John Marco - The Devil's armour

Thorin squinted through the slits of his helmet, surprised by what he was seeing. If he listened very carefully, he could hear the slightest noise coming from the library.

‘Baron Glass,’ said Thayus casually, ‘did you give orders for the catapults to fire?’

‘I most certainly did not,’ grumbled Thorin. For a moment he wondered what had happened. ‘They’ve begun their attack?’ His blood began to boil. ‘Why?’

The colonel gave a pragmatic shrug. ‘No choice probably. The Liirians must have attacked first. We did leave them vulnerable.’

‘Vulnerable? There are a thousand men surrounding the library!’

‘A good strategy, though,’ Thayus surmised. ‘They mean to distract us.’

Baron Glass clenched the reins of his black horse. ‘Then they will fail, Thayus. I will not be distracted, and they will be slaughtered. This morning or tomorrow; it makes no difference.’

Inside, though, Baron Glass began to seethe. Kahldris appeared instantly in his mind, whispering warnings about the library and the thinking machine within. Thorin violently shook his head, trying to rid himself of the demon, but Kahldris clawed his way deeper into his mind, insisting he be heard.

The machine must not be harmed .

‘The machine will not be harmed!’ hissed Thorin.

Colonel Thayus flicked a troubled gaze at him. ‘Baron Glass?’

‘Hold your post, Colonel,’ Thorin snapped.

He was confident the battle in the city would not take overly long. If need be, he would ride into Koth himself.

By the time the Norvans had breached the gate, Lukien was already upon them.

He had galloped ahead of Breck and Aric and all the others, leading the charge against the invaders with his broadsword swinging overhead and his bronze armour gleaming in the sunlight. Beneath his breastplate, the Eye of God flared with furious power. Lukien could feel the strength of Amaraz flood his body, making his muscles and sinews burn with vigour. As he tucked himself low on his horse, he chose his first target. A chariot had broken past the mass at the gate and was galloping madly toward the Liirians. A shower of arrows miraculously missed the war machine as it dodged the shafts flying through the sky. The spearmen in the chariot drew back their long weapons, homing in on Lukien as he raced toward them. Lukien counted the seconds, timing his attack. Four brawny stallions snorted closer. Behind him, Lukien heard Breck’s call, warning him off. Ignoring his friend, Lukien fixed his one eye on the chariot driver.

At the moment when they should have collided, Lukien turned his horse hard left, barely dodging the four beasts and scraping the armour of his own horse against the chariot’s side. The spearmen, muddled by his closeness, fumbled with their weapons for a better shot. Lukien’s blade was already cutting the air effortlessly, racing for the driver’s neck. With no time to duck, the driver’s head popped cleanly off his shoulders, rolling backward through the air as the chariot went by.

Lukien whirled his horse around. Now leaderless, the horses carried the chariot to Breck, whose sword danced past the confused spearmen. The team whinnied, rearing back, spilling the spearmen into the streets. With no time to pursue them, Lukien turned against the tide of Rolgans. He could see the Rolgan leader now, fighting his way into the city. Royal Chargers poured onto the field. Overhead the blast from Aliston’s archers continued to pepper the Norvans beyond the gate. Crossbowmen raced forward, diving to the ground to fire their weapons. Lukien threaded through the melee, seizing on a mass of Rolgans riding toward him. They had seen his bronze armour and the way he’d dispatched the chariot.

‘Come, then, damned ones!’ he challenged, shaking his sword.

He punched the sides of his stallion and barrelled forward, levelling his weapon. From bravado to terrified, the faces of the Rolgans drained. Each raised a defence, one by one shattering easily under Lukien’s barrage. He could feel the glamour of the amulet on him, pumping his body with blood. His skin burning, he fell upon the first horseman, cracking open his breastplate and pulling out his blade in a fiery stream of scarlet. The remaining Rolgans quickly flanked him, hacking to reach him with their swords. Lukien brought up his blade, driving it through the chin of the nearest man. When next he pulled his sword free, the man’s face exploded. A rain of blood showered his armour as Lukien turned on the final horseman. The big man with an axe cried out in fury. The weapon raced forward. Lukien’s blade came up to face it, catching its shaft. As the blades slid together, Lukien pressed against his sword and leered at his foe.

‘Pray now, Rolgan,’ he sneered, ‘for in a moment you’ll be dead!’

Contemptuous spit ran down the Rolgan’s cheek as he muscled Lukien backward. The amulet burned on Lukien’s chest. Bolstered by its frightful magic, Lukien freed his sword and swung it hard, slicing into the soldier’s neck. The Rolgan howled and dropped his axe. As the weapon tumbled down Lukien’s sword whistled again, silencing the big man’s screams.

All around, chaos reigned. Lukien drew back to survey the field. Breck was nowhere to be seen, lost somewhere in the melee. Suddenly all the Chargers who had been his friends became little more than faceless heroes, fighting and dying in droves. Lukien raised his sword to rally the men, knowing their cause was hopeless.

‘For Liiria!’ he cried. ‘For your freedom, men, join me!’

His armoured horse bucking beneath him, Lukien let the red glare of the amulet light his furious face. Chariots thundered past, their men tossing javelins through the air like lightning bolts. Suddenly encircled, Lukien laughed insanely.

‘Fight me, pigs! I am cursed to live forever! I am the bane of your lives!’

Fixing his glare on the nearest chariot, Lukien raced after it, determined to gut its three riders.

Major Nevins had sent all his horsemen into battle on the hill, but knew now it wouldn’t be enough. He hadn’t really expected to hold out until midmorning, and so he considered the rising sun a small victory. But dead men were piling up around him, and Major Nevins realised his time as a soldier was growing short indeed. As he battled on, wiping sweat and blood from his brow as he fought to hold the road, he called hoarsely to his men to regroup near the yard, to confront the spearlike attack of the enemy and quite probably die.

The defenders had started the day with less than six hundred men. Nevins had not taken a count of his dead, but he could tell by the bodies in the road that he had lost at least half of them already. There were still a handful of men in the library itself, including Van who had dug in at the west wing, but the bulk of Nevins’ force was by now slain or exhausted. Overhead, the shots from the catapults continued to hammer the library. They had torn a great rent in the main facade, sending it crumbling down around Nevins and his men. As he stared at the heartbreaking wound in the library, Nevins realised what a folly it had been for them to think they could defend it. Now they were trapped.

‘Fall back!’ he cried, continuing to rally his men. He galloped through the chaos, shouting for Murdon. ‘To the yards, Murdon! Get to the yards!’

Murdon heard his commander’s cries and tried desperately to disengage, but the enemy was everywhere suddenly, flooding against him and his brigade like a tidal wave. If they could make it to the yards. .

But they did not. Nevins watched in misery as a team of Norvan axe-men cut past the perimeter and made for Murdon’s position. Murdon, confused in all the combat, did not see the weapon slicing toward his head.