Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1) Page 21

  ‘There was a brief period when my sensory processes were being repaired that such an event might have occurred. My memory of that time is…imperfect.’

  Imperfect? How is that even possible? ‘We were told,’ Kalashadria said, ‘that the atmosphere is poisonous.’

  ‘Correct; there are toxins present to which even you are not immune.’

  Wrong question, she realised. ‘How long would it take?’

  ‘Motor skill impairment would occur within one day-night revolution of the planet, with further degradation continuing at a steady rate; incapacitation within two to three days. Death would occur within five days.’

  So it’s possible. He might have done it. But why? Why would the First’s right hand defy him, why risk himself? Kalashadria sighed. There was only one way to find out. ‘Tell me,’ she said as she began walking, ‘how might Galandor have made the journey to the surface, and how would he have made it back? Is a return even possible?’

  ‘I remain unconvinced Galandor visited the planet,’ Alimarcus argued, ‘there is no data to support this, and the risks associated with such an endeavour are high; I am not at all certain even Galandor would survive the journey.’

  ‘Make a guess.’

  Alimarcus was quiet for a second, and Kalashadria thought the worldholme might refuse to answer. This was already the longest conversation they had shared since Kalashadria’s childhood, and they had both changed since then. Maybe not for the better, she admitted. War changes people, and maybe the worldholme, too.

  ‘The most likely scenario,’ Alimarcus announced, disrupting Kalashadria’s thoughts, ‘is that of a departure via one of the aft hatches. If Galandor had reached a run just as he reached the outer door then his speed, combined with the expellation of air as the door was breached, would likely generate enough velocity for him to escape the moon’s small gravitational field. If Galandor lined up his approach correctly then he would have drifted through space until he was snared by the planet’s gravitational field, descending into the upper atmosphere as the first signs of oxygen deprivation began to show.’

  ‘So it’s possible?’

  ‘Possible,’ Alimarcus agreed, ‘but reckless. The probability of success is only nought-point-eight-five. If the initial trajectory is wrong then there is no way to make course corrections, and a slow initial velocity would ensure death before atmospheric entry.’

  ‘What about coming back?’

  ‘Galandor would need to reach maximum velocity as he ascended through the atmosphere. If he made course corrections as he rose then he would be able to slingshot around the upper edge of the atmosphere, drawing in one last breath as he left it behind. Even so, the risks of hypo-oxygenation are more significant than the outgoing journey. Probability of success: nought-point-eight-two.’

  ‘He did it,’ Kalashadria said softly, certain it was true; it was the only explanation that made sense. It was unfathomable, though: the First’s most loyal warrior had defied his master, risked his life to visit the blue-green planet. Why? I have to know.

  ‘Has Galandor ever disobeyed orders before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aren’t you curious why?’

  ‘If I answer in the affirmative you will almost certainly take that as a tacit agreement with the foolish plan you are concocting to follow him. I must reiterate: it is not even certain that Galandor did visit the humans.’

  ‘He did,’ said Kalashadria, ‘and it sounds like that human knows why. I’m going to find out what it knows.’

  ‘If you do this, you will be guilty of dereliction of duty, disobeying a direct order, and several other offences. I will have no choice but to record your actions; you will likely face a court-martial.’

  Kalashadria considered the matter for a few moments. ‘Feel free to report me to the officer of the watch,’ she told Alimarcus. ‘Do you want to report me to myself now, or when I get back?’

  The worldholme was quiet for several seconds. ‘Your mind is made up on this matter?’

  ‘It is,’ Kalashadria replied, more confidently than she felt.

  ‘Then there may be a way to increase your initial velocity as you exit into space,’ Alimarcus told her.

  She stopped mid-stride. Kalashadria had expected resistance, threats, even direct action to subdue her, but co-operation had not even crossed her mind. ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘Are you familiar with the kinetics of a cannon?’

  Somehow I don’t think I’m going to like what I’m about to hear.

  30.

  The downpour was sudden, unexpected, and the perfect cap on a truly terrible day. Tol squelched through the road’s mud as the five mercenaries reached the junction ahead. They stopped, turning to face Tol with grim faces all around. He recognised a Sudalrese man from the Jolly Roger on the North Road, and one of the others, too. Time had run out; the Band of Blood had found him. Tol slowed his pace as he slid through the mud, in no hurry to meet the mercenaries. They’ve waited this long, a few moments more makes no difference. Tol was thinking, trying to fathom some way he might escape them, but deep down he knew it was futile. Mercenaries behind me cutting off a retreat into the city. Flee north or south and they’ll run me down in minutes. That just leaves east, and that means taking down five of the world’s most dangerous killers. And doing it quick, before their companions behind me close the gap between us.

  ‘Give us the book,’ the Sudalrese man called as Tol drew near, ‘and you can be on your way; you have my word.’

  Tol came to a stop facing him, the five men only a dozen yards away. ‘Is that what you told the nuns?’

  The Sudalrese man’s face twitched and he shook his head. ‘That wasn’t us.’

  ‘You did nothing to stop it.’ The screams were ringing in his ears again and Tol felt his heart beat faster and faster.

  ‘You can’t stop what’s coming,’ the mercenary replied, ‘nobody can.’

  Above the din of the rain, Tol heard something, like the sound of a quill scratching aged, dried parchment, or the rusty hinge of a door flapping in the wind. The mercenaries recognised it, too, and Tol saw three of them pale visibly, the Sudalrese man among them.

  ‘The Seven stopped one of them,’ Tol said, suddenly aware of every raindrop that splashed against his head. ‘It can be done.’

  ‘You’re not the Seven,’ one of the men laughed, ‘just the spawn of the bastard that killed the best of them.’

  A sheet of rain lashed against Tol’s face, and he screwed his eyes shut against it as a dull thump sounded close by, the killer’s laughter abruptly ceasing. Tol opened his eyes, and saw it for the first time: a squat black tangle of tendon and muscle behind the five mercenaries, its wings unfurled and almost long enough to encompass the five men. The wings retracted behind the beast’s back with a scratching rustle, ember-red eyes boring into Tol over the shoulders of the nearest mercenaries. The five men seemed to sense its presence, even if they didn’t hear it. They scurried aside like mice, allowing the demon a wide berth though their drawn faces suggested the distance didn’t feel enough.

  ‘He has the book,’ Tol heard the Sudalrese man tell the beast, his voice quavering as the rainfall slowed. The demon took a step forward, its face twisting in a cruel grin, sword-sharp teeth standing out starkly against its blackened hide.

  ‘Not for much longer,’ it said, gaze settling on Tol. Spots of rain pinged against its hide, tiny streamers of steam rising where they struck as though the creature burned within.

  So this is what a demon looks like, Tol thought as the creature took another step forward, its grin fixed in place. His legs felt numb, and it took all of Tol’s strength to stand straight in the face of the demon’s malevolent gaze. He had faced danger before: groups of boys intent on causing harm, the occasional scuffle that went too far, but even racing from a fast freeze or standing against three of the Band was nothing compared to this. Every plane, every jagged edge of the demon spoke of violence and strength, a beast mad
e for but a single purpose: to kill. The clouds parted briefly, Ammerlac’s pale light bathing the plateau in a ghostly glow. Looks worse in the light, Tol decided. He flexed his fingers, and realised his hand was already upon the sword at his waist. He gave it an experimental tug, so weak and tremulous a kitten could have stayed his hand. Several inches of steel slid free and he felt a calmness wash over him as the moon slid back behind the clouds. He blinked, but the shape was still there, barely visible through the warm mist that enveloped the demon: a white speck, glimpsed as the clouds had parted, arrowing down from the east behind the demon’s shoulder. Tol’s eyes slid over the mercenaries, but they were all watching the demon, as if afraid to let it slip from view. Probably sensible. The demon took another leisurely step towards him, Tol’s gaze drawn irresistibly back to it. How fast can an angel fly? I need more time.

  ‘You’re an ugly bastard, aren’t you? You got a name?’

  Tol winced as he heard his own words. I think I just made it worse.

  ‘I’m going to take my time with you,’ the demon growled. ‘And my name, mortal, is Klanvahdor. Before you die you will scream it till you’re hoarse, begging me for mercy.’ The pale outline was drawing closer now, almost upon the unsuspecting demon as it took another pace forward, one clawed hand indicating the half-bared steel Tol held. ‘You want to try and kill me with that?’ It laughed. ‘Your weapons won’t even scratch my hide, mortal.’

  ‘I’d like to give it a go anyway,’ said Tol. He smiled, and saw the small gesture of defiance angered the demon. It rocked back on its haunches, lowering as it prepared to pounce. ‘But I reckon you’ve got bigger problems right now.’

  She dropped out of the sky, white and silver and gold, beautiful as a goddess. The angel arrived with such speed Tol thought she would plough right through the demon, but at the last instant she twisted her wings, her body tilting until it was upright as her wings flared out behind her. The demon was turning, quicker than Tol thought possible, drawing black steel as the angel fell upon it from behind. Those moments as the angel bled away its speed gave the demon a chance, its sword coming free of the scabbard as the angel landed on one foot, wings snapping behind her back as her sword slid free of its scabbard with a sibilant hiss. The angel leaped off her standing foot, sword scything left to right across her body as she drove past the demon’s right flank and hurtled towards Tol, a vision of beauty and death. Her alabaster skin seemed to glow in the dark as she slid across the mud, twisting like a dancer to face the demon as she skidded to halt a pace in front of Tol. Not just an angel; a naked angel. Now I’ve seen everything. Except, as she glided back towards the demon Tol realised the angel wasn’t naked at all. Nearly, though. Silver cloth covered her modesty, a single piece of shimmering fabric that stretched from groin to breast and hugged her skin like an extra layer.

  The demon was injured, he saw, but had dodged the worst of the blow at the last instant, and now it looked angry enough to explode. It hissed and snarled as the angel sidestepped left and right, and as the last few drops of rain fell to the earth, Tol swore he could smell spring and cinnamon, the angel’s scent a heady mix that overpowered the foul stench of the demon. The pair darted and lunged at each other again and again, the demon moving spryly despite its girth and bulbous appearance. A sharp hiss and the smell of rotting eggs announced another blow to the demon, a deep gouge on its thigh, glistening in the dark as the angel retreated. She sprang forward again, her long blade moving quicker than Tol’s eyes could follow. The demon stood its ground, movement hampered by its bloody wound. It fended off blow after blow, its face stuck in a grim rictus as Tol and the mercenaries watched on in silence. Its strikes and parries slowed as it bled, the angel redoubling her efforts. She batted aside a ragged lunge, countering with her own and puncturing the foul creature’s side. It’s not as injured as it appears, Tol realised with horror as the demon brought its blade back with a sudden burst of speed. The angel’s sword spluttered out of the demon’s hide, swinging across her body faster than Tol believed. But still too slow, he realised as the angel hurled herself backwards towards him. A chime sounded as the two blades met, the angel knocking the scything blade aside with a soft groan. Tol’s heart was thumping in his ears as the two warriors came to a stop facing each other. He shivered as the demon grinned, its laugh as disturbing as a bonesaw.

  ‘Got you,’ it chortled, one hand clamping the wound on its side.

  The angel’s gaze flicked down to her own flank, and Tol saw the dark stain spreading just below her ribs. The angel spared it a brief glance, then stepped back a pace so that she was level with Tol. She turned her head fractionally towards him, golden irises drawing him under her spell.

  ‘You know my name?’

  Tol nodded, unable to speak.

  ‘Stay here.’

  He tried to nod but she was already gone, springing forward once again and meeting the demon in a clash of blades. Again and again steel rang in the crisp night air. Step by step she forced the demon back, mercenaries hurling themselves away from the furore as blades swung in a black and silver swirl of motion. She struck again, blade scoring along the demon’s sword arm, but this time springing back in anticipation of a counter-strike. The demon laughed joyously at the pain, continuing to swing with wild abandon, and seemingly suffering no ill effects from the blow. The cackles decreased in vigour and frequency as the angel pushed the demon back further still, ceasing altogether as it realised it was fighting for its life. Tol found himself following them, trudging dazedly in the wake of the angel as if hypnotised, the mercenaries similarly transfixed and standing only a few feet away. The pair neared the edge of the plateau, the angel’s rhythmic assault reaching a crescendo. A dozen yards to the right lay the man-made slope that led to the lower ground, but where they fought the ground gave away in a sheer drop, the earth hundreds of feet below them. Another strike and the angel pushed back the demon another pace, one heel hanging over the precipice. It struck back, but the angel guided the sword wide with apparent ease, pivoting on one foot and launching a devastating kick that connected with the demon’s midriff. It teetered on the plateau’s edge for a second, then tumbled over the edge with a snarl of dismay, trying to unfurl its creaking wings as it dropped to the ground below.

  Tol realised he had been holding his breath, and let it out in a ragged gasp as the angel turned back to face him. He sagged, fingers slipping from the sword that he hadn’t even realised he was still holding half-drawn. The angel’s sword spun in a sharp movement, ichor flying free from the steel. She slammed it back in its sheath, her eyes fixed on Tol. She strode towards him, the mercenaries backing away although she did not so much as glance at them. Her hair fluttered in the breeze, glimmering gold strands sparkling under Ammerlac’s pale light. She stopped, and Tol noticed that the fabric of her clothing left almost half her breasts exposed. They bounced with each step as she drew closer, her gaze flicking past Tol to the city’s gates behind him. Her mouth twitched in a grimace, gone almost as soon as it marred her perfection. Their eyes met again as she took another step, almost upon him.

  ‘Put your hands round my waist,’ she told him, her voice cold and unfeeling. She leaped forward in the blink of an eye, wings unfurling as she smacked into Tol, fingers strong as steel grasping his shoulders and sinking into the flesh beneath his armpits. She knocked him from his feet, her warm body crashing into his. A moment passed, and Tol realised he hadn’t fallen. I can’t feel the ground! They tilted, and Tol held on tight to the angel’s waist as they rose up into the air, spinning away from the city and over the edge of the plateau into the night sky.

  We’re flying!

  31.

  The duke was not in the best of moods as he reached the bottom of the staircase, his puffy cheeks ruddier than usual and only a few shades lighter than the clump of hair that had fled from his forehead long ago, retreating a safe distance towards the crown.

  ‘You again? Come to gloat over that trade deal?’

  Kata
rina was about to launch into a full rant, stopping only as Stetch’s finger brushed her arm, the idiot trying to disguise it as an attempt to remove some speck of dirt. The distraction served its purpose though, and she let out a long, slow breath before responding. ‘Icepeak Abbey has been sacked,’ she said calmly, ‘every man and boy butchered. The same fate has fallen to the nuns of St. Helena’s, and the Band of Blood are loose in your lands. Perhaps this news doesn’t interest you though?’ she asked, her face a picture of innocence.

  The duke ground his teeth, staring fiercely at Katarina as a procession of guards escorted Kartane down the stairs towards them. ‘Higgins!’

  A plain, forgettable man appeared at the duke’s shoulder. ‘Yes, your Grace?’

  Where did he come from? Katarina hadn’t even noticed the butler. A useful skill to have, she decided.

  ‘Take Lady Katarina to my study,’ said the duke. ‘Kartane and I are going to have a little chat in the dungeons.’ He smiled coldly at Katarina as the procession approached. ‘Your bodyguard can wait outside,’ he told her. ‘Unless you’re still pretending he’s a servant?’

  Katarina remained silent and Duke Tirian chuckled to himself, leaving her and Stetch as he crossed the hall towards the rear of the castle. ‘I really don’t like that man,’ she muttered as the duke’s back disappeared from sight. She took a step further back from the stairs as the first guards passed, a broken, dishevelled man stumbling after them with a guard gripping each arm. So this is Kartane, Katarina thought. I always thought he’d be more…impressive. As the guards passed, Kartane lurched towards Katarina and Stetch, closing within a foot of Stetch as the guards struggled to rein him in.

  ‘Mierlé,’ he hissed at Stetch, eyes fixing on the Sworn man. The guards renewed their hold on the prisoner, and a third man struck Kartane low in the back from behind.