Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2) Read online

  ‘Up you go, lad.’

  Sir Benvedor hoisted Kal up as if he were a bag of feathers, Vrillian’s tanned hands catching him and steadying him. Between the two of them they hauled Sir Benvedor up, though Kal was sure he felt something snap in his back.

  *

  The three of them hurried across the uneven skyline of Shade, darting carefully across the roofs from one patch of shade to the next. We’re not running any more, Kal realised as Sir Vrillian veered away from him and Benvedor. The Knights Reve were hunting, turning the tables on those who sought their deaths. They edged forward, making even slower progress than they might have done on the ground. Kal was just beginning to think the precaution foolish when the north gate finally came into view, the wide street below packed tight with bodies trying to leave the city.

  Sir Benvedor grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down to a crouch beside him. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing across the square to the rooftops overlooking the gate. Kal followed the finger and saw a bowman lurking, watching the crowd below carefully.

  ‘You think he’s watching for us?’

  ‘No, Kal, he’s probably just working on his tan.’ Sir Benvedor sighed. ‘Give me your bow.’

  Kal unshouldered his bow and passed it to his master. Not an easy target from here, he thought, passing an arrow to the knight. Kal squinted across the chasm, watching the bowman as Sir Benvedor drew the bowstring taut. Just as Benvedor was about to loose, the man disappeared from view, as if he had fallen down a hole. A second later, a familiar figure replaced him on the rooftop, waving jauntily across the square to them. Salazar! How did he get there?

  Salazar pointed to the west, and Kal glanced across, seeing another bowman there. Like his fellow archer, his eyes were on the crowd below and he hadn’t seen his companion being removed. Nor did he see Sir Vrillian as he came up on him from behind, steel glinting in the sun.

  Sir Benvedor smiled. ‘What you have to understand, squire, is that the war here never ended two hundred years ago. For those of the Reve it goes on. They kill one or two of us a year in this sand-blasted cesspit, but those that survive learn to be more careful.’

  ‘But sneaking up on people unawares—’

  ‘—Isn’t very knightly?’

  Kal nodded.

  ‘Boy, there comes a time when you need decide what kind of knight you want to be: a knight bound by the vows of gentlemanly conduct, or alive. They have no qualms about murdering us in our sleep, why should we act any differently?’

  Kal hesitated a moment. ‘Because we’re better than them?’

  Sir Benvedor laughed. ‘They believe in the demon god, while we follow the Maker and his angels. Who’s to say we’re right and they’re wrong? All that separates us is our beliefs, lad, and out here dying for your beliefs is easy. Living for them, that’s harder. Takes a real knight to live for what he believes, you’ll see.’

  33.

  Perhaps half a bell had passed since Vixen’s departure, the hubbub downstairs slowly increasing in volume as the city’s hardened drinkers went about their trade. Katarina was worried now; the morning was waning fast, and there was still no sign of Stetch. Finally, as her worries spiralled out of control, the door creaked open.

  She twisted her body away from Steven, a lecture already on her lips, but the figure in the doorway wasn’t who she had been expecting.

  ‘Oh. It’s you.’

  Vixen grunted, stumbling past the end of the bed where Katarina perched and lowering her not inconsiderable frame into the room’s sole chair. She sighed in unison with the seat as it creaked under her weight, and held her hand out towards Katarina. ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ Vixen muttered. ‘Must be the noise.’

  ‘You will finish what you started?’ Katarina asked.

  ‘First admit you want to know what happens,’ Vixen grunted as Katarina reached picked up Kur’s journal.

  Katarina shrugged. ‘I am intrigued.’ She slapped the leather journal into Vixen’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Pah! You cannot bear to have a secret so close and not know it.’

  ‘I was not the one who wished to read it,’ Katarina replied. She saw the darkening of Vixen’s features and relented, ‘But yes, I would very much like to know what happened to Steven’s ancestor.’

  The blonde warrior nodded, her face taut. ‘Then let’s get this over with.’

  *

  Takes skill to drown a man and take him to the edge of death but no further. Harder than just killing him, anyways. Three times I did for the priest, and hauled him back from the brink each time. Valeron grabbed my shoulder after the third.

  ‘Enough,’ is all he said.

  I nodded, and flipped Brother Breeches onto his back. The seven of us stood there over him, watching him flop around like a fish as he tried to empty his guts of all the water he’d swallowed. Took a while, and there was some puke in there too, but knights are patient men – at least the ones still living are. The other kind don’t last long.

  Valeron took over, and Breeches soon saw reason. Not the greatest start to our little religion but, as Sir Isdamor pointed out, we were starting with a lie, so why not change the story of how we met the priest? Nobody argued, we just stood there in silence, realising at last the nature of what we was about to do. It was one of those spiritual moments, I guess, spoiled a bit by Breeches puking his guts up again but we were starting to get used to that.

  We watched over him for the rest of the day, keeping him away from the drink as we discussed what else we might change. Patrick wanted Galandor to be female, with tits the size o’ mountains, but maybe that was because he’d removed temptation from Breeches, and done it by drinking the last of the man’s ale. That set off Sir Beldane, who wanted our new god to be a woman with six teats. Then it went from there to our own parts in this new church. We went from knights to lords then to kings or immortal heroes depending on who was speaking. I laughed with the rest of ’em, but Valeron soon grew tired and lost his temper. First time I’d seen it, and I reckon that Beldane and Kevan – countrymen of Valeron who’d travelled longer in his company than me – hadn’t seen it before either. Made us stop and listen, that did. Well, that and the bared steel. Nothing like a naked longsword in a cramped room to still a man’s good humour.

  He spoke real noble, though I don’t recall the words. Got through to us, and the bastard made us all feel stupid just by reminding us of our responsibility. ‘It is not a game,’ he kept saying as he jabbed his sword towards us. ‘We get one chance, and if we fail then it’s our families that will suffer.’

  ‘But we could be anything,’ someone argued – I think it was Patrick, he was too drunk to pay the steel any mind.

  ‘No,’ I remember Valeron saying. ‘We will stand out in history not because we were different or special, but because we weren’t. Because we were ordinary knights it will give others hope. That is what we are going to do.’

  Then the bugger grinned like some mad, blood-snouted wolf and asked if anyone had a problem with that. So, that was when we decided not to stretch the truth too much. Bastard wouldn’t even name one of the pigeon-men after me.

  ‘We can’t keep calling them that,’ Isdamor said. ‘We need something more… heroic.’

  Things got a bit excitable after that.

  The lads had to restrain me on account of me being pissed over not calling them pigeon-men, and they took to the task of subduing me with typical knightly enthusiasm. By the time I woke up, they had decided to call them angels instead. Apparently the name already existed in Meracian legends, and there were variations of them in other nations. Patrick spoke of something similar in Vrondi myths, and Kevan said there were winged saviours in most of the Norvek god-myths. The name they chose was close enough to the word Galandor used to describe his people that everyone figured he wouldn’t much mind. And if he did, well, he shouldn’t have yoked us to a piss-poor drunkard, our church’s glorious leader.

  Can’t say I was pleased, but the buggers had also decided
on a name for the fearsome beasts we now stood against. Learning there was more than just the two we saw was bad enough – it took everything we had to bring down one of ’em, and apparently he was a runt – but my fellow knights misliked my suggestion. ‘Bastards,’ I’d said we should call them, ‘’Cause that’s what they are.’ Seemed pretty simple, really. Valeron and the others decided to call them demons though as that was a word every man knew. In every nation, in every history, every story and every myth they lurked, winged or wing-less but always evil. I argued, but my heart wasn’t really in it. Seemed kind of fitting, I suppose, but I weren’t about to admit it.

  *

  We left the next day, half-dragging Breeches between us. He had come round to our view, but I’d seen dead men with a better pallor and you could smell the ale seeping from his skin. Not a man to get in a drinking contest with, I reckoned.

  Half a mile out of town I told the lads I’d forgotten my bedroll. Told them to go on ahead and turned back for the inn. They knew what needed doing but none wanted to be the one to do it, so it was left to me to return to the inn and make sure the innkeeper held his peace on his latest guest. They knew, of course, as my bedroll was strapped to the top of my pack, but nobody spoke of it. I had to silence the innkeeper’s wife, too, but it was a mercy there weren’t any children. It was a hard thing, but I’d done worse and we all knew that a single loose tongue could undo everything we were trying to achieve. So I did it, I did what the others shied away from. I caught up with them around noon and we all pretended nothing had happened. Breeches didn’t notice either. His name was Tobias, he’d remembered when we rousted him at dawn, but by then Breeches had stuck. He argued about it much later, and Valeron just told him it was to keep him humble. Truth was, we were pissed that Galandor had dumped him on us. We had expected riches and rewards for what we’d done, and instead we were wet-nursing the world’s most foul-smelling drunkard. If we had to live with him, we figured, Tobias could suffer being called Breeches and be glad I hadn’t completely drowned him when I had the chance.

  We headed north and west, deeper into central Meracia. Caradier’s family owned a small holding out there, and its remote location made it a perfect place to hole up and get our priest sober. I’d always thought the Meracians were soft, too fond of manners and fine clothes, but Caradier, Isdamor and thousands of soldiers had proved me wrong out on the sands. It had been Meracians who’d stood with us eight and held the gates. Did better than I thought, truth be told.

  Two days later, road-tired and battle-weary, we staggered up to the gates of a vineyard. This, Caradier announced, was the small estate he had told us about, a meagre manor with fifty acres and a whole bloody village of workers. The fellow never mentioned it, but Isdamor later told me Caradier’s family was one of the richest in Meracia. Lad had kept quiet about it all the way down the Spur, and Isdamor was too damned polite to mention it. Shame he wasn’t as smart as he was rich though, because as we stared down the rows of grapevines – Breeches staring harder than most – we realised we’d got ourselves a problem. Keeping a drunk sober was one thing, but keeping him sober in a fucking vineyard? I’d have punched Caradier out if Patrick hadn’t beaten me to it.

  In the end we had no other choice: return to High Mera and its nest of spies or dry out Breeches in fifty acres of wine. None of us was particularly pleased about it once we pulled Patrick off Caradier, but someone pointed out we wouldn’t go thirsty soon after and our mood lightened. A brewery would have been more to my taste, but sometimes you’ve got to take what you’re offered. And if you’re not offered it, you take it anyway and hope for the best.

  Hard days followed our arrival. By the time the amber moon had waned and waxed full again the seven of us were itching for a battle, a foe we understood. Instead, we watched our hope for the world curse and shake and scream obscenities when we denied him the fruits of the vine. It’s a sad, sad thing to see a man come to that; fighting ain’t noble and honour’s just in a man’s mind, but watching that drunk dry out near broke our armoured hearts. Seems funny now, but back then we thought we’d saved the world just for one man to piss it away again.

  We took the most isolated cabin on Caradier’s land and bedded down. A few weeks, we thought, and then we’d journey home to hearth and glory. On the second night we let Breeches out of our sight. Just for a few moments, but even shaking and sweating as he was the sneaky bugger slipped past us. A quarter-bell maybe, no more than that, but by the time we found him Breeches was drunk as ever and so we began anew and dragged him back to the cabin. Happened more times than I can count over the days that followed but eventually we learned to keep him close, two men on him at any time. Not a strong man, our Breeches, but sly and sneaky. Maybe that’s the kind of man a church needs.

  Probably not.

  *

  We got him sober and counted it a victory near as big as our moment on the Spur, but the worst was yet to come. The priest’s memory was gone, little left and less that made sense. For days and days we questioned him, threatened him, and slapped him rough, but some men just ain’t meant to be sober. The night we gave up Breeches slipped away. Came back a bell or so later, laden down with the latest vintage. He offered bottles round like an apology and the eight of us drunk till we fell over. Some time that night – and nobody remembers right when as we were so drunk – Breeches started talking, told us some of his life and what he’d seen on his travels. A hard life, from what I recall, but the poor fool had really believed in what he preached until the night he met Galandor. In what, he never explained, but the priest had believed in something, and unlike most of the others I’d met it weren’t gold nor power, which kind of made him one of the good ones. If there is such a thing.

  Next morning we remembered the other thing. A little drink had tickled his memory, and Breeches recalled some of his conversation with the pigeon-man. Angel, I suppose you’ll call Galandor now, but to me he was always the pigeon-man. Anyway, we worked it out in the end, and the moons waxed and waned as we trickled mead and wine to Breeches, writing down his memories of that night on the Spur before our battle. We took him back and forth through as much as we could and then, when we were done, we dried him out again while we figured out what our church was going to say. Patrick wanted a man to be allowed seven wives. Said it was like a reminder of us seven knights, but we all knew he just wanted more women than one. I met his wife on the journey home, and that was when I realised he was utterly mad. Sir Beldane wanted ale served at church, and after a few drinks Sir Caradier suggested women should all go shirtless. Quite a few of us liked that idea. Right up till we thought of the withered old folks. Isdamor was more practical. He was planning the priest’s wardrobe and wanted lace to be compulsory. He and Caradier agreed on that and the seven of us nearly came to blows. Somewhere in all that I suggested we convince people they could earn a place with the pigeon-folk after death if they gave the church enough gold. The lads had a good laugh over that, but when the roars died down, Caradier agreed and Isdamor soon followed. They saw that money could buy us soldiers and weapons and give us a chance for when the Gurdal came howling back.

  That was when Valeron spoke. “What if we promise people that good deeds can redeem their souls and earn a place at their god’s side after death?”

  He had moments like that. Valeron’d stay quiet and think while we laughed and japed. Then, out of nowhere, he’d tell us what we needed to hear, or what we should have thought of for ourselves. Fucking annoying a lot of the time, but that weren’t why I killed my friend.

  34.

  ‘Tol?’

  Katarina winced at the pitiful, almost mewling sound that came from Vixen. The warrior leaned forwards, studying Steven carefully for long moments. Finally, she turned to Katarina, a heart-breaking look of hope plastered on her square, pale face.

  ‘Did you see? He moved!’

  Just because somebody moves it does not mean they aren’t dying. Katarina didn’t say that though, tempting as it was
. She gave the woman a hard look. ‘Keep reading.’

  Vixen sagged. ‘Why? We know what happened, we know how it ended. No good can come from this.’

  Katarina tilted her head. ‘Do we? Why did he kill his friend?’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘It matters to him,’ Katarina said, poking a finger at Steven. ‘Continue.’

  *

  We got his words down, got every last addled memory out of Breeches, and then set about getting the priest sober and keeping him that way. Can’t say it went down well with the man, and it certainly weren’t easy in a vineyard, but somehow the seven of us managed it. Those who weren’t guarding him worked on our church’s manual, and the nature of the church itself. Some nights we got drunk and had a laugh about it, but it was bitter, nervous laughter from worried men. All of us had been raised by folk that believed a little or a lot in some kind of spirit or god and I reckon there was always a sneaky doubt that what we were doing was wrong, and that maybe some god somewhere might take offence. By the time we left Meracia we knew the truth of that, but during our time on Caradier’s estate there were more than a few moments when I saw my comrades sneak a glance to the sky as if expecting lightning or one of the gods themselves. Hard to shake what you’re taught on the knee, I guess.

  As the priest dried out, our plan for the church began to take shape. It’s fair to blame us all as we all contributed some idea that was taken up, but some were better than others. Caradier and Isdamor had a gift for planning, and did a lot of the work on both the religion and how our brotherhood of knights would wrap itself around the church. Pretending we were just simple protectors of the church was best, we all decided, and the churchmen would be kept in the dark about our true purpose. Valeron had a talent for the writing, and for making sense of Breeches’ ramblings. If you’ve read The Names of Salvation, a lot of that was Valeron. He had the soul of a poet, though he hid it well, and the sword-arm of a hero – never let anyone say different. Also had the heart of a woman and the sense of a court fool, but people seem to have forgotten that already. Funny how the dead are remembered.