Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  Aeson dismounted and pulled the top post back in place. This time he brought along braided leather thongs to make the lashings and pieces of pine to strengthen the center break. Next week, he would take an axe and ride the half-day journey to the high country to cut another top post. The forest of the East of the Land was, of course, much closer, but to cut a limb or a tree from the sacred trees was a sentence of death by law of the Daath, and Aeson had no doubt they carried out their laws without mercy. Besides, he respected Adrea’s feelings for the forest, her reverence for it. He would have ridden the half-day journey with or without the Daathans’ law.

  He finished the last tie, then took the reins and mounted. As he turned his horse, he drew up with a gasp. Directly before him, mounted on a roan stallion, with veils and silvered hair, was a starkly beautiful woman. She had rich, blue eyes and painted lids and pale skin with a slight tint of blue as if she were cast in moonlight. It was a Daath! The bodice of her tunic was unlaced at the front. He had never before seen a woman so beautiful, and it sucked all the breath out of him and left him dizzy. All he could do was to stare as if frozen. Briefly, he wondered how she had gotten so close, without his hearing anything. It was said the Daath could do that, move without sound.

  “You are the boy—Aeson?” she asked. She spoke an educated Daathan, her voice practiced and liquid clear. Aeson merely nodded. He watched in amazement as she reached delicate fingers with painted nails into her bodice and withdrew a small, silver cylinder. “This is for your sister, the red-hair. It is for her alone.”

  She leaned in her gilded saddle and folded the cylinder into his hand. Her hair brushed his bare shoulder, and the touch of her fingers over his sent a shiver down his back and a strange arousal that left his throat dry. She smiled, warmly, then turned the roan and set it at a gallop. Her silver hair streamed in flight and he watched as long as he could, until she vanished over a far hillock, back toward Terith-Aire.

  Aeson looked down at the cylinder in wonder. It was pure silver, molded in images of laurel leaf. It bore an oak-wood stopper sealed on the edge in wax with the imprint of the eagle. Without thinking, his fingers started to break open the seal, but then he remembered—for the red-hair alone. With difficulty, he stowed the cylinder in his belt pouch. He had too many chores he needed to finish. There was no time ride back to the cottage and find Adrea, and he knew curiosity would curse him the whole day.

  Aeson’s last duty was pulling out a calf that had lodged in its mother’s birth canal. The calf was dead, but so would be the mother if it was not pulled loose soon.

  Lamachus tied a line of hemp about the forequarters of the dead calf, and Aeson tied the other end about the horn of Lamachus’s saddle. Aeson would have used his own horse, but Lamachus had yet to give him a saddle, telling him he would become a better rider the more he rode bareback. Maybe he was right.

  Near the ailing cow, Lamachus took stance. He shook out his huge arms, gripped the cow by its head, and wrestled it down. It moaned, struggling, but Lamachus was strong and the mother too weak to fight. Lamachus soon had the head pinned against his thigh, twisted to the side, all his weight against it. He shouted to Aeson, “Now, boy!”

  Aeson spurred Lamachus’s horse and the calf came out, hit the dirt, leaving a bloodied swath before Aeson pulled the horse to a halt. Aeson dropped out of the saddle and unlashed the rope, then turned and stared aghast.

  The calf had two heads and it was lying in the dirt almost torn in half amid its blood and afterbirth, steaming in the cool air. Aeson couldn’t move, almost couldn’t breathe because the two misshapen heads were human. They were hairless, with dead, human eyes, foreheads that had sloped, wrinkled brows, and wide, thick noses. It made him want to heave but his panic bit deeper than the nausea. He also noticed their teeth—sharp teeth, not the kind of teeth you would find on a calf—teeth for shearing flesh.

  Lamachus let loose the cow. It staggered off a ways to hang its head, breathing heavily. Lamachus cut the birth cord with his big knife and wiped the blade on the mother’s coat. He then walked over to stand above the monster, shoving the blade through his belt.

  “Good Lord,” Lamachus muttered, “at least we can be thankful this thing did not survive its birth.”

  “That … is … it is a Failure, Father.”

  “Damned sure something failed, being as it has a second head growing out its ass.”

  Lamachus looked up, noticing the stark fear on his son’s face. “What,” demanded Lamachus. “You have never seen a stillbirth before?” “Father, look at the faces, they are human. Do you know what that means?” “That they’re damned ugly?”

  “No, no, it means that … it means this is one of them.” “Them? What kind of them?” “A Failure.”

  “Well, one would hardly think it’s going to make a good milking cow.” “No, no, I mean it is born of a giant, a wanderer. They say some have been seen in these parts.”

  “Did you say a giant?”

  “It has to be. How else could the faces be human?”

  “You are telling me some Etlantian monster has journeyed all the way from the mother city just to fornicate with one of my cows?”

  “Yes!”

  “I have heard some odd things come out of you, boy, but this one is simply too strange for comment.”

  “But look at it! The teeth! Look at the teeth! You do know the curse of Enoch?”

  “You listen to me, boy, this here, this is god-awful. It is a poor bastard breech two-headed calf, but nothing more, and there is no name for it other than pitiful. Now gather some kindling and burn it.”

  “What?”

  “I said to burn it. Have you lost your hearing as well as your mind?”

  “We have to get a priest. We have to get a priest up here, Father.”

  Lamachus’s face went red. “What? Have you gone utterly mad? That damned half-witted priest would be slaughtering my cattle and cutting off privates from all my prime bulls before the sun could set. Lord spare us, just what I need, as if life were not already trial enough.”

  “One of the giants, a flesh eater, has been here and could still be here.”

  “Having sex with my cows? Boy, you speak another word, and you will be picking yourself up off the ground. Now gather what few senses you have, and once you’ve managed that, burn this miscarriage and say nothing more about it. Nothing! To anyone. Do you understand me?”

  Aeson was still staring at the steaming blood and flesh.

  “I said, did you understand me?”

  He finally looked up. As terrifying as the stillbirth was, the expression on Lamachus’s face was even more so. “Yes,” Aeson answered quickly. “Yes, I heard you, Father.”

  “Good, good, that is progress. Hope. Now burn this thing, scatter its ashes, and then forget you ever saw it. In fact, best you forget the whole day; imagine you were too sick to get out of bed this morning.”

  Lamachus mounted, gave Aeson a stern glance of warning, then put his heels to his horse’s sides and left at a gallop for the cottage.

  Alone, Aeson stared at the mutation and felt sick in his stomach. He kept thinking it was going to move. He looked around at the hills, the far line of trees, fearing something might be watching; come for its child. When he turned back, the eyes of the face nearest him were open. They were dead, opaque eyes staring right at him, and he knew they had been closed moments before.

  It was late when Aeson came home. He was blackened with ash and smelled of burnt flesh. Camilla looked up, astonished. She had bread cakes waiting, with goat’s milk and cheese.

  “Lord!” his mother exclaimed. “Aeson, have you been in a fire?”

  Aeson nodded. He splashed water from the washbasin onto his face. “I had to burn something.”

  “You look exhausted.”

  Camilla glanced at Lamachus, who sat near the back wall in his oaken chair with a clay mug of grog on its armrest.

  “You are working the boy too hard, Lamachus.”

  “May
be I have not worked him hard enough. Seems he has got too much time to imagine on things that are nonsense.”

  “Father, we should have …” He paused, catching Lamachus’s grim expression of warning.

  “What?” dared Lamachus.

  “Maybe we should have at least had it washed.”

  “What is he talking about?” asked Camilla.

  “Not your concern, woman,” Lamachus answered, shifting in his chair. “Your boy is soft in the head. Tell you what, Aeson, you return to the field, open your breech, and void your piss upon the ash. That should wash it, cleanse it, and curse it all in the same breath. Then our souls can rest the night in peace, ah? You think?”

  Aeson stared back, solemn, but Lamachus just chuckled.

  “Aye, boy, save us from these flesh-eating calves!” At this he chuckled harder.

  “Lamachus, what on earth is this about?”

  “It is about you, your daughter, and those damned seer-speakers wandering about filling up people’s heads with idiotic ideas. Back in the old country, they would be stoned, which is what would happen to them here if not for the stinking Daath looking over our shoulders. I had a proper god when I fought in the battle of Anarch and I need not be trading him in for the drivel of the Followers of Enoch, and if I should catch any of you listening to their babble, so help me you will regret it; promise you that. Aeson, my boy, I have some strong advice—you forget all this, go in and get some sleep. We have more than enough work tomorrow in that north field.”

  Aeson tightened his jaw, then turned for his room.

  Before she could say anything, Lamachus looked to Camilla and narrowed his thick brows. She sighed and went back to washing the last of the dishes. “He did not even get supper, Lamachus,” she said.

  “Something you brought on him. And no more! I am done with this nonsense, understand me? Followers of Enoch—I find one, I intend to break his nose just for giving me this day.”

  In his and Adrea’s room, Aeson leaned against the wall and slid down it until he was sitting, staring across at Adrea. Her knees were drawn up to her chin, her arms folded around them, and her eyes swollen from crying. “Adrea! Are you all right?”

  “I am fine. And we can all be comforted I am still marketable.” Aeson narrowed his brow. “What did he do to you? I know he did something. What was it this time?”

  “Nothing, Aeson. It was nothing.”

  “Someday I will be grown, and he will not make you cry ever again.”

  “He cannot help himself. He has seen a lot of war, a lot of men die, some of them his own brothers. It changes men. Maybe it would leave you with a short temper, as well. We need to learn to be forgiving. He is still our father.”

  Aeson sighed. Then, suddenly, it came to him. The cylinder! He had forgotten all about it. He scrambled to his knees and searched the pouch of his belt, panicked that it had been lost. “Ah, no … wait, here it is.” He pulled it out, sighed in relief, and held it up. “See this?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “A harlot gave me this. I was in the east pasture, the baron’s land, fixing that same fence again—damn cow, maybe a rock to its head would fix that fence. But what happened is a harlot on a roan stallion came up and gave me this.” “Aeson, what are you talking about?” “It is for you!” “What is for me?”

  “This!” He twirled the cylinder. It was embossed with etchings, and he was certain it was pure silver by the way the moonlight played on its surface. “The harlot, she had rings on every finger, and anklets of silver, and she smelled of myrrh. She knew you. She knew me by name and she called you the red-hair. She was Daathan, her hair was dyed silver—I guess they do that. And look here on the edge of this chamber; that is the seal of the eagle.”

  Adrea was now beside him and snatched it from his fingers before he could say anything more. “When did this happen?”

  “This morning.”

  “And you waited until now to give it to me!”

  “I had chores, and Lamachus was watching me all day.”

  Adrea studied the eagle signet with interest. “The rider of the wood,” she whispered. Adrea closed her hand about the cylinder and crawled back to her bed mat. Aeson was watching, wide-eyed.

  “All right, Aeson, you have given it to me. Thank you.”

  “Are you not going to open it?”

  She hesitated. She would have preferred opening it when she was alone, but she could wait no more than Aeson could. She broke the waxen seal with her thumbnail and pried out the wooden stopper. A papyrus scroll spilled into her palm. She carefully unrolled it and studied the print. Aeson was pressed beside her.

  “I am not that good with Etlantian script,” she said, “but I can read most of it. These are directions—they say to go east, several leagues beyond the King’s Highway. I know where that is. I have ridden there before.”

  “You have? You have ridden past the King’s Highway on your own?”

  Pointing to the scroll, Adrea continued, “Do not be silly; of course I have, many times. In fact, this is the cliff that borders the eastern edge of the ocean near the forest. This is the top of the Dove Cara! And here—this names a time, the first degree of sunrise tomorrow morning.”

  She stared at Aeson, amazed, who stared back with equal amazement. “What are you going to do?” he gasped. Her expression did not require an answer. “You are going to do it! You are! Alone?”

  “No, I will ask Lamachus to escort me. What? I suppose you would have me wait here hoping Marcian might drop by?”

  Aeson gave it some thought, narrowing his most serious brow, and then looked up with an idea. “Lamachus will be watching your every move, especially in the morning, but perhaps I can give him something more important to watch. Something he would not have the choice of ignoring.”

  “Such as?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  “You surprise me, Aeson. I would think you would warn me to stay away. What if it is a Daath planning to steal me?”

  “You did not see the harlot—those rich veils, the bracelets, and the cylinder. That cylinder is pure silver. If it is a Daath, he is not an ordinary Daath. So I think you should go. But only on one condition.”

  “You are laying down conditions?”

  “I follow you. I will be close—not that anyone will notice, however. I will use stealth.”

  “You are practiced at stealth, are you?”

  “Yes. I practice all the time. Do you know how boring it can be pushing cattle all day? I am planning on becoming an able scout. You think I want to herd cattle all my life? I can stay hidden. Anything goes wrong, be assured I will not be far.”

  “Then I have little to worry of, do I? Just make sure of one thing: make sure Lamachus does not notice my leaving.”

  “I will make certain you are the last thing on Lamachus’s mind.” He grinned.

  Chapter Seven

  Agapenor

  A tavern on the outskirts of Terith-Aire, that same night

  Seven thick, bronze coins were slammed down onto a rough-hewn table and then mashed in place by a fat thumb. The pits smelled. The whole tavern smelled, but Agapenor had no choice. He was being called out. “Seven!” bellowed Cindos, one of Agapenor’s sergeants, invaluable in battle but utterly useless in peacetime. Cindos kept his thumb on his precious stack of coins and raised his fist in the air to stir the whole cavern into madness, which was working quite well. It was just the opposite reason Agapenor had come to the city. He had been hoping to find a quiet place to have a few drinks before shipping out in the morning, but that was definitely a dream lost now.

  “Seven!” Cindos screamed again. “By God, I lay seven bronze on our man Agapenor!”

  There were murmurs all about.

  A Daathan warrior stepped forward. There was an entire contingent of Daath in the tavern, all members of the tenth cohort of the second legion. Agapenor had no idea how they had overtaken the tavern so quickly. When Agapenor and his five axemen had first come in, ther
e were a few Galagleans and a scattering of Pelegasian seamen. Now it was wall to wall with Daath.

  “Seven bronze?” the tall, lean Daathan captain said, smiling at Cindos. “Hardly a difficult wager, Galaglean—seven pieces of bronze. This is all you can say of your mighty commander?” The Daath cast a demeaning glance at Agapenor. The captain had narrow black eyes, almost like a cat. There was a time, back in the gathering wars, when Agapenor faced such eyes as those, in battle, and they still sent waves of rage through him. Insolent bastards.

  The Daathan captain drew a solid gold piece out of his belt pouch and tossed it onto the table, dwarfing Cindos’s bet. “One gold on my man,” the captain said flatly.

  Cindos stared angrily. It was overbetting, meant to make a fool of him. One gold piece was more than Cindos drew in a full count of the moon. Agapenor laid a hand on Cindos’s shoulder.

  “Let it be, Cindos,” Agapenor said. “We will find another tavern.”

  Cindos pulled away. He furiously kicked over a stool and banged his fist so hard on the table everything bounced up and came back down, mugs rolling off, mead spilling onto the already mead-sodden floor.

  “I will make good, spear-chucker!” Cindos screamed into the Daathan’s face. He looked about at his fellow axemen. “Well!” Cindos demanded. “This spear-chucker wagers gold! Do we answer him?”

  “What is it, Cindos?” one of the Galagleans asked. “You have no money left?”

  “Gods, no. Put all the money I have down because I got faith in my captain! What about the rest of you? This is Agapenor they have challenged! We going to let him down, my brothers?”

  Agapenor gritted his teeth. He reached into his own belt and slammed a fistful of coins onto the table, some silver, some even gold. He really didn’t give a damn.

  The Galagleans shouted a heavy volley as Agapenor walked forward and dropped into the fighter’s pit. It was hollowed-out barren earth, the floor and walls rock-hard clay scored well with blood. Agapenor unlatched his axe belt and tossed it to one of his men. Daath and Galagleans crowded about the pit, peering over each other’s shoulders.