John Marco - The Devil's armour

‘Great Fate …’

‘I am King Lorn of Norvor,’ said Lorn. He stalked a step closer to the knight, sword in hand. ‘And you are the servant of a traitor.’

His stupor broken, the knight raised his defence at once, going for his sword and springing forward. Lorn hadn’t expected his speed but dodged the attack easily, sprinting aside and bringing his own blade around. The weapon caught the knight in the back, sending him sprawling. Lorn was on him in an instant, slamming his booted foot into the knight’s back before he could rise. The man let out a cry. Again he tried to regain his footing, and again Lorn kicked him mercilessly, driving his boot into his midsection with a howl. The sword sprawled from the knight’s grip. Desperately he clawed the ground to escape. Lorn prowled after him.

‘How quick you were to bring my child to the bitch-queen,’ he hissed. ‘My daughter!’

He punctuated daughter with another savage kick, this one hard enough to roll the knight over. The man looked up through the darkness, breathing hard and bringing up his hands to plea.

‘Enough!’ he shouted. ‘I had nothing to do with it! I swear, I was just following orders.’

Lorn put the point of his blade to the man’s gorget. ‘I have no interest in your orders, dog. And I have no mercy.’

He pushed the point of his sword through the gorget, puncturing the knight’s throat and running through to the other side. Pinned there, the man gave a gurgling convulsion, his legs kicking wildly as his life fled away. Lorn watched dispassionately, then pulled free his sword. The knight’s eyes bulged horribly. His hands went to his neck. He tried to rise but failed. A minute later, he was dead.

Lorn sheathed his sword. He went to the side of the road where he’d left his daughter, lifting her and bringing her to the little circle of rocks that had been made. There he found the flint, struck it once to test it, then gathered the sticks the man he’d just killed had dropped. It took some time to make the fire, but within several minutes he had it going. He made sure Poppy was close enough to feel its warmth. She would need food, and very soon. But right now he desperately needed to rest, just for a little while.

King Lorn the Wicked looked up into the sky of Norvor, the country he had tried to rule for years. The clouds were clearing and he could see stars. The heavens seemed to fall on him.

‘Poppy, we have so far to go,’ he murmured, though he was sure the girl could not hear him.

They weren’t safe yet. They wouldn’t be until they were out of Norvor, away from Jazana Carr. But at least he had saved his daughter, and for that he was glad.

Duke Rihards, content in King Lorn’s death, slept soundly in the camp of his army. He had returned to his own pavilion guarded by a slew of his personal knights of Rolga, and awoke refreshed and prepared for battle. He was sure that Castle Carlion would fall easily, and now that the king’s daughter had been safely spirited to Jazana Carr he could give the order. He did so at dawn without hesitation.

All at once his army began to move, awakening like a leviathan from the foothills. Cavalry took to their horses and readied to charge, lancers and infantry got in formation, beasts of burden wheeled war machines forward, archers stuffed their quivers and stretched their bow hands, the battering ram squeaked to life on its oiled wheels, and the mismatched army of mercenaries moved out, all under the command of Duke Rihards. They had come from all corners of Norvor to join Jazana Carr’s crusade, the love of gold and diamonds making them loyal. Duke Rihards himself had dressed for the occasion. Like his heralds and standard bearer, he wore the traditional armour of a Rolgan warrior, green and gold armour with the helmet of a wolf, the same symbol emblazoned on their flag. As the duke rode out under his standard, he could sense the ease of the battle at hand. Jarrin had put the garrison’s strength at barely two hundred. A decent number, to be sure, and they had Carlion’s high walls to protect them. But fall they would under greater numbers, and might even surrender now that their king was gone.

A few hundred yards from the castle, Rihards stopped. He had come to a small swell in the land from which he could easily see the battlefield, and so decided to command from this spot. His many lieutenants and aides guarded him, some dismounting, others passing along the order to surround Carlion. The army moved slowly into position, fanning out and gradually flanking the fortress. The sky was clear by Norvan standards, the air crisp and cool. Rihards talked among his aides, casually assessing the situation. First, he would give the loyalists a chance to surrender. With their king dead, they might welcome a chance to join Jazana Carr’s new regime. If that failed, he decided, they would swarm the castle, eventually bringing up the ram to splinter Carlion’s stout gate.

The order was given, and Rihards’ aides went to work, relaying orders like the polished professionals they were. In less than an hour all his troops were in position. The heralds rode out with the duke’s terms, terms that Rihards felt were exceedingly generous. It surprised him when they were summarily refused.

‘Then they will die,’ said Rihards. He sighed, unhappy he would have to spend so much blood and treasure on Carlion. He turned to his aide Lord Gondoir, a close confidant like Glane and Fredris. ‘Bring it down, Gondoir,’ he said. ‘By the end of the day I want to be inside, drinking Lorn’s wines.’

Duke Rihards got his wish. By noon the exhausted defenders had given Carlion their best and were too weak to resist the battering ram or the army of mercenaries that swarmed in to slay them. Upon the fall of the gate Rihards declared that the booty of the castle was to be collected, though there was little of it left in Carlion. Whatever spoils they could find would be evenly distributed. He had one strict rule, though — the king’s own quarters were not to be disturbed. Everything else could be taken or destroyed, but nothing in Lorn’s rooms was to be touched.

Remarkably, his order was obeyed, and by early evening Rihards himself was able to enter the fortress. He trotted in like a hero, entering a courtyard blackened with smoke and lined with prisoners, the ground littered with dead defenders. His aide Gondoir was with him as they entered. A mercenary sergeant and his men had quartered off a section of the yard for prisoners, stripping them of all their weapons. Some were in chains, others milled about aimlessly under the threat of Rolgan arrows. As the prisoners watched the duke enter their keep, their eyes betrayed their misery. And because the duke wasn’t known for his mercy, they rightfully feared their fates. As he rode past them — about a hundred men, he supposed — he wondered if he should execute them or wait for Jazana Carr. The women, he knew, would have to be spared. Jazana Carr did not tolerate rape.

‘Gondoir, see to these fires,’ ordered Rihards. ‘And get a detail together to gather the bodies. The stench is overwhelming.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied his aide, who then rode off with a group of knights.

Rihards continued into the yard, stopping at last when he came to the keep and handed off his mount to one of his men. At once he recognised Colonel Fredris, who had commanded the assault. The colonel looked grave as he approached, bowing to the duke.

‘My lord, the castle is secured. We’ve taken prisoners, as you’ve seen. I’ve already sent a company into the city to tell them what’s happened, and that you’re in command now.’

‘That’s all very good news, Colonel,’ said Rihards. ‘So why the long face?’

Colonel Fredris was hesitant. ‘My lord, we’ve secured King Lorn’s private chambers as well. Nothing was disturbed, but we’ve found something. I think you should see for yourself.’