Angel's Knight (Angelwar Book 3)

by A. J. Grimmelhaus

  ‘Morning, fuckface,’ he said as he threw Tol’s sword over the demon’s head in a looping, underarm toss.

  The demon snarled, pivoting away from Kartane. Its eyes tracked the spinning blade for a fraction of a second.

  Too slow, Tol thought, his own eyes watching Illis’Andiev arc over the demon’s head. The demon realised it, too, and launched itself towards Tol as the sword dropped out of the sky towards him. One giant step took the creature halfway towards him, Illis’Andiev still spinning on its downward arc.

  The demon flicked its sword out ahead as its left foot landed on the ground. It sprang forward again as Illis’Andiev hung just out of reach, its hilt spinning over the blade as it dropped.

  Tol thrust his hand up to snatch the falling sword as he hurled himself to one side. He felt his fingers lock around the hilt as the demon’s sword hissed past, burrowing through the spot his chest had been a second earlier. Something slammed into his shoulder, knocking him into the air and twisting him around.

  He hit the ground hard, his feet slithering out just enough to keep his balance. The demon was already turning back towards him, a snarl of frustration hissing through its yellowed fangs. It came slowly this time, now that he had a sword – and a sword the demon knew was capable of piercing its toughened hide. Like the others he had fought, it wielded a blade of black metal, but barbed and jagged unlike the smooth silvery perfection of angelic swords.

  ‘Don’t let go of your sword this time,’ Kartane shouted helpfully behind him.

  Tol caught a glimpse of movement over the demon’s right shoulder: two more black shapes, low in the sky. More of them? He blinked and the demon was there, its dark blade moving with incredible speed. Tol parried, his whole body jarring under the impact as he stumbled back a step. Another blow came at him, and another. After four, his arms were numb.

  I will not fail.

  Tol threw himself forwards, Illis’Andiev moving like an extension of his own arm. He flicked the sword towards the demon, twisting it to one side an instant before the demon’s own blocked it. The demon growled in pain, a thin line on its upper chest. Tol heard a cheer go up behind him but he didn’t have time to think, instead devoting himself entirely to the demon. He moved as quickly as he could, letting his body fall into the familiar patterns of swordplay he had learned at Icepeak. He struck with every ounce of speed he had, trying desperately to keep the demon on the defensive. Once, twice, he scored light cuts on the demon. It lashed out in anger, and Tol felt a bloom of heat on his left arm. He ignored it and pressed his advantage. He couldn’t match the demon for strength but he was lighter and kept himself in motion, feet and arms moving in a staccato dance. Never stick to a pattern, Father Michael had told him. Vary your strikes, change your speed. To be predictable is to be dead.

  Tol switched patterns, increasing his speed. Use speed, not strength. Speed kills your opponent, strength only weakens you. Speed has a strength all of its own. The demon fell back a pace, and Tol pushed forwards. He struck again, teeth jarring as his sword bounced off the demon’s blade. Again, and again. An arrow struck the demon’s head, distracting it for a moment. Tol struck, Illis’Andiev biting deep into an arm and retreating like a cobra’s warning lunge. He struck again as the pain distracted the demon, bouncing off his back foot and thrusting Illis’Andiev ahead. It slipped silently into the demon’s torso. The demon stood there, mouth open in surprise. Tol wrenched his sword down and across, leaving a gaping hole in the demon’s chest. Its eyes were still fixed on him, as if it couldn’t quite believe it had been bested. The dark sword fell from its fingers and the demon toppled backwards, landing in the packed sand with a dull thump that reverberated around the square.

  Tol blinked as a cheer rolled out from behind him. I did it.

  ‘The line’s breaking,’ someone shouted behind him. Tol thought it was Isallien. ‘Protect Kraven!’

  Protect me? Why? Then two demons dropped out of the sky twenty yards ahead of him, the ones he’d seen only moments earlier. Oh. That’s why.

  Knights and Sworn warriors were running past on either side, careful to give him a wide berth as the demons drew their weapons. Behind the demons, Tol could see the last Meracian soldiers falling, Gurdal forcing their way into the southern end of the square. A loose circle was forming around him, a ring sixty yards in diameter, with just Tol and two snarling demons inside.

  Where is she? He could sense the angel, still off to the east. Kalashadria was still alive, that much he knew. But why hasn’t she come? The plan had been to get the demons in one place, for the two of them to fight the demons together. Instead, Tol was left on his own. He had sustained three or four minor wounds, their dull pain adding to his tiredness. And now I have to fight two at once. Tol took a step towards the two demons. They spread out, a five foot gap between them, and slowly advanced.

  Alone again. Tol took a deep breath. Help wasn’t coming.

  So be it.

  *

  Kalashadria rejoiced as the wind rushed through her hair. She climbed quickly, the city soon diminishing as she rose above the dark outlines of her foes. She beat her wings faster, building to a frenetic rhythm. Higher still as she banked east, the sea stretching out as far as she could see.

  There. The easternmost of her implacable foes. The lumbering beast was flapping its black wings in slow, laborious motions. Their toughened skin was an advantage on the ground, but up here in the sky it was just excess weight. She watched the creature, still unseen as it adjusted course towards the nearest ship, a small patch of colour on the glittering blue waves. Kalashadria waited until she drew level, their paths crossing at differing altitudes. She banked sharply, dropping in a corkscrew to curve round behind her enemy. She glided past, a foot above the abomination. One flick of her wrist and her sword slid free, scything across her body. Kalashadria powered forwards, banking away from the sea and back towards the unfolding battle. She tilted her chin to her chest and saw – just beyond her feet – a large black shape falling fast, its severed head slowly drifting away as the wind took hold.

  One down.

  She built up to a fast rhythm, wind scouring her face as she grinned, revelling in the pure joy of flight. She dived, building speed as the houses below began to take shape in her sight, small dots slowly resolving themselves into running men.

  Kalashadria tilted her wings, levelling out of the dive into a hurtling arrow. She skimmed above the buildings, whooping with joy as she screamed past one of the Demhoun-el’teri. She saw a look of surprise register on its ugly face as she hurtled past. My knight needs me, she thought, heart hammering in her throat. I’m coming, Tol.

  She looked back, and saw the lumbering creature launch itself into the air. She passed over another street and she laughed as she skimmed a mere twelve feet above the next of the abominations, just as it threw itself against a group of humans. A building came rushing towards her, but she was in her element here. She knew the sky, the wind, the fractional pull of gravity – she knew them all on an instinctive level, and a single beat of her white wings sent her soaring over the building, clearing the top by inches. A mile of space!

  Kalashadria beat her wings faster, feeling fear and pain through the bond. I’m coming. She glanced back, but the dark Demhoun lagged far behind. She held her sword out ahead, arrowing over the city’s buildings towards her knight.

  Hold on, she willed him. And suddenly she was there, blasting over a roof and into the large square. The Gurdal had already arrived, Tol’s allies throwing themselves against them. And there, in the centre, Tol faced two of her enemies, two more dead at his feet and a huge circle of space surrounding them.

  I’m coming.

  She soared over the heads of the soldiers, the black shapes looming larger as she hurtled towards them.

  47.

  Tol shuffled backwards as quickly as he could. The demons struck in tandem, hammering away with tremendous strength. Every blow forced Illis’Andiev back an inch, then another inch, till
the sword was practically bouncing back into Tol’s face. It’s over, he thought, the pair battering him back another pace. There was no chance to retaliate, no chance to strike back and break the pattern.

  He felt a surge through the bond, a torrent of emotion rushing through to him as a white shape barrelled into his vision behind the demons. Her wings twisted at the last moment, the angel tilting upright just as she reached the demon on his right. The thing turned, but too slowly, and Kalashadria dropped to the sand, sliding past the demon. She flicked our her arm as if slapping a fly, twisting round as she slithered past Tol, her feet leaving deep tracks in the sand.

  The other demon froze, its eyes tracking Kalashadria as she slid past Tol, the swing of her sword continuing seamlessly into a half-turn so she faced the demons. Tol retreated backwards, two steps taking him to the angel’s shoulder as the demon she had struck toppled backwards while its head tumbled forwards, dropping to the sand at the feet of the last surviving demon.

  One left, Tol thought as the remaining demon was momentarily stunned by Kalashadria’s arrival, its eyes rooted to the head of its dead companion. The thing snarled, and Tol felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. The demon lifted its head, a nasty grin spreading across its dark face. Its leg snapped out in a savage kick, the dead demon’s head shooting forwards in a blur.

  Tol felt the pain as it slammed into her midriff and Kalashadria stumbled backwards. He moved without thinking, the echo of her pain spurring him on. He stepped forward to stand in front of her, sword already moving in a defensive figure-of-eight. Black steel pinged off Illis’Andiev, a tremor running through his arms. Instinct took over as the demon hammered at him again and again. The pain settled, a diffuse fire in the back of his brain as Kalashadria wheezed behind him.

  I will not fail.

  A black shard of steel flashed past and seared his sword-arm. Tol ignored it, his breath coming in ragged gasps. A new fire burned in his thigh, and he ignored that, too, fighting with every ounce of skill. I will not fail. A narrow gash opened on the demon’s chest, but the spilling of the demon’s blood ignited a new intensity and the world narrowed to a pair of swords, two blurs moving in opposition like tomcats fighting for dominance.

  ‘More are coming.’

  The words broke through Tol’s haze as two silhouettes dropped into view at the circle’s edge. His eyes drifted for a split-second as the two shapes began moving towards him. The demon’s sword caught his clumsy lunge, Illis’Andiev suddenly darting off course. It took his balance, and the demon moved in a liquid blur.

  Something slammed into Tol, his vision turning red as he felt himself moving, the ground no longer beneath his feet. He hurtled backwards, saw the demon’s leg dropping back to the sand. Tol caught a glimpse of a white shape straightening itself up, felt the angel’s resolve through their bond as he hit the ground, what little breath remained sucked from his lungs as a fresh wave of pain tore through him.

  He slid on his back, bones bouncing off the hard sand. Tol cracked his head, the sky spinning above him. His body skidded to a halt but the world kept spinning, an inferno raging deep inside. Something’s busted, he thought sluggishly, the blurred shapes above him resolving themselves into the legs and side of a nearby warrior; he had been sent flying across the open space and landed near the circle’s ragged edge. Tol fought to sit up. He felt bile rise in his throat as pain surged in his chest. Everywhere, really, but everything else was insignificant compared to the pain deep in his chest and abdomen. Definitely bad. He managed to get his head partway up and saw the fuzzy outline of the demon as it bounded towards him. Two indistinct dark shapes had reached Kalashadria. It’s come to finish me, Tol realised. He dropped his head back to the sand, pain and dizziness dulling his mind.

  The demon was coming for him. Another few seconds was all he had.

  Have to get up.

  Tol tried again, but couldn’t move. He could hardly breathe, but he felt his tunic sticking to his lower chest. He knew what that meant.

  He tried again, one last attempt at survival. He fell back, coloured spots dancing in front of his eyes. He tilted his head, looking down the length of his body. One of the coloured spots was larger than the rest. It was black and it was getting closer.

  *

  Kalashadria hauled herself upright. The head had hit her just below the sternum, kicked with all the force the demon could muster. At a distance of four yards that had been significant.

  She fought to draw breath, but her insides protested. It felt like the drawn-out prelude to a hiccough. She shook her head, tried to shake the nausea away. The others. Tol stood in front of her, bravely holding her enemy at bay as it cut him again and again.

  ‘More are coming,’ she said, her voice sounding like a child’s frightened whisper. Her eyes found them as the words left her lips. Tol saw them too, their sudden appearance distracting him.

  The Demhoun-el’teri lashed out, its foot taking him in the chest and sending her knight sailing past her, missing Kalashadria by inches. The foul thing glanced once over its shoulder, and saw its fellows bounding towards them. It took one look at her and leaped after Tol, choosing to leave her to the others. Survival instinct, Kalashadria told herself. It knew when it was outmatched. She glanced over, and saw Tol struggling to get to his feet. She could feel his pain, a vibrating string of deep agony through their bond. The other two had nearly reached her, thick-muscled legs propelling them forwards at speed. With the momentum from their – albeit sluggish – flight, she had only seconds to make the choice.

  There’s nothing I can do for him, she admitted. It hurt. It hurt deeply. But it was true: to turn her back on the pair for even a moment would turn the battle in their favour and even if she caught the one about to reach Tol there wasn’t time to kill it before the other two caught her; their momentum was too great.

  I’m sorry, she thought. She closed off the part of herself connected to him and threw herself forwards to meet her foes with a cry of frustration. I’m sorry.

  A dark sword – twisted cousin to her own – hammered down. A flick of her wrist redirected the blow wide as another sword thrust at her midriff. She brought her arms across, left to right, and the black sword was turned aside, its barbs passing an inch from her ribs. With a flick of her wrist she brought her weapon in a looping arc to the high guard, grazing her enemy’s shoulder on its path. Irrin’Orlif was alive in her hands, the sword’s consciousness settling over her own like a comfortable blanket. I am not alone. The thought gave her comfort.

  The first Demhoun came at her again, the one with the injured shoulder a second behind him. They attacked with hard, heavy strikes, graceless displays of brute strength. Kalashadria fell back a pace under the barrage, felt heat bloom in her side as the tip of one blade got too close. The sheer strength of them was wearing her down, a deep ache slowly settling in her arms.

  She retreated another pace, her technique flawless as she parried strike after strike while the Demhoun snarled and spat. Here it comes. She felt the current, felt the pattern they wove. Any moment.

  They had her on the defensive, breathing heavily and bleeding. The coppery tang of victory spurred them onwards, and with confidence came recklessness.

  She parried another thrust, guiding it well wide of its mark. She knew, without the touch of Irrin’Orlif on her mind, where the next would land and the black metal bounced off her sword a split-second before it touched her. Another thrust from her left, another from her right, the pair of them building themselves into a frenzy as each new assault brought them closer to victory. Kalashadria was dimly aware that she was no longer out of breath and her arms weren’t tiring further, despite the onslaught. Her lip twitched. I am High Anghl. She could feel the superior strength of the caste burning through her, dying to be unleashed. The time is not now. She could feel the first prickling of her wound as it tried to knit itself back together. I am High Anghl and I will not fall.

  She let the current take her, and fell back ano
ther step. She heard the growls of pleasure from her enemies as the two renewed their attack with feral abandon. The one on her left raised his sword, his biceps bunching as he prepared for a mighty blow.

  Now.

  The black sword reached its apex. Kalashadria adjusted her stance, a slight scuff of feet in the sand. The black sword made its first tentative motion earthward, struggling from inertia’s fevered grasp. She moved forwards, Irrin’Orlif low and left. Her arms moved in a perfect arc, the tip of her sword tracing a wider path. The edge passed through the Demhoun’s left arm on its upward trajectory while the point burrowed into the hollow of the creature’s throat before carving a bending line up and out through the side of its neck.

  Kalashadria twisted to her side as Irrin’Orlif passed the arc’s apex and slashed earthward just as the remaining Demhoun twisting round to meet her brought its own weapon slicing sideways at her. She was close, and could feel its fetid breath on her face. The sword bounced harmlessly off her own, a desperate slash with neither skill nor strength. Kalashadria flicked her wrist and Irrin’Orlif – already within the Demhoun’s guard – lanced upwards. It darted in through the navel and sliced upwards through its thick hide, finally coming to rest with the edge buried in the cleft of the Demhoun’s chin. It’s eyes widened, sword falling uselessly from its hand. Kalashadria stared into the dying light of its eyes.

  ‘For my mother,’ she whispered. She flicked her sword free and the night-black corpse dropped to the sand. ‘For all my kin.’

  Two, she thought. I have killed two more of them in single combat. Few of her kin – those still living, at least – could claim such a feat. She stared at the red reflection in her sword, and realised that Irrin’Orlif had been silent. She had felt its presence, a measure of comfort, but the elora tree’s gift had offered no aid.