The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (4 page)

Now!

A swale of black flesh and shaking sand burst from the rocks. The shocked riders reared back on their mounts. The great rass unfolded its leathery hood, opened its forbidding maw, and lunged. Gilwyn watched, horrified, as the nearest drowa stumbled back and spilled its rider in the monster’s shadow. His comrade, dumbstruck, barely raised his blade. The rass was on them instantly, quickly coiling round the fallen man, then bearing him up in its vise-grip tail. The head jolted forward, knocked the other rider from his mount, then reared back in leering delight before clamping its jaws around him. A moment later both men were in the air, one suffocating in the serpent’s tail, the other punctured and bloody, dangling from the creature’s fangs.

‘Fate above . . .’

Nausea spiked in Gilwyn’s throat. The remaining raiders stopped, as
stunned as Gilwyn by the shocking sight. The Zarturk turned to look at Gilwyn, his dark eyes furious. Quickly he and his remaining warrior retreated, circling around the rocks and safely away from the raging serpent. The rass, occupied with its still-living prey, barely noticed them. Sickened by what he’d done, Gilwyn lost control of the rass. When he did, Ruana slammed into his mind.

Get control or get away from it!

Confused, Gilwyn squeezed his legs and urged the drowa away. With nowhere to go he rode away from the raiders, begging the drowa to hurry. He left the rock behind, left the rass to feed on the two men he had trapped, and was soon out in the open again, racing helplessly away from the raiders, who shouted after him.

‘Unless there are more snakes out here I’m in trouble!’ he gasped. ‘Ruana?’

The Akari gave no reply, because nothing could be done and Gilwyn knew it. With only a dagger and an exhausted drowa, he had no hope at all. He looked over his shoulder and saw the relentless raiders bearing down fast. Behind them, the rass had dropped the man from its tail and craned its neck skyward to swallow the other man whole.

‘All right, enough running,’ spat Gilwyn. ‘They have me. Damn it!’

He jerked back the drowa’s reins and spun to a halt, facing the Zarturk and his man. The Voruni pair brought their own mounts to a stop a few yards away. Thunder filled the Zarturk’s face. A jagged tattoo across his cheek twitched with fury.

‘You want me, you pirate trash?’ Gilwyn held up his dagger. ‘You want to rob me? Then come and get me!’

The Zarturk and his underling smirked at his small weapon. Then, surprisingly, both men put their blades into their belts. The Zarturk shook his head contemptuously, pointing to the distant rass.

‘That’s right,’ Gilwyn taunted. ‘Big snake. Bad death. Do you understand me, you stupid beasts?’

The Zarturk frowned. ‘Aztar.’

Gilwyn’s dagger trembled. ‘What?’

‘Aztar,’ said the man again, then pointed eastward. ‘Aztar.’

‘Aztar? Aztar’s dead,’ said Gilwyn. He pretended to draw his knife over his throat. ‘Dead.’

The Voruni understood the gesture, but shook his head in denial. ‘Aztar bis arok.’

‘Arok? Alive?’

The Zarturk nodded, then put out a finger and bid Gilwyn forward. ‘Aztar.’

They want you to follow them
, said Ruana.

Gilwyn couldn’t speak. There was nowhere to go and no one to aid
him. Helpless, he put the dagger back in its small sheath. He rode toward the Zarturk warily, unsure what else to do. His heart thundered in his temples, muddling his thinking and his connection to Ruana. Aztar would kill him, and probably not quickly. The thought of torture smothered him. As he rode he took no notice of the nearby dune, partially blocking the horizon. The angry face of the Zarturk filled his vision. Like Gilwyn, the big man and his companion remained oblivious to their surroundings. Having forgotten the nearby rass, not even Gilwyn saw it in time.

A black shadow fell across the dune. Sand exploded amid the terrible cries of frightened drowa. Ruana burst into Gilwyn’s mind, but amidst the sudden chaos he barely noticed her. He saw only a great wall of rising flesh . . . and then, darkness.

A young woman on a horse entered the broken city of Koth just as twilight fell. It had been a long day’s journey from the farm up in Borath, and the woman, who was not much more than a girl, felt depleted. Around her, all of Koth’s past majesty seemed to lay in ruins. Norvan soldiers patrolled the streets along with bands of mercenaries. The fires of the battle two weeks before had finally died away, but the smell of smoke still lingered over Koth, reminding everyone of the terror that had happened here. Not far ahead, the woman could see Library Hill. At the top of the hill stood the once-great Cathedral of Knowledge, devastated now, its timbers and stone walls split by Norvan catapults. Torches burned brightly on the road winding up the hill while men camped and rested on the grounds, still recovering from the bloody siege. In the middle of a wide avenue, the woman drew her horse to a halt. Bad memories swarmed over her as she stared up at the library.

Her name was Mirage. Once, not long ago, her name had been Meriel, but she had swapped that name for the beauty of a magical mask. She was an Inhuman, a person of Grimhold, and the Akari bound to her mind had given her a splendid gift. As a teen she had been burned, nearly dying in a fire. She had lived with the scars of that event for years, but no longer. Now she was lovely, as beautiful as the woman she would have been if the fire hadn’t raked her flesh away. Her first Akari, a sweet tempered spirit named Sarlvarian, had controlled the pain of her tortured skin, but even he could not quell the pain in her heart. She had looked in mirrors for years and had always seen a monster staring back at her, and so she had changed her Akari, letting go of Sarlvarian’s hand and inviting a new Akari into her life, a spirit named Kirsil who had made her appear beautiful again. On that day, Meriel had died. And Mirage was born.

As Mirage, she still felt the old pains. Beneath the veneer of beauty, her skin remained ravaged, but no one could see the woman she had been. Nor did Mirage ever speak of it, or complain about the searing pain that
accompanied her everywhere. Over the years she had learned to control her agonies, and now all the world saw only her beauty.

Mirage took the time to look around, trying to ignore her hunger. Her long blonde hair hung loose around her shoulders, and she noticed now that the soldiers in the street watched her. Mirage made sure not to look at them. The lust of men was unknown to her, mostly. No one had longed for her, not when she was burned.

No, she corrected herself. That wasn’t exactly true. Thorin had loved her. He had loved and longed for her when no other man had, and that was why she had returned to Koth, to find him.

But where?

She glanced around. Vendors had abandoned most of the shops months ago, long before the Norvans had come. Before the arrival of Jazana Carr and her horde, it was civil war that had split the city, but Breck and the others had quelled the worst of it. Now Breck was gone, dead like most of Koth’s defenders. Dead like Vanlandinghale, the young lieutenant who’d been so kind, so thoughtful to Mirage that he had never asked her why she had come to the library or why she loved Lukien so much. Of the thousand men who had defended the city, barely three-hundred had survived, and all of them were scattered now. At first they had hidden at Breck’s farm up north, just as Mirage herself had done, but even remote Borath was too near to be safe, and the soldiers had gone, leaving their homeland for any safe haven.

But not I, thought Mirage.

She had not the sense to leave with Thorin’s son, Aric, or any of the others. Even Lukien had refused to return to Koth, going off on a mad quest instead. Of all of them, only Mirage had returned, and suddenly she was not proud of her decision. She was simply afraid. The soldiers in the avenue took more notice of her, passing comments and leering. Mirage turned her face away and trotted deeper into Koth. She realized how few women were in the city. Those that remained had obviously locked themselves in their homes, fearing the rapes that so often accompanied a sacking. Mirage considered her plan. She had come to Koth because there was nowhere else for her, and because Lukien had shunned her love. She could not return to Grimhold, for to do so would mean defeat, and she could not admit defeat to Minikin. Only Thorin had really shown her love. Though the Devil’s Armour had maddened him, Mirage was sure he would welcome her.

If she could find him.

He may not even be in the city
, she realized. Looking up again at the battered library, she knew he would not be there.
He’ll be at Lionkeep
.

Lionkeep had been ruined too, though not as badly as the library. And Mirage had heard rumours that Thorin had set up a command post there.
Still, it was a longshot to find him, and she wondered what she would say to gain an audience with him. Already her presence was arousing suspicion. She didn’t want anyone’s attention, especially not one of the Jazana Carr’s greasy mercenaries.

A strange sense gripped her then, forcing her to look over her shoulder. Except for the soldiers she saw no one, yet all day she had felt the cold appraisal of unwanted eyes. She calmed herself, told herself that no one was following her, then proceeded across the avenue. Lionkeep was on the other side of the city, and if she was to reach it before darkness fell completely she would have to make haste. But she had not eaten since morning and was wildly hungry now, and knew that she could not go on without a little food, at least. Ahead of her, she spotted a tavern. Amazingly, it looked open. A pair of soldiers sat by the doors, sharing a pipe and a bottle of liquor. Mirage reined in her mount, keeping to the shadows while she studied the place, reading the battered sign over the door.

‘The Red Stallion,’ she whispered.

The name sounded familiar to her. They would have food, probably, and give her a chance to rest. Mirage wondered if she should stop or go on to Lionkeep. Stopping would make it that much later – and darker – when she finally asked for Thorin. But her bones ached and her stomach roared to be filled, and she knew she could not go on much longer. Screwing up her courage, she trotted back into the light and headed for the tavern. Outside, other horses had been bridled and a boy had been hired to look after them. Despite the obviously drunk Norvans at the threshold, the place seemed safe enough, at least enough to draw Mirage forward. The Norvans looked up from their drink when she approached, staring at her through the pipe smoke. In Liiria, a woman riding alone was a rare sight, but in Norvor it was unheard of, and the two soldiers blinked in disbelief. Mirage dismounted and tied her weary horse at the post. She had left Borath with precious little money, but her horse was important and she couldn’t afford anything happening to the beast.

‘Here,’ she told the boy, dipping into the pockets of her riding pants and fishing out a coin. ‘Look after him and don’t let anyone touch him. All right?’

The boy nodded dumbly, as struck as the Norvans by her appearance, and quickly took the coin. Mirage felt the eyes of the men on her backside as she sidled toward the door. The Red Stallion was a large place, and as she entered she immediately noticed the crowd, laughing and drinking, playing cards by the fire, and teasing the prostitutes with promised coins. Mirage felt herself blush. The only women in the tavern were whores. Her eyes darted about, wondering if she should leave. A man hurried into the side of her vision.

‘You want a table?’

Startled, Mirage stared at him a moment. He was a stocky man with a kind, round face. Obviously the proprietor, his skin gushed sweat from the rushing he’d been doing.

‘Uhm, yes. Do you have food?’

‘Food, yes, we have food.’ The man looked at her peculiarly. ‘Are you alone?’

Mirage nodded. ‘That’s right.’

The proprietor’s smile was awkward. ‘You’re not looking for work, are you? I mean, you’re not a . . .’ His grin broke down. ‘You know.’

‘I certainly am not,’ said Mirage indignantly. Flustered by the question, she thought again of leaving, but the man hurried an apology.

‘No, of course you’re not,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, but a lovely lady like yourself . . . well, you probably shouldn’t be on your own, especially at night.’

‘I have no choice,’ Mirage replied. ‘I’m in the city looking for someone.’

Sympathy suffused the man’s chubby face. ‘Ah, the war. You’ve lost someone.’ He looked suitably sad. ‘Come, I’ll find you a table away from the noise.’