Free The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) by John Marco Page A

that Thorin was right. Elgan was a minor noble, and she had enough forces in place to deal with him.
    ‘Promise me that Norvor will not slip away,’ she begged. ‘Promise me that Lorn will never return. If you promise those things, I will stay.’
    Baron Glass, naked in the darkness, lay before her confident and unashamed. Squeezing her hand, he said, ‘I promise it, my lady. Norvor is yours, and no one shall take it from you. Not even Lorn the Wicked, wherever he is hiding.’
    Relieved, Jazana leaned back again against the tree. His words comforted her, as did his very presence, so solid she knew it would never break. She spoke a soft thank you to Thorin, then watched as the eastern horizon began to glow with the first inklings of morning.

4

     
    A lonely man sat upon his dust-laden horse, peering through his single eye, pondering the dead city rising before him. His body, worn thin from hunger and endless days of solitary riding, bore the dirt of a thousand roads and the countless, nameless towns he had encountered. A month of beard sprouted from his face. His battered leather jerkin bore stains of sweat and sand. Beneath his shirt he wore an amulet hidden from view, priceless and ancient, its gold encrusted jewel pulsing with unnatural light, a light that had kept its weary bearer alive despite mortal wounds and a body desperate to collapse. The rider drew a breath, unsure what he was seeing. He had ridden for days without seeing a soul, not even the hint of human habitation, and the visage of the city startled him. Across the rugged plains he heard the wind whisper in the grasses, but from the city he heard nothing. From his place in the tall weeds the city appeared a purplish-black, a broken silhouette with the sun dropping behind it. His long hair – once blond but streaked with grey now – stirred in the breeze as he studied the city. The city had died millennia ago, along with the race that had built it. Its towers and tall aqueducts crumbled in the failing light. Vermin and shrubs had overtaken its deserted streets.
    Lukien, the Bronze Knight of Liiria, looked upon the city and was silent. Dreams had guided him here, but he knew the city was not the Serpent Kingdom, the object of his quest. The city was Akari. Finally, his long journey was nearing its end. Lukien took water from the canteen at his saddle, carefully drinking the precious stuff. Beyond the city he could see forests, lush and alive, and he knew that there would be streams there and game to hunt. In the shadow of the sad ruins, he felt grateful for the shade. It had been a mercilessly long journey from Liiria and he had endured every hardship to get this far. Driven on by dreams he could not explain, he had ridden south and east, through Marn and the nations of the continent, then on through the badlands bordering the Desert of Tears, into lands that would not welcome him and did not speak hisnorthern tongue. Against hunger and thirst and crushing loneliness, he had left behind civilization, riding here to the end of the world.
    And he did not know why, except for the dreams.
    Lukien’s body had mostly healed in the weeks since leaving Liiria. His battle with Baron Glass had left him near death, but the amulet around his neck had snatched him from the grave. His body was stronger now, though desperately weary, and he knew that Amaraz, the spirit in the amulet, had not only saved him but had gifted him with the dreams. Each night when he lay himself down, Lukien heard the words in his mind, urging him westward, pointing him in directions he would not have guessed to travel. Because of the dreams he knew which roads to take and which stars to follow. At last he put his hand over his chest, feeling the Eye of God beneath his jerkin.
    ‘Is this what you wanted me to see?’
    The great Akari Amaraz, encased within the Eye, Amaraz did not respond.
    ‘I know it is,’ Lukien told the spirit spitefully. ‘Be silent, then.’
    He did not know why