John Marco - The Devil's armour

For the first time since he’d brought the letter into Carlion, Jarrin looked remorseful. ‘Have you read it, my liege?’

‘Of course I have,’ Lorn snapped. Then he remembered that Jarrin probably had not. ‘Go on. Read it yourself if you like.’

‘No,’ said Jarrin. ‘I don’t care to.’

With a flick of a finger Lorn nudged the note closer to Jarrin. ‘She calls me a tyrant. She thinks her reign would be better than mine. I suspect some in the city think that as well.’

‘It’s been hard for the people, my liege,’ replied Jarrin. He was a proud man. It didn’t surprise Lorn that he was rising to the bait. ‘They’ve endured hardships for you. They want only to see an end to things, to have bread again.’

‘Then they can blame Jazana Carr for that!’ In his anger Lorn almost crushed the stem of his goblet. He glanced toward the still sleeping Poppy, lowering his voice with effort. ‘Almost twenty years, Jarrin; do I have to remind everyone of that? It could have been twenty years of peace for us all if not for that ambitious bitch. If the people blame me for this war, then I say let them call me wicked.’ He sat back, brooding over his wine, wanting to smash the goblet against the wall. There had been no way for him to make peace, and no other country had come to aid him. But his people, stupid, mindless sheep, had never seen that. ‘I get blamed for infants dying, for mothers having no milk, for crops withering, for blight of every kind. Is that how they’ll remember me?’

‘They will welcome an end to war when it comes,’ said Jarrin.

‘They will celebrate my death.’

‘No, my liege.’

‘No, because I will not let them.’ Lorn smiled sharply at his captain. ‘I will not die, Jarrin. Not tonight.’

Again the silence rose between them. Lorn watched Jarrin’s expression. The moment stretched like molasses. And then he saw it, just for a moment, just a hint, and he knew that he was right about his trusted aide. Before the hint could flee, he seized it.

‘How much did she buy you for?’

Jarrin knew in an instant he’d been discovered. His hand shot toward his dagger, but Lorn was ready, grasping the table and tossing it over, smashing it against Jarrin like a weapon. The decanter and goblets flew through the air as Jarrin tumbled backward, his armour unbalancing him. Quickly Lorn released his own blade, a narrow stiletto pinned beneath his cape. The weapon leaped forward as Lorn pursued Jarrin over the table, landing on him like a jaguar. Jarrin’s head collided with the floor, his arms flailing uselessly. Lorn dropped his weight down upon his quarry, buckling Jarrin’s breastplate and knocking the air from his lungs. Clasping his fists together he hammered Jarrin’s jaw, snapping it. The young captain wailed in pain. Too slow to react, his eyes widened horribly as he felt Lorn’s stiletto at his throat.

‘I know she paid you,’ panted Lorn. He was a big man and easily held down the stunned Jarrin, straddling his midsection while the stiletto hovered threateningly. With one push he could puncture the gorget. ‘How much I wanted to believe you hadn’t betrayed me,’ Lorn hissed. ‘But you’re like Rihards and the others; you love only money.’

Jarrin tried to speak, but his fractured jaw garbled his words. ‘ Butcher! ’ came the cry, spit out with blood and saliva. Lorn lifted Jarrin’s bald head and slammed it into the stone floor. Jarrin’s eyes fluttered wildly. Seeing his captain still awake, Lorn roared and hammered a fist into his temple. The stiletto’s pommel broke bone and skin; Jarrin drifted into unconsciousness.

Lorn leaned back, exhausted. He closed his eyes and caught his breath, straddling his near-dead captain. Poppy was crying. Inadvertently they had struck her crib, knocking it aside. Lorn’s eyes shot to the door. He had left strict orders not to be disturbed, but Lariza was like a second mother to the child and always ignored Lorn’s gruff commands. Hurriedly he rose and went to the door, opening it. Not surprisingly he saw the nursemaid coming down the hall. The young woman stopped when she saw the king.

‘I heard the child, my lord,’ she said, trying to look past him. ‘Is she all right?’

‘She’s fine.’ Lorn hardened his expression. ‘And I knew you’d be on your way. What did I tell you, woman? I’m not to be disturbed.’

‘Yes, my lord, but-’

‘Go!’ ordered Lorn. ‘I’m with Captain Jarrin.’

‘Then let me look after Poppy. .’

‘Away, woman!’ barked Lorn, pointing down the hall. ‘Now.’

Swallowing her anger, Lariza spun and huffed down the hallway, her skirt billowing behind her. Lorn cursed under his breath and closed the door. Poppy was still crying in her crib. Lorn ignored her, going straight to the unconscious Jarrin. Stupidly, he had left his stiletto on the floor beside him. He picked it up, then noticed Jarrin’s own dagger thrown across the floor. Its blade was flat, like a carving knife, a better tool for the work at hand. Lorn picked it up, tested its edge with his thumb, and decided it was perfect.

Knowing there was no turning back, he bent over Jarrin and pried open his mouth. Inside was his unmoving tongue. Lorn took the tongue in his left hand and pulled. With his right he worked the dagger, slicing off the tongue like bacon. Blood sluiced from Jarrin’s mouth. Amazingly, he did not awaken. He was a dead man anyway, Lorn knew, and sat back with satisfaction, the pink muscle from Jarrin’s mouth bloody in his palm.

Time was his enemy. Lorn rose and walked across the chamber to his dressing area, where a basin of water stood below a mirror. A small bale of white cloth rested on the dressing table. Carefully Lorn wrapped Jarrin’s tongue in some of the cloth, then placed it on the table. He dipped the bloody dagger into the basin of water, rinsing off the gore, then went to work on himself, carefully shaving his head, shedding salt-and-pepper hair at his feet. After a few minutes he was done and stared at his bald reflection in the wavy mirror. His eyes were nearly the same colour as Jarrin’s, he noted with satisfaction.

While his daughter Poppy continued to cry, King Lorn the Wicked shook the blade in the water once more, then began shaving his beard.

At the foot of a small, dentate mountain range, Duke Rihards of Rolga waited impatiently atop his armoured horse, eager for a sign of success. Around him were a handful of his loyal knights, men of his own country who had accompanied him from Rolga to lead the assault on Carlion. He had come with an impressive force of a thousand men, a mix of Rolgans and mercenaries from Jazana Carr’s conquered territories, men who were well paid for their loyalty to the Diamond Queen. After years of resistance, Duke Rihards had finally joined the ranks of Jazana Carr’s whores. He was not proud of himself. A man of few friends, the duke had counted King Lorn among them, but war and Jazana Carr’s wealth had conspired to change that. The duke looked out across the craggy plain toward Carlion, the fortress lit with torchlight as its defenders awaited their fate. According to Jarrin there were still two hundred men in the garrison. Rihards could barely believe King Lorn the Wicked had held the loyalty of so many in the face of certain death. But he had a strange and ruthless glamour. Rihards smiled a little. A breeze blew across the plain, making him shiver. In the moonlight his men looked ghostly, their polished armour dully gleaming. Behind him in the foothills, his mercenary force laughed and ate and sharpened their pikes, sure of the coming victory. They were northerners mostly, from places even more north than Rolga, from the Bleak Territories where Jazana Carr was most powerful. Duke Rihards suppressed a sigh as he spied Carlion, looking so forlorn in the clouded night. All across Norvor Jazana Carr’s forces were tightening the noose. In Vicvar and Poolv, the dukes of those southern cities were gasping their last. Rihards himself could have easily been among them, and he wondered now if he should have stayed loyal and died with honour like those brave fools.