The Devil's Armour (Gollancz S.F.) (74 page)

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.

No fear
! the spirit chided.
You must learn
. . .

Thorin tried clamping down on the spirit, pushing him back. He realised suddenly that Kahldris had dropped him into this situation.

If they challenge you, what will you do?

Thorin struggled not to turn around. All at once he hated the Nithins. Because they stared at him? Because . . . why?

You are playing with my mind, demon!
he silently roared. His legs twitched, threatening to get up and leave.

Will you flee in the face of Jazana Carr?
taunted Kahldris.
Tell me now and I will waste no more time on you
.

The effort within Thorin became enormous. He shut his eyes against the flood of tangled feelings.

You brought me here to fight?
he asked.

I need blood to make you strong, Baron Glass
.

The answer sickened Thorin. His appetite fled in an instant. ‘Oh, no . . .’

Before he could get up to leave he heard the chairs behind him sliding backward. The two soldiers got to their feet and stood on either side of him. He looked up, to one and then the other, and could not control the sneer twisting his lips. Both men were younger than him, barely thirty he supposed. The one at Thorin’s left hooked back his cape to show his sword and dirk.

‘You’re a stranger,’ said the man. ‘A soldier.’

See how he challenges you? You are old and he hates you for it!

Thorin fought to ignore the spirit. His jaw clenching, he said, ‘Just on my way home.’

‘Where’s home, then?’ pressed the man.

For a moment it occurred to him to lie, but then
something snapped in Thorin. The arrogant gait, the pulled-back cape – all conspired to make him hate the man.

‘Liiria.’

The man’s face loss all pretence. Glancing at his comrade, he stepped back from the table and looked Thorin over. The tradesmen at the nearby table stopped eating. From the corner of his eye Thorin saw the barkeep retreat back into the other room.

‘What is this you wear?’ said the soldier, flicking his fingers at Thorin’s shoulder. ‘That’s not Liirian armour. I’ve seen Liirian armour, when your pig of a king came to conquer us.’

Baron Glass, who had never any use for King Akeela, smiled at the man. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘You have never seen armour like this. The world has never seen armour like this, or a man like me.’ He rose to his feet. Then, taking the table in his fleshless hand, tossed it aside. The soldier who had challenged him stepped back. Thorin stalked after him. ‘I am Baron Glass of Liiria,’ he declared, ‘returning to reclaim my homeland. And I will walk through Nith or walk through fire to take back what is mine, and all the seven hells will not stop me!’

It did not matter that the man reached for his dirk. In less time than the blink of an eye Thorin ripped his own blade free, arcing it outward and cutting him down in an instant. Blood sprayed from the man’s cleaved chest, soaking Thorin’s face and breastplate. Frightened hollers rose from the tradesmen as they scrambled away. The other soldier’s face curdled as Thorin turned on him. Sword in hand, armour splashed with blood, Baron Glass bid the man forward.

‘Fight me,’ he hissed. ‘I have not fought in years and I must show you!’

Too callow to simply flee, the young man drew his sword and held it shaking before him. Thorin – now completely possessed by Kahldris – let his own blade droop, inviting the assault. Not seeing it for a trap, the soldier lunged. What
should have been a clean blow glanced harmlessly off the armour with an almost human screech. Beneath its magic shield Thorin hardly felt the blow at all. Surprised and unmoving, he waited for the man to strike again. This time he came in with a horrific cry, swinging his sword like an axe and landing it on Thorin’s shoulder. Again the armour screamed like twisting metal and again the blow glanced off. The sword shattered in the soldier’s hand.

Kill him
, urged Kahldris.

Thorin, his whole body shaking, somehow kept his sword from rising. ‘I will not!’

Do it!

‘No!’ Thorin clenched his fist to hold back Kahldris’ growing rage. ‘Go!’ he ordered the stunned soldier. ‘Now!’

Managing to sheathe his sword, Thorin staggered toward the door. The soldier and other patrons did not follow, but instead joined the barkeep in the back room. The world blurred around the baron as he staggered to his horse, his head splitting with Kahldris’ anger. Blood and gore from the man he had slain glistened on the Devil’s Armour. He mounted, steered his horse out of town and sped away, all the while tottering in his saddle as he tried to shake the evil glamour.

Back to the hills
, he thought frantically.
Back to the trees to hide
. . .

The town vanished in a haze behind him. Afraid and sick with grief, Thorin barely noticed the valley whizzing past him. All of his great, Akari-born strength had fled. He was exhausted, weak and old again, and all he wanted was to be gone from Nith. He rode like this for many minutes, galloping until his horse frothed, and when at last they had climbed a hill and found shelter in some woods, Thorin jerked the steed to a halt and slid from its back. He sank to his knees, shaking, thinking he would vomit. The blood on his breastplate glowed an eerie red. He stared at it in horror. Slowly, slowly, it began to disappear into the intricate carvings of his armour. Slowly, the armour drank it in.

Then, when all the blood was finally gone, the carvings in the breastplate came to life.

With his eyes wide Thorin watched the little figures begin to move, their little metal bodies flowing lifelike in their chores – the woman in her gown singing, the man with the pike raising it high, the dragons on his leggings beating their wings. A great warmth overcame him, and suddenly Thorin felt strong again, possessed of a power beyond youth, beyond anything of mankind. His beating heart fed the armour and the living things on it, and he could not tear his eyes away from the macabre show.

‘What is happening to me?’ he gasped. ‘Kahldris, what have you done?’

We grow stronger, Baron Glass
.

‘You made me kill that man!’

I need blood to be strong. You need strength to reclaim Liiria
.

‘But I am not a murderer! I had never been a butcher until you came to me!’

Thorin hung his head and thought to weep, but he could find no tears within him. Had Kahldris taken those too, he wondered? If Meriel saw him now, she would think him a butcher. And what of the boy? What would Gilwyn think of him now? What would any of them think?

The boy no longer matters. Think not of him. Do not think of any of them
.

‘I will think what I want, monster, and think of him fondly! He would not believe the murderer I’ve become! He thinks me a good man!’

Good or evil, it does not matter. You must not think of these people – they are behind you. They will make you weak, and you must not be weak. You must be strong, Baron Glass, strong like my armour to beat back the bitch-queen
.

The effort to argue – to even shake his head – was too much for Thorin.

You will feed me
, Kahldris went on,
and I will make you powerful
.

‘You will make me a madman,’ Thorin whispered. ‘I will not become a creature such as you.’