Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2) Page 5

  ‘Ale?’ Stetch asked, rising from his chair.

  Tol shook his head. ‘No.’ He rose alongside Stetch. ‘Where’s Calderon’s house?’

  Stetch raised a finger and pointed east. ‘That way,’ he grunted, marching off towards the bar before Tol could complain. Tol sighed and headed towards the door, stopping one of the serving girls as she went past.

  ‘Do you know the way to the duelling ground?’

  The Sudalrese girl looked over Tol carefully. ‘Which one?’ she asked after a moment.

  Great. ‘How many are there?’ he asked with a sinking feeling.

  ‘Two,’ the girl replied, ‘one in this district, the other over in the eastern district.’ She frowned. ‘You don’t know which one?’

  ‘Didn’t say.’

  ‘Well, if the challenge was given in this district, the duel will probably be here rather than the far side of the two rivers.’

  Tol thanked the girl as she gave him directions, but she snagged his sleeve as he passed by. ‘If it’s you that’s duelling,’ she said softly, ‘you’ll be wanting a proper duelling blade, not that big old lump of iron. Might want to stop on your way.’ She shook her head, a strand of dark hair slipping free of her hairband. ‘Speed, not strength; that’s the key in a duel.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She released Tol’s arm and he strode to the door, twisting the handle as his gut twisted in apprehension. Oh, well, he told himself, I guess I’ll soon see if I’m quick enough.

  7.

  Kal watched in the shadows as Sir Benvedor appeared behind the lone sentry, one shadowed hand clamping on his unsuspecting victim’s mouth as the other delivered death through the man’s ribs. A soft spatter of blood on sand was the only sound. So loud, Kal thought. Why do they not wake?

  Benvedor was already moving towards the sleeping figures around the oasis, moonlight reflected in his bloodied blade. Kal sensed rather than heard Vrillian and Catardor move beside him, creeping up to join their companion.

  A frantic gesture from Vrillian, accompanied by a dark scowl, reminded Kal of his place in this murder and he forced his wooden legs forward. He unsheathed the dagger at his side as he drew level with the scouts.

  Six sleeping men, the squire thought. Six men who will never know the sun again.

  They struck as one, daggers darting out for silent kills. Kal’s target twitched at the last second and the blade went wide of its mark – still fatal, but slow and far from silent.

  The reaction from the other two men was instantaneous. They were on their feet in seconds, frantically searching out the source of the disturbance. The first had his blade halfway free when Sir Benvedor’s own sword swung down, cleaving through the collar bone with a sickening sound and driving the man back to his knees, death seconds away.

  The other’s eyes fastened on Kal. He lurched towards him, drawing his sword as he covered the three yards separating them. Kal dropped his dagger as he reached for the sword strapped to his waist, but he already knew he was too late. On his knees with the attacker towering over him, there was time only to watch the slow descent of the blade as repayment was sought. The sword passed its zenith and time slowed, Kal’s heartbeat thunderous in his ears as his sword cleared its scabbard, his movements feeling slow and clumsy.

  Hot spittle spattered his face, and Kal waited for the end.

  Nothing happened.

  Time seemed to stand still, the scout towering over Kal ready to usher in Death. The moment passed as the sword tumbled to the cool sand. A moment later his attacker toppled forward, crashing into Kal and knocking him backwards.

  Kal scrambled backwards, pulling his legs free from the dead weight of his attacker. An arrow was sticking out of the man’s throat, and on the other side of the oasis Kal could just make out the silhouettes of three men, one holding a bow.

  Sir Benvedor and the knights had seen them, too. Benvedor glanced at Kal, his eyes taking in the dead scout and flicking back to the bowman.

  ‘You are a long way from the walls of Shade,’ the bowman called, his voice just low enough to carry across the oasis. He had an accent Kal couldn’t quite place.

  ‘We were of a mind to deny the army their scouts,’ Benvedor rumbled. ‘It seems you were of a similar mind.’

  The young man with the bow smiled, teeth glimmering in the fading darkness. ‘There is little else we can do but eliminate their scouts and survey the size of the force that comes.’ He shouldered his bow and walked towards the knights, his companions following suit. ‘It does not feel like enough.’

  ‘No,’ Sir Benvedor said, ‘it does not.’ Benvedor pulled Kal to his feet, rough hands searching his torso. ‘You hurt, squire?’

  Kal shook his head dumbly. So much blood. He stared at his hands. They were shaking, smeared with the scout’s blood.

  ‘Fool boy nearly got us killed,’ Vrillian said, ‘I thought you said he knew how to fight?’

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ Benvedor turned his attention to the bowman and his companions. They, like the knights, were dressed in simple garb. There was only one way to dress out here in the desert, and that was light; the heat during the day reached unbearable extremes before plummeting like a stone to near-freezing at night. A cloak and blanket for night were essential for those travelling the desert, carried in a pack during the day, or covering the head as an ineffectual shield from the sun.

  ‘You have my thanks,’ Benvedor told the bowman. ‘My squire is far from capable, but his loss would have been… irksome.’

  ‘Irksome?’ The bowman laughed musically. ‘Such words suit you ill, Sir Benvedor of Norve.’

  A flash of anger crossed the rounded knight’s features, but it passed almost before it could be seen, replaced with a more thoughtful frown. ‘You know who I am. And my companions?’

  The bowman nodded.

  ‘Squire, tell me what you know of our friends.’

  Kal was still staring at his hands, but a cuff round the back of the head got his attention. ‘Squire?’

  ‘The bowman knows his weapon well.’

  ‘As well for you he does,’ chuckled Sir Catardor, the thin Meracian silenced by a gesture from Benvedor.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘They are darker skinned than us. Sudalrese, I would guess, though everyone browns like toast in this damned place so I might be wrong.’

  ‘You are not,’ Benvedor said. ‘What else?’

  ‘They have the look of skilled warriors. Their weapons are well-maintained and their hands are calloused.’

  ‘And their names?’

  ‘Uh…’

  The knights roared with laughter, their Sudalrese visitors laughing alongside them.

  ‘I am Salazar,’ the bowman told them, ‘and my companions are Stennis,’ that was the tall one, ‘and,’ Salazar’s hand thumped the man on his left, ’Riedel.’

  ‘The only thing you missed,’ Benvedor told his squire, ‘is that the three men before you are of the Sworn.’

  Kal’s blood turned cold. The Sworn? I thought they were just some wives’ tale to terrify children.

  *

  They trudged back towards Shade through the night, leaving the host of weak campfires far behind until they became nothing more than a false dawn, a weak smudge of light in the distance.

  They won’t stay that way for long, Kal thought. The Gurdal were coming, and they were coming in force. The warnings had been sent to the Reve back in Meracia, every empty village, every sighting of distant warriors relayed. Sir Benvedor had sent every scrap of intelligence, his missives becoming more forceful, more pleading as no reply came. There might not even be a church army coming to stand with us, Kal knew. So far, the only letter they had received had been a brief message a few days ago: Hold firm. That was all, stand against the tide and wait for help. And now it might be too late. If the army wasn’t already on the Spur then Kal didn’t see how they could pass the first three Desolate Cities and reach Shade in time to meet the Gurdal. The barbarian
s were a day or two from the last shoddy bastion of civilisation, and the dour looks that Benvedor, Catardor, and Vrillian wore suggested that Shade was already beyond hope. Although Vrillian always looks sour, Kal thought. Benvedor, though, was about as cheerful as a knight of the Reve, trained for battle and murder, could be. It must be bad if he’s lost his humour. It was not, Kal decided, a reassuring thought. Joining the Knights Reve no longer seemed like an adventure. More like a short step from the afterlife.

  ‘It gets easier.’

  Kal started in surprise. Salazar had appeared at his side, the bowman’s feet silent on the sand.

  ‘Murder,’ he explained, ‘it gets easier with practice. Most of us botch up the first time.’

  ‘You did?’ Salazar didn’t seem like the kind of man to make any kind of a mess. Except, perhaps, of his enemies.

  ‘Well… Not me, personally, but a lot of people do.’ Salazar grinned. ‘Cheer up, Squire, you will not want for opportunities to practice your craft.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘You are lucky,’ the Sudalrese warrior said quietly, ‘that you have a stout knight for a master. Others might have turned you loose in the enemy’s camp.’ He clapped Kal on the back. ‘Mistake in the middle of a camp, well, that could soon go bad. Another master, and you might be making a fine pincushion right now, your friends along with you.’ The young man sighed. ‘Of course, that might be kinder, considering what we’ll soon be facing.’ Salazar slapped Kal on the back, then wandered ahead, matching pace with Sir Benvedor and chatting amiably about his favourite methods of silent killing.

  I don’t think we’ll be running from Shade, Kal thought, a cold dread in his stomach. These aren’t the kind of men to run from a fight, even an unwinnable fight. The Sworn, it seemed, were just as likely to stay and take on a whole army. For all their quiet manner, they had the same unsettling gaze that Kal had noted in his companions, the one that he had seen fixed upon their faces after a mug too many of mead. We’re all dead men walking.

  8.

  Tol hurried west, away from the bay. The colourful houses became flimsier as he walked further inland, stout stone soon replaced by cracked wood and uneven roofs. The city wall came into view as Tol passed the last homes, following a well-worn path through the wild grass. The sounds of the Meracian capital were fading as Tol approached the duelling ground. A low berm rose near to the wall, the path of trampled grass leading him straight towards it. Tol glanced up, but couldn’t see any guards manning the city’s wall. It was puny compared to Karnvost’s towering barrier, and the stonework was cracked and moss-strewn. Not much good in a siege. If that happened, Tol wouldn’t be surprised if the whole pitiful thing came tumbling down as attackers scaled the wall. And that might be sooner than they think if the army doesn’t meet the Gurdal on the Spur. A sobering thought, that one.

  And if I get myself killed tonight, who’s going to rouse the Meracian army? Tol sighed as he crested the ridge, grass worn away around the peak from hordes of spectators who regularly came to witness duels of honour. Best not die then, he thought.

  He crested the ridge and followed the slope down, a crosshatched pattern of stone slabs awaiting at the base of the hollow, a makeshift duelling area spackled with mud and dark brown droplets which Tol didn’t need to examine. I guess the ground sees plenty of visitors. The dried blood reminded him what was at stake.

  A single figure waited in the centre, pacing up and down in the same dark cloak that he had been wearing as he issued Tol the challenge, hood still pulled up tight.

  Slender, Tol noted as he made his way down, but lithe, and likely fast. He moved like a cat, nervously pacing a six foot line and flexing gloved fingers as though shaking off the cold. A Meracian spring night with a slight chill, but for someone raised on the frozen heights of Icepeak, it felt like summer to Tol.

  The man stopped, watching Tol as he stepped onto the first tilting tile.

  ‘You’re late,’ the man said, his voice reedy and taut. ‘Have you no honour?’

  Tol felt his temper rising as he stepped closer. ‘Are you in such a hurry to die? What difference a few minutes?’

  ‘Die?’ The duellist seemed perplexed, cocking his head to one side. ‘You have offended me greatly, yet not so fully as to demand satisfaction by your death.’ The man paused a moment. ‘You are not from these parts. Your first duel?’

  Tol nodded.

  ‘First blood, then, is the standard for duels of honour such as this. The first to cleanly strike the other is declared victor and the matter is at an end. There is no need for either of us to die.’

  Tol’s lips twisted in a faint smile. ‘I wasn’t planning on dying anyway.’

  ‘Most people don’t.’

  Tol snorted. ‘No, I suppose not.’ He took another step closer, the duellist’s face hidden underneath the cloak’s hood, only two piercing blue eyes visible. ‘So, are there any other rules to this?’

  Tol’s opponent drew his duelling sword. ‘No.’

  Tol’s fingers closed on the second sword on his right hip, cheap steel purchased on the way from a shop about to close for the night; a worn blade purchased with Duke val Sharvina’s gifted gold. He drew the duelling sword and flipped it into his favoured right hand. ‘Well, good luck, I guess.’

  ‘I need no luck,’ the man snarled, launching himself at Tol, a shard of shiny steel arcing towards Tol’s face. Tol leapt back, poor steel barely blocking its glimmering twin. Again and again the man lashed out, his movements fast but economical. Tol parried again and again, his own blade barely blocking the lightning strikes that sought his arms and torso, the occasional thrust spearing at his face. Step by step he was forced back, pulse thundering in his ears as he fought to block his opponent’s unceasing attack.

  So fast, he thought, his own limbs feeling dull and sluggish compared to the graceful dance his opponent’s sword weaved, bright eyes peering unwaveringly from deep within the hooded cloak. Speed, not strength, Tol reminded himself, and for a moment he thought he heard a soft voice in his head, sighing its agreement. Back another pace, and Tol felt his foot hit the stone’s edge, mud squelching under his heel.

  Relax.

  He released a slow breath, tension seeping from his limbs as he parried another serpentine strike. Another came, and another, and something clicked in his mind: a pattern emerging, the foundation of the duellist’s practice. There were flourishes and feints, but they were only distractions, frills and lace upon the bare bones of technique. Beneath it all lay the simple thrusts and strikes that were the building blocks of duelling. Tol adapted his own technique, responding in kind and countering a scything slash at his left arm. As his opponent’s blade bounced off his own, Tol lunged, but his opponent was quicker, dancing away like mist. Again they clashed, the rhythm of steel on steel the only sound as Tol forced him back another pace, and another. The duellist was flustered now, the fight’s tide turning. Tol’s sword opened fabric in his foe’s cloak, maybe even the tunic beneath it, but the man danced back again with no ill effects. He launched an attack of his own, a blistering flurry of strikes that seemed to come at Tol from everywhere at once. He wasn’t thinking now, just moving, his sword flicking left and right and fending off the assault as each muscle twitch, each shift of balance telegraphed the next attack. A gut strike came in low and fast, and Tol batted it aside, his own arm flicking up towards his opponent’s face. His opponent jinked his head at the last moment and Tol’s sword slashed through the cloak’s hood, narrowly missing an ear. Tol struck again before the duellist could recover, and the man stumbled back, foot catching on mud bubbling up between the slabs of stone. He wobbled, teetering back, and stumbled back a pace, barely righting himself as Tol prepared to attack again.

  What the f—

  Tol stopped, sword poised to strike, as the man’s hood fell back. The blue eyes were framed by a delicate face, long dark hair pulled back in a tail and ruby lips half-open in surprise.

  A woman?

  Her swor
d flashed in front of his eyes, and Tol felt a slight sting on his cheek as his opponent leaped back. ‘I win,’ she crowed.

  Tol stood there dumbly. He lifted his hand to his cheek, and it came away with a dark smear, barely visible by Griskalor’s pale grey light.

  ‘You’re a woman,’ he said. ‘You tricked me!’

  She shrugged, a smile blooming on her flushed cheeks. ‘You did not ask,’ she replied, ‘and now I have bested you.’

  ‘You surprised me,’ Tol growled. ‘Your hood fell and—’

  ‘And you were distracted,’ she said. ‘I warned you of the rules, did I not?’

  ‘I know but… Damn it, woman, I could have killed you.’

  She snorted. ‘I think not, certainly not with such haphazard technique as you possess.’ The woman frowned, her brow furrowing in the twilight. ‘Although you did seem to improve towards the end. For a while I was pressed.’

  Tol sheathed his blade, before the anger building within him found an outlet in his sword hand. Bested by some noblewoman, he thought. So much for glory as an angel’s knight. He groaned softly, imagining how Kalashadria would chastise him for losing in such a manner.

  ‘You have been bested,’ the young lady said, sliding her own steel home and sketching a courtly bow, ‘by none other than Suranna dol Carasiddio. Tell me, sir, what is the name of the man I have defeated?’

  Tol scowled. There’s no way she is going to keep quiet about this. He told her his name, surprised at the light laughter that followed his admission.

  ‘The Knight of Angels?’ Suranna scoffed. ‘Have you no honour that you name another to take the blame in your stead?’

  Tol leaned forward, his face inches from hers. ‘My name,’ he snarled through his teeth, ‘is Tol Kraven, and if you insult me again I will show you what happens in a real fight.’

  Suranna backed away, her face paling. ‘Truly?’ she said in a small voice. ‘I… I did not know. I thought you were jesting.’

  ‘You tricked me,’ Tol spat back, ‘and earned a victory you did not deserve.’