Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2) Page 24

  Finishing that book was almost as difficult as keeping Breeches sober. There were parts of it we recognised, things Galandor told the priest that we, too, had heard from him. There were others though that left me wondering whether the pigeon-man had truly said such a thing – things so strange, so different to anything we knew on our world – or whether Breeches had imagined it himself. I also wondered whether the priest had put his own thoughts and beliefs into it, passing it off as words from Galandor. The others never mentioned it, but once or twice I saw a look on their faces that made me think they were wondering the same thing.

  Tempers were frayed most days, and I was no better than the others. We created a church, the mythology of a religion, and the plan for our church and its knightly brotherhood, and we even sobered up the world’s drunkest priest in the process. Hard things, but unfamiliarity made it harder still. Many times we wished for a battle, for something we knew. Instead we toiled with things barely understood. Most of us, I think, never believed it would work. Eventually the day came when we realised everything was in place. Each man knew his task and the road that lay ahead. We reminded ourselves of our implacable enemy and resolved to follow the plan as agreed. Isdamor and Caradier were to return to High Mera with Breeches. Once there they would remain his guardians, keeping him sober and honest and guiding the path of the church as Breeches spread the new religion. The father of our church was a different man now the drink had left him. Hollow, like all of us who knew the truth of the Gurdal and their masters, but not the worst priest you’d ever meet. He seemed educated, knew his letters, and spoke with a cracked, bass voice that rumbled like thunder when he got excited. Isdamor had him practicing sermons before we parted, and on our last night together Breeches preached to us about the Maker and his angels. That was the moment that we began to understand we might succeed. The man was a good speaker, and almost convinced us of the lie we had fed him. A different man to the soiled, stinking drunk we had found unconscious.

  While Isdamor and Caradier calved our new religion in High Mera, Patrick would return home to Vrond. There he would speak of his adventures on the Spur, and speak highly of the priest he had met. While visiting other knights in his homeland, Patrick would spread word of Galandor and the Maker and look out for a receptive priest he could send to High Mera and learn from Breeches – of Father Tobias as we were now going to have to call him. At least, when other people were around. To us, he would always be Breeches.

  Myself, Valeron, Beldane and Kevan would sail west for home. I would depart at Havak while they sailed on for Kron Vulder. Once home and rested the four of us would begin recruiting for our brotherhood while spreading the word about Breeches. Like Patrick, we would look out for priests who we could send to High Mera to learn the new religion and then come home and spread it to our kin.

  A fine plan, and a simple one, but even simple plans can get fucked up.

  *

  Vixen dropped the journal, the faint click of the door handle the only warning. Katarina saw the northern warrior rise smoothly, drawing her sword in one fluid motion.

  Impressive, Katarina thought as she turned her gaze away from Steven.

  ‘Stetch!’

  Katarina leaped to her feet, wincing at her own voice, which sounded absurdly pleased her companion had finally deigned to return.

  He just scowled at her.

  ‘What kept you, you were supposed to be back early, it’s nearly noon and—’

  Katarina clamped her jaw shut. Stetch didn’t seem to paying attention anyway, and she hoped he hadn’t heard the relief in her voice. He was glaring at Vixen, an expression on his face which suggested “if you don’t put that away, I’m going to hurt you”. It seemed like an expression that crossed language barriers because a moment later Katarina heard the tell-tale slither of steel being sheathed. She bunched her fists on her hips and scowled at Stetch. ‘Well? Did you get lost? Or just stop at every alehouse on the way?’ She sniffed, and frowned at Stetch. ‘And why do you smell like the sea?’

  ‘Swam to shore,’ he said, answering the last question first. A rare grin appeared on his face as his eyes took in Steven’s prone form. ‘You two tire him out?’

  She glared at him, relief at his return already fading. Why didn’t he get off the ship before it left harbour? she wondered.

  A muscle in Stetch’s cheek twitched. ‘Smells of blood downstairs.’ His eyes darted to Steven, brows furrowing as he took in the man’s grey pallor. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Meracian assassins,’ Katarina told him. She recounted the events of the night and Steven’s role in saving the sour-faced innkeeper. She sighed as she finished. ‘Hanwell root on the blade.’

  ‘Idiot,’ Stetch grunted. He strode over to the bed and picked up a limp arm. He held it a moment then dropped it back to the bed. ‘Quick end?’

  Katarina felt her heart flutter as Vixen rose to her feet, a hand already on the pommel of her sword. ‘Over my dead body!’

  Stetch shrugged, and Katarina knew he wouldn’t hesitate. ‘No,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘He might recover, sometimes they do.’ The expression on Stetch’s face made it clear what he thought of that. ‘Maybe his angel will come for him,’ Katarina said. ‘She might be annoyed if you killed him.’ It sounded weak, and both she and Stetch knew it.

  The Sworn man looked from Katarina to Vixen. ‘Three idiots,’ he muttered with a shake of his head. He stared down at Steven, his face unreadable. ‘Boy done good though,’ he said.

  ‘Good?’ Katarina stepped forward, her voice a pained screech. ‘He saved that stupid innkeeper and got himself killed for it!’

  Stetch frowned. ‘Not what I meant.’ He didn’t explain, just turned and walked back to the door.

  Katarina composed herself, and took in a deep breath. ‘Wait.’

  He paused at the threshold, and turned back to face her.

  ‘What did you mean?’ Katarina asked, her patience running out.

  ‘Two lords died last night.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Borleia and kol Siadore.’ Stetch grinned. ‘Weren’t natural causes. Unless a knife’s natural causes?’

  He looked genuinely uncertain, and Katarina found herself shaking her head and trying to resist a smile. ‘No,’ she said, ‘not natural causes.’ She looked down at Steven. I should have known you would try and do it your way, you stubborn man. Incredibly, he had almost succeeded; two of the three conspirators were dead. ‘He got past their defences and killed the two lords? That is rather impressive, don’t you think, Stetch?’

  Stetch shrugged, and Katarina was glad he didn’t remind her how the night had ended for Steven. ‘Had help.’

  ‘Help?’

  Stetch nodded. ‘One man, I heard. Maybe naked and drunk.’

  ‘Maybe?’

  He shrugged. ‘Lot of talk. That version I believed.’

  ‘Kartane.’

  Stetch smiled and nodded. He looked far too pleased about the whole thing.

  ‘Don’t get any ideas,’ she warned him. ‘If you try doing that then Father will hear of it.’ She glanced at Steven, her face scrunching up as she thought. ‘There’s no hope of the Reve resolving this peacefully, not now two of the lords are dead,’ she said. ‘Seems to me a half-mad, all-drunk knight like Kartane might be the man to end the third.’

  Stetch nodded, an eyebrow raised hopefully.

  ‘No,’ Katarina said, ‘you and I have our own business to attend. We don’t have time to do the church’s work for them, not with avoiding Meracian Intelligence; they’ll be looking for us now.’ Katarina ignored his hangdog expression of disappointment and picked up Kur Kraven’s journal. She passed it to Vixen. ‘The end is near.’

  Vixen sighed and opened the journal as Stetch closed the door and leaned against the wall. Katarina hadn’t seen him look this interested since encountering twins in a Norvek alehouse.

  35.

  Half a year had passed by the time we went our separate ways. Isd
amor and Father Breeches turned south with Caradier and a small escort of stout men from the estate. Can’t say the escort would be good for much beyond target practice but the numbers would probably put off all but the most determined brigands. The rest of us went north with Patrick, bound for Norpont and a charter homeward. Free of our burden at last we turned to drink and remembering the battle and its aftermath. I can’t say I was free of doubt about our course, and I reckon the others felt the same. Valeron, though, was the only man to voice it. Day by day my friend became less and less certain that our plan was the only solution. By the time we reached Norpont and sought passage to Vrond, Valeron had already suggested sharing the truth. He was drunk, it’s true, but the man still said it. We let it pass, and I thought he saw the resolve on our faces and understood what it meant. Perhaps I was wrong.

  The last of our gold brought us passage to Vrond but no further. We journeyed with Patrick to his home, a stout cottage in a remote, fortified village that reminded me of home. We were warmly welcomed, fed, watered and given all the ale we could stomach. The Vrondi are not unlike our own people: hard, stubborn fellows, but good-humoured with a love of drink and women. After so much deception and plotting it felt good to be back among simple, honest people and we delayed our departure two dozen times, lingering long past the time we should have left. Finally, with the call of home and family in our hearts we reluctantly packed our belongings. Patrick hired us passage on a merchant ship and accompanied us to the docks. He bade us goodbye in typical Vrondi fashion, as loud and brash as ever, a belly-laugh between every farewell as each of us passed him and boarded the ship for the final leg of our journey. I was last, the others already half a dozen feet away. I smiled at my friend and wished him well.

  ‘Aye, Kur,’ he rumbled, ‘it’s been an adventure and no mistake.’

  Patrick wrapped his arms around me and slapped me on the back as he laughed wildly. ‘Watch Valeron,’ he whispered in my ear, pulling away and laughing again, a hint of sadness in his eyes.

  ‘Get on with you,’ he said as if I’d dreamed that whisper. I followed my brothers onto the ship and I as I dropped onto the deck I glanced back. It lasted but a moment but I saw worry hiding among Patrick’s laughter lines. I felt something gnawing in my stomach and realised I’d never seen Patrick look so worried, not even when we faced the Gurdal.

  *

  Spring storms plagued our voyage west and left knight and sailor alike soaked and short-tempered. The wind whipped across the deck, spray and rain slashing through clothes and leaving us shivering despite the mild weather. Maybe if the weather had held things would have been different. Maybe my friend would have held his peace. Maybe he could have waited, betrayed us when he was home safe. Maybe. But wishing don’t make it so.

  Kevan and Beldane came to me at dawn, their faces dark as winter night. ‘Valeron’s going to talk,’ Beldane told me bluntly. I dropped back to my bunk and listened as they told me what Valeron had said to them that night. He was a good man, maybe too good. There’s only so much a man can take. I seen it on the battlefield when the most reliable man suddenly wavers. There comes a point when you’ve seen too much death and can’t stand any more. Reason leaves you and it don’t matter how you get away, you just got to leave. Reckon it’s the same with lies. That’s when I realised what Patrick had been trying to tell me. Valeron had said something to him, maybe shared his doubts. Patrick could have done something, could have ended it there, but he left it to me. He knew that if it had to be done I’d want it done good. I’d want it done by a friend. Or maybe Patrick thought Valeron would soften, but I never took him for a dreamer.

  I found him on the deck, arms folded over the prow as he looked homeward. The first rays of dawn came from behind us and left the sea ahead shining like diamonds, that’s what I remember.

  Valeron glanced over his shoulder as I approached and stood on his left. ‘I thought it would be you,’ was all he said.

  I called him a fool and worse, swore and cursed till I ran out of words. He just listened, his eyes never leaving the distant horizon. Finally, the anger bled out of me.

  ‘You should have come to me,’ I told him.

  ‘And made you choose between the vow and our friendship?’ He shook his head. ‘No, my friend, that I would not do.’

  ‘You could have waited,’ I raged at him. ‘A few more bloody days and you’d be home and there wouldn’t be a thing we could do to stop you – not before it was too late.’

  He was quiet a time. Finally, he said, ‘I made a vow, but it is one I cannot keep. Should I return home my resolve will fail, Kur. I cannot tell such lies to my family, cannot raise them to believe in a god we know is false. If I return,’ he said quietly, ‘I will spread the truth and destroy all we have wrought. Holding to the lie may be the right course, my friend, but I cannot follow that path.’

  ‘Tell them you’ve seen reason,’ I urged him. We had seen and survived so much that I pleaded with him, begged him to change his mind. Stubborn as a Havakkian, was Hunt Valeron. He told me it was already too late, that the others saw the truth and would never let him set foot on Norve’s land alive. He turned his face away from the sea and finally met my gaze.

  ‘It will be hard for you,’ he told me. ‘The story we agreed with the others is already being told in Meracia, and will soon travel beyond.’

  ‘So?’

  He smiled sadly. ‘The truth of my betrayal cannot be revealed without unstitching the whole tapestry of lies we have woven. You will be the betrayer, Kur, and I will still be the hero.’

  I called him a bastard and worse, but Valeron didn’t flinch once. ‘Whatever the truth, folk will believe you were jealous. You must use it to your advantage. Remain outside the Seven, but aid them from without. Should all else fail, you and your heirs will be the last line against the Gurdal should the brotherhood be destroyed – a man no-one will expect.’

  Valeron had planned it, spent the night thinking all this through. Hard to explain if you didn’t know the man, but it left him with a way to do what he believed was right without anyone ever besmirching his name, or that of his family. A way, I guess, of betrayal without destroying everything we were striving to achieve.

  ‘The others don’t have the strength for this,’ Valeron said. ‘If the church succeeds, only you can stand alone. The others, they would eventually crack and spill the truth. You see?’

  Can’t say I liked it, but I finally understood. In death, he would be a hero, and only us that remained would know the truth. To tell the lie we forged we would need to also tell another, one that would cost us all dear.

  ‘A reminder,’ he whispered, ‘that lies bring only pain.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  The bastard nodded like he understood, and turned back to stare west across the sea. ‘Are there sailors on deck?’

  ‘It’s a ship.’

  One of ’em called out to another further down the deck and I heard Valeron sigh. ‘It’s time,’ he said.

  ‘Then draw.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You could best me, I reckon. Deck’s pretty slippery this morning.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘Catch them in the cabin. You’ll get the first before he realises what’s happening, and the second will still be trying to draw. I’d go for Kevan first, he’s the better bladesman.’

  ‘It won’t work, my friend. If it’s a fair death then difficult questions will be asked. A knife in the back would do it, I should think.’

  So that’s what I did. And that’s the truth of how Hunt Valeron died. He betrayed everything and left me to take the blame. That was ten years ago, and now I see how the church has taken root in the hearts of men. Valeron the demon-slayer’s the world’s greatest hero, and already there’s been men coming to end the hero-killer. Maybe you and yours will have it easier, but I don’t think so. Still, for what it’s worth I’m sorry you got to suffer. You can blame me if you like, but I did what needed doing. It ain’t f
air on you or me, but sometimes Fate kicks you when you’re down. Maybe you don’t understand, but the day may come when you have the same bitter choice. Take my advice: don’t make a friend you ain’t prepared to kill for what you believe. In the end the only man you can trust is yourself.

  If you are reading this then our line survived. If the church is still going then that means you are one of the Seven. You can’t ever tell anyone that you are, and like as not nobody will ever believe you, but that’s the truth. One day it’s all going to come crashing down, and you and yours are going to have to decide where to stand. Remember this: a Kraven don’t ever shirk, no matter how hard it gets.

  One day the Gurdal and their masters are going to find you. Best start preparing.

  *

  Katarina’s mouth hung open as the journal fell from Vixen’s fingers. The two of them just stared at Steven, Stetch a motionless pillar behind them.

  Minutes passed, the three of them frozen in time.

  ‘Did you hear that, Tol?’ Vixen’s voice was a hoarse whisper of disbelief. ‘You were right all along. Kur was a hero.’

  Katarina leaned forward and gently picked up the journal. Vixen ignored her, and lurched forward, grabbing Steven’s arm roughly and shaking him. ‘Wake up, damn you!’

  Katarina sensed movement behind her and turned. Stetch had remained at the door, one hand slowly drifting towards his sword-hilt. He raised an eyebrow, the question plain.

  Katarina shook her head. She stood up and gently pulled Vixen’s fingers free from Steven’s arm. ‘He may still wake,’ she said softly. ‘Watch over him until we return.’