*
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.’