Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1) Page 6

  ‘He said you were both his best and worst pupil,’ Mother Beatrice told him, motioning him to sit with a flick of her hand.

  Tol dropped onto the seat opposite her. ‘I reckon he’s dead,’ he said without preamble. ‘Him and every other soul at Icepeak.’

  ‘Except you.’

  ‘Except me.’ He shuffled in the seat, trying to get comfortable, but the chipped wooden chair refused to yield. ‘He sent me here, and said the message was important though it doesn’t make any sense to me.’ He sighed, staring down at his hands, hands that had killed three men in the woods. ‘He said to tell you, “the Truth is in peril”. Those exact words.’

  Mother Beatrice sagged visibly, slumping in her chair and breathing heavily. She stared at her liver-spotted hands as they rattled against the desktop, lost in some reverie about who-knew-what. Tol certainly didn’t, but he had a bad feeling he was going to find out about whatever troubled the old woman. Hardly an auspicious start to the New Year, he thought sourly. The celebrations at Icepeak and everywhere else would be bigger than usual, the feasts longer. Not only was it the dawn of a new century, but something much more significant to the church and its followers: it was the changing of the watch. Today would see the new century crawl from the embers of the last and the first angel’s watch was due to end. Galandor, who had watched over Korte and its people for two hundred years, would return to slumber and another would take his place. If the Names of Salvation is indeed the true story of angels, Tol thought. The abbot, and all the other monks at Icepeak, swore the church’s holy text was true, that an angel had really come down to Korte when he was most needed, and that one day he might come again.

  Where is he now? Tol wondered. Where was he when we needed him? He drew in a sharp breath, remembering the long line of men seen from the abbot’s window. There’ll be no New Year celebrations at Icepeak. Everyone’s dead.

  The old woman had still not moved, staring at her speckled hands like a seer seeking meaning in tea leaves. ‘There’s a bigger problem,’ Tol announced, pushing thoughts of the abbot from his mind. ‘The Band of Blood.’

  Rheumy eyes fixed him in their desperate gaze. ‘The Band? They are the ones who attacked Icepeak?’

  ‘I saw their armbands,’ Tol confirmed. ‘I killed three in the forest – they all wore crimson rags round their arms.’

  She digested the information slowly, as if waking from a dream. ‘How far behind are they?’

  ‘I don’t know. Five got ahead of me on the North Road. I…’ He didn’t want to mention Katarina, or her aid. ‘I managed to pass unnoticed, but they will not be far behind me.’

  ‘So it comes to pass,’ she muttered. Her old bones creaked as she stood, like a gnarled oak in an autumn gale. ‘Wait here,’ she told him, hobbling over to the doorway and poking her head beyond the lintel.

  ‘Rachel!’

  Tol heard the patter of feet, quickly reaching a crescendo as a young grey-clad nun appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Reverend Mother?’

  ‘Gather your Sisterguard, child, and ready yourselves for travel. It is time to test the mettle of your faith.’

  The nun’s face lit up. ‘Truly, Reverend Mother?’ Her voice had a desperate timbre to it, as if the old woman were an angel granting her most fervent wish.

  ‘Yes, Rachel. Hurry now, time is short. And Rachel?’

  The nun paused at the threshold. ‘Yes, Mother?’

  ‘Bring those swords you think I do not know about.’

  What the Pit is the Sisterguard? Tol wondered as the Reverend Mother closed the door with a soft snick that reminded him of a crossbow. Has she made her own base effigy of the Knights Reve?

  Tol’s eyes followed Mother Beatrice as she hurried over to one wall and a faded pastel portrait of Sir Hunt Valeron, one of the original Seven, the man whom history told slew the Demon with Galandor’s blade as it strove to end the angel’s life. Her hand caressed the faded face as if it were her son, and with a reluctant sigh the Reverend Mother turned back to Tol.

  ‘Tell me, Tol Kraven, do you serve the church?’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

  ‘That will not do, boy. The Knights Reve are on the brink of destruction, and the Maker has seen fit to deliver you to me at a time when I need a good man most of all.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘A convent full of dedicated nuns when all I need is a man!’ She shook her head, though it was so slight Tol thought it might just be one of those twitches that affected the old. ‘A good man,’ she murmured to herself, ‘and Michael sends me the spawn of the damned.’ Her gaze swung back to him, and Tol shrank back at the anger behind her eyes. ‘The worst of his students, yet also the best. I prayed to the Maker that if this day ever came he would send the finest knight, perhaps even one of the Seven.’ She sneered, flecks of spittle arcing towards him. ‘And yet of all those available to him, the abbot sent you.’ Mother Beatrice sighed. ‘Perhaps the Maker believes even the worst among us are deserving of redemption.’

  She glanced at the portrait. ‘The Knights Reve have been betrayed, boy, else you would not have been sent. They stand on the precipice, on the very edge of destruction.’ The old nun cocked her head to one side, looking Tol up and down as if measuring him for a dress. Or a tomb. ‘There is the slimmest hope of survival, and that hope may rest with you. Speak truly, boy, will you do as instructed or must I send the Sisterguard in your place? Will you serve your church, and through us the Maker?’

  Tol gritted his teeth. ‘The abbot asked me to aid you, and so I shall.’ But not because of the Maker, or your venomous tongue, but because of the man – because he treated me as every other boy and not as the latest spawn of a traitorous line.

  ‘Though you are not a knight, this is a knight’s work. Succeed and knighthood awaits; fail and the world will fall to the demons. I will have your vow, Tol Kraven, for though Michael may trust you I have not his faith in men.’

  ‘I swear,’ Tol spat through gritted teeth.

  ‘Not enough.’ Her head twitched again, like a stringed puppet. ‘I shall have the vow of the Reve from you. Well?’ She flung her scrawny arms out in annoyance. ‘You do know the vow, don’t you, boy? Say it or be damned!’

  Tol rose from the chair slowly, his eyes never leaving the old crone as he took a pace forward, rage boiling with every heartbeat. He sank to one knee and dipped his head as he heard the door open and caught a flash of grey robes on the periphery of his vision. With venom, he said the words, ‘I swear by the Nameless Maker whose name no man is worthy to hear, and pledge my service to the High Angel Galandor, first among the faithful, and through him the Maker himself. I pledge myself to the Knights Reve, right hand of the High Angel Galandor, and swear to protect the innocent, defend the weak, and deliver the souls of mankind safe from evil. On pain of eternal damnation, this I do swear.’

  He knelt there, feeling exposed as the Reverend Mother’s gaze swept over him. ‘Rise,’ she told him. Tol did so, his gaze drawn to the doorway where Sister Rachel stood, two other women behind her. They were still accoutred in the grey garb of nuns, sturdy boots visible beneath heavy winter cloaks.

  ‘The Reve has been betrayed,’ Mother Beatrice said, hurrying over to her desk and opening a draw. She withdrew a letter and beckoned Rachel over. ‘Men are coming who seek to destroy the Church itself, and its survival will be decided this night. The three of you must lead them away.’ The old woman pressed the letter into Rachel’s hands and gave the three nuns instructions. ‘If you survive,’ she said, ‘find Kraven and offer what aid you can. And if the traitor’s blood runs true, send him to the Pit and deliver what he carries to the Seven.’ She gestured at the letter. ‘That will ensure any in the Church aid you.’

  Rachel nodded. ‘As you say, Mother.’

  Tol swore as he heard the distant creak of the gates. ‘They’re here.’

  9.

  Tol checked his sword as the three young women hurried out of the study. ‘You should take the sisters and run,’ he s
aid. ‘I can hold the front long enough for you to slip out back and over the wall.’

  ‘We will endure,’ Mother Beatrice said. She lifted the portrait of Sir Hunt Valeron from the wall to reveal an alcove where several bricks had been removed. ‘What happens to my sisters and I is of little consequence compared to this.’ She flicked one corner of the cloth aside to reveal a faded burgundy book underneath. ‘This is the reason why you were sent to me.’ She drew aside another corner of the cloth and then a third. The title was written by hand, faded black ink standing out sharply from the cracked leather cover. It read simply, “Angel’s Truth”. The device of the Knights Reve was crudely etched in the centre, and Tol saw the author’s name below, half-covered by the last corner of the cloth.

  ‘This tome contains the greatest secrets of the Knights Reve,’ Mother Beatrice told him. ‘The knowledge within is the true purpose of the order, information that is otherwise known only by the Seven.’ The Reverend Mother reached over and grabbed Tol by the shoulder, her nails digging in hard enough to make him wince. ‘Far greater men than you have read these words and been driven insane at the truth within.’ The nails bit deeper. ‘These words are not for you.’ She released him as Tol heard the crunch of footfalls in the snow outside. It sounded like a lot more than five men.

  ‘You must take this book and deliver it to the Seven,’ Mother Beatrice told him. She folded the cloth back over the book and thrust it into his hands. ‘Quickly, boy,’ she said as he stuffed the book in his pack, ‘they are almost upon us.’

  What book can be worth so much death? Tol wondered as he followed her out of the study. She led him towards the rear of the building.

  ‘They will kill you.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Mother Beatrice admitted, ‘but it is of no consequence, not compared to the Truth.’ They reached the back stairs in moments and she gestured for Tol to go. ‘You must see it safe to the hands of the Seven.’

  ‘I don’t know who the Seven are.’

  ‘Michael didn’t tell you?’

  ‘There wasn’t time,’ Tol said as the echo of a fist hammering against the front door reached them.

  ‘Always the same number from the same nations as the original Seven,’ she said. ‘Two from Meracia, one from Vrond, and three from Norve.’

  ‘Yes, but who are they?’

  ‘Sir Balvador, Sir Korwane, and Sir Lareon of Norve. If they are fallen, then Sir Patrick of Vrond, Sir Istador and Sir Cilliador of Meracia. Find them and deliver the Truth or all shall be lost.’ She grabbed him by the shoulders again, and Tol was surprised by her strength. ‘Beware, Kraven, the book is a closely guarded secret. Someone has talked, and if the book’s existence is known, so too may the identities of the Seven.’ Her nails dug in harder and Tol winced. ‘Trust none but the Seven,’ she hissed.

  A dull thump echoed down the corridor and the old nun shooed Tol away. ‘Go, boy, before it is too late.’

  Tol nodded as the sound of someone pounding on the door echoed along the corridor. He put one foot on the steps then paused. ‘That was only six,’ he said. ‘Who is the seventh?’

  ‘There is no seventh,’ Mother Beatrice snapped. ‘The seventh slew Sir Hunt Valeron the demon slayer out of jealousy as they journeyed home. Always the Seven are only six - their name is the only reminder your ancestor once did something right. Do you not know your own family’s history? Go,’ she told him, ‘the doors will not hold them long.’

  Another thump echoed through the doors, its timbre slightly different. They’re using axes, Tol realised as the old woman hurried away. He took the stairs two at a time, and ran for the back door. It felt like Icepeak all over again.

  *

  Morafin stared at the crossbow for a long time. Kraven had killed Brounhalk, she was sure of it. Done by treachery, no doubt; there was no way her brother would have lost in a fair fight, no way at all. The old crone should have let her kill him. She turned as she heard heavy footsteps, and shielded the weapon with her body as the Mouse lumbered past, Kayenne striding purposefully after her. Morafin turned back to the sideboard, and ran a finger over the rough wood. Brounhalk had never liked the things.

  She smiled, and headed up the stairs, reaching the top as Rachel and her two shadows emerged from the study and hurried away towards the back stairs. Moments later Mother Beatrice emerged, the Kraven whelp in pursuit like a crippled puppy that followed even when kicked. Morafin hurried after them, gathering courage as her fingers tightened on the crossbow. Her legs felt leaden, her throat parched, but Morafin forced herself onwards. The traitor was at the top of the back stairs, a perfect target. A fist hammering on the front door startled her, and Morafin flinched, nearly loosing the bolt into a wall. She glanced back, and saw figures on the path outside. In the seconds her back was turned, Kraven had fled, her chance gone.

  ‘Be not afraid, daughters,’ Mother Beatrice called, striding past Morafin towards the front of the convent as the hammering ceased and the familiar creak of the door drifted up the stairs. The crone went right past Morafin and didn’t notice the crossbow she held, barely even noticed Morafin herself.

  Screeches and cries of panic rose up from the entrance, accompanied by the heavy footsteps of men. These, Morafin knew, were the men who had helped Kraven kill her brother, led here by Kraven himself. Traitor and worse, she thought. If she hurried, she could still catch him.

  Footsteps echoed on the stairs, heavy and loud behind her. ‘Please,’ Morafin heard Beatrice plead, followed a second later by a thunderous slap and a dull thud, like a body being slammed into a wall. Morafin turned, saw the Reverend Mother on the floor, struggling to her feet. The man who had flung her aside was barrelling down the corridor, growing larger and larger as he strode towards her. His expression changed when he saw what Morafin held, and for a moment she rejoiced in the spark of fear she saw. Then he started moving faster, lumbering towards her.

  Thwunk. The quarrel took him low, punching through leather armour to the flesh beneath. He went down so fast it was as if the Maker himself had smote him with a giant fist. His sword skittered across the floor and as Morafin looked past him she saw more men coming up the stairs, the first of which was a huge bear of a man, his eyes widening as he saw the crossbow in her hands. Mother Beatrice stumbled away from the wall as Morafin lunged for the fallen sword and threw the crossbow aside. The bear already had a hand on his own sword, bringing it free with a sweep of his arms as the Reverend Mother staggered towards him, one arm held out and a plea on her lips.

  ‘No,’ Beatrice cried, stepping into the path of the rising sword. A streamer of claret followed the arc of the sword’s rise as the Reverend Mother dropped to the floor, lifeless eyes staring accusingly at Morafin.

  Morafin picked up the dead man’s sword, her arms trembling as the bear reached her, sword already in motion. She swung to block the first attack, teeth jarring with the thunderous impact. Again and again he swung, Morafin’s arms burning as she fought to hold him off. Is this the one who slew my brother? she wondered. Or did Kraven himself deliver the final blow? She struck ineffectually at the beast but her blows never pierced his leather armour, and always he replied with brutal attacks of his own. Morafin was panting hard, her parries too slow, too hesitant. His sword smashed through her defence, biting into her upper arm and sending her staggering to her right. He struck again, the force of the blow sending her into the Reverend Mother’s open study as his sword slammed into the jamb, a flurry of splinters peppering her face. Morafin stumbled upright and retreated further into the room as the bear wrenched his sword loose with a grunt. Her arm was burning like the Pit itself, muscles protesting as Morafin tried to hold the sword high and steady. He came on, relentless, blow after blow raining down on her as she retreated around the Reverend Mother’s desk, eyes bright with hatred boring into her. She felt the wall against her hips, and he swung at her again, the sheer strength in his arms knocking her sword aside. She felt the impact in her arms as her blade arced over her head and into the
convent’s wall. Morafin tried to pull it free, but the sword was stuck fast, her arms held in front of her as if in prayer.

  He smiled, sword dropping to his side as he leaned back. Morafin grunted as his boot struck her midriff, then felt herself flying backwards, shards of broken glass clouding her vision as the wind whipped at her on the way down.

  Morafin opened her eyes and saw him leaning out of the window, a grin smeared across his face. A shard of glass still clung to the frame and she saw herself reflected in it, a dark stain spreading out beneath her across the snow like blood-red wings.

  10.

  The Sceptre of the North was a grand name for an inn, but one which utterly failed to deliver on its promise of grandeur and comfort, much to Katarina’s disgust. The sign outside was faded, much of the paint cracked and long since fallen away; all that remained was a vague outline resembling an aroused member. Katarina pointed it out to Stetch as they entered, and was surprised to find the man actually could blush. The small inn was busy inside, nearly two dozen patrons in various states of inebriation ranging from significantly drunk to why-is-the-world-spinning-so-fast and one fellow who might, if the smell was anything to go by, actually be dead.

  I wish I was back home, Katarina thought as she seated herself at one of the few vacant tables while Stetch forced his way to the bar with nothing more than his best move-or-die grimace, which even the half-dead patrons realised was no act. Her gaze spun across the room, but all she saw were the haggard faces of farmers, sheepherders and maids that over time were worn to the bone by the bitter winds and winters of the north. A stubborn people, these Norvek folk, and the ones who lived in remote places like this were the most stubborn of all, persisting in some misguided belief that winters would get milder, or life would somehow become more tolerable. Katarina was caught halfway between admiration and pity for them. Tol Kraven seemed every bit as stubborn as these people, although if he was, as he claimed, truly from Havak it was hardly surprising. The Norvek were perhaps the most feared warriors in all of Korte, strong and fierce and proud. The principality of Havak, though, was the wolf chained to the bear of Norve, rabid and fierce and unyielding. Havak had never been conquered, despite the best efforts of various kings of Norve. A small island off the north-east coast, its inhabitants had repelled assault after assault through the decades and, according to scholars in Sudalra, had occasionally mounted retaliatory sorties across Norve’s coastline. One king – Katarina couldn’t remember which, they all had such silly names like Horfeld the Head-Hammerer – had grown weary of the endless fighting, and instead of taking an army he arrived on Havak with a small delegation. A dukedom was all it took, and Havak became a principality of Norve, its warriors unleashed only in the most desperate of times, or when it suited the Norvek King to teach some nation a lesson – a lesson he could later deny as “exuberance” on the part of his liegemen. Katarina had once read an account of one scholar who survived a Havakkian assault and exuberance didn’t come close to describing the mayhem they unleashed on the battlefield.