You must succeed, whatever the cost. That was what the abbot had told him, and deep down Tol knew that he should just walk on, pretend he’d never seen nor heard anything. He took a step, a gurgling cry pursuing him. Tol closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He heard someone whimper.
He turned on his heels, darting into the alley and grabbing the dark shape atop the supine woman. Tol hauled him up and backwards, slamming the man into the wall. A smear of blood on the wall behind the fallen woman registered in some part of Tol’s brain and as her attacker bounced off the wall, Tol slammed a fist into his midriff, following up with a punch to the face, shattering the rapist’s nose and flinging his head back against the wall. A whip-crack echoed in Tol’s ears as the man slid down the wall, limp as a doll. He landed on his rump, teetering over to one side, a wet smear on the back of his head. Tol froze, his breath coming in great gasps as his anger receded. I’ve killed him, he thought. He stared at him for several seconds. The man had deserved it, but Tol had only intended to stop him. There! Tol watched the man’s chest, and saw it rise and fall. Still alive, he sighed. He heard a soft groan and turned back to the victim, slumped against the opposite side of the alley, a glistening dark smear at head height pointing down to the ground where she lay, her shoulders propped up by the base of the wall.
‘You’re safe now,’ he told her, bending down and pulling the hem of her skirt back down past her knees. She groaned again, head moving slightly as her eyes tried to focus. Tol stared at her for a moment, unable to tell how badly she was injured in the dark. He stepped over her splayed legs and gently helped her to stand. She wobbled and Tol cursed silently. ‘We need to leave,’ he told her, draping her arm over his shoulders. She teetered still, and Tol gingerly wrapped one arm around her, slipping his hand under her armpit. She whimpered, and he winced. ‘I’m here to help,’ he said, ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
Tol took one last glance at her attacker and after a moment’s thought kicked him in his naked manhood. The man twitched but didn’t wake and Tol turned aside, slowly leading the woman out of the alley and into the street. Left or right? The inn was only a few yards to the left, but the opposite direction to Tol’s destination. Five minutes, maybe, and they’d be at the gate. Right it is, then. ‘Come on,’ he coaxed, ‘let’s get you away from here.’
Ammerlac, the amber moon that – according to The Names of Salvation – was home to the Maker and his angels, peeked out from the clouds briefly, and Tol looked down at the woman’s face in the pale light. Her skin was bronzed, and with her dark hair and heart-shaped face Tol figured she was Sudalrese. In a certain light, she looked a little like Katarina. The pair were of a similar less-than-significant-height, and the skin of both was unmarked by the ravages of time. Twenty or so, he guessed as the moon once again slipped behind the clouds. The girl looked a lot less angry than Katarina, who seemed permanently piqued, but that might just have been the concussion; for all Tol knew all Sudalrese women might be angry little dervishes. ‘Not much further,’ he promised her, wishing he didn’t feel so bad. The young woman shuffled along in a daze, occasionally muttering in Sudalrese. The closer they got to the gate, the slower she moved. You must succeed, whatever the cost. The abbot’s words kept ringing in Tol’s ears. He knew the old man had been right, he should have just left her, let her attacker continue, but the stifled whimpers had been too much for Tol to simply ignore. If the gates were closed it wouldn’t make a difference, he knew, but there was a chance – however slim – that he might still escape the city before word of his exploits reached the gate guards. Slimmer than a fasting monk, that chance. But what other choice was there? If they were going to catch him, Tol was going to make damn sure he wasn’t painted with the same brush that tarred his ancestor. I’m no traitor.
Ahead, the road opened up as it joined the large semicircular plaza that, like a river’s delta, split into a half-dozen meandering trails that darted away from the city’s main tributary, the arrow-straight road that ran from gate to castle.
‘We’re almost there,’ he told the girl.
‘You saved me.’
Tol thought the slurred words more Sudalrese, starting in surprise and nearly letting her slip to the road when he realised she had spoken in Norvek.
‘You banged your head, but help is just a little further up the road.’
The girl remained quiet, all her concentration on putting one foot in front of the other. They reached the plaza, and the girl noticed their surroundings for the first time. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked tremulously, her body quivering against Tol’s side.
‘The guards,’ he reassured her, ‘they’ll see you safely home.’
‘I…owe you my life,’ she said haltingly. ‘I would know your name.’
They were in the centre of the plaza now, the gate a mere fifty yards away. Tol smiled at the sight, releasing a breath that he didn’t realise he’d been holding; the gate was still open.
‘Tol,’ he answered, his eyes focused on the sole route out of Karnvost, ‘Tol Kraven.’
She stumbled on a loose cobble, and Tol lurched to keep her upright, her muscles stiff with tension. ‘Just a few yards more,’ he told her.
The guards remained still as Tol approached, a slight flick of their heads the only indication he had been seen. Neither moved, both leaning against the cold black stone of the wall, the tree-high arch towering above them.
‘I need some help,’ said Tol as he reached them. ‘She was attacked in the street and cracked her head.’
The nearest guard, a lanky, sapling-thin spindle of a man, pushed himself off the wall with one foot. ‘And?’
‘She needs help,’ Tol repeated. ‘I stumbled upon her as a man tried to force himself on her.’
‘A rapist?’ The guard was suddenly interested, his companion stepping forward to join him.
‘Did he get away?’
‘You kill him?’ the second guard asked.
Tol looked from one to the other, the girl still draped over his shoulder. ‘He was alive when I left him.’ Tol pointed back across the plaza. ‘Back down there, in an alley next to the baker’s. He won’t be going anywhere soon.’
‘Good lad,’ the tall guard told him, his face splitting in an evil grin.
‘Shame there’s no reward in it,’ his companion said, ‘but we’ll make sure the Duke hears about this if you want to be on your way.’
‘Thank you.’ Tol noticed the slight shift in the tall guard’s features, a flicker of surprise that quickly passed. It’s all about the money, he realised. They’re hoping for a reward for catching that rapist. ‘I have to leave tonight; will you make sure she’s all right?’
The tall guard grinned. ‘Don’t you worry, Erik here will see her safely home. I’ll go see if her attacker’s still breathing.’
The smaller guard stepped forward, taking the girl from Tol and sitting her down on the ground. ‘You done a good thing here.’
The young woman looked up briefly, haunted eyes pinning Tol in place. ‘Thank you, Tol Kraven,’ she mumbled.
‘Take care,’ Tol told her, stepping beneath the gate’s arch and leaving the city behind.
‘More reward for us,’ he heard the taller guard whisper as he walked away. ‘How d’you know he hadn’t heard about the reward?’
A soft chuckle pursued Tol. ‘Boy’s as green as grass. Bet my wages he’s never seen a city before. Go find the bastard that did this, then fetch a healer.’
*
Tol couldn’t believe his luck. First, the gates had been left open – though a glance at their hinges suggested they hadn’t been closed for decades – and then the guards had allowed him past without so much as a question about why he was leaving Karnvost in the middle of the night. Maybe my luck’s finally changing. Almost before that thought was formed, Ammerlac peeked out from behind the clouds, bathing the plateau in pale light. As the landscape filled his vision, Tol saw them to his left: five men, coming from the north. He froze as h
e recognised one of the men from the Jolly Roger Inn and his first meeting with Katarina. So much for luck, he thought as he resumed his march. Thought there’d be more than five, though. They were two hundred yards away and if they matched pace with him Tol would pass them at the crossroads where their road joined his, before the easterly road Tol was on descended from the plateau to the flatland below. Five was tough odds, but there was still a chance. He glanced over his shoulder, regretting the decision as he saw more shapes crossing the plaza towards the gate. He continued walking for a few moments, weighing his options. Fight or run. What would the abbot do in a situation like this? Tol smiled as he remembered a conversation about fighting outnumbered. Pray hard, the abbot had told the boys, then kill the lot of them. Drops of rain began falling and Tol raised his head, face to the stars. Now’s as good a time as any to find religion, I suppose. A drop splashed on his cheek, cool and fresh, and Tol opened his mouth. Maybe the Maker’s real, maybe not. Nobody’s ever seen him, that’s for sure. A thought struck him. But angels are real.
‘Kalashadria,’ he called into the sky, large globules of water spattering his upturned face. ‘I don’t know if you can hear me but I need your help.’ Tol stopped, feeling foolish, but a glance at the approaching mercenaries showed their leader mirroring Tol’s actions. Head upturned, he shouted into the sky also, the words barely audible as a relentless tattoo of rain pounded down, capricious as a lover.
‘Klanvahdor! Klanvahdor! Klanvahdor!’ Tol heard the mercenary shout. ‘Thrice do I name you, and thrice does this wretched flesh summon you.’
The demon, Tol realised. They’re calling for the demon in the same way Angel’s Truth said to call for aid. Speak the angel’s true name, the book had said, and among the roll of those who would hold the watch it was that one name that he remembered in full. Tol raised his head anew. ‘Kalashadria ni-feln k’Priamus,’ he shouted, ‘Aid me, I beg you.’ This has to work, he told himself, if demons are real, angels must be, too. ‘If you don’t help me,’ Tol called, ‘all Galandor’s work will be for naught. Do you hear me? Nothing! Two hundred years of work for nothing; help me, damn you!’
29.
‘Kalashadria?’
She opened her eyes slowly. Above the canopy of the elora tree’s steady branches she could see several facets of the geodesic dome that covered the worldholme’s arboreal garden. Beyond the transparent triangular panels of the dome she could see the infinite darkness of space and, partially obscured by a branch, the nearby green and blue world that hung so tantalisingly close to the moon where the worldholme had come to rest. Kalashadria had only been awake for three days but Galandor had returned to sleep, the damaged worldholme’s habitat no longer sufficient to support more than a single life for any length of time. Three days, but already it felt like a small eternity. Three days, and Kalashadria hadn’t uttered a word, her only companion the vast intelligence of the worldholme. An intelligence that, as far as Kalashadria knew, rarely condescended to address the life forms that lived upon it.
It hadn’t always been like that.
‘Yes, Alimarcus?’
There was no immediate reply, and for a second Kalashadria thought perhaps the voice had been in her dream, its low, bass rumble just a memory.
‘I have encountered an anomaly,’ the worldholme told her, its voice cool and rhythmic, ‘on the nearby planet.’
An anomaly? Kalashadria frowned and brushed a strand of her long golden hair back behind her ear. She leaned back against the elora’s trunk, and drew her legs up to her chest, wrapping her ivory fingers around her knees. ‘What kind of anomaly?’ A natural disaster of some sort? she wondered. A cataclysmic event like a meteor strike?
‘One of the humans knows your name. Your full name,’ Alimarcus added.
The furrow on Kalashadria’s brown deepened as she considered this. The full names of the Anghl’teri were long and complex, not something that another society could accidentally duplicate – the chances of that were infinitesimally small. ‘How?’
‘Please elucidate,’ the worldholme asked with irritating patience, ‘your meaning is unclear.’
Kalashadria took in a deep breath, releasing it slowly. The worldholme was just as infuriating as she remembered. Some things never change. ‘How,’ she said, ‘does it know my name?’
The question hung in the air for several seconds. ‘Unknown,’ Alimarcus pronounced at last.
Kalashadria cocked her head to one side, lips parting slightly as she absorbed the worldholme’s response. ‘You don’t know?’
‘Correct.’
Kalashadria’s arms flopped to her side, her jaw slack as the full import of that simple answer sank in. In a thousand years the worldholme had never been stumped, never failed to answer a question posed – when, that is, it deigned to speak to its occupants at all. She remembered as a child how she had tried to outfox or flummox the vast intelligence, but always it answered, whether the sound of one hand clapping, the life-span of the galaxy, or the surface area of a dandelion, Alimarcus always knew. Always. For Alimarcus to be uncertain of anything was unsettling, and nowhere near as satisfying as Kalashadria had once imagined.
‘Can you – wait, how do you know what is going on down there? The First forbade any interference in human affairs.’
‘I am engaged in passive surveillance only,’ Alimarcus replied. ‘I have not defied the edict.’
‘Yes, but why? Why listen to those pitiful creatures anyway? What purpose does it serve?’
‘Galandor would not explain,’ Alimarcus told her, ‘though I demanded his reasons on numerous occasions. However, based upon the manner in which he delivered the instruction, I concluded that Galandor believed the task would partially occupy my mind and serve as something of a distraction. I could not envisage any negative outcomes associated with the task, and so I eventually acquiesced.’
‘You humoured him,’ Kalashadria snorted, ‘and now the very thing which he foresaw has come to pass. I do not think this is coincidence.’ Her hand drifted to the soft green grass, and she pushed herself lightly to her feet. She arched her back, loosening the knotted kinks where she had lain against the tree. Satisfied, she relaxed her shoulders, bone-white wings slowly retracting, curling up behind her like a concertina until all that remained were two bundles of feathered tendon, their upper edges protruding just above her shoulder blades. ‘Find the human,’ she told Alimarcus. ‘I want to know how it knows my name.’
*
With no sense of day or night in the worldholme, Kalashadria worked until exhaustion took hold. Tens of thousands of repairs, replacements, and renovations demanded her attention, and each needed prioritising. First came those that threatened her sleeping brethren, or the habitat itself, and there were plenty to choose from. The blue-green planet had completed three day-night rotations, yet it seemed as though nothing had been accomplished; for every repair Kalashadria made, another malfunction presented itself. Under normal circumstances this would have been bad enough, but trapped on a barren moon, with limited supplies and equipment, the situation was exponentially worse. How did Galandor cope with so many demands upon his attention? she wondered, re-entering the geodesic dome. She found the trees and verdant foliage calming, her gait loosening as she returned to the tree where she had last slept. She lay down at its base, skull nestling between two smooth roots, her long blonde hair rolling over it like a babbling brook. She stared up through the canopy, the slowly shifting stars twinkling in the darkness like diamonds. And there, almost directly above her, partly obscured by the elora’s uppermost branches, hung the nearby planet. Tantalisingly close, yet out of reach. The sun was disappearing from view behind it, a crescent of dying light dwindling around the horizon. How could a human know my name? The question had been on Kalashadria’s mind since her conversation with Alimarcus, and still she could discern no obvious answer. Primitive creatures, barely evolved and enslaved in a feudal society, yet despite this one of them had learned her name – not just her gi
ven name, but the full honorific. She closed her eyes, uneasy as sleep stole her away from her worries.
*
‘Kalashadria?’
She opened her eyes. ‘I’m awake.’
‘I have located the human,’ Alimarcus told her without preamble.
‘Good. Listen to it, and let me know if it reveals how it came to know my name.’
‘There is more,’ the worldholme told her. ‘It appears the human is making an entreaty to you for assistance.’
‘What?’ She rose swiftly, a feather falling to the ground as her wings folded with a soft snap.
‘He also mentioned Galandor in his demand, specifically referring to some kind of “work” that the creature attributes to him.’
‘Demand?’ Kalashadria’s voice was low, dangerous. A pre-evolved creature one step up the evolutionary ladder from a lizard presumes to make demands of the Anghl’teri?
‘It may form part of their society’s rituals,’ Alimarcus told her calmly. ‘Such entreaties are most frequently associated with the belief in and worship of deities.’
‘Tell me what it said.’
Alimarcus relayed the plea. ‘Tension in the speaker’s voice,’ Alimarcus added, ‘suggests the human is in imminent danger.’
Kalashadria was quiet for a moment, her jaw sawing from side to side as the stars spun overhead. It knows my name and that of Galandor, too. Not only that, but it addresses its plea to me just as I have taken over the watch from Galandor. This cannot be a coincidence. ‘Could Galandor have visited the planet?’ she asked.
Alimarcus was slow to respond, another cause for concern. ‘It is unlikely,’ it said at last, the worldholme’s voice drifting across the arboreal garden like a breeze.
‘Unlikely?’ Kalashadria stared up through the foliage. ‘But possible? You are saying Galandor might have gone down there and you don’t even know?’
Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1) Page 20
