Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2)

by A. J. Grimmelhaus

  Katarina stopped, realising she was scrubbing with too much vigour, the skin surrounding it beginning to turn pink. ‘I expected better of you, frankly. You made friends with one of those creatures, escaped Duke Tirian’s castle,’ she heard her voice rising, ‘and you killed a bloody demon!’ She was screaming now, furious at the man. ‘Wake up! Wake up, damn you!’

  Someone coughed behind her. ‘I don’t think punching him will help, do you?’

  That bloody woman. Katarina uncurled her fists, picking up a dry strip of tunic and gently bandaging Steven’s arm without looking round. It gave her a few moments to compose herself. ‘It was worth a try,’ she said with a glance back to Vixen.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I could hardly make things worse at this point.’

  The northern warrior stepped past Katarina, depositing herself on Steven’s bed like a wolf guarding its cubs. ‘I’m angry with him, too.’

  ‘He should have let the innkeeper die.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure if any of the boy I knew would be left in the man,’ Vixen said. ‘Before he found out about his family’s history – and before the other boys found out, too – he was a sweet boy; bold, adventurous, and kind, always dreaming of being some noble knight.

  ‘Then the other children began to hear about Kur Kraven from their parents, the worst traitor in the world, and Tol became a game – prey for vicious boys.’ Vixen shook her head, her gaze fixed on Steven’s slack face. ‘It hardened him, set him aside from everyone. When his father sent him to the monks at Icepeak… I can’t imagine life was any better for him. Probably just more dangerous.’ She reached over and wrapped her fingers around Katarina’s wrist. Her fingers were thick and calloused – warrior’s hands – but her grip was gentle. ‘Even though it might kill him, I am still glad that some of the boy I knew remains.’

  ‘Then you are a fool. I would rather have him alive.’ Katarina peeled off the Havakkian woman’s fingers. ‘Did you dump the bodies in the river?’

  ‘Yes. It took a while; the innkeeper said there were more guards than usual about.’ Vixen stood, and her eyes roamed over Steven one last time. ‘Do what you can for him,’ she said as she retreated to the door. ‘I will relieve you later.’

  Katarina heard the door creak open. ‘I really don’t know what he sees in you,’ Vixen said as she pulled it closed behind her.

  The feeling is most assuredly mutual.

  Katarina mopped Steven’s feverish brow with another strip of cloth, something the woman had said bothering her. More guards than usual…

  ‘What have you done, Steven?’

  She had a horrible feeling that the idiot had done exactly what she had been afraid he would. ‘But how many of them did you get?’ she murmured.

  Steven had taken the war to the lords, it seemed, and had now brought their assassins to her door. If the two men in the river were the only ones then Katarina would probably be safe, but if another had returned to report to his master…

  Typical! The one time I need Stetch and I’ve sent the damned man away on an errand.

  28.

  The stars wheeled overhead, a slow-moving picture of light twinkling beyond the transparent shell of the geodesic dome. Except… the stars weren’t really moving, not to any visible extent. It was the observer’s location – in this case, the moon called Ammerlac upon which Alimarcus had come to rest – which moved sluggishly through space and gave rise to the illusion of the very stars spinning around it. Kalashadria had been young when her father had explained it, and the explanation had stolen away the magic of the spectacle. Sometimes, though, she could forget the truth long enough to enjoy the display.

  Kalashadria yawned, arching her back and tilting her head up. Nestled in the thick roots of the elora tree, her field of vision shifted, a slender tower of branches and leaves stretching upward towards the dome’s roof. In the spaces between them she could make out the blue-green planet, twirling endlessly in its sedate dance around the sun. Somewhere down there her knight was trying to ensure the survival of both his race and her own. And on the far side of the planet lurked the source of the threat to both races: the slate moon of Griskalor, resting place of Pittvankor, worldholme of the Demhoun-el’teri. They were the architects of the current threat to her knight and the other humans, worshipped as gods by a barbarian culture which was now moving inexorably across the desert to unleash its might on the civilised – by paltry human standards – nations which remained free. Galandor, Kalashadria’s predecessor, had come to believe the Demhoun-el’teri had in mind a long, long plan to repair their worldholme and renew their eradication of Kalashadria’s people, the Anghl’teri; a plan which began with conquest of the nearby human world and would only bear fruit centuries later when the humans possessed sufficient technology to provide the Demhoun with the equipment they needed to repair Pittvankor. And if that happens, the Demhoun will destroy us and then either visit the same fate upon the humans or keep them as pets.

  Or food.

  Kalashadria had charged one man with ensuring the invasion failed, a single, stubborn human who understood the consequences of failure. She stared up through the canopy, wondering how Tol was coping with his new-found responsibilities. They were bound together now; in using his own blood to help her heal, he had unwittingly created a psychic bond between them. Up here on Ammerlac it was fuzzy and indistinct, like a feather tickling the back of Kalashadria’s brain; not strong enough to be useful, but just strong enough to be distracting.

  She rose to her feet, working the kinks out of knotted muscles; there was work to be done.

  ‘It has been calling for you again,’ a disembodied voice informed Kalashadria as she left the bio habitat behind and entered the shining steel corridors of the worldholme. ‘The humans call it “praying”,’ Alimarcus added helpfully.

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘The human claims to have found those responsible for delaying the army’s deployment, and plans to act after sundown.’ Alimarcus paused. ‘The creature seems quite fatalistic about its chances of success.’

  ‘He,’ Kalashadria corrected absently. She bit her lip as she passed deeper into the worldholme. The damage that had left them stranded on the planet’s moon was staggering; Galandor had spent years trying to repair what he could, and now Kalashadria was beginning to appreciate how difficult it had been for him. By the time she had repaired one fault, two more had bloomed, and the only way she could keep the worldholme’s core systems running was with the vast mind of Alimarcus prioritising every task, allocating resources, and scheduling Kalashadria’s day to day life. She was deep within the worldholme now, and here the damage was negligible; the outer layers bearing the brunt of Pittvankor’s assault. It was almost like how life had been before.

  Fatalistic about his chances of success. That was how Alimarcus had put it: clinical and factual, a simple assessment of Tol’s words and the manner in which they were delivered. Kalashadria was concerned though. The human was irritating at times, and he had betrayed her trust, but after what they had gone through in the frozen north Kalashadria had realised Tol Kraven was a lot more capable than he first appeared. And if he thinks he can’t succeed…

  ‘We should have told him,’ she said, ‘let him know what to expect.’

  ‘My answer has not changed,’ Alimarcus informed her. ‘There is no benefit to sharing our suspicions of what is happening.’

  ‘If he knew, he might stand a better chance,’ Kalashadria said.

  ‘No benefit,’ Alimarcus repeated, ‘but a significant chance the human would turn aside from the task if it knew the truth.’

  ‘He,’ Kalashadria shouted. She took a breath and calmed herself. ‘It is not fair,’ she said, moderating her voice. ‘We should have trusted him.’

  ‘Whoever said war was fair?’ Alimarcus admonished. ‘Anyway, it is too late now; I detected the message while you were asleep. By now, the human has begun what he planned.’

  ‘We should have truste
d him,’ Kalashadria muttered.

  ‘Had you really trusted him then you would have ignored me, as you have done countless times before and will no doubt do again. Besides,’ Alimarcus added, ‘you will soon know if your human fails.’

  Kalashadria’s step faltered. ‘I will?’

  ‘Of course. The bond between you may be weak at this remove from his physical form, but death will snap the thread between you. Accounts of previous bonds in your people’s history suggest that this is the kind of thing you will notice.’

  Kalashadria swallowed hard. ‘And what makes you think I have bound him to me?’

  ‘Wherever you go, there are moments when you glance towards the planet – even when you cannot see it nor know where in space it lies. It does not take a vast intelligence like myself to realise that you are staring exactly at the point on the planet where the human is located.’

  Kalashadria started in surprise. Sarcasm? This was something she had never experienced in all her – admittedly few – dealings with the worldholme’s mind. ‘Hardly proof,’ she mumbled, her voice sounding hollow and timid to her own ears.

  ‘You remained on the planet long after your physiology would have shut down as result of the atmospheric toxins,’ Alimarcus told her patiently. ‘Your wandering gaze was not proof, but confirmation of what I already knew.’

  Her legs felt leaden, and Kalashadria leaned against the cold steel wall. ‘I did not initiate it.’

  ‘There are those among the Anghl’teri who would not consider such nuances germane. There are some,’ Alimarcus continued, ‘who would be horrified that you were bested by a human. And others who would wonder why the creature is still alive – perhaps even wonder why you seem concerned for its welfare.’

  ‘It’s not like that! Tol was trying to save me – he did save me – he just didn’t know how his blood would affect…’ Kalashadria frowned. ‘How,’ she asked slowly, ‘did you know his blood would confer a temporary immunity to the toxins on me?’

  ‘Your account of events on the planet, despite missing several important details,’ Alimarcus chided, ‘raised a question surrounding the demhoun’s continued presence. Your description of Klanvahdor’s injuries made the possibility of your enemy returning to Pittvankor unlikely, thus raising the question of a continued, permanent, or semi-permanent demhoun presence on the world. Of course, any extended stay planet-side would expose the creature to the same atmospheric toxins you endured, with the same foreseeable effects. From there it was simply a matter of evaluating how the demhoun-el’teri countered the toxins.’

  Kalashadria exhaled slowly. Countered the toxins. Alimarcus made it sound so clinical, but she realised it was anything but: if any of the demhoun-el’teri stayed on the planet for any length of time they would need to feed on human blood regularly. They would not, she knew, spare the humans’ lives, nor their suffering.

  ‘You should have told me,’ said Alimarcus.

  I was thinking the same thing. Kalashadria pushed herself off the wall. ‘I have work to do.’

  *

  Kalashadria passed the elora tree, one hand idly brushing its smooth trunk. There were many sleeping quarters within the worldholme – all empty now as her kin slept the artificial sleep – but the rooms were cold, functional, and sleep never came easily. Instead, she came to the bio habitat and lay down at the base of the elora tree each night. With the stars overhead and the faint scent of pollen in the air, Kalashadria found it relaxing. It was possible, for a while, to forget everything that had happened, everything that had been lost.

  Sometimes it kept the nightmares at bay.

  Kalashadria walked towards the dome’s centre, verdant foliage surrounding her. Ahead, the green glow terminated along a ragged demarcation, and open space stretched outward to the dome’s wall. The soil was blackened, polluted. Tree stumps dotted the landscape like charcoal anthills; no signs of life anywhere. She fought back the tears; this bleak desolation was an unavoidable reminder of what had happened to her homeworld. Alimarcus had never explained how it had happened, and Kalashadria had been in another part of the worldholme, but some time during the battle with Pittvankor fire had scoured most of the bio habitat. Hundreds of the trees that provided the Anghl’teri with the oxygen they needed and recycled the carbon dioxide were lost in minutes. The tiny green island where Kalashadria slept was all that remained; a fraction of the whole, and barely enough to support a single lifeform. When nothing else critical needed repairing or replacing, it was here that Kalashadria came, doing what she could to remove the charred topsoil, the tree carcasses, and the onyx glass of superheated puddles. Inch by inch, she worked her way across the miles of charred ruination, planting new trees as she went.

  One day, she told herself, it will be as it was: a lush dome full of life. One day there will be enough air to support two people. One day I won’t be alone.

  That was what she promised herself, even though she knew it was many years away at her current rate of progress; long, long, long after her watch ended. She knelt at the edge of the damage and resumed her task. One day this place will be beautiful again.

  29.

  Dawn came, and there was still no sign of Stetch. Katarina had slept fitfully for a few hours, but Steven’s foolishness bothered her more than she would like to admit. She stuck her head into his room, and saw the blonde woman lurking on a chair next to the bed, daubing Steven’s forehead with a sodden scrap of cloth. For some reason, the sight annoyed Katarina, and a tiny sigh of frustration slipped through her lips.

  Vixen turned her head, and offered a tight nod. She looked as tired as Katarina felt.

  ‘No change,’ the warrior said quietly, almost as if she didn’t want to disturb the sleeping dolt.

  Except Steven wasn’t sleeping. He was dying, and Katarina could see in Vixen’s troubled face that the warrior had finally realised this.

  ‘I don’t know what more we can do,’ Vixen said. She looked up at Katarina with a sad, hopeful expression. ‘Do you?’

  ‘No.’

  Vixen wrung out the cloth, and returned to her ministrations. ‘I don’t know why he likes you,’ she said. ‘You don’t even seem to care that he’s dying.’

  Katarina tried to stop picturing herself throttling the woman. She took a deep breath, then another, and refused to rise to the bait. ‘I have read accounts of those who have survived hanwell root poisoning,’ she said. ‘Not many, but very rarely a victim survives.’

  ‘How do we make sure he’s one of them?’

  ‘All we can do is wait. If there was a single antidote that worked it would be known, but from what I recall no two survivors were given the same treatment.’ Katarina shook her head. ‘We wait.’

  Vixen’s shoulders sagged, and Katarina realised that, as annoying as the woman was, she really did care for Steven. Perhaps he wasn’t the same Steven who had blundered into an inn of mercenaries one winter’s night, perhaps not the same Steven who had played in the woods with a young Havakkian girl, but Katarina could see Vixen was distraught. She stood quietly, watching as the warrior turned away, her shoulders bobbing slowly as she shook with grief.

  Gradually Vixen calmed. She spoke quietly, her eyes rooted to Steven’s face. ‘Do you think he can hear us?’

  Katarina hesitated. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘We should read to him.’

  Katarina bit her lip to stop herself telling the woman just how stupid she was being. How can that possibly make a difference? she wondered. Sticking my hand under the covers and giving him a stout tug is just as likely to work. Katarina considered the idea a moment, stifling a giggle as she pictured it, hoping that the idiot woman didn’t turn around before the colour faded from her cheeks. Maybe more likely to succeed.

  ‘Read?’ she asked once she had full control of her voice again.

  ‘Tol’s father sent me halfway around the world to deliver that cursed book to his son,’ Vixen said. ‘Whatever is in there is important. Maybe it’s important enough to bring hi
m back.’

  Are all Havakkians total fools? Katarina wondered as the warrior shifted in her chair and turned towards her. ‘It can’t hurt,’ Vixen added.

  ‘He read the first page,’ Katarina said, ‘and was convinced that nothing good waited in the rest of it. More sorrow will not waken him.’

  ‘No.’ Vixen’s head twitched vigorously. ‘There must be something… He can’t die!’

  ‘All that lives, dies.’ Somehow, though, the prophet’s immortal words didn’t sound so comforting now that it was someone Katarina knew. She watched as Vixen’s broad shoulders stilled. ‘If you were so curious, you could have opened the package at any time.’

  Vixen shrugged. ‘Didn’t seem right. Now…’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Now you’re wondering why you came all this way to deliver a book.’

  Vixen nodded. ‘It has to be important.’ She straightened up. ‘And I want to know what I risked my life for.’

  ‘Steven gave it to me for safekeeping. I am not sure he would want you to read it.’

  ‘I could take it from you.’

  Katarina arched an eyebrow. ‘No, you really couldn’t.’

  The warrior flashed a hollow grin. ‘Oh, I could snap the neck of a Sudalrese lady easy enough, but you’re much more than that, aren’t you?’ She rose and took a step towards Katarina. ‘And you know how I know? Because you didn’t flinch when a Havakkian sword-maiden sat down next to you. Didn’t look even a little bit concerned.’ She was silent a moment. ‘Does Tol know?’

  They stood facing each other now, a few feet apart. Vixen’s gaze was unflinching, and Katarina realised this was one question which the woman would not allow to go unanswered.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. It was half-true.

  ‘Maybe it won’t make a difference, hearing the words his father sent him, but I say it’s worth doing anyway.’ Vixen’s lips curled into cruel smile. ‘And you want to know too, don’t you? You’re just as curious as I am.’