Angel's Knight (Angelwar Book 3)

by A. J. Grimmelhaus

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  35.

  36.

  37.

  38.

  39.

  40.

  41.

  42.

  43.

  44.

  45.

  46.

  47.

  48.

  49.

  50.

  51.

  52.

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  eBookAd-1

  eBookAd-2

  Angel's Knight

  Copyright © 2014 A.J. Grimmelhaus

  All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be reproduced in any form other than that in which it was purchased and without the written permission of the author.

  Names, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Illustration © Tom Edwards

  TomEdwardsDesign.com

  This e-book edition published October 2017.

  Find out more about the author at: www.WriteHandPath.com

  For Mum and Dad.

  1.

  Tol froze as he heard the familiar hiss of steel being drawn. Stetch was in a perfect position behind his left shoulder; one smooth stroke and his head would fall, tumbling from the docks into the sea.

  Tol didn’t move, waiting for the strike that would end it all. It’s my fault, he told himself. My fault Katarina was taken.

  ‘You going to put that animal out of its misery, or shall we?’ a voice said behind him as he heard heavy footsteps approaching. Tol rose slowly, turning away from the sea and the rapidly dwindling dot carrying Katarina away. Two hard-faced men stood a few feet from Stetch, both holding sharpened staves. One of them glanced at Tol.

  ‘Thought I heard a stuck pig,’ one of them said as a third man shouldered his way between them, beady eyes peering out of a thick black beard that appeared to be trying to swallow its owner.

  ‘Well?’ the first man asked, his eyes darting between Stetch and the sword held loosely in his hand as if he wasn’t sure which was the more dangerous.

  ‘Silence,’ the bearded man said, his voice low but firm. His eyes were fixed on Stetch, and Tol saw that Stetch was likewise staring at the man. The walking beard looked as dishevelled as Kartane when Tol had first met him, but as he and Stetch stared at each other, Tol looked closer. He was scruffy and dirty, but underneath his tattered clothes Tol saw the outline of a powerful physique. A slight greying of his dark hair and faint furrows gathering at the corner of his eyes told him that the man was already into his middle years. His face, though – what could be seen of it – looked haggard and gaunt. It took a moment for Tol to recognise him, a man he had last seen prowling the docks of Kron Vulder after hunting Tol across Norve.

  ‘Kenzin Morrow,’ he breathed softly.

  The men either side of the Band of Blood’s feared leader stiffened, their knuckles whitening on the marlin spikes they held. ‘Might be time for a drowning,’ one suggested.

  Morrow sighed, his broad shoulders rising in an apologetic shrug to Stetch, their gazes still locked on each other. ‘They don’t know any better,’ Morrow said. His eyes flicked over Stetch briefly. ‘You’ve looked better.’

  They know each other? Tol’s looked to Stetch just in time to see a slight smile crinkle at the corner of his mouth. ‘Busy,’ Stetch said.

  Morrow nodded. ‘So I see. I always wondered who would finally catch up with me,’ he added. ‘Did Valtas send you?’

  Stetch shook his head. ‘Luck.’ Stetch didn’t say whether he considered it good or bad luck.

  What’s going on? Tol wondered. From the puzzled faces on Morrow’s men, it looked like they were just as confused as him.

  ‘I see you’ve still got that northman with you,’ Morrow said, his eyes briefly flitting to Tol. ‘And it looks like you’ve been busy. Strange bedfellows indeed.’

  ‘Orders.’

  ‘Really?’ Morrow seemed genuinely surprised. ‘I bet there’s an interesting story behind that.’

  ‘No,’ Stetch grunted as Tol watched helplessly. The air was charged with tension, and all five men stood motionless, each aware that the first sharp movement would signal violence. Tol didn’t think he’d have long to wait.

  Morrow’s head bobbed slowly up and down. ‘This doesn’t concern you two,’ he said as one of the Band began idly fingering the marlin spike in his hand. ‘Leave.’

  Tol pulled his gaze to Stetch, but the Sworn man still had his eyes fixed on Kenzin Morrow.

  ‘Uh, chief, can we still drown him?’ the man on Morrow’s left asked.

  ‘Maybe with a spike through his head?’ the other asked, his fingers resuming their exploration. ‘Just to be sure,’ he added.

  ‘Leave him be.’ Morrow turned briefly to Tol. ‘Best we don’t meet a third time,’ he said. ‘It won’t end well for you.’

  ‘Do you have a ship?’ Tol asked.

  ‘You think I swam here? What’s it to you?’

  ‘We need your help.’

  The three men facing him all laughed. ‘People don’t ask the Band for help,’ the spike fiddler said through crooked teeth, his thin face contorted with a vicious smile. ‘They ask us to stop killing them.’ He adjusted his grip on the spike and Tol saw it all unfolding in his mind’s eye: Morrow’s two underlings losing patience and taking matters into their own hands before the man himself could stop them. If he even wants to.

  ‘I bet it’s a fast ship,’ Tol said quickly to Stetch. ‘Has to be for what they do.’

  Stetch glanced at Tol, rapidly spitting out a smattering of Sudalrese curses. He sighed and shook his head. Then swore again. ‘Taking your ship,’ he grunted at Morrow.

  Morrow’s two henchman laughed raucously.

  ‘Take the ship? That’s a good one!’ one said.

  ‘Only way to do that’s going through the Band,’ the thin-faced one added. He shrugged. ‘Might pass a few minutes, I s’pose.’ The two henchman looked to their leader, their laughter fading as they saw the grim look on Morrow’s face.

  ‘Chief?’

  ‘There’s only two of them. Let’s just drown them.’

  ‘There are maybe only a handful of people who could do such a thing,’ Morrow said, ‘and this is one of them. I ought to know; I trained him.’

  ‘You can go,’ Stetch rasped in a voice like a man staring at his own innards. ‘You saved the boy; for that you can go.’

  Morrow was quiet for some time, his men shifting nervously at his side. ‘A surprising choice,’ he said at last. ‘Not one Valtas would endorse.’

  Stetch shrugged, his anger at Katarina’s capture clearly still an open wound.

  Morrow chewed his lip. ‘Something more important’s come along?’ Stetch didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink, but Morrow nodded, satisfied he was right. ‘I’m almost hurt, and I confess I�
��m curious as to what might be more pressing than my imminent demise.’ Morrow shook his head. ‘But I won’t leave my ship nor my men, and it takes more than two men to sail the Sea Crow.’

  ‘Wait!’ Tol shouted as Stetch’s foot moved a fraction. ‘There’s another way.’ He spoke quickly, ‘We need a ship, and we need it now. Take us where we need to go, that’s all you have to do. Please,’ he added.

  ‘You’re all out of favours after what you done,’ Morrow told him bluntly. He turned his attention back to Stetch, eyes searching the Sworn man’s face. ‘Seems like we’ve got the advantage here. We’ve got what you need, and the Sea Crow’s the only fast ship left in harbour – everything else has been commandeered by the king’s men. If you need a fast berth, she’s the fastest you’ll find, so the only question is how bad do you want her?’

  Stetch shrugged, but Tol could see Morrow had realised he had the upper hand. He appeared to be enjoying himself. ‘For old times’ sake,’ Morrow continued, ‘maybe I’ll help.’ He grinned. ‘All you’ve got to do is sweeten the deal and I’ll take you where you’re going. So tell me, friend: what’s in it for me?’

  ‘Your life,’ Stetch growled.

  Morrow raised an eyebrow. ‘I was thinking of something more… tangible.’

  ‘Redemption,’ Stetch whispered.

  Morrow started in surprise. ‘Redemption,’ he repeated slowly. He pondered the offer. ‘No gold?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ he said with a sideways glance at Tol.

  ‘The Black Duke will be in your debt,’ Tol said. From what he had heard it was clear that Kenzin Morrow, feared leader of the Band of Blood had once trained Stetch, and that meant Morrow had once been one of the Sworn. ‘I think that might mean something to you.’

  Morrow grunted, a sound almost identical to Stetch’s various lazy attempts at communication. ‘And what will the Reve throw in to seal the bargain?’

  ‘This has nothing to do with them.’

  Morrow folded his arms. ‘Seems you’ve been making a name for yourself, boy, killing a demon and such. Might be your word carries more weight than you think.’

  ‘Fine,’ Tol grumbled, ‘I’ll talk to them, but they might still come looking for you after what you did at Icepeak and St. Helena’s.’

  Morrow nodded slowly. ‘The duke calls off the kill order on me and we have a deal.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Tol replied, unable to keep the relief from his voice; he knew Stetch was angry enough to take on the Band alone if it came to it.

  Morrow shook his head. ‘Has to come from the Sworn, a promise like that,’ he said. ‘Only they have the authority to pledge the old man’s word.’

  Tol and Morrow both looked to Stetch.

  ‘No.’

  Tol saw Stetch adjust his grip on the sword. Here it comes.

  ‘Fine,’ Morrow agreed. ‘The boy’s said enough. Whatever you’re caught up in is serious enough the Black Duke will thank me – that’s reward enough.’ He stroked his thick black beard and peered thoughtfully at Stetch. ‘Where are we going?’

  Stetch shrugged his shoulders.

  Morrow nodded. ‘Figured it was the ship,’ he said, his eyes flicking to the dot on the horizon beyond Tol’s shoulder. ‘Who are you chasing, Stetch? Who’s on the ship?’

  ‘Katarina.’

  Morrow cursed, shaking his black mane. ‘You couldn’t have just said that at the start? I used to bounce that girl on my knee.’

  Stetch resheathed his sword in one quick motion. ‘Wanted to see if any of the man I knew’s left in there,’ he said quietly.

  Morrow turned to his men. ‘Silas, round up the rest of the Band: we sail in a bell’s time.’ The thin-faced man turned and left at a jog, as Morrow turned to the other man, a portly, middle-aged man with thinning blond hair who looked like he knew his way around a bar fight. ‘Stout Paul, go—’

  ‘We leave now,’ Stetch barked, his voice a sharpened saw.

  ‘Get the Crow ready,’ Morrow finished. He watched the man waddle off along the docks then turned back to Stetch. Tol had never thought he’d see pity on the face of the world’s most feared mercenary, but it was etched among the deep grooves now as Morrow met Stetch’s burning gaze.

  ‘We’ll sail as soon as we can,’ Morrow said calmly, ‘but it takes time to ready the ship and round up the men – a bell, maybe a little less.’ His voice dropped. ‘They won’t get away with her, Stetch, I promise you that.’

  ‘Too long,’ Stetch growled.

  ‘We won’t lose them. Whatever else you think, you know I’m a man of my word.’ He spun on his heel and marched back along the docks, stopping a dozen yards away. ‘Don’t be late,’ Kenzin Morrow grinned from a safe distance.

  Tol sighed with relief. Katarina had been taken, but with Stetch at his side and a fast ship he knew they had a chance at rescuing her. ‘We’ll find her,’ he promised Stetch.

  Iron fingers wrapped themselves round Tol’s throat, slowly crushing the life out of him. ‘You talk too much,’ Stetch snarled. ‘He’d have helped for less than a pardon.’

  Tol struggled while Stetch peered at him with detached curiosity. ‘Should have killed you in Norve,’ Stetch told him as the world turned slowly dark.

  2.

  Sir Patrick ran a hand through his damp ginger beard and stared south at Galantrium. Between him and the city walls lay a sprawling, disorganised camp, dozens of coloured pennants hanging limp in the breezeless sky. ‘Has Meracia got smaller since I last visited?’

  Krom snorted, his eyes carefully scanning the encampment; it was disorganised with virtually nothing in the way of fortifications. If the Gurdal arrived now, Krom knew, all they’d have to do would be skirt round the city wall and the defenders would be dead before nightfall. ‘No.’

  Patrick clapped him on the back. ‘Well, maybe they’ve all gone ahead to Obsidian – you know, get in on the glory early.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Krom didn’t think so, though. The camp’s layout told him the defenders lacked leadership, and with no-one to rally them they’d stick together. Basic pack behaviour, he thought. Safety in numbers.

  ‘Looks crowded,’ Patrick said. ‘We don’t want to be too far from the action… Maybe we should stake camp to the west, guard the west wall.’

  Krom frowned at his friend. ‘West?’

  ‘Cool in the shade there, the men might appreciate it.’

  ‘The men, or you?’

  Patrick laughed. ‘The sun is not my friend, Krom. If it was down to me we’d head north and let ’em take the city; wait for them on the plains.’ Krom heard his friend shuffle in the sand. ‘So, west?’ Patrick asked hopefully.

  Krom shook his head. ‘We won’t be staying.’ He set off towards the city, his head pounding from the heat and other men’s stupidity.

  ‘I don’t suppose we’re going north?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, uh, where are we going?’

  ‘To find out which idiot’s setting us up to die.’

  Patrick sighed. ‘I always worry when you say things like that. You know these are our allies, right?’

  Krom didn’t answer.

  *

  The stink of sweat followed Krom through Galantrium’s north gate. Nervous crowds thronged the dusty streets, the city tense as, after two hundred years, an army had returned to camp outside their walls. The uneven planes of sand-blasted walls teetered all around him, the city every bit as unimpressive as Krom remembered. He followed the main road south, and even passing soldiers stepped aside as they saw him coming, Patrick shuffling along at his side. Behind them came another Patrick, this one only nineteen, but with his pale skin and bright red hair Krom knew the boy was struggling in the Spur’s furnace heat just as much as his father.

  I had forgotten how much I hate the desert. Havak was a hard land, but beautiful in both winter and summer. True, it would kill you if you didn’t pay attention, but all Havakkians agreed it was a price worth paying. Anything’s better t
han this cloying heat and unbroken view.

  Krom turned left, his eyes scanning the flapping cloth signs that advertised Galantrium’s drinking houses. He followed the narrow street to the end, crossing over another and turning into a narrow passage.

  ‘Are you sure this is the right way?’ Sir Patrick asked. This close to the city’s walls, he was cloaked in shade and Krom could hear the relief in his voice.

  ‘Sure enough.’ Krom thought back to last time he’d visited the city, when he’d befriended the young Vrondi knight in the days before they really understood the weight that now sat upon them. ‘You were so drunk, you passed out in the street, but this is the right way.’

  ‘Me? Drunk? You ignore him, Patrick, your father never took a drop till he married your mother. She’d drive the First Father to drink.’

  Krom chuckled, and heard the rich laugh of Patrick’s son behind him; all three knew that the only thing Patrick loved more than ale was his wife. Krom stopped laughing as he saw it at last, a faded cloth hanging limp over the doorway. The cloth was tattered and bleached by the fierce desert sun, but if you looked closely there was a smudge in the bottom right corner which had once been the symbol of the Reve, a winged sword in front of an amber moon.

  ‘We’re here,’ Krom told the pair, opening the door and striding inside.

  The Shadowed Cup was just as he remembered: small, dark, stuffy and filled with the co-mingled scents of sour sweat and stale beer. A half-rotted wooden bar perched in front of the left wall, a half-dozen low tables arranged haphazardly in the remaining space with chipped stools lurking underneath them. The room was empty except for a single sullen man behind the bar and a table teetering in the far corner where three stout men strained the aged stools to breaking point. Krom nodded at the bar’s owner and headed to the back as he heard the two Patricks follow him in.

  The three knights rose as Krom reached them, Korwane stepping forward and clasping hands with Krom.

  ‘I wondered if you had got lost,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Korwane. You remember Patrick?’

  ‘This is my son,’ Patrick said.

  ‘I’d never have guessed,’ Korwane smiled. ‘Did this one get a proper name?’