‘I thought I would have more time,’ she said, all humour gone. ‘The wound was not serious, but it has left me weak.’ She stared into the fire, her expression inscrutable. ‘That weakness has accelerated the poison’s spread. I knew when I awoke at dusk; I am too weak to make the journey home.’
‘No.’ Tol rose, furiously shaking his head. ‘No. I will not be remembered as the man who let an angel die.’
‘Then do not tell anyone.’
‘That’s just as bad.’ He kicked the frozen earth, a smattering of ice flying into the fire with a sizzling hiss. ‘There has to be something…’
‘It is not your fault,’ she told him softly. ‘You called and I came, but I knew the risks and came despite them. This is not your fault.’
‘You can’t die, you just can’t.’
‘All creatures die, and I have already lived longer than most. I have seen horrors and miracles that still haunt my waking dreams. It is my time, Tol Kraven, and I shall not mourn my passing. Nor should you.’
Tol flopped to the ground beside her. ‘Won’t someone come for you?’
‘I do not think so. By the standards of my kind I am considered young, impetuous. When I fail to return, Alimarcus will wake another. They will assume I am dead, but will most likely think the flight back the cause.’
‘But if they didn’t think that, they could take you back?’
Kalashadria reached across and patted Tol’s hand. ‘It takes time to wake from the deep sleep my people are in – a very deep sleep, like hibernation. By the time another fully awakens I will already be dead.’
‘What about Galandor?’ Tol asked, Valeron’s words coming back to him. ‘The knights thought him all but dead yet he recovered. Maybe it will be the same for you.’ According to The Names of Salvation that was what happened, Galandor returned to heaven after Demmegrahk’s defeat. But the Holy Book is not the font of honesty I thought. So much had been left out, or changed, different to the truth of one knight who had changed the world and then been unmade by his truest friend. Tol no longer knew what to believe. ‘Galandor did return to Heaven, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, but Galandor…’ Kalashadria’s face twisted in an unfamiliar way, the angel suddenly appearing uncomfortable, frail. ‘Galandor belongs to the highest caste of my people. They are stronger, hardier than all others. Short of parting his head, there is little that could kill him. Perhaps even including the poisons that have weakened me so.’
‘There’s nothing, then?’
She patted his hand once more. ‘I would ask a favour of you, if you are willing.’
‘Anything.’
‘That is a foolish promise to make,’ she told him, though not unkindly, ‘but I thank you anyway.’ Kalashadria’s hand left his, returning to her lap as she peered up through the canopy into the night sky. ‘I have been alone for a long time, even before I slept. Will you stay with me, until the time comes?’
Tol nodded, but realised Kalashadria wasn’t looking at him. His throat suddenly felt raw, dry. ‘Sure,’ he said, licking his lips with a sandpaper tongue.
‘And after death…’ She was quiet a moment. ‘What do your people do?’
‘Usually,’ he said, ‘we try not to die.’ She laughed, but Tol caught the wince as her body trembled. ‘Burial, usually. I’ll see that it’s done.’
‘Thank you.’ Kalashadria turned her head and stared off to the east. ‘I will repay that kindness. I have another day’s march still in me. When I have rested we will make for the mountain pass and see how many men they have left for you. That, at least, I can do.’
‘What men?’
She chuckled softly. ‘Your face is not as hard to read as you may think. The men chasing you are not the type to leave anything to chance, are they?’
Tol sighed. ‘No.’
‘Then we will face them together. But first I must rest.’
40.
Once Kalashadria had fallen asleep Tol went in search of fresh water to replenish his supplies. He found a broad stream half a mile away, washed his face and refilled his waterskins.
As he returned to their camp, Tol heard a mewling animal in the distance, the sound snapping off abruptly as whichever predator had chased it down finished the job. Tol paused, the plaintive, scratching cry reminding him of something else he had heard.
It sounds like the demon’s wingbeats, he realised. But even as Tol recalled their meeting outside Karnvost, he realised it was not the first time he had heard that grating bonesaw rhythm. As Tol had escaped the convent into the woods, he had heard the same sound as something dark passed overhead. But I heard it before even then. The first time had been as he escaped Icepeak, and the dank tunnel that led to the far side of the mountain. After falling from the ledge and pulling himself up onto hands and knees, he had heard the same faint sound, just as a shadow crossed the snow. The demon was at Icepeak, too.
Katarina had thought as much, and Tol realised the Sudalrese woman was right. The demon had chased him across Norve for, what, four days? Kalashadria said it couldn’t survive that long on Korte, so Tol realised it must have returned to the Pit, visiting his world only briefly and leaving before the poisons in the air took full effect. Something was niggling Tol, though, a thought dangling just beyond reach of the fingers of his mind. What is it? Tol sighed in frustration, heading back to the camp in a dark mood. I must remember, or an angel will die. And then it hit him, the slippery fish falling from Tol’s fingers as he remembered. Only two angels have visited Korte, and both were injured.
Much of what Tol had read in Angel’s Truth was not in the church’s primary text, The Names of Salvation, or contained far more detail than was found in the Holy Book. While the church’s tome said that Galandor had returned to heaven, Angel’s Truth revealed the full extent of Galandor’s injuries. Valeron and the other knights had all thought the angel would die, even though the initial wound was not fatal. But he couldn’t have died, Tol thought, because Kalashadria would know; she would have said something. So even if The Names of Salvation was wrong, the angel was surely not. And if Galandor had made the perilous journey to heaven then somehow his injuries had healed, or at least partly healed. According to Kalashadria, the flight to and from Heaven was a dangerous one, so Galandor had to have recovered to survive the journey. The knights thought him near dead, so they must have done something. Tol broke into a run, forgetting the fallen fish. The answers must be in the book!
Minutes later, he arrived back at the campsite, hurriedly collecting more wood for the dwindling fire. This done, Tol lay down beside its meagre warmth and opened Angel’s Truth.
*
The angel spoke of many things that night, things beyond the understanding of simple soldiers such as us. Words too thick and wieldy to speak, strange tales that sounded like the ravings of a madman, and a war that had raged for centuries and more. Our heads spun with confusion, but at the end we understood enough: the angels dwelled upon the orange moon, while the demons lived upon the slate moon. The demons would seek dominion over man and use the Gurdal as their army until all those who opposed them were cowed into submission or dead.
The news was met with silence. All of us believed we had won a war against a terrible enemy, and all that remained was for the Meracian army to chase away the last of the enemy forces. The truth we came to know was that the terrible battle we fought on the plains of the Spur was just the beginning; there can be no peace until one side or the other is destroyed.
We sat in brooding silence with these grim thoughts, watching the campfire wither like our hopes as the angel’s laboured breaths reminded us that even the best among us could fall.
‘Does the air hurt the demons, too?’ Kur Kraven asked.
‘Demhoun,’ Galandor corrected. ‘Yes, they would find the air poisonous.’
‘So, these demons,’ Kur said stubbornly, ‘they ought to die after a few days then?’
A nod, and Kur continued, ‘They were with the army for days before the
battle, I heard the reports from the Meracian scouts.’ He thought for a moment. ‘At least six days, but some reckoned the demons were there all the way up the Spur.’
‘That should not be possible,’ Galandor replied.
‘Maybe they found an antidote or whatever.’
‘I know of none.’
Several of us shot Kur warning glances to leave the matter at end and not give us – or the angel – false hope. As usual, he ignored us. ‘You said that it doesn’t hurt us, this poison?’ he pressed.
Galandor nodded.
‘So… could we pass it on, this defence against the poison?’
Galandor considered this a moment. ‘It is doubtful; I do not see how.’
‘What are you getting at?’ I asked.
‘What do the demons do that the angel doesn’t?’ Kur asked. ‘Apart from killing everything it meets, I mean,’ he added.
Nobody answered. ‘They drink blood,’ he said quietly, wincing slightly as he said it, knowing our reactions. When the furore died down, we all fixed our gazes on the angel.
‘Well?’ Kur asked.
‘It might work,’ Galandor replied with a sour expression, ‘but that is not something I can ask of you, nor would I indulge in such a practice.’
‘Even if it saved your life?’
‘Even then.’
Who would argue with a creature so beautiful, so perfect as Galandor? His grave injuries tore at the hearts of even us hardened warriors, and though I shall not name them I saw several of my brethren shed tears as they realised the angel’s end fast approached. Kur, though, was different. Stubborn even by Havakkian standards, I knew he would not let the matter drop. He is gruff, rude, blunt, quick to anger, and irksome in a hundred other ways. Yet on our journey down through Meracia to the Spur it was Kur whom I had come to think of as a true friend. For all his faults it was Kur who first moved to defend Galandor when the rest of us stood paralysed with terror. If not for Kur Kraven, the battle would soon have been lost. Once the Gurdal saw the demon slain many had panicked, and others ran. It turned the tide of battle in our favour, all because of one stubborn Havakkian knight. So I held my peace, as did my companions, secretly hoping Kur would convince Galandor to yield to his demands. He remained resolute, however, and for long minutes we sat in despondent silence, staring at the fire or the darkened sky, alone with our thoughts and more lost than ever. Mine own returned to the battle of the day before, every slash and parry unfolding slowly in my mind as the thunderous clash of foes raged around me.
*
Kalashadria stirred, and Tol hurriedly closed the book, slipping it back inside his tunic. The more Tol read about his ancestor the more he respected him. How did he come to kill his friend? That was all history remembered him for, the murder of Hunt Valeron, the only man to slay a demon. Yet Valeron’s account revealed far more about the man than Tol would ever have guessed. If the knight’s account was true, it was Kur who had brought about the demon’s death, his stand that had spurred his fellow knights to action, and his last, desperate throw that had landed Galandor’s sword in the hands of Valeron, the very sword Tol now wore at his hip. But all the deeds of the man had been forgotten. Now, all anyone remembered about Kur was that he had killed Korte’s greatest hero, his part in the hero’s making conveniently forgotten. Tol sighed, plucking a blade of grass and twisting it round his finger. Such a tangled weave of truth and lies. He needed to read more, to learn whether the knights’ blood had truly saved Galandor, and if so, how the knights had done it. Was there some argument that had convinced the injured angel, or had, as Tol suspected, Kur Kraven held the creature down and force-fed it human blood? Could I do the same? If it came down to it, and there was no other choice? Tol glanced over at Kalashadria. Even injured she still cut a fierce figure, and the idea of forcing her to do anything was abhorrent, not to mention frightening. Her eyes flashed open, and Tol looked away guiltily, wondering whether the real coward in his family was truly Kur.
‘Night is almost over.’
He nodded, still not looking at her.
‘You should have woken me. Now we will have to travel in daylight.’
‘You needed rest. If I’d woken you earlier we would still be crawling along when the dawn came anyway.’
The angel was quiet a moment. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ she conceded. She smiled as Tol stared open-mouthed at her. ‘Even I am not infallible.’
Tol hesitated. Do I tell her? He couldn’t be sure Kur’s solution had actually worked, not until he read further, and if Kalashadria felt the same way as Galandor about quaffing a little blood, well, Tol knew who’d win that argument. It’s not like a little blood hurt anyone. When he was six Tol had a friend, Vixen. The two of them had been close, the differences between them less important than their shared love of climbing trees, causing trouble, and wandering the woods in search of adventure. After a brush with a wild pig the two had sworn a pact, cutting their palms with a rusty iron dagger and swearing that each would guard the other’s shield.
‘Something on your mind?’
Tol shook his head. ‘Just thinking of a friend.’ He reached across and opened his pack, rummaging inside and withdrawing several carefully wrapped packages. ‘Might as well have breakfast before we set off. I’ve got some salted beef that’s quite nice.’
‘I do not eat the flesh of animals.’
Tol stopped, a strip of beef inches from his mouth. ‘You don’t eat meat?’
‘No.’
‘Even if it’s really tasty?’
‘Even then.’
‘I’ve some bread and cheese.’
‘Thank you. Water?’
Tol handed over a skin from his pack. ‘Should still be cool, I only refilled it a while ago.’
Her fingers brushed his as she took the skin, a tingle shooting up Tol’s arm. ‘No meat at all? Ever?’
‘No.’ Kalashadria pulled the stopper from the skin and drank deeply, sighing as the cool water passed her lips.
‘No lamb?’
‘No.’
Tol cut a hunk of bread with his dagger and smeared some soft cheese over it, handing it to Kalashadria. ‘What about pork?’
‘No.’
‘Chicken? It’s hardly an animal, really, just a plant with legs.’
‘The answer is still no,’ Kalashadria replied coolly, ‘I do not eat meat.’
‘What about fish?’
She sighed, but caught Tol’s impish grin, and gently shook her head, one corner of her mouth curling in a token smile. ‘Still no.’
‘So what do you eat? Air?’
‘Fruit, vegetables, whatever Alimarcus provides.’
‘It sounds incredibly boring.’
Kalashadria shrugged. ‘I have more pressing concerns than how good my next meal tastes. Repairing the worldholme takes up nearly all of my time; feasts and banquets are a luxury I can ill afford.’
‘Hardly a feast without meat,’ Tol grumbled quietly, munching on cold beef.
‘If you have quite finished pestering me with foolish questions we should make a start. There’s a large wooded area ahead. We should be able to reach it not long after dawn.’
‘Mosswood,’ Tol said. ‘It borders the mountains and hides the sole road through the pass. We’d be better heading north then east along the road.’
‘No roads,’ Kalashadria told him, her patience waning. ‘And if you can fly, finding a mountain pass isn’t that difficult.’
‘Fair enough, but if we get lost I’m going to remind you of this.’ Tol realised he had gone too far, the silence tangible as he looked from his breakfast across to the angel. Kalashadria held his gaze for long moments, and just as he thought she was about to launch into a tirade, the angel merely shrugged her shoulders.
‘As you wish.’
‘I have some clean linen in my pack,’ said Tol. ‘I should dress that wound before we go.’
She studied him carefully, peering into his eyes as if searching for deceit or humou
r. ‘Very well,’ she agreed, ‘but don’t dawdle.’
Tol pulled the linen strips from Sir Brounhalk’s pack, examining them to check they were still clean. The big knight might have been an odious man, but like Tol and the others trained at Icepeak, a fastidious approach to provisions had been drummed into him, and Tol was pleased to find the linen was clean and reasonably fresh. He sniffed it to make sure that mould hadn’t set in then shuffled over to Kalashadria on his knees. Only as he reached her did Tol realise he had fashioned himself a new predicament, her wound virtually obscured by large breasts that rose and fell in time with his heartbeat. Tol hesitated, unsure how to wrap the bandage without inadvertently fondling Kalashadria’s chest. A polite cough drew his gaze up to her eyes.
‘If you’ve quite finished,’ she said, a wry smile playing across her lips.
‘Sorry,’ Tol muttered, ‘I was just… never mind.’ He held up the first length of cloth. ‘You’ll need to lean forward.’
She leaned forward from the tree trunk, her face expressionless as Tol set about his task. Tol’s fingers were trembling as he began to loop the bandage around the angel’s torso, wincing each time his fingers brushed her left breast. If she noticed, Kalashadria said nothing, and didn’t react. As Tol pulled the cloth tight, a slight hiss of breath wafted down on his forehead, but otherwise the angel remained immobile as he went about his ministrations. Finished, he leaned back and surveyed his handiwork. Hardly better than a drunk bonesaw, Tol concluded. Considering the distractions, though, he figured it was about as good as he could manage.
Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1) Page 28
