‘Maybe I’ll write your epitaph,’ said Attias. ‘If we do meet a beast, it’s sure to go for the fattest one first.’
‘I’m not fat,’ protested Eliath. ‘I’m just big boned.’
‘Enough, the pair of you!’ said Zahariel, though he took pleasure in seeing Attias sticking up for himself and Eliath taken down a peg. ‘We’re training for a hunt, and I’m sure Brother Amadis doesn’t consider baiting each other as part of that training.’
‘True enough, Zahariel,’ said a sanguine voice in his helmet, ‘but it does no harm to foster a little rivalry within a group.’
None of the other supplicants heard the voice, but Zahariel smiled at the sound of Brother Amadis’s voice, knowing he must have heard the exchange between the supplicants.
‘Healthy rivalry drives us to excel in all things, but it cannot be allowed to get out of hand,’ continued Amadis. ‘You handled that well, Zahariel. Allow rivalry to exist, but prevent it from becoming destructive.’
Over the closed communications, Zahariel said, ‘Thank you, brother.’
‘No thanks are necessary, now take the lead and assume scouting discipline.’
He smiled, feeling a warm glow envelop him at his hero’s praise. To think that a warrior as great as Amadis knew his name was an honour, and he spurred his mount onwards as he felt the responsibility of his command settle upon him.
‘Close up,’ he ordered, riding to the front of the group of supplicants and taking his place at the point of their arrow formation. ‘Scouting discipline from now on. Consider this enemy territory.’
His voice carried the strength of conviction that came from the approval of his peers, and without a murmur of dissent, his squad-mates smoothly moved into position. Nemiel took up position behind him and to the left, while a supplicant named Pallian assumed the same position on the opposite side.
Eliath and Attias took up position on either side of the formation, and Zahariel turned in the saddle to make sure his squad was lined up in position.
Satisfied that all was as it should be, he returned his attention to the terrain ahead, the thick trunks and heavy foliage rendering the forest a canvas of shadows and slanted spars of light. Leaf mould covered the ground, and the smell of decaying matter in the darkness gave the air a musty scent that was reminiscent of spoiled meat.
The ground was rocky, but the horses of the Ravenwing picked a clear path between the boulders and fallen tree trunks.
Strange noises drifted between the trees, but Zahariel had grown up in the forest, and he let the rhythm of the undergrowth drift over him, sorting the various calls of the wildlife of Caliban into those that were dangerous and those that were not.
Most of the great beasts had been hunted to extinction by the Lion’s great crusade, but several enclaves of lethal predators still existed, though they were far from any such places. Less dangerous monsters still lurked, unseen and unknown in almost every part of the world’s forests, but such creatures rarely attacked groups of warriors, relying on stealth and surprise to attack lone victims as they moved between the safe havens of the walled cities.
Amid the hooting, cawing cries of birds, Zahariel could hear the clicking, creaking noise of the forest, the wind through the high branches and the crunch of hooves over broken branches. Moving silently through the forest was virtually impossible for any but the Ravenwing, but still, Zahariel wished they could be riding in silence.
Even though the worst of Caliban’s predators were mostly dead, there was no such thing as a beast that could be easily overcome, even with such numbers.
They rode on for what seemed like a few hours, though without any sign of the sun above, it was difficult to judge the passage of time. Only the changing angles of the beams of light that penetrated the forest canopy gave any hint to how long they had been travelling.
Zahariel longed to communicate with the other groups of riders, but did not want to appear nervous or unsure of the course he was leading. This was supposed to be training them for going on a hunt of their own one day, and the idea that he did not know where he was going was not one he wanted to cultivate.
The paths through the forest were well-worn through countless training exercises, but so many existed that it was next to impossible to know which ones led to their destination. He and Nemiel had consulted the map before setting out, and their route had seemed simple enough in the walled confines of the fortress monastery. Out in the forest, however, it was quite a different proposition.
He was fairly sure he knew where he was and where their path should lead them, but it would be impossible to know if they had succeeded until they arrived. Zahariel hoped that Brother Amadis was nearby and would take note of how he was leading his fellows.
His thoughts were interrupted as they rode beneath low hanging branches into a shadowed clearing, the sound of the leaves brushing against his helmet startlingly loud in the silence of the forest.
Even as the thought struck him that the forest was silent, it was already too late.
Something dark and winged dropped from the trees, its body scaled and reptilian.
Claws like swords flashed, and one of his squad was dead, both he and his mount shorn in two by the ferocity of the blow.
Blood sprayed and horrified cries echoed from the clearing. Zahariel drew his pistol as the beast struck again. Another supplicant died, his armour torn open and his innards hooked from his belly. The horses were screaming, the scent of blood maddening them, and the supplicants fought to control their crazed mounts.
Cries of horror and anger resounded, but there was no sense to them. Zahariel turned his mount towards the beast. Its large body was easily the size of one of their horses, undulating as though a million serpents writhed beneath its glistening flesh. Its spiny head snapped and bit at the end of a long, snake-like neck, its jaws long and narrow, filled with razored fangs like the teeth of a woodsman’s saw. Its wings were filmy and translucent, edged in ridges of horny carapace and ending in long, barbed claws.
Zahariel had never seen its like before, and his momentary horror at its awful appearance almost cost him his life.
The beast’s wings slashed as though it were about to take flight, and one of the barbed hooks scored a deep groove across his breastplate, pitching him from the back of his screaming horse.
Zahariel hit the ground hard as he heard another anguished scream of agony. He struggled to rise, his movements awkward in his armour. He reached for his fallen pistol as a wide shadow engulfed him, and he twisted his head as the screeching, reptilian bird towered above him, its jaws wide and ready to snap him in two.
FOUR
ZAHARIEL ROLLED AS the beast’s beak stabbed downwards. He slithered onto his back and brought his pistol around. Three shots boomed from the barrel in a blaze of light and Zahariel was momentarily blinded by the brightness. The noise was deafening, his helmet only slightly muffling the sounds. He scrambled away from the beast on his backside, fully expecting every second to be his last.
He heard more shots, and as his vision cleared he saw Nemiel crouching behind a tree and pumping shots from his pistol at the beast as it clawed at the remains of Zahariel’s horse.
Blood like molten wax oozed from three neat holes in the beast’s chest, but if they had discomfited it, Zahariel could not tell, for it fought and roared as fiercely as it had when first attacking.
The beast’s wing shot out and clove through the trunk of the tree Nemiel was using for shelter and slammed into his cousin’s chest. Nemiel dropped to the ground, his breastplate cracked, but still whole, for the impact with the tree had blunted much of the force of the beast’s blow.
Zahariel scrambled to his feet as he saw the scattered remnants of his squad panic in the face of the monster. Eliath was pinned beneath his mount, the horse’s flank opened from neck to rump, and Attias sat petrified at the edge of the clearing. The young boy’s mount stood stock still, its ears pressed flat against its skull and its eyes wide with terror,
rooting them both to the spot.
The beast turned towards Attias and let out an ululating roar, spreading its wings and bunching its muscles as it prepared to attack
‘Hey!’ screamed Zahariel, stepping from the cover of the trees and waving his arms above his head. ‘Over here!’
The beast’s head turned on its sinuous neck, its blood-frothed jaws opening wide and its black, soulless eyes fixing upon him. Zahariel drew his sword and aimed his pistol at the drooling monster.
‘Ho, ugly!’ he shouted. ‘If you want him, you have to take me first!’
He had no idea whether or not the beast understood the words he was saying, but there was little doubt that it understood the challenge of his actions on a primal, animal scale.
Without waiting for a response, Zahariel opened fire, the pistol bucking in his hand, and wet blooms of filmy blood burst from the beast’s chest. It screeched and lunged towards him, its head shooting forward like the thrust of a sword.
Zahariel leapt to the side, the blade of its beak slashing past him, barely a hand’s span from skewering him. Faster than he would have believed possible, the beast’s head twisted in the air to catch him a glancing blow just below his hip.
He flew through the air and slammed into a tree, the breath exploding from his lungs and his weapons tumbling from his hands as he fell to the ground.
Shouts and cries of terror sounded around Zahariel and he shook his head as he tried to get his bearings once again. He heard his squad crying out in fear and he spat blood as he pushed against the stinking ground and lifted his head.
Though his vision swam crazily, he saw Eliath finally drag himself from beneath his dead mount and Nemiel pick himself up from the beast’s blow to drag himself behind another tree. Attias had snapped from his horrified paralysis and had ridden his horse into the trees, the beast lumbering back towards the tasty morsel of boy and horse.
Zahariel used the tree next to him to haul himself to his feet, feeling a screaming pain in his twisted leg. He searched the ground for his fallen weapons, eventually spying the gleam of sunlight on the steel of his sword. He couldn’t see his pistol, and had no time to look for it.
He grimaced in pain as he swept up his sword and limped towards the clearing, as the beast’s jaws snapped out and bit Attias’s horse in two. The boy flung himself from the saddle just as the monster struck, and landed with a thud on a fallen log, rolling over it, and flopping to the ground in a heap.
Zahariel’s armour hissed as breaches in its structure caused it to fail, the mechanisms of its protective systems grinding and seizing. The full mass of the plate began to weigh heavily on him, and he grimaced in pain as the plates at his hip settled on his hurt leg.
‘Spread out!’ shouted Zahariel. ‘Get to the trees and spread out! Don’t bunch up!’
More pistol shots boomed, and Zahariel saw Pallian run forward to drag Attias back to the trees. The beast leapt over the dead horse and its beak shot out, catching Pallian by the shoulder and wrenching him from his feet.
The boy screamed as he was lifted high into the air, but his screams were cut short as his arm and most of his shoulder was bitten through. He fell, trailing a drizzling arc of blood from the ruin of his body, the curve of his arm moving down the beast’s throat with a horrid peristaltic motion.
Blood geysered from Pallian, and his screams filled the clearing, as the agony overcame the shock of the wound. The beast turned its head back to the fallen boy, its wing-claws slashing twice. Pallian screamed no more.
Zahariel cried out as Pallian was dismembered by the beast, and stepped into the clearing, his vision blurred with tears of pain and terror. He raised his sword and held it unsteadily before him as he faced the monster that he knew would kill him.
He knew that fact with cold certainty, but he could not allow others to suffer and die without at least trying to save them.
‘Get away from them, you bastard,’ he snarled. ‘These are my friends and they’re not for the likes of you!’
The beast looked up, and though its eyes were empty and cold, Zahariel could sense its monstrous hunger to kill. Beyond even what it needed to feed and survive, this creature needed to inflict pain, and took some primitive enjoyment from the act of slaughter.
The beast turned from Pallian’s body and let loose a tremendous roar as it saw Zahariel advancing towards it, his sword aimed at its heart. The beast’s wings rippled, and Zahariel knew what was coming. He brought his sword up as the creature’s right wing slashed towards him.
He swayed aside and swung his sword around in a downward arc that chopped into the wing where the claw began. Milky blood sprayed, and the claw was shorn from the beast, as Zahariel’s leg finally gave out beneath him and he dropped to one knee.
The beast howled in pain and drew back its injured wing, its jaws opening wide as it prepared to end his life. A shadow moved beside Zahariel as the beast lunged forward. The sight of its thousands of teeth filled his vision.
Even as he smelt the rankness of its gullet and saw the scraps of flesh stuck between its teeth, a silver steel blur slashed over his head, as an armoured figure rode past him with a thunder of hooves and a mighty war shout.
A long, heavy-bladed sword stuck edge on into the beast’s mouth, the wielder’s strength and the beast’s momentum driving the blade through its jawbone and into the middle of its skull.
The sword juddered to a halt and the rider released the blade as he rode onwards, expertly wheeling his horse as the beast fell, its lunging body collapsing to the ground before Zahariel.
The rider rode alongside the beast’s skull. He drew a magnificent, rotary barrelled pistol and aimed it at a point between the monster’s eyes. Zahariel watched the hammer draw back and flinched at the percussive bang as the explosive bolt detonated with a hollow boom inside its skull.
Viscous fluids leaked from the monster’s skull and the dark, predatory hunger in its black orbs of eyes was finally extinguished. A last, foetid exhalation gusted from the beast’s mouth, and Zahariel recoiled from the rotten stench.
He looked up as his saviour holstered his pistol. The man wore the dark armour and hooded white surplice of the Order, the front of which was embroidered with the symbol of the downward pointing sword.
‘You are lucky to be alive, my boy,’ said the knight, and Zahariel instantly recognised the commanding tone.
‘Brother Amadis,’ he said. ‘Thank you. You saved my life.’
‘Aye,’ said Amadis, ‘and by the look of it you saved the lives of your friends, Zahariel.’
‘I was… protecting my squad…’ said Zahariel, the last of his strength beginning to fade now that the battle was over.
Amadis swung down from his saddle and caught him as he fell to the grass. ‘Rest, Zahariel,’ said Amadis.
‘No,’ whispered Zahariel. ‘I have to get them home.’
‘Let me do that for you, lad. You’ve done enough for one day.’
‘YOU WERE LUCKY,’ Nemiel would say to him later, ‘but luck can’t be relied upon. It’s a finite resource. One day, it always runs out.’
For years afterwards, whenever Zahariel told the tale of their confrontation with the winged beast, his cousin would always make the same remark. He would say it privately, out of earshot of their brothers, in the arming chamber or beside the practice cages, as though he did not want to embarrass Zahariel in front of others, yet equally he was incapable of letting the matter rest.
Something about the whole affair seemed to have worked its way under Nemiel’s skin, as though the battle had become a source of subdued annoyance to him, even irritation. He never showed it in his face, nor let it invade his tone, but at times it felt as if he were chiding Zahariel in some way, as though he felt compelled to subtly make the point that all of his cousin’s later successes, all of his glories, had been built on a lie.
Zahariel would find this behaviour curious, but he would never raise the issue with his friend. He would do what Nemiel could
not: he would let the matter rest. He would never question Nemiel’s words. He would listen to them, ignore the hidden bitterness, and accept they were well meant. For him to do differently might have endangered their friendship.
‘You were lucky,’ Nemiel would say. ‘If it wasn’t for luck and Brother Amadis, the beast would’ve killed us all.’
Zahariel could not disagree.
A WEEK LATER, Zahariel was made to tell the tale of the fight to his fellow supplicants in the training chambers. Each time he told of how he had stood before the monster, it would always seem a far more thrilling affair than it had been in reality.
It would seem a story of high ideals and grand adventure to his listeners. It was not that he lied about the specifics of it in any way, but he would learn that repetition had a way of softening the edges of human experience. Each telling sounded like a fairy tale or fable.
During the mad, frenetic rush of battle, it had been a life or death struggle, a hard-won victory achieved through the action of blood, sweat and tears. It had been a close-run thing, and to the very end, Zahariel thought the winged beast would kill them all. He thought the last instants of his life were to be spent gazing in horror into the beast’s widening mouth as the black void of its maw expanded to swallow him whole.
If he were to be left any headstone or grave marker, it would take the form of a regurgitated bolus created sometime later, incorporating only those parts of him that were indigestible to his killer.
This was the end he expected. The creature had seemed too strong, too formidable, and far too primal a force to ever be killed.
But for Brother Amadis, those thoughts would have been correct.
He would keep these thoughts from his fellows when he told the tale. He would be asked to tell the story often, but he realised no one wanted to hear of his private doubts. They wanted to hear something more stirring, full of heroic exploits and the expression of valour, something that spoke of the inevitable triumph of good over evil.
It was human nature, he supposed, but his listeners expected him to be the hero of his story. They wanted him to be confident, wise, debonair, unflappable, dashing, handsome, charismatic, even inspiring. The truth was that at the time he had fully expected to fail. He had not allowed that thought to undermine his resolve, but it was there all the same.
Descent of Angels Page 6
