Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1)

by A. J. Grimmelhaus

  ‘I learned your name from Galandor,’ Tol said.

  ‘You spoke to him?’ The words came quickly, delivered at the same pace as her sword strikes. ‘When? When did you meet him?’

  Tol shook his head. ‘I didn’t meet him, nobody’s seen an angel for two centuries. Galandor left a list of names, those who would follow him in watching over Korte and its people.’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was soft and husky, and Tol barely heard it above a hooting owl. ‘It cannot be. You must be mistaken.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Tol. ‘I swear it.’

  ‘It does not make any sense.’ Her voice sounded faraway, and Tol realised the angel was talking to herself. Probably not a good sign, he thought. I finally meet an angel, and she’s likely insane. Bloody great. She muttered something about defying the First or the Fist, but the damned owl was hooting again. They were at the edge of the orchard now, a blanket of wheat fluttering in the night’s breeze as far as Tol could see. He looked up into the sky, but saw nothing beyond the flickering light of the stars and the pale luminescence of Ammerlac, no longer hidden by clouds. Tol stopped beneath the last tree, scanning the land ahead. Kalashadria halted beside him, staring blankly ahead as a frown found a home for itself on her brow.

  ‘That way.’ Tol pointed off to the right. ‘The road is over there; it will be easier than tramping through the fields.’

  She said nothing, but kept pace with Tol as he cut through the field towards the road, her movements mechanical and automatic like a sleepwalker.

  ‘History changes things.’

  The words caught Tol by surprise and he stumbled, his foot catching in a wayward root. ‘What?’ Definitely mad.

  ‘A story can be told many times,’ said Kalashadria. ‘But it changes with each telling, little by little. Eventually the story is a different story altogether: a tall man becomes a giant, the hero becomes immortal. This truth is universal: all stories change, evolve.’ She straightened herself up to her full height, her face slipping back into an unreadable mask. ‘Tell me everything you know about Galandor.’

  33.

  Tol began hesitantly as the pair of them reached the uneven mud of the road that surged eastward towards Kron Vulder and the coast. ‘It started,’ he said, ‘with the Gurdal, a horde of barbarians far to the east of here.’ He stopped at the angel’s soft snort – she even made that seem feminine and sensuous – and fixed her with a dour look. ‘What?’

  ‘Barbarians?’ She shook her head, a wry smile stretching across her face.

  ‘Believe it or not,’ Tol said with a scowl, ‘this is actually a civilised land. Mostly.’

  The angel’s expression softened fractionally as she watched him. ‘I do not mean to insult you, human, but to me your entire world is primitive and uncivilised. Continue.’

  ‘They came out of the desert, a vast horde of warriors, and they marched north, towards the rich farmland of Meracia. At the edge of the desert as it met the strip of land that joins Meracia to the southern wastes the army came to the first of the four Desolate Cities. The city fell, its inhabitants slaughtered, and the army moved north again. The next city fell, and another. Outside the walls of the last city they met the Meracian army, accompanied by a handful of foreign knights.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘They fought a terrible battle,’ said Tol.

  ‘All battles are terrible,’ Kalashadria told him, ‘and if you are ever unlucky enough to be in one you will understand.’

  Tol felt his face flush. ‘I am not a coward.’

  ‘That was not my point,’ Kalashadria said. She didn’t explain further though. ‘Get back to the story, and make it shorter.’

  Tol took a deep breath, but found it didn’t help dispel his anger. He quickly recounted the events of the battle at Galantrium, the appearance of the demon-god Demmegrahk and Galandor’s fight with the beast.

  ‘He killed Demmegrahk?’

  ‘No,’ said Tol, ‘another demon came to its aid and threw itself upon Galandor before he could deliver the final blow.’ Tol’s eyes narrowed, his mouth slipping open. ‘Is it even possible to kill a god?’ He watched her, and waited to see how Kalashadria would react.

  Another angelic snort greeted him. ‘It is no god,’ she said. ‘But if there is such a thing as pure evil then it lurks within that monster’s breast.’

  ‘So it can be killed?’

  She shrugged, a feather detaching itself from her back and floating down onto the road behind them. ‘In theory, but nobody has ever come close, and many have tried.’ She gazed off into the distance, her eyes fixed on something Tol couldn’t see. ‘If Galandor truly came that close…’ She sighed, and Tol felt her pain in that small gesture of frailty and shattered hope. ‘What happened next?’

  Tol had heard the story many times, it was one every boy and girl in Norve was familiar with, and he had even heard it on his father’s knee as child before he had been sent to Icepeak. Now, though, Tol knew more about how the battle had unfolded, details in Angel’s Truth that had never been detailed in The Names of Salvation, the holy book of the church. Tol described the remainder of the battle as he had read it in Angel’s Truth, describing the defence of Galandor by a small group of knights, and the last, desperate strike by Sir Hunt Valeron that slew the demon and turned the tide of the battle. Kalashadria listened in silence as Tol told her how his ancestor had thrown Galandor’s blade to Valeron and how the knight had decapitated the demon in front of the Gurdal army.

  Tol ended the story there, though there was plenty more to tell. She asked for the short version, he told himself. Somehow, though, he still felt a little guilty.

  She was quiet for a moment as they walked, the whisper of waving wheat their only companion. ‘A human did that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Remarkable. This Valeron must have been quite exceptional.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her head swivelled towards him. ‘But there is more?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tol licked his lips and took a deep breath. ‘Valeron slew the demon, but on the journey home one of the knights murdered him.’

  She didn’t ask, and Tol loved her for that, though even the angel’s silence felt like a question. He sighed. ‘It was my ancestor that killed him.’

  She took a moment to digest this. ‘Perhaps he had a reason.’

  Tol nodded glumly. ‘Maybe, but if he did he took it to the grave with him.’

  They walked on in uneasy silence, each alone with their thoughts. The angel’s face was troubled and Kalashadria seemed oblivious to Tol’s presence, her eyes staring down the road without wavering. Tol kept snatching glances at her, but it took willpower to look away again. Her face was flawless, unblemished. She can’t be much older than me, Tol thought. Twenty-one, twenty-two maybe. She was taller than him, but that not might mean anything; for all Tol knew, angels might grow to eight feet tall. Eight feet tall, with breasts the size of my head and a sword arm faster than lightning; sounds like the perfect woman. He smiled, and started whistling a tune. Maybe his luck was going to change.

  ‘Stop that.’

  Tol whistled another few notes, but stopped as Kalashadria glared at him. She looked so much prettier when she wasn’t angry. She looked even paler now than when she had first carried him away from the demon, and no longer walked like Tol was meandering at a chicken’s pace.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘It makes no sense,’ she said. ‘Galandor should have known better.’

  It sounds like she’s saying Galandor shouldn’t have killed the demon, Tol thought. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, fearing the answer.

  ‘We were given a simple instruction, one to hold dear above all others: do not intervene in human affairs. In a thousand years he has never disobeyed a direct order – never. He is the most faithful soldier and yet you claim he came to your world and showed himself to thousands of people, changing the course of history by his intervention. I cannot believe he would do this without an excep
tional reason.’

  ‘He saved us,’ said Tol. ‘If not for Galandor, the Gurdal and their demon masters would rule over all Korte by now. Why shouldn’t Galandor have helped us? Everybody knows that the Maker’s angels watch over the people of Korte; if not to aid us when we need it the most, then why?’

  ‘The Maker?’

  Tol shrugged. ‘Nobody knows his real name. The book says that we are not worthy to hear his name in full, and that if everyone knew his name then our prayers would overwhelm him. Or something like that, I never really paid much attention in class. You know his name though, don’t you? The angels must know their master’s name.’

  ‘We call him the First,’ Kalashadria said slowly, ‘but yes, I know his name. Tell me what else you know about him.’

  It must be a test, Tol thought, maybe to see if I’m faithful. ‘He created the world and all its creatures,’ Tol said. ‘Then he created the angels to watch over us, and to keep him company.’ Kalashadria remained silent, staring straight ahead as if afraid to meet Tol’s eyes. ‘After creating the world, the Maker created the Citadel of Heaven, to live among his angels and to house the souls of the faithful. Those whose hearts are evil are consigned to the Pit where Demmegrahk rules with an iron fist, plotting for the day when the Reckoning comes and he can lead his forces against the host of heaven.’

  ‘Oh, Gal,’ she murmured, ‘what have you done?’

  ‘Have I said something wrong? I’m sure that’s what the book says.’

  Her voice was brittle, strained. ‘What book?’

  ‘The Names of Salvation,’ said Tol, ‘the book that was written after the wandering priest spoke to Galandor on the eve of the battle with the Gurdal.’ She said nothing, pursing her lips tighter, and Tol added, ‘The holy book of the Church of the Nameless Maker. How can you not know this?’

  ‘I have been asleep a long time,’ she told him in a tone as cool as a winter morning.

  Tol was worried now. Here he was with an angel at his side, yet she didn’t seem to remember anything about why she had been called down from heaven, nor even know that this might happen. Her words: tell me how you know my name. It was as if Galandor had told her nothing. Tol gasped softly as the realisation struck him: she came only to find out how I know about her. Not to save me from the demon. The Knights Reve were supposed to be the chosen defenders of the faith, their original members chosen by Galandor himself. It was spoken of rarely, but Tol had a knack for overhearing conversations not intended for his ears, and he recalled one such conversation between the abbot and a knight who had visited Icepeak. They had spoken of something called the Angel’s Compact, and from what Tol could glean it seemed as though Galandor had promised that – if their need was great enough – the angel who held the watch over Korte would descend from heaven to aid Galandor’s knights. But she doesn’t know about it.

  ‘He didn’t tell you, did he?’ Tol said quietly, his voice almost lost above the rustling wheat. ‘Galandor didn’t tell you any of this.’

  ‘We did not speak before he returned to sleep.’

  Tol scratched his chin, the fuzz growing itchy. ‘Perhaps he thought we’d never need you.’ He was grasping at moonbeams now, and knew it. There was something more going on, but the angel was unreadable, and so reserved that at times she seemed to be sleep-walking. ‘You at least know about the Compact, though, right? The promise Galandor made that whichever angel held the watch would come if needed?’

  ‘There is no such agreement,’ she told him, shattering Tol’s last hope. ‘I came to find how you know my name, and that question you still have not answered.’

  ‘And then you will leave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I need you!’ Tol shouted. ‘The Knights Reve are on the edge of destruction, the Gurdal are about to march again, and if you don’t help they’ll sweep across the world. You have to help.’

  Now it was the angel’s turn to unleash her anger, and it came swift as starlight, one delicate hand grabbing Tol’s collar and spinning him round to face her. ‘I have to? How dare you speak to me like that! What have you done that merits my assistance? Have you fought alone in the darkness between worlds? Stood against a dozen deadly foes and prevailed?’ She sneered. ‘Perhaps you’ve built a skyhammer with nothing more than twigs and mud? Have you done any of these? Anything of note?’

  ‘No, I — wait, what’s a skyhammer?’

  The angel leaned down, her face inches from his. ‘Exactly what it sounds like. Tell me, human, what have you done but call my name and demand aid?’

  ‘I’ve done plenty,’ Tol spat back, his anger rising. ‘I alone escaped a massacre. I fell off a bloody mountain, killed three of the most notorious bandits in the world and managed to avoid them and that bastard demon for four days and – what?’

  Kalashadria was smiling, and as Tol stopped his tirade she chuckled, a thousand crystals tinkling. ‘You fell off a mountain?’

  In the face of that radiance, Tol couldn’t help but smile, his anger falling away. ‘Not all the way.’

  ‘You are in trouble, that much is clear,’ she said. ‘You have a terrible foe on your trail, one that will not give up until you are dead.’ She drew a strand of hair back over her ear, cocking her head to one side. ‘But you haven’t told me everything.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose this must be a lot for you to take in at once, so I will forgive your outburst. I will strike a bargain with you, Tol Kraven. If you answer my questions, I will listen to your tale, and I may even answer some of your questions, but on one condition: you must not speak of what we discuss with another. Ever. In fact, it would be better if you never told anyone you had ever seen me.’

  Tol thought about it for a moment. Use your head, Kartane had told him, and Katarina before him, and Father Michael before her. ‘And if I refuse?’

  Any trace of warmth vanished from the angel’s face. ‘Then I have no reason to stay.’

  ‘I tell you what you want and you’ll help me?’

  ‘No,’ she said, her head gently shaking like a willow in the wind. ‘Even if I was inclined to give you assistance, it is forbidden by the First. My time here is limited, Tol Kraven. If I stay any longer than a few days then the poisons in your air will begin to weaken me. Eventually I will die if I do not return; already I feel… less than wonderful.’

  ‘You still look wonderful,’ Tol said, grinning broadly. ‘I reckon a sword wound like that’d make anyone feel rough.’

  Kalashadria returned his grin with a shy smile of her own. ‘I suppose it would. But I am not most people. What is your answer, Tol Kraven; will you help me?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’ Tol sighed, and kicked a loose lump of frozen earth, watching as it skittered off the road into the fields. ‘It started with a book,’ he began, ‘a book that Valeron wrote after meeting Galandor.’ He reached inside his tunic, pulling out the Angel’s Truth and hesitantly slipping it into Kalashadria’s hands. ‘It lists the names of all the angels who watch over Korte. It says that each watch will last two hundred years.’ He paused. ‘Can that really be true?’

  Kalashadria nodded, thumbing idly through the book’s pages. Her actions grew more frenetic, lips jutting out as page after page flew by. ‘You will read it to me,’ she said, thrusting the book back into Tol’s hands before he could argue.

  ‘I can’t read in the dark.’

  ‘But you can build a fire, your people have surely managed that much at least?’

  ‘Fire,’ he spat back, ‘what’s that then?’

  She glared at him and Tol muttered an apology. ‘Need wood for a fire, unless you want to burn the fields?’ She appeared to consider this and Tol hastily added, ‘a fire like that can get out of control real fast, and it’ll bring the mercenaries running for sure.’

  The angel’s face softened. ‘Is that experience talking?’

  Tol shrugged. ‘I get bored easily.’

  She smiled, and Tol felt his spirits lift.

  ‘Then we should get moving and find so
mewhere suitable to rest. This way,’ she said, pointing off into the fields. ‘There is a settlement up ahead. We will go around it.’

  ‘Are you sure? I can’t see anything.’

  ‘Really?’ Kalashadria chuckled. ‘Of everything I have said, that is what you have trouble believing?’ She shook her head, chortling as she strode into the field. ‘Come along.’

  Tol followed her off the road, stalks of wheat tickling his legs. ‘Do you have a destination in mind?’ Kalashadria said, ‘or are you just running?’

  ‘Kron Vulder, a city to the east.’

  ‘East.’ She nodded. ‘As good a direction as any. But we need to leave the road. I cannot risk anyone else seeing me; too many saw my arrival.’

  ‘Only the demon and the mercenaries, I think.’ Tol thought for a moment. ‘If you kill them all then there’s nobody left to tell you were here.’

  ‘There’s still you.’

  Tol decided it was time to stop talking before his tongue got him into the kind of trouble he couldn’t walk away from. Again.

  34.

  ‘Mierlé,’ Katarina said as she sank onto the central chair in front of the Duke’s desk.

  Stetch grunted. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but at least she could speak her mind in front of the warrior, share whatever thoughts that troubled her. In this case, a single word uttered by a damned man. Mierlé. An old, old word; older than the shadowy struggle between the churchers and the demon-worshipping Gurdal. A word known only to a few and, as far as Katarina knew, found in but a single place: the thirteenth volume of Tides of the Moon, a philosophical treatise by the prophet Thirellius - the closest thing the Sudalrese people had to a religious text. Even back home few people knew of the thirteenth volume, its existence little more than a myth, and the few remaining copies were guarded as closely as the royal family. The King possessed one, the Black Duke another, and a third was rumoured to be in the possession of a minor lord on Sudalra’s central isle. Never had one left Sudalrese hands. Which, Katarina thought, raises the question of how a fallen Norvek knight knows the word.