She tossed another strip of wood on the fire, blowing it to life. For a brief time she had felt like her old self, her injury almost forgotten. Now, though, in the crisp light of morning, the pain had returned, and Kalashadria again felt leaden, her limbs slow and heavy. Her side burned again. The boy had, perhaps, slowed her demise, but that was all; he had just delayed the inevitable.
She turned her head, a soft sound drifting down the road. Kalashadria closed her eyes and concentrated, recognising the sound a moment later: a man whistling. A few more moments and she placed the tune, the same marching song from the other day. He’s coming back!
The whistling soon ceased, but by then Kalashadria could sense him, a bundled knot of consternation turning from the road and arrowing towards her. Half a minute later she saw him through the trees, sunlight striping his chiselled face.
‘I wondered where you were,’ she said as Tol dropped down beside the fire and threw more wood on it.
He recognised the tone, and nodded slowly. ‘You thought I’d left you.’
‘I was, perhaps, harsh with you last night.’
He laughed, genuinely amused. ‘You think?’ Tol held up a hand before Kalashadria could protest. ‘You had every right to be as angry as you were. If I were you I’d probably have flown to the top of the Demon’s Teeth and dropped me off.’
‘The thought had occurred to me,’ she replied with a faint smile. ‘But it seemed like a lot of work. Who’d bury me then?’
‘There is that,’ he agreed. ‘You still think you’re dying then?’
‘It was a temporary measure,’ she explained, trying to keep the bitterness from her voice. ‘All things end, my young friend, even the lives of the Anghl’teri.’
Tol nodded, his expression sombre. ‘So they do,’ he said, ‘but not today, not your life.’ He shook his head, running dirty fingers through his mangled blond hair. ‘You were back to your old self for a time, like when we first met. When you fell asleep you were fine, but when I awoke your breathing was laboured, your skin paler than ever.’ He hesitated. ‘More cure, that’s what you need.’
He didn’t say blood, and for that Kalashadria was grateful, but it didn’t make the proposal any less palatable. ‘No.’
‘Yes. I’ve been to an inn and got more wine so the taste won’t be too bad. It won’t… make this link you have with me any worse, will it?’
Kalashadria sighed. ‘No.’
‘Then it seems to me there’s nothing to lose by trying again. You may not like the cure, but it is a cure, so the only real question is whether you like living more than a little bit of disgust.’
‘There’s no need to be smug about it.’
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, ‘old habits. Do you want breakfast first or after?’
‘After.’
‘I’ve got some chicken if you want to try it.’
‘And see its memories?’ She shook her head. ‘I think not.’
He smiled. ‘Maybe they’re really smart, maybe they’re planning an uprising to kill all the farmers.’
Kalashadria laughed. ‘I doubt that. What was it you called them, plants with legs?’
Tol leaned in close. ‘That’s what they want us to think,’ he whispered.
*
‘It must have been the blood of just one of those knights; two at most.’
‘What?’
‘Your book,’ she explained. ‘It’s wrong. Seven men’s blood at once? It would have rendered Galandor insensate.’ Kalashadria frowned. ‘Perhaps even driven him mad.’
‘It’s true,’ he insisted with typical stubbornness. ‘Why would Valeron lie?’ Tol hurriedly pulled out the infernal book, flicking through it until he found the right passage. He read it out loud. ‘See?’
‘Just because something is written, it does not make it truth.’
‘He would not lie,’ Tol said, his voice rising. ‘It’s true.’
‘Why do you care so much about him?’ she asked as gently as she could. ‘Your ancestor killed him, surely it would be less heartache for you if the murdered knight was found to be a liar?’
He was silent for several seconds, turning his gaze away and finding the gentle flames of the fire suddenly interesting. ‘It’s all I have left,’ he said at last. ‘The teachings of the church are a lie, the Knights Reve are worse still… I need to believe something.’ He paused a moment, face crinkled in thought. ‘My ancestor killed the world’s greatest hero, and became the world’s most infamous traitor,’ he said softly. ‘If I can’t believe in my own blood, perhaps I can believe the man he killed did the right thing, that our greatest hero was right to tell the world a terrible lie.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Perhaps he had reason enough to do such a terrible thing.’
Kalashadria leaned over, resting her hand on his knee. Slowly, he raised his eyes to look at her. ‘I hope they had cause,’ she said, ‘but you must prepare yourself for the possibility that, whatever their reasons, a mistake was made.’
‘And what of Galandor?’ Tol asked. ‘He’s supposed to be better than us. How could he go along with something like this?’
Kalashadria shook her head. ‘I truly do not know, Tol.’ She leaned further forward, taking her hand from his knee and tapping his book with her index finger. ‘But I think it’s time we found out.’
He sighed. ‘I know.’ His fingers brushed the vellum. ‘What if I’m wrong?’ he asked in a tiny voice.
‘Then we will face it together.’
*
The day which followed was the longest I can recall. A battle would have been a relief compared to what we eight witnessed. The angel was troubled by waking dreams, but these dreams were no fantasy, but the memories of I and my fellow knights. Galandor cried out many times, and each time one of us would lower our gaze as we recognised some fragment from our own pasts. Deeds and words noble and ignoble both, they came forth from the angel’s lips as visions tormented him through the blistering heat of the afternoon. Finally, as dusk came, Galandor recovered his wits. None of us could meet his gaze, for in that strained face we saw all our failings, all our misbegotten treacheries, and realised that he knew everything about us. Even Kur, strongest among us, found himself stoking the fire, carefully avoiding Galandor’s gaze.
He said nothing, just waited patiently until, at last, we could stand it no more. Despite all we had done to the noble angel, we all had so many unanswered questions, and the lure of truth proved too strong to resist. Kur lasted longest, but even he could not resist and finally joined us beside the fire as the chill of night settled upon us.
‘You made a difficult decision,’ Galandor said at last, seated in the mouth of his tent, the rest of us arrayed around the fire a few feet away. ‘Now you have paid the price. I know you; I know your fears, your hopes, your darkest secrets. Blood is memory, and your memory is mine.’
‘Worked though, didn’t it?’
Galandor locked eyes with Kur, the corner of his mouth twitching in a sad smile. ‘I am recovered enough to return,’ the angel said, ‘and I, too, have paid the price. Blood is memory, but for my people it is also a conduit to the soul. We are bound, now, you and I.’
I did not understand, and by the looks on my fellows, nor did they. I said as much to Galandor.
‘Always, for the rest of your short lives, I shall know where you are. I shall know your fears, your hopes, your aches and pains. You are mine.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘And, it would seem I am yours; the price of my intervention.’
‘You regret aiding us?’ I asked.
‘Only time will tell. We will speak no more of your actions last night, except to say that I have suffered for aiding you. I will countenance no shirking from this plan we have concocted, not now. You will swear to see it through to the end,’ he said, his voice hardening. ‘You will swear it or I will take your heads and be rid of your damned thoughts tickling my own.’
We all swore our oaths, and the angel seemed satisfied. ‘We will not meet again,’ he said,
‘but know that I shall watch over you and those who follow. For two hundred of your years I shall hold the watch, until another takes my place.’
‘And if the demons return?’
‘You cannot stand against them,’ Galandor said. ‘They are too fast, too strong, and all but impervious to your weapons. They will return, of that I am certain. Perhaps not in your lifetime, but they will not give up so easily, and they will not be caught unawares a second time.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘I shall make arrangements when I return to Alimarcus. Speak loud and clear the true name of the one who holds the watch, and you shall draw their attention.’ Galandor thought for a moment. ‘Enough, I think, for them to risk a journey to your world. The rest will be up to you.’
Galandor commanded us to record the details of our conversations so that the generations of knights who follow us will understand the true nature of the threat we now face. It is my hope that they will also forgive us for the terrible crime we are about to perpetrate. It grieves us all – even Kur, though he will not admit it. Galandor took us once more through the plan and told us to steel ourselves for what lies ahead. Before he left us, Galandor delivered one last gift, words intended for the day when another angel takes his place and – though we pray it will not be so – is called upon to aid us. These words are intended for the angel alone, and are direct from Galandor’s lips. Should you, whoever you might be, have such dire need that none but an angel can offer succour, speak the angel’s true name and tell them these words.
I, Galandor Sinis-Nor k’Ganedrin, beseech my kin to offer aid to those humans of the knightly brotherhood formed on the burning sands known as the Spur. The First laid upon us a single edict, and I have broken it fully and wholeheartedly because to not do so would damn our people to a final, utter destruction. Demmegrahk and his minions suffer under no such edict, and have journeyed to the human world. There they have styled themselves as gods, creating a religion and garnering misguided humans – whether by fear or hope, I know not – to their cause. Their goal is singular: to gain dominion over the human world and guide the evolution of their society until such time as Demmegrahk’s followers can deliver technology and materials of sufficient quality to repair Pittvankor. Should they succeed, their attention will turn to Alimarcus and the Anghl’teri shall be no more.
I have done the only thing I can: together with a small group of humans I have set in motion a conflicting religion, one that, as a necessity, paints the First as a god and we his servants. By uniting the humans in faith against Demmegrahk’s insidious blasphemy, I have fashioned us – and the humans – a chance at survival. Should you hear these words from human lips, know that the time has come for you to decide the fate of our people: aid the humans in their struggle against the Demhoun-el’teri and their minions, or stand aside and doom our people. I, Galandor, do hereby beg you to defy the First’s edict and aid the human before you in all reasonable endeavours. Should human resistance to Demmegrahk’s cult fail, our own demise will surely follow. In denying his army victory, the humans have earned his eternal hatred, and they can now expect a similar fate as our own at the hands of the Demnhoun-el’teri. Only together can our two peoples survive, our fates now bound together.
The survival of two races now rests in your hands.
*
Kalashadria closed her eyes. She longed to denounce those words, cry that it was naught but some convoluted human ploy to earn her trust and her aid. But those words, she thought, that sounds like how Gal would speak. She bit her lip. And his full name - as well as my own - is written within Tol’s book. The full names of the Anghl’teri were personal and rarely used, denoting caste status and ancestry - not something shared with strangers lightly. They are Galandor’s words, Kalashadria thought. It is the only way the humans could have such knowledge.
She had thought that Demmegrahk’s interference on this world nothing more than a distraction, an amusement, while his servants sought to repair the shattered body of Pittvankor. It made terrible sense, though. The foul creature that led the Demhoun-el’teri took perverse joy in intricate machinations and convoluted plans that tricked and befuddled his enemies, and Galandor’s words – she could not really doubt they were his, not in her heart – laid clear Demmegrahk’s insidious design. A long, long game, played out over centuries for the ultimate reward – the chance to forever wipe the last remnants of his enemy from existence. And if Galandor had not intervened, Kalashadria realised, the game would already be lost, and our destruction assured.
‘Is it true?’
Kalashadria opened her eyes. ‘I believe so.’
‘Demmegrahk will destroy us all if his servants gain control of my world?’
‘In time, yes.’
‘Even the Gurdal, the ones that worship him?’
‘He sees you as little more than primitive animals. For him it would be no more than culling a species that serves no purpose.’ Kalashadria shrugged. ‘Even if Demmegrahk saw the potential of your race it would make no difference: some of you once resisted him, and that is all the motivation he needs to exterminate your entire species.’
‘And you think differently? I seem to remember hearing you call humans primitive a number of times.’
‘We are not the same,’ she snapped, ‘not at all the same.’
‘Well, you’re a lot prettier than a demon,’ Tol said with a mischievous smile, ‘I’ll give you that.’
Kalashadria laughed. ‘I suppose I deserve that. But I have come to see that humans – some at least – have the potential to do great things. To ensure the survival of my people and yours, we must work together.’
Tol nodded, the strain on his face melting away. He thought I would leave him, Kalashadria realised. But she could still sense a tendril of tension creeping through his mind. ‘Now,’ she said gently, ‘why don’t you tell me what you learned this morning that has you so on edge?’
‘The forest ends at Bitterhalk, a few leagues east. After that, it’s open ground nearly all the way to Kron Vulder.’ He picked up a twig and twirled it in his fingers.
‘And?’
Tol snapped the twig. ‘That spy I met – Katarina. I don’t know how she knows, but she left a message at the inn ahead. They’ll ambush me on the road.’
‘Us,’ Kalashadria corrected. She leaned over and laid her hand over his own, a small flutter of emotion reaching her through their bond. ‘They will ambush us.’
49.
‘Are you sure about this?’
Tol wasn’t sure about anything any more, not since fleeing Icepeak. His encounter with Kalashadria and the revelations in the book Angel’s Truth had muddied his mind further still, and if somebody told him that night was day he might well believe them. They had continued east through the woods, reaching Bitterhalk in the early afternoon. There they waited, biding their time until dusk. Only then had Tol entered the walled town, Kalashadria watching him from the shadows of the trees. He had scoured every inn, every tavern – under strict instructions not to sample their wares – and found no sign of the Band of Blood. A few pointed questions had revealed they had already been and gone, and with what Tol had learned earlier from the Sudalrese couple who ran the Wayfarer’s Rest, he realised there was only one place on the road ahead where the Band could hope to lay an effective ambush. Tol returned to Kalashadria and together they had sketched the outline of a plan, one as foolish and desperate as any he had ever heard – even in the abbot’s many lectures on military endeavours gone bad.
They rested for a few hours at the edge of the woods, and Tol forced more of his cure down Kalashadria’s throat despite her vehement protestations. Only when he had refused to go any further had she yielded, the look of distaste on her face nearly breaking his resolve. ‘I need you healed,’ he told her, forcing down his feelings, ‘else you’ll be no use to me at all.’
They marched through the night, following the East Road as there was no longer anywhere to hide. The land rol
led and weaved under them, flatlands giving way to rippling hills. Now, with dawn threatening to break the horizon, their destination was minutes away. The East Road ran straight and true from Karnvost, through the Maw and on to Kron Vulder, the kingdom’s capital. Only in one place was the road’s path diverted, the ragged spear of black rock that was Hangman’s Tor barring its course. In the clan wars that had eventually led to the birth of Norve as a kingdom, the tor had been used by nearby clans as a gruesome tapestry, warning all who saw it of what interlopers might expect. The practice was supposedly outlawed, but spurs of iron could still be seen where they had been hammered into crevices long ago.
The road swung sharply south, a large area of marshland with the twisted trunks of Brokewood clumped at its heart guarding the northern face of the tor. Merchants with ox-drawn carts never left the road, taking the longer, safer route south of the tor, but for those on foot Brokewood offered a faster path. From spring to autumn the marshy land in and around Brokewood sucked and slurped at unwary travellers, but with winter dawdling the ground would be reasonably firm. Tol and Kalashadria were faced with a choice: the shorter path through Brokewood, which also offered shelter from the demon’s prying eyes; or the longer route along the road, skirting around the southern edge of Hangman’s Tor, straight up a hill through the heart of a small village with not a scrap of cover to be found anywhere. Kalashadria, with surprising deference, had left the decision to Tol. Left the decision to him, but not refrained from questioning his choice.
‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Are you sure? Dawn’s coming fast.’
‘No.’ Tol sighed, kicking a loose stone along the road.
Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1) Page 34
