Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2) Page 25

  36.

  In the beginning there was darkness.

  Darkness, and pain.

  From nothing there came light, harsh and bright, a blinding flash that dimmed to reveal a frozen landscape. Trees hung heavy with thick winter snow, lining the slope as it sank to the black sea surrounding the isle. A girl appeared in front of him, somehow familiar. Her lips moved but agony stoppered his ears and any meaning was lost. She took a step forward, but he felt himself sliding backward as the snow brightened. The image blurred, fading like an afterimage of the sun.

  The snow gave way to sand and grim men. Water walled their passage east and west. The men suffered in the heat yet staggered on, eyes never leaving the land. He was at the front, a thickset man at his side with reddened skin and a rust-spattered shirt that clung to his skin. Their eyes met, and he recognised the man. Recognised, but could neither place nor name him.

  ‘All that lives, dies,’ the man said. He marched ahead, the others striding past in his wake. Too fast to follow, they were soon just a blur on the horizon. With their departure the pain returned, slowly, inexorably building in strength.

  Others passed by him and he felt their eyes on him, orbs heavy with accusation. He turned south and followed; pain slowed him, those he followed soon lost to his sight. The pain grew, and grew. As the agony reached a crescendo he saw them, a horde of skeletons clothed in rags of flesh, crawling and dragging themselves in his wake. Something grabbed his leg and he glanced down to see the first monster wrap its finger bones around his ankle.

  He screamed, and the darkness took him.

  The suffocating blackness receded and he found himself in winter woods, snow spreading out like water lapping at the islands of trees. He was walking, though he knew not where, and no sun could be seen through the green blanket of leaves overhead. Snow creaked under his feet but the air was hot, clammy. Trees bemoaned his passing, groaned and rasped in his wake. The sound grew with every step, a cacophony that filled the air and shook the snow loose from burdened branches. It fell around him and on him, sizzling with every contact and sending steam up into the canopy.

  The whine changed in pitch, a note of warning. He increased his pace and the trees screamed, slivers of bark popping free and slapping the snow silently. Shards followed slivers and he was jogging, trying to outrace what was coming. Faster and faster as slabs of bark flew free, sundering in flight as they drifted free of trunks and clouded the air. He ran faster, stumbling and falling flat, his face slapping cold snow. He heaved himself to his knees and found himself in a clearing, a perfect circle of trees crowding round with no gap between them, no escape. He inhaled, and the sound ceased for a heartbeat.

  ‘The truth is never painless,’ a honeyed voice whispered on the wind.

  The trees exploded and ripped him apart, his screams indistinguishable from their own as jagged needles of bark and frozen pulp pierced him.

  *

  He was with the knights again, this time in a vineyard, the summer sun searing his flesh while the others seemed immune. Their leader turned to speak to him.

  ‘You will finish what you began.’

  The vines around him burst into flames and the knights watched on, impassive. One knight stood at his side, a blade of smoking flames licking at his throat.

  ‘Quick end?’ he offered as a priest cartwheeled through the flames.

  ‘Maybe his angel will come for him,’ the priest opined as the flames snuffed him into a tendril of smoke.

  Angel?

  He looked at the man beside him, the world’s greatest traitor. The man nodded. ‘Pigeon-man.’

  He screamed wordlessly, sinking to his knees as the word he had been seeking mated with his outpouring of pain and anger, his vision fading to red as the inferno crackled around him.

  ‘Kalashadria!’

  *

  Darkness, absent any point of reference.

  The word surrounded him, a slim sliver of sense. A single name, all he had left to hold onto, all that remained of whatever had been before. Kalashadria.

  Something stirred in the distant blackness: invisible, inaudible, a lone anomaly that faintly tugged. Formless, he sent himself towards it, willing himself to escape the darkness, the ceaseless pain. A moment, a minute, or a year passed; the sense of his destination grew stronger, more substantial. Closer still, though the darkness did not retreat. Closer and closer, the cloying dark generating panic as a sense of its vastness pressed in all around him – an enormity almost beyond comprehension, its size increasing his desperation.

  Closer, closer, and the fear slipped away as something other grasped him, ripping him through the darkness and beyond with a primal scream.

  *

  The darkness fled with a dizzying shift of viewpoint, replaced by bright, painful colours that looked wrong, as though viewed askew through a tinted lens. Other senses availed themselves, a chorus of sensations announcing themselves with vigorous pomp and self-importance, too many to make any sense of their messages.

  The view jarred as sound filled him, a strained sigh that reverberated deep within him.

  The view twitched rapidly left and right, strange trees jittering across his field of vision. He felt panic, and knew it for another’s, for there was still strength at its core. His view changed again, this time shifting smoother, slower, as if he stood on tiptoe then slowly sank down. It was accompanied by a ragged sound of indrawn breath, and he felt muscles expand and contract in perfect synchronicity.

  The view was blocked for a fraction of a fraction of a moment, so brief yet almost hauntingly familiar. He focused on the vista before him: fertile earth and verdant green trees dotted the immediate area. Brightly coloured flowers nestled by their roots, the clash of colours unfamiliar and their shapes at once strange and beautiful. In the periphery of the picture, a smudge on the left: darkness that encroached on the beauty, its true nature not quite discernible.

  Muscles twitched again, and he realised the strange sensation was fingers unclenching as the immediate panic was, if not quelled, then ignored. His chest, fulsome and strong, drew in breath once more and a strong, concerned voice cut through his soul.

  Tol?

  Memory came like a deluge, his identity returned – at least in part. She sensed his panic, his fear, yet remained strong as stone, an unyielding anchorage that no storm could ravage.

  I… I am Tol Kraven and I am yours.

  Yes. Her voice tore through his head. Yes, she said uncertainly, you are. And you should not be here within me.

  With those words he finally began to understand the sensations that felt subtly different to his own. Her chest rose and he felt its weight, its strength, wonder and horror filling him in equal measure as Tol realised he was an intruder in another’s body, privy to every sensation as though it were a ghostly extension of his own.

  Is… Is this Heaven? Am I dead?

  Her frustration was tangible, a sudden twanging tautness in her body that dissipated quickly under Kalashadria’s self-discipline.

  Alimarcus, she told him, though he didn’t sense her lips move, not heaven. Kalashadria ignored the second question altogether. What happened?

  Bits of his last moments on Korte came back to him. There seemed to be some gaps, but Tol remembered enough. Cut by a poisoned blade. I think I died. What if I’m stuck here, what if we’re like this forever?

  Quiet! Kalashadria’s snap was like a whip, and Tol realised that she, too, was concerned. The angel leaned back, tilting her head to look upward through the spider web lattice of branches. Tol saw, through Kalashadria’s eyes, inky blackness beyond the trees. A thin dome seemed to be the only barrier between the two, and it looked as though the darkness might crush the dome at any moment. The stars twinkled brightly – clearer and sharper than Tol had ever seen them, even in the frozen north, even from Icepeak’s lofty perch. They seemed so close he could almost touch them.

  I do not think you are dead, Kalashadria told him, the vista overhead soothing any
consternation she felt. Her voice felt like a lullaby to Tol’s soul.

  It’s beautiful, he said. I could watch it forever. All these trees and plants… it really is heaven.

  Kalashadria snorted, rising in one brisk movement. It is a reminder of everything that has been lost.

  She strode between the trees, a dark smudge beyond them. As she drew closer, it seemed to grow until finally she passed the last tree, her eyes scanning a desolate wasteland that continued unabated to a silver wall at the base of the dome. Her head twisted left, slowly turning through a half circle from left to right so Tol could fully see what lay before them: scorched earth, black pools of glass and charred tree stumps; a horrific plain devoid of any life, an opposite to the beautiful garden they had just left.

  What happened? he asked.

  The two worldholmes fought, and both were severely damaged. Pittvankor inflicted this in the final moments of the battle. The habitat was all but destroyed, and only a fraction remains. Her fists tightened into balls. Entire species of plants were lost, some of our last reminders of home. Kalashadria peered up at the dome’s roof. The apex was perhaps half a mile ahead of where they stood. She turned slowly. You see? She lowered her head slowly to look back at the surviving trees and Tol saw how little remained, only a small corner of the dome remained untouched.

  There are barely enough trees to recycle the air, Kalashadria told him. Enough for a single person to remain awake, no more.

  I don’t understand. Trees…

  The air we expel is different to the air we breathe, the angel explained, her lips still pressed tightly together. Trees use the same air we exhale and convert it to the air we need to breathe. It is a fragile system, and the damage caused by Pittvankor has almost destroyed it altogether.

  Kalashadria retraced her steps back through the woods, finally returning to the spot she had left. A huge tree, larger and older than any other loomed over her, flattened grass at its base marking it as the place where Kalashadria had sat.

  The elora tree survived, she told him as her gaze swept up and down over its sturdy trunk. That is something to be thankful for.

  It’s different to the others, Tol whispered. The tree had a certain plainness to it: no exotic coloured leaves, nor were they strangely shaped, but every branch, every twig seemed to have its own purpose; each bough and every leaf seemed to be in the perfect place. The tree’s branches curved in unusual directions, giving Tol the impression that there was some pattern here, some purpose that he could not see. It looks older, he thought, like a king among trees.

  Kalashadria laughed. A king among trees? Yes, that and more. This tree has been with our people for many centuries. You see the oval in the trunk? Her gaze settled on a darkened patch of bark that looked like amber. It began four feet above the roots and extended four feet higher, the sides curtailed like a squashed circle. It looked like something lurked beneath the dark amber surface, but the image never quite resolved into anything identifiable. It is the sword tree, the angel explained, forge of our sentient weapons. My own weapon was birthed here, as was Galandor’s that you now wield.

  Sword tree? How…?

  Kalashadria shrugged - he felt the muscles twitch in her shoulders. It would take a long time to explain fully, but the elora tree is alive and can – after a fashion – be communicated with. The swords are its gifts to those of us it finds worthy, a small part of itself – like a child – that aids us. I know you have many questions, Tol, but we have no more time. If I am right, then you are not dead and must return to your body before you truly die.

  Not dead… It didn’t make sense to Tol, but so far nothing else since he’d fought his way here had either. How do I get back?

  Kalashadria approached the elora tree. She walked right up to it and gently placed one hand on the bark. For a moment, Tol thought he felt someone – something – else in Kalashadria’s head with him, but it was so fleeting that he dismissed it: how could a tree think like a person?

  The angel pulled her hand away with a soft sigh. I don’t know, she thought, her voice filling his mind. The bond between us was once widely practiced among my people, but it is rarely used now, and then only between husbands and wives. To see so much of a person… it is not always a good thing, Tol, and bonding is shunned by most of my people. I do not know enough to judge what has happened and how it may be undone. She took a deep breath, and Tol sensed some reluctance on Kalashadria’s part. Only one has the answers. We must speak with Alimarcus.

  Her lips parted. ‘Alimarcus?’

  ‘Vai.’ The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, a deep bass rumble like a distant earthquake. The word was unfamiliar, a strange pronunciation that the voice’s owner made seem like a tired question. Where is he?

  Everywhere. Now hush!

  Kalashadria spoke in Norvek. ‘My knight is here within my mind,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Here in full.’

  A rumble of alien words rolled across the woodland, and Kalashadria clicked her tongue. ‘He can hear you,’ she said. ‘He believes he is dead.’

  ‘If the creature was dead,’ the deep voice boomed, its tone cool, ‘the connection would have been severed. I have already told you this.’

  Kalashadria hesitated. ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Tol believes he was cut by a poisoned blade,’ Kalashadria said.

  ‘Then you will have to put up with the creature until its body fails.’

  Kalashadria stirred restlessly, and Tol sensed her discomfort as she started pacing the small clearing. ‘It may not be as simple as that,’ she said.

  There was a moment’s pause. ‘Why?’

  ‘I had to make a decision on the planet,’ Kalashadria said haltingly. It was hard for Tol to imagine the angel ever being worried or fearful, but her heartbeat was quickening and he could sense trepidation jangling through her nerves. Even when the pair had faced the demon and its mercenaries, not a hint of fear or concern had shown on her sculpted exterior; she had been a peerless warrior, confident in her own abilities. Whatever Kalashadria was about to tell Alimarcus, she was clearly worried.

  ‘My blood now courses through him,’ she said after a long pause.

  The trees shook as Alimarcus’ voice raged through the dome like a storm. ‘You bound yourself to that creature? Do you have any idea what you have done, child?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘You will be shunned,’ Alimarcus continued, the deep voice dropping to a bearable shout that still tickled leaves twisting above the angel. ‘Your own people will reject you for what you have done, and the effects on the humans – have you considered what changes may be wrought on their evolution?’

  Kalashadria stiffened, her mind suddenly closed off to Tol. ‘I did what was necessary,’ she said coldly. ‘Had I not, the demhoun-el’teri would already be halfway to conquering the planet and plotting our destruction.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Alimarcus allowed. The worldholme’s voice resumed a normal level as it explained quickly, ‘The likelihood is that your blood will boost the human’s immune system. Poisons are unlikely to be fatal, and the creature’s body may recover in time.’

  Kalashadria let out a ragged breath. ‘His body still lives?’

  ‘Yes. His conscious mind is under siege while his body fights the infection. Your bond provided a link, a way to escape and the human has fled to you.’

  ‘How does Tol get back?’

  ‘His body must either die, or you must expel him from your mind. Once cast free, he should return to his own.’

  She paused. ‘Should?’

  ‘There is little documentation, even in the long history of the Anghl’teri, of such events. I can give you no assurances.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The angel closed her eyes. There is still work to be done, Tol. You must recover and finish your mission. She sighed. I’m sorry, Tol, I have to do this.

  Tol felt Kalashadria’s mind envelop his own. We will meet again, she told hi
m. Follow the path home, follow the voice.

  Tol screamed as he was ripped apart and hurled away, back into the terrifying darkness.

  37.

  The tea room was one of half a dozen all within sight of each other. Katarina didn’t know why, but at some point in High Mera’s history a series of buildings had been built back further from the road than their neighbours to form a square of open space bisected by the road. The six buildings had been taken over by tea rooms, and the open space converted to outdoor seating, a melange of tables square and round each bisected by a gaudy parasol of the same colour as the owner’s building, as though someone had planted a flag on the table to mark its ownership.

  She took a seat at the edge of the road, subtly repositioning her chair so that she had an unobstructed view of the road north. She ordered a pot of tea, and carefully surveyed her surroundings. Nobody appeared to be watching her – well, no more than usual – but that really didn’t mean anything in a place like High Mera. She nudged the other chair with her foot and spun it round so it faced her. If the Meracian idiot actually turned up he would have a perfect view of the road south.

  Katarina was just pouring her first cup when a dishevelled figure flopped onto the chair opposite her. He looked different today: his hair was short, muddy brown, and his clothes bore traces of dirt and dark stains which a charitable person might guess to be oil. The eyes, though, were the same brilliant blue as she remembered, and that ridiculous moustache still hung off his nose. The Idiot – or the Gonk, as he called himself – had arrived.

  ‘You are late.’

  ‘Thank you for waiting, my lady.’

  He sounded tired and out of breath. Dark rings drooped beneath his eyes and his skin looked pale, beads of sweating prickling it like pimples. The Gonk did not look like a well man. ‘You looked better as a woman. Rough night?’

  He waved it away with one hand as the other filled his teacup. He had a slight tremble, like a man driven to the point of exhaustion. ‘You will honour our agreement?’