Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1) Read online

  Now it’s my turn, Tol realised, the smile slipping from his face. He took a deep breath and ran lightly down the branch, arms wobbling to either side as the branch bobbed under his weight, his balance becoming more precarious with each footfall until only momentum kept him moving forward. I’m not going to make it, Tol thought as the branch drooped under his weight, the window seeming too far away, too high to leap. One last step and then he launched himself at the window, his stomach thumping into the ledge hard enough to elicit a groan. He hung there for a moment, breath stuck in his chest and legs dangling out of the window. He slid backwards, and snatched at the inside of the sill, momentarily halting his fall back out of the window. Tol put his toes against the outer wall and levered himself up, hauling himself over the ledge and landing in a heap on the floor.

  ‘Thanks for the help,’ he muttered, rising slowly to his feet as he tried to get his breath back. They had broken into a spacious bedroom, plainly adorned except for the large double bed that dominated the left side of the room. Beyond this there was little in the way of furnishings; a writing desk in the near right corner, a dresser and mirror in the far right corner near the door, and in between them, three wardrobes, one of which Kartane was already examining, apparently unconcerned that Tol had nearly fallen out of the window.

  Tol couldn’t help himself. ‘You find a dress you like?’

  Kartane cursed softly, closing the door with a thump. He turned to Tol, two cloaks draped over his elbow. One was soft pink, the other pale blue, and with a nasty grin Kartane tossed the pink one to Tol. ‘Put this on.’

  Tol stared at him for a moment, but Kartane was already donning the other cloak, draping it over his shoulders and raising the soft sable hood.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘There’s a corridor out there, and beneath the rail is the main hall. The cloak might fool a casual glance.’ Kartane adjusted his cloak, and smirked at Tol. ‘Your choice: risk looking like a nancy in pink, or get skewered in seconds.’

  Tol reluctantly donned the cloak; like Kartane’s it was too short, leaving his muddy boots uncovered. He joined Kartane at the room’s door, scowling hard.

  ‘You look very pretty.’

  Tol smiled, despite himself. ‘Yours brings out your girly eyes.’

  Kartane’s mouth twitched in a momentary smile. ‘Stay to the left, chapel’s halfway along. Don’t stop for anything. You ready?’

  Tol nodded, his pulse racing, and pulled up the hood of his cloak as Kartane drew open the door and stepped out into the hall. Tol followed a second later, pulling the door closed behind him. He was at the bottom left corner of a horseshoe parapet, the castle’s main reception hall below. To his right the parapet continued for fifty feet where it joined a worn staircase leading to the ground floor. Over its edge Tol could see the castle’s reception hall, a handful of servants puttering around on the duke’s business. Tol strode forwards, following Kartane towards the top of the horseshoe, glancing down at the foot of the stairs as something caught his attention. Her? Tol stopped in his tracks, but there was no mistaking the beautiful face, nor the lanky stick of silence next to it. The pair waited at the foot of the stairs, and as Tol saw a guard heading towards them, instincts kicked in. If he comes up the stairs, we’re done for. A single glance sideways would reveal the presence of the two interlopers. Tol hurried after Kartane, the hood of his cloak falling back momentarily. He pulled it up again with one hand, the other pulling tight the cloak across his chest. With a last glance down at the woman he had left, Tol increased his pace, belatedly turning his attention to Kartane.

  Kartane was practically running, and Tol increased his own pace as he saw a snatch of brown cloth over Kartane’s shoulder. They’re here already! Tol ran forward, treading lightly so heavy footfalls didn’t announce their presence to the almost inexhaustible supply of guards that appeared to be roaming the ground floor. Katarina was all but forgotten as Tol neared the door, hearing the soft snick as the chapel’s door closed. Kartane stopped at the threshold, looking back at him expectantly. Tol nodded, releasing the folds of his rather comfortable cloak and gripping his sword hilt. Two more steps and he reached the door as Kartane stepped back, twisting the handle and hurling his body at the door in one practised motion. Tol sprinted in after him, narrowly missing the back-swing of the door as it bounced off the wall but hearing the loud thump as it swung closed behind him, shutting Tol and Kartane in with the two assassins.

  26.

  Tol careened into the chapel hot on the heels of Kartane. It was a single long room, converted from one of the castle’s rooms for the sole use of the Duke’s sister-in-law. At the room’s far end was a raised dais with a bright painting of an angel, wings unfurled, covering most of the wall. Facing the painting were two rows of simple benches, the front pew occupied by a middle-aged woman, her head bowed, but slowly rising now at the sound of the intrusion.

  The false priest and his acolyte also turned as Tol stormed in behind Kartane, the two assassins only a few feet away and just about to step between the nearest sets of benches. The silk-clad priest reacted first, turning away from them and sprinting down the aisle between the pews towards the seated woman. Kartane, gathering speed, altered his course, ignoring the acolyte and launching himself off the first bench, cutting the corner and landing in the aisle a few feet behind the priest, sword already drawn.

  The acolyte stood his ground as Tol charged in, his arm reaching into the folds of his robes. Tol pulled on his sword-hilt, but again the steel remained stuck within the scabbard, somehow caught up in the fabric of his effeminate cloak. The assassin withdrew a long dagger from his robes, a hint of a smile crossing his face as he saw Tol’s struggle. The assassin came forward as Tol skidded to a halt, his hand scrabbling for the dagger hanging from his belt. He drew it as Father Michael’s terse advice on the perils of knife-fighting came back to him, the voice in his head sounding so real that the old abbot might have been there with him: don’t get drawn into a knife fight. Chances are they’re better than you, and even if they’re not, knife fights are as much luck as reflexes. As often as not, the victor is maimed, too, and the rest of the time he’s dead as the loser, just slower. Which, the abbot’s voice told him as the assassin came forward, isn’t really winning at all, is it?

  Tol flung his head back as the acolyte’s right arm swept across him, left to right in a scything stroke aimed at Tol’s throat. He felt the air move as the slim dagger whooshed past, missing his chin by a hair’s breadth. Tol’s free hand was already in motion, and a split-second later he felt resistance as his left hand snatched at the passing fabric of the acolyte’s sleeve. Tol bunched the fabric tight in his firs and flowed forwards, raising his own dagger as he wrenched downward on the acolyte’s sleeve. There was a fraction of a second when the sudden pull momentarily unbalanced the assassin, and in that moment Tol struck, missing the assassin’s neck and instead burying the dagger in the meat of his shoulder. The assassin sagged under the force of the blow as Tol stumbled forwards, releasing the assassin’s sleeve and trying to get a firm grip on his wrist as the two men collided. Tol head-butted the acolyte as a fist hit him below the ribs, then he was tumbling forwards, the pair falling to the cold stone floor, Tol atop his opponent. Despite the knife embedded in him, the assassin continued to struggle, his free hand grabbing Tol’s face. Tol jerked back as a thumb found his eye, twisting his head away and grunting in pain. He pulled on the dagger, once, twice, then it came free with a wet slurp and Tol drew it across the assassin’s throat as the pain in his eye surged to unbearable levels.

  The pain abated abruptly, the knife-wielding arm suddenly limp in Tol’s grip and the gouging fingers falling away like spring rain in a blustery breeze. Tol blinked, then blinked again as the spots in front of his eye refused to budge. He shook his head to clear the fuzziness, belatedly remembering that there was still another assassin and all that stood between the assassin and his target was an emaciated former knight renowned
more for love-making rather than swordplay.

  Tol’s vision was a watery blur, but it looked like Kartane had caught the second assassin, launching himself off one of the benches and into the aisle, delivering a sweeping blow to the assassin’s flank with enough force to spin him round and send him crashing into one of the benches. It looked like the cost of such a reckless move had been Kartane’s own balance, and the escaped knight was on his back between two benches, one leg draped over the seat, his other splayed out across the stone floor. The bench was at an odd angle and Tol realised Kartane’s momentum must have sent him careening into the bench and tumbling over it to land unceremoniously on the floor.

  The assassin, bleeding heavily from a long gash down his back, pulled himself to his feet and staggered towards the Duke’s sister-in-law. She stood open-mouthed half a dozen feet away from the assassin, her face pale and eyes wide as cups. He took another tottering step towards the woman as Kartane clambered to his feet between the benches. He won’t reach her in time, Tol thought. He reversed the grip on his bloodied knife, blinking to still the dancing spots obscuring his vision. He drew in a deep breath, and hurled the dagger with all the force he could muster. It sank soundlessly into the assassin’s back, and for a moment the false priest stood there, slowly rocking. Tol held his breath, willing the man to fall, but the assassin staggered on as Kartane clambered to his feet and hobbled out from the benches, picking up his sword with a groan and lurching forwards in pursuit. Two loping strides took him close enough and Tol saw the sweep of Kartane’s blade as it hammered into the assassin’s neck, jettisoning a dark fountain of blood as the man slowly toppled to the ground. Tol blinked to clear the red spots from his vision. He realised it was blood at the same moment as the noblewoman raised a hand to her face, fingertips brushing one of the scarlet dots. She held her fingers up to her face, saw the blood and, finally, screamed, a single, high-pitched squeal of horror unfurled in the face of her saviour. Kartane, bloodied sword in hand, pulled back the hood of his cloak and drew himself up to his full height.

  ‘Hello, Sarah.’

  Another scream died on her lips, and for a moment there was silence as the duke’s sister-in-law tried to make sense of what lay before her.

  ‘Kartane?’ she gasped.

  Tol clambered to his feet, rubbing his chin and finding fresh blood there as Kartane stood in front of the woman he had once loved.

  ‘They killed the real priests,’ he said at last.

  ‘You came back for me. I thought…’ Lady Sarah broke off, one hand covering her open mouth as the realisation struck. ‘He’d never let you out, never. You escaped?’ Kartane nodded and she continued breathlessly, ‘You have to go, quickly, before the guards find you. If Tirian finds you he’ll kill you! Please, go!’

  For a moment, Tol thought Kartane was torn between staying and escaping, but the old knight darted forward, kissing Lady Sarah full on the lips before she knew what was happening. He whispered something in her ear that Tol couldn’t hear, quickly spinning away before she could react. He hobbled back down between the pews, raising the hood on his cloak.

  ‘Come on, Kraven, let’s see if we can get out the same way we came in.’

  With a last look at the fallen acolyte, Tol hurried over to the chapel’s door. A snatched glance over his shoulder showed Kartane making swift, if ungainly, progress as he hobbled across the room, Lady Sarah staring after him in mute surprise. Tol took a deep breath, opened the door halfway. He raised the hood of his cloak and stepped under the lintel, the door swinging back to rest against his heel as Tol took in the scene. The hallway below had turned into a hive of frenetic but disorganised activity. Guards were streaming out from corridors to congregate in the open hall, but Tol found his gaze drawn to two figures at the foot of the stairs. As their eyes met, he thought Katarina smiled slightly, and he didn’t need to look at Stetch to know the bodyguard was wearing some variation of his usual scowl.

  ‘Move!’ a voice hissed close behind him, and Tol stepped out of the doorway, walking quickly back towards the room they had used earlier. The heavy walls had muffled Sarah’s scream, but the guards had surely heard it downstairs, Tol figured they just couldn’t tell where it had originated. They know enough, he realised as he saw half a dozen moving towards Katarina and the stairs. Tol glanced at the doorway ahead, then back at the ascending guards, judging the distance. We’re going to make it. He relaxed a little, keeping his pace slow and steady, then saw a guard stride out of a corridor onto the landing at the top of the stairs, his head turning to study the whole area. The guard glanced their way, and Tol knew it was over.

  ‘Run,’ he shouted over his shoulder, bolting headlong down the corridor as the guard yelled a warning to his comrades on the stairs and raced to intercept them. Tol ignored the shouts and ran as fast as he could, the uneven tattoo of heavy footfalls reassuring him that Kartane was close behind. A few more yards. The guard was closing fast, but Tol skidded into the door, flicking the handle down with the guard still a few yards away. As Tol stumbled into the room, a last glance showed an army of guards behind him, all racing towards them. Tol didn’t stop, crossing the bare room in a few long strides. As he reached the window the door clicked shut and he looked over his shoulder. Kartane, a grim smile on his face, held the door closed, leaning back against it and bracing for the inevitable impact as the guards sought entry.

  ‘Go,’ Kartane said.

  ‘The wardrobe!’ Tol took a step back towards Kartane. ‘We can use it to hold the door.’

  ‘There’s no time, lad. Any moment now some fool’s about to realise there’s only one way out of here and then’ – the door quivered under a thumping impact – ‘they’ll be cutting off that route.’

  ‘I can’t leave you here.’

  ‘My choice,’ Kartane told him. ‘Find Korwane, you can trust him.’

  Tol slowly backed away towards the window. ‘I can’t do it alone.’

  ‘You’ll do fine,’ Kartane said as the door shuddered again. ‘Tell Korwane… tell him his brother sent you.’ Another thud and the door opened a fraction. Kartane heaved himself back against it and the door slammed closed again. ‘Do what needs doing, Tol, and know that you did a good thing here today.’ He grunted as the door bounced against him again. ‘Go!’

  Tol spun on his heel, dashing to the window and climbing on the sill as another crash announced the guards’ efforts being redoubled. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the door fly open, Kartane hurled across the floor by the impact. Guards were pouring in, and Tol flung himself off the sill at the overhanging branch as the unmistakable ring of steel being drawn reached his ears. Tol caught the branch with both hands, then felt his fingers slipping, scraping over the bark as his weight pulled him down. Then he was holding nothing, and felt himself fall earthward. He landed hard, bending his knees and rolling onto his side as he hit the ground. He pulled himself up as a shout rose from the room above him, and sprinted towards the nearest section of wall as the heavy thump of running feet announced the patrolling guards’ return. Tol ran for the wall, but had only made it a few yards when he heard the first shouts of pursuit behind him. He ran on, not daring to look behind, his back prickling as he imagined archers setting him in their sights. Just a little further.

  Tol bounded through the shrubs, hurling himself at the lip of the wall and just managing to grasp its lip. A soft sigh announced the first arrow as Tol got one arm over the top, struggling to get his leg up after it. Another whoosh, and the clatter of iron on brick, but Tol heaved himself up, getting himself half over the wall. He glanced back and caught a glimpse of archers and running men, then heard the hiss of an arrow as something snagged his left sleeve, spinning him round as he fell over the top to the street below.

  27.

  The bath was some way off scalding, but welcome nonetheless. Bathing, Katarina had found, was a pastime ignored by most of the folk in Norvek in favour of other forms of entertainment. Most of these, she had learned from
various overheard conversations, involved ale, mead, harlots, or any combination thereof. After a vigorous scrub, Katarina lay back in the dented tin tub, allowing the warm water to ease her aching muscles as she pondered her most recent encounter with Tol Kraven. He was handsome, she supposed, in a rugged, chiselled-from-granite sort of way, but truculent as a spoiled child. It was foolish to think of him, but Katarina found him a difficult young man to forget. His candour and forthright expression were a welcome change from the Sudalrese court, where every word, every facial tic was analysed and re-evaluated on a second-by-second basis. There’s no pressure with him, she realised. He doesn’t know who I am, and therefore has no expectation of how I might comport myself. And, she reluctantly admitted, no fear. Her father was not a man to be trifled with and everyone back home knew to show the proper deference, the proper degree of respect, and, above all, an appropriate level of caution. A refreshing change indeed.

  The water had cooled to tepid when Katarina heard the first objection to her prolonged use of the inn’s sole bath. It was a brief objection, terminating abruptly with a sound suggestive of a short, sharp blow; the kind of sound that Stetch was remarkably good at eliciting. A second blow was surely unnecessary, but the grunt that slid under the door was enough to convince Katarina that her companion was growing restless. It must be torture for him, she thought, an inn full of the rich aromas of a dozen different ales, and poor old Stetch is stuck guarding my door. The water was past pleasant now, its temperature no longer a balm, and its colour suggesting that Katarina had shed half her weight in dust and grime. She rose gracefully, stepping out of the bath and picking up her towel unhurriedly, wondering whether Steven – or Tol, as he insisted upon being called – would ever make it to Kron Vulder. Probably not. She was surprised to find it a disappointing realisation.