Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2) Read online

  Salazar smiled. ‘In this, I hope, as I don’t believe in another.’

  ‘Be nice to be proved wrong though, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I can’t argue with that, Sir Benvedor,’ Salazar chuckled.

  The seven turned their back on the encroaching army, crossing back through the oasis towards the walls of Shade, fourth of the Desolate Cities, and last bastion of civilisation in the furnace of the Eastern Sands.

  *

  The sand-shined walls of Shade stood high and proud, a monolith in the desert that could be seen for leagues, though there were few enough travellers to see them. The four Desolate Cities followed a chain down the stretch of barren land called the Spur that began in the south-eastern plains of Meracia – a land far east of Norve, across a huge ocean – and stretched down, joining the northern continent to its southern cousin. While the northern realm, the majority of which was taken up by Meracia itself, was lush and fertile, the land soon became barren and arid. The vast ocean separating the eastern and western continents reached under Meracia, tickling its underside as it drifted lazily eastward to the Spur. The Spur, in its narrowest places, was only a few miles wide. On its eastern border lounged the inland salt sea, ringed by a narrow ridge of land that led north and east, curving round to the Karalvian Empire, neighbours whose western border flanked Meracia’s eastern boundary. South of the salt sea, another ocean jostled against the Spur as it stretched south for several leagues until the land opened out east and west into the Eastern Sands, a vast, sprawling desert that men had once thought endless. They had been wrong, though, so very wrong. Across the sands came the Gurdal, a barbarian horde sworn to the Demon-God Demmegrahk. The march across the sands had killed many, but eventually the army arrived at the fourth of the Desolate Cities: Shade. South-east of the Spur, the city stood behind high walls, and its wells were the only source of water for leagues in any direction. The Gurdal had swarmed over the walls, half-crazed by thirst. Not a single resident of the city had survived, those not killed instantly sacrificed to the mighty Demmegrahk. From there the horde had marched north towards the Spur and the remaining three Desolate Cities. They had fallen one after another until the swollen army reached the first Desolate City: Galantrium. There, two hundred years ago, the Gurdal had met the Meracian army, the Meracian numbers augmented with a handful of knights from neighbouring lands across the sea – a token gesture that said “we are friends, but not good enough friends to risk losing our strength”.

  Now, two hundred years later, it seemed history was to repeat itself, and Sir Benvedor couldn’t help but shudder as he passed through the gates of Shade. There had been rumblings among the desert tribes for almost half a year, mutterings and reported sightings of Gurdal on the move. Nomad caravans were found slaughtered, distant scouting parties sighted, all the omens of an invasion. Benvedor had sent word back to the Church in Meracia, and he was sure Salazar and the men of the Sworn had informed their master in Sudalra. Seven days ago Benvedor had received word of a host marching south for the Spur; the Meracians had again raised an army. This time, though, they had the support of the Church of the Maker and its leader, the First Father, was rumoured to have travelled to distant Norve to plead with the Norvek King for support. The Knights Reve would go to war, that was certain, but they were a small order spread out across the nations.

  Benvedor stared at the city’s residents as he strode through the dusty streets. They carried on as if nothing was amiss, few knowing what was coming across the desert for them. He had been stationed in the city for two years, but even though he knew some of the people he passed he could not help thinking they looked like ghosts – poorly formed, insubstantial wraiths. Soon, he knew, they would join the dust that had spawned them. Seven days; the marching Meracians would probably not even have reached Galantrium yet. From there it would be many days march south in appalling heat as they traversed the Spur, progress painfully slow because of the Spur’s meagre breadth. If they were lucky, the army would reach Siadendre, third of the Desolate Cities, before the Gurdal. Maybe. Shade was already lost, Benvedor knew, its people just didn’t know it yet.

  He had been daydreaming, but Benvedor stopped as he reached the open doors of the church, the smell of blood filling his nostrils. He drew his sword, and heard the Meracians Catardor and Vrillian doing likewise behind him. Benvedor stepped into the cool darkness, already expecting the worst.

  He wasn’t disappointed. A dozen paces took him to the raised dais, the priest’s tanned body lying at its centre, below a painting of the Seven at the Angel’s Defence that covered the entire back wall of the church. A gesture from Benvedor sent Vrillian striding across to the side door at one end of the dais that led to the priest’s study and living quarters. The door was open, an acolyte’s body crumpled under the arch. While Vrillian went to investigate and search the priest’s quarters, Benvedor knelt to examine the priest, and beckoned his squire over.

  ‘Why would anyone kill a priest?’ Kal asked.

  ‘Why indeed, squire. The good priest here did not go quietly, nor slowly. See the fingers? Broken, the nails pulled out. Whoever killed him wanted information.’

  Kal gagged as Benvedor pried open the priest’s mouth. ‘Hush, boy.’ The knight peered into the priest’s maw. ‘Look,’ he told Kal, ‘see the tongue, all swollen and blue?’

  Kal nodded, the lad looking like he was about to lose his last meal.

  ‘Poison,’ Sir Benvedor explained. ‘Not a quick way to go, shyundri nectar. The priest here suffered a great deal before his heart finally gave out.’

  He rose to his feet. ‘You ever find anyone dyin’ from shyundri, lad, then show them mercy by slippin’ a knife in their ribs. They’ll thank you for it, believe me.’

  ‘There’s no cure for it?’

  ‘That is the cure.’ Benvedor turned away, striding back down the aisle between the rough benches as Vrillian stepped over the acolyte’s corpse and rejoined them, shuffling awkwardly between the pews to reach the central aisle.

  Just as he stepped into the aisle, a shadow crossed the doorway. Catardor, leaning with one foot against the wall, moved quickly as the man’s shadow crossed the threshold, his blade flicking out like a tongue as he spun away from the wall, sword point lancing into the arched doorway. It came to rest under a tanned chin the owner of which had pulled up short of the doorway. The intruder didn’t move, arms held loosely at his side an inch beyond the reach of Catardor’s blade.

  Almost, Benvedor thought, like he knew we’d post a man by the door.

  ‘I bring a warning.’

  Benvedor recognised the voice, and a moment later Sir Catardor lowered his sword from Salazar’s throat, stepping back a pace to allow the Sudalrese warrior to enter the church.

  ‘You’re a little late.’ Benvedor gestured at the priest behind him.

  Salazar shook his head. ‘Men have been asking questions, very specific questions... They didn’t come for the priest,’ he said, ‘they came for you. Assassins are in the city even now, searching for Knights Reve.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I don’t know, but my guess is quite a few; upon our return to the city I received reports from over a dozen men that had been questioned.’ Salazar shrugged. ‘There are probably more that said nothing.’

  Benvedor nodded. It was like that, here in Shade. There were honest men, and there were those, either born in the city, or of the nomadic tribes that occasionally rooted themselves in Shade for a generation or two, that would like nothing better than to see every foreigner, Norvek, Meracian, or Sudalrese, gone or dead. Such men kept their own counsel and, like as not, would probably aid the assassins with good cheer.

  ‘Are these assassins after me in particular, or any Knight of the Reve?’

  ‘Your name was mentioned.’

  Sir Benvedor grinned. ‘It’s tough being popular.’

  24.

  The River Khah was calm, gentle waves tickling the prow of the boat as Kartane propelled the low, rect
angular craft out of the bay and into the river’s mouth. High Mera had quieted somewhat, a background burble that masked the occasional splash of the oar when Kartane’s inebriation soured his skill. Tol was nervous, the first stop on his journey only a few short minutes away. Seated at the boat’s prow, he faced Kartane, watching as the knight pushed them further inland. He opened his mouth but Kartane raised a finger to his lips, pointing urgently over Tol’s shoulder. He looked over it and saw the bridge approaching, The Ninety-Third Passage somewhere just out of view. A guard was standing at one end of the bridge, his gaze drifting to a scuffle somewhere near the inn. Tol turned back to Kartane and nodded. Best not attract any unwanted attention. He sat there, trying not to fidget as the low-slung boat passed under the bridge. A few moments more. Kartane missed a stroke and it sounded like a body hitting the water, but the guard above them didn’t seem to hear, certainly didn’t move. Tol turned his gaze upward, watching as the brickwork receded and the sky came into view again. There. The guard was still at his post, still looking away from the river at the nearby disturbance. Tol gave a silent sigh and sagged, nodding to Kartane as the knight raised an eyebrow. We’re clear.

  Lord Riasell kol Siadore’s mansion was about two-thirds of the way between the river’s mouth and High Mera’s wall. As Kartane guided them upriver, it felt far longer to Tol as he watched the banks for movement. He willed the small craft to go faster, but Kartane continued at the same unhurried pace, favouring silence over speed. Tol felt sick. He had been through all manner of trials and traps in Norve, but none of it had been expected. Tonight, though, he knew what was coming, and what he would have to do. There’s too much at stake to fail, he thought. That, at least, was as it had been before: an expectation of success, the promise of catastrophe should failure befall him.

  Tol recognised the outline of the Skull Inn as it hove into view, a few candles still burning within, but the inn’s patrons already ejected – or abed – for the night. Kartane beckoned Tol, and he hesitantly clambered the length of the boat, feeling the flimsy craft roll and baulk as his weight disturbed its fragile balance. Holding the sides carefully, Tol leaned forward, his face inches from Kartane’s own. The sound, he knew, would travel far on a night like this.

  ‘I know you want to spare him,’ Kartane said, his voice barely audible over the gently lapping waves, ‘but there’s no time for niceties.’ He took one hand from the oar and prodded Tol in the midriff. ‘Stick him there and he ain’t gonna be shouting. You’ll have about two minutes before he dies to find out what you can.’ Tol got the impression that Kartane had tried this technique first hand. Probably a lot.

  Kartane gave Tol a searching look, checking that he understood. Tol nodded and retreated back towards his end of the boat, nearly losing his balance as Kartane grabbed a fistful of his shirt.

  ‘Don’t take no chances,’ he hissed at Tol as the small craft drifted towards the riverbank. ‘If the cry goes out I ain’t coming in for you, you understand?’

  Tol saw the bow at Kartane’s feet and nodded, his throat dry. Alone again.

  *

  Tol remained perfectly still, the water lapping only a few inches to his right. He had hopped off the boat in the estate adjacent to kol Siadore’s, crawling on hands and knees below the lip of the riverbank, sheltered from view. The noise caused him to freeze in place, his back to the earth as he watched the space above him. The footfalls grew louder and Tol held himself motionless as the guard approached the riverbank. Louder still, and Tol heard the man’s breathing. He’s right above me, Tol realised as the noise reached a somnolent crescendo that drowned out the river lapping at Tol’s shoulder. Don’t look down, he willed the man, a crown of hair just visible above the lip of the bank. He was two or three feet from the bank, and had the high ground. And while the guard was standing and – supposedly – alert, Tol himself was prone, awkwardly folded into the crook of the riverbank’s ledge. If he sees me, he thought, it’s all over.

  There was a final heavy breath, and Tol thought the guard had seen him. He waited for the cry to go up, was a heartbeat away from struggling upright, then realised the footfalls had begun anew, this time heading back towards the mansion. He let his head fall back to the mud and closed his eyes. Damn, that was close.

  He waited a few seconds then crawled over the lip of the bank as the guard retreated back towards the house. About five minutes, he reminded himself. That was how long he had to breach the exterior and get inside before the guard’s looping circuit brought him back around to the rear. He glanced back, and could just make out the dim shape of Kartane. The boat was moored on the far side of the river outside the Skull Inn, Kartane lounging on his back, one leg dangling over the side and looking to any casual observer like a man one drink away from falling into the river. The large flagon of ale in his hand completed the image perfectly. How did he get that on the boat without me seeing? Tol shook his head. There was no time for that now. He pushed himself up into a low crouch and headed deeper into the garden, the rear façade of the mansion only a hundred yards away.

  He transferred the grappling hook to his left hand, pulling out a throwing knife as he followed in the wake of the guard. He kept close to the garden’s border, the guard only fifteen paces ahead. The temptation to sneak up on the man and put the long sleep on him was almost overpowering. Remove the obstacle so it’s not there to cut you down on the way out. That was the sensible option, Tol knew, but the guard wasn’t the target – might even be innocent – and killing him merely for convenience was not a knightly thing to do. And I am a knight now, he reminded himself as padded silently after the man, not a thug or an assassin. So he fought down the temptation, resolving to leave the man alive – as long as he didn’t turn around. The instinct remained, gnawing at him, and Tol reminded himself what the abbot would say about such things. Probably something like “we don’t kill innocents, boy, we kill the men who do”. There was the vow too, of course: the solemn oath of the Knights Reve that Tol had pledged in the convent of St. Helena in front of an old crone and some crazy nuns who called themselves the Sisterguard.

  By the time he finished reciting the vow of the Reve in his head, he had reached the mansion’s wall, and as the guard followed his course around the side, Tol stepped out of sight, the temptation finally resolved. He dropped down even lower, and crawled beneath the rear windows, working his way towards the centre of the rear wall and the first floor balcony hanging over it like an invitation.

  Tol reached the centre of the building, curtains closed but light seeping through from a forest of candles within. He straightened up, sheathed his throwing knife and readied the grappling hook. The iron hook was wrapped in dark cloth to deaden its sound and Tol played out the rope, keeping his eye on the balcony above him. He whirled the rope in his hands, praying that he got it right first time. Now.

  The hook sailed over the balustrade, landing with a muffled thud. He froze for a second, listening for any telltale sounds of movement inside, but nothing happened. He began pulling the rope back towards him until he felt the hook catch on the stone of the balustrade. Let’s hope it doesn’t break when I’m halfway up, he thought dryly. Recently he didn’t seem to have had much luck with heights, and his fall from Icepeak Mountain was still a fresh wound. Not much luck with ropes either, he thought, remembering his journey to Sudalra.

  Tol took a deep breath and pulled himself up the rope, relieved when the hook remained anchored. He climbed quickly and surely, anxious to be out of sight as soon as possible. In seconds he reached the first floor balcony, slithering over the top and pulling the rope over after him. He coiled the rope and laid it down on the stone floor. That done, he waited, listening for sounds coming from kol Siadore’s bedroom. Half a minute passed before Tol felt sure either the room was empty or the man was already asleep.

  Time to find out which.

  He took a deep breath and opened the door.

  *

  Tol watched as the door opened slowly, light fr
om a single candle seeping through. A man stepped through as the door opened wider, one hand on the doorknob, the other gripping a candle holder. Tol waited until the lord reached the bed and bent down to place the candle on the night stand. He stepped out from behind the screen, covered the distance in four eternal paces and reached his target just as kol Siadore sensed him, his head turning slightly to present the perfect target.

  Tol punched him in the temple and the lord crumpled obligingly back onto the bed, unconscious. The body started sliding off the bed’s edge towards the floor, and Tol couldn’t help a grin, remembering the moment on the Moontide when Stetch had hit him and let him fall to the deck unconscious. Tempting, he thought, but noisy; it could bring others. Tol grabbed the unconscious lord by the shoulders and bundled him onto the bed before he dropped to the floor. Kartane wasn’t going to be pleased, Tol knew, but he needed to know for sure that he had the right man and for that he needed time – more than two minutes as the man lay dying. There might even be proof somewhere, Tol thought as he pulled out a second length of rope from his tunic, thin and sturdy and brought for a single purpose. He rolled the lord onto his side, pulled a kerchief from his pocket and gagged the unconscious man. He nodded in satisfaction at his handiwork, then began his search of Lord Riasell kol Siadore’s inner sanctum.

  *

  It sounded like “you won’t find anything,” but it could have been “set me free right now”. Either way, kol Siadore was definitely back in the waking world. Tol finished his search of the room then strode back over to the bed where the Meracian lord watched from his side. Tol looked down on him and tried not to feel pity. This is one of the men who may bring down the church, he reminded himself. He may even be helping the Gurdal to conquer Meracia and the rest of the world. He hauled kol Siadore up the bed and propped him up against the wall. The lord had fallen silent, watching Tol with eyes which seemed free of fear.