Tol shivered. If that first man had been telling the truth then the abbot was dead, him and everyone else at the abbey. Tol knelt down and wiped the blade down on the nearest corpse. It was light, so light it hardly felt like a sword at all, more like a feather, but its edge was keen, and that, more than anything, was what mattered. That and the damned thing not freezing in the scabbard.
He retrieved his dagger from the dead man’s thigh, and then began searching the bodies. He stopped at the second man he’d killed, the one who’d boasted about killing the others, the one who’d called him a coward. It wasn’t the worst name he’d ever been called.
Tol rolled the body over with a foot. He found a couple of coins and a red strip of cloth, but no written instructions, nothing to tell him who they were or what they wanted. Tol stood up. ‘They weren’t my friends,’ he muttered. He kicked the corpse. ‘I hope they took your friends.’
He moved back to the man he’d dropped down on, and found the same: a couple of coins, a strip of red cloth, and no instructions.
Why red? Tol wondered as he shuffled back towards the fire and retrieved his furs. He crouched down, hands as close to the flames as he could bear.
They should have gone straight to the convent, he thought. Why come after me?
Tol stared at the flames until only red embers remained.
Red.
The Band of Blood, Tol realised, the most feared butchers in the world, men who came and went unseen, leaving only bodies in their wake. He glanced over at the bodies. Those strips of cloth are how they identify each other in the middle of battle.
He tottered to his feet and kicked dirt over the embers.
He knew. The bloody abbot knew it was them.
6.
The Jolly Roger Inn was the only stopping point for travellers along the North Road, the only respite from the god-sized blanket of snow and cold that the Norvek people would probably describe as chilly. Sitting in one corner near the roaring fire, Katarina pondered her surroundings. She had travelled east along the North Road all afternoon and late into the evening, finally reaching the inn shortly after nightfall. It was a lowly place, this inn: ramshackle, windswept, and ice-cracked. The rough wooden floorboards were stained in many places with what looked like wine, but Katarina felt sure it was something altogether more precious. The tables and chairs were worn but still held nail-sized splinters for the unwary rump and a smattering of lanterns hung precariously from the walls, augmenting the orange light of the fire and casting strange shadows across the floor. Nestling in the corner, she watched the only other patrons, four dour men seated further along the wall on the opposite side of the fire. They had been watching her since her entrance, and with more than idle curiosity.
Where is he? she wondered. Stetch should have caught up by now. Something might have happened to him, although Katarina doubted it. While she knew next to nothing about his prowess, he was of the Sworn, and even the weakest among the order was a master with a blade. Perhaps he was taking his time to annoy her. They had almost reached the inn when she saw the tracks heading north into the woods. Stetch had certainly made quite a fuss about being separated from her and had only relented when she told him that if he didn’t follow the trail then she would. That had shut him up, and faced with allowing her to walk into certain danger, or just likely danger, Stetch had been left with little choice but to agree to Katarina’s demands.
The problem was that now she was, to all appearances, travelling alone, and the four armed men in the corner did not have good intentions. The stout owner of the inn lurked behind the bar on the far wall, his hand no doubt close to a cudgel underneath the planed ash. The innkeeper, though, knew as well as Katarina that he could not stop all four men if they chose to make trouble. Two of them were scarred, a third was missing several fingers, and the last looked cunning as a weasel. Katarina guessed the innkeeper would make a token gesture with the cudgel, enough to give the four pause for thought, but not enough that they would choose to kill him. Which doesn’t really help me, she thought.
She lowered her eyes to the mug of mead on the table, keeping the four men in her periphery. They kept glancing at her when they thought she wasn’t looking, but just as often their gaze slipped to the entrance. A thought had crept into Katarina’s mind, one that explained the presence of the ruffians all too well.
They were muttering darkly between themselves now, casting surreptitious glances at her, hands drifting unconsciously to sword hilts. I see where this is going, Katarina thought sourly. She had been in the inn less than five minutes and already trouble had found her. Typical, the one time I need him and Stetch is nowhere to be found.
One of the men stood, allowing the weasel-faced one to slide out from the bench. He sauntered across the inn as if he owned it, one companion following and hovering behind his shoulder while the other two stared hungrily across the inn.
‘My lady,’ Weasel-Face said with a mocking bow. ‘The North road ain’t no place for a woman travellin’ on her own. What business do y’ have here?’
Katarina glared at the man as he rested one palm on the table and leaned in closer - close enough the number of ways she could kill him had just doubled. She bit her lip, and considered her options. Three others. All armed.
He leaned a little further forward. ‘Well? Lost your tongue, love?’
‘Leave the lady alone.’
Katarina held her breath and tried to maintain her composure. He’s alive. She heard footsteps, echoing from the back room. His voice hadn’t changed.
Weasel-Face turned as the speaker entered the room. ‘Just askin’ the lady a question,’ he said.
Katarina saw a slight flicker of recognition, a twitch of his cheek as he came towards her. There was something terribly, terribly wrong with his face.
‘I hardly think the lady was quartered at the monastery, do you?
‘I just thought—’
‘No,’ Valdur said, ‘you did not think, Arnor, and that is the problem. In future leave the thinking to me.’ He ignored weasel-faced Arnor, and let his gaze settle on Katarina. ‘I apologise, my lady, but my companions and I are searching for a… a friend who ran away from a monastery. The lads are rather prone to rashness.’
Katarina studied him a moment. The moustache looked truly terrible. She nodded. ‘Thank you. You may leave me now.’
Arnor wouldn’t let it go. ‘Don’t you think it strange, Val, a lady being out on the road alone and all?’
‘Yeah, these are dangerous lands,’ his companion sniggered.
‘And Kenzin did say we was supposed to look for lone travellers, didn’t he?’ Arnor nodded in satisfaction, as though pleased he had remembered something.
The two men still seated across the room nodded sagely in support, and Katarina waited, knowing that any moment now her cousin would ask her about her journey. Valdur had tried to avoid it, but with a bunch as paranoid as this it would be suspicious if he continued defending her. But what do I say? Stetch should be here soon, but if he’s not quick it might be too late.
A blast of icy air flooded the room, the candles shivering as the door opened and a fur-clad figure hurried inside, eyes sweeping the room. And with him came an opportunity, an idea unfolding in Katarina’s mind that might just save her skin.
*
The dead stayed with him. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the images of the three men dying, blood pooling bright on virgin snow. He almost missed his destination, drawing level with the building’s door before he noticed the weak light coming from within.
Tol staggered over to the door, roughly opening it and hurrying inside. He closed the door behind him, chilled brain catching up with what his eyes were telling him.
Oh, bugger.
Seven pairs of eyes fixed on Tol as his hood fell back. Of them all, the innkeeper looked the least murderous but Tol still wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley. Or anywhere else.
He barely had time to think before a small foreign w
oman shot out from one of the tables, sprinting across the room and throwing herself into his arms.
‘Darling!’ she squealed, ‘I thought you would never get here!’
She pulled him close, so Tol was tilting forward, bent low enough for her to whisper in his ear. ‘Those men are looking for lone travellers from the west. Pretend we are together and they will leave us be.’ She kissed him on the cheek. It was the first warmth he’d felt all day. ‘Trust me,’ she hissed.
Tol stood there, dumbstruck, as the woman pulled away and he got a proper look at her. Her skin was gleaming copper, accentuating the perfection of her angular face and the dark, full eyes that bored into him. Full lips hung below a large bulbous nose and her long dark hair fell past her shoulders, flickering in the candlelight as if shadows fought amongst themselves within its dark folds.
‘You must be cold, darling,’ she said loudly, taking Tol’s hand and leading him towards her table. ‘Innkeeper, a mug of mead for my betrothed, if you would.’
Tol’s heart thumped wildly in his chest, hand itching to draw the sword at his hip as the woman led him past the group of mercenaries, two of them standing between him and the woman’s table, a third leaning against the wall beside it. The men were still staring at Tol as she barged past one of them and slid gracefully down onto the bench. She waved Tol to the seat opposite her, thrusting her chin out as she addressed one of the men hovering next to the table.
‘I thank you for your concern,’ she said haughtily as Tol shucked off his pack and let it drop to the floor. ‘My beloved and I were due to travel tomorrow but we had a frightful row this morning and I was so upset I departed early. By the time I regained my wits I was too far from Findhel to return. Can you ever forgive me, Steven?’
Tol stared at her for a second as their eyes met, and realised she was talking to him. ‘Of course,’ he muttered, certain that it wasn’t just the fire bringing colour to his cheeks.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she simpered, ‘you must be frozen.’
Tol grunted, but it didn’t seem to faze the woman as she continued talking rapidly, more than enough for both of them. ‘I was so silly, dear, and over such a trivial little argument. I thought my manservant would be here by now, but I think the weight of all my clothes might have slowed him down.’
Tol nodded, muttering something placating as his new companion continued, carefully watching the men as they returned to their table. He noticed that she, too, was watching them. ‘Mind you, he is such a slothful fellow that it wouldn’t surprise me if he was carousing somewhere. I’ve caught him doing it before, you know, and he has such sneaky eyes. I think once we are married we may have to get rid of him.’
Who is she? Tol thought as the woman continued babbling inanely, finally falling quiet as the innkeeper deposited a meagre mug of mead in front of Tol.
‘You must be hungry, Steven. Would you be so good as to rustle up some stew for my beloved and I?’ she asked the innkeeper. Without waiting for an answer, the woman slid out from the table. ‘We shall retire to the dining room. Come along, darling, you’re frozen cold.’ She paused a moment, looking back. ‘Come along, dear, and don’t forget your drink.’
Powerless to refuse, Tol stood up, collecting his pack and following the strange woman through a doorway to the back room of the inn where a few unsteady things that had once been tables lurked, and a tiny fire glowered in one corner. There was no doubt in his mind that the men were here searching for him, but why had this woman come to his aid? The ruse seemed to have worked; none of the men had followed them into the dining room.
Tol plopped himself down on the chair facing his saviour, staring thoughtfully at her. There were long seconds of silence, and Tol was aware of his heavy breathing, the soft crackling of the dying fire and the deep breaths of his companion that forced her bodice to breaking point. His eyes were drawn to her tight fitting tunic, mesmerised by its rhythmic expansions and contractions.
His eyes flicked up to meet her iron gaze as he heard her tsk.
‘My name,’ she said, ‘is Katarina, and I have just saved your life.’
‘Tol,’ he mumbled, ‘Tol Kraven.’
Katarina’s eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘Steven suits you better. I shall call you Steven.’
Tol’s gaze narrowed and he thumped the table with his fist. ‘My name is Tol,’ he growled.
‘If you bring them in here,’ she said as though talking to a child, ‘and if they know you have a different name to the one I used, then there will be difficult questions. If you are the person they seek, there is also the possibility they already know your name, yes?’
She tilted her head. ‘So, Steven, are you going to thank me?’
‘Why did you help me? And how do you know it’s me they’re looking for?’
She sighed, nails rapping the table top in annoyance. ‘My companion has been delayed and those men were beginning to irritate me with foolish questions. Better for them to think I am not alone.’
The drumming stopped and Katarina stared at Tol, her lips scrunching into an O. ‘I came past Icepeak on my journey here. Some of their fellows were coming down the mountain path, and it looked rather like they had been up to no good.’ She leaned back in her chair, eyes watching Tol carefully. ‘From their rather inept questions, it seems they are looking for someone that escaped before their murder began.’ A hand lazily brushed her hair back over her shoulder, and it reminded Tol of a cat preening itself. ‘There are not many people on the road this time of year so I guessed you are the one that they are looking for.’ She leaned in closer, her voice a whisper. ‘You are the one that ran.’
‘I didn’t run,’ Tol growled.
She nodded in satisfaction. ‘But you are the one they seek, otherwise you would have denied it first.’
Tol couldn’t argue with the woman’s reasoning. She was, after all, right. Damn me for a fool! I should have thought first.
The innkeeper hobbled in, two plates of steaming stew in his hands. He deposited them on the table with a clatter, favouring Katarina with a smile as she bestowed her thanks upon him.
‘I assume you are heading east?’
Tol was already halfway through his meal, wolfing it down. He paused, nodded, and resumed eating the stew as he tried to think. How much can I tell her? Can I trust her? He wanted to, but the abbot had been clear: trust only the Seven of the Reve. There was a faint accent to her voice, Sudalrese if he was right.
‘East, yes.’ He resumed his assault on the stew, eyes flicking up now and then to peer at Katarina as she delicately spooned stew into her mouth, somehow without even spilling a drop. That’s a real lady, all right.
‘As am I. We should leave together in the morning so as not to draw suspicion to ourselves.’
‘Sure.’
‘You will have to stay in my room tonight, else those men will get suspicious.’
Tol sputtered, a dribble of stew trickling down his chin. He hurriedly wiped it with a sleeve. What?
Katarina, stew finished, stood. ‘Do not get any ideas, Steven. You will sleep on the floor.’ She smoothed down her tunic and tucked the chair back under the table. ‘My room is the first on the left at the top of the stairs.’
She took a couple of steps then glanced back. ‘Knock twice,’ she quietly, ‘then once again.’
Tol frowned. ‘You mean three times?’
She scowled, turned and drifted up the back stairs like smoke. He heard the soft echo of her voice from the stairwell. ‘Prophet save me from fools.’
Tol stared after her for a long time, his stew cold by the time he returned to it. He ate it anyway, then headed towards the stairs. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was exchanging one kind of danger for another.
7.
Tol woke just as the boot connected with his side. He opened his eyes, instinct already sending him rolling away from the blow. He was already in a crouch, dagger in his hand, as he got his first proper look at his attacker, a stone-faced man with dark, broodi
ng eyes. He looked faintly surprised Tol had reacted so quickly.
Try living in an abbey full of boys who think the world’s better without you, he thought.
‘I said wake him up, not assault him, Stetch.’
Tol blinked and stifled a yawn. The sky was still dark outside, but Katarina was standing by the door, fully dressed and scowling at the stranger.
The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘He’s awake.’
She sighed. ‘Please put that away, Steven. This is my manservant, Stetch.’
Tol slid the blade back home, and rubbed his eyes. Normally he would have awoken before the boot made contact, but clearly yesterday’s exertions had taken their toll on him. When had the manservant got to the inn? Tol must have slept through his arrival. He had, unusually, dreamed. A strange dream about angels, the details of which he couldn’t quite recall. He felt oddly tranquil, though, despite the rude awakening. He glared as balefully as he could at Katarina. ‘My name,’ he growled, ‘is Tol Kraven.’
‘Neither of which are good names,’ Katarina told him. ‘I much prefer Steven and that is what I shall call you; it suits you better.’
Tol sighed, frowning as he saw his pack. It had been opened, he was sure of it. It was in the same place but it looked like it had been repacked. ‘You went through my things.’
‘Stetch was concerned that you might be in possession of something dangerous that could get us killed by those men. He felt obliged to check.’
Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1) Page 4
