Angel's Knight

by A. J. Grimmelhaus

  ‘In time, Kraven will die,’ the man told her, ‘but first he must suffer – is that not what you desire?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Lord Vidrikan has graciously allowed you to play a part in his fall from grace.’ He smiled. ‘His fall will be greater as he sees everything he believes in crumble around him. Only then, when all hope is gone, will Kraven die.’

  And I will be there, Morafin thought. Whatever happens, I will make sure I am there.

  ‘You,’ the man continued, ‘will be the instrument of his fall.’

  Morafin relaxed. ‘What must I do?’

  ‘There are some people who need to stop breathing. You are going to make sure it happens.’

  Morafin smiled. Sometimes, nearly getting killed could be a good thing. Who’d have thought it?

  *

  One of the benefits to an escort of twelve Sworn men was the noticeable manner in which crowds parted for them, even in the early morning bustle of High Mera’s central district. Crammed in the centre of the dozen, it made little difference to the Black Duke’s comfort except that they had made swift progress from the docks, and the ambassador’s home was now mere yards away. The other benefit to a Sworn escort was, of course, a marked increase to personal safety. Everyone in Sudalra – and many places beyond – knew that to attack such a large group of men was akin to taking on an army with a sling, or a one-armed man climbing a mountain; it was generally accepted that the outcome was pretty much the same. The only real difference, the Sudalrese people would venture, is that throwing oneself against the Sworn would end considerably quicker than other such futile gestures.

  Safety was indeed a concern for the Black Duke of Sudalra, but after the letter had arrived by ship at Stonepoint his own safety was furthest from his mind. The letter had been written by one of his men with the typical brevity of the Sworn:

  Plot by the demon lovers foiled. Katarina kidnapped, Stetch and Victoria in pursuit. Send everyone.

  Eloquent prose was not their strong point, but never had it been more frustrating than in those three sentences. For two days, Valtas val Sharvina had worried and wondered: how had his daughter been kidnapped? Why was Stetch not at her side, and why in the name of the Prophet had the idiot allowed Victoria to accompany him? Answers to these questions had, until now, remained frustratingly out of reach. But, as Valtas’ escort marched swiftly up to the ambassador’s residence, that was something the Black Duke was resolved to change. And at the earliest opportunity. Patience, ever a strong trait in Sudalra’s greatest planner, was about to take a little nap in the name of expediency.

  The door opened, and Valtas strode through, his escort sending servants scurrying out of their path as the procession marched through the house. They led Valtas unerringly to the ambassador’s study at the rear of the house, crowding around as Valtas reached them. He turned the handle. ‘Inside,’ he said, hearing the tramp of heavy feet follow him through into the study. His reward was an expression of surprise mingled with fear on the ambassador’s face as he looked up from behind his desk. Had Valtas not been in such a foul mood he might have appreciated the moment as twelve implacable armed men squeezed into the study behind him. He removed the letter from a pocket and flicked it across the desk to the ambassador.

  Ambassador Glauvin eyed the missive with a worried expression, already suspecting what he had before him. He slowly picked up the letter and unfolded the parchment.

  ‘Your Grace,’ he stuttered, ‘I had not e—’

  Valtas cut him off with a chop of his hand. ‘I will have answers, Glauvin, and I will have them right now.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’ The reply was appropriately meek, but Glauvin looked like he’d just been asked to choose which of his children should die and was having a hard time deciding.

  ‘Speak.’

  ‘It might be better if one of your men who was there for some of this was present, Your Grace.’

  Valtas got the man’s name and sent two of his men to find their comrade. He focused every ounce of his ire on the ambassador. ‘Start with what you know,’ he said.

  Glauvin swallowed. ‘It seems, Your Grace, that a Meracian plot to discredit the king was underway,’ he said, mopping his brow and no doubt hoping the missing Sworn man would arrive soon. ‘A faction among the lords kidnapped Prince Julien along with Lady Victoria—’

  ‘Victoria?’ The Black Duke’s voice came out as a low rasp. He leaned forward, fingers splayed out across the ambassador’s desk. ‘The letter said Katarina was kidnapped.’

  Glauvin licked his lips. ‘Lady Victoria was kidnapped first, Your Grace.’

  Both? How could this happen?

  ‘Stetch rescued Lady Victoria from Drayken’s estate,’ Glauvin added quickly. ‘He was aided by a companion of your other daughter, a young northman, and several others.’

  ‘Kraven. Go on.’

  Valtas heard someone slip into the room behind him, the door snicking shut a moment later.

  ‘They, ah, revealed the plot to King Rodera as he addressed the lords,’ Glauvin said. ‘The northman delivered a demon’s head to the king as proof of the conspiracy.’

  ‘Another one?’ Valtas murmured. ‘Continue.’

  ‘They had captured Lord Drayken alive,’ Glauvin said. ‘He confessed, but also revealed that Ren Calderon was the force behind the plot.’ He lowered his eyes so as not to look at Valtas. ‘Lady Katarina had remained with Calderon as the others went to rescue her sister.’

  ‘Calderon?’ Valtas shook his head. ‘He has always been faithful, and has served Sudalra many times.’ Such a betrayal was hard to believe. ‘There is no doubt?’

  ‘None, Your Grace. Stetch and the northman ran from the council chamber to Calderon’s estate, but as I understand from Felder they were too late.’

  Duke val Sharvina gathered himself, taking a deep breath before turning to face the last man to enter, one of the Sworn assigned to protect the ambassador. The warrior nodded, confirming Valtas’ worst fears. They have my daughter.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ the man replied, ‘but they left by sea.’

  ‘And Stetch went in pursuit?’

  A brisk nod answered him. So perhaps all is not lost. It was a slim hope, but the only one Valtas had. Calderon knows I will hunt him down. He knows nowhere is safe. Branded as a traitor, he could not hope to find refuge anywhere in Meracia. Vrond or Serria were possibilities, but sooner or later the Sworn would find him. No, Valtas thought as he closed his eyes, there is only one place he would flee: to the arms of the Gurdal with my daughter as his prize. Only years of discipline kept the duke from shuddering at the thought of his youngest daughter in the hands of the demon worshippers. Valtas stood still, his eyes still shut as he tried to regain his composure, fighting the terrible thoughts of the fate that might await Katarina. This should never have happened, he told himself.

  The Black Duke opened his eyes and addressed the Sworn man. ‘So, Felder, tell me why you allowed my other daughter to sail into danger.’

  ‘She wouldn’t listen,’ he replied bluntly. ‘Even Stetch couldn’t make her see sense.’

  Valtas nodded. It was, sadly, the answer he had expected. I raised those girls too well, he thought. I taught them to be independent and indulged both far too often. Now it has come back to torment me. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t really blame Felder. Stetch, however, was another matter.

  ‘We sail for the Spur.’

  24.

  Tol stepped out onto a quiet deck, bathed in the grey light before dawn. He made his way to the prow, grateful for the eerie quiet, unspoiled by the few sailors on deck.

  Tol looked out to sea, rolling his shoulder experimentally. It was stiff and itched, but the wound seemed to be healing. He had checked that wound and the gash to his ribs in a small mirror in his cabin. Both were already part-healed, and the numerous other scrapes and scratches were just echoes on his skin, a reminder of his imperfection.

  He ro
lled his shoulder again as his eyes scanned the gloomy horizon. Something was missing, but Tol couldn’t quite pinpoint what. He had slept through the day and the following night, and his mind was still muzzy. He tried moving his shoulder further, twisting it back and forth; not perfect, but certainly usable.

  ‘You’re looking well for a pincushion.’

  Tol turned and found Kartane watching him, the deck around them clear of sailors. He shrugged. ‘It’s already healing.’

  ‘Nice trick,’ Kartane agreed. The knight offered a sardonic grin. ‘Course, might be simpler not to let every fool you met stab you in the first place.’

  Tol smiled at the barb. ‘Probably.’

  ‘Isallien and the other Meracian want to see you in the galley.’

  ‘Later,’ said Tol. ‘I need to check on Katarina.’ He made to move but Kartane stuck himself in Tol’s path.

  ‘Let her sleep,’ Kartane said.

  Tol shook his head. ‘I need to talk to her.’

  ‘Now’s not the time,’ Kartane said gently. ‘You know what that girl’s like, and if she doesn’t want to see you it won’t happen till she’s ready. Let her come find you.’

  ‘She doesn’t want to see me?’

  ‘Can’t say I know for sure,’ Kartane said, ‘but after what she’s been through the girl needs time to gather her wits. Let her be, Tol, she’ll come to you when she’s ready.’

  Tol bit his lip but nodded after a moment.

  ‘Good,’ Kartane said. ‘We’d better go see the Meracians ’fore they start crying. You know how they get.’

  Tol laughed and followed Kartane, grabbing the knight by the arm as he remembered what was missing from horizon. ‘Why can’t I see land?’

  ‘Ah, that.’ Kartane’s face slipped into a grin. ‘Funny story…’

  *

  Despite Kartane’s assertion, Tol didn’t think it was a funny story at all. Once the survivors were all aboard the Sea Crow, they had attended to their wounds and immediately collapsed into the first cots they found below. Isallien and Catardor – the Meracian who had travelled north with Kal – had been the first to rise, some time after dusk. A brief conversation with Morrow – peppered, Tol was sure, with profanity and general hatred – had revealed the captain was sailing back west to High Mera. Neither Stetch nor any of the val Sharvina children had told him any different, so the grizzly leader of the Band had decided to stick to the letter of his agreement; he had agreed to rescue Katarina, but had not said where he would deliver her. Evidently, he thought Meracia was safer than the Spur; something with which Tol agreed wholeheartedly.

  A bitter argument had ensued with Morrow flatly refusing to change course. In desperation, Isallien and Catardor had been forced to promise Morrow that the Knights Reve would not seek revenge for the Band of Blood’s murders in Norve. That, as both made a point of telling Tol, had still not been enough to convince Morrow. Only when they had revealed themselves as members of the Seven – men whose orders the Reve would follow – did Morrow relent and turn the Sea Crow back towards the Spur. The pair, as Tol was finding out in the ship’s near-deserted galley, seemed to hold Tol entirely responsible for the mercenary’s uncooperative behaviour.

  As if I could have convinced Morrow. Stetch might have, had he been awake, but Tol had no illusions that he was counted among Morrow’s friends. If he even has any. He suspected Morrow would not be too disappointed if Tol encountered a fatal accident in the near future. From what Tol had seen of the Sea Crow’s crew, a fatal accident might well include a marlin spike delivered somewhere it did not belong.

  Tol looked up as Kartane kicked his shin. ‘What?’

  ‘Were you listening?’

  ‘It’s somehow my fault we sailed part way back to Meracia and Morrow wouldn’t turn round? Yeah, I think I got that.’ The snigger from Kartane didn’t seem to soften the expressions on the Meracians.

  ‘We need to talk about the traitor,’ Isallien said. ‘We need to hear it from you, why you’re so sure it’s one of the Seven.’

  ‘You think I’m lying?’

  ‘Y—’A hiss of pain slipped from Catardor’s lips, and Tol guessed Isallien had kicked him under the table before he said something regrettable.

  ‘No,’ Isallien said with a glance to his side at Catardor. ‘But we need to know everything. Between what we three know—’

  ‘Four,’ Kartane said.

  Isallien’s eyes flicked towards him then he returned to Tol. ‘Between what we three know,’ he continued, ‘it may be we can eliminate others of the Seven. If there truly is a traitor among us, we must root him out before he can aid the Gurdal.’ The Meracian’s eyes swept to Tol’s left and fixed on Kartane. ‘This is between the Seven and Kraven. You do not need to be here.’

  Kartane folded his arms. ‘Think I’ll stay.’

  ‘It was not a request,’ Catardor said in a low voice, his eyes full of anger.

  ‘Kartane stays,’ Tol said before Kartane could get involved. ‘He’s been with me since the beginning. If not for Kartane I’d be dead, and we’d have no angel to help us.’

  ‘The angel comes when the Seven call,’ Catardor snapped, ‘not because of you.’

  Shit, Tol thought. He had nearly revealed the truth about Kalashadria’s first trip to Korte and her ignorance of the compact Galandor had forged with the first Seven.

  ‘The book would have been lost,’ Kartane said smoothly, ‘and without the book who would know the name of the angel who holds the watch?’

  ‘Let it be, Catardor,’ Isallien said with a hand on his companion’s arm. ‘Kartane has done much to help the boy. Perhaps he has some insights that may help us.’

  Catardor snorted. ‘His only insights involve whores,’ he muttered.

  Catardor was still hurting from the loss of two friends and Tol figured the knight was trying to get a rise out of Kartane. It didn’t work.

  ‘There was this one girl,’ Kartane chuckled, ‘in some backwater near Stamwell Gap. She did this thing with—’

  ‘Enough,’ Isallien said, holding up his hands. ‘We have much to discuss and little time. Kraven, tell us everything that happened since you left Icepeak.’

  Telling them everything, Tol knew, wasn’t a good idea. He’d made a lot of foolish decisions, and done more than his share of stupid things. Most were done in Kartane’s company but some, he admitted, were entirely his fault. More than some. Then there were the secrets. There seemed an awful lot of them now – Kalashadria’s ignorance of Galandor’s bargain, Katarina’s assistance, the location of Angel’s Truth, and the not inconsequential matter of who really killed Prince Julien. Tol kept the story simple, just the bare bones of his escape from Icepeak and journey across Norve. Isallien and Catardor listened in silence, their faces growing sombre as Tol told them of his arrival in Meracia and the plot among Meracian lords to weaken the army in the hope of gaining power from the conquering Gurdal. By the end of the tale, Tol could see the anger and shame on their faces as they faced the undeniable truth that their own countrymen had attempted to lose a war – the only war that mattered – just to garner power for themselves in its aftermath. They were silent for several minutes after Tol finished, each alone with his thoughts. Tol and Kartane waited; they had already come to terms with the betrayals of their own people in Norve, but Tol remembered how he felt when he had realised the truth. Even Kartane, he knew, was not immune from the sickening feeling of betrayal by his own people.

  ‘Others know of the Truth.’ Catardor shattered the silence, his voice an abraded knife. ‘My uncle told me it is moved periodically. Those who act as its custodians are told of its importance.’

  Tol nodded. ‘I know. That’s what I told myself, I couldn’t believe anyone in the Reve would betray us, let alone one of the Seven.’ He looked away from Catardor’s eyes, unable to look at the hope there. ‘I was told by Father Michael of its importance, and the Mother at the convent herself told me the Truth had driven men mad.’

  ‘Yet yo
u still believe the traitor is one of the Seven,’ Isallien said. ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t see it,’ Tol said softly. ‘I should have, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to believe it.’ He sighed. ‘Kartane told me back in Karnvost: only the Seven are allowed to read the Truth.’

  ‘And?’

  He met Isallien’s gaze. ‘The men the demon sent weren’t looking for a book of secrets that could hurt the church. They already knew it would destroy the church.’

  Catardor stirred. ‘So?’

  ‘The only way they could have known that is if they already knew what was inside the book,’ Isallien said.

  ‘One of the books’ guardians could have read it,’ Catardor argued. ‘Could be any of them.’

  ‘No,’ Isallien said, ‘The Seven chose the book’s guardians. None of them would have dared read it. The stories about those who have would make sure of that. Only the Seven would read it, and only because we have no choice but to learn the truth.’ He straightened up and looked at the three faces around him. ‘We must find the traitor and do it quickly.’ His eyes darted to Kartane. ‘None of the others can know what we suspect.’

  *

  Another secret, Tol thought bitterly. None of the others can know, Isallien had insisted. He was right, but Tol was no less unhappy as a deckhand tied up the Sea Crow. Obsidian lay before him, a giant sandcastle peppered with splotches of colour and the pungent aroma of a dozen spices. To his right, beyond the city walls, a dark expanse rippled over the sand. Burnt sand, Isallien had told him, somehow fused into a single, jagged mass that blocked the southern approach to the city. It was solid, Catardor had added, slick in places and rough in others. The ground was uneven, the Meracian had explained, but razor sharp. It was also the city’s best defence against the Gurdal; their only route into Obsidian would be over the half-mile or so of treacherous ground – an obstacle that would slow their assault and give archers time to thin the ranks.

  Parts of it glinted in the broiling afternoon sun, while others looked like soot-stained glass and seemed dark as a demon’s hide. They’ll be coming north, too, Tol reminded himself. It won’t be just Gurdal we’ll be facing. He shivered.