Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  They were shouting now, driven to frenzy, and Tisias urged them on. When old Capys, the elder of the Lochlains, tried to speak in her defense, Tisias swept him aside before he could utter a word.

  “No more!” the king screamed. “No more of this blasphemy! You may once have held the light, Seer Child, but now you have betrayed both your goddess and your tribes! And it had been for him, for this Silver King, that you betray us. This council is at an end. Seize her! Take her now! Take the witch!”

  Asteria backed away, and fear swept her. The heat of the fire seared her back, but Tisias’s guards closed on her, and looking past them, she saw the rage in Tisias’s eyes. He was filled with rage—an unnatural rage. It was lost. There was no hope here.

  “Please,” she whispered as they took her arms, pulling her forward. “Even if you believe I have somehow betrayed you, you cannot stand against him! You will all die! You cannot stand against the Daath! I plead for your lives!”

  “Silence her,” shouted Tisias.

  One of the guards slapped her cheek, and it was then that her brother, Rhywder, leapt on the guard’s back, pulling him down, kicking him in the ribs. He fought the others for a moment, as well. He was a fighter, he always had been, but he was quickly overwhelmed, and it was Tisias who finally grabbed him and struck him so hard he went down and did not get back up.

  Before they dragged him off, as well, his brothers-in-arms, his kindred quickly pulled him away and out of sight. They were too busy with Asteria to bother following.

  Asteria was stripped of her robes and the night was cold against her pale skin as they tied her to the tanning post, high, leaving her feet dangling. The leather lashing that bound her wrists were tight; they cut into her skin. She wept for them—the tears that fell were not for fear of what they were about to do, but were only for her people, for she had somehow failed them. With tomorrow’s dawn they would foolishly face the swords of Argolis’s legions.

  The first sting of Tisias’s whip cut deep. Her skin was tender, and the whip felt like a blade cutting.

  “Witch!” he screamed. “Where is your Silver King now?”

  The whip cracked again and Asteria almost cried out, but she did not care of the pain; it meant nothing. She pressed her cheek against the wood and let herself think of him, of Argolis. As the strokes cut, she let the memory of his eyes be the last she saw before consciousness slipped away.

  She hung there in the night, as the fire dwindled. She would have frozen to death; she had been left to die, but when the others were gone, Rhywder and his kindred came for her. He pulled her down, wrapped her in furs. She looked up to see the youth that had gathered with him, twenty and eight, all young archers, Rhywder’s closest kindred. They had trained together for as long as they had known each other.

  “We follow you, my sister,” Rhywder whispered, tears in his eyes over her pain. “We leave with you, even against our fathers. They would have let the night kill you. They have forgotten, you are their light and their voice. But we have not. Lead us to your Silver King, Asteria.”

  Rhywder lifted her onto a waiting horse and mounted his own. He drew up the reins, and together, what would be the last of the Lochlains to survive the gathering rode into the night.

  When they reached the spot Asteria guided them to, the Little Fox and his companions waited to first let her cross the vale alone to Argolis, who had come as he had promised.

  When she reached him, she drew her horse alongside and held up her hand, delicately, her fingers spread in the sign of the word. Argolis laid his hand against hers, curled his fingers into hers. He reached over and pulled her from her horse onto his own, holding her close against him. He looked across to the others.

  “This is all?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Only twenty and nine, my brother among them, but we are yours, my king. I am sorry, but someone betrayed us and Tisias gathers his forces against you.”

  Argolis nodded, sadly. He saw the rest were merely boys, but all armed with bow and sword, faces hardened—Lochlains. He needed more of them, they were valiant, the tribe of Lochlain; it was beyond sadness that so many of them would fall this dawn.

  As he held her firm against him, Asteria glanced down and saw, briefly, a glint from his sword, the mark of the father, the sword called the Angelslayer, resting in its ivory scabbard against his thigh.

  With the sight of it, the dream dissolved and Adrea found herself again standing in the midst of the battle, the same image that had swept her when she stood on the sand of the Dove Cara that afternoon. It was the image of a war that covered all the Earth, the screams, the smell of blood. It was all linked to the sword. The mark of the father.

  Adrea found herself sitting up in her room, in the quiet of the cabin, breathless. She noticed Aeson awake, as well, staring at her, frightened.

  There were heavy footsteps, and the goatskin was thrown back from the doorway. In its shadow stood Lamachus, his great axe gripped tight in his hand. He was poised as a warrior, searching the dark. He looked to Adrea.

  “What is it, girl! What happened?”

  She placed a hand against her breast, feeling weak, as Asteria had.

  “Did something happen?” she asked.

  “You did not hear your own scream?”

  “I screamed?”

  “Enough to turn the dead.”

  “It … it was just a nightmare, Father. Sorry that I awakened you.” “What could have made you scream that way?”

  “I … I cannot remember.”

  “Well, that must be God’s blessing, not remembering, considering it took a few years off my skin and I was in the other room.” He relaxed, took a deep breath. “Well, at least you are all right.” He started to turn, but paused. “You need anything? Milk? A bit of grog? Could help you sleep.”

  “No, I will be fine. Thank you, Father.”

  Lamachus nodded. He pulled the goatskin closed and she heard his bare feet pad back to his room. She looked to Aeson. The dream was still with her, clouding her thoughts. Looking down, she noticed the bloodstone of the ring had turned from purple to black, except it burned with a tiny, distant spark. She kept it covered from Aeson’s sight.

  “If you talk about nightmares, they lose their power,” said Aeson. “Do you want to talk? I will stay awake.”

  “I will be fine, Aeson. Whatever it was, it is over now.”

  “Are you still afraid?”

  She stared at him a moment, but nodded.

  “Want me to sleep with you?”

  She nodded again.

  Aeson crawled over and curled into her blanket, nestling beside her, and was asleep almost as soon as he laid down his head. Adrea lifted her hand to look back at the ring. She felt no comfort from it this time, only a far, terrible fear and the death of too many souls to bear thinking of.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hericlon’s Gate

  It is said of the ancients that the black mountain, Hericlon, was the first land to emerege from the primeval dark. Before the coming of the angels Hericlon captured the winter wind. Her spurs curled about the valley below, leaving the ground cold and raw. Her spires and crags were forever iced. A canyon cleft had been cut through to the south as though by the sword of God, with sheer rock walls of black-gray that blocked the sun.

  In its center, the highest plateau of the pass, where the air chilled and all seasons moaned from the winds, there, the Etlantians built the mighty gate of Hericlon, spanning the width of the great canyon with gigantic, red-granite blocks.

  Hericlon’s gate rose eighty feet up the black rock. Steep stone stairways to either side ascended to the causeway. The battlement was of heavy stone, with archer ports and dark towers overlooking the passage south.

  Hericlon’s portcullis was unlike anything known, even of Etlantis. It was made of ancient bars of heavy, crimson Etlantian oraculum. Each oraculum beam was the width of two men and there was nothing on Earth that could pierce the portcullis when it was closed. In m
orning’s light the red metal looked bathed in blood.

  Below the gate, in the span of the passageway, blunt, squared-stone housing served as Hericlon’s garrison for horses and seventy men.

  Hericlon was stone upon stone, for no tree, no root, nor vine could find the sun. Hericlon was the stonework of gods. With her portcullis closed, Hericlon was impregnable.

  From the moment the canyon cliffs began to rise to either side of him, Rhywder felt his skin crawl. The air was thick with what was called Hericlon’s southwind, the cold that streamed down from the mountain’s crags and spires. It moved through the pass, always a mournful cry, as if it were a memory of the wars of Dawnshroud, when it was built by the angels, separating the north of the Light Bearer from the south, claimed of Azazel. It was an ancient mark, a boundary as old as the Earth. As Rhywder and Agapenor rode into the canyon’s yawning black walls, the axeman on instinct unlatched his axe and laid it over his thigh. It was as if they were leaving the world of light behind.

  “What is that for?” asked Rhywder.

  “Feel something,” was all the axeman said.

  Suddenly, a horse passed, riderless, eyes wide. It galloped madly, careening off the edge of one rock wall in a swerve to avoid them. A Galaglean saddle dragged behind, bouncing off the rock.

  Rhywder drew his short sword and pulled up on the reins.

  “Care, Agapenor.”

  “Aye,” the big man answered, “as I just said—feel something. It would be just up ahead of us.”

  They continued, riding slow and carefully. When they rounded a corner, both paused. Sitting against the stone was a Galaglean warrior in full armor. He had drawn a dagger and was stabbing his own face. The dagger sank in and out, blood whipping, until the face was unrecognizable. The Galaglean finally stilled, relaxed, the bloodied dagger slipping from his fingers, and for a moment he almost looked relaxed, resting against the rock, but for the destroyed face and blood that spilled across his breastplate.

  “Agapenor!” Rhywder screamed. “Get behind me! Now!”

  Agapenor lost breath as the spirits came, jetting out of the bloodied corpse with screams to match the wind, four, then five, all gray shadows. Seeing Rhywder and Agapenor, they went for them, oval mouths agape, hands clawing.

  Rhywder ripped the witch’s amulet from his belt and held it before them. He kept a tight grip on the reins, but his horse reared as the wraiths collided with the amulet. It was as if Rhywder were blocking a blast of fire. They were repelled, soaring upward, some vanishing into the very face of the rock, others high into the chill, night air.

  Rhywder latched the amulet back beneath his belt. He glanced to Agapenor, who was holding the reins of his horse in one fist and his axe in another.

  “Yet more Uttuku?” Agapenor asked, rather calmly, considering.

  Rhywder nodded.

  “Those were weak or strong, would you say?” “Strong; they were able to hold the flesh, walk it.” “How would you fight something like that, Captain?” “Magick—such as the amulet I just used.” “What if one had no magick amulet?”

  “Then you would likely be taken, but if they cannot find a mark quickly, it is said they are lost for many counts of the moon before they can strike again.” “Some comfort, eh?”

  Rhywder eased his horse forward, and rode slowly, till the danger was past. Hericlon always left him uneasy.

  “Things are off, not right. It has begun to turn.”

  “What has begun to turn? What are you saying?” Agapenor prodded.

  “Endgame. The signs are in the skies, though I have tried hard to ignore them. If I were a Follower, a preacher of Enoch, I would tell you the Earth itself has tilted, that even time is a bit off course. It is the work of the angels, what they call star knowledge. Hard to explain, would not worry about it if I were you, Agapenor.”

  “I will try, Captain, though if not for you explaining it, I would not have it to think of in the first place.”

  “Some say I talk too much. Habit.”

  “Learning more each day with you, Little Fox. I was not thinking this adventure would turn out such an educational opportunity. So this is the passage of Hericlon? Never thought I would see it. Have to admit it is impressive.”

  “If nothing else, Hericlon does always impress.”

  “You say these Uttuku cannot take one whose heart is pure, is that true?” “So it is said.”

  “Then why do you carry this amulet? Your heart is not pure, Little Fox?” “There are a few things I have regretted in my time. How about yourself, Agapenor? How would you figure your heart?”

  “I suppose it is as pure as any other slayer who has spent most his life killing those that needed killing. But I do no whoring. I am true to my woman and I do not gamble or lie or steal. Who could say? Maybe my heart is pure, though I have no desire to put it to the test.”

  When the opening of the garrison and Hericlon’s gate fell into view, Rhywder drew up a moment. He was surprised that the great portcullis was raised, like the mouth of a dragon—open. There were blue-cloaked Galaglean warriors atop the causeway and more guarding the huge windlass assemblies of cogs with their rings of thick chain. Even more disturbing, the passageway was cluttered with pyres burning. A score of them at least.

  “This does not look good,” Rhywder said.

  “You think?”

  Rhywder and Agapenor were shortly surrounded by a company of horsemen, javelins lifted, steel bows drawn. They parted to let a rider through, a captain by his shoulder tassels—a young Daath commander with a darkened silver breastplate and Daathan cloak.

  “State who you are,” the captain said boldly but hopelessly in soprano.

  Agapenor grunted beside Rhywder.

  “Have no fear, Captain,” Rhywder touched the plain, silver armband on his upper right arm.

  “A Shadow Walker!” the commander gasped.

  “Would you mind lowering the tips of these arrows?” Rhywder asked calmly. “I would hate to think what might happen if one of your men got an itch.”

  The captain raised a gauntleted hand and the weapons lowered. The Galagleans he was commanding were to a man more experienced and capable than the young Daath, but that was the way of things in Terith-Aire.

  “Elyon be thanked,” the youth said with a sigh of relief. “One of our men has finally gotten through! You bring word from Argolis? Are they coming?”

  “Who?”

  “Reinforcements! I have sent ten men for reinforcements over the past fifteen days. Surely that is why you are here?”

  Rhywder eased back in the saddle. There was fear in the young captain’s eye, the kind that came of witchery and shadows.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but we would be just passing through.”

  “No, no, it cannot be. This is madness, we are trapped here. There had been no word, no sign any of them have even gotten past the vale.”

  “Not to dampen your spirits, but you might want to build one more pyre.”

  “What?”

  “One of your men a few leagues back.”

  The young captain looked at the others. “They got Cragus! God, even Cragus did not make it.”

  “How far?” one of the Galagleans asked.

  “Just behind us. You will only need two men; the canyon is safe for now.” At a motion, the guard and one other rode off, hooves echoing. “Take us to your quarters, Captain,” Rhywder said.

  In the garrison’s quarters, Anton—the Daath captain who was perhaps twenty and four years at most—poured himself some wine, his hands shaking as he brought the goblet to his lips and drained it. Agapenor tightened his jaw, shifting, uneasy.

  “You were asking of the gate?” Anton muttered, refilling the goblet. “A good place, this gate. A good command if what you desire is to slowly drive yourself mad, day by day. Each night it has been getting worse. No sun. You believe that? I have not seen the sun in weeks.” He drained the second goblet. “The nights are clear, but each morning, just as dawn comes, these
dark clouds move in from the south. Even at midday, the shadows of the passage are so thick it is like an eternal night. It is as if something were designing this madness, and all with such care.”

  “Tell us about the pyres,” Rhywder said.

  “Love of Elyon. It happened this morning, not far past dawn, though who can say for sure since dawn no longer comes. Without warning, without reason, the Galagleans in the pass below the causeway just started killing each other. They were veterans, good men. All of the Galagleans I have left are hardened. The cowards have already deserted; all I have left are veterans of Quietus. All I know is I heard screaming, and when I stepped into the passage they had already started killing each other. Never seen anything like it, no one could stop them, they simply fought to the death.” “How many did you lose?”

  “A full score, twenty and two men, all lying there dead—and not just dead but cut to pieces. It was savage: arms severed, guts spilled, pure carnage. The passage was covered in blood.”

  Thinking of it, a shiver swept through Anton. He started to pour another goblet, but Agapenor set the flagon of wine aside.

  “You need to pay more attention to Captain Rhywder, and less to the wine,” Agapenor said.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

  “You need me, Rhywder?” Agapenor asked. “Otherwise, I will be just outside. Feel the need to get some air.”

  Rhywder nodded. Agapenor ducked through the doorway to step outside, letting the door close behind him. Rhywder felt a bit sorry for the boy; he was obviously in over his head.

  “You have some capable veterans out there, Captain. Would you like me to place one of them in command?”

  “No, I admit I am shaken, but they listen to me. I have been in command here for seven counts of the moon. I am still capable.”