A saucer-like moon hung above the plateau. Lorn smiled up at it, satisfied. He was weary, tired of so much traveling. He had been on the road for months now, so long his journey seemed endless.
‘Enough talk,’ he said. ‘Get some rest, demon. Tomorrow we have work to do.’
Lukien looked ahead to where the river cut across the terrain, finally noticing the familiar landscape of Norvor. His weary horse snorted beneath him, caked in the dust of the road and nearly lame from lack of rest. The sun had come up hours ago, marking their third day on the road to Norvor. They had ridden without stopping the entire morning, and all the horses of the company were faring no better than Lukien’s. Count Lothon and his men — ten of them in all — scanned the horizon dotted with rocky hills. Lothon himself rode close to Lukien, staying at his side the whole way while the other Liirians trailed out in a long tail behind them. Lothon took his water skin from the loop at his saddle, offering it first to Lukien. When Lukien declined, the old man took a miserly pull from the skin, conserving its contents out of habit alone. With the river so close, they could water the horses and fill up their skins, but Count Lothon took only mild notice of the waterway. Like all of them, his eyes were fixed instead on Norvor.
‘Ugly,’ he pronounced. ‘How did you ever manage to spend so much time there?’
‘I had no choice, remember,’ Lukien said, mildly annoyed. ‘And not all of Norvor is like that. Those are the badlands.’
‘Hanging Man.’
Lukien nodded. ‘Yes.’
He thought about his days with Jazana Carr, the years they had spent together at Hanging Man with Thorin. He would not be seeing the fortress again, though. Lorn hadn’t got that far, nor was he still on the move. It had been an easy thing to track the traitor, because Malator could sense his brother and because King Lorn did nothing to hide his tracks. He expected them to come after him. He wanted them to come.
‘He’s close now,’ mused Lukien. ‘Another hour maybe. Maybe less.’
Lothon grimaced at the prophecy. ‘I have had my fill of magic and demons. Pardon me if I say I do not trust yours, Lukien. He is sure of this?’
Lukien’s gaze narrowed on the horizon, where a rise of plateaus hung above the flat earth. On one of them, Lorn waited. ‘Positive.’
There was no doubt of it, not to Malator, and the fact made Lothon and his men grimace. After what had happened back in Koth, Lothon had insisted on going after Lorn with Lukien. He had lost five men when the Norvan had burst from the library, garbed in the Devil’s Armour in his hurry to flee. More would have died with them if Lothon hadn’t ordered them to stand down. They had let Lorn go, because Lothon knew they couldn’t stop him.
Word had spread quickly about Thorin’s death. In the east, Duke Cajanis’ army collapsed, routed by Daralor and his Nithins and dispirited over the death of their benefactor. In Chancellery Square the same had occurred, where the Norvan mercenaries had first seen Baron Glass abandon them. King Raxor and the Reecians did not slaughter the Norvans, however, but rather pulled back from the city so that the Nithins and Lothon’s troops could take control. The city was still in chaos, but Gilwyn and Ghost were both safe within the library. Ghost’s wounds, though far less serious than Gilwyn’s, would take a long time to heal. Gilwyn, on the other hand, had healed miraculously. Already Lukien could not wait to return to his young friend. After so many months of separation, they had once again been separated. And because Gilwyn now wore the Eye of God, there were things Lukien needed to explain to him. When he had left the boy, he had seen the uneasiness on his face.
For Lukien, the death of Baron Glass was the like the end of hope. All through his journey to Tharlara and back again, he had dared to imagine saving Thorin, bringing back the man he had once been. Instead, he had seen a shambling mound of humanity, with barely a hint of the once great and proud Thorin. But in the end, he had saved himself. That, at least, brought a sad smile to Lukien’s face.
Count Lothon continued on without speaking, confident that soon they would find King Lorn. He was an old man now, but canny and fearless, with the same sense of righteousness Lukien remembered from years ago. Lukien was grateful for the noble’s company, but all of them knew they could do nothing against the Devil’s Armour. That bad business fell to Lukien alone, and to the sword slapping at his thigh. For Lukien, Malator had been like a bloodhound in leading them to his brother, but now the real battle was about to begin. As the plateaus began to rise up above them, Malator’s presence trembled with anticipation. The Akari spoke once again, his voice cool and certain.
Lukien, he’s there, on the ledge ahead of us.
Lukien looked up, and as he did the image of Lorn appeared, leaning out over the ledge. Lothon gasped, pointing up at him.
‘There he is!’
The riders stopped immediately. Lukien put his hand on the pommel of his sword. Malator’s energy charged through him. Lorn gazed down and gave a small nod of regard. The helmet of the armour rested in the crux of his elbow. On his chest and arms, the black metal gleamed. He raised his chin and shouted down at his pursuers, his voice spilling down the hillside like a waterfall.
‘I’m here, Lukien,’ he declared. ‘I’m ready. To your left there’s a way up the hill. I’ll wait for you here.’
Then he was gone, disappearing back behind the ledge. Lukien looked left and saw that there was indeed a grade to the hill, one that he could easily climb without his horse. The setting put him in a mind of another duel he had fought, just a few short years ago. There was no more time to rest or prepare himself. He had come this far with a purpose, and before he could ever return to Cassandra there was one more battle ahead. Knowing there was little he could do for the knight, Count Lothon once again took out his water skin and handed it to Lukien. This time, Lukien accepted.
‘We’ll be here. We won’t leave you,’ said the count.
Lukien sipped at the water, then licked his sun-cracked lips. He handed the skin back to Lothon with thanks. ‘You’re a good man, Lothon, and you have good men following you. Whatever happens to me up there, remember to take care of Liiria.’
‘I have faith in you,’ said Lothon, smiling. ‘You’ve been dead more than once, but somehow you keep coming back again.’
‘It’s a curse,’ said Lukien. He slid down from his saddle. ‘No man should live forever, Count Lothon. Especially not King Lorn the Wicked.’
‘His head would make a fine trophy for my study. If you don’t mind. .’
‘I’ll oblige if I can,’ said Lukien, then turned and headed toward the grade.
At the top of the plateau, Lorn waited with the helmet in his hands, quietly contemplating the view to his homeland. He regretted the need to kill Lukien, but was sure the knight would never relent. Kahldris began to speak to him, whispering in his mind, telling him about the greatness that awaited him in Carlion. They would rebuild Norvor together, said the demon. They would be invincible. It made no sense to mourn the death of a single man, Kahldris explained. Lukien and Malator were just two insignificant souls. In the great design of things, they mattered not at all.
‘Enough,’ Lorn muttered, shaking his head. ‘You are like a bad breakfast that won’t stay down, spirit. Get out of my mind.’
The feeling of Kahldris faded from his brain, but not the energy he gave. Lorn flexed his fingers in their metal sleeves. He had never felt stronger, not even as a young man.
‘I’m not a man any more,’ he told himself. ‘I’m more than a man.’
Silently he watched the edge of the plateau, waiting for Lukien to come.
Lukien took his time climbing the grade, keeping the Sword of Angels sheathed to his side. Sweat dripped down his nose onto his boots as he walked, and he cursed himself for blundering so quickly into Lorn’s rocky lair. He should have waited, he supposed, and rested for the fight as Lorn had. But in the end Lukien didn’t really care. He wanted things to be over, and if that meant losing. .