Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  This she had not guessed. That he was royalty was obvious, but it took her completely by surprise. “Lochlain? The son of Argolis—the king?”

  “I thought it best simply to lay it out so that we then forget about it. I am not here as a prince. I came to meet you. I have watched you for so long. To see you this close …”

  His eyes seemed almost human—a soft brown in the shadow light. And there was an odd, inexplicable sensation that she somehow had seen these eyes before. Then, she noticed a lyre hanging from the saddle against the white horse’s flank. It was distinctive, silvered along the edges with intricately carved, dark, polished wood. He had left it there on purpose; he knew she would recognize it.

  She had seen it before, and the sudden realization struck her. She looked up, astonished. “That lyre … you are the minstrel! The one who has played in my village these last weeks; the one I passed each morning I walked the path of the Water Bearer. That was you?

  “Yes.”

  “You were always there so early, before the markets began. It puzzled me. The only ones to hear your songs were those preparing their shops or setting up their carts for the market crowds. You would have acquired much more coin if had you waited until midday.”

  “I was not interested in coin; I was interested in you, Adrea. The only one meant to hear my songs was you.”

  She stared at him a moment, moved by what he had said.

  “You would not know,” he added, “but I have searched a long time to find you.”

  “But why did you not say anything? Why play the minstrel?”

  “I am a minstrel. More so than a warrior, despite these weapons I carry. I was born into a life I never chose, but it is one I must follow, regardless. At first I was silent because I had to be sure who you were; then, even after I was certain, oddly, I did not know what to say to you. Of course, there are many women in my court; however, I did not know quite how to approach you. I have never been shy with any women, ever. It was new to me, this feeling.”

  Adrea had met no greater royalty than the fat mayor of Lucania. To meet the prince of the Daath should have left her shaken, speechless, but she found herself oddly unaffected. She almost wondered if there were spell binding at work.

  “Do you want your scroll back?” she asked.

  “Please, keep it,” he said. “I am told you are a Water Bearer of your village.”

  “Yes.”

  “From birth, or was it a calling?”

  “From birth, my mother, my grandmother, all were Water Bearers.”

  Before the gathering wars, the Water Bearers had been born into the cult, passed from mother to daughter. But so many of Adrea’s tribe had been lost in the war that most of those in her village now were newly initiated. To be a Water Bearer was to be a priestess, but Adrea at present was merely an apprentice. Every third day of the week she walked the path from her father’s cabin to the well in the center of town. There were six Water Bearers in her village, and each morning they filled the village fountains and basins from the town well.

  She had always guessed that being a blood descendant of the Water Bearers was what had given her the knowing, the senses she felt of people and things, such as the oaks of the forest. The feelings came to her quietly, whispered inside her. They whispered now that there was nothing to fear of this prince; still, he had been watching her for weeks, hidden in the trees—in a way, stalking her.

  “So why have you been following me, Loch?” Adrea confronted him. “Why watch from the shadows of the forest? Why send secret scrolls by way of my brother? It could hardly be difficult for you simply to walk up and take me aside anytime you wished. After all, you are the Daathan prince.”

  “It was important I choose my timing carefully.”

  “Why?”

  “That will take some explaining.” “Then, explain. I will not stop you.” “Not here; this is not the place.” “Then, where is?”

  He motioned beyond the cliff. “Down there, that curl of white sand that borders the sea below us.” “The Dove Cara?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that is more than a day’s journey. We would have to circle almost to Ishmia and ride the shoreline. There are no pathways down this cliff side. Believe me; I have long searched for one.”

  “I have no doubt. But it so happens I know a secret passage. I can have you back before nightfall without alarming your father.”

  “My father? Why mention him?”

  “He seems particularly concerned with your welfare.”

  “More with my dowry.”

  “Nonetheless, I do not wish to anger him further. It is better that we keep our meeting quiet.” “You mean secret?” “For now.”

  She tightened her jaw. “I am no longer a little girl. I can do as I wish. Let us leave my father out of it.” “Very well.”

  “Go ahead. Show me this secret path, and I will follow.” “This way, then.”

  He turned and rode quickly through the trees. She spurred the dappled gray to keep up. Soon the forest grew deep, and the shadows thickened. They rode farther in than she would have ever ventured on her own, and she kept close to Loch’s flank. Confident that she was an accomplished rider, he kept a quick pace.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said. “A slight problem—my brother.” “I know. He has followed you all the way from your village. We expected that.”

  “We?”

  “I have companions. They will intercept him. His day should prove to be somewhat interesting.” “He will not be hurt?” “My promise.”

  They rode through an opening in the tangled branches of hemlock trees and beyond them into a shallow river before a waterfall. Loch then rode straight through its face. She tapped the gray’s flank and leapt through, as well. It was a passage, a doorway. On the other side was a wide, spacious cavern with a pathway cut into the rock.

  Aeson had managed to keep his distance from Adrea, careful to avoid giving the impression that he was pacing her, should any onlookers pay note. He considered himself skilled at stealth and planned one day to become a scout for the armies of Galaglea. He had good eyesight and was able to track his sister even though she was no more than a far dot.

  When she neared the forest, however, he had no choice but to cross an open field where he would obviously be spotted by any who might be tracking her, as well. He slipped sideways, hugging his mount’s right shoulder so that anyone watching from the north would see nothing more than a wandering horse without a rider.

  The only problem was his father’s hounds, Lamachus’s herding hounds. They had followed him from the cabin and kept constantly at his heels. They would only serve to mark him.

  “Damn,” he swore, hanging from the side of the horse. “Go! Get!” he shouted. “Go home, you boneheads! You will get me caught!”

  Finally, he gave up; at least they were keeping close and were not baying.

  Eventually, he reached the cobbled road that was the King’s Highway, the only roadway that cut through the forest of the East of the Land to the Daathan city of Terith-Aire.

  Aeson was used to this light—early dawn; he worked it often, and so he was startled when four riders broke from the trees and had him instantly surrounded. He had been taken completely by surprise. His heart was pounding as he pulled himself upright. The hounds were baying for all they were worth.

  These were Daathan warriors, with their darkened breastplates of burnished steel and light, silvery cloaks.

  “You, boy! State who you are!” demanded one of them who seemed to have rank—a ring of silver studs on his shoulders. Aeson figured them for captain’s tassels.

  “I am … I am …”

  “You seem uncertain.”

  “My name is Aeson.”

  “And these are attack hounds, Aeson?” the captain shouted over the baying. “No, no,” Aeson said, “they are just plain hounds—for herding.” “Shut them up.”

  “Quiet. Bobo, Runt! Both of you! Quiet! Quiet!”

  Th
ey went on baying. They were loyal hounds. Only Lamachus could silence them.

  “You are certain they are yours?”

  “It is your horses. They are scared of your horses.”

  “Bobo! Runt!” the captain commanded. “Quiet!”

  They stopped baying. Bobo sat on his haunches, his tongue lolling, exhausted.

  “Now, boy, explain your purpose on this road.”

  “Me? Riding. I am just out for a ride.”

  “Do you always ride hanging sideways from your horse?”

  “Oh, that. Practicing. Hoping to be a scout someday.”

  “Well, you have a distance to go, but that was fairly skilled riding for a boy.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Perhaps too skilled for a mere boy. Skilled enough, I might suspect, for an assassin.” “Assassin?”

  “Could be you are a scout, riding sideways in early dawn with expertly trained hounds Bobo and Runt, or you could be an assassin, creeping up on the city with ill intent. Archlon, seize him!”

  “What?” gasped Aeson.

  Archlon, who was huge, leaned forward and effortlessly snatched Aeson from his horse.

  “Skinny rat,” said Archlon. “Just what you would expect of an assassin.” “It is?” said Aeson, genuinely surprised. “Assassins are always skinny,” the captain said. “But I am no assassin! I promise!”

  “Clever assassins would do no less. Take him to the city, to the maiden’s chamber. Stretch him out a bit.” “Wait! Wait, my sister!” “I see no sister.”

  “My sister, she is alone—down there—she …” “Alone?” said the captain. “Alone where?” “Did I say alone?”

  “You did.”

  “No, she is with someone, but I cannot leave her!” “You indicated she was west, toward the woods?” “No, I didn’t indicate where she was at all.”

  “Well, not to worry, young Aeson,” the captain smiled. “I will find her for you.”

  “You harm her and, and I swear I will hunt you down!” “Seems he is an assassin, Captain,” said Archlon. “Plans to sic these attack hounds on me, no doubt.” “You touch my sister, and I will find you. I will make you pay!” Aeson shouted as Archlon rode off with him toward the city, hounds trailing.

  Chapter Nine

  The Captain Rhywder

  The courtyard of Argolis’s castle was built on the high, natural granite that capped the cliffs of the Dove Cara. The city was walled with timber and stone ramparts about its outer edges, but the cliff that overlooked the sea was dominated by the castle, a winding, pure white alabaster wonder with twisting, icelike crystal spires that reached to the sky. When the sun hit those spires just right, it would split into myriads of color. They said the castle was built long ago, in the days of Yered when the Daath first came to Earth, and not only was the outside unearthly, but the inside, as well. The castle’s stairways and tunnels and rooms were like nothing found elsewhere in Rhywder’s travels and he had traveled this mud ball a whole lot of years thus far.

  Rhywder believed the voyagers built it, voyagers that sailed from the seventh star—that is what his grandmother told him and she was usually right about most things. Besides, those high-up crystal spires were smooth and unblemished after centuries and yet looked to be fashioned of nothing more than glass. No culture he knew of could manage that.

  Sitting there, staring up at the Daathan castle, thinking how it was built by star voyagers, Rhywder had to ask himself: What happed to the ship? If they came in a ship that could sail stars, what had they done with it—misplaced it? Lost it in the woods? If he ever in this life or the next bumped into one of these voyagers, those would be the first words out of his lips: “So what did you do with the ship?” A star ship would sure make the trip south, which he was about to undertake, a whole lot easier.

  Rhywder was sitting against the main fountain of the agora. In fact, he was sitting in the main fountain, letting the trickle of its cool water sooth his pounding head and run through his unclean beard. He had fulfilled his promise to get falling-down drunk and now he was paying for it. There was a woman involved, and he couldn’t remember her face, just as he intended.

  His tasseled boots were propped on his bedroll and saddle, which were sitting on the bricked edge of the fountain. His horse wandered not far. They had been together a long while, him and this horse; they knew each other well enough that there was little need for talking. The horse had heard nearly all his stories.

  He marveled how the bottom of the well was a kind of silvery polished blue metal. He’d never found metal like that anywhere. Maybe it was the voyagers who brought it along. The center of the well, directly above where the water trickled over the top of his head, was a cluster of ice-spires, just like the spires of the castle. Voyager spires, that’s what he called them.

  What he really wanted to do, rather than go south and get killed in the jungles, was to sail off on a well-fitted warship and kill Etlantians at sea. They were stripping whole coastlines of villages these days, like eating fruit. He wanted badly to do some slaying, kill as many of these heartless bastards as possible. They ate children, something Rhywder could not abide. The Etlantians had gone bad, no other way to put it. Used to be there were honorable Etlantians. He’d known a few in his time, men he looked up to, men whose eyes held a strange light. But he had not seen one of those in a long time.

  All that seemed left of the Etlantians now were these bastard child-eaters. They hunted in well-built, fast-running warships armored in oraculum that bore the rust-red bull’s-head insignia of Etlantian raiders. To kill them you had to have a good, skilled, deadly crew that did not panic. That was what he really wanted to do, gather himself a pack of warships, stock them with the best fighters to be found, and start hunting. That stirred his blood even now, sitting here in this fountain. But it was not to be. He was going after a different kind of bastard.

  Azazel. He let himself think the name straight out, damned be what might happen. If he wanted, let the high-blood bastard fly through the air and kill Rhywder right here, right in this fountain, just for thinking his name. Azazel was the common name of the angel lord, but it was one that should never be spoken aloud, for it was spellbound. All the names of the angel lords and prefects were spellbound. Speaking their names aloud was heard by them, even if they were a continent or an ocean away. Thinking their names—who knew? Likely they heard the thinking of their names, as well. On this particular morning, being as he had the happy task of venturing into the jungle in front of him, Rhywder just did not give a damn. Azazel, he thought again, defiantly. Azazel and his Unchurians—they would be found somewhere past Hericlon’s gate. Of course, he could not argue, Eryian was right. Some poor bastard had to go down there and get a read of how many there were and how long before they were going to reach Hericlon.

  Suddenly a deep, gravely voice cut into his thoughts.

  “Be you the Captain Rhywder?”

  He had to hold his hand over his forehead to get a look through the falling water. The big man on the horse in front of him was a shadow blocking out the sun, a huge axeman almost the size of an Etlantian. This had to be Eryian’s chosen.

  “Who is asking?” said Rhywder.

  “What, you avoiding credit seekers or husbands?”

  “Just want to know who is asking.”

  The axeman looked from one side to the other, then back to Rhywder. “Looks to me like I would be the only one here. Which would mean I am doing the asking.”

  “And … you are?”

  “I am Agapenor. You are not dressed as any captain I ever met, so if you are one you had best speak up before I get irritated.” “What would happen if you got irritated?”

  “Look, this is a simple question I am asking, and I need an answer. Be you the Captain Rhywder or not?”

  Rhywder slowly pulled himself to his feet, stepped out of the cool water of the fountain, and lifted his saddle and bedroll off the brickwork. From here out it was going to be a miserable, long ha
rd ride to Hericlon, and from there: the jungles—nothing he hated worse than the jungles. He walked over, slung the saddle over his horse, and began to cinch it down.

  “We will be moving dead south,” Rhywder said. “Dead being an apt word all considered. We will be keeping a tight pace, as well, so I hope you have a good mount. You have everything in order? Check your rations? Kiss your woman farewell?” Rhywder cinched down the last strap and looked up.

  The big Galaglean was right in front of him, dismounted. He seized the Little Fox by the front of his tunic and narrowed his gaze as he growled, “Be you the Captain Rhywder or be you not the Captain Rhywder?”

  “I be the Captain Rhywder.”

  The big man paused. He seemed genuinely surprised. He released Rhywder’s tunic as though his fingers were hard to manipulate. “My respectful apologies then, Captain. Just … a man needs be sure of things these days.”

  “We’ll not argue that point.”

  Agapenor handed over the scroll that contained his orders. “I am Agapenor, first captain of the twelfth corps axemen under command of Argolis, king of the Daath, dispatched here by order of the warlord Eryian.”

  “I guessed.”

  Rhywder tossed the scroll. He pulled himself into the saddle. “Mount up, Agapenor, first captain of the twelfth; we have now been properly introduced.”

  Agapenor mounted, wadded up the reins of his horse. He had a large-built charger, one of Eryian’s war-stock that took the man’s weight well.

  “I assume you made all last arrangements, just in case.” Rhywder said. “Could turn out to be a tough ride we are about to engage.”

  “I look at you; I know well enough we are not off to fish for groupers. Yes, Captain, I got things arranged.”

  Rhywder set off at a lope and Agapenor fell in at his flank.

  Chapter Ten

  The Ring

  At the entrance to the cavern, Loch turned the great mare whose hooves kept dancing, ready to bolt. “Once we go in from here,” Loch said, “it is important to keep moving. The tunnels and catacombs in this place keep their own law.” “I will be at your flank.”