried. ‘Leave here!’

The armour moved on its own now. Thorin knew his mind was not his own. Raxor was coming again, the sword slicing down. Thorin brought his arm up, staying the blow, but the old man kept coming. He glanced around, searching for Aric and saw his son racing toward him. This time, Thorin acted. His sword was out in an instant, instinctively, and when Aric was upon him the great Akari blade broke through his son’s own sword, shattering it on the way to Aric’s chest. A stunned look of terror filled Aric’s face as he tumbled from his horse, his breastplate crumbling and filling with blood. He hit the earth hard.

And did not move.

Thorin stood for a moment, frozen. The Akari sword dropped from his hand. He stared at Aric, unable to speak. He could only scream. From deep within him, his agonized wail rocked the battlefield. Raxor, broken and defeated, stumbled and fell to his knees.

‘You’ve killed him,’ Thorin heard him say. The old Reecian started to weep.

‘I’ve killed him,’ Thorin cried. ‘I’ve killed my son!’

His keening continued as he faltered backward. The battle went on around him, but Raxor and his bodyguards were still, and all the mercenaries who followed Thorin looked at him in shock. Aric’s body lay in blood, his chest ripped up from the massive strike. His lifeless eyes stared blankly skyward. In his mind, Thorin could hear Kahldris speaking, urging him to fight on. The words fell deafly on the baron’s ears.

‘No,’ he stammered. He raised his hands in surrender. ‘No. .’

His horse still waited where he’d left it. Thorin ran for it. Ignoring Kahldris’ spite-filled orders and the shouts of his own men, Baron Glass mounted the beast and quickly pointed it back toward Library Hill. Behind him, he heard Raxor’s hateful calls, swearing vengeance. Thorin buried his head against the neck of his galloping horse. All he could see was Aric, dead and helpless, and the image drove him on, back to the safety of his library.

Amid the mass of men and horses, Lukien and his cohorts rode through the heart of the Norvan enemies, their bodies slick with gore as their weapons swung overhead. The wild cries of war dogs echoed through the battlefield as the beasts ran between the legs of the startled horses, bringing down the steeds in ravenous packs. Daralor’s army numbered in the thousands, and Lukien was surrounded by them. He had ridden on the heels of the dogs, using them as shields as they tore through the front ranks. With Lorn and Ghost at his side, he had ridden right past Cajanis and his hireling Thon, stabbing at the heart of the Norvans in his mad bid to reach the other side. Prince Daralor was too far away to see now. All Lukien could see behind him were soldiers, the familiar scene of chaos as the battle engulfed him. The roaring in his ears told him that the Nithins had engaged, charging the Norvan lines with their lances, their foes softened by the mad jaws of the war dogs.

Lukien had seen dogs used in battle before, on both sides of the fight, and always been frightened when he’d seen the canines coming toward him. So he flinched a little now when he watched the beasts leap on the mercenaries, launching themselves against the horsemen to tear their throats out. It was a horrible way for a soldier to die, and watching it around him sickened him a bit. Just yards away from Lukien, Lorn fought like a man possessed, shouting the dogs on as he pushed his way deeper through the Norvan ranks. It had taken nearly an hour for them all to get this far, and the numbers of the war dogs had dwindled down to dozens. Along with the corpses of men and horses, the broken bodies of the deadly pets smothered the ground. Lukien did his best to add to the body count. With the Sword of Angels writhing in his grip, he slashed his way across the field, swaying from side to side as he cut down all-comers. The Eye of God tumbled on its chain, bouncing from his chest and burning with red fire. The power of it flooded him, mingling with the strength of his own Akari, and in his mind Lukien could hear the voice of Malator, spurring him onward. The enchanted blade was everywhere, blocking every blow, and those few that did get through dealt him only glancing strikes, cuts so minor that the magic of his two great artifacts healed them instantly. Lukien cried out in bloodlust as he muscled past the mercenaries. Sweat and blood flew from his face.

‘Keep going!’ he bellowed to his comrades. ‘Stay with me!’

Lorn was clearly visible beside him. The axe he had tossed at Cajanis had been replaced by a sword. The old man rode expertly, like a cavalryman half his age, using his weapon in every conceivable way, stabbing and striking and holding the blade in his metal-garbed hands to block the Norvan attacks. His face shone with a frightening glamour as he gutted his foes, mercilessly avenging his stolen kingdom.

Ghost, however, was nowhere to be seen, yet his handiwork was everywhere. The albino had used his magic early in the charge, horse and rider both disappearing as if slipping into a mist. He said nothing as he fought beside Lukien, not wanting to break the spell that kept him hidden, yet his sword worked quickly and dangerously, stabbing out from the ether to slay his unsuspecting enemies. Word spread quickly through the Norvans that a demon was among them, and men fell back as they sensed him approaching, noting the severed limbs that seemed to come from nowhere. With the dogs to help them and Ghost’s invisible blade, Lukien and Lorn had progressed halfway across Cajanis’ army. The thunder of the battle from the front of the line reached them like waves against a distant beach.

‘We wait for the hawks!’ shouted Lukien to the others.

When at last the deadly birds were released, they would make their final charge. Lorn grunted in understanding, his face red with exhaustion. They had done a miraculous thing in getting this far, but they needed the help of Daralor’s other pets to get through the rest of the army.

Just as Lukien turned to see what was happening with the Nithins, a single rider came galloping out of the crowd, heading for Lukien with his sword raised. The bare, tattooed arms and bald pate were unmistakable. Thon’s charge came like lightening, catching Lukien unaware. He raised his sword a moment too late and felt the flat of Thon’s blade smash across his face. Dazed, Lukien nearly fell from his horse. He twisted blindly to the side, groping for Akari strength. The power came to him at once, and as he rose in his saddle he spat hatefully at Thon.

‘You stupid troll,’ he bellowed. ‘The likes of you could never kill me!’

Thon cried out, unleashing a hacking barrage, his big horse muscling back Lukien’s own. The Sword of Angels took each blow, singing with Malator’s irate voice.

‘You’re a traitor and a whore-monger!’ railed Thon. ‘You’ll bring ruin to us!’

Lukien parried his attack, playing with the man. Lorn and Ghost were at his back, keeping the other mercenaries at bay. ‘You’d follow a tyrant just for his gold,’ accused Lukien. ‘You’re a plague on Liiria!’

Thon came again, enraged by Lukien’s words. ‘I’ll end you!’ he cried. ‘I’ll-’

The words died in a gurgle as Lukien’s blade slipped through his gorget. Thon’s eyes widened with horror, knowing he was dead. As Lukien pulled free his sword, Thon’s body fell forward, spiraling down from his horse. Lukien looked at him as he hit the earth, feeling nothing but contempt.

‘Too easy,’ he whispered, frightened by the power his sword and amulet gave him. Across the field, Nithin soldiers were at last reaching his location, their green, feathered helmets bobbing up from the sea of bodies.

Throughout the battle, Prince Daralor had waited among his reserve soldiers, watching his war dogs and lancemen penetrate the enemy lines. For nearly an hour he had sat imperiously upon his horse, quickly calculating his army’s every move while his captains and lieutenants fed reports to him and the forces of Duke Cajanis scrambled to reach him. For the duke, the hour had not gone as hoped, but Prince Daralor wasn’t at all surprised. Accustomed to his Nithins being underestimated, he had already supposed he would win the day, despite the Norvans’ superior numbers. They were mostly mercenaries, after all, and mercenaries had very little to fight for once the tide began to turn. It was easy to turn the tide with war dogs. Daralor had learned that a long time ago, in his war against Marn. In the ensuing years he had perfected the breed, making them bigger, more fearless. That, along with having truth on their side, made his army the certain victors today.

Not far from where Daralor waited, the hawkers prepared their giant birds for battle, having opened the huge wooden cages. One by one the birds were unhooded, kept tethered to their perches by little collars around their talons. Daralor turned from his captains, spying Glok, the head keeper. Near Glok, on one of the many wagons brought onto the battlefield, a single hawk waited on its perch. Daralor nodded to Glok and the keeper undid the bird’s collar. The Prince then raised his arm, summoning the bird, and the hawk took wing, instantly sailing toward its master. Daralor smiled as his pet settled onto his forearm, gently digging its talons into his leather gauntlet. She was much smaller than the other hawks, but she was beloved by the prince nonetheless. It amused Daralor to think that Cajanis and his men expected birds the size of Echo.

‘Call your brothers and sisters now, Echo,’ Daralor crooned, his lips pursed like he was talking to a baby. The bird cocked back its head and released a peculiar cry. At once the bird’s lament was picked up by the others. Prince Daralor did not have to tell Glok to let the war hawks loose. Echo had already done it for him.

Still in the thick of the Norvan army, Lukien and his comrades managed to hold back the coil of mercenaries closing around them. Nearly all the dogs were dead or too badly wounded to keep up the fight. Fifty yards back, Nithin soldiers advanced through the Norvans. Duke Cajanis had taken up a command position on a nearby hill, returning to safety from the worst of the fighting. Through the crush of swords and swinging maces, Lukien could see the duke frantically surveying the battlefield. He still had the advantage of numbers, but the chaos of the fight baffled him, and his men suffered for it. The seasoned fighters sensed the weakness in their leader, but the Norvan regulars among them drove them on, shouting commands. In a moment, Lukien knew, they could easily regain their momentum. Unless one side called retreat, the battle could continue on for hours.

‘Lukien, look!’

The voice was Lorn’s, and when Lukien turned to him he saw the king pointing westward, toward the Nithin lines. Toward the sky. What Lukien saw there made him reel.

Over the heads of the Nithins, the blue sky darkened with wings. A storm cloud of talons rolled over the field with a pitched, unearthly screech. Daralor’s hawks filled the air above the soldiers, shooting up like arrows, their enormous wing spans blotting out the hills behind them. They moved swiftly toward the Norvans, sailing high at first then diving down with outstretched claws. They came in a tide, washing over the field, picking out the choicest flesh and digging their talons deep. Horses whinnied in terror, tossing off their riders while men dropped their swords to cover their heads. But the big, relentless birds took hold of them, working in teams to pull them from their saddles. Seeing this, King Lorn stared in amazement, his mouth dropping open.

‘Incredible.’

‘Yes, incredible. And they’re coming this way!’

This time it was Ghost who spoke. The sight of the war birds made his magic falter, and he reappeared in the middle of the field only yards away from Lorn and Lukien.

‘It’s time to go,’ he said with his usual wryness.

Lukien nodded, made almost mute by the sight of the freakish birds. They had only a few minutes before the shock of the attack wore off. Luckily, the Norvans around them were heading for cover.

‘Malator,’ said Lukien aloud, ‘is Thorin still at the square?’

The Akari was silent for a moment, removing himself from the battle and stretching his mind out to touch his brother. A jolt of surprise went

through him.

No, said Malator. He’s left the square. He’s riding to the library, Lukien.

The answer made no sense to Lukien, but he wasted no time. Raising his sword, he called to Ghost and Lorn.

‘Follow me!’ he cried, and with renewed vigour cut his way through the Norvans.

Thunder collected in Thorin’s skull as he raced back to the library. He had left behind his men, giving them over to their enemies, but the real guilt that plagued him came from the blow he’d given Aric. It had all happened far too quickly; Thorin could barely remember it. But nothing could expunge the image of Aric laying dead at his feet, twisted and broken and staring wide-eyed at nothing. Thorin choked back sobs as he rode, Kahldris’ angry voice ranting in his mind. The demon was screaming, demanding he return to the battle. Thorin girded himself against the assault, too consumed with thoughts of Aric to pay the spirit heed.

Up ahead loomed Library Hill, its winding road and flat yard dotted with soldiers. At the base of the hill milled Lothon and his Liirians, confused by the sight of the lone rider blazing toward them. With his face still hidden behind his grotesque helm, Thorin knew his men could not see his tears, but neither did he think he could control himself. Every twitch he made came with effort as Kahldris worked to turn him around.

‘I won’t go back!’ Thorin railed.

He drove his mount into the crowd of soldiers. Lothon, who had been watching him, hurried up on foot to meet him.

‘Baron Glass, what’s happened?’ asked the old nobleman. He looked genuinely concerned.

Thorin jerked back the reins of his stallion, trying to get it under control. He could barely speak. ‘My son,’ he stammered. ‘Lothon. .’

Lothon took the horse forcefully by the tack. ‘Steady,’ he commanded. ‘Easy. Baron Glass, tell us what’s happened.’

All Thorin wanted was to get away, to climb up into the library and hide. His whole body began to shake. Lothon and his soldiers noticed the quaking instantly — and distastefully. The armour on Thorin’s body still writhed with life.

‘Fate above, Baron Glass — what’s happened to you?’ asked Lothon.

Thorin’s voice came out like a strangled cry. ‘He is taking me!’

‘Who?’ Lothon demanded.

Thorin wailed, then reached up and pulled the helmet from his head, tossing it hatefully to the ground. With chattering teeth he tried to explain what had happened, but found he could no longer talk. The muscles of his face contorted horribly, making the men stagger back. Lothon grimaced in disgust. He looked at his fellow Liirians in confused horror.

‘Look at him, he’s mad,’ said one of them.

‘Let him go,’ suggested another.

The baron ripped the reins from Lothon’s hands. This time, his old friend made no attempt to stop him. Pulling his horse around, Thorin squeezed his legs together, driving the horse onward and headed for the hill.

Gilwyn had not left the chamber where he’d said good-bye to Thorin. As the battles raged around Koth, he kept his quiet vigil high up in the library, away from the soldiers and staff, brooding as he wondered what was happening. He knew that Lukien was coming for Thorin, yet that happy fact didn’t hearten him. Thorin was lost to them, and not even Lukien could save him now.

The sun had reached the apex of the eastern hills, and as Gilwyn stared out the big window he could see the Nithin forces as they battled against the Norvans. From where he stood, Gilwyn couldn’t tell how the sides were faring. He supposed it would be a long and bloody day, and full of grief when it was over. Gilwyn touched his hand to the frame of the window. It felt good and solid on his fingers, the way Figgis had intended.

‘That was a long time ago,’ he told himself.

Ruana had been strangely quiet throughout the morning, sensing Gilwyn’s many regrets. Together they had tried to work the catalogue machine, to make it give up its arcane secrets and to find a way to best Kahldris. They had struggled to discover any weakness in the Devil’s Armour, but they had failed, and Ruana shared Gilwyn’s misery about it. Kahldris was too strong for them. In many ways, they were lucky to still be alive.

Gilwyn?

Ruana’s voice surprised him. He replied with a sigh. ‘Yeah?’

Look down below.

‘Huh?’

There was a commotion going on at the base of the hill. Mostly the Liirians were hidden from him, but Gilwyn could see something was afoot. Some of the men were riding off, toward Chancellery Square. Others were arguing amongst themselves. Gilwyn cursed himself, wondering what he had missed in his daydreaming.

It’s Thorin, said Ruana suddenly.

‘What about him?’

He’s here! Gilwyn. . he’s coming.

Gilwyn raised himself as high as he could, craning to better see out of the locked glass portal. ‘I don’t see him.’

No, I mean he’s here. In the library!

‘What?’

Gilwyn pulled away from the window, then heard the stomping footfalls. Someone was coming, and he knew instantly it was Thorin. An unmistakable chill went through Ruana, icing Gilwyn’s blood. A moment later the door burst open and Thorin stumbled in. Gilwyn jumped back, shocked at the sight of him. The Devil’s Armour was glowing on him with a furious black light. Blood stained his breastplate, feeding the living figures molded there. Thorin’s eyes were wild as he searched the room, his jowls sunken, his skin a sickly white. Veins along his neck and forehead bulged as he gave a guttural howl.

‘Thorin!’

Thorin spotted Gilwyn across the room. His hands shot up to hide his face. ‘Don’t look at me!’

At once he stumbled toward the window, spitting obscenities at the sunlight. His hands clawed the heavy curtains, frantically pulling them closed. Then, like a wounded animal, he sank to the polished floor, dissolving in moans. Gilwyn stood frozen, astounded and appalled. Thorin began chattering to himself, making no sense as he looked at some unseen phantom. His rapid-fire words came spilling from his lips.

‘I know what you want and I won’t do it. I won’t do it, I won’t do it. .’

‘Thorin!’

Gilwyn’s shout broke the baron’s stupor. Thorin gasped as he looked Gilwyn, helpless. He raised a gauntleted hand, stretching out his metal fingers toward the boy.

‘Gilwyn,’ he rasped, ‘I killed Aric.’

At first Gilwyn didn’t understand, so stunned was he by Thorin’s appearance. Slowly, though, the words sank in, and horror dawned on Gilwyn’s face.

‘Thorin, no. .’

‘I killed him, Gilwyn.’ Thorin began to weep. ‘He’s dead.’

Suddenly the armour began to glow again, this time with a strange white light. As the glow intensified Thorin shrieked, clearly in agony. The image of Kahldris appeared, swirling like a mist around Thorin, strangling him with tendrils of ether. In the mist Gilwyn saw the shape of the demon’s face, hissing hatefully into Thorin’s ear.

‘Leave me alone!’ Thorin bellowed.

The enormous pain of it made the muscles of his face contract. Gilwyn had never seen such agony on a man before, and certainly never on

Thorin. This time, the Devil’s Armour could not protect him.

Gilwyn, look at him, insisted Ruana. Look at his pain!

‘I see it,’ said Gilwyn.

No, you don’t understand me. He’s in pain, Gilwyn!

Then at last Gilwyn did understand. His eyes widened with the idea. ‘Yes!’

Quickly he considered the gambit. Only pain could sever the bond between Akari and host, just as it had broken the bond between White-Eye and Faralok. In all their musings, Gilwyn and Ruana had yet to figure out a way to cause Thorin so much pain, yet now the means was right before them.

Not pain of the body, said Ruana. Pain of the mind! His son is dead. He killed him, Gilwyn.

Gilwyn shook his head. ‘Ruana, I can’t. .’

Yes you can! You have to do it now!

Thorin was writhing, his arms wrapped around himself as he fought off Kahldris’ attack. Man and demon both roared curses at each other, Thorin batting at the air as the insubstantial body of Kahldris clawed at him. They were in a battle Gilwyn scarcely understood, and he was to insert himself between them. Warily he stepped toward Thorin, crouching down close to him. His old friend’s eyes, shot through with blood, danced insanely in their sockets.

Do it, Gilwyn, urged Ruana. Talk to him. Make him feel it.

Gilwyn licked his lips, hating himself. How could he poke at such a wound? Yet the notion made sense to him, and he knew it was his only chance. And Thorin’s too.

‘Thorin, tell me what happened,’ said Gilwyn. ‘Tell me what happened to Aric.’

Thorin stopped squirming and stared at Gilwyn. Kahldris’ ghostly essence swarmed over him. He shook his head desperately.

‘No. I won’t tell you,’ he huffed.

‘You killed him,’ said Gilwyn. ‘You killed Aric. That’s what you told me.’

Tears squeezed from Thorin’s eyelids. ‘Yes.’

‘Your own son!’

‘Yes!’

‘He loved you,’ said Gilwyn relentlessly. He put his face right up to Thorin’s. ‘Don’t you remember? When he was a boy — he adored you!’

‘He loved me,’ Thorin echoed. He closed his eyes, his lips trembling. ‘And I loved him. My little boy. .’

‘And you killed him.’ Gilwyn spoke carefully now. ‘Because of Kahldris, Thorin. He’s done this to you. He’s the one that made you kill your son.’

‘Yes. .’

‘Get rid of him, Thorin!’

‘Yes!’

‘No!’ shrieked Kahldris, pulling free of the armour and forming his figure out of the mists. He looked accusingly at Gilwyn. ‘Look at him, Baron Glass. He’s just another one who comes to harm you!’

‘I’m not,’ Gilwyn insisted. ‘Listen to me, Thorin — you know me. I’m here to help you, just like Aric wanted. And he’s dead! He’s dead because you killed him!’

Thorin could take no more. Balling himself up like a child, his buried his face in his arms, screaming at them both to stop. But Gilwyn did not stop. Without mercy he pursued Thorin, peppering him with accusations, driving his pain to a fever. Thorin began seething, blathering to himself, while over him stood Kahldris, swearing in a tongue Gilwyn couldn’t understand. Gilwyn stayed close to them both, knowing Thorin was on the brink. Just a little nudge more. .

Gilwyn. . Ruana’s voice sounded strange. Easy now.

‘Tell me how you did it, Thorin,’ Gilwyn went on. ‘Tell me what it felt like!’

‘Leave me, boy! Go!’

Gilwyn knelt down next to Thorin. ‘I can’t Thorin! I want you to know what it felt like to kill your son!’

Gilwyn, stop!

‘No!’

The fist shot out too fast to see. Gilwyn glimpsed the gauntlet, a spikey blur flying toward him. A blast of pain filled his chest and he was falling, tumbling back into blackness.

Baron Glass realized what he had done. Through the haze of rage and despair, he saw Gilwyn slide across the floor, then lay still on the stone tiles. Like Aric. The baron stopped breathing. At his side, the figure of Kahldris saw what had happened and was silent. The demon looked at his host. Thorin sat motionless, staring at Gilwyn, unable to speak. He had emptied himself of tears, spending them on Aric, and yet somehow this was so much worse, a thought so horrible that tears seemed inadequate. Thorin’s mind snapped like a twig. He got to his feet, glaring hatefully at Kahldris.

‘This is our work,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘This is all we have ever done!’

Running from the chamber, screaming like a madman, Baron Glass tore at the latches of his Devil’s Armour, desperate to shed its unholy grasp.

The way to Library Hill was remarkably empty. Lukien, Lorn and Ghost rode on the outskirts of the city, avoiding the populated streets and sticking to the meadows and farmlands that surrounded Koth. Because the hill was clearly visible from almost everywhere in the city, Baron Glass’ hideout was plain to the companions as they rode, as was the small army of Liirians he had positioned at the bottom of the hill. The sight of them made Ghost groan. They had already fought their way through one army, and now it seemed Baron Glass had evaded them again. King Lorn looked dour, sizing up their situation.

‘It’s too late to turn back,’ he said, sensing Ghost’s wariness. ‘They’ve already seen us.’

Common sense told them all to slow down, bringing their horses from a gallop to a canter. The Liirians milled under their own flag, looking disorganized. There were at least a few hundred of them, men who Thorin had somehow convinced to join his cause. Far too many for the three of them to fight through, Lukien knew. Already those soldiers closest to them were pointing, calling to their comrades. Some wore the midnight blue of Royal Chargers, though that fair breed was long extinct.

‘We have to go back,’ said Ghost, ‘wait for the others.’

‘The others may not get here at all,’ Lorn reminded him. ‘It’s up to us to get to Baron Glass, remember?’

‘Well I can get past them but what about you?’ challenged Ghost. He said to Lukien, ‘If I could make you invisible I would, my friend.’

Lukien studied the men ahead of them. ‘They’re Liirians,’ he mused.

Ghost shrugged. ‘So?’

‘He’s one of them,’ said Lorn, guessing at Lukien’s meaning. He asked the knight, ‘Will they listen to you, Lukien?’

‘Look at them — they don’t even know what they’re doing here.’ Lukien shook his head. ‘Something’s wrong. Why has Thorin left the battle? Why isn’t he out here with his men?’

‘If he knows you’re here, perhaps he fears you,’ Lorn suggested. ‘The demon in him senses the sword no doubt.’

Lukien closed his eye, concentrating on his Akari. Malator was already probing the library.

‘Malator? What do you feel?’

Emptiness, replied the spirit. Lukien could sense his confusion. Baron Glass is still in the library, but my brother. .

‘What?’

I do not know, Lukien. He hides himself from me. He knows we are here, and yet. . I can’t tell.

‘Lukien?’ Ghost asked anxiously. ‘What’s he telling you?’

Malator’s words worried Lukien. He told the others, ‘He’s in there. Malator can’t tell anything else.’

Lorn braced himself as they neared the Liirians, who were crowding closer for a better look at them. Liirian riders were preparing to run them down. ‘Time to decide, Lukien. If we’re going to head back we have to do it now.’

‘It’s too late anyway,’ said Ghost as he drew his weapon.

Lukien said firmly, ‘Put it away.’

‘Eh?’

‘Both of you, don’t do anything. Just follow me.’

Lorn and Ghost shared a worried glance but did as Lukien asked, riding at his flanks as the knight led them toward the hill. As the soldiers started to gather, a smaller group coalesced at its centre, all of them on horseback. A single man of rank stood out among them, looking weary beneath his flag. He and his captains waited for the riders to approach, ordering the hundreds of other soldiers to move aside and let them see. Lukien studied the man carefully. Once, he had known every man of rank in the Liirian military, but time had changed that and made them all too old to recognize. Still, it was obvious to Lukien that the man in charge was a Liirian, and that meant they had a kinship. Careful not to threaten them, Lukien remained relaxed in his saddle. Guards sprang out of the crowd to confront them. Near them, crossbowmen aimed at the trio. Ghost leaned over to Lukien and groaned.

‘This was a great plan, Lukien. Really.’

‘Go on, then disappear,’ snarled Lorn. ‘Any time you’re ready.’

‘Shut up, both of you,’ snapped Lukien. He took a moment to prepare himself, and before the guards could utter a word shouted, ‘My name is Lukien of Liiria! Brothers, hear me!’

The mere utterance of his name sent a ripple through the army. For a moment the crossbowmen faltered. Lukien seized on it.

‘We’re not here to fight!’ he promised. ‘We’re here to help you!’

The nobleman near the centre of the army came charging forward. ‘I know you, Lukien!’ he proclaimed with ire. ‘Do you not remember me?’

He was still difficult to see so far away. Lukien shook his head. ‘I don’t know you,’ he said. ‘Who are you, then?’

‘I am Count Lothon. You should remember your betters, Sir Lukien. We all remember you, the one who bedded the king’s wife and left us all to rot here. How dare you show your face among us?’

‘I am Liirian, just as you, Count Lothon,’ replied Lukien. He did now remember the man, a member of the House of Dukes when that body held sway. That was many years ago, and time had not been kind to Lothon. ‘And just like you I’ve come here to save Liiria, not to bury her.’

Count Lothon’s men began to bristle, wondering what was happening. Lothon himself came trotting out to face Lukien under the cover of his bowmen. The count stayed their weapons with a wave of his hand and the bowmen backed off a bit. The entire army seemed to have its eyes on the three riders.

‘Who are these you bring with you?’ Lothon asked.

‘Friends of Liiria,’ said Lukien. ‘Like myself.’ He said nothing about their identities, especially Lorn’s. ‘They ride with me because they want to rid us all of a tyrant. Count Lothon, I beg you — listen to me. Baron Glass is not the man you remember. You’ve seen him yourself, you know this to be true.’

For the first time, Lukien noticed the object dangling from Lothon’s saddle. The count nodded as he saw Lukien’s expression darken. The thing was a helmet.

‘Baron Glass has been here today,’ sighed Lothon miserably. ‘And I will not lie and say he is anything but what you claim, Sir Lukien. He is a tyrant, true. And a madman now, too.’

‘I can stop him,’ Lukien promised. ‘You know my prowess, Count Lothon.’

‘Aye, and I know you bear the Sword of Angels. It does not matter, Bronze Knight. We are pledged to Baron Glass, all of us.’

‘You’re pledged to Liiria, first and always.’ Lukien addressed them all, letting his voice carry through the ranks. ‘Will you let the Norvans take everything from you? Your manhood, even? Baron Glass is no Liirian, not anymore. He’s as foreign to this land as Jazana Carr and the mercenaries she brought with her. The creature inside Baron Glass has no loyalty to you at all. It’s using you, all of you, to get its revenge on the people of Jador. That’s it. That’s all it’s ever wanted.’

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.’

Lukien rose to one knee, furious. ‘Lorn did this?’ he seethed. ‘Lorn did this!’

He wanted to go after him, to take the Sword of Angels and plunge it through the Norvan’s heart. But Gilwyn was only barely alive, and Ghost was badly wounded. And then, he thought of Thorin. He got to his feet, knowing that his old friend was dead. Malator did not have to tell him so. He could feel the emptiness of the world without Baron Glass.

‘I have to go get help,’ he told Ghost. ‘Don’t move.’

‘Don’t worry,’ promised Ghost. He turned his head to look at Gilwyn. ‘Gilwyn. .’

‘He’ll live,’ said Lukien. All the joy had left him. ‘But King Lorn the Wicked will not.’

Along the rough terrain to Norvor, King Lorn rode on a borrowed horse toward his homeland, marveling at the feel of the Devil’s Armour on his body. He had ridden without rest for more than a day and he was not fatigued at all. He had no food or water with him, yet his person craved neither, nourished instead by the strange magic of the demon Kahldris. The south had been blessedly uneventful, and Lorn had exhausted more than one mount in his bid to get home, eventually stealing horses where he could find them from unsuspecting riders. Now, though, the badlands of Norvor stretched out in front of him, just beyond the swiftly running river. Here the hills rose up like sentinels, grey and wind swept, shaped by eons into twisted giants. There were no homesteads for Lorn to raid now, only the siren-song of his homeland playing on the breeze. The dust of the earth struck his face, peppering his skin. He had removed the armour’s helmet almost immediately after fleeing Koth, preferring instead to feel the air on his hair and beard. King Lorn examined the hills, choosing a single, rugged plateau from which to make his stand. The perch would afford him a view of both Norvor and the enemies he knew were chasing him.

‘There,’ he pronounced, not really speaking to anyone, though he knew that Kahldris shared his every thought. The odd union with the spirit had unbalanced him at first, as had the soaring power of the Devil’s Armour. Night was coming. Already the sun was starting to dip, making shadows grow. Lorn looked longingly at Norvor, knowing that just beyond the river his throne awaited him. It would be a struggle to reclaim it from Jazana’s loyalists, but with the armour his triumph was assured. ‘We’ve paid in blood for this,’ he sighed.

Getting out of Koth had not been easy. Once again, he had earned the title ‘wicked.’ Ghost had tried to stop him first, and then the weakling Baron Glass. Too withered to stand the blow, Glass’ skull had cracked like an eggshell. Ghost, Lorn supposed, had survived. He wasn’t at all proud of the things he had done, but it had all been for a reason, and he rehearsed now what he would say to Lukien when the knight finally came after him, going over all the reasons in his mind, telling himself that Lothon’s men had died because they were fools. Surely they should have known they couldn’t stop him, and yet a dozen of them had tried before the old count himself had called them off. Lorn shook his head, genuinely disgusted with himself, and started up his horse again, beginning to climb the hillside.

When night finally came, Lorn found himself staring at the death’s head helmet by the light of the fire he had made. Finally, he allowed himself to feel tired. Reclining against his elbow, he considered the helmet, which he had propped up opposite him like a companion. Kahldris had spoken to him very little since leaving Koth, and when he did it was always gently, as though the two had known each other forever. Lorn knew the demon’s treachery however. He had seen what Kahldris had done to Baron Glass and had no intention of becoming such a lunatic. Picking up a small stone, he tossed it at the helmet, pinging it against the faceplate.

‘You there,’ he snapped. ‘Listen good. You’re pretty pleased with yourself, I’d bet. You think you found yourself a new fool to take you where you want to go, don’t you? Well, forget it. I’m not some weak-minded fool like Thorin Glass, and you’ve already given me what I want most. I’m home, demon. Finally.’

Kahldris said nothing. The lifeless helmet merely sat there.

‘Let’s understand each other,’ Lorn continued. ‘You’re going to help me get my kingdom back. It’s mine. It belongs to me, and so do you now. I’m the master and you’re the slave, and if ever I find you toying with my brain I will lock you in a dungeon so deep even the worms won’t ever find you. I didn’t want to kill Baron Glass or those others, and I don’t intend to be your plaything. If you need blood to stay strong I’ll slaughter some chickens for you. Right?’

Again the spirit did not respond. Annoyed, Lorn tossed another pebble at it.

‘Nothing to say? All right, then. We understand each other. Lukien will be coming for us. He’ll never let us rest. So we’re going to face him, right here. And when that’s done we’re going to Carlion to get back my throne.’

A saucer-like moon hung above the plateau. Lorn smiled up at it, satisfied. He was weary, tired of so much traveling. He had been on the road for months now, so long his journey seemed endless.

‘Enough talk,’ he said. ‘Get some rest, demon. Tomorrow we have work to do.’

Lukien looked ahead to where the river cut across the terrain, finally noticing the familiar landscape of Norvor. His weary horse snorted beneath him, caked in the dust of the road and nearly lame from lack of rest. The sun had come up hours ago, marking their third day on the road to Norvor. They had ridden without stopping the entire morning, and all the horses of the company were faring no better than Lukien’s. Count Lothon and his men — ten of them in all — scanned the horizon dotted with rocky hills. Lothon himself rode close to Lukien, staying at his side the whole way while the other Liirians trailed out in a long tail behind them. Lothon took his water skin from the loop at his saddle, offering it first to Lukien. When Lukien declined, the old man took a miserly pull from the skin, conserving its contents out of habit alone. With the river so close, they could water the horses and fill up their skins, but Count Lothon took only mild notice of the waterway. Like all of them, his eyes were fixed instead on Norvor.

‘Ugly,’ he pronounced. ‘How did you ever manage to spend so much time there?’

‘I had no choice, remember,’ Lukien said, mildly annoyed. ‘And not all of Norvor is like that. Those are the badlands.’

‘Hanging Man.’

Lukien nodded. ‘Yes.’

He thought about his days with Jazana Carr, the years they had spent together at Hanging Man with Thorin. He would not be seeing the fortress again, though. Lorn hadn’t got that far, nor was he still on the move. It had been an easy thing to track the traitor, because Malator could sense his brother and because King Lorn did nothing to hide his tracks. He expected them to come after him. He wanted them to come.

‘He’s close now,’ mused Lukien. ‘Another hour maybe. Maybe less.’

Lothon grimaced at the prophecy. ‘I have had my fill of magic and demons. Pardon me if I say I do not trust yours, Lukien. He is sure of this?’

Lukien’s gaze narrowed on the horizon, where a rise of plateaus hung above the flat earth. On one of them, Lorn waited. ‘Positive.’

There was no doubt of it, not to Malator, and the fact made Lothon and his men grimace. After what had happened back in Koth, Lothon had insisted on going after Lorn with Lukien. He had lost five men when the Norvan had burst from the library, garbed in the Devil’s Armour in his hurry to flee. More would have died with them if Lothon hadn’t ordered them to stand down. They had let Lorn go, because Lothon knew they couldn’t stop him.

Word had spread quickly about Thorin’s death. In the east, Duke Cajanis’ army collapsed, routed by Daralor and his Nithins and dispirited over the death of their benefactor. In Chancellery Square the same had occurred, where the Norvan mercenaries had first seen Baron Glass abandon them. King Raxor and the Reecians did not slaughter the Norvans, however, but rather pulled back from the city so that the Nithins and Lothon’s troops could take control. The city was still in chaos, but Gilwyn and Ghost were both safe within the library. Ghost’s wounds, though far less serious than Gilwyn’s, would take a long time to heal. Gilwyn, on the other hand, had healed miraculously. Already Lukien could not wait to return to his young friend. After so many months of separation, they had once again been separated. And because Gilwyn now wore the Eye of God, there were things Lukien needed to explain to him. When he had left the boy, he had seen the uneasiness on his face.

For Lukien, the death of Baron Glass was the like the end of hope. All through his journey to Tharlara and back again, he had dared to imagine saving Thorin, bringing back the man he had once been. Instead, he had seen a shambling mound of humanity, with barely a hint of the once great and proud Thorin. But in the end, he had saved himself. That, at least, brought a sad smile to Lukien’s face.

Count Lothon continued on without speaking, confident that soon they would find King Lorn. He was an old man now, but canny and fearless, with the same sense of righteousness Lukien remembered from years ago. Lukien was grateful for the noble’s company, but all of them knew they could do nothing against the Devil’s Armour. That bad business fell to Lukien alone, and to the sword slapping at his thigh. For Lukien, Malator had been like a bloodhound in leading them to his brother, but now the real battle was about to begin. As the plateaus began to rise up above them, Malator’s presence trembled with anticipation. The Akari spoke once again, his voice cool and certain.

Lukien, he’s there, on the ledge ahead of us.

Lukien looked up, and as he did the image of Lorn appeared, leaning out over the ledge. Lothon gasped, pointing up at him.

‘There he is!’

The riders stopped immediately. Lukien put his hand on the pommel of his sword. Malator’s energy charged through him. Lorn gazed down and gave a small nod of regard. The helmet of the armour rested in the crux of his elbow. On his chest and arms, the black metal gleamed. He raised his chin and shouted down at his pursuers, his voice spilling down the hillside like a waterfall.

‘I’m here, Lukien,’ he declared. ‘I’m ready. To your left there’s a way up the hill. I’ll wait for you here.’

Then he was gone, disappearing back behind the ledge. Lukien looked left and saw that there was indeed a grade to the hill, one that he could easily climb without his horse. The setting put him in a mind of another duel he had fought, just a few short years ago. There was no more time to rest or prepare himself. He had come this far with a purpose, and before he could ever return to Cassandra there was one more battle ahead. Knowing there was little he could do for the knight, Count Lothon once again took out his water skin and handed it to Lukien. This time, Lukien accepted.

‘We’ll be here. We won’t leave you,’ said the count.

Lukien sipped at the water, then licked his sun-cracked lips. He handed the skin back to Lothon with thanks. ‘You’re a good man, Lothon, and you have good men following you. Whatever happens to me up there, remember to take care of Liiria.’

‘I have faith in you,’ said Lothon, smiling. ‘You’ve been dead more than once, but somehow you keep coming back again.’

‘It’s a curse,’ said Lukien. He slid down from his saddle. ‘No man should live forever, Count Lothon. Especially not King Lorn the Wicked.’

‘His head would make a fine trophy for my study. If you don’t mind. .’

‘I’ll oblige if I can,’ said Lukien, then turned and headed toward the grade.

At the top of the plateau, Lorn waited with the helmet in his hands, quietly contemplating the view to his homeland. He regretted the need to kill Lukien, but was sure the knight would never relent. Kahldris began to speak to him, whispering in his mind, telling him about the greatness that awaited him in Carlion. They would rebuild Norvor together, said the demon. They would be invincible. It made no sense to mourn the death of a single man, Kahldris explained. Lukien and Malator were just two insignificant souls. In the great design of things, they mattered not at all.

‘Enough,’ Lorn muttered, shaking his head. ‘You are like a bad breakfast that won’t stay down, spirit. Get out of my mind.’

The feeling of Kahldris faded from his brain, but not the energy he gave. Lorn flexed his fingers in their metal sleeves. He had never felt stronger, not even as a young man.

‘I’m not a man any more,’ he told himself. ‘I’m more than a man.’

Silently he watched the edge of the plateau, waiting for Lukien to come.

Lukien took his time climbing the grade, keeping the Sword of Angels sheathed to his side. Sweat dripped down his nose onto his boots as he walked, and he cursed himself for blundering so quickly into Lorn’s rocky lair. He should have waited, he supposed, and rested for the fight as Lorn had. But in the end Lukien didn’t really care. He wanted things to be over, and if that meant losing. .

No, he told himself. I will not lose. For Thorin’s sake, I will have my vengeance.

He reached the top of the grade a moment later, stepping onto the flat surface of the plateau and staring straight into Lorn’s eyes. The king surprised him by sighing.

‘You’re a mountain lion, Lukien,’ said Lorn. ‘I knew you’d find me wherever I hid.’

Lukien looked around. The sky remained perfectly blue. ‘You picked a nice place to die, Lorn. You know what the Akari say — the place you die is where you spend eternity. I hope you like it here.’

‘Let me extend you a courtesy, Lukien. I know you won’t listen, but honour begs me to try. Turn around and go home. Go back to Liiria and find a hole to bury that sword. I don’t want to fight.’

Lukien stepped closer. ‘But I do. You’ve taken something dear to me, Norvan, and now I can’t get it back.’

Lorn stood his ground. ‘Baron Glass tried to stop me, Lukien. Ghost, too. I am sorry Glass is dead, but he’s better off, I think.’

‘Maybe,’ said Lukien. ‘The demon inside that suit of armour turned his brain to porridge. He’ll do the same to you unless you give him up.’

‘I can’t do that, Lukien. I can’t be king without the armour, and I can’t live without being king.’

‘And your daughter? What about her? What about the rest of the people in Jador and Grimhold? Once you get your kingdom back, will you ride against them next?’

‘I’ll send for my daughter and Eiriann once Carlion is mine again. With the help of the armour that should not be long.’

He was still the Lorn that Lukien knew; there was no trace yet of Kahldris’ corruption. The old king was as hard and resolute as ever, and Lukien was sure there could be no reasoning with him. At last he drew his sword.

‘Then we are done talking.’

Lorn frowned. ‘Regrettably, yes,’ he said, and placed the horned helmet over his head. Then he drew his own sword, not the Akari blade Thorin had used but the same one he had battled with against the mercenaries. As he stalked closer, he took the sword in both fists, making little circles in the air.

Lukien parroted his dance, moving side to side, waiting for the first blow. Quickly he searched his mind for Malator, asking him the only question that mattered.

When?

Malator replied, When the metals touch, I will meet him in our world.

‘All right,’ said Lukien aloud, ‘get ready!’ and launched himself against Lorn. He was in the air, flying at the Norvan, and quickly plunging down his sword. Lorn moved just as quickly, but only with his forearm. Astonishingly, he released his sword with his right hand, bringing up his arm to block the Sword of Angels. Black and silver metals clashed, showering the men with sparks. Lukien felt the charge of it throughout his body like an icy rain. His sword skidded down the metal with a shriek, and he knew that part of Malator had left him, flying off to the world of the dead.

Malator emerged headlong into the dead place, stepping into being as if born from a mist. Around him, he saw the place where he had died in Tharlara, full of story stones, the sky overhead pink with twilight. The serpent people who had sheltered him were nowhere to be found, but he was not alone in the garden. Ahead of him was Kahldris, looking youthful and fit, dressed as the general he had been in life. Resting in his fist was a hoka, the long sword with a slightly curved blade he had always favoured. Malator glanced down at his own hand and found the same type of blade there, emblazoned with the crest of their family. Unlike his brother, Malator did not wear the heady garb of a general. He had chosen to come to this world the way he had lived his final days, dressed in the simple garb of the Tharlarans. Kahldris, looking grand in his armour, smirked at Malator’s choice of uniform. The reunion between them had been ages in the making. Yet Malator could not think of a single thing to say. When they were alive, Malator did not hate his brother, and so did not hate him now. It was more important to fear Kahldris, Malator knew. The key to Kahldris was the depths of his obsessions.

Kahldris’ smile widened as he studied his surroundings, looking completely out of place in the peaceful setting. ‘This is where you came,’ he said with a deep breath. ‘This is what you left us for. It reminds me of you, Malator. You’re like the flowers here — weak and pretty.’

His brother was much as Malator remembered, larger in every proportion and much fiercer looking than Malator. Kahldris took after their father, also a man of the Akari military. Their delicate mother had gifted Malator with her bones, making him light on his feet, like a dancer. The older Kahldris had always envied his sibling’s speed. Where Kahldris was the thinker of the pair, a military mastermind, it was the smaller, slighter Malator who was the better with a sword — and in combat. Kahldris seemed not to remember that, however, looking supremely sure of himself. He touched the point of his hoka lightly with his finger, preparing himself for the battle.

‘Tell me, brother — did you find what you were looking for here? Were these sweet-minded gardeners willing to come to your aid?’

‘They were,’ said Malator. ‘They were brave and kind to me and they would have helped us in Kaliatha.’

‘But we were out of time,’ Kahldris reminded him angrily, ‘because you ran away. I made the armour for you, brother, and you turned your back on it, on all of us.’

‘And you’ve believed that lie forever,’ said Malator. ‘I pity you, brother. You’ve wasted your eternity hating me.’

Kahldris grinned. ‘I’ll feel better once you’re gone. Then all the obstacles will be out of my way.’

Flexing his hoka, Malator sprang toward his brother, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was done talking. The time had come at last.

The Sword of Angels screamed as it cut through the air, a glowing tail of flames stretched out behind it. Each time it cracked against the Devil’s Armour, fire flew from its blade. Lukien’s hand burned with its power; his fingers coiled perfectly around its hilt. Like the living metal of Lorn’s black suit, the weapon came to life in Lukien’s grasp, writhing and stretching as it sang its magical tune. Lorn had withstood every blow, blocking some while others snuck through his defenses, ineffectually smashing the armour but nevertheless driving him back. He was a fine swordsman, nearly Lukien’s equal, and the Devil’s Armour made him fearless. His black limbs were everywhere, spinning and kicking, forcing Lukien to move like lightning to avoid his heavy blows. Time slipped from Lukien’s mind, meaningless. Had it been a minute since he’d climbed the hill? An hour? In the heat of the me?le?e, only movement mattered, the deadly ballet of combat.

Fire erupted from Lukien’s sword as he swept low for the mid-section. Lorn moved faster than any man could, pivoting to smash the sword aside. The death’s head he wore was ablaze with rage, its skull-like features changing with its wearer. Lorn moved in, butting Lukien with his shoulder and sending him sprawling. The concussion knocked the wind from his lungs. He rolled back and sprang to his feet, summoning the magic from his blade.

‘Malator, help me send this beast to hell!’

He had only to speak the spirit’s name to feel his other-worldly muscle. It flooded him, scintillating down the length of the sword and into his arm, filling his body with strength. Again he sprang, growling like a tiger and threading the sword past Lorn’s own, straight for the hateful helmet. Blinded by sparks of fire, Lorn staggered. For the first time his weapon came up clumsily, nowhere near Lukien. Pressing the advantage, Lukien slammed the flat of his weapon against Lorn’s head. Amazingly, he shouted, not in pain but in frustration.

In the world of the dead, Malator too pressed his attack, smashing his own weapon against his brother’s armoured shoulder. No fire flew from his hoka, no magic music came off the blade. There was only the old-fashioned screech of steel as the siblings crashed again and again, trading blows and the advantage, each of them growing fatigued. It didn’t matter that they were dead already or that they had no bodies to exhaust. Here in this corporeal state, they had chosen to focus their hatreds, making them real. No one would die here in the dead place, but one would be vanquished even so, and in the world of the living they would perish, expunged from that realm forever. Both knew the stakes were impossibly high, and both Akari gave no quarter. Kahldris slashed relentlessly at Malator, using his greater strength to wear his brother down. Always too quick, Malator danced away from his brother’s hoka, spinning and jumping and then coming again to attack.

‘I’m your better, brother, face it,’ spat Malator. ‘We can fight forever and you would never win.’

‘Then let it be forever!’ Kahldris roared. He broke off his attack, fading back to catch his footing. Around them the world began to change. Slowly, others popped in to being, the ghostly bodies of fellow Akari coming to see the siblings duel. Unnerved, Kahldris looked at him with spite. ‘Cowards! I gave you all the means to save yourselves!’

The spirits did not answer him, they simply kept coming, rising up from the story stones or drifting down from the sky until there were hundreds of them shimmering in the light of the undead sun.

‘They know you, Kahldris,’ said Malator. ‘They remember you for the madman you were.’

Kahldris kept his distance from his brother, unable to look away from the accusing Akari. ‘They let themselves be slaughtered because they were too afraid,’ he said. His face showed more than loathing now. A hint of regret glimmered in his eyes. ‘Why were you such sheep?’ he asked them, looking up as more of them descended. ‘All I wanted was to save us all!’

‘That’s a lie,’ said Malator. ‘Every Akari knows the truth. You were a butcher, brother. You were depraved and they were right to fear you. Now they come to see your end.’

Kahldris shook his head. ‘They are wrong, and so are you. No one knew my heart. Tell me I wasn’t right about the Jadori, Malator. Tell me they weren’t animals! They came and massacred us, and you were nowhere to be found.’ He turned to his unwanted audience, shouting as he spun to see the whole garden. ‘You hate me? He was the one who abandoned us!’

Throughout the story garden, the spirits were silent. Enraged by them, Kahldris came again at his brother, screaming and raising his weapon. This time, though, his attack seemed slower. His maddened face twisted with a new kind of anguish. Malator ducked left, easily dodging the attack. His brother turned as he blew by, snarling into Malator’s face.

‘End me!’

Malator reared back. His brother lowered his sword, looking pitiful.

‘I can’t beat you,’ Kahldris groaned. ‘And I can never win their hearts.’ The ancient general tossed his sword at Malator’s feet. ‘Damn you for being better. For being loved when I was hated. Damn you forever, Malator.’

For a moment Malator was dumbstruck, too astounded to move. The audience of his fellow Akari moved in to circle the siblings, waiting for the end.

‘Send me back,’ said Kahldris. ‘Send me back so I never need look at them again.’

Malator understood. There was no place so peaceful as that private place of death. Malator’s was this garden. Kahldris’ was a tomb-like temple full of stone and moss. Despite its coldness, he longed to return there. The old general no longer seemed young to him. To Malator, he was as ancient as the world, his face poisoned by rage and madness. He refused to look at his fellow Akari as they closed in around him, staring instead at the brother he despised. Even now, Malator realized, Kahldris hated him.

‘I do this out of mercy, brother,’ said Malator. He raised his hoka. ‘Not out of spite.’

The blade came down at Kahldris’ neck, delivering a perfect killing blow. If Kahldris had been alive, his head would have split from his body in a fountain of blood. But in the world of the dead, he simply disappeared.

Lukien fought until his arms and legs burned, until exhaustion turned to agony and his breath came in gasps. He had fought and given it his all, and he knew that no matter how much he gave he could never make the armour yield nor the man inside it submit. Lorn, too, seemed depleted from the fight, kept erect only by the Devil’s Armour, which still gleamed with unblemished perfection despite a hundred well-placed blows. Hopelessness took hold of Lukien. Down at the bottom of the plateau, Lothon and his fellow Liirians were watching, sure that the end was drawing near. Knowing he could not go on yet refusing to yield, Lukien wound back for one more attack. As he did, he felt Malator rush back into his sword.

The tidal wave of new found strength dazzled Lukien. All at once his aching muscles filled with vigour. Holding high the Sword of Angels, he saw Lorn drop back, as if struck by some unseen force. Instantly the light of the armour died away. The skull-shaped helmet froze, lifeless. Lorn, clearly stunned, raised his eyes to Lukien and the sword hanging high above him. This time, the Norvan gave no defense.

It was over. In the netherworld, Malator had won and both men knew it. Lorn, however, made no plea. Before the blade could fall he reached up and pulled off the helmet, looking death full in the face. He seemed to know it was deserved.

Lukien thought only of Thorin. He brought down the sword, bringing an end to King Lorn the Wicked.