“Fine with me.”
“So, I see that name inscribed on this body and I said to these fellows to take the body and burn it.” “What!”
“That’s how I felt, knowing where it had come from. The Unchurians had floated it down the Ithen on a bamboo raft. From Hericlon. From the jungles, Captain. Just setting eyes on it was enough to determine I needed to know nothing more about this particular adventure. My adventuring days are over.”
“You wouldn’t call hunting down raiders at high sea adventure, then?”
“No, that I call sport. This, this wrapped and inscribed body, this was trouble. So I say to these fellows, burn this unholy piece of dung on the shore, then bring your priests and pray over it till dawn. Of course they ran away. So what I did then, I went out and hired some unsavory types—had them ship it here, to you. Seemed logical. You would know as well as I the intention of floating this body down the Ithen. Then I settled down to drinking for five or six days, and would have managed it had I not gotten your message on the second. Not that I was surprised. So I caught a Pelegasian blackship to the Dove and now here I am. I say we burn it. Smoke will be slow to air out, but shouldn’t disturb the residents.” “You know we cannot do that.”
“Elyon’s name, Captain, just burn the damned thing! Have we not both had enough of this kind of trouble? For the love of God, can we not, just this once, be levelheaded about things and burn this poor fellow? You and I both know this means we are going to need to add a fresh edge on our killing blades, and the thing that bothers me about that—haven’t we fought enough wars? We lost so many, Captain. We are a generation drained of blood. If you are going to tell me the gathering wars were just a prelude, then I say for the love of Elyon it is pissing unfair because we already did this! Understand me? We fought until there was nothing left us, gave Him our bone and blood and sweat, froze in the peaks of mountains, burned in traps, drowned in floods, and fell by the sword until surely we’ve given enough!”
“Something else you would rather do than kill bastards that need killing, Little Fox?”
Rhywder paused a moment to consider. “No. No, not really, I suppose. Guess not. Guess you have a point.”
“Then tell me what you know about the body. Did you unwrap it?”
“Captain, unless they are warm, breathing, and female, I typically do not unwrap bodies—just a policy I have kept over the years. Your priests must have done this, and not a bad job, I might add, seeing how they’ve taken care not to pull off the burnt skin.”
“You did not even look at her, did you?”
“Her? She’s female? Ah, love of frogs, see, now right there is a just and good reason for burning. Just burn the poor bitch, Captain.”
“First you are going to look her over, which is something you should have done in Ishmia without wasting three days.”
Rhywder sighed, lifted his shoulder off the tomb, and started to walk around the body, studying it carefully.
“Ever seen a dead Nephilim come alive when the words of binding were spoken correctly by a sorcerer? Those cabbage-headed priests. The first thing they would have done—they would have started trying to incant the spells. That’s why I sent the body here. Damn; the closest I have ever come to dying was in that village on the Weire coast when some priest started muttering out the incantations and cut into this Nephilim’s corpse. Suddenly he gets one correct and I am meeting this fine, eight-foot gentleman of Etlantis when he comes back to life and sits upright.”
Rhywder paused to rub one of the girl’s slender fingers. “Big bastard, too. Had a two-headed axe embedded in his chest. The Nephilim found it handy, so he ripped it out, stood up, and started killing everyone in sight.”
Rhywder paused, fingered a bit of the corpse’s remaining hair. He circled and dropped back against the wall near Eryian, shivered, then spat to the side. “Name of Elyon, blessed be her soul.”
“What can you tell me?”
“She wore a ring on her right index finger—my guess is it was a signet of the second legion. There, on the thigh a sword scabbard seared into the skin. Her backup weapon. She was a Daath. Carried a crossbow, would be my guess.”
“How is that?”
“Quietus of Galaglea likes to train women to use a crossbow. The Etlantians always assume the women are easy prey until they find they have this new limb growing out of the center of their foreheads. My guess—she was a Daathan mercenary deployed in the jungles of Unchuria beyond Hericlon’s gate.”
“So she was killed by Etlantians?”
“No. This one was killed by Unchurians. His children.”
“This angel we have chosen not to name out loud.”
“He had such pure light they say his firstborn were much like you, not giants, almost human except for the tint of their skin. Reddish, dark in the sun. And since this angel is the architect of weapons and warfare, I would guess they are just about as deadly as your Daathan legions. And this poor lass, she must have taken out a score or so before they brought her down by a fire lance. They have paid her honor, sending her downstream as a message for us.” “What kind of message?” “A warning.”
“Why should he warn us?”
“Courtesy. After all, he taught men the craft of war; he would tend to follow protocol.”
“Remind me of this death master.”
“You know as much as I, Captain.”
“Yes, but just remind me, if you would. Humor me.”
“They say there was a squabble. Far before our time. I understand one of the three who swore the Oath of Ammon turned against the others. Something to do with a woman. Always ends up being over a woman, eh, Captain? So he left the mother city some centuries before our own. Who knows what he has wrought there in the far south.”
“You haven’t sailed there?”
“No one I know of has sailed that far south and returned, so anything I hear is no more than rumor.” “Why warn us?”
“War. He is letting us know he plans a preemptive strike against us.” “But would that make it not preemptive?”
“His message is secreted in symbols—clues. We might or might not have understood.”
“Honor among the deadly.”
“Yes. That would be my take of it. About one count of the moon back, I felt something ripple through the sky. You feel it, as well?”
Eryian nodded. There was actually nothing Rhywder could tell him he didn’t already know. It had just been a long time since they had seen each other. This was no more than a chance for conversation.
“I think one of them lost the light,” Rhywder went on. “One of them has turned. Probably aged, or is plagued by disease. It panicked him and so he tried to escape this future to another. All he managed to do was send a ripple outward through Earth and sky and in doing so close the time between us and Aeon’s End. He drew it closer—his fate and ours. I’ve always believed it was coming, just never imagined I would live to see it. Probably still won’t. But we can assume that if we felt it, so did our friend down south.” Eryian nodded. “Let’s take a ride,” he said.
“Why not. Oh, this poor lass. Perhaps you shouldn’t burn her after all. She was a fighter if they honored her, and so should we. Even lay her to rest here, among the gallant.”
“I’ll see the priests take care of it.”
Once outside the cavern, Rhywder and Eryian rode along the edge of the forest at the top of the Dove Cara. They rode in silence for a time, both with troubled thoughts.
“Tell me, Rhywder, if the angels are going to turn against us, why not the first of them, the Light Bearer?”
“He still believes himself to be our savior. He still believes the light of his heart can turn back the abyss.”
Eryian nodded. They paused at the edge of the cliff where the wind of the Western Sea furled their cloaks.
The warlord stared solemnly at the curl of the ocean’s edge where it dropped over the horizon. “I am going to ask you to find out precisely what waits in the jungle, Litt
le Fox. I need you to know their numbers and how much time we have before they reach Hericlon.”
Rhywder tightened his jaw. “Aye—thought as much.”
“Sorry, my friend.”
“Alone?”
“If anyone can get in there and out, it would be you. But I don’t want you going in alone. I will send a chosen, a protector—someone who knows the shadows. He will meet you in the agora at sunup. Head south, stay light, move fast.”
“You had best tell your protector to have his affairs in order before we leave.” “He is the type who keeps his affairs as simple as the haft of his axe.” Rhywder nodded. “Got a feeling about this one. Got a feeling this is the one that will finally get me killed.”
“My experience is that you are not so easy to kill.”
Rhywder drew a deep breath and sighed. “Least there is one night left to both find me a woman and get falling down drunk enough not to remember if she was ugly.”
“Yes, you should use the night wisely.”
Rhywder turned, a sad look in his quick, blue eyes, as if he might be bidding the captain farewell. He lifted his hand, spread fingers in the sign of the word. Eryian did the same.
“Light of Elyon go with you, good friend,” said Eryian.
“As well, Captain … as well.”
Rhywder pulled on the reins and started for the city. Eryian remained staring at the sea.
Chapter Six
Pagans
For Adrea, the morning had begun routinely. She finished the milking and then watched as Lamachus and Aeson headed off for the south fields where they were going to mark the newborns. She helped her mother with simple chores, and then quietly slipped to the stables and saddled the dappled gray.
She made certain she wasn’t followed, even taking the far way around the upper pastures and then waiting nearly a degree of the sun before she moved on. No one was following. She thought of riding into the trees for cover, but though they inspired her, they were sacred, and she still hadn’t built up the courage to go in. Yet someone had—the rider who had been watching her.
It was still early enough when she reached the edge of the forest that its colonnades were deep in shadow. There were shrill calls of far birds. She noticed that within the wood, so little sun got through the upper foliage that it left the ground nearly barren.
It was hushed in shadow and she rode slowly along the edge, waiting for the sun to at least get high enough to dispel the darker shadows before going in, but this was the spot she had seen the rider and the flank of his white horse.
She heard hooves from behind, and turned. Her heart jumped. It was Lamachus, coming at full gallop, his wild hair flared. He rode like the warrior he had once been. When he reached her, he circled, then pulled up beside her, sweaty, his horse breathing hard, the air still cool enough that puffs of breath misted from its nostrils.
“He going to meet you here?” said Lamachus, his dark eyes focusing a growing anger.
“No one is meeting me!”
“Where is he, then? Does he hide in the trees?!” “Father, I was just riding.”
“You been doing a bit too much riding lately. How long has this been going on?” He paused, his temper on the verge of breaking. “Answer me, girl!” “There is nothing going on!”
He glanced at the forest, then rode forward a bit, lifting in the saddle. “You in there!” he screamed, and Lamachus had a thunderous voice that could echo. “Something you should know. I manage to lay hand on you, I will crack your skull from one side of your head to its other!”
“Father, this is ridiculous. There is no one there!”
“You keep back from my girl! Understand! Else we shall contend, Daath, and know this: I have downed more than a few Daath in my day.”
“Father, there is no one there! I have never even met a Daath.”
“Yes, well, this whole affair stinks of Daath. They take our women at will—have done so ever since the wars.”
“No one knows that for certain. It is nothing but a rumor.”
“Are you questioning me, girl?” He turned in the saddle, waiting, daring her.
“No. No, Father.”
“They take what they want, the Daath, they always have, but not my girl, by God.” He turned again to the forest. “You hear me!” he shouted. “Not my girl!”
Lamachus then turned and studied her carefully. “Worthless. He is worthless whoever he is. He has no grit—gutless—hides in the trees. Someone were to issue me that challenge, we would by God engage—hand to hand.”
Adrea half-closed her eyes. “Father, this is nonsense.”
“Let us make certain of that, shall we?” He leaned forward and wrenched the reins out of her hands. Adrea had to grab the mane of her horse as they bolted into a gallop. She had no idea where he was taking her, but she guessed it would not be pleasant. When Lamachus’s temper broke, he was capable of anything.
Camilla was outside the cabin when they reached it, glancing up as they passed, she gave Adrea a look of concern. However, to Adrea’s surprise, Lamachus did not stop at the cottage; he rode on, full gallop, his horse grunting under his weight, the reins of Adrea’s horse tight in his fat fist. He had not even glanced at Camilla. She followed them to the fence line with growing anxiety.
Eventually they wound their way through the village streets, hooves echoing against the stone. Lamachus was barely giving people time to step clear of his horse, and this was market season, the streets crowded. One vendor knocked over his cart in panic. Some of the shopkeepers, those who knew Adrea and her father, looked up with unease. They likely guessed what was happening, and even Adrea guessed, as well. They were heading for the shrine of Baal.
It was a small shrine of gypsum imported from Galaglea stone by stone when the Galagleans where relocated by force at the end of the gathering war. The shrine was maintained by the village’s two priests and their gathering of women attendants.
The tribes of the goddess Dannu were united by the blood of their mothering star, but the Galaglean still paid worship to their ancestral god. He was no Elyon; rather an empty, hollow idol that graced the top of the shrine named Baal.
Adrea had never been able to pass the shrine without a shudder. When she was only four, her father had brought her to witness a sacrifice. Rains had come scarce that year, so the priests had slaughtered a young bull. Adrea would always remember the blood gutters running. They had given her endless nightmares.
Lamachus rode up, dropped from his winded horse, looped his reins over a hitching post, and walked up the gypsum stairway. He pounded a heavy fist on the oaken doors. The stone lintels looked rusted, stained from blood offerings. A priest appeared, his head shaved, his long robes black and unadorned. Lamachus spoke low, almost a whisper, indicating Adrea. The priest looked up sharply. He laid a hand on Lamachus’s shoulder.
Adrea had the impulse to pull on the reins and launch her horse into a gallop. The gray would easily outrun Lamachus’s heavy warhorse, but Lamachus would have pursued relentlessly, never giving up. He would end up pushing the warhorse so hard it would probably die of exhaustion. But Adrea was too old for this, and she was reaching the point where Lamachus was no longer going to force her to do anything.
When the priest reached her, he took her by one wrist, pulled her from the saddle, and hoisted her over his back. He strode up the steps, past Lamachus. There were people from the village watching and Adrea shuddered with embarrassment.
It was shadowy within. Only thin streamers of light managed to break through the triangular windows of the vaulted ceiling. Braziers on crow-legged tripods left everything in a reddish glow.
The women who pulled her onto the cold altar stone were old and wore hooded, black gowns, their faces hidden. They held her down, four of them, and two pulled her legs apart sharply. Adrea knew there was nothing to do but endure. She closed her eyes, willed her consciousness elsewhere as the priest knelt before her and lifted an oil lamp. His hand was cold and brutal as it probed.
Adrea was then released. The priest escorted her to the doorway, pulled her into the sun, and there he looked to Lamachus and nodded.
She jerked away from the priest’s grip, then quickly walked to her horse and mounted, taking up the reins. She watched Lamachus pull himself into the saddle. His beard was tangled, his eyes dark with their leathery wrinkles at the edges. When he turned to her, she slapped him sharply across the cheek. She had never slapped anyone before and did not know what to expect, but Lamachus only narrowed his brow with a sneer.
“You saw the hags, girl?”
She stared back defiantly, not answering.
“You betray this marriage, and by your mother’s own blood, you will live life shaven and bitter as a servant before Baal.”
Adrea said nothing. She hated him so in that moment. She’d never felt such hate, and tears fell across her cheek as she put the stallion into a gallop.
Aeson was in the east field, riding down a stray heifer. The heifer belonged to a Daath, the baron who lived in a palace east of the village, near the sea. Whisperings were that once he carried a war hammer and killed many in the gathering wars. Now he was old, had lost his hair, and had gotten fat—rare for a Daath. On the other hand, Lamachus, equal the baron’s age, was still a warrior. Lamachus’s cabled muscles still held their tone, and once Aeson had seen his father bring down a maddened bull barehanded with a double-fisted blow to its head. Lamachus could carve up the Daathan baron like a hind of boar for the spit if it came to that. Still, even though Lamachus had his own herd, for pay he also worked the baron’s lands. Aeson worked them, as well, and Lamachus had always said the baron’s cattle were to be treated as their own. That is how Lamachus had taught him, that if a job was to be done, it was to be done well or not at all.
Aeson ran the baron’s heifer back through the fence, over the same broken top post she had gotten through twice before. Aeson had repaired it both times, but the cow had gotten the idea that its purpose in life was to knock this piece of fence apart. Cows lacked for brains, but they had incredible determination.
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