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.