Angel's Knight (Angelwar Book 3)

by A. J. Grimmelhaus

  ‘Without Katarina we would have failed; I will not leave her to the Gurdal and their allies.’

  ‘Even if it means your death?’

  Tol was quiet a moment. ‘Even then.’

  ‘She means that much to you?’ The words were barely a whisper, almost drowned out by the whistling wind, but Tol could feel that undercurrent of despair Kalashadria felt.

  ‘Yes.’

  The angel examined him carefully, and Tol could almost feel his skin writhing under Kalashadria’s intense scrutiny. ‘I cannot convince you otherwise?’ she asked.

  ‘I am sorry.’ And, Tol realised, he was. Whatever else had happened, however their coupling had muddied his feelings, however much she had hurt him with her distrust, the angel was still his friend, and he was still sworn to her service.

  ‘Do you know where your friend is being taken?’

  And just like that the argument was over. Tol let slip a small sigh of relief as he realised that, practical as ever, Kalashadria would not try and wear him down; he had made a decision and she would accept it – question it, perhaps, but the angel knew Tol well enough to know his course would not be altered. Perhaps, he thought, she trusts me to survive, to rescue Katarina and return to the army that awaits the Gurdal. But no sooner was that thought fully formed than its counterpoint arrived. Or perhaps she thinks I will die and she will be free of her bond to me.

  ‘Siadendre,’ he said. Tol felt a surge of concern through their bond and realised he should not doubt her. ‘We’ll catch a faster current to the south and should arrive not long after the ship we are chasing.’

  ‘Siadendre.’ Kalashadria pronounced it slowly, the word rolling unsteadily off her tongue. ‘Which one is that?’

  ‘The third of the four Desolate Cities,’ Tol replied. ‘It is the last one on the Spur itself before the land widens into a great desert.’

  ‘The city south of it has already fallen to the army. They will be at the city gates when you arrive; perhaps inside.’

  Tol chuckled. ‘Didn’t think my luck could last.’

  ‘You must do this alone, Tol. I cannot help you.’

  He nodded.

  Kalashadria shifted her weight uneasily. ‘The army is depending on me. My duty is to protect them as best as I can.’ She tilted her shoulders awkwardly. ‘Should I fall before the armies meet… it could decide the war our peoples fight.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Alimarcus rates your chances as slim.’

  ‘I’m still going.’

  Kalashadria gave a resigned nod. ‘Once the enemy breaches the wall, your chances will be lower still.’ The angel chewed her bottom lip as she looked out to sea. ‘If they catch you,’ she said slowly, ‘I will not come for you.’

  ‘I know,’ Tol sighed. ‘The war must come first.’

  Kalashadria stood. ‘My thoughts will be with you.’ Her wings slowly unfurled, and Tol heard a faint sound behind him. He turned in time to see a figure retreating belowdecks. It was hard to see in a moonless sky, but the shadow was small enough that he could make a fair guess. Victoria.

  Tol turned back to Kalashadria. ‘Wait.’

  She stopped on her haunches, ready to throw herself into the sky.

  ‘If I don’t make it back I want you to know I don’t regret anything.’

  A ghost of a smile appeared on Kalashadria’s face. ‘Nor I. But,’ she added, ‘I expect my knight to return in one piece.’ Kalashadria launched herself to Tol’s left, her wings snapping out as she dropped towards the waves. Her toes brushed the crest of a wave and then she was rising into the sky. Tol watched as the angel rose higher and higher, but she was soon lost to view. He wondered if he would ever see her again.

  *

  Kartane took one look at the fuming figure of Isallien stewing on the bunk and decided that, whether he liked it or not, he was going to have to listen to the idiot. That, or kill him.

  ‘Let’s drink,’ he said, trying to muster some cheer as he kicked the cabin door shut behind him.

  Isallien looked like the man who had slept with a whore and just found out she was his mother. ‘Did you know?’ he demanded. ‘Did you know who we’re on a ship with?’

  Kartane shrugged peaceably as he retrieved a couple of wooden mugs then set about opening the cask of ale he had carried from the Sudalrese inn. ‘Had to be pirates,’ he said as he hammered a spigot into the cask with the butt of a dagger. ‘Anyone with any sense would take one look at Kraven’s blood-stained tunic and make themselves scarce,’ Kartane explained as he surveyed his handiwork. He nodded in satisfaction then filled both mugs. ‘Anyone reputable would be off in the other direction faster than a nun in a whorehouse as soon as they realised where we were going, so that doesn’t leave many options, does it?’

  ‘He murdered knights of the Reve! And St. Helena’s, what his men did at that convent…’

  Kartane handed Isallien one of the mugs and sat on his bunk opposite the young man. Unfortunately, Isallien continued where he left off. ‘They killed innocent women as well as knights, and nearly took the church’s greatest treasure – how can you stand to let Kenzin Morrow live?’

  Kartane drained his mug and poured another himself another generous measure. It was going to be a long night.

  ‘The Reve’s greatest treasure,’ he corrected. ‘The less the First Father and those priests know about the Truth the better.’

  ‘What they did…’ Isallien threw up a hand as he ran out of words.

  ‘Ain’t no different to what knights like you and I have done in the church’s name,’ Kartane said. He scratched his chin and thought for a moment. ‘You’ve read the Truth?’

  Isallien’s gaze hardened. ‘Only the Seven are allowed to know the Truth. How do you even know about it?’

  ‘That ain’t important right now,’ Kartane said easily. ‘The point I’m making is that things – and people – aren’t always as simple as they seem. The first Seven told a lie to save the world – is a bad thing done for the right reasons still bad?’ Kartane shrugged. ‘Can’t say I know the answer to that, but the question you should be asking is if Morrow and his little band are set on taking down the Reve, why are you and I and Kraven still alive?’

  ‘He’s waiting for the right moment.’

  He’s stubborn, I’ll give him that. Almost give Tol a run for his money. ‘Already had plenty of chances. Better sooner than later, most will tell you – why feed what you’re going to kill?’

  ‘The Sudalrese one? Perhaps he is the reason why we are still alive.’

  ‘Kraven, maybe,’ Kartane admitted, ‘but you and I? Chatty would throw us overboard himself if it got him what he wanted.’ Kartane drained his mug and got up to refill it. ‘Look, what I’m trying to say is maybe things aren’t as simple as you’re making out. Kenzin Morrow’s a fiend, I ain’t denying that, but he’s taking a risk sailing to the Spur and a bigger risk letting three Reve knights on board. Makes you wonder if there’s more to him than just a butcher, don’t it?’

  Isallien emptied his mug and held it out. ‘He deserves to die for what he did to our brothers.’

  ‘That he does,’ Kartane agreed, ‘but this isn’t the time or the place, is it?’ He passed another mug of ale over as the knight shook his head meekly. At least he’s got some sense, Kartane thought, a ship of mercenaries is no place to start settling scores. Not unless the mercenaries are on your side.

  ‘And what of Kraven?’ Isallien asked after a minute. ‘We cannot afford to lose him, not when the Gurdal are so close. He must know how foolish it is chasing after the duke’s daughter.’

  ‘Aye, but they’ve been through a lot together and from what I heard she saved his life back in Norve. Tol sees rescuing her as repaying a debt.’

  ‘But there’s more at stake than that,’ Isallien argued. ‘Surely he must understand that? Or is he besotted with the girl?’

  ‘As to that, you’d have to ask the lad himself, but I reckon he knows what’s at stake as much
as any of us.’ Kartane refilled both their mugs and sat back down on his bunk. ‘Thing is, while you and the Seven were debating whether to kill the lad he saved an angel’s life – at least twice by my counting – and kept the Truth from enemy hands, probably saving the Reve and the church itself in the process. I’d say we owe him this one thing, wouldn’t you?’

  The indecipherable mumble Kartane told him he had been right about Isallien. On the voyage to Meracia it had been Isallien who had most impressed him, and the young knight had made the others stop and consider the flaws in their plan – humbling them at the same time. Not an easy thing to do with knights like Balvador and my brother. Perhaps there is hope for the lad after all. The Reve needs leaders that can think.

  ‘We need the Truth,’ Isallien hiccoughed. ‘If Kraven dies we need to know where the book is.’ He drained the rest of his mug as Kartane finished his own and refilled both.

  ‘We need the angel,’ Isallien continued. ‘If the Gurdal bring a demon we will need her, and her presence alone will hearten the men.’ He took a swig. ‘Kraven’s expendable, but we need the angel.’

  Maybe I was wrong about him being able to think. ‘Expendable?’

  Isallien nodded. ‘Perhaps a liability.’

  Definitely an idiot. ‘Chasing after the girl’s stupid, I’m not arguing that, but the boy’s done more for the Reve in the last three weeks than most can claim in a lifetime.’ Kartane caught the look of disbelief on Isallien’s face. ‘No? When did you travel across half of Norve with an injured angel and the Band of Blood on your trail?’

  ‘He was lucky.’

  ‘Maybe so, but you’re forgetting the important thing here: Tol Kraven’s only the second man to kill a demon, and even Hunt Valeron never killed two. Luck will only get you so far; after that it’s skill and giant plums that will see you through. Kraven’s a good man in a fight, and there ain’t many I’d say that about.’ Kartane finished his drink. ‘But you ever tell him that and I’ll split your skull.’

  ‘But to sail with the Band of Blood in pursuit of a girl when the Reve need him? It makes me uneasy, Kartane. I just don’t think we can rely on him.’

  ‘I know,’ Kartane said as he rose from his bunk. ‘I understand, too, really I do. There was a time when I’d have been pissed it wasn’t me the angel came to.’ He held out a hand for Isallien’s half-empty mug. ‘But what I want you to remember in the morning is what you told me when we left Kron Vulder: kill the lad and you’ll have one pissed off angel on your hands – not to mention losing the only man in two hundred years that killed a demon.’

  Isallien downed the rest of his ale and looked up at Kartane with a puzzled frown. ‘I don’t think—’

  Kartane knocked him out. ‘No, I guess you don’t. Lucky you’ve got me around to set you straight, isn’t it?’ He nudged the cask of ale with his foot. It made a worrying slopping sound that suggested there was more air than ale left inside.

  Maybe I should have knocked him out before he drank half my ale.

  9.

  Stetch was still awake when Tol returned to their cabin, lounging on his bunk with a mug in one hand.

  Tol stood awkwardly in the doorway. ‘Sorry if I, uh, interrupted anything earlier.’

  Stetch shrugged, watching Tol through hooded eyes as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

  ‘They’re taking her to Siadendre,’ Tol said, shucking off his boots and flopping onto his cot opposite Stetch.

  Stetch chewed it over a moment. ‘Angel?’

  ‘Yes. She was here.’

  Stetch lifted his head, carefully searching Tol’s face. He pointed to the floor between them. Tol followed his gaze and found the cask Stetch had carried aboard. It looked like somebody had taken a very sharp sword and sliced the top off so they could dip a mug into the frothy liquid.

  ‘Thanks.’ Tol rummaged for a mug in his pack then dipped it into the ale and fell back on his bunk, the wooden wall creaking as he leaned against it. ‘The Gurdal are on their way there now.’

  Stetch spoke as Tol felt the first hoppy tang touch the back of his throat. ‘Who’ll get there first?’

  Tol took another swig. ‘Probably the Gurdal.’

  Stetch nodded, and drained the rest of his mug before refilling it again. ‘Still going,’ he said with the intractability of a mountain. He looked at Tol, a question in his eyes.

  ‘I’ll not leave her to them.’

  Stetch grunted, apparently satisfied. ‘The angel?’

  Tol shook his head. ‘We’re on our own.’

  Stetch smiled wryly. ‘Same as it ever was.’ He lifted his mug in salute.

  They drank in companionable silence for a time, and Tol began to relax as his mind wandered back to the events which had led him here, stuck on a ship with the very men who had been hunting him less than two weeks ago. Strange times, he mused. Kenzin Morrow, the most feared outlaw in the world had – after sparing Tol once – let him aboard the Band of Blood’s ship and agreed to take him east to the Spur where the Gurdal were massing. It wasn’t because I buried his man, he thought. Morrow made that plain on the docks. No, the only reason he could think of was Stetch. Morrow had once been a member of the Sworn, and had apparently been Stetch’s mentor for a time. Tol looked over the rim of his cup at Stetch. Can I ask him? Stetch wasn’t known for his patience, but they had been through difficult trials together. Is that enough? Does he trust me? He looked up and found Stetch watching him.

  ‘Speak.’

  ‘He trained you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stetch’s voice was a low rasp, thick with emotion.

  Tol wanted to ask him what had happened, how Kenzin Morrow had come to leave the Sworn – and alive, no less – and what he could possibly have done to engender such hatred from Stetch. But one look at Stetch’s face was enough to convince Tol it wasn’t a good idea. Tol drained his mug, held out a hand for Stetch’s as he refilled his own from the cask. Quite a bit, he noticed, had already gone. I hope he’s not a mean drunk. Maybe drink makes him happy, and he goes around hugging people. He suppressed a smile as he sat back down, knowing the unlikelihood of that particular hope. Tol decided he’d settle for Stetch being slightly less feral when drunk; the reverse didn’t bear contemplating. Especially after what happened on the docks. Tol shivered, remembering the sound of Stetch’s sword being drawn. ‘Do you know anything about Siadendre?’ he asked. ‘Have you ever been?’

  Stetch nodded, watching his ale as he swirled it around in the mug.

  Tol sighed, regretting letting his impatience show as Stetch looked up. Definitely not a nice drunk, he thought as he saw the man’s expression. Tol wasn’t surprised. ‘Any advice on surviving once we get there?’

  ‘Anyone looks at you funny,’ Stetch said, a slight slur to his voice, ‘kill them.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Tol said, ‘that’s really helpful.’

  Stetch grinned and raised his mug. ‘True though.’ He slurped the foam off his ale, and mulled over the question. ‘Bad place,’ he pronounced half a minute later.

  Oh, shit. Tol figured Stetch was the kind of man who’d be in his element on a battlefield or – like Kartane – in a disreputable tavern where the sawdust never quite covered up the blood. If Stetch thinks it’s a nasty place then it’s probably only one step up from the Pit – all it’s missing is a horde of demons. Tol thought about it for a moment. If the Gurdal are as close as Kalashadria says, there’s a good chance they’ll show up, too.

  Tol closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, a quiet, throaty chuckle drifting across the room towards him. ‘It’s going to get bloody, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Stetch sounded inordinately pleased, his laughter continuing.

  ‘And Morrow?’ The laughter stopped. ‘Can we trust him?’

  Tol opened his eyes and found Stetch looking at him like he was the stupidest man in the whole world. ‘Thought not,’ he sighed.

  *

  Kal shivered, and cursed silently. Everyone
knew the desert was hot, but nobody ever spoke about how cold it got at night.

  Not much longer now, he thought. The night was nearly over, and soon the unbearable heat would begin. Great, more marching. Today would be the fourth day since Kal and the knights had escaped Shade with Salazar and his companions. Benvedor had led them at a gruelling pace, and they had outdistanced most of Shade’s fleeing citizens. Today, Kal knew, would be more of the same: occasional clumps of travellers heading north and the desert sands stretching outwards across the horizon as far as the eye could see. That’s another thing: nobody ever talks about how boring the desert is, just sand, sand, vicious insects, and more sand.

  Kal shivered again as he remembered the first night after Shade, and this time it wasn’t from the penetrating cold. He had woken in the dark to the sound of murder, and dying men screaming. By the time he had roused himself it was over, a half dozen Gurdal scouts dead or bleeding out around him.

  ‘Well trained,’ Salazar remarked as he fingered a rent in his sleeve.

  ‘The next lot will be better,’ Sir Benvedor replied.

  Nobody slept well that night.

  The second day had seen the party pass more and more refugees from Shade. Most, they had seen, had left in a hurry as soon as the approaching army had been seen on the horizon. Anyone who lived in the desert knew its unforgiving nature, but Kal and the others had seen many who had already run out of water. Towards the afternoon they had begun to see people suffering from dehydration, and as the day wore on they saw the first of the fallen. Kal had stopped to offer water to an insensate woman, her lips cracked and bleeding, but Sir Benvedor stopped him with a gentle hand and shake of his head.

  ‘She’s too far gone,’ the knight had told him, ‘and we can’t spare the water.’

  They saw more fallen refugees on the morning of the third day, but by noon they had outdistanced all but a few of the citizens who had fled as the city fell. They passed a few families in the afternoon, but these were the organised folk who had seen the invasion coming and left before the mass exodus. With time to prepare, they were organised and well-provisioned. Shuffling along with their possessions slung over shoulders in sacks they made slow progress but Kal thought that most would make it to Siadendre. If the Gurdal don’t catch them first.