She put her face up to his, then moved her lips ever closer. Lukien felt the brush of them. Their hot sweetness lured him forward. .
And then repelled him.
‘I’m tired,’ he said without emotion. He stood and brushed the dirt and leaves from his backside. ‘We’ll keep the fire going. By morning it will be out and we’ll be ready to ride.’
Ignoring Mirage’s disappointment, Lukien went to his bed roll and did not speak again that night.
34
Atop a pretty little valley on a cold spring morning, Baron Glass paused in his relentless ride northward, surveying the land below him with an uncommon sense of dread. Birdsong filled the air. His horse waited quietly for orders. In the valley was a town, and in the town was a castle atop a small tor, the modest home of Prince Daralor. Baron Glass had never been to Nith. Even riding south a year ago he had avoided the principality. Now, as he sat atop his horse and stared, he wondered about the wisdom of his choice.
In the weeks since leaving Grimhold he had travelled ceaselessly, almost without rest, bolstered by the inhuman strength the armour gave his old body. Five horses had been exhausted from the pace, ridden almost to death by Thorin’s zeal to reach Liiria. The first horse — the one he had stolen from Grimhold — had taken him as far as Ganjor before the poor beast perished, baked and battered by the desert sun. From there he had had gone north, through ugly Dreel and the forests of Lonril, stealing horses and sleeping under the stars only when sleep was absolutely necessary. Without company or conversation, Baron Glass had only Kahldris for comfort. But he had his arm again, animated by the dark angel’s magic, and for Thorin that was enough. Kahldris had given him something no one in Grimhold ever had — a reason to live.
‘It’s very quiet,’ said Thorin.
He spoke more to himself than to Kahldris, who was always in his mind and body, just below the surface. Thorin held the armour’s horned helmet in the crook of his arm. Like the rest of the magical suit, it was feather-light and not at all a bother to wear or carry. Even when he slept, Thorin kept part of the armour on his person. Never once had he taken off the chainmail covering his left arm — the arm that no longer had flesh. As long as he wore that much of it, he was a whole man.
Kahldris did not answer Thorin. Instead the Akari pushed on his mind, urging him toward Nith. Thorin resisted. Travelling through Nith had not been his first choice. Though a quiet people, the Nithins were fiercely territorial and never welcomed strangers. It was why all travellers avoided the tiny nation, and Thorin, even in his armour, was loath to encounter them now.
It is the quickest way.
The words belonged to Kahldris, shouldering into Thorin’s mind.
‘I know.’
There is nothing for you to fear.
‘I’m not afraid,’ said Thorin angrily.
You are, but you must learn there is nothing that can challenge you now, Baron Glass. Not while you wear my armour.
The voice of the demon — if indeed he was a demon — stroked Thorin’s mind. So far Kahldris had never lied to Thorin or led him into danger. Thorin trusted Kahldris. He supposed it was this way with all the Inhumans and their Akari.
‘Why make trouble?’ Thorin asked aloud. ‘In a day I can ride around.’
Kahldris did not answer him, yet Thorin could feel the spirit’s disappointment. He still did not know very much about Kahldris or the man he had been in life, but he was learning the spirit’s many moods.
‘They will notice the armour,’ he said. Many others had already. ‘Yes, we should go around.’
Do as you wish, Baron Glass.
The voice was almost sullen.
‘I’m not afraid of them, demon,’ Thorin insisted. ‘But Prince Daralor abides no outsiders in his land, especially since Akeela cut off his fingers.’
You are on your way to battle an army, yet a princeling with missing fingers dissuades you. You have armour that no blade has ever nicked, you have both your arms. . You are fearful, I say.
Thorin growled back, ‘I am not afraid, damn you. I will have my breakfast in Nith if that is all that will appease you!’
It was hunger at last that finally made Thorin drive his dapple-grey down the hillside and into the valley. Though he no longer needed food or sleep the way a normal man might, he had not eaten properly for days and his stomach roared to be filled. Angry at being thought a coward and mad with hunger, Thorin punched his heels into the sides of his horse and led the beast toward the waiting town.
Nith itself was not a large town. Like the sunken valley surrounding it, the town was quaint and pretty, with the typical trappings found everywhere this far north. It could have been a Liirian town with its dominating castle and offshoot streets and buildings, all huddled close as if for warmth. The avenues were narrow and hilly, filled with stairs and archways and gentle bends revealing tiny gardens. Thorin reached the town quickly, finally slowing as he made his way through its central street. He had slung the armour’s helmet over his saddle horn and was glad to see the streets mostly empty. His unusual attire always attracted unwanted stares, and here in Nith he knew such stares were dangerous.
Trotting across the cobblestone street, he turned a corner and saw a tavern nearby. A flame flickered in the dusty window. Hoping it open, Thorin steered his mount that way and peered inside the window. A man he supposed was the proprietor was at the bar, hurriedly wiping it down. A few other murky figures sat at tables near the hearth. The sign outside advertised food and drink. Thorin dropped down off his horse, eager to go inside, then wondered what to do with his things. His bed roll and other belongings were safe enough, he guessed, but the helmet was another matter entirely.
‘I should have taken off this damn armour,’ he chided himself. ‘They will think me riding off to war!’
Leave the helmet, Kahldris said. It will not be harmed. Go and get your food.
Thorin hesitated a moment, then took off the gauntlet from his right hand — his real hand. Rummaging through his saddlebags he pulled out a few bronze coins he had gotten in Dreel, enough to pay for a hearty breakfast. Unsure what he would find inside the tavern, he steeled himself, and in that instant Kahldris was with him, flooding him with his unholy strength. The anxiousness left him at once.
Pushing open the tavern door, he stepped inside the rustic place. Beside the barkeep there were five men in the place — all of whom looked up in alarm at his entrance. Thorin paused on the threshold and stared back at them. Three of them sat at one table having food by the fire. They were tradesmen by the looks of them, and when they noticed Thorin staring back their eyes scurried to their plates. The other two, however, were not so quick to look away. They too had taken a table by the hearth, but they were not tradesmen or farmers — they were soldiers. Dressed in tunics and green capes, they were no doubt men of rank in Daralor’s army, come to slake an early thirst. The pair watched Thorin as he entered the tavern. Thorin felt an inexplicable, bubbling hatred. Brushing past the bar he took a table not far from the soldiers.
‘Food,’ he declared, snapping his bare fingers at the barkeep. ‘Bring me eggs. Meat if you have it, too.’
The barman looked at him for a moment, confused by the stranger. Thorin slapped the coins down on the table.
‘Don’t make me wait, man. I have a need for speed.’
He didn’t know where the words came from, but they sent the proprietor scurrying into the back room. Thorin felt the eyes of the soldiers on him. He bit his lip, not with fear but with anger. It was Kahldris, he decided. The Akari presence in his mind made his brain burn.