Descent of Angels (13 page)

‘And the chroniclers of the Knights of Lupus?’

‘Are sure to die with their masters in the siege of their fortress.’

‘How can you be so blasé about this, Nemiel?’ asked Zahariel. ‘We’re talking about killing fellow knights.’

Nemiel shook his head. ‘No, we’re talking about killing our enemies. Whether they’re fellow knights or not is immaterial. Whatever the rights and wrongs of it, in the heat and fire of war the initial cause of the dispute between us and the Knights of Lupus will soon be forgotten. Even the war won’t linger long in memory.’

‘That’s tragic,’ said Zahariel.

‘Such is the tragedy of human existence,’ said Nemiel, quoting from the
Verbatim
. ‘The lives of individuals are fleeting ephemeral things, lost amid the unforgiving, bloody tides of history.’

Zahariel shook his head. ‘Maybe so, but on Caliban, those tides flow more darkly than most.’

A
FTER THE MIDDAY
meal, the supplicants retired to the dormitories to gather up their weapons for afternoon practice under the remonstrative eye of Master Ramiel. Zahariel had been unsettled by the conversation over their meal, uneasy at the speed with which the knights of the Order had followed Jonson into war.

Surely it was every sentient being’s wish to avoid war, to take all possible actions to avoid the loss of life? Though youthful, Zahariel was wise enough to know that sometimes war and killing were unavoidable, but this war with the Knights of Lupus seemed to have begun with undue and unseemly haste.

As he lifted his serrated sword and buckled on his pistol belt, he heard a distant skirling trumpet call, a lilting refrain of three high notes that repeated over and over again. He looked over to where Nemiel and the others were readying their weapons, knowing that he knew the meaning of these sounds, but unable to connect that knowledge with his senses.

‘Brother Amadis,’ said Eliath, and suddenly sense and meaning was imparted to the trumpet blasts.

‘The Returning Knight,’ said Attias.

Zahariel smiled, recognising the infrequently heard melody that announced the return of a knight from a beast quest. So many of the great beasts had been killed and the crusade was almost at an end, hence the joyous notes were heard all too rarely these days.

The four boys ran from the dormitories, heedless of the thought that Master Ramiel would punish them for missing his lessons in swordplay and pistol work. The thrill of seeing Brother Amadis once again within the walls of Aldurukh outweighed the petty concerns of a timetable.

Others had also heard the trumpeter, though how the sound had carried through the fortress when its origin was high on the towers of the fortress was a mystery to Zahariel. Fellow supplicants hurried with them, and even a few of the younger knights made their way to the great gateway at the heart of the fortress, eager to be the first to greet the return of Brother Amadis.

Zahariel found himself once again in competition with Nemiel, his cousin pulling slightly ahead with a grin of triumph. Attias was behind him, and Eliath ran solidly at the rear of their little group.

The corridors wound down around the great bastion towers of the gateway, stone spirals lined with murder holes that led to the ground level. A sizeable throng had gathered, but still they were able to force their way to the front, as a booming echo drifted down from the darkness above.

Mighty chains juddered and shook off dust as heavy winches, pulleys and counterweights moved in an intricate ballet that opened the colossal Memorial Gates of Aldurukh. Massive portals of dark timber and bronze swung open on greased runners, iron wheels and bearings guiding them as they opened.

Bright light from a lifeless sky poured in, pooling on the stone flagged esplanade and spreading in a widening fan to illuminate the gloomy interior of the fortress monastery. Motes of dust spun like glimmering diamonds, dancing in the air as the passage of the great doors disturbed them.

Zahariel strained to see Brother Amadis, but beyond the blinding rectangle of light that built at the doors, he could see nothing beyond the dark smudge of the distant forest. Fellow supplicants pressed in around him, equally eager for a view, but Zahariel and his brothers kept their position with a mixture of strength and sheer bloody-mindedness.

At last a cry went up, and Zahariel saw movement in the gateway, the swaying silhouette of a rider making slow progress into the fortress. As his eyes adjusted to the glare from the bright sky beyond, Zahariel’s heart leapt as he recognised the distinct and unmistakable outline of Brother Amadis.

Even as he rejoiced in the return of his hero, he had a sudden presentiment that something was wrong.

Amadis held himself erect with the last reserves of his strength, for his surplice was drenched in sticky blood and his left arm hung loosely by his side, the bones clearly shattered.

His face was pallid and bloodless, and a growth of stubble that was practically a beard fringed his face in dark hair. Nor had his destrier escaped unscathed: several deep gouges had been carved in its chest and flanks, and whole chunks of its mane had been torn out. Its tail was missing, and a series of clotted gashes on its rump spoke of a desperate flight from something terrible.

Amadis’s eyes spoke of unimaginable pain and determination, and his head turned as though he sought something lost.

Knights rushed forward to aid the stricken hero and help him from his saddle. Their movement broke the spell of his condition, and a clamour of voices arose at the sight of the terribly wounded warrior.

Zahariel was swept forward in the press of bodies, a willing passenger in the advance of the crowd.

‘Get back!’ shouted a powerful, aged voice. ‘Give him some damn room!’

Zahariel saw Lord Cypher striding through the masses, parting them by force of personality and authority, and darted to one side to follow in the wake of his passing. Within a few moments, he had left his fellows behind and stood above Brother Amadis with Lord Cypher kneeling beside the wounded man.

Amadis fought to form words, but bloody froth built on his lips, bubbling up from pierced lungs.

‘Don’t speak,’ said Lord Cypher. ‘You’ll only make it more painful.’

‘No…’ gurgled Amadis ‘…need to speak.’

‘Very well, lad. Do you have a valediction?’

Amadis nodded, and though Zahariel was horrified by Lord Cypher’s implicit assumption that Amadis was going to die, he had seen enough wounds to know that these ones were mortal.

Amadis nodded and Zahariel saw that the blood at the knight’s stomach was wet and still flowing, the flesh torn open and ropes of intestine pushing at the hand that vainly attempted to keep them within his body.

With his free hand, Amadis reached for his rotary barrelled pistol and painfully slid it from its leather holster.

‘Zahariel,’ said Amadis.

Lord Cypher looked up and saw the boy, quickly beckoning him to kneel beside the dying knight. ‘Hurry, boy, and listen well, not many get to hear the last words of a knight of the Order. Those who listen to a valediction have a duty to the dead. Tradition, you see.’

Zahariel nodded, intent on the dying Amadis as he lifted the pistol towards him.

‘Take it, Zahariel,’ said Amadis, the creased lines of pain on his face easing as death stole upon him. ‘It’s yours. I want you to have it.’

‘I can’t,’ said Zahariel, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

‘You must, it is my wish that you carry it with you,’ gasped Amadis. ‘It is my legacy to you. Remember me when you fire it. Remember what I taught you.’

‘I will,’ promised Zahariel, taking the blood-slick weapon from Amadis. Its weight felt heavy in his hand, heavier than a mere contraption of metal and wood ought to feel. It carried a weight of responsibility with it, a duty to the honourable warrior who had borne it before him.

‘It’s a good weapon… not failed me yet,’ coughed Amadis. ‘Don’t suppose it ever will now, eh?’

‘No,’ said Zahariel, suddenly very aware of the silence that filled the gateway.

‘Damn, but there’s no pain now, that can’t be good, eh?’

‘It means the end is near, lad,’ said Lord Cypher.

‘Thought so,’ nodded Amadis. ‘Damn Beast of Endriago got its claws into me. Big bastard too… a Calibanite lion… thought there was only one of them.’

‘A Calibanite lion?’ said Zahariel. ‘I thought Lord Jonson killed the only lion?’

‘I wish he had…’ said Amadis with a grimace. ‘Might not be lying here… I just wish…’

Whatever Amadis’s last wish had been, it would forever remain a mystery, for his eyes glazed over and a soft breath whispered from between his lips.

Zahariel’s head bowed and tears flowed unashamedly down his cheeks at the passing of this great hero. He gripped the pistol Amadis had given him in both hands, hot anger filling him at the thought of the knight’s killer still alive and roaming the dark forests.

Lord Cypher reached out and pressed his palm over the dead knight’s face, gently closing his eyes.

‘So passes Brother Amadis from the Order,’ he intoned with grim solemnity.

Zahariel looked up, as Lord Cypher placed a gnarled hand on his shoulder and pointed at the gun Amadis had given him.

‘That is more than just a weapon, boy,’ said Lord Cypher. ‘It is the weapon of a hero. It carries a weight of power and potency that your own pistol does not. You must do honour to the weapon and the memory of the man who gave it to you.’

‘I
will
do honour to it, Lord Cypher,’ said Zahariel. ‘Have no doubt about that.’

Lord Cypher’s eyes narrowed as he caught the vehemence in Zahariel’s voice. He shook his head.

‘No, lad,’ he said. ‘Anger and loss cloud your judgement. Do not say it, for it cannot be taken back once uttered.’

But Zahariel was not to be dissuaded, and he stood with the bloody pistol clasped tight to his breast.

‘My Lord Cypher,’ said Zahariel, ‘I declare a quest against the Beast of Endriago.’

‘Y
OU SHOULDN
’
T HAVE
declared a quest,’ said Nemiel.

It was three nights before Zahariel was due to set off on his quest. Knowing he would want to spend the next two days and nights in quiet meditation as he prepared for the journey, his fellow supplicants had chosen this as an opportune time to hold a feast in his honour.

There had been food and wine, and Master Ramiel had granted them special dispensation to hold the feast in the caverns below Aldurukh. The feast took place in torchlight, around a long table that they had carried down from the dormitory dining room.

The setting was in keeping with custom. According to Lord Cypher, if Zahariel succeeded in his quest, he would be reborn from one life into another, from a boy into a man.

‘Strictly speaking,’ Lord Cypher had said, ‘as these things are counted, you are currently suspended between life and death, your soul sojourning in the underworld until the decision of your future status is made.’

Zahariel had thought it superstitious nonsense, of course, tradition based on old myths, but Lord Cypher still paid service to their world’s ancient ways, and as a fellow witness to the passing of Brother Amadis, Zahariel had honoured his advice by seeking out an underground venue for the feast.

Despite the celebratory tone and surface cheer of the proceedings, Zahariel noticed a mournfulness underlying all that was said to him. His friends wished him well, but there was no hiding the edge of grief in their demeanour. It was an uncomfortable realisation, but eventually Zahariel understood that they were saying farewell with no expectation of ever seeing him alive again.

No one expected him to return from his quest except as a corpse.

‘You could have waited, Zahariel.’ Nemiel’s voice was insistent beside him. ‘You didn’t have to declare a quest on the beast that killed Amadis.’

‘Yes, Nemiel,’ said Zahariel, ‘I did. You didn’t see the life pass from him. I did.’

‘You know what the senior knights are saying?’ asked Eliath.

‘No,’ said Zahariel, ‘nor do I care. I have declared a quest, to no less a person than Lord Cypher. It cannot be taken back.’

‘Well you should care,’ said Nemiel, jerking his head towards the ceiling. ‘The things the knights are saying… They think it’s hubris. They don’t know why Lord Cypher is allowing you to take up this quest. He should know better. It’s a suicidal errand.’

‘You’ll have to be clearer, Nemiel,’ said Zahariel, gesturing to his goblet. ‘It could be I haven’t taken enough water with my wine, but I’m having trouble following you.’

‘I’m talking about the beast you’ll be hunting,’ said Nemiel, with a grimace of exasperation. ‘Up at the knights’ table they’re saying it’s a Calibanite lion, one of the worst predators of the woods. They say it’s taken more than two hundred lives already, and this is up in the Northwilds where there are hardly any people.’

‘A quest is supposed to be hard, Nemiel,’ said Zahariel. ‘It’s how we prove ourselves. It’s how we show we’re ready for knighthood.’

‘Hard, yes, but this goes way beyond that,’ countered Nemiel. ‘Everyone says this quest beast is worthy of the true heroes among us like the Lion or Sar Luther. No offence, cousin, but you’re not one of them and you never will be. You don’t have the skills or experience to take down this beast, any more than I do. Everyone upstairs is saying you’re insane. I know you desperately want to be a knight, we all do, but if you ask me, you should have waited for a less dangerous beast. No one would have thought badly of you for it. There would have been no less glory.’

Zahariel shook his head. ‘It’s not about the glory, and I don’t care how people speak of me. You should know that about me by now.’

‘Aye, I know, but you must be able to see that this is madness? I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I thought it was suicide. You can see that, can’t you? Why did you take it?’

‘I’ve waited years for this,’ said Zahariel, speaking slowly and measuring his reply. ‘Ever since I was accepted as a supplicant by the Order I’ve dreamt about this moment. To be honest, it never occurred to me not to take up this quest. When Brother Amadis died, I could feel that it was right. I couldn’t wait for another. Besides, remember what Master Ramiel says, “You don’t choose your beast, the beast chooses you.” You should know that lesson well enough.’