Free Descent of Angels by Mitchel Scanlon Page A

the blade through its jawbone and into the middle of its skull.
    The sword juddered to a halt and the rider released the blade as he rode onwards, expertly wheeling his horse as the beast fell, its lunging body collapsing to the ground before Zahariel.
    The rider rode alongside the beast’s skull. He drew a magnificent, rotary barrelled pistol and aimed it at a point between the monster’s eyes. Zahariel watched the hammer draw back and flinched at the percussive bang as the explosive bolt detonated with a hollow boom inside its skull.
    Viscous fluids leaked from the monster’s skull and the dark, predatory hunger in its black orbs of eyes was finally extinguished. A last, foetid exhalation gusted from the beast’s mouth, and Zahariel recoiled from the rotten stench.
    He looked up as his saviour holstered his pistol. The man wore the dark armour and hooded white surplice of the Order, the front of which was embroidered with the symbol of the downward pointing sword.
    ‘You are lucky to be alive, my boy,’ said the knight, and Zahariel instantly recognised the commanding tone.
    ‘Brother Amadis,’ he said. ‘Thank you. You saved my life.’
    ‘Aye,’ said Amadis, ‘and by the look of it you saved the lives of your friends, Zahariel.’
    ‘I was… protecting my squad…’ said Zahariel, the last of his strength beginning to fade now that the battle was over.
    Amadis swung down from his saddle and caught him as he fell to the grass. ‘Rest, Zahariel,’ said Amadis.
    ‘No,’ whispered Zahariel. ‘I have to get them home.’
    ‘Let me do that for you, lad. You’ve done enough for one day.’
    ‘Y OU WERE LUCKY ,’ Nemiel would say to him later, ‘but luck can’t be relied upon. It’s a finite resource. One day, it always runs out.’
    For years afterwards, whenever Zahariel told the tale of their confrontation with the winged beast, his cousin would always make the same remark. He would say it privately, out of earshot of their brothers, in the arming chamber or beside the practice cages, as though he did not want to embarrass Zahariel in front of others, yet equally he was incapable of letting the matter rest.
    Something about the whole affair seemed to have worked its way under Nemiel’s skin, as though the battle had become a source of subdued annoyance to him, even irritation. He never showed it in his face, nor let it invade his tone, but at times it felt as if he were chiding Zahariel in some way, as though he felt compelled to subtly make the point that all of his cousin’s later successes, all of his glories, had been built on a lie.
    Zahariel would find this behaviour curious, but he would never raise the issue with his friend. He would do what Nemiel could not: he would let the matter rest. He would never question Nemiel’s words. He would listen to them, ignore the hidden bitterness, and accept they were well meant. For him to do differently might have endangered their friendship.
    ‘You were lucky,’ Nemiel would say. ‘If it wasn’t for luck and Brother Amadis, the beast would’ve killed us all.’
    Zahariel could not disagree.
    A WEEK LATER , Zahariel was made to tell the tale of the fight to his fellow supplicants in the training chambers. Each time he told of how he had stood before the monster, it would always seem a far more thrilling affair than it had been in reality.
    It would seem a story of high ideals and grand adventure to his listeners. It was not that he lied about the specifics of it in any way, but he would learn that repetition had a way of softening the edges of human experience. Each telling sounded like a fairy tale or fable.
    During the mad, frenetic rush of battle, it had been a life or death struggle, a hard-won victory achieved through the action of blood, sweat and tears. It had been a close-run thing, and to the very end, Zahariel thought the winged beast would kill them all. He thought the last instants of his life were to be spent gazing in horror into the