Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2)

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  35.

  36.

  37.

  38.

  39.

  40.

  41.

  42.

  43.

  44.

  45.

  46.

  47.

  48.

  49.

  50.

  51.

  52.

  53.

  54.

  55.

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  The Adventure Continues

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  Angel's Deceit

  Copyright © 2013 A.J. Grimmelhaus

  All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be reproduced in any form other than that in which it was purchased and without the written permission of the author.

  Names, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Illustration © Tom Edwards

  TomEdwardsDesign.com

  This e-book edition published September 2017.

  Find out more about the author at: www.WriteHandPath.com

  For Mum and Dad.

  1.

  Tol grinned as he drank in the sight of Kalashadria, the angel’s pale skin luminescent in the evening gloom blanketing the roof of Duke val Sharvina’s clifftop manse. ‘Any chance we could fly?’ he asked. ‘You know, carry me east?’

  Kalashadria crossed her arms, her bosom threatening to burst out from the silver one-piece garment that terminated at the top of her thighs.

  ‘Have you forgotten how that turned out last time?’

  Tol shook his head, remembering their first meeting when she had borne him away from the plateau outside Karnvost. Their flight had been brief, Tol’s weight too great for the angel to bear; they’d crashed into the trees a mile into their journey. He shrugged. ‘Just thought it might be quicker, is all.’

  ‘Very quick,’ Kalashadria agreed. ‘If you want to drown.’

  She fell quiet, and the silence stretched on for long moments. Tol shuffled, suddenly uncomfortable. They had been through a lot together: fighting and later killing a demon, a forced march across most of Norve pursued by mercenaries, and the not inconsequential betrayal by Tol when he watered wine with his blood and forced it upon Kalashadria. The blood, as the book Angel’s Truth had promised, cured the sickness that had taken Kalashadria – the result of prolonged exposure to poisons in Korte’s atmosphere which had no effect on humans – but the cure had also sparked a strange bond between Kalashadria and Tol. For as long as Tol lived they would be connected, the angel aware of Tol’s thoughts and feelings during his every waking moment. Kalashadria had very nearly killed Tol for that betrayal, but he had managed to earn her trust anew, and in the final battle against the demon Klanvahdor it was Tol who struck the killing blow. Mortally injured, Kalashadria had in turn healed him with her own blood: a last, desperate gamble that the angel confessed she thought would not work. Against all the odds, Tol had been healed, and Kalashadria had explained that he would likely live longer and heal faster than other men. There might be other effects, too, but there the certainty ended.

  Except, he thought, I knew she was there. Even before Tol had heard the soft flutter of wings behind him, he had known Kalashadria had returned to him. But how? And why? Kalashadria had explained the dangers in travelling from the amber moon to the planet below, and Tol had doubted they would ever meet again. But now, only days after his escape from Kron Vulder, the angel had found him again. There was, of course, only one explanation…

  ‘You missed me,’ he said, his face splitting into a broad grin.

  She arched an eyebrow. ‘Hardly.’

  Tol frowned. ‘Then…’

  ‘Trouble,’ Kalashadria told him, ‘and as soon as that man hiding behind the top of the stairwell is gone, I shall tell you about it.’

  A figure stepped out from behind the side of the stone column housing the door, and Tol recognised him as one of the Sworn men who had been standing guard outside his room: a man of average height, hair greying at the temples, and the faint hint of a paunch poking out of his waistband. Plainly dressed, just as the other one, but with piercing eyes and a large, bulbous nose that Tol belatedly recognised with a groan. ‘Duke val Sharvina,’ he said.

  The duke stepped forward, approaching the pair as Kalashadria’s brow creased in thought. ‘I know that name,’ she said.

  ‘The eighth man,’ Tol reminded her. The history of the church taught that the Seven, knights from various realms of Korte, had banded together and defeated the demon as it sought to kill the High Angel Galandor. Seven, but the journal of Sir Hunt Valeron, Angel’s Truth, had revealed that there had been an eighth man, a distant ancestor of the man before them now.

  Kalashadria nodded, watching the duke carefully as he approached, stopping a few feet from the pair. He looked her over quickly.

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  Kalashadria hesitated, glancing at Tol. He nodded, and she explained, ‘A vast host is marching across the desert, and the force readying to meet them is too small, spread too thin.’ She shook her head. ‘Some of the units do not appear to be moving, simply waiting.’

  Tol watched as the duke digested this without any outward appearance of concern. ‘Meracian politics, I would imagine.’

  Kalashadria leaned forward. ‘If they are not careful,’ she said with quiet force, ‘they will not have a nation left by the time they are done talking.’

  Duke val Sharvina frowned. ‘You are sure?’

  Kalashadria clicked her tongue and turned away from the duke as if he was beneath her notice. ‘You must rouse their army,’ she said to Tol. ‘If they do not begin to organise their defences, it will soon be too late and the enemy will be knocking down their doors.’

  ‘But how?

  ‘You must find a way,’ she told him, neatly sidestepping any possible admission of not knowing the answer. ‘It may be that agents of the enemy are already within the city. Make your way there and find a way to stop them.’ Without looking at the interloper Kalashadria added, ‘Ask this duke of yours for passage east to begin with. After that,’ she shrugged, ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’ The angel spun away, striding over to the northern rim of the roof that perched on the edge of the cliff. She turned. ‘Hurry, Tol, time is not our friend.’

  She dived off the roof, and Tol raced after her, leaning over the lip and watching as the angel dived towards the sea, her wings flaring out at the last moment. She pulled up just above the waves, wings slowly beating as she began to rise. Tol watched until she was a tiny speck, finally lost from view as she speared through a cloud. He sighed, and turned back towards the stairwell. So much for being friends, he thought as he strode past the bemused figure of Duke val Sharvina. Al
one again.

  ‘What,’ the duke asked quietly as Tol’s fingers brushed the door handle, ‘are your intentions towards my daughter?’

  Tol froze. ‘My intentions?’ he asked as he met the duke’s gaze. ‘To never get on the wrong side of that Pit hound.’ He thought for a moment, then added, ‘and I intend – or at least hope – that one day she might use my name instead of calling me Steven all the time.’

  The duke nodded. ‘Steven is a good name.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Tol said, ‘but it’s not my name.’

  ‘You look like a Steven. Perhaps you should consider changing your name.’

  Tol sighed and shook his head. ‘She’s a lot like you, you know.’

  The duke’s expression hardened, bushy eyebrows furrowing together. ‘How so?’

  That bloody huge nose, Tol thought, but he held his peace on that thought. Katarina was dangerous enough, but her father? Tol suspected that the slightest misstep with the duke would result in a protracted and doubtless painful death. ‘She’s a lot more dangerous than she looks,’ Tol said after a moment. He grinned, unable to help himself. ‘And that bloody huge nose,’ he said, wrenching the door open and darting inside before the duke could respond, a snatched glance showing the duke’s jaw flapping soundlessly as his eyes bulged like those of a slow-strangled whore. It was childish, Tol knew, but most definitely worth it for that sight. If the duke hadn’t been there, Kalashadria might have stayed longer, might have said more. It’s his own fault, he told himself.

  *

  The knock on the door was brief, perfunctory, but with just enough force to suggest that any delay to responding might, quite possibly, result in said door being kicked down. Tol opened it, and wasn’t surprised to find Stetch waiting.

  ‘Dinner,’ the Sworn man grunted, turning on his heel and striding away.

  Same Stetch as ever, Tol thought as he hurried into the hallway. Stetch led him deeper into the mansion, silent as usual. The hallway was narrow for a noble’s home, Tol noted, and although the walls were painted a muted cream and a deep burgundy carpet covered the floor, these seemed almost like afterthoughts. The corridors ran straight and broad, decked with portraits and the occasional sculpture, but Tol felt sure that whoever had designed the place had intended it as a fortress – albeit a luxurious one. The contraption that had drawn him up from the docks through hundreds of feet of rock ensured the duke and his intelligence network could come and go unobserved, and offered a useful escape route should the clifftop home ever be attacked. And I bet there are others, too. From the roof Tol had seen that the duke’s home perched on the very edge of the cliff, and while tactically it seemed the duke was backing himself into a corner, Tol had learned the truth was rarely so simple. He passed a glass cabinet of swords, flails and maces. A second glance showed that they weren’t antique in any way, as might be usual in such a display cabinet, but they did look recently oiled and perfectly serviceable. A neat way of disguising your defences, he thought as he hurried after Stetch. And a man as paranoid as that isn’t someone to idly suffer insults. Telling the duke he had a huge nose didn’t seem like such a good idea now. Maybe I should have strapped my sword on. Still, where there was dinner, there was cutlery.

  One side of the hall gave way to a solid marble balustrade, stretching eight feet either side of the plain staircase. Tol followed Stetch down to the first floor, the stairs terminating a few feet from the wall with space either side of the banisters circling back to the main corridor beneath the balustrade. Tol frowned as they reached the bottom, turned and passed back under the balustrade. Something was tickling the back of his mind. He glanced back, and noticed how steep the stairs were, how flimsy the wooden handrail was compared to the wall of marble up on the landing. A killing ground, he realised. They built their damned house for a siege.

  Paying attention to his surroundings more carefully now, Tol followed Stetch along the hallway. In the distance he could see another slab of marble; another balcony, and probably the main reception hall beneath it. They turned off before reaching it, descending through a staircase of the same design as the first. Twin urns guarded its peak, and Tol suspected that if he were to look inside he would find pitch or oil. And the polished wood covering on those steps looks like it’s had a generous measure of wax applied recently. Tol’s stomach was churning as he reached the ground floor. Nobody’s this paranoid, he thought. Part of him admired the duke – or whichever antecedent had designed the disguised defences – for such practicalities, while another part of his mind was wondering what life had been like for the young Katarina growing up around such a man. Might explain a few things, he decided. Probably best not to mention it over dinner, though.

  The corridors on the ground floor were wider, probably a nod to visiting nobles and maintaining the outward appearance of luxury over defence. Stetch led Tol deeper into the manse, stopping at a pair of double oak door and jerking his head towards the room beyond. Tol nodded his thanks – it seemed almost an insult to try and engage Stetch in any conversation – and grasped the brass handle. He stopped as iron fingers squeezed his shoulder.

  ‘Watch yourself,’ Stetch warned, promptly marching off with just the right amount of haste that it didn’t look like a retreat. Watch yourself. A veritable speech for Stetch. Maybe it was an apology of sorts for knocking Tol out when he boarded Katarina’s ship. Tol drew in a deep breath and opened the door.

  2.

  It was a dining room. For a moment Tol had wondered whether he’d find himself in a room full of crossbow-toting guards, a torture chamber – although Tol felt very strongly that torture chambers most definitely belonged in cellars – or some other kind of unpleasant surprise. This, though, might be worse; at least with a dungeon you knew what you were getting.

  ‘Ah, you must be Katarina’s new friend,’ a soft, cultured voice announced as the door snicked shut behind him.

  He nodded, stepping deeper into the room. A plain square dining table dominated the room, a chair along each side. Duke val Sharvina was seated at the far end, staring at Tol with a worrying intensity. On Tol’s left sat a copper-skinned woman of graceful middle-age, her face not dissimilar to Katarina’s – except for a very ordinary nose. No doubt her mother, Tol realised as he saw Katarina seated opposite her. Katarina herself was clothed in understated finery, a deep emerald dress with a neckline plunge that teased rather than revealed. Probably just as well, Tol thought as he walked slowly towards the empty chair facing the duke. That kind of distraction could end very badly. Still, he was a little disappointed.

  Katarina rose in a fluid motion as Tol reached her, her face unreadable. ‘Mother, Father, this is Tol Kraven. Tol, my mother, Lady Grace val Sharvina.’ Her mouth twitched in a faint smile. I think that’s the first time she’s used my name, Tol thought. It sounded odd. ‘I believe you’ve already met my father.’

  ‘Please, join us,’ the duke’s wife continued, her hand flicking towards the empty chair facing the duke. ‘We are most keen to hear about your adventures in the frozen north. My daughter thinks highly of you.’

  Tol slid the chair out, wincing as it scraped against the stone floor. ‘She does?’

  ‘Of course.’ The duchess’ eyes focussed on her daughter. ‘Why else would she bring you here?’

  Tol frowned. ‘The book?’

  The duchess’ musical laughter filled the room as a butler and two maids carried in platters of meat and vegetables. Tol opened his mouth to say something, but a slight shake of the duke’s head – his eyes fixed unnervingly on Tol – made Tol clamp it shut. More paranoia, he thought, the duke’s intense scrutiny making his skin itch.

  The servants left as swiftly and silently as they had arrived, and Duke val Sharvina stood, taking up a carving knife and slicing into the steaming joint of lamb perched on the table’s corner. As the door clicked shut behind the servants, his wife spoke.

  ‘A book? I doubt whether it contains the measliest morsel of fact that my husband does not already k
now. Valeron was not the only knight of that age who could write. Now, young man, our daughter has been somewhat evasive on the subject of your acquaintance. Perhaps you might regale us with the full tale of your adventure?’

  Tol glanced at Katarina, but she kept her gaze studiously low, seemingly rapt by her father’s carving skills. Tol sighed. ‘It started when I fell off a mountain.’

  He told the story quickly, glossing over some of the more colourful aspects of his journey. As Tol recounted his meeting with Katarina he felt his cheeks colour under her parents’ steely regard. He ploughed on, staring at the lamb as the duke’s knife bobbed and weaved through the succulent meat. Everything was going fine, right up to the point where he described his second meeting with Katarina.

  ‘That was when he punched me in the face,’ she said with a vicious smile.

  The knife stopped its hypnotic rhythm, the duke’s knuckles whitening on the handle.

  ‘Or at least he tried to,’ Katarina added.

  ‘Explain,’ her father barked, finger stroking the blade’s flat as he regarded Tol like a particularly challenging joint in need of expert carving.

  Tol tried to calm his breathing, his eyes flitting left to right, sweeping over the whole family as Katarina explained how Tol had guessed her true vocation – not a noble’s daughter, but a calculating spy.

  ‘Fools,’ the duke muttered as he served the meat and took his place at head of the table. ‘Both of you.’

  Tol glanced at Katarina, her face downcast like a scolded child. ‘I know my mistake,’ he said, ‘but what did Katarina do wrong?’

  The duchess answered for her husband. ‘Her mistake,’ she said, ‘was in revealing enough of herself that you could guess her true purpose. Is that not so, Valtas?’

  The duke grunted as he set about loading his plate, the others following his lead. ‘That and stopping the punch,’ he said. ‘Left no doubt.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad she stopped me,’ Tol said, his voice sounding louder than he had intended. What kind of family is this? he wondered.

  Urged to continue his tale during the meal, Tol found it was cold long before he had finished, sure that if he spoke while eating some glob of something was bound to end up over the duke or his wife. He didn’t see that ending well. They listened in silence, and asked no questions, but once or twice the duke gave a slow nod, a hesitant approval of Tol’s decisions and actions in Norve.