Authors: John Marco
The Eyes of God (107 page)
“I know, madam,” replied Thorin. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“Good. If you have any ideas, let me know later.”
She left the room, leaving Baron Glass and Gilwyn alone. The baron sat back in his chair, fiddling with his tea cup but not drinking. Gilwyn could tell he was worried about Lukien.
“Do you think he’ll find him?” Gilwyn asked.
The baron shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s best this way. If that miraculous boy can’t find Lukien, who can?”
Gilwyn was about to reply, but bit back his answer.
Gilwyn stayed with Thorin for a few more minutes, talking about Lukien and how he had sacrificed himself. The baron was downhearted, not only because Lukien had left them, but because it reminded him how he had been unwilling to do the same himself. He told Gilwyn about how he’d left Kahan Kadar to fight alone, and how Trager had probably killed him. He hated himself for that, and the admission bothered Gilwyn. He knew Thorin was a good man. He knew his reputation and how he had once been a fine leader, and he knew Thorin wasn’t a coward. Yet that was how Thorin saw himself now, and it troubled Gilwyn. So he stayed and talked to the older man longer than he wanted to, hoping to cheer him and rouse him from his self-pity.
“The Inhumans need you now,” he told Thorin. “Now you can prove yourself.”
The notion seemed to ease the baron’s mind. “Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, perhaps so. Lukien seemed sure he was making an army of these people. Do you think so, Gilwyn?”
Gilwyn had to admit that he hadn’t spent much time with Lukien, or helped him form his army. “I don’t know, Thorin,” he said. “But you’d be a better judge of that anyway.”
“Indeed I would,” Thorin pronounced. He stood and nodded, the old arrogance coming back to his face. “Yes!”
Finally, he left Gilwyn in the council chamber. Gilwyn cursed his bad luck. He had lost a precious hour. Dashing out of the chamber, he glanced around the hall to make sure Minikin wasn’t around, then proceeded back to his chambers where he found his gaka, still dirty from the ride to Grimhold. This he rolled into a bundle and stuffed under his arm. He looked around the room to see if there was anything else he wanted to take with him. There wasn’t, but when he saw the chest near Lukien’s abandoned bed a twinge of emotion caught his throat. It was the chest in which Lukien kept his bronze armor, and he hadn’t even bothered to wear it.
“He doesn’t plan to fight,” whispered Gilwyn to himself. “He just plans to let them take him.”
Taking a final glance around the room, Gilwyn left and rushed down the hall, heading toward the rear of Grimhold and the stables where Emerald was kept.
54
L
ukien rode the mare as far as he could, stopping for rest only occasionally. But by the time Jador was finally in sight, Gallant collapsed beneath him. He had exhausted her, killing her, and abandoned her to the burning sands. But he knew he had to go on without her. It had taken them all day to come this far, and Gallant had served him valiantly. She seemed to have sensed the importance of his mission and so put every effort into helping him. Lukien was grateful. He stroked her unmoving head, little beads of sweat dripping from his forehead onto her chestnut coat.
ukien rode the mare as far as he could, stopping for rest only occasionally. But by the time Jador was finally in sight, Gallant collapsed beneath him. He had exhausted her, killing her, and abandoned her to the burning sands. But he knew he had to go on without her. It had taken them all day to come this far, and Gallant had served him valiantly. She seemed to have sensed the importance of his mission and so put every effort into helping him. Lukien was grateful. He stroked her unmoving head, little beads of sweat dripping from his forehead onto her chestnut coat.
“Minikin would be proud of you,” he told the mare. His voice was hoarse from thirst and the desert’s relentless dust. Overhead the sun beat down on him and the mare’s prostrate body. Lukien hoped she would die quickly. Up in the bright sky, the black dots of wheeling buzzards appeared.
He went on.
Jador twinkled on the horizon, clearly in view yet still tauntingly far. He trudged through the sands, his throat screaming for water. An hour ago he had drunk the last of it, thinking he would make it easily. But the desert mercilessly sucked the moisture from him, and within an hour of walking he was ready to collapse. His blistered feet burned in their heavy boots; his thick hair suffocated his scalp. He had only the clothes on his back to weigh him down, yet he moved as if through mud. Finally, he reached the outskirts of Jador. Exhausted, he fell to his knees and looked upon the city, and what he saw appalled him.
Against the backdrop of bright buildings stood dozens of crudely erected crosses. From the crosses hung figures, men in black uniforms. They hung motionless from their ghastly perches, the hot sun bleaching their bloated faces. They had been arranged like a fence, each of them turned toward far-off Grimhold. The sight withered Lukien. He remained on his knees, staring at the grisly trophies, finally comprehending the depth of Akeela’s madness.
“Great Fate. . . .”
He had heard the stories for sixteen years. But they had been like rumors to him, almost fantasies. He had never really quite believed them. Now, seeing the crucified warriors, his gentle memories of Akeela vanished. For a moment he thought of turning back, of going off to die in the desert and sparing himself the same heinous fate. But slowly he rose to his feet, resolving to go on. If Akeela was mad, he had made him so. It was right that he should die today.
He trudged along, his swollen feet dragging through the sands, and within a few long minutes came to the first section of road where the crosses were erected. The city was quiet. A few stray voices reached him, but no children, no happiness of any kind. He supposed the Jadori were huddled in their homes. Or worse. Through the streets he heard the clip-clop of hooves. Looking into the city he saw small groups of Royal Chargers on patrol. Exhausted, he leaned against one of the crosses, looking up at a dead figure hanging from its wrists. Dried blood ran down from its wounds. The head was tilted, staring down at Lukien. A buzzard picked at the lifeless eyeballs. Catching his breath, Lukien staggered into the city. He headed straight for the nearest patrol, calling out to them, his hoarse voice ringing through the avenue.
“Over here, butchers!”
The trio of horsemen turned, shocked at the sight of him. They galloped forward, drawing their swords. Lukien, unarmed, stood his ground. If they cut him down he wouldn’t be able to face Akeela, so he shouted, “I’m Lukien of Liiria!”
The Chargers quickly drew back their steeds, surrounding him. A young cavalryman lifted the visor of his helmet and stared, plainly confounded.
“Lukien? The Bronze Knight?”
The others raised their visors to inspect him. “I don’t believe it,” said one. The other squinted uncertainly.
“It is I, dogs,” said Lukien in disdain. Despite his exhaustion he squared his shoulders.
“It can’t be!” said the young one.
“Look at me!” growled Lukien. “Who else would I be, idiot? I’ve come to see Akeela. Take me to him.”
The horsemen looked at each other in confusion, neither striking Lukien nor taking his word. Frustrated, Lukien shouldered past them and continued on.
“Fools. Where is your bloody king?”
“Halt!” ordered the youngest soldier. He sped up behind Lukien, slapping his back with the flat of his sword and sending Lukien sprawling into the street. His jaw hit the paving stones hard, splitting his lip. When he looked up the three Chargers were over him again.
“You might just be stupid enough to be Lukien, traitor,” said the young one. “Get up.”
Lukien rose unsteadily to his feet. The young solider ordered one of his companions to ride ahead to the palace and inform Akeela of their prize. The Charger galloped off while the remaining two took up positions alongside Lukien.
“That way,” ordered the young one. With his sword he pointed down the avenue. Up ahead stood the sparkling palace of Kahan Kadar.
Satisfied, Lukien lurched forward.
Akeela had been in the palace’s throne room when he’d heard of Lukien’s capture. The news had hit him like a hammer. He had been studying Jador through the chamber’s many splendid windows, watching his men secure the city. But when the soldier had burst in with his story, Akeela had nearly fainted, hurrying to the throne to sit down. A few moments later, Trager had exploded into the chamber. The general was thrilled by the news. A weird giddiness twinkled in his eyes. They would wait for Lukien together, he pronounced. Akeela hadn’t argued with him, for he could barely speak. His mind reeling, he had stayed on the throne until his legs stopped wobbling. Then he crossed to a giant window and looked out over the city, awaiting Lukien. The vast throne room was silent except for the anxious tapping of Trager’s foot. There was no one else in the chamber, and Akeela didn’t bother talking to his general. He knew Trager would never leave him alone with Lukien, and he supposed that was for the best. It might be that Lukien had some trick up his sleeve and was coming to slay him. Or it could be as the soldier had claimed, that Lukien had come simply to speak to him. Akeela pondered the possibilities as he gazed out the window. Lukien might be planning to plead for mercy, if not for himself then for the wretches of Grimhold. If so, Akeela decided he would listen. He hadn’t liked massacring Kadar’s men, just as he hadn’t enjoyed killing the Nithins. But they were all his enemies, he knew, and had stupidly opposed him.
“Why?” he asked himself.
“What’s that?” asked Trager from across the room.
Akeela shook his head. “Nothing. I was talking to myself.”
Trager laughed. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
“Quiet, you fool.”
Trager’s tittering abruptly stopped. Akeela continued staring out the window. It was very large, like everything in the throne room, and gilded with gold. Kadar had spared no expense in building his palace. It was beyond comfortable, and Akeela had relished his short time in it. He had even tested the dead kahan’s bed, a huge and fluffy thing with lots of silk pillows and a soft, downy mattress. Akeela smiled when he thought of it. It hadn’t taken much to occupy the city, not once they’d killed its last defenders. And crucifying them had been a master stroke. As Trager had predicted, the grisly act had kept the rest of the populace in line. After that, taking the palace had been effortless. Disheartened by the loss of their kahan, his servants had put up little fight. Trager and his army had spent the rest of the time resting and preparing plans to march on Grimhold. They had even been torturing townsfolk to find its exact location. So far, no one had given it up. They knew only that it was westward, in the mountains. But they would find it, Akeela knew. And when they did. . . .
Long minutes ticked by. Trager began pacing the throne room impatiently. Akeela remained arrow-straight at the window. There was a dagger in his belt for his own protection, one that he had never drawn in his entire ride south. Now he rested his hand on its pommel, waiting. Like the crucified on their crosses, he didn’t move, not even when he heard footsteps approaching the throne room.
“It’s them,” Trager said excitedly.
Akeela nodded, not taking his eyes from the outdoors. “Bring him in here.”
Trager went to the doors. Akeela could see his reflection in the glass. As the great doors to the throne room parted, in stumbled a man Akeela hardly recognized. Behind him came two guards, who pushed him roughly into the chamber. Trager stepped back, inspecting him. Even in the glass Akeela could see the general’s triumphant grin. The man that was Lukien was barely in the room before Trager’s fist slammed into his stomach. The blow jolted Akeela, but he didn’t move or say a word as Lukien sank with a cry to his knees.
“Is it him?” Akeela asked.
Trager replied, “Yes!”
Akeela didn’t know what to feel. He was both elated and frightened, and still unable to turn away from the window. He said to Trager, “Dismiss your men and close the doors.”
Trager did as ordered, leaving the three of them alone in the throne room. In the glass Akeela saw Lukien struggle to his feet. He stared across the room at Akeela’s back. Trager stood beside him with his arms folded, grinning.
“I can’t believe you’ve come here, Captain,” said Trager acidly. “You’ve saved us all a great deal of trouble.”
“Akeela, look at me,” croaked Lukien. His voice was hoarse. He chanced a step forward. “Akeela—”
Trager struck him again, buckling him. “You don’t address the king, dog!”
“Don’t, Will,” Akeela ordered. “No more.”
Finally he found the courage to turn around. Lukien was before him, tottering to his feet. But he was not the beautiful man Akeela remembered. His hair was rough and filthy, full of sand, and his face was streaked with age and dirt. A patch covered his left eye; the other one was bloodshot. Yet still it was Lukien. Still, after sixteen years, he was unmistakable. When he saw Akeela his lips twisted into what could have been a smile, but his one eye showed his remarkable sadness. For Akeela, the sight of him was heartbreaking.
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