‘We’ll reach him,’ he promised Daralor. ‘We’ll find him once you loose the hawks.’
It had been agreed, and Daralor said nothing more about it. They had all approved the plan, even Lorn, who waited unseen within the ranks of Nithins, ready to appear at the proper time. Lukien put his hand on the pommel of his sword, letting Malator’s strength course through him as Duke Cajanis at last came to a stop. The duke’s army halted with amazing precision, spears and lances tipped skyward. At Cajanis’ flanks rode two men, one a mercenary Lukien remembered, one a Norvan nobleman. The mercenary, a man named Thon, smirked at Lukien distastefully.
‘You know him?’ whispered Ghost.
‘I know him,’ grumbled Lukien. ‘I was one of them, remember.’
He had spent years in Jazana Carr’s employment, and Lukien knew most of the mercenaries of any importance. Thon was from Jerikor, and like the warriors of that land he never wore armour or any coverings at all over his arms, preferring instead to display his many tattoos. He was an unsavoury character and Jazana had never liked him, but he was good at his work and so had earned a place in her vast army. Lukien was not surprised at all that he had remained with Thorin. Thon, like many mercenaries, cared only about money.
Duke Cajanis wheeled his horse to face his men. He had arranged his army so that his cavalry came first, just as Daralor had, with foot soldiers scattered among them. He had brought no archers with him, though they were surely stationed at the library, Lukien reasoned. Cajanis spoke loudly to his soldiers, rallying them, and his bold words were echoed by lieutenants in the ranks. Then, when he finished his speech, the duke turned around again toward the Nithins. Amazingly, he broke away from his army and began riding forward, accompanied by Thon and the Norvan noble.
‘Terms,’ spat Daralor in disgust. ‘Lukien, Godwin, come with me.’
Leaping at the chance to return the insult, Daralor broke from his army and trotted out toward Cajanis with his aide, Godwin. Lukien followed, leaving Ghost behind and sure that Lorn, hidden among the Nithins, was watching and fuming. Prince Daralor rode out grandly, his head held high, then reined his stallion to a halt just feet before Cajanis. The two leaders locked glares for a moment, until Cajanis noticed Lukien.
‘You are the Bronze Knight I have heard so much about,’ said the duke mockingly. He glanced over at Thon. ‘From what you told me, I expected more.’
Thon cracked a toothy grin. ‘You look old, Lukien.’
‘Do I?’ Lukien reached beneath his breast plate and pulled out the Eye of God. As the amulet hit the sunlight it blazed furiously. ‘I don’t feel old, Thon,’ he said, dropping the Eye against his chest. ‘I feel immortal.’
‘We’ve been warned of your magic, Lukien of Liiria,’ said Cajanis. ‘In truth it matters not. You already know what you’re up against. You don’t have a chance, not even with your pretty bauble.’
Daralor bristled at the duke’s arrogance. ‘You’re a man of big words, Duke Cajanis. I have found in my dealings that men of big words have the smallest stones. I can already see the fear in your eyes every time my war dogs bark.’
‘A thousand war dogs won’t bring down the Black Baron, Prince Daralor. You would be better off slaughtering them yourself. Do it humanely and they won’t suffer. Let me take pity on you, sir. I come to speak to you as a favour, to warn you of what will happen. This is not your fight, and you cannot win it.’
Lukien at last pulled free his sword. As he did, the blade burst with light. ‘I have the means to best your baron, Norvan. Behold!’ A ripple of surprise went through the Norvan ranks. Lukien pressed his advantage. ‘I know you men!’ he shouted to the mercenaries. ‘Listen to me now. The reign of Baron Glass is over. I have come to undo him!’ He laughed, full of malice suddenly, and looking straight at Cajanis hissed, ‘And I have not come alone.’
Lukien lowered his sword, pointing it at the rows of Nithins behind him. The signal caused the soldiers to part like a curtain, revealing a single rider who trotted out from the crowd. King Lorn the Wicked had dressed for the occasion, looking as princely as Daralor himself in a silver breastplate and gleaming chainmail, his arms covered in scarlet fabric, his head crowned with a feathered helmet that left his hard-bitten face naked. He held an axe in his hand with a sword at his belt, his white horse garbed in golden armour that reflected like rainbows on the field. His appearance stunned and confused Cajanis. The duke frowned as he tried to make out the rider’s identity.
‘That’s an old man,’ spat Cajanis, then began to chuckle. ‘It’s that your champion, Prince Daralor?’
Lorn held up the axe in his meaty fist. ‘I am Lorn,’ he declared. ‘And I live!’
As though they were arrows his words shot the men through, stunning Duke Cajanis and his soldiers. Whispers and shouts ran through the Norvan ranks. Cajanis, too shocked to speak, looking dumbly at his aide, and from the rows of mercenaries a cry went up.
‘It’s him!’ said the single, distant soldier. ‘That’s Lorn!’
Lorn drove his horse to a gallop, hurrying to Lukien’s side. To Lukien, he had never looked more like the manic king of legend. His rock hard eyes froze Cajanis in his glare as both Thon and the nameless noble drew back.
‘I am King Lorn of Norvor, rightful ruler of our land, and you Cajanis are a usurper’s lapdog. Save your warnings, coward. We are deaf to them.’
‘You can’t be Lorn,’ sputtered Cajanis. ‘Lorn is dead!’
Lorn tossed back his head and gave a shuddering cry. ‘I live!’ he shouted, half-mad with laughter. ‘And I’ve come back for my throne and to kill all who defy me. Look at me, wretched duke! Call me a ghost one more time and you will die first today.’
Duke Cajanis struggled with his horse. Behind him, his usually orderly soldiers had broken into gossip. He turned to Lukien, spitting with anger.
‘You’ve made an unholy alliance for yourself, Bronze Knight. You bring a devil back to Norvor!’
‘Yield to us now, Duke Cajanis,’ Lukien ordered. ‘You cannot kill me, and once the dogs are loosed you’ll have no chance of it. I have prayed for death and been denied it by heaven, and no Norvan fop will be the end of me.’
‘Don’t bargain with these piss buckets, Lukien,’ said Lorn. He forced his horse closer to Cajanis. ‘You may run from me, but wherever you go I will find you, Cajanis. And when I have my throne again you will be my jester.’
‘They taunt you, Cajanis!’ grumbled Thon. ‘Who are they? Look at them and look at us.’ The mercenary scoffed at Lukien. ‘You shouldn’t have come back, Lukien. You’re over.’
His filthy grin drove all the fear from Lukien’s mind. Now, like the old days, he hungered for a fight. ‘Well, Cajanis?’ he asked. ‘Which will it be? Will you let this pile of shit speak for you? Or will you use your brain and yield to us?’
Cajanis was frothing now. ‘You are outnumbered! Even without Baron Glass you have no chance against us.’
‘Shall I lose my war dogs, then?’ asked Daralor casually. ‘The kennel masters have kept them hungry.’
‘Damn your war dogs, you eight fingered freak.’ Duke Cajanis pulled his reins up. ‘Let them lose and we’ll show them what Norvan blades are made of.’
The duke swiveled his horse quickly about, barking at his comrades to follow him as he returned to his army. Before Lukien and Daralor could turn themselves back, Lorn heaved his axe after Cajanis, missing the duke by inches. Cajanis roared in hatred.
‘You are dead, old man!’ the duke promised. ‘Today Norvor will be free of you at last!’
‘Come and kill me, then!’ Lorn challenged. ‘The moment you’re man enough.’
Daralor had heard enough. The time for talk was over. He did not ride back to his army or tell his men to wait. He merely glanced at his lieutenants and with a nod gave the order to unleash the dogs.
In all his life, Aric Glass had only been in battle twice before. On both occasions others had protected him from the worst of it, but not today. Today, as a volley of arrows sailed overhead, the full stink of death singed his nose and the terrifying cries of dying men shook his skull. It had all happened so quickly, Aric had barely seen it coming. First there were the trumpets, the martial music of his Reecian comrades. The Norvans had seemed so far away, like toy soldiers on their horses. Then they had come like a wave across the battlefield, sweeping Aric into combat. His sword was up and his horse was charging with the rest of them, carrying him headlong into the clash. Beside him, the Nithin bodyguards Trace and Brenor rode at his flanks, into the teeth of Norvan lances. The stampede of cavalry shook the ground. And Aric was in chaos.