The Wayward Hand was not, Katarina discovered, much of an inn. The roughly painted sign outside had been her first clue, and also left no doubt as to the origin of the inn’s name, the hand of its title wandering places most specifically unwelcome in polite company. As Katarina stepped inside she sighed inwardly, watching Kartane and Stetch amble over to the table nearest the fireplace in the left wall. A half-dozen tables of varying ages and built by uncertain hands tilted at quite obviously unnatural angles. Dust and dried mud plagued most of the surfaces, and there was not a painting nor tapestry to be seen. In the far right corner a rickety staircase – built, no doubt, by the same wandering hands of the sign that were too distracted to master even simple carpentry – teetered against the wall. The bar room was empty except for the innkeeper himself, a roundish man directly ahead of Katarina, leaning on the uneven slope of the bar and peering myopically in her direction. Stetch and Kartane, it was apparent, had decided to head straight to the fireside table, Kartane grunting as Stetch barged his shoulder. The half-second it took for the knight to right himself allowed Stetch to edge ahead and seat himself in the chair facing the door. Both men, it seemed, had harboured the same idea. Ever the warrior, Katarina thought, making sure he can see the comings and goings.
Katarina made her way over to the innkeeper and ordered three mugs of ale. As he poured the drinks, she probed gently.
‘We are bound for Kron Vulder,’ she said in polite, clipped tones that left the man in no doubt she was far above his station. ‘Have you word that the mountain pass is clear? I would not like to be delayed.’ She smiled sweetly, and saw the dour man’s face soften.
‘Last I heard. Too late in winter for snow enough to block the Maw.’
‘I see. No-one has come lately from the east, then?’
‘Few enough on the roads this time of year,’ the innkeeper said, dropping the first full tankard on the bar. The wood groaned, and for a moment Katarina feared the whole edifice might collapse.
‘Business is slow then, this time of year? It must be difficult to eke out a living somewhere as remote as here.’
‘Always slow in winter,’ the innkeeper said. ‘Trade’s better in summer, though. More’n makes up for the cost of running this place.’ A second tankard thumped down beside the first, liquid sloshing over the rim. ‘You staying the night?’
‘I am afraid not,’ Katarina said. ‘My business takes me east, and I dare not delay.’ The third and final tankard thumped down in front of her and Katarina handed over the coins, leaving the innkeeper a generous tip. Where sweet words failed, silver or gold often succeeded, as her father often said.
‘Best not hurry too fast,’ the innkeeper said as he scooped up the coins. ‘Bunch of rough-looking fellows came through late last night. You don’t want to catch them on the road, I’m thinking.’
Katarina nodded, her smile genuine. ‘Thank you.’
Stetch and Kartane were immobile at the table, staring at each other with a rather disconcerting intensity. Katarina placed the first two tankards on the table between them. When she returned a moment later, neither man had moved. So, a contest then. Katarina shook her head and took the third seat between them, stretching her legs out so her toes reached towards the fire. Whatever next? she wondered. Perhaps they’ll start comparing swords. She giggled, and hastily raised a hand to her mouth. Kartane broke the deadlock, his gaze drifting towards her. Somehow, though, he did it in such a manner that made it clear to both her and Stetch that this was not a defeat – rather a deliberate choice and he could have kept the stare up indefinitely. Kartane jerked his head in a staccato motion, and Katarina interpreted it as some rough gesture of thanks. And as much as I am like to get from either man. She sipped her ale. It was as disappointing as her companions’ conversational skills.
Stetch raised his tankard, one eyebrow mirroring its upward path. Preoccupied as he might have seemed with the contest for the best seat and the most penetrating stare, the man knew Katarina well enough to guess what occurred at the bar.
‘The Band were here,’ she said in answer to his unasked question. ‘Last night.’
‘Where else would they go?’ Kartane said. ‘If they don’t know where the boy’s going, they’ll have at least guessed.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Katarina snapped, her sarcasm as sharp as her ale. The silence, she decided, was preferable.
Within a few minutes both men drained their tankards, finishing at the same moment though neither seemed in any great hurry. Stetch glanced pointedly at Katarina’s own – still more than half full – then gestured at Kartane’s with a deep grunt, rewarded with a sharp nod that sparked an unhurried waltz over to the bar.
They seem to have their own language, Katarina thought, a series of primal grunts and groans that each understands. I wonder if it is the same for all men? Most men, of course, were not like these two. She would tell neither man, but there were few Katarina would rather have at her side than Stetch, as irritating and frustrating as he may be. And Kartane, well, most of the stories about him centred upon his prodigious appetites. But nearly as many told of his skill and daring. It would be interesting to see how long he survived in the Desolate Cities, how much of his ability had survived years of imprisonment within the confines of Westreach.
‘What is to become of me?’
Katarina met Kartane’s gaze and found there was no fear there, and little curiosity.
‘From Kron Vulder you will take passage to Meracia and then to the Desolate Cities where you will spend the rest of your days fighting the enemies of your church.’
‘Figured as much,’ he grunted.
‘If your skills with a blade still match your reputation, you could live a good few years.’
He grinned. ‘Better than a noose.’
‘Does she feel the same? About you, I mean.’
He nodded, all humour gone.
Stetch deposited two tankards on the table, the rickety surface rocking enough that Katarina had to steady her own tankard. She glared at Stetch as he sat down, coins jingling as he slipped them into a pocket.
Where does he get the money from? she wondered. Stetch spends far too much on ale, yet always seems to have more to spend. The Sworn, she knew, were not rich men. Probably gambling while I’m asleep, she thought. That or charming the serving girls into giving him free drinks. The idea of Stetch charming anyone sparked a reflexive laugh, and Katarina hurriedly covered it with a cough as the two men turned to stare at her. ‘Poor ale,’ she muttered as she felt her cheeks colouring.
‘We should get moving,’ Katarina said as she felt the heat leave her cheeks. ‘We have a long way to go if we are to reach Wood’s Farrow by nightfall.’
Her companions drained their tankards swiftly, and after Stetch gave hers a forlorn glare, Katarina slid it across to him. ‘You’d better not slow us down,’ she warned, sliding her chair back. ‘And no singing; I hate those marching dirges.’
*
Most of Norve seemed to have been named by drunkards and fools, or so it seemed to Katarina. Wood’s Farrow was, she believed, no exception. The only real difference between this town – a modest scattering of wooden cabins and the occasional stone store – and a hundred other settlements was that its name sounded sensible. Clearly the work of an intelligent drunk, inspired by ale to craft a name that sounds stout and meaningful, while in reality meaning little or less. It was past dusk as they reached the town’s gates, a bored guard half-asleep against the splintered wooden post. A tsk from Kartane, and a regretful sigh from Stetch as they passed the man – still not stirring – suggested her companions shared Katarina’s view. It had been the last day of autumn as she and Stetch had passed through the town heading west, but little had changed, excepting the snowfall blanketing the ground and rooftops, thawed in places where heat from the fires within had leached out. The odd patterns of bare roof suggested it was accidental, the Norvek people surely building most of their homes after constructing the local ta
vern. A mistake, to be sure. Still, the sole inn was better than many Katarina had visited. Soundly built, bereft of draughts and even reasonably clean inside. The Wooded Axe was buried in the centre of the town, adjoining the East Road as it stretched towards the Demon’s Teeth, through the pass – known as the Maw – and then onward to distant Kron Vulder. Another three days, perhaps.
Katarina found a table beside the fire, bone weary with numb hands and feet where – despite the finest furs money could buy – the bitter wind had still penetrated. Katarina didn’t remember ordering supper, but warm broth and fresh bread soon arrived, accompanied – as if she hadn’t guessed – by three tankards of ale. Tomorrow they would leave early, following the road – though at some points it was little more than a mud track – through Mosswood to the foot of the Demon’s Teeth. And there, I think, is where we may find the Band. They would be searching for Steven, but unless his new companion was a fool, the pair would likely elude detection. And that, she thought, means the Band won’t know where to look. The bottleneck of the Maw, a narrow pass through the mountain range, was the perfect place to find out whether your quarry was ahead or behind. And, Katarina knew from her last journey between the steep stone sides of the mountains, a perfect place for an ambush.
As long as Steven has stayed ahead of them he will be fine.
It was the last conscious thought Katarina remembered, heavy eyelids shutting out the world as the inn’s warmth seeped into her bones.
*
Stetch peered across at his current mistress. Dead to the world.
‘Doesn’t look so angry now,’ Kartane said.
Stetch grunted, then rose to his feet and gathered Katarina’s sleeping form into his arms. ‘Don’t run,’ he said quietly as he turned and headed for the back stairs. He returned minutes later to find the fallen knight right where he’d left him, but still couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or not. Better to kill him now, Stetch thought. Put him in the ground while she’s asleep and say he ran. But there was still that word, a word none but the Seven should know. And to have learned it from – of all people – the Black Duke’s sister… it might be worth keeping him alive for the moment, if only for the sake of an easy life when he returned to Sudalra. Not that there’s such a thing, Stetch thought, not working for the Black Duke.
‘I get to live another day?’ Kartane asked as Stetch sat down opposite him. Those cold eyes told Stetch that the man knew exactly what he’d been contemplating.
‘For now,’ he grunted.
39.
They trudged eastwards in silence. Kalashadria seemed to have recognised that Tol needed time to come to terms with what he had learned. She looked across at him now and then as they walked side by side, but kept her thoughts to herself. She broke her silence only once, when they forded a tiny stream, insisting that Tol washed the caked blood from his face – her blood, from when she had held him close as she had soared into the sky leaving the demon and mercenaries behind. When the icy water washed the last of the stain away, she nodded, and the pair continued in silence, the angel leaving Tol alone with his thoughts.
I can see why the nun warned me. Tol was hardly a devout man, saying the prayers along with the others but never really sure whether they made any difference. After all, how could the Maker allow his family to suffer for so long, all because of one ancestor’s foolish crime? Tol had never really denied the existence of a god that had created man. It was more that, well, if the Maker saw fit to punish him for Kur Kraven’s actions two hundred years ago, Tol didn’t really think much of him. Any god who held a grudge for that long probably wasn’t worth praying to. To get in the good graces of such a god all but a few would fail. To impress a vengeful god like that a fellow would probably have to save the world. And even that might not be enough.
Yet despite Tol’s former indifference to the Maker, the knowledge that He wasn’t real, that an entire religion was twaddle, the revelation had still shaken him. It was a truth, he realised, that the enemies of the church would kill for. And have already, he reminded himself. The abbot, the students, three Knights Reve, and a convent full of nuns. All dead because of this book. Did the Gurdal and their agents know what the book contained? If they got their hands on it, would they announce the truth to everyone? If they do, he thought, it will be the end of the church. Yes, that seemed most likely: destroy the church and without its influence the Gurdal would be free to swarm up the Spur into Meracia virtually unopposed. Without the Knights Reve, without an angel, and without the bannermen of devout lords, the Meracians would only be able to field a small army. And the Gurdal haven’t marched for two hundred years. Two hundred years to rebuild their numbers. Tol shivered. It was a sobering thought.
The Knights Reve, Tol thought, a sour taste in his mouth. The greatest knights in the world, defending a faith founded on lies.
He sighed. ‘I wanted to be one.’
The angel didn’t answer immediately, and Tol realised they had been walking in silence so long she might even have forgotten he was there. ‘One what?’
‘One of the Knights Reve,’ Tol said. ‘With my family’s dark past, no lord would take me into service. That just left the church and the Knights Reve. They only take the best; the church anoints a few each year, but only the best fighters, the bravest men.’ Tol snorted. ‘It’s supposed to be an honour to defend the church.’
‘Honour is found in actions, not titles.’ Her voice had lost that entrancing musical quality that had first transfixed Tol. A glance at the angel’s face showed that her skin had lost its lustre, circlets of shadow encompassing dull eyes. Something’s wrong, Tol realised. He watched her closely for a minute: gone was the confident swagger of the night before. Their pace had slowed, though Tol hadn’t noticed it at first, and they were moving slow as corpulent traders now. Kalashadria was on his left, so he couldn’t see the wound on her side, but he saw the effects clearly enough. Her fingertips had passed bone white now, a soft blue tinge to them. Last night she had seemed unaffected by the weather, as though by simply ignoring the cold it would cease to affect her. True or not then, Tol saw the occasional shiver ripple over Kalashadria’s body. If she had been human Tol knew he would already be digging a deep hole, but angels were clearly faster and stronger than any man he had ever met. Even so, he could see she was suffering.
‘I need to rest a while,’ he said. ‘Are there any trees nearby? The wind seems colder tonight.’
She raised a hand, its ascent slow and feeble. ‘Half a mile that way.’
*
It was a small copse, but as Kalashadria settled herself against a trunk, Tol scrounged enough dry wood for a fire. He worked in silence, and it took a dozen attempts punctuated by florid curses before the fire finally caught. He remained crouched on his haunches, blowing it to life while watching Kalashadria out of the corner of his eye. The fire’s dancing shadows played across her face, and in its weak light she looked like a bloodless corpse, her eyelids already drooping after less than half a night’s march.
‘You are not really tired.’
Tol thought about lying, but there really didn’t seem any point. ‘No.’ He had built the fire as near to Kalashadria as he could, barely two feet away from the trunk, and he watched as a tiny flake of burning wood drifted up in the smoke, dancing across to land on her knee and burning itself out to leave a black smudge on Kalashadria’s pale skin. She didn’t seem to notice. Tol’s gaze drifted up her body, and now he saw the wound on her side in all its glory. It looked insignificant, a razor-straight gash below just below her ribs, nearly reaching the root of her heavy breasts. It was hard to tell how deep the sword had cut, but congealed blood spread out around the wound like a burst volcano. At its peak a small trickle of fluid was still oozing forth, meandering down the angel’s side to her hip, following the path of similar tributaries that had preceded it. Tol frowned as he stared at it in the firelight. It looked as though the wound had begun to heal, the skin knitting itself partway toget
her again but failing at the last.
Kalashadria followed Tol’s gaze. ‘It looks worse than it is.’
‘You don’t believe that any more than I do.’
‘No. We are both, it would seem, poor liars.’
‘You should have said something,’ Tol said, more angrily than he had intended.
The angel shrugged, wincing as the motion stretched her wound. ‘It should have healed by now.’
‘But it hasn’t.’ Tol sank to the ground, sitting cross-legged facing her. ‘Here’s as good a place as any to make camp for the night.’
Kalashadria tilted her head, staring at him with such concentration that Tol forced his eyes down, watching the flames in their leisurely slow-dance.
‘Yesterday you seemed in a hurry to put as much distance between you and your pursuers as possible. Why the change?’
Tol shrugged, still unable to meet her gaze, though he could feel her eyes rooted to his face. ‘I’ve got you. Reckon they’d be stupid mercenaries to attack an angel.’
‘I see.’ She was quiet a moment. ‘I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the mountain range ahead of us.’
‘Nope.’
‘How many passes are there through them?’
Tol shrugged. ‘Never counted.’
‘My guess would be one.’
He picked up a loose twig, dangled it into the fire’s edge, and watched as a fledgling flame coursed down it’s length. ‘They’ll think we got there first. Most likely they’ll keep going, hoping to catch up with us before we reach Kron Vulder.’ It’s kind of true, Tol thought. What the mercenaries would do if they weren’t completely stupid – and although he wished it, Tol didn’t think they were – would be leave half a dozen men behind to block the pass, while the remainder pressed on. It was exactly what he would do if their situations were reversed. ‘There’s still a lot more of the book to read,’ Tol continued as casually as he could, ‘and I’m not a fast reader. Seems to me, you could go home, get yourself fixed up and drop by when you’re feeling better.’ He grinned, despite the situation. Here he was, telling an angel to fly back to heaven and come back when she felt like it, as if it was an everyday occurrence. He raised his eyes from the fire, and saw a slight smile crease the angel’s lips. It lasted a moment longer as their eyes connected, but passed as Kalashadria coughed, a grimace twisting her face.
Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1) Page 27
