Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1)

by A. J. Grimmelhaus

  ‘You think it’s coincidence?’ Kur shouted as the first volley of arrows flew over our heads and into the charging Gurdal. ‘If Grenellian’s the only one to survive this, sure as my balls are hairy he’ll say it was his tactics that won it.’

  There was no more time for talk after that as the first wave crashed into us, the Gurdal trying frantically to get close enough that they would be safe from the quivering stream of arrows turning the sky black. I like to think that Kraven carried on cursing Grenellian as the battle ran its course, though I doubt he had the energy. There were times when I was certain I heard his voice shouting obscenities, but it may just have been the battle-lust upon him.

  We gave ground slowly, every inch paid in blood from both sides. There seemed no end to the horde of Gurdal warriors, and even the Meracian archers could not continue forever. Soon, I knew, they would run out of arrows and every defender knew what that would herald. Somehow we fought them to a standstill, a clotted mass of steel and boiled leather, caked in blood and pressed in on itself that the enemy threw themselves against without regard for their own lives. They could not break us though, and that was when he came. It happened like a dream, the clamour of battle abruptly ceasing as a large black shape forced its way through the Gurdal, head and shoulders above the tallest of them. The first sounds were those of men crying out in fear, some openly weeping as the winged horror edged its way through the army, arrows bouncing off its dull hide like pebbles hurled against a mountain. Demmegrahk, demon-god of the Gurdal, had arrived, and every man there knew true despair.

  The Gurdal assault slowed as they sensed their god-king among them. Amidst it all I caught a glimpse over my opponent’s helm, a split-second slash of white against the steaming horizon. I thought – as much as I could with the storm raging round me – it a portly white dove, as lost as the men who fought and died on the simmering sands. A moment later I spied it again, larger now and arrowing over the massed ranks of the Gurdal: a man-shape, but with wings, and white as virgin snow. The majesty of such a sight lifted my spirits and those among my companions who had seen it also. I blinked the stinging sweat from my eyes and suddenly it was sweeping over the front ranks, a gleaming silver sword in its hand as it swooped over Demmegrahk, steel flicking out like a tongue to lick the demon’s neck. Whether the stares of the defenders, or shouts from his minions, or some other instinct alerted him, Demmegrahk span at the last moment, the double-edged axe in his hand snapping up with impossible speed to block the unseen blow. The two weapons met with a chime like glass shattering, and the ivory creature spun sideways in mid-flight, twirling round as he hit the sand with such force as to create a miniature sandstorm that blinded those closest to the impact and knocked many from their feet. Sand and air blossomed outwards and my companions and I were knocked flat on our backs, sand in our throats and eyes.

  Kur hauled me to my feet, the pair of us coughing and spluttering as the dust cleared. The Gurdal had suffered the worst at the creature’s impact, and those knocked down were crawling as far away from the two combatants as they could. The white-winged creature was already on his feet, sword in hand and feathered wings tucked behind his back as Demmegrahk advanced, his axe spinning lazily in a figure of eight pattern. The battle had ceased, and a hush fell all around as the white warrior and demon drew near each other. We were pressed tight, shoulder to shoulder, and although the pair were sixty feet away it did not feel anywhere near far enough. Demmegrahk approached to within a dozen feet of his opponent and there the pair stood for long seconds, staring at each other as though a battle of wills would decide the outcome of this duel. He grinned, ochre fangs showing, and loosed an abrupt snarl. They leaped at each other simultaneously, the movements of both so fast that I could hardly keep track of their hands. The demon’s axe was huge, yet the beast moved it with such dexterity it might as well have been tinder. In comparison, his opponent’s sword looked as a child’s toy, though any man among us would have called it an oversized broadsword. The two weapons clashed again and again in dizzying succession, the bird-like chimes tinkling like a haphazard melody. I was sure the sword would shatter into a thousand shining shards yet it withstood every mighty blow, never bending, never breaking, and its wielder parried every strike and stroke as Demmegrahk’s attacks grew ever more furious. No man – not even the greatest among us – could have stood firm against such an onslaught and eventually, when a mere mortal would have collapsed from exhaustion, the pace of the fight eased as both tired.

  ‘Five gold on the pigeon-man,’ Kraven coughed next to me, his voice sounding loud in the stillness broken only by the ring of steel on steel. I was too entranced with the battle to respond, a sinking feeling growing in my stomach as the two strange creatures fought on. The demon had the advantage, pace by pace forcing his opponent back until a bare twelve feet from myself and the front rank of the Meracian army. Even Kraven stayed quiet as the blows continued. He, too, could see the fight’s end and knew also that when the demon despatched its foe, it would come for us next. The strange winged man, in appearance the very opposite of Demmegrahk, was all that stood between us and the demon-god, a creature unlike any ever seen or dreamed. The demon swung its mighty axe again, a looping uppercut that would shear its ivory opponent’s head clean off. The winged man was expecting it, his sword dipping at an angle to guide the axe over his head even as he ducked. The demon-god reversed the swing, but in that split second the winged man struck, shining blade slashing deep into the black flesh below Demmegrahk’s shoulder.

  The demon-god screamed in some unholy foreign tongue as steam and ichor poured forth from its wound. One hand slipped from its axe haft, yet it still blocked the second blow. A third blow knocked Demmegrahk off balance, the demon-god toppling backwards with its shadowy wings unfurling. Seizing the opportunity, the demon’s pale opponent leaped forwards to deliver the killing blow. We watched, entranced, knowing that the death of the demon-god would break the Gurdal’s spirit.

  A dark shadow hurtled out from the Gurdal ranks, knocking the tightly-pressed warriors aside. It sprang forward faster than a mountain lion, feet barely touching the burning sand. Before any could utter a warning, it was already upon the ivory warrior, unleashing an ear-piercing howl as it came to the defence of Demmegrahk with a scything sweep of a jagged black sword that broke through the hurried defence of our saviour. The blow knocked our defender from its feet and sent it flying backwards, looping spatter of blood following in its wake. The demon-god’s minion was smaller than its master, yet no less terrifying in appearance. Its torso was overly large and swollen around the chest, muscle and sinew roiling beneath the dark hide. Two thin wings sprouted from its back, unfurling with a creak as the creature positioned itself in front of its injured master. Its head was grotesquely misshapen, a prominent jaw opened wide and showing the yellowed spears within. Deep-set eyes hid beneath a ridge of thick cartilage that acted as a brow, and black pupils glared out from blood-red irises. It took a step towards away from its injured master, a step towards us and the strange winged man lying on the sand in front of us.

  None of us moved as we saw the ruined form of its prey struggling to rise, thick rivulets of blood marring its beautiful ivory skin. Another step closer, and still the demon’s wounded opponent struggled to rise. I swear I heard the wind howl then, as if Nature herself lamented the murder about to occur. And then, in its wake, a soft sigh, like an echo.

  ‘You’ll not have the pigeon-man,’ a voice called out beside me as I felt the sand stir beneath boots. He strode forward with his usual swagger as if facing nothing more than a tavern brawl, and planted himself firmly between the two creatures. Kur Kraven, counted insane even among the Havakkians, raised his sword and prepared to face the monstrosity alone. Never have I seen such stupid bravery, and I doubt any ever shall again, for all who gazed upon the demon knew fear and felt the cold approach of death. The demon stepped forward with a howl of laughter, yet Kur Kraven stood his ground and faced it alone. It struck out laz
ily, barely exerting itself as it toyed with Kraven, grunting in surprise as he rained down two blows against its hide in quick succession. Neither pierced the chitinous skin, but for a moment the demon’s jaw fell open in slack surprise at the speed and temerity of its opponent. Then it launched a devastating counter-attack, swinging with wild glee and laughing as it staggered Kraven again and again. Its last blow rent the side of his armour and the demon raised its torso-thick leg, clawed foot slamming into Kraven’s chest and knocking him flying.

  I stepped forward, and felt others move in my wake, a small group of us barring the demon’s path. It smiled and stepped forward, and we threw ourselves upon the foul creature. Two knights hammered the creature so hard that their swords broke, and another’s shattered against the black blade of the demon. Somehow I got the tip of my sword wedged in its armpit where two thick plates of stony flesh met. The demon howled and swung its blade wildly, striking my own and knocking me backwards. My sword slipped from my grip, the tip broken off in the demon’s hide, and I landed unceremoniously in a heap a few feet from the creature we sought to defend. My cousin, Sir Balor, stepped forward to delay the demon as it howled with rage and pressed forward anew, but it cut him in twain with a mighty blow. I clambered to my knees, weaponless, and glanced back as Kraven called my name. He was on all fours, the imprint of a clawed foot in his breastplate, and spitting up blood. He grinned, face a bloody mask, picked up a sword and hurled it towards me with all his waning strength. I snatched for it as the demon’s shadow fell upon me and with my last reserve of energy I sprang upwards, thrusting the sword-point ahead of me at the charging demon. It ran onto the tip with a scream worse than any a man could imagine, and its momentum forced me back as the blade pierced the centre of its chest. It writhed and screamed, yet I held on, thrusting it deeper and twisting the blade. It coughed blood like acid that rained upon my face and I screamed, yanking the sword out and spinning on my heel with a grace I could never again duplicate. My eyes half-shut, I spun a full circle and felt a dull impact that barely slowed the blade’s path as I saw the demon’s head topple from its neck and blood rained down on me anew. The corpse fell slowly to the sand, fighting its destiny to the last, and silence filled the air as the Gurdal looked on with horror at the death of one of their god’s minions. Only then, as panic took hold of the ranks, did General Grenellian open the east and west gates, releasing the reserve billeted within the city and unleashing them upon the fraying flanks. I looked down upon the sword in my hands, ichor fleeing its shining face, and realised that it was the mighty weapon of the creature that we defended, hurled at me by Kraven, whose own weapons were already shattered. An angel’s weapon, I learned, and one so perfectly balanced I knew any human blade in my hands would forever feel clumsy and insufficient, like wielding a shovel. For that one brief moment as I spun I was elemental fury, and then, all too soon, I was again mortal and frail, a sputtering candle raging against the inevitable maelstrom that snuffs us all.

  20.

  ‘Watch where you’re going, boy.’

  Kartane glanced back over his shoulder at the youth in half a bear’s worth of fur who had barged past him, but the boy didn’t even look back, instead calling, ‘Bugger off, old man.’

  Am I old? Kartane wondered as he stepped inside the inn, eyes already scanning the patrons. His gaze swung left to right, taking in the town’s citizens and dismissing them all; not a threat among them. His mind caught up with his eyes at the end of the sweep and darted back to the centre. She was there, standing in the centre of the inn near the foot of the stairs. Their eyes met and Kartane saw her green orbs widen in surprise. Her mouth moved, forming the syllables of his name, yet no sound came forth. She looked a little older, a little more careworn, but much the same as when he had last laid eyes on her four years ago.

  Kartane’s feet took him deeper into the alehouse until he stood before her, surprise still plastered on her face.

  ‘Hello, Maddy.’

  ‘I never thought I’d see you again,’ she told him quietly, ‘but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.’

  Kartane forced a smile but it had no effect, the innkeeper’s stony expression didn’t change.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Ale and truth,’ Kartane told her. ‘But mostly ale.’

  Maddy nodded. ‘Find a table and I’ll bring you a drink.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Some food, too. You’re skinnier than I remember.’

  And then she was spinning away with the practised ease of a serving girl adept at dodging the fumbling hands of drunkards. I suppose we didn’t part on the best of terms, Kartane thought, his eyes searching the inn for a free table. A “good to see you” wouldn’t be too much to ask, surely? Only one table remained vacant, two empty glasses cluttering its top. He headed left, winding his way around the tables until he reached the wall and the table next to the window. Kartane chose the seat facing the door and dropped down onto the chair with a sigh. His arms had remained strong during his incarceration at Westreach, but today’s long march had been hard on his legs, and Kartane was fairly sure that he had at least one blister the side of a plum. But definitely faring better than those nuns. And Spalbow. And Hink. The nuns were a shame, but the other two left him with a warm, fuzzy feeling that almost made him forget about the blister.

  The mug of ale arrived with a thump, interrupting his reverie. ‘Stew’s on the way,’ Maddy told him, already spinning away. ‘We’ll talk later.’

  Several bear-sized gulps later, Kartane was just beginning to relax when a commotion started in the alley outside. He let his eyes wander to the window pane, seeing two shadows berating a third that he couldn’t see, and he caught snatches of a tirade about drinking that died quickly. The men moved closer, bending down over a slumped form against the alley’s opposite wall. Despite the fluctuating ebbs and flows of conversation within the Maiden’s Watch, Kartane heard the next words very clearly: “He’s dead”. Maddy picked that precise moment to deliver his stew, spilling part of it on the back of his hand as she set it down, skittish eyes on the shadows outside. The cutlery landed with a tinkle and Maddy hurried away, but not before Kartane got a good look at her pale features. Not in the least bit curious about a death outside her inn, he mused, a death that could dent trade. He started shovelling the stew into his mouth. That’s not the Maddy I remember, Kartane thought. The Maddy he had known was a woman who fought tooth and claw to be accepted as an innkeeper in her own right and not an innkeeper’s widow making do; ignoring a dead body on her doorstep was something he could never imagine Maddy doing. Which means she already knows about the corpse outside. Which means… Well, it probably meant something, though Kartane couldn’t for the life of him think exactly what. Nothing good, though, that’s for sure.

  It still came as something of a disappointment when the door blew open thirty seconds later and two rough-looking men swaggered in. Kartane knew in five seconds that they meant business: the way they searched the tables for faces, the way their weapons hung – loose and easily accessible – and the eyes, that haunted look he saw every time in the mirror. Maddy’s serving girl was nearest the door and the first man, a tall, dark-haired warrior with a harelip, grabbed her by the wrist as his companion, a rounded, barrel-chested fellow with far too much hair in his ears, closed the door behind them. The empty mug tumbled from the girl’s hand to floor as the warrior yanked her close, the conversation in the inn dwindling as the mug bounced on the floorboards.

  Is it really so much to ask, to eat a meal in peace?

  ‘A boy came through here today,’ the taller one hissed. ‘Blond, average height, sullen-looking. Where is he?’

  The serving girl shook her head dumbly, squealing as her captor tightened his grip. ‘I don’t know,’ she said quickly, ‘the mistress spoke to him, not me.’

  Here we go, Kartane thought as the interlopers’ gazes followed the unsteady finger of the girl to Maddy. The innkeeper was already approaching the trio, but froze as the eyes of
the intruders pinned her in place, her rosy cheeks paling noticeably. The first man flung the girl aside and the pair strode over to Maddy.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Maddy asked, her voice quavering.

  ‘The boy killed a friend of mine. Where is he?’

  ‘He – he killed someone?’ Maddy stammered. ‘We should tell the Watch.’

  ‘Where is he?’ The man with the harelip was losing patience fast, and grabbed the innkeeper around the top of her arm, fingers digging deep into the flesh as he shook her. ‘Where?’

  You shouldn’t have touched her. Kartane sighed and drained the last of his ale. You really shouldn’t have touched her.

  ‘There was a young man here,’ Maddy croaked, ‘but he left earlier this evening.’

  ‘Where’s he going?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Maddy replied. ‘He paid for a room for the night but left in hurry.’ She winced as the fingers dug in deeper. ‘I thought it strange, but he didn’t tell me anything, just gathered his things and left.’

  Kartane reached the trio at a saunter, and the barrel-chested thug turned on him. ‘You stay out of this, fellow, ain’t none of your business.’

  ‘Which way was he heading?’ the other asked Maddy, shaking her again.