Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1) Read online

  The heat struck him like a jilted lover, and Tol sighed in relief as the door clunked shut behind him. The room was spacious, yet cluttered with tables and chairs, a neat line of stools running parallel to a bar counter nestling against the back wall. A fire was slowly coming to life on his left while past the end of the bar on the right a door led to what he assumed were the kitchens, and a stairwell arrowed upwards.

  ‘We’re not open yet,’ someone told him. ‘Lunch isn’t served for a bell yet.’

  Tol hadn’t even noticed the woman, his rapid scan of the interior only marking out threats and exits as the brothers at Icepeak had taught him. His eyes sought out the voice, finding a middle-aged woman with long tawny hair plastered to her face scrubbing behind the bar. He stepped forward. ‘I need a room,’ he croaked, head swimming as the heat from the fire began to tear at the numbness that had stolen over him. She looked at him sternly, eyes sizing him up like a tailor might. Or a coffin maker.

  ‘Three pennies a night,’ she told him brusquely. ‘A penny a meal.’ Another glance up and down. ‘Payable in advance.’

  Tol nodded, feeling light-headed and giddy. He fumbled his gloves off, flakes of ice falling to the wooden boards, and on the second attempt pulled his purse from his tunic. It slipped from his fingers, spilling coins all over the bar, and Tol cursed, wincing as he saw the woman’s face harden.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, cheeks colouring. He reached down and tried to scoop up the coins but ended up just sliding them around. ‘My fingers are numb, could you take enough for a night and three meals?’

  She looked him over carefully, but took the right amount then slipped the rest back into the purse and pressed it into his hand.

  ‘You feel like ice, boy. What happened to you?’

  Tol shrugged, another flurry of flakes dropping to the ground. ‘Caught in a fast freeze.’

  ‘Were you now? Well, we’d best get you in front of the fire,’ the woman said. She rounded the bar and tugged gently at Tol’s furs, pulling him towards the hearth. ‘Few enough survive a fast freeze.’ She stopped, a hand going up to Tol’s neck. ‘Demon’s breath, boy! What happened to you?’

  ‘I told you,’ Tol began, stopping as he saw her hand come away, half-congealed blood on her fingers. He reached reflexively for his neck, but the innkeeper slapped his hand away.

  ‘Don’t touch it, you fool boy. There’s still splinters there.’ She lowered him down onto a chair near the fire, concern etched in her careworn features. ‘Marilyn!’

  Tol heard the patter of footsteps behind him. ‘Don’t stand there, girl,’ the innkeeper shouted, ‘start heating some water and draw a bath. And get some bandages.’

  *

  A slap to the face brought Tol fully awake. The woman from the bar was towering over him. ‘I thought you’d gone and died on me,’ she sighed. ‘Come on, lad, you need to get up the stairs to the bath before you freeze.’ She draped an arm under him and Tol managed to heave himself out of the chair, his arms and legs aching with cold. With her help he made it up the stairs without falling and breaking something, though once or twice it was a close-run thing; Tol’s arms and legs were slow to obey him, and heavy like they were weighed down with manacles. His head was woolly, too, but he listened to the firm voice and stumbled along into the bathing room where steam was rising from an iron tub.

  The woman removed Tol’s pack from his shoulder and helped him out of his furs, and up close he saw the weathered lines of her face. He figured once it had been pretty though now it was mostly tired, wrinkles round the eyes hinting at years of laughter and tears, though to what degree of each he couldn’t guess. A gentle push sent him against the wall, and Tol leaned against it as the woman lifted first one leg then the other, slipping off his boots. She turned to his tunic next, and where her fingers brushed his skin it felt like fire. Tol heard a dull thump and felt the woman release him. He followed her gaze to the floorboards and saw the book entrusted to him by the Church, the cloth fallen from the cover and the words plainly visible. He saw the look on her face and opened his mouth to explain, but she slammed him against the wall, breath hissing out of her like a frying sausage spitting fat.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  The pressure at his neck was unmistakable, the point of the knife encroaching just beyond the first layer of skin. Numb as he was, Tol could feel it perfectly well. Not this again, he thought. It was tempting to bring his right arm up and across to strike it from her hand, but in his current condition he wasn’t sure he could pull it off. He thought quickly, ignoring the increase in pressure and the crawling sensation of blood trickling down his neck.

  ‘I saw the sign outside,’ he said.

  Her eyes remained iron-cold and the pressure remained. ‘The tattoo on the woman,’ Tol explained. ‘I came here for help.’

  ‘Answer me, boy.’

  He could see it in her eyes. She knew about it, or at least suspected. ‘The convent,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You stole it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, boy, it’s easy enough for me to check. Marilyn can be there by nightfall, and the watch will have you in irons by dawn.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Tol said. ‘Men came looking for it at Icepeak so the abbot sent me to the convent.’

  ‘And they just gave it to you?’ she scoffed.

  ‘No, not at first. Only when the Band reached the convent.’

  ‘The Band?’ Her voice rose an octave. ‘The Band of Blood?’

  Tol nodded. ‘There’s no point sending anyone to St. Helena’s; all they’ll find is bodies.’

  Her face fell. ‘The sisters are dead? Surely not.’

  ‘I warned them, told them I could hold the door while they slipped out back, but the one in charge wouldn’t hear any of it and made me swear to see the book safe. I… I could have done something.’ He shook his head. ‘I killed three by the North Road, I could have at least slowed them down some.’

  ‘So you weren’t there when the Band arrived? They might not have killed the sisters.’

  ‘I heard the screams!’ Tol shouted, grinding his teeth. ‘I couldn’t go back but I heard them. They’re dead.’

  The innkeeper dropped the knife, her face ashen. ‘Let’s get you into that bath before you freeze.’

  She helped him out of his tunic and trousers, but let Tol keep his smallclothes on. He wasn’t sure whether it was out of propriety or laziness, but either way Tol was relieved. Leaning heavily on the innkeeper’s shoulder he stumbled to the lip of the bath.

  ‘This is going to hurt,’ she told him roughly. ‘Don’t scream like a girl, I can do without questions from the watch.’

  ‘Demon’s balls!’ Tol hissed as his right foot sank into the gently steaming water. She hadn’t exaggerated; it hurt, nerves jangling like ants crawled beneath his skin.

  ‘A day?’ Tol tried to distract his mind as he sank fully into the water. ‘Surely we’re further from the convent?’ He sighed heavily, his head still feeling foggy. ‘This isn’t Karnvost, is it?’

  ‘No, child. This is Soltre, Karnvost is another day’s travel south.’

  ‘I thought it was too damn small,’ Tol muttered as she tilted his head forward.

  ‘I’ll need to take these splinters out. Hold still.’

  Compared to the water the pain was almost nothing, a few biting ants rather than thousands.

  14.

  ‘A mug of ale, innkeeper.’

  Despite being the only customer in the Maker-forsaken place, the innkeeper hesitated, looking at him like he’d just escaped a prison camp. A moment passed, the innkeeper slowly reaching under the counter and withdrawing a smeared glass tankard as he heard the rattle of coins in the provost’s purse.

  ‘And information,’ Kartane added, extracting a coin from the purse and pretending not to notice when the innkeeper stiffened at his words.

  Great, he thought, a skittish innkeeper.

  ‘Tell me about your visi
tors over the last two days,’ he said as the innkeeper dumped an almost full mug of ale on the counter.

  ‘Can’t say I rightly remember any,’ the innkeeper said.

  Kartane slapped a hand down on the bar then lifted his palm, revealing the silver half-crown beneath it. He drew his hand back and tapped the coin with his forefinger, watching carefully as the innkeeper’s nervous eyes came to rest upon it. Skittish. And the thing about skittish innkeepers is they always have a cudgel under the bar. He lifted his finger from the coin and the innkeeper’s hand shot out, palm aiming to slap down on it like a barfly. Kartane was quicker, grabbing the innkeeper’s wrist and yanking him forwards, gut tight against the counter. He reached over the bar with his other hand, grabbed the back of the man’s head and slammed it down onto the bar. He adjusted his grip, rotating the man’s head so his ear was pinned to the wood.

  ‘How about now?’ Kartane asked conversationally as the innkeeper’s eyes tracked the knife held and inch from his eyes. ‘And don’t think about going for that cudgel,’ Kartane warned him. ‘I’m trying to go a day without killing anyone.’ He let that sink in a moment then added, ‘I’m halfway.’

  The innkeeper’s free hand crept over the bar, palm open in surrender. ‘Good,’ Kartane told him. ‘Now, shall we try again? How’s your memory?’

  ‘Hardly anyone’s been here recently,’ the innkeeper began, ‘but there were some travellers through yesterday.’

  Kartane smiled. Before his imprisonment in Westreach he’d discovered most men recovered forgotten memories with a little prompting from a sharp blade. Sometimes they lived to tell the tale.

  He removed his palm from the innkeeper’s head, and wiped the grease on his tunic. ‘Tell me about them.’

  ‘Five men came through first, mercenaries by the look of them. Seemed a rough lot, but didn’t cause any trouble except for bothering a lady passing through.’ The innkeeper paused. ‘Well, they didn’t actually cause trouble, but it looked like they would right up until the lady’s lover arrived.’

  ‘A lady?’ Kartane frowned. ‘Tell me about her.’

  The innkeeper laughed. ‘Not one to forget, that one. Beautiful as any you’re likely to meet, but with a sharp tongue. She was haughty, like she was too good to be here or something. Maybe that’s what all Sudalrese women are like though.’

  Kartane waited, and let the silence do his work for him.

  ‘Felt sorry for her man though,’ the innkeeper said after a moment. ‘Henpecked don’t begin to describe him.’

  ‘But they didn’t arrive together?’

  ‘No.’ The innkeeper thought for a moment. ‘She said they’d had an argument and she’d left early. Seemed kind of unusual; she even left her servant behind.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Findhel, I think.’ Kartane pushed down on the man’s skull. ‘Yes, I’m sure she mentioned Findhel.’

  Kartane frowned. Something didn’t feel right and his feelings usually didn’t let him down. Except for that one time, and that had ended with him in the iron mines. Best not dwell on that though.

  ‘Gave him an earful when he arrived, I wager.’

  ‘What?’ Kartane had stopped listening. ‘Gave who an earful?’

  ‘Her servant. He arrived late, real late, just as I was locking up for the night.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  Kartane listened intently, but the innkeeper had appalling recall, most likely from drinking too much of his own wares. After a few none too subtle threats, Kartane had enough of a description to recognise the servant, his mistress, and the sap of a lover. He released the innkeeper and thought about the trio as he drained the rest of his tankard, wondering whether it was coincidence.

  He leaned over the bar. ‘You’re sure there were just the five mercenaries?’

  The innkeeper nodded. ‘They was all that came in, but when they left this morning I heard more voices outside. More than five.’

  Kartane drew his knife in one smooth movement and slammed the point into the counter an inch from the innkeeper’s hand. ‘Perhaps you looked outside,’ he said quietly. ‘Perhaps you counted how many of them were there.’

  ‘I’m not sure, exactly,’ the innkeeper mumbled.

  Kartane glanced at the knife then back to the innkeeper. ‘Guess.’

  ‘Two dozen.’

  *

  Kartane marched east through the afternoon. He was hunting again, and the air – colder than a duchess’ welcome – had never tasted sweeter. The years seemed to fall away, and all that remained was the thrill of pursuit, the blood-warming tingle of a predator unleashed. Half a day’s lead, he figured. About the same as I have on whichever fools they’ve sent to bring me back. The squad would probably reach the inn around nightfall and Kartane was fairly sure the innkeeper wouldn’t even need something sharp to refresh his drink-addled memory this time. They’ll wait till dawn, he decided. Safe and snug in the warm.

  As the day wore on cold seeped deep into his bones, old aches from the mines rising to the surface. Not as young as I was back then, he reluctantly admitted to himself. He pushed on, realising he wasn’t going to catch his prey by nightfall. The years in Westreach’s mines had left him lean and strong, but he felt the cold now, and without furs he could feel frostbite creeping over his fingers and toes. Should have killed the innkeeper and stolen his furs.

  It was long past midnight when Kartane finally saw lights up ahead, a weak haze breaking the darkness.

  Against all reason, The Sceptre of the North had survived another four winters in Rickron’s Elbow. It still looked like it was about to fall down at any moment, but before he could continue with his pursuit Kartane - already feeling the cold touch of fatigue - needed rest, warmth, and ale. He fumbled the door open and slipped inside, sighing in relief as the smells and sounds of revelry assaulted him; he’d forgotten that people didn’t just shout when tunnels collapsed.

  The New Year celebrations were winding down, several patrons unconscious in various poses. The innkeeper was nearly as drunk as his customers but poured Kartane a mug of ale with only half as much decorating the floor. Red-faced and sour-smelling, the innkeeper fumbled out a room key quickly enough, but proved resistant to cobbling together a meal. Kartane stared at him in silence, impressed the man resisted his charm for five seconds. Another five passed before the drunk fool realised how precarious life could be in the north, particularly for men who said ‘No’.

  Even the drunk recognise killers when they see them, Kartane thought as he folded himself onto a bench. He glared at the innkeeper and saw the man scurry towards the kitchen. Sensible man.

  A second mug of ale calmed the fire behind his eyes, and by his third Kartane was starting to feel positively cheerful, right up until the stale bread and stringy stew arrived. There were one or two lumps that he presumed were vegetables, and lots of small ones that might once have been some kind of meat. He devoured the meal quickly and found it was still better than the fare at Westreach, then resumed his friendship with ale; four years in the mines had left him with a powerful thirst.

  As the grey light of dawn approached, Kartane headed towards the back stairs, liberating a winter coat along the way. It was dark upstairs, only a couple of lanterns illuminating the landing, and Kartane couldn’t remember which room was his. With soldier-like resolve he staggered along the corridor, trying his key in each door he found and cursing loudly when the door remained unyielding. The third time was the charm, and Kartane wobbled into the room, kicked the door shut behind him and collapsed onto the single bed with his clothes on. Mercifully, he didn’t remember his dreams.

  *

  The carnage was as bad as any Kartane had witnessed, maybe worse because of the victims. True, nuns were annoying at the very best of times, but he didn’t know any that deserved a fate like this. Torsos and limbs were strewn across the front lawn of the grounds like a sullen child’s discarded dolls, broken and pulled apart, revealing the stuffing inside. The mid-morning sun glinted o
ff the congealed blood pools, frozen by the night’s frost. What could have done this? Kartane asked himself for the fourth time. He knelt beside the nun nearest the door and examined the socket of her shoulder, seeing no sign of any weapon in the wound. He went from corpse to corpse and found the same thing: deep scratches like claw marks, but no sign of bladework at all. It looked as though they had been ripped limb from limb but… Kartane stopped, his eyes fixed on the deep gouge in the earth, almost hidden by a tangle of something that looked suspiciously like sausages. A single heavy print in the earth, a three-toed foot that wasn’t human, and didn’t look like any animal Kartane had ever seen. There were plenty of human bootprints too, most leading back out the gates and turning south, but the lone print sat there like a riddle daring to be solved. The sound of boots in the snow at the bottom of the hill brought him out of his musings as he heard a couple of villagers ruminating on last night’s disturbance at the convent. They heard the screams, Kartane realised. They heard the screams from the tavern and did nothing. He moved quickly, stepping lightly over the tangled mélange of body parts and slipping around the side of the convent as he heard the villagers approach. They waited until daylight, he fumed. Craven, gutless bastards. I should kill them. He slipped, feet almost sliding out from beneath him, and Kartane stopped, peering down at the ground. More blood. There was a big frozen pool of it, spread out across the snow. Where’s the body? he wondered. He took a step closer and winced as broken glass crunched underfoot.