John Marco - The Devil's armour

‘Fate no!’ cried Nevins, watching Murdon’s head split open, the axe-men storming over his fallen body.

Unstoppable , thought Nevins. The wall of Norvan mercenaries continued to rise up the road, gathering speed no matter how many barriers he threw in their way. With no choice but to fight on, Nevins raced for the yard to make his last stand.

Rodrik Varl was surprised it had taken all morning to secure the road, but at last it was done. As his mercenaries pushed the remains of the Liirians into the yards around the library, Varl and the men around him rode to the front of the battle. An uneasy quiet had settled over the hill as the Liirians dug into their positions around the broken walls of the library. Varl’s men were thick in the road, almost choking it in their own zeal to crest the hill. Behind them, a great battering ram was being dragged slowly up the winding avenue, large enough to splinter the doors of the place once the way was cleared. Rase and a handful of his men greeted Varl as he finally reached the hilltop. The Liirian arrows from the library had temporarily stopped.

‘Roddy, it’s ours,’ Rase called from horseback, waving his comrade closer.

Varl rode to him, keeping a careful eye on the library. The top of the hill was a vast plain with grounds much larger than Varl had anticipated. Though they had crested the road, the real work could now begin. It would be dirty work to dig out the defenders, he knew, with all the unknown dangers of the huge library itself.

‘Call a halt to the catapults,’ Varl said to one of his men. ‘Cease fire.’

The man, named Five-Finger Frain because he only had one hand, had already anticipated the order. He rode back down the hill toward the catapults, relaying Varl’s command.

‘Rase, keep your men back,’ said Varl.

Rase, too, already knew what to do. He called to his men to hold their positions. All at once the fighting stopped. The Liirians in the yard, some on horseback, many waiting behind rocks and fallen parts of the wall, stared out across the field. One man — an officer by the looks of him, sat atop a filthy horse at the forefront of the broken army. He glared contemptuously at the mercenaries as he waited for their move.

‘You there,’ Varl called to him, riding forward. ‘Do you speak for these men?’

The question baffled the officer, who looked around hesitantly, no doubt waiting for some Norvan trick. Chancing an arrow in the chest, Varl rode out from the safety of his men, until only fifty yards separated him from the Liirians.

‘I’m Rodrik Varl, commander of this army,’ he declared. ‘I offer you surrender.’

The officer stared at him in disbelief. Behind him a Liirian shouted an obscenity at the Norvans. The officer held up a hand to silence his men.

‘I’m Major Nevins,’ he said. ‘I’m in command here. What is this surrender you offer?’

‘Your lives spared, your territory ours,’ replied Varl. ‘It’s over, Major. You cannot win and you know it. In an hour you will certainly be dead. In twice that time so might everyone else.’

‘You’re a boaster, Norvan,’ sneered Nevins. ‘We are prepared to fight.’

‘Yes, I’m sure that’s so,’ said Varl. ‘But why die terribly when you can live? This library is ours, Major. Your city is ours. You are a Liirian, a man of the Fate? Then see the truth — the Fate has made this so, and you cannot change it.’

Nevins’ face went from defiant to ashen. There was no disputing Varl’s words, and both men knew it.

‘Look out there,’ said Varl, pointing to the city below. ‘That army is not this army. This army is mine. It follows my orders, but I have no sway over the army now taking your city or the monster that leads it. And we do not have all day for this, Major. Surrender now, and we’ll grant you safe passage off this hill, all of you, before Baron Glass can stop you.’

The impossibility of the offer showed on Nevins’ troubled face. ‘You would do this? Defy orders?’

‘I have no love for that madman,’ said Varl. This time he gestured to Glass’ far-away command post. ‘Even now he watches us from his hillside. Your time is short, Major.’

The men behind Nevins began coming out from their hiding places. A pair of lieutenants rode up beside him. All of them watched the major desperately.

‘There are women and children here, Norvan,’ he said. ‘What promise do you make us that they will be unharmed?’

‘You have my word, and that should be good enough for any man.’

‘Your word is useless to me,’ said Nevins.

‘Maybe, but it’s all any of us have. I could kill you right now, Major. Consider that at least.’ Varl threw his sword down into the dirt between them. ‘Trust me.’

Baron Glass spent the hours of morning hearing reports from his messengers and remaining as detached as possible from the battle unfolding below. Lord Demortris had made good progress and his Norvan army had taken the main avenue of Koth, pushing the fighting into side streets. According to their scouts, Kaj and his Crusaders had taken a good bit of the eastern city, too, forcing Breck’s commander, a man named Andri, into house-to-house fighting. In some places, Thorin could see plumes of smoke rising from the city. Around Lionkeep a leaping fire raged, spouting blackness into the air. Chancellery Square had become a battleground too, its once proud parade field flooded now with Vicvarmen and handfuls of Royal Chargers. At the library, Rodrik Varl’s men had taken the road. Messengers continued to return from Library Hill with encouraging reports, claiming the Liirians had engaged them first but that the battle had quickly turned in their favour.

Bored with sitting atop his horse, Baron Glass had removed his helmet to stand beneath a tree where he could receive the constant flow of scouts and confer with his aides. They were in no danger at all on the hillside, surrounded by bodyguards and a safe distance from the fighting below.

But by the time noon came, Baron Glass had endured enough of the tedium. Sure that Koth’s main avenue was secure and eager to feed the demanding Kahldris, he dismissed his messengers and told his aides to make ready to ride. Hearing his orders, Kahldris flared to life within him. The armour seared Thorin’s flesh. He felt his head rush with staggering energy.

‘Baron Glass, what is it?’ queried his aide Colonel Thayus, noticing his distress.

Thorin steadied himself. On his body, the armour was coming to life again. Thayus and the others backed away at the sight, shocked by the animation in the armour’s many designs.

‘It’s all right,’ said Thorin. ‘Do not fear it. It is the magic of the armour making me strong.’

Along his breastplate and vambraces and pauldrons and skirt, the tiny figures of the armour came magically to life, moving like spirits over the metal. Their movements connected Thorin to the death world, the world of Kahldris. He suddenly felt indestructible. The Devil’s Armour glowed.

He should have ridden a dragon into battle, but he had only a horse. Baron Glass fixed his helmet on his head once again and saddled his stallion, then rode down the hillside to join the bloody combat.

Sweat and blood darkened Lukien’s vision as he battled through the street. For hours he had tried to hold the main avenue, but he had been pushed back into a side street by the relentless onslaught of Norvans. A company of Royal Chargers had joined him in the street, holding back the Vicvarmen as they swarmed through the nearby houses. Armed with axes and maces, the infantrymen stalked like wolves against the better trained Chargers, outnumbering and surrounding them. One by one, Lukien had watched his comrades fall. He could not guess at their losses. A chaotic haze had fallen over the city, blanketing it with noise and suffocating smoke.