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.