Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2) Page 36

  He drew Illis’Andiev, felt the subtle tingle as the sword’s consciousness touched his own. Go, the sword hissed, its voice a raging whisper like the quiet in the eye of a storm. Tol looked to Vixen. She nodded, signalling her readiness, and he turned his attention to the open doors of the cellar. This is it.

  Pain slammed into his skull as an inhuman cry echoed from the cellar. Kalashadria! Tol hurled himself into the dark space at his feet, landing on a step and springing off into the darkness. I’m coming!

  He hit the floor, taking in the scene at a glance as he sprang forward: four lanterns suspended from the ceiling cast long, strange shadows over the rectangular room and the three people in it. To his right, a human stood, his face pale and drawn with tension. Ahead and to the left, a black, light-sucking shape loomed, dominating the centre of the floor, charcoal wings furled over its shoulders. In the back right corner a huge pile of clutter was stacked high, and halfway along the back wall a limp figure sat on the floor, manacled and bloody. Her features were almost unrecognisable, and it was only as her eyes opened that Tol recognised the torn and bloody mess as Kalashadria.

  Another bound took him deeper into the nightmare, the demon turning away from its captive, already alert to his arrival. It drew a sword, dark as night, as Tol closed the distance between them. The demon moved incredibly fast, faster than its hulking frame suggested was possible. Its sword scythed towards Tol as he entered the killing circle. He brought Illis’Andiev up to his right, the force of the strike sending him staggering sideways as the demon pulled its sword back. It looked confused, blood-red eyes fixed on the angel-forged steel Tol wielded. It expected it to break, he realised as he launched an attack of his own, a left-to-right sweep for the demon’s torso that it casually flicked aside like swatting a fly.

  ‘Prince Julien?’

  Vixen’s voice, sounding confused, but Tol didn’t have time to think as the demon flicked its wrist, twisted black metal arcing towards his face. He jerked his head back, hearing the cackle as the sword retreated and came again, this time nicking Tol’s shoulder before he could move.

  ‘You her plaything?’ the thing demanded, ochre fangs parting for a vicious smile. An almost playful swipe hammered against Illis’Andiev, Tol’s very bones shaking. ‘She give you that toy?’ Another flick of its wrist, black steel hammering against Illis’Andiev and producing a chilling atonal screech like iron on stone.

  ‘Bow before Vankharash and I will show mercy.’ The demon stepped back, tilting its head as if it seriously expected Tol to consider the proposition.

  Tol didn’t dare let his gaze drift from the demon, but he could see out of the corner of his eye that Vixen was fighting the cellar’s other upright occupant - a Meracian if the surfeit of lace was any indication. Another minion of Drayken?

  ‘Mercy?’ Tol studied the creature, looking for any weakness, any sign of injury, anything that might give him a chance. ‘I doubt you know what the word means.’

  The demon shrugged, utterly indifferent. ‘Then I’ll eat your face while you still breathe, human. Maybe I’ll make you watch while I have fun with your mistress.’

  Vankharash laughed, the bone-grating sound sparking Tol’s fury. He launched himself forward, unleashing everything he had at the demon. Illis’Andiev danced in his hands, and he sent the sword darting left and right, high and low, every ounce of fury directing the blade towards its target. Again and again the demon parried, its grin fading as Tol pressed it back a pace, nicking its upper chest and eliciting a feral hiss. Vankharash retaliated with a dizzying blur of slashes and thrusts, its black blade moving with such speed that Tol couldn’t keep track of it. A low sweep brought a wave of heat to his left thigh, the demon rumbling with laughter as it followed up with another strike that slid past Tol’s guard. He hissed in pain as the demon’s sword scored a line across his chest. The sight of blood spurred the demon on, and it attacked with renewed vigour. Tol parried the next blow and the next, the demon’s squat body moving with uncanny speed as it sought an opening. It grinned, and the black blade lanced forward, darting towards Tol’s face. He jerked his head back, trying to step away, the sword tip brushing his right cheek as it swung down, taking a chunk of his shoulder with it. The demon paused a moment, though it seemed no less tired for the frantic exertions.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll feed you to her,’ the demon said, its gravelly voice rich with the tang of imminent victory. Its sword lanced out lazily, a scything stroke across Tol’s body. He brought up Illis’Andiev, bones jarring as the sword bounced away, back off to his right. It swung back immediately, an almost playful flick that nearly knocked Illis’Andiev from his hands.

  It’s toying with me, Tol realised as the demon, a malicious grin splitting its mouth, swung a third time. It followed up with a rapid slash at Tol’s head, and he only just diverted the blow. The demon barked out a laugh as Tol retreated a step, his eyes drawn to the pitiful form of Kalashadria, heavy iron chains in the stone cellar wall pinning the angel in place. Her face and body were a scarlet-black mass of bruises and blood, and as the demon’s laughter ceased her eyelids fluttered open. Their gazes met and in that moment Tol saw the utter desolation that had taken hold of the angel’s heart, the certain knowledge that she would watch him die in the cellar and then face her own drawn-out demise.

  Something inside him snapped as the demon’s blade swung in from his left, another playful strike to wear him down. The fury that raged within him died, replaced with a cold, cold dread, and a fearless calm; if he was to die, then he would do his best to take the demon with him.

  The demon attacked again, its sword rebounding from Illis’Andiev with a choral chime. It struck again, this time attacking from Tol’s other side. Tol’s bones jarred under the impact, and as the black blade bounced off his own, he launched himself forward, swordpoint striking for the demon’s chest. Vankharash’s charcoal muscles rippled as it readjusted its stance, Tol’s swordpoint just penetrating the outer layer of its chitinous skin as the demon brought its sword to bear, batting Illis’Andiev away with a howl as it dug a scarlet furrow across its hide. The demon howled again and attacked anew, its black sword moving with dizzying speed. Tol moved on instinct alone, the shining steel of Illis’Andiev moving this way and that and fending off each assault as the demon became increasingly desperate, its frustration rising with a guttural growl.

  Again and again it pressed Tol back, a complicated, seemingly random pattern of bladework that muddled his senses as his arms burned with the force of each jaw-rattling blow. A sweep pushed Illis’Andiev aside, edge biting into the soft flesh of his hip. The pain blossomed swiftly as the blows continued to rain down on him, seeking to hammer aside his guard. Another and another as the pain spread, merging with the cold dread that drove Tol onwards as he felt his body failing, felt the blood oozing from a dozen different wounds leaving him cold and numb. The black blade swirled and danced in front of him and as Tol’s eyes alighted on Kalashadria’s bleak visage it snapped into place, the pattern finally revealing itself. Another blow rang against Illis’Andiev, holding true to the pattern. A second and a third followed, and Tol saw a desperate chance as the pattern unfurled in his mind. A fast sweep came in across Tol’s body, left to right and rising to try and split him hip to shoulder. Tol was already altering his stance as the blade swept towards him, shifting his weight to his back foot and twisting Illis’Andiev to intercept and redirect the slash. The demon’s sword rode up the edge of his own, the blow diverted high and wide. As Vankharash prepared to bring the raised sword down upon him, Tol stepped forward and drew his sword back for one last desperate gamble.

  The demon’s muscles tensed, its sword rising an inch as it prepared to sweep the blade down and cleave him in two.

  Tol launched his own strike, directing the edge of his sword at the demon’s unprotected neck as the black blade dropped an inch, then another, building speed.

  Illis’Andiev struck first, the angel-forged steel biting deep into the demon’s n
eck. It unleashed a howl of pain as the blow staggered it, and the downward momentum of its own weapon drove the edge into Tol’s upper arm. He screamed, his cry mingling with the demon’s own as the pair staggered away from each other.

  The demon clamped its right hand to the deep wound on its neck, blood pouring out between its fingers.

  It should be dead, Tol thought. He’d driven the edge of his sword deep into the demon’s neck but the damned thing was still moving, its left arm rising as it prepared to strike again.

  Pain was pulsing in Tol’s right arm and he released his fingers from the hilt of Illis’Andiev, switching to a one-handed grip and letting his injured arm fall to his side. The demon’s blade rose higher, swordpoint nearing its apex as the demon’s eyes focused on him.

  Tol dragged his left foot back a few inches in the dirt, tensed, flicked his hips, and pivoting on his right foot. He brought Illis’Andiev up as he spun, his momentum adding speed to the strike with his weaker arm. He felt the sword strike something and momentarily lost his balance as the half-turn finished. He glanced at the demon as he stumbled backwards, half-expecting to see its sword arcing towards his head.

  It stood there for a moment then its legs gave way and the demon collapsed to the cellar floor, head rolling from its shoulders.

  The demon’s body was motionless, its head a half-yard away. Its eyes were still staring up at him.

  He could hear blood dripping to the ground, a soft sound like the first drops of spring rain. Mine, he realised. He hurt everywhere, and felt cold.

  Tol looked down at the corpse.

  I did it.

  52.

  ‘Tol.’

  Her voice was strained, raw and ragged from screaming, and Tol felt the pain it caused her through their shared link. He dragged his eyes away from the bloody corpse, catching a glimpse of something in his periphery. He turned awkwardly to face the furious young man marching towards him, several feet of steel in his hand.

  ‘You ruined it!’ the youth shouted, his cultured voice and tailored finery telling Tol that another Meracian noble was colluding with the demons and their agents. His face was lined with fury as he stamped across the room like a petulant child, fingers bone-white on the hilt of a sword that had as much silver filigree as Tol had ever seen.

  ‘Ruined everything,’ the young man spat, sword swishing left and right to punctuate each word.

  Where is she? Tol wondered, searching the shadows behind the man for any sign of Vixen. Where is she?

  ‘Now,’ the youth raised his sword, tip pointing towards Tol as he closed within a few feet, ‘now you’re going to suffer.’ He lunged forward, the odd stance – feet pointing at right angles to each other so he faced Tol side-on – all too familiar.

  Another bloody Meracian duellist, Tol thought as he raised Illis’Andiev with a heavy arm and diverted the thrust with all the grace of a tavern drunk. The noble was fast, as fast as the duellists Tol had faced on arriving in High Mera. His narrow blade bucked forwards and backwards at Tol with the fluid precision of a seasoned fighter, and Tol found himself retreating back as he struggled to counter each attack. His limbs were heavy and cold, and though he could see where the sword was coming next it took every ounce of strength to shift his own weapon into a blocking position. Just as the demon had, his opponent began to wear him down, gradually carving chunks from Tol’s arms as each parry, each block was a little slower than the last.

  Tol knew he had to end it, and finish the fight quickly before he was overwhelmed. He shifted his stance, extended Illis’Andiev to parry a strike and left his arm extended a moment too long, leaving a perfect opening for the man to redirect his lunge and drive his sword deep into the muscle of Tol’s already-injured right arm. This better work, he thought.

  Tol felt the impact, another sharp pain adding to those he already felt. He twisted his arm, and felt the flesh tear as the movement unbalanced the duellist. Tol raised his weapon in his left hand, and brought it down inelegantly, the edge sweeping through his opponent’s arm and severing it at the wrist.

  His opponent stumbled backwards screaming, a high, childlike wail. He kept retreating, left hand uselessly gripping the spurting stump of his right hand.

  Tol followed him back towards the wall, limping badly and barely able to stand. Coloured spots were dancing in front of his eyes, his vision a narrow tunnel ahead, his opponent at its centre. Where is she?

  ‘Vixen?’

  The young man’s screams trailed off, and he grinned. ‘Shouldn’t send a woman to do a man’s job,’ the Meracian panted between ragged breaths.

  Tol saw her, close to the back wall, her body still as though she simply slept, wrapped in the blanket of the cellar’s irregular shadows. Had he heard her groan? Or was it his imagination? She wasn’t moving.

  Tol stared at the man. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

  The nobleman’s wan face finally showed fear as Tol took another step forward, and whatever he saw in Tol’s face killed the nasty smile.

  ‘You can’t kill me,’ he stammered. ‘I’m a prince of Meracia,’ he said, words tripping over themselves to leave his mouth, ‘you’ll make an enemy of everyone in Meracia if you kill me, my father will never rest until you’re dead.’

  Tol stopped. ‘You’re Prince Julien?’

  The boy nodded and Tol sighed. ‘What did they promise you?’

  ‘Meracia. And Serria.’

  Tol nodded. ‘Sounds like what they do.’ He took another step forward.

  ‘Wait! Did you hear what I said? Father will hunt you down for killing me!’

  ‘Don’t care.’ Tol took one last step forward and slammed his sword deep into Prince Julien’s chest. He held it there, staring into the traitorous prince’s eyes until his legs gave out and he collapsed to his. Tol dropped to his haunches with him and stared into the prince’s eyes. ‘I’ll tell your father the demons killed you.’ He waited until the shock registered on the prince’s face then wrenched Illis’Andiev free and watched the last light fade from Prince Julien’s eyes.

  Tol struggled back to his feet, every shift of a muscle, every slight movement sending fresh waves of pain crashing against his mind. He stumbled away from the prince’s corpse, staggered over to Vixen and dropped to his knees.

  He could see a dark stain in the flickering light, a cool night breeze slapping the cellar’s weak lanterns. It didn’t hide the stink of death, just spread it around. Vixen was lying on her back, eyes closed and hand resting peacefully on her chest, dark stains pooling between her fingers.

  ‘Vixen?’ Tol’s breath was tight, and he could barely breathe. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he whispered. ‘You deserve better than this.’

  Her eyes opened slowly, those vibrant blue orbs now dull and unfocused. Her hand left her wound, rising slowly, fingers reaching towards Tol. He gripped her hand, felt the sticky ichor glue their palms together.

  ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ Vixen wheezed. She coughed lightly, a tiny dribble of dark blood leaking from the corner of her mouth. She took in a breath, pain etched across her beautiful face. ‘It was worth it, my friend’ – she wheezed again, a wet, gurgling sound – ‘to see you. Again.’

  Her body spasmed, hand crushing Tol’s own for a heartbeat then falling limp.

  ‘Vixen? Vixen?’ Her eyes were open, fixed on his face. ‘Don’t go.’ Her chest wasn’t moving, and his oldest friend didn’t stir as Tol shook her arm, her hand still enfolded within his own. He knelt there a time, hoping beyond hope she would grin; another practical joke. Finally, he felt Vixen’s skin begin to cool. A tear splashed down onto her cheek, and Tol watched it run earthward, fighting the realisation to the last; his friend was dead.

  ‘Tol? Are you still alive?’

  The angel’s soft, strained voice drew Tol back to himself. He took a moment to compose himself, uncurling Vixen’s cold fingers from his own. ‘Yes,’ he croaked, not recognising his own voice. He took one last look at Vixen and inch by
inch forced himself to his feet, picking up Illis’Andiev from where he had discarded it beside his friend. He turned as he reached his full height, the bloody mess chained to the wall almost as harrowing to look at as Vixen’s lifeless body. He stumbled towards her, every step a lesson in a different kind of pain.

  ‘The other one?’ Talking hurt too, his voice raw. Tol thought he might have been screaming during the fight. Or was that Kalashadria? He didn’t know any more, his exhaustion was so great that he couldn’t tell where he ended and the angel began – whose pain was whose?

  Tol hauled himself across the cellar’s rough floor, the demon’s corpse motionless to his left and Kalashadria a flickering pile of shadows against the back wall. The clouds parted outside, pale moonlight briefly flooding through the doors and illuminating the floor. Tol jerked in surprise at the mangled features staring from underneath bloodied wings. He pulled his head away on instinct, gaze alighting on the back right corner and the ill-defined mass he had seen on entering. The moonlight retreated, an image of piled bones and flesh left on the back of Tol’s eyes. Food, he realised with dull horror. The demons stayed here and grew fat on Meracia’s people. Most of the red-black pile had been unidentifiable, but sitting on top like a marker a smeared skull had peered out of the shadows; the demon had been feeding on High Mera’s people. Tol remembered Katarina describing recent disappearances among the city’s populace, and knew that this mound of broken bodies and gnawed bones was the result. Those taken from the city had ended up here, far from any help or hope. Tol dragged his head round, and forced his heavy legs onwards, slowly putting one in front of the other, leading inexorably to the broken angel chained against the wall.

  She watched him approach, a gulf of silence separating them. Through his bond with her, Tol felt a maelstrom of dampened emotions, as turbulent and unpredictable as his own. He finally reached her, Kalashadria slumped against the wall, a broken figure barely recognisable. She moved her arms weakly, lifting them with a tinkling rattle that ate the heavy silence. Tol steadied himself, a sharp flick of Illis’Andiev shearing through the pin holding the shackle tight to the angel’s skin. The shackle fell away from Kalashadria’s wrist, and Tol steadied himself and freed her other arm. She moved slowly, bloodied fingers rubbing her abraded skin. Tol saw a dark band of bruise around each wrist and realised the demon had not taken any chances, tightening the shackles to a painful degree.