John Marco - The Devil's armour

Fredris was a cautious man, so Rihards didn’t push him further. He ordered the colonel to escort him to Lorn’s chambers, though he knew the way well. The lack of emotion on Fredris’ face alarmed the duke at once; he had expected Fredris to be overjoyed at the ease of their victory. Together they made their way through Lorn’s home, now a shadow of its glory days. Lorn had long ago sold off the tapestries and other artwork in an effort to pay for the war. His many campaigns against Jazana had bankrupted him and his elaborate home. But Rihards knew of one prize Lorn would have never parted with, and as he made his way to the king’s former chambers he hoped they had not been ransacked and that the ring was still safe. A handful of his fellow Rolgans bowed to the duke as he passed them, knights who were rounding up the last of the women and children, all of whom looked at Rihards scornfully. When at last they reached the wing where King Lorn had lived and slept and plotted his many schemes, Rihards paused. There were two knights at the wide wooden door, which was closed. They had lit the torches in the hall. Smokey sunlight poured through the windows carved into the bare stone walls.

‘So?’ Rihards asked his colonel. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘I posted guards because I didn’t want anyone else to see what was found,’ Fredris explained. ‘My lord, I think you should prepare yourself.’

Rihards was too anxious to wait for more information. He went to the door immediately and pushed it open, entering the familiar chamber. Like the hallway, the room was well lit. The duke’s eyes went immediately to the toppled table and giant bloodstain, which had dried and curdled.

‘Lords of hell …’ Astonished, he drifted deeper into the room. ‘What happened here?’

‘A struggle,’ Fredris surmised. The soldier followed his master toward the grisly scene. ‘This isn’t all, my lord. There’s something in the dressing chamber you should see.’

Rihards knew exactly where the dressing chamber was, and made a quick beeline there. What he saw on the floor shocked and sickened him.

‘Fate above. . Is that Lorn?’

The decapitated, naked body lay prone on the floor, its flesh a ghastly white from being drained of blood.

‘I don’t know who it is, my lord,’ said Fredris. ‘It could be Lorn. But why would Jarrin do that to him?’

‘Why indeed?’ puzzled Rihards. He leaned over the body. Thankfully, he’d never seen Lorn naked, but the flesh looked too young to be his, even in its rigored condition. He knew King Lorn the Wicked too well to not guess what had happened.

‘Fredris, wait outside for me.’

‘Duke Rihards?’

‘Go!’

Fredris did so at once, leaving Rihards in the gory dressing chamber. The duke closed his eyes, seething at having been deceived. Jarrin hadn’t killed Lorn, and he hadn’t stolen his daughter either. He cursed himself for being so stupid.

‘I underestimated you, my friend,’ he muttered. ‘You have more lives than a magic cat.’

He straightened. Sure that he’d been expertly deceived, he nevertheless went from the dressing chamber to the bedchamber, where he knew Lorn kept his most valued possession hidden, his ring of kingship. To his unpleasant surprise, he saw the chest waiting for him on the chamber’s floor, not three paces from the threshold. It wasn’t hidden. It had been left for him to find. Rihards knew it wouldn’t be locked. He hesitated for a moment, guessing at the chest’s contents and dreading it. Then, his resolve cresting, he went to the iron box and threw its latches. Angrily, he tossed open its lid. Jarrin’s severed head stared back at him, jeering.

Rihards leaned back on his haunches. Jarrin’s eyes were open wide, as was his mouth. A nail had been driven through his forehead, a square of paper thrust onto it.

‘You sick maniac,’ Rihards whispered. Not surprisingly, the ring was gone. But the square of paper beckoned him. He looked closer and read what it said, boldly written in Lorn’s unmistakable handwriting:

Rihards- The mouth has what you want .

‘The mouth?’ The idea disgusted Rihards. Jarrin’s mouth was slightly open, coated with dried blood from the extraction of his tongue. Had Lorn actually left the ring inside it? He doubted it, sure that another nasty surprise awaited him. But Lorn’s note had gotten the best of him, and he simply could not leave it. Carefully he pried open the slack jaw, peering inside. At once he saw the stump of the severed tongue, but little else. Cursing the darkness, he reached further into the cavity — and felt a stabbing pain.

‘Mother whore!’

He jerked back his hand. Sticking deeply from between two fingers was a pin.

‘Oh, heaven,’ he groaned. Staring dumbly at the pin, the enormity of his mistake struck him. Already his hand was growing numb. ‘Oh, no, no …’

Duke Rihards looked around, desperately stumbling to his feet. He saw the doorway and went through it, almost tripping over Jarrin’s corpse as he raced for help.

‘Fredris!’

The door to the main chamber flew open and Fredris and his knights entered. When they saw their duke clutching his outstretched hand they stared in confusion.

‘My lord, what is it?’ asked Fredris. The colonel hurried closer, but Rihards could barely see him.

‘I am poisoned!’ he shrieked. His vision quickly blurred. The ice in his hand raced up his arm. ‘I can’t breathe, Fredris. . help me !’

Horrified, Fredris and his fellows watched as Rihards crumpled to his knees, gasping. Rihards felt the noose of poison strangling him, closing off his windpipe with burning pain. Blindness overtook him just before his eyes rolled into his head. He could barely hear his own screams as his body toppled and shook with convulsions.

Oddly, his mind’s eye pictured Lorn quite clearly as he died, flashing on a fond memory. They were in a field, riding together. It was many peaceful years ago, before Jazana Carr threatened them. Back when they were friends.

The hills of Harn lay in the south of Norvor, north of Carlion but many days’ ride from the Bleak Territories and Hanging Man, the fortress of Jazana Carr. Because the hills were so desolate, they reminded the Diamond Queen of home. Jazana Carr missed home. She missed the many comforts of her fortress on the river and the familiar landscape which greeted her each morning, the sun rising over her empire while her many servants cooked the morning meal. Because she was so wealthy she was able to indulge her every pleasure, except when she was on the road. Today, it was unseasonable in Harn. Outside her grand pavilion late summer winds howled through the canyons, clawing at her army of mercenaries as they huddled around campfires. Jazana Carr herself was spared the wind. The sweet water of her bath was exquisitely warm. Naked, she leaned back in the copper tub and closed her eyes, letting a servant massage her neck and shoulders. The music of a lute serenaded her as another servant plied his instrument, relaxing his mistress with a soft lullaby. Silk and brightly coloured pillows decorated the floor, strewn across the expensive Ganjeese carpets. Jazana Carr and her army had been camped in Harn for many days and her nerves were frazzled from the tedium. Her generals had brought her good news, yet still she fretted. She was queen now, and wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. After years of battling Lorn, it seemed impossible that her struggle was over. Yet that was the word out of Carlion — the city had fallen. Like Vicvar and Poolv.

Norvor is mine . She considered this as her man massaged oil into her neck muscles. Now what do I do with it?