Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2)

by A. J. Grimmelhaus

  ‘I shouldn’t have trusted her.’ Tol told him about Kalashadria’s confession that she had known all along about demons in Meracia and hidden it from him.

  The grizzled knight was quiet a moment. ‘But she did tell you,’ he said. ‘Most would have taken that to the grave.’ He waved a hand. ‘Or wherever it is that angels go to die.’

  ‘Doesn’t make me feel any better.’ Tol felt Kartane watching him with unsettling intensity. ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a lot of men between us and the king,’ Kartane said, keeping his voice low. ‘We need you focused on what we’re doing; we ain’t done and finished yet.’

  ‘I know.’

  Kartane squeezed his shoulder in an awkward fraternal gesture, as if he’d never tried anything like it before. ‘There’ll be time enough to grieve later,’ he said, ‘but we got business to take care of first. Stick to the plan and everything will be fine. Although,’ Kartane added slowly, ‘I still say a distraction might help.’

  Tol saw he was grinning, and couldn’t stop a smile of his own. ‘I heard about your “distraction” last night.’

  ‘Thing of beauty,’ Kartane said with feeling. ‘Really was.’

  ‘I’m not sure it will help.’

  Kartane draped an arm over Tol’s shoulder. ‘Bigger crowd is all,’ he said. ‘I think we’re going to need two of them this time.’

  ‘Maybe just stick to the plan?’

  Kartane took his arm away with a put-upon sigh. ‘You’re really no fun, Kraven. No fun at all.’

  *

  Suranna and Captain Marland led the procession out of the boulevard’s broad mouth, a four hundred foot square of open ground in front of them and a crowd of milling merchants, knights, and guards between them and the council’s enclosed auditorium. This is going to turn bad really fast, Tol thought, taking in the size of the crowd and the huge building where the Council of Lords were due to meet to discuss the King’s call to arms; there were a hundred different ways this could go wrong. Really, really fast.

  Marland came to a halt at the edge of the square, and Tol watched as Suranna whispered in the captain’s ear but earned only a shake of the head. We don’t have time for this. Tol stepped up to the man. The captain, with the sixth sense of long-lived guards, turned swiftly at his approach. ‘This is as far as I’ll take you,’ he said bluntly. ‘Whatever you’re mixed up in, I’ll have no part in it.’

  Tol stared into the man’s eyes and spoke simply. ‘We need to get in there. If we don’t, Meracia will fall to the Gurdal because of traitors who chose power over freedom.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Suranna added, flashing him a dark look. ‘This is Tol Kraven, Knight of Angels, and last night he killed a demon working with our own lords.’

  Captain Marland was silent a moment. ‘Our own people?’ He smoothed his moustache nervously. ‘A real demon? Here?’

  Tol put a hand on the captain’s shoulder. ‘We need to get in there.’

  ‘I might be able to get you past the outer door,’ Captain Marland said, ‘but the rest is up to you. The King’s guards won’t listen to me.’ He tweaked his moustached and smiled weakly. ‘Them and the city watch don’t get on so well.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain. Please, we don’t have any time to waste.’

  Marland gave quick instructions to his men then set off swiftly across the square as if a demon was on his trail. Fear makes a man move quicker, Tol remembered Father Michael telling him. Of course, then the old man had added in that infuriating voice of his, ‘Except for when it doesn’t. Try and be the fearful man that moves, the other kind usually dies.’

  Kartane nudged him as they followed in Marland’s wake. ‘You almost sounded like a real knight.’

  Tol swore, then found he was laughing. ‘Almost,’ he chuckled.

  ‘Really?’ a high voice screeched from behind the bound lord in their wake. ‘You think this is funny?’ Victoria continued in an eerily familiar shrill. ‘Idiot!’

  Kartane leaned in close. ‘Remind you of anyone?’

  ‘Just like her sister,’ Tol muttered.

  ‘Right,’ Kartane said as the crowd opened up before them and a ring of half a dozen guards – all in uniforms bearing the royal crest – came into view. ‘Serious face, lad.’

  Captain Marland strode confidently up to the nearest guard with Suranna at his side while Tol and the others hung back. The captain spoke quietly but Tol could see the guard shaking his head. This isn’t going to work.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he heard Suranna ask.

  ‘Vollia, Dorn Vollia. Why?’

  ‘I am Suranna dol Carasiddio, and if you don’t let me in then I swear on my honour that Meracia will fall.’ She jabbed her head in close. ‘I will make sure everyone knows your name.’

  ‘There’s others at the inner door?’ Marland asked, his tone sympathetic.

  The guard nodded.

  ‘Might be easier to let us through,’ Captain Marland suggested, ‘and let someone else make the decision. Let the head of your squad make the choice, eh?’

  The guard hesitated only a moment then nodded, seemingly relieved. ‘Your men stay here.’ He called to two of his companions and told them to follow the group in.

  Tol took a deep breath and followed Marland as the ring of guards parted. Halfway there.

  *

  The auditorium was as large as any mansion in High Mera. The main building was a giant semicircle seated a hundred yards from the lone bridge leading to the island palace in High Mera’s bay. The curved edge of the circle faced north, away from the palace, and attached to it was a small reception hall – tiny by the standards of Meracian nobility, barely thirty feet wide. From this, a long, narrow corridor stretched north to the main entrance and the open square they had just crossed.

  As Tol crested the last step he gave Suranna’s shoulder a gentle tug and pulled her close. ‘Behind me,’ he whispered. The noblewoman bobbed her head and stepped aside, feigning interest in the crowd behind them. Smart woman, Tol thought as he followed Captain Marland through the oak doors, Kartane close beside him.

  The corridor stretched on for a hundred yards, faded tapestries hanging from the smooth stone walls. Footfalls echoed back and forth off the walls, the sound of their passage the only noise as they left the crowd behind. Tol could see people standing at the far end where mahogany doors varnished to deepest brown stood closed, barring their entrance to the council chamber. We have to get in before it’s too late.

  Captain Marland moved with frustrating slowness, the doors looming larger and larger as Tol approached. Finally, as Tol was readying to knock the captain aside and charge forward, they reached the end of the corridor where two grim-looking Sudalrese men lounging against opposite walls.

  Tol passed them, noticing their disinterested expressions swiftly change as they looked past him to the rest of the party. ‘Mierlé,’ he heard Stetch hiss softly as he passed them. Sworn, Tol realised as the corridor gave way to a square reception area, barely twenty feet across, two guards in royal livery blocking the auditorium’s entrance. To his right two more Sudalrese men stood, eyes slowly tracking the new arrivals. Tol came to a stop behind Marland’s right shoulder as the captain made his case, pleading with the sentinels at first, his voice gradually becoming desperate. This isn’t going to work. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw the two Sworn men from the corridor coming up silently behind the two palace escorts. He caught Kartane’s eye, and the knight smiled and winked. Tol nodded and the two of them leapt past Marland, fists hammering the palace guards in unison, their ceremonial pikes hitting the stone floor with a loud clatter, the guards following their pikes to the ground a moment later. Tol spun round, but the two guards who had followed them weren’t standing, two of the Sworn standing in their places with cheerful expressions.

  ‘Are you mad?’

  Tol squeezed Marland’s shoulder. ‘It might be best if you stay here,’ he said.

  The captain opened his mouth, and Stetch punch
ed him in the side of the head, Marland crumpling to the floor.

  Stetch smiled. ‘You’re welcome.’

  Tol glanced around at his companions. ‘Ready?’ Timid nods – and a broad grin from Stetch – answered him, the four Sworn men crowding round to join them. Tol turned, put a hand on the right door, and waited as Kartane put a shoulder to the left door. ‘For Galandor,’ Kartane whispered.

  They pushed the double doors open at the same time, and stumbled into a shadowed corridor. Tol looked up and saw, high above, the pinnacle of tiered seats that followed the semicircular curve of the wall to either side of him. The seats dropped progressively, each tier lower than the last, right down to the front row some forty feet ahead of him; he could just make out the shoulder of some lord on the front row. He paused a moment, their entry hidden by the deep shadows cast by the upper tier. Beyond the front seats, Tol could see a semicircular open space, its bisected centre lined by a raised dais that ran alongside the high glass panels of the outer wall. Beyond it, Tol could see the sun sparkling off High Mera’s bay, the Royal Palace rising out of the shimmering waters – a huge reminder to the lords of Meracia as to where true power really lay. He suspected it was no accident that the council met in the shadow of the king’s palace.

  Nobody came charging down the aisle, and Tol realised that their entry had gone unnoticed. It won’t last much longer, he thought. He moved quickly between the tiered seats, unseen by the lords who sat high above, the back rows forty feet off the ground. Tol increased his pace as the broken ring of seats grew progressively lower. Soon, he knew, he would be seen, and if the king’s guards cornered him before he got out into the open he couldn’t see things ending well. He hurried faster, worn leather boots silent on the smooth stone, and emerged in the gap between the front row, the lords seated to either side of him turning at Tol’s arrival. A dozen of the king’s guards were already moving, crossing the open space toward him.

  ‘Meracia has been betrayed by its lords,’ he shouted, voice booming out across the space. Kartane caught up with him as Tol stopped a few yards paces into the chamber floor. Stetch was a second behind him, drawing level with the prisoner and yanking the cloak’s hood back to expose Drayken’s gagged face. Stetch smiled, and raised a dagger to the lord’s throat

  The king’s guards hesitated as the lords recognised Stetch’s captive, a blathering din rolling across the auditorium like dull thunder. The guards fanned out, forming a curved line between Tol and the throne as a figure next to the king pounded his staff of office against the stone floor. Slowly the cries of indignation faded to silence.

  Tol seized his chance. ‘This man has betrayed you all,’ he shouted towards the king. ‘He conspired with demons to topple Meracia and gain power for himself.’

  The roars of anger and disbelief erupted before Tol could say any more, fading as the chamberlain exhausted himself thumping his staff against the ground. The king rose from his throne, his face unreadable. ‘That is the second accusation of treason I have heard this morning. Have you proof?’

  Kartane pressed a sack into his hands and Tol hurled it over the heads of the king’s guards. He heard it bounce with a dull thump, slowly rolling to a stop just short of the king. A flash of white caught Tol’s eyes to the left of the dais. He tilted his head and saw an old man in church grey standing quietly at the back next to the glass panels. Four knights in the cleanest white tabards Tol had ever seen flanked the old man, the device on their chests identical to the one on Tol’s own. The First Father? he wondered

  One of the king’s advisers descended the steps. He paused over the sack a moment then emptied its contents over the polished white floor, a chorus of disbelief echoing through the chamber as a bloody, black mess stared up at Meracia’s king.

  ‘The rest of the demon is in a cabin on Drayken’s estate,’ Tol said, ‘along with the bones of High Mera’s abducted citizens.’

  The king stepped forward, descending the first step and studying the severed head as hushed whispers drifted through the auditorium like the gentle lullaby of high tide on a summer’s eve. The king looked up, a harsh glance silencing the lords. He pushed his adviser aside, and approached the line of guards, hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘Persuasive,’ King Rodera said, ‘but any of my subjects would know it is not proof enough of guilt.’ He stepped closer, and Tol watched him over the shoulder of the guard facing him. He could see the resemblance with Julien, that same straight nose and pronounced, almost feminine, cheekbones. The hair, too, was similar, though middle age had taken some of the lustre from the father’s.

  ‘A knight, by your garb,’ King Rodera said, his eyes never wavering as he came within six feet of his guards, ‘but surely not Meracian.’ He cocked his head. ‘Who are you?’

  Tol opened his mouth, distracted by a faint scuffle, his head turning to see Victoria step around Stetch and stand in front of Drayken. ‘He is Tol Kraven, Knight of Angels,’ Victoria said, her voice taut and shrill. Just like Katarina. She raised herself to her full height, and stared fiercely at the king, undaunted by her appearance or the bruised and pulped face she presented.

  ‘Victoria?’ King Rodera stepped forward, his careful mask slipping. ‘Julien – what happened? Who did that to you?’

  ‘We were attacked, Your Majesty, the prince’s bodyguard slain. When I awoke I was in Drayken’s house,’ she finished quietly, her shoulders trembling slightly.

  ‘What of my son?’

  Victoria raised her arm and pointed at the demon’s head. ‘With the rest of that.’

  The king sagged as the entire auditorium fell silent. A plaintive sigh escaped him then the king raised his head, returning his attention to Tol. ‘You were there?’

  Tol nodded. ‘He fought bravely, but the demon slew him.’

  The king’s eyes sought out Drayken. ‘The bribery of my lords – something I had to hear from the Sudalrese ambassador rather than my own loyal vassals – the presence of a demon outside my city and the kidnap and murder of my son – there can be no doubt of your involvement, Drayken.’ The king stepped forward right up to the line of guards and glared over them at the captured lord. Tol’s gaze flicked to the right end of the dais, where a portly man shifted nervously from one foot to the other. He was, Tol noticed, on the far side of the throne to the First Father, about as far away as possible. The man’s nervous eyes kept darting to Tol’s makeshift party, studying each in turn. Except, Tol noticed, Stetch. The Sudalrese ambassador, he realised. That’s why there were Sworn outside.

  ‘You will confess it all, and you will do it here and now,’ King Rodera told Drayken, his voice flat and cold. ‘Remove his gag.’

  Tol yanked the strip of cloth from Drayken’s mouth, watching carefully as the man’s jaw flapped uselessly for a few moments as Drayken searched for the right words. ‘I had no choice,’ he said finally, the lords roaring in dismay and anger.

  Tol grabbed his arm, fingers digging deep into Drayken’s loose flesh. ‘No choice?’ he hissed. ‘Good people died because of you, the war might already be lost because of you! You can’t blame this on the demons,’ he said, shaking Drayken by the arm.

  ‘Not them,’ Drayken stammered. ‘He killed his own wife, just to show us how serious he was. Not for any reason, just to prove a point.’ The room fell silent, the crowd perfectly still; killing a lord was one thing guaranteed to unite the nobility. ‘I found a note on my pillow one morning – the others did, too.’ Drayken shook his head. ‘He could get to us, any of us. I didn’t meet the demon until later and by then it was already too late to back out.’

  King Rodera didn’t flinch. ‘Who?’

  ‘Calderon. Ren Calderon.’

  Tol heard the impact and turned as Drayken crashed to the ground, felled by Stetch. The two of them stared at each other, and Tol saw the horror on Stetch’s face just as he realised what Drayken’s words meant. ‘Katarina!’

  Tol spun, shoving the others aside and sprinting back towards the exit, S
tetch already a yard ahead of him. ‘Watch her,’ Stetch barked at one of the Sworn as he passed them. Tol ran after him, ignoring the shouts erupting from everyone around them as Calderon’s words echoed through his mind. We left her with him!

  *

  Tol’s lungs were burning as he and Stetch raced towards the docks, treading the same road that had brought them into the city and Tol’s first encounter with Suranna.

  It’s my fault.

  They had been running since learning that the mastermind of the Meracian treason was Lord Calderon, supposed ally of the Black Duke and the man in whose keeping they had left Katarina. The pair had stormed through his mansion, but had found no sign of Calderon nor Katarina. Splitting up, they searched room to room until Tol heard the screams. He followed them to their source and found Stetch in the kitchen, a terrified maid pinned against the wall with Stetch’s hand tight round her throat. From her they had learned that Calderon and his manservant had left for the docks.

  She has to be with them, Tol thought as he ran. Maybe they moved her to the ship during the night. It was all he had, a hope that Katarina’s body wouldn’t be found floating in the bay, that Calderon had some use for her and needed her – at least for the moment – alive. A slim hope.

  She was difficult, an intelligent, headstrong woman who didn’t suffer fools easily and felt compelled to remind them in her own acerbic manner. A spy, but one who, it seemed, had been a truer friend than any to Tol. Katarina, unlike Kalashadria, had not betrayed him, had not lied to him.

  They burst out onto the docks, the pain building in Tol’s chest as he pushed his body to its limit, Stetch breathing hard two strides ahead of him. Katarina’s bodyguard veered left as they neared the water and they raced past the moored ships, a poor selection of fishing vessels and heavy, unwieldy merchant ships – all that remained in the city while High Mera’s fastest ships ferried men and supplies across the sea to the Spur where the army was slowly forming in response to the Gurdal threat.

  On and on Tol ran, ignoring the bustling sailors and dock workers, his eyes focused on the ships to his right. There was nothing fast, nothing that might bear a traitorous lord and his prisoner. Tol stumbled to a halt as he reached the end of the docks, Stetch bent double beside him, hands on his thighs. Tol looked east across the bay. On the far side he could make out the tiny masts of vessels berthed at the city’s other harbour. He felt lightheaded as he turned his gaze. The mid-morning sun sparkled on the clear blue sea, and in its midst of the horizon he saw a single vessel – already small in the distance – sailing swiftly away from the city.