John Marco - The Devil's armour

Was that true? Lukien wondered. Amaraz had told him he would find the means to defeat the armour. But when? He was out of time. All he could do was trust the amulet.

‘I will not yield, Thorin,’ he declared, calling on the amulet to strengthen his exhausted body. ‘The greatest of all Akari is with me. He will not let you best me, and I will not let you through.’

‘Please, Lukien. You will not last against me, and I have no wish to harm you.’

‘Gods, then if there is humanity left in you leave here, Thorin! Turn back and fight the thing that has you!’

A metallic sigh issued from the helmet. ‘You do not understand. Be on your way. Ride past me now and never come back. I grant you your life — take it, please.’

There was still a vestige of Thorin left inside the armour. Lukien could hear it in his plea. Yet it remained unmoved by every bit of logic, and Lukien realised there was no way left to reach it. Praying silently to Amaraz, he steeled himself for combat.

‘You have made me do this, Thorin,’ he said. He feared his voice would break with tears. ‘At least know that before one of us dies.’

‘I will not die, Lukien. I will never die.’ At last Thorin drew his enormous Akari sword from its sheath. ‘But if you insist on testing your amulet, then come and have your lesson.’

Lukien prepared himself as Baron Glass trotted forward, barking at his men not to interfere. Beneath him, Lukien’s tired horse clopped at the earth, readying for one more charge. Lukien summoned the last of his strength, concentrating on the warm energy of the amulet. Then, when he knew the time had come, he punched his heels into the flanks of his horse and bolted forward.

Sword in hand, he levelled the weapon toward Thorin, spotting openings everywhere. Thorin’s almost casual stance told Lukien just how unprepared the old man was — he had not fought in years. His horse almost pranced forward in meeting Lukien’s attack, not even trying to dodge or gain speed. As Lukien neared, he saw Thorin’s sword come up slowly to block his blade. Lukien chose his opening, ducked low on his charging steed, and attacked.

A wall of iron struck him dumb. He was tumbling suddenly, careening off his horse from Thorin’s unseen blow. A numbing cold ran up his sword arm — then his armoured body hit the earth. Shocked and in pain, he struggled to lift himself, shaking the fog from his brain. His horse had kept going, but he had fallen backwards. Thorin, still on horseback, circled menacingly around him.

‘You see? This is no tournament, Lukien.’

Lukien scrambled for his sword, finding it some feet away. Thorin made no move to stop him. As the air returned to his lungs, Lukien grabbed his weapon and staggered to his feet. His arm ached from the blow he had dealt, yet Thorin’s armour seemed unscathed. Remarkably, Thorin stopped his horse from circling and climbed down from the black beast, shooing it away. The surprising gesture seemed wholly unlike the devilish face staring from the helmet.

‘Thorin,’ Lukien gasped, ‘if you’re in there, help me.’

He lunged forward, seizing the surprise, slashing his sword in a wide arc and catching Thorin easily. No parry came to block the blade, yet Lukien’s weapons slid effortlessly off the armour, sending a sharp jolt of pain up Lukien’s arm. Before Lukien could spin away, Thorin brought his own sword up, smashing it broadside into Lukien’s chest. The impact of it buckled the bronze armour, making Lukien reel. Air rushed out of his chest. Choking, he fell back, barely able to lift his sword before a second blow came, paralysing his shoulder. Lukien screamed at the horrible pain. Dashed to his knees, he looked up at Thorin in disbelief.

The dark shadow of the Devil’s Armour fell across his face as Thorin drew near. A gauntleted fist swung round to strike his jaw and knock off his helmet. Lukien’s head exploded with pain as once again he was propelled like a rag doll into the dirt. For a moment he lay there, staring skyward, blood dripping into his one good eye. He felt his fingers coil over his sword, but his hand was useless suddenly. All he knew was agony.

‘Amaraz,’ he pleaded. ‘Help me. .’

Upon his chest the Eye of God burned a dangerous crimson, pumping new life into his shattered body. Somehow Lukien managed to rise. As he wobbled to his feet, Thorin shook his head regrettably.

‘A wise man would stay down, Lukien,’ he said. ‘Please, do not follow me.’

Amazingly, Thorin turned his back and began to walk away. Seeing his last chance slipping fast, Lukien let out a furious howl and raised his sword, intent on burying the blade in Thorin’s back. In a move impossible for a mere man, Thorin spun and caught the sword in his gauntlet. Yanking it free, he grabbed hold of Lukien’s breastplate and lifted him with one arm off the ground. His other hand shattered the sword like an eggshell.

‘Will you not learn?’ he bellowed, shaking Lukien violently. ‘I have asked you to leave me! I have offered you your life! Must I take it instead?’

Lukien’s blackened eye rolled open contemptuously. ‘He takes you to hell, Thorin. .’

The words brought thunder to Thorin’s mask. Again he slammed his fist against Lukien’s face, smashing his lips and sending blood spurting. The black energy of the armour raced through Lukien’s body like an icy wind, rattling his bones and smothering the warm light of the amulet. Lukien cried out as Thorin relentlessly shook him. Finally, with both fists on his bronze armour, Thorin lifted Lukien over his head and slammed him into the earth. Every nerve in Lukien’s body screamed.

And then came darkness.

Thorin stood over Lukien, watching the blood trickle from his many scars. His swollen face lay to one side in the dirt, his one eye closed, his body unmoving. A twisted arm lay beneath him, unnaturally crumpled. Filth covered his once grand armour. A wind blew over the field, stirring his fine hair.

‘Lukien?’

There was no answer, nor did Thorin expect one. Behind him, the noise from the embattled city continued, but Thorin was lost to it, anguished by the sight of his fallen friend. He searched his mind for Kahldris but could not feel the demon’s touch. Respectfully, Kahldris had backed away. Thorin took off his helmet. Standing over Lukien, he began to weep.

It made no sense to him that Lukien had not seen the truth, when the truth was so plain. He could have easily rode on, a free man, away from Koth and back to Grimhold, but he had stupidly chosen to fight.

‘And now this,’ choked Thorin. He wanted to touch Lukien, to kneel down and pray over him, but the Great Fate was a cruel deity and had already touched Lukien with its omniscient hand.

‘Baron Glass?’ asked Thayus, coming forward. The colonel looked at Lukien. ‘What shall we do with him?’

‘Leave him,’ said Thorin.

‘He was your friend, Baron. We can bury him if you wish it.’

‘Leave him,’ Thorin flared, turning on his aides. ‘None of you touch him! You will leave him here, right where he lies!’

Colonel Thayus grimaced at the order. ‘You leave him to rot, then.’

‘I leave him in the hands of the Fate,’ retorted Thorin. ‘Follow my orders and leave him untouched. We will not be this way again.’

Turning away from Lukien, Thorin found his horse and mounted. Then, without looking back, he resumed his ride toward the city.

Lukien floated.

Below him lay his body, prone in the dirt, his limbs askew and broken, his armour soaked with blood. His head ached — but he had the sensation of no longer being alive. He looked around for Thorin but could not find him; the baron and his army had vanished. Gone too was the noise. Lukien could hear nothing but the singing of birds and the rustle of squirrels in trees.