Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1) Page 5

  Stetch grunted. It might have meant yes.

  ‘Everything is as you left it,’ Katarina assured him. She struggled into the straps of an overly large pack that put Tol’s own to shame. He laughed at the sight of the small woman carrying something so large, and earned a hard stare.

  ‘We should leave,’ Katarina said. ‘Those men will eventually realise you’re the one they’re looking for, and we should be far away by then.’

  Tol nodded. He strapped on his sword belt and retrieved his own pack. ‘The further the better.’

  ‘Quite,’ she agreed. ‘Let’s just hope the rest of the Band aren’t waiting outside.’

  ‘The Band?’ Tol stopped halfway to the door. The worst killers in the world, a marauding band of cutthroats and madmen; bandits, and occasional mercenaries for hire if the stories were to be believed. The Band of Blood. They said by the time you saw them it was already too late. ‘The red armbands,’ he muttered, remembering his encounter in the woods. And after meeting her last night, I completely forgot it’s them who are on my heels.

  ‘Their favourite colour, I suppose,’ Katarina said. ‘You know who they are?’

  Tol nodded and started for the door. Katarina stopped him with a hand on his chest. ‘Quietly,’ she said. ‘Best not to wake them just yet, yes?’

  He nodded, and felt colour rising to his cheeks. I’d have done it, he thought, gone stomping down the hall and woken them.

  Halfway down the stairs he remembered the five men in the inn hadn’t been wearing red cloth round their arms when he arrived.

  So how does she know? he wondered.

  *

  They travelled through the last grey echoes of night in silence by unspoken agreement, Tol left to his thoughts. He knew who was chasing him now, but it brought no comfort, only further questions. Had the old man told the mercenaries that Tol had what they sought? Was it another of his sneaky schemes, using Tol as bait to draw them away while someone else retrieved whatever it was the Band of Blood were after? And what is it? he wondered. What is so important men will attack a fortified church outpost?

  The abbot knew, he was sure of it. Dead by now, he guessed.

  Tol increased his pace. They will go next to St. Helena’s, the old man had told him. Even if the Band didn’t come after him, they’d still be coming this way, along the only road through the northern forest; a straight path to the convent.

  Stay ahead of them. That was all he could do. Tol started walking faster, occasionally sneaking glances at the woman on his right. She was a head shorter than him, and had a pack large enough to hold a pig on her back, but Katarina didn’t complain, her boots crunching snow just out of step with his own.

  Her manservant walked close to Tol’s left shoulder, almost close enough to touch. He stayed silent, his eyes never wavering from the snow-covered path, but the dour, brooding figure worried Tol. A manservant might wear a sword out in the northern wilds, but the man seemed far too comfortable, the scabbard on his left hip sitting like it belonged. Sitting like it was a familiar piece of clothing.

  Beware the man who seems at ease wearing a sword, the abbot had told the boys once. Such comfort speaks of familiarity.

  Of course, he’d warned them to distrust anyone who looked like they hadn’t ever worn a sword before, too. Many a hero’s been undone by a desperate man’s thrust, he’d said. Such men are unpredictable, and will strike in ways only a fool would think to succeed. He had been looking at Tol, gaze settling perfectly on him as he said fool.

  The early morning passed in uncomfortable silence as they sought to put as much distance between themselves and the mercenaries as possible, but as the day brightened Katarina’s mood similarly lightened. She spoke in short outbursts with puffing silences between them, and Tol was relieved that instead of questioning him further she instead spoke about her homeland of Sudalra. Mostly she spoke of the warmth of spring, the searing heat of summer, and interspersed these with tales of growing up with her brothers in a world Tol found vastly different to the frozen discipline of Icepeak Abbey.

  She spoke of misadventures, skinned knees, grass snakes and spiders, and brief escapes from her family home; innocent tales all touched by the warmth of summer. There were lakes, Katarina told him, where you could swim at dawn and leave the water without shivering.

  Sometimes she asked Tol of his own upbringing, but he had no such stories to tell; his childhood adventures ended on his eighth birthday when his father delivered him to the abbot. Instead, he filled the silence with occasional tales of his lesser mischiefs at Icepeak, the pranks upon other students and sometimes, when bored or frustrated, upon the tutors. Tol relaxed as the afternoon wore on, and answered the young woman’s questions about life within the church. For the most part, he didn’t mention the worst aspects, and he was grateful she didn’t press him. Sometimes she asked questions that made him uneasy, a little too probing, but each time Katarina seemed to sense it, patting his arm with a gloved hand and telling him not to worry.

  They spoke less as dusk fell, and Tol felt an itch between his shoulders, wondering how close the Band of Blood truly were. Night came quickly and they continued in silence that felt less awkward than it had at dawn. If not for the biting cold, Tol might have considered it a good day.

  He saw the lights first and forced a last burst of pace. Rickron’s Elbow had seemed a sprawling town to the eight-year-old Tol, but now he saw only a tiny hamlet, a dozen ramshackle cottages bordering the North Road as it finally turned south, towards the city of Karnvost. One building stood out: an array of windows higher up, though many seemed dark. St. Helena’s, he realised; the convent was only a mile away.

  ‘Will you join us?’

  Katarina had stopped outside a dank inn which looked to be held together by luck more than any feat of engineering. She gestured towards the door as she caught his attention. ‘It is the last one for many miles, but you are welcome to the floor.’ She tried to peer through the steamed windows. ‘If they have rooms. Arriving on the New Year may complicate matters.’

  ‘New Year…?’ Tol shook his head. ‘I’d forgotten.’

  ‘It’s getting colder,’ Katarina told him, ‘and the Prophet knows it’s freezing already. A night in this weather might succeed where the mercenaries failed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Tol said, ‘but first I need to visit the convent and let the sisters know what happened.’ He glanced back they way they came, but saw nothing beyond the last decrepit cottage; the mercenaries could be a hundred yards away, or ten miles. Tol reached into his pack, and fished out the abbot’s book.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ he said. ‘I, uh, wanted to thank you for helping me.’

  Katarina took the book in her gloved hands. ‘The Names of Salvation? Are you trying to convert me to your religion, Steven?’

  ‘My name…’ He shook his head. That name again. She can’t bring herself to use my own. ‘We normally exchange presents on the New Year,’ Tol explained. ‘I don’t have much, but the abbot cared about his copy and if anything happens to me… He would be happy it went to a good home. He wouldn’t want the Band to have it.’ He shrugged, feeling colour rise to his cheeks. ‘Perhaps you’ll find someone who needs the comfort it provides.’

  Tol muttered his goodbyes and started towards the hill, the church’s holy text in his thoughts. His father had first read The Names of Salvation to him as a small child, on another New Year’s Day after Tol had received his first beating. His father had sat with him and told him a story of the church’s founding, a story of knights and glory and betrayal. It was the story of the Seven and it had changed Tol’s life.

  *

  ‘The two armies met on the plains outside of Galantrium, though the city weren’t called that then,’ Tol’s father began, perched on his son’s bed. ‘The raging barbarian hordes of the Gurdal had swept across the desert. First they took the city of Shade, a sandblasted settlement built upon a large oasis.’

  ‘What’s an oasis?’ Tol asked.
>
  ‘A pool of water in the desert. Do you want to hear the story or not, boy?’

  Tol nodded, fearful that if he spoke his father would stop the story.

  ‘Shade is the fourth of the Desolate Cities, four walled cities that follow a line from southern Meracia down into the bowels of the desert. To reach the green lands of Meracia the Gurdal would have to take all four cities, and so after Shade, with its walls tall as mountains, fell to the horde they marched to the third Desolate City, Siadendre.

  ‘Siadendre stretches across a small piece of land, bordered on either side by saltwater seas, and it, too, fell to the Gurdal. They marched north again, but the Meracians had heard of the invasion and formed a vast army to fight back the Gurdal. Among them were hundreds of valiant knights, including many from both Norve and Havak who had travelled to Meracia for a contest of strength and skill. The army, though, moved too slowly, and so Siadendre fell to the Gurdal and they marched further up the narrow land that joined the desert to Meracia.

  ‘In time,’ Tol’s father continued, ‘the Gurdal reached Obsidian, second of the Desolate Cities. A battle was fought on the glass plains and again the Gurdal prevailed. They killed everyone in the city and marched north. They finally reached the first, and last, of the Desolate Cities and here they met the might of the Meracian army and its allies. A terrible battle raged through the day and the savage Gurdal were led by the Demon-God, a huge winged beast that no man could kill. It slew men with blade and claw and slowly the battle began to turn in favour of the Gurdal.’

  Tol gasped, but fell silent at a stern look from his father.

  ‘When all appeared lost, the High Angel Galandor descended from the heavens and stood against the demon. Galandor wounded the demon Demmegrahk, but one of its treacherous minions flung itself upon him and wounded the angel at the cost of its own life. As the angel lay upon the ground, its sword fallen from its shining hands, the demon-god sought to kill the angel. Seven knights barred its path and stood what we now call the Angel’s Defence. Their swords shattered against the demon-forged steel, but still the seven fought to protect the angel, with maces and knives and shields. In desperation, one of the knights picked up the angel Galandor’s sword, and with that weapon he struck the demon-god a grievous blow.

  ‘The Gurdal had thought the demons invincible, but with the lesser demon’s death and Demmegrahk’s own wounding, they saw they could not win. The Gurdal fled and the seven knights stood victorious.’

  The expression on his father’s face changed as he looked at Tol. ‘One of those knights was your ancestor.’

  8.

  Tol stumbled up the snow-strewn path to the summit of the hill. The convent was a two-storey manor house, encircled by a wall high enough to keep all but the most determined interlopers out. But not the Band of Blood, Tol thought as he reached the twin iron gates, the only gap in the wall. He glanced back down the slope. The high wall seemed unnecessary with so few houses. Unless, he thought, the nuns are so pretty they have to be kept locked away. He smiled, and pushed open the gates. They creaked under his touch, the iron stiff and rusted brown beneath the ice. They know I’m here, he thought as they swung shut behind him, the noise drowning out distant revelry below. Tol started whistling as he headed deeper into the grounds. The end of his journey was in sight, and he could see light trickling forth from several of the convent’s windows though many more were dark.

  Deliver the message then I’m free, Tol thought as he pounded on the heavy oak door. Once the message was delivered his life would be his own, no longer tied to the abbot or the church the Knights Reve served. He had expected to feel liberated, but now he had reached the end of his journey all he felt was… empty. I had a purpose at the abbey, and my future was laid out for me: train in warfare and combat, squire to a knight and perhaps become one in time. With the abbot dead - the only man who might speak for him - Tol didn’t think the church would welcome him back, not as the sole survivor of a massacre.

  The clunking of deadbolts yanked Tol from his reverie. He heard mouse-like scrabbling the other side of the door and it swung slowly open, light from within washing over him. He blinked and found himself staring at a thin waif of a girl, garbed in the traditional grey of the church, a long dress that brushed the stone floor, her hood fallen back to reveal ragged dark hair. The door was only open a foot, just enough for the sister to stick her spindly torso into the gap.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I come from Icepeak Abbey, with grave news. I need to see the Reverend Mother.’

  ‘Icepeak?’ The girl thought for a moment. ‘Is Father Dougall well?’

  ‘I don’t bloody know, it was Father Michael who ran the abbey.’

  ‘Was?’ The voice came from another woman, further into the convent, beyond the half-open door. ‘Let him in, Selise.’

  The girl opened the door further, stepping back with it to allow Tol past. He hurried inside and stopped as he saw a nasty little crossbow. It was held in the thick arms of a girl who looked like she knew how to use it. It was also, Tol noted, properly wound and loaded with a quarrel. And it was pointing straight at him. At ten feet, she can’t miss. What kind of bloody convent is this? He was expecting well-dressed sisters in fine silk robes. Instead he was facing several rough-looking urchins who might well have studied street-fighting, lying, and thievery, but might never have discovered the joys of bathing, although it was hard to tell with the cloying smell of incense that hung in the air.

  The reedy voice that had allowed his admittance came once again, and Tol stared at its owner, a stocky woman whose clothes looked better maintained, and whose hair didn’t look like it had been brushed by a hedge. ‘Is Michael dead?’

  The shrug of Tol’s shoulders released a miniature snowstorm. ‘Maybe. Probably,’ he admitted, taking a step towards her.

  Her brow furrowed. ‘I’d best take you to the Mother Beatrice.’

  Her eyes flicked over Tol as she walked up to him, her mouth opening in surprise and her nostrils flaring as they reached his waist. Maybe she likes what she sees, Tol thought. Maybe this trip won’t be so terri—

  The woman hurled herself at him, forcing him roughly against the wall. Tol was about to shove her away when he saw the glint of polished steel at his throat. Oh.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ she demanded. ‘Where?’

  ‘It was a gift,’ he said.

  ‘You lie.’ The dagger bit into his neck and Tol felt it draw blood. ‘My brother would not part with it alive.’

  ‘Your brother?’ He studied her a moment and saw a faint resemblance. ‘Sir Brounhalk?’

  ‘You killed him!’

  ‘Enough!’

  Tol’s gaze slid down the long corridor, fastening on a tall old woman, hair mostly grey. She wore the same garb as the sisters, but her voice and comportment made it clear she ruled this place. ‘Release him, Sister Morafin.’

  ‘He killed my brother. He even wears his furs and carries his pack.’

  ‘No,’ Tol said carefully. ‘The knife was a gift from Sir Brounhalk when I left. He… he did not expect to survive the attack.’

  ‘Attack?’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  The corridor was turning to dimly-lit chaos as sisters poured forth from the rooms, drawn by the disturbance, their voices chittering like crickets.

  ‘Silence, children!’ the old woman said, punctuating the demand with a clap of her hands. The protests petered out, though the woman with a knife to Tol’s throat didn’t move a muscle. Tol could feel a thin line of blood trickling over his collarbone.

  The old woman approached, nuns falling quiet as she passed. Just like Father Michael, Tol thought. The abbot had that effect on people: in his presence people fell silent.

  ‘You’re the Reverend Mother?’

  She nodded. ‘Mother Beatrice. You look familiar, child. What is your name?’

  ‘Tol Kraven.’

  Tol heard several hisses and gasps from the nuns, saw one or two of th
e sisters retreating from him, hoping the shadows would swallow them up. Just like every other wretch I meet, he thought sourly. He didn’t know why he had expected better from the sisters of St. Helena’s, but they had so far failed to live up to every expectation in quite spectacular fashion. Their scorn and judgement hung in the air like a lord’s sentence, but Tol held their gaze, unflinching. Wherever I go the sins of my line follow.

  ‘I met your father once,’ the Mother Beatrice told him. ‘A good man; hard but fair.’ She approached slowly, laying one withered hand atop the knife-wielder’s. ‘If you kill him, you will learn nothing of your brother,’ she said gently. ‘Release him, Morafin, and I shall find the truth.’

  Her arm was shaking slightly, Tol saw. The knife hung there for long moments, juddering against his skin. Just when he was sure she would strike, the girl withdrew the blade with a soft sob. Tol moved slowly, extracting the sheathed dagger at his waist and offering it to the girl. ‘Sir Brounhalk wanted me to tell you he… he kept faith to the last.’ Morafin snatched it from his fingers, nails scoring the back of his hand. She turned and fled down the corridor between the gathered nuns, candle flames pointing after her as she passed.

  ‘Perhaps it is fitting one of your line should be here,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘A chance for redemption. Come with me.’

  Tol followed her, snaking through the dimly lit convent and rubbing a hand across his throat. What manner of convent is this? he wondered. He had half-expected to find nuns in fine dresses, but hadn’t been prepared for a welcome of daggers and crossbows. Wretches, waifs, and would-be killers. He suppressed a grin as they ascended the stairs, worn and creaky. It reminds me of home. Then the humour left him as he remembered that Icepeak was no longer his home. Ransacked, no doubt, and most likely littered with crowfeast.

  ‘Michael mentioned you in a letter,’ the Reverend Mother said as she ushered him into a study halfway along the upper level that reminded Tol of the abbot’s: sparse, bare, functional. She’s like a female Father Michael, he thought, suppressing another grin – barely – as she rounded the desk and sank into a leather chair so worn that it might have pre-dated the Angel’s Defence. She didn’t look much younger.