Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  “Good to know. So how long has this been going on?”

  “What? Killing each other, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Only today. Can you explain any of it? Is it witchery? Some kind of spell binding we are under?”

  “Anything else unordinary?”

  “There are the screamers. I would not call them ordinary.” “Screamers?”

  “They come every night now. Gray shades, they come down the passage screaming like I have never heard—high-pitched inhuman screams. Some of them pass right through the stone of the gate, other just fly overhead. I have no idea what they are. They do not seem to cause any harm, but it goes on sometimes all night. It has been weeks now. No one has been getting any sleep. I think some of the Galagleans are suggesting we drop the portcullis and try to get through the vale, get help. But there are others, some of the older commanders, who understand we need to hold. I have been relying on them.”

  “Has anything else passed through? Anything corporal?”

  “Villagers. They were coming through in steady numbers a few weeks back. Some with carts for their dead. It is why we had left the portcullis raised, though the past few days they have slowed to a trickle. And those who do make it are burnt or wounded. Some have begged I send patrols out for their kindred. As if I have men to spare.”

  “Have they said what has been killing them?”

  “Yes, they talk of mutations—giants, the monstrous ones. I believe they are referring to Failures, raiding parties of Failures. I am told they mostly come for blood. I have heard they hang the villagers upside down to drain them of blood for drinking.”

  “Any word of Unchurians?”

  “You mean the ones like us, like the Daath, only red-skinned?” “Yes. Do any of the villages say they have seen Unchurians?” “No. No, I have heard nothing of Unchurians.” “So the only ones coming through the gate have been villagers?” “Yes. Those and the screamers.”

  Rhywder nodded. “All right, I want you to listen to me, Anton. I need your full attention.” Anton nodded.

  “Not long from now, there could be something coming against Hericlon from the south. It could be giants, Failures, possibly even Unchurians. They may come as raiding parties, but it is also possible Hericlon may be invaded.”

  “Are you saying we are at war?”

  “Yes, it is possible the Unchurians will attack in force, but I doubt it will happen soon. I believe there is time to get word to Quietus in Galaglea. And keep in mind, this is Hericlon. With this gate you have enough men to hold back an entire army if it came to that. I doubt very much that will happen, but you and your men need to be aware that Hericlon must be held at all cost until help arrives. At all cost. So this is what you are going to do: you are going to drop the portcullis and once it is closed, you will open it for no one. Understand? No matter what comes, the gate remains closed.”

  Anton nodded. “What about villagers? Will they not need passage?”

  “They will not be getting passage because it could be a trap. If you lift the gate, things can get through; if you keep the portcullis closed, this gate is nearly impregnable. From now on, from this point forth, you will lift it for no one. Tell the villagers to turn back and clear the passage or they will be killed. And if they do not listen and you have to, kill them. Trust nothing; trust no one. Keep the passage clear and the gate closed. Do you understand me?”

  “Kill villagers?”

  “Kill anything that tries to get through to the north. You cannot risk it. If Hericlon is breached, our homeland is at risk and that cannot happen. This gate is closed; this passage is no longer open to anyone.”

  “As you say, but—”

  “Trust nothing, Anton! You can no longer take any chances; you are too few and there is too much at stake. The gate of Hericlon will remain closed. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many men do you have left?” “Thirty—thirty Galagleans.” “That is all?”

  “We were seventy, but many of them deserted.”

  “You have veterans out there, warriors who will stand their ground. Gather them and make sure there are no more desertions. We will take some measures, get help from Galaglea, protect you from the Uttuku—”

  “Uttuku? What are Uttuku?”

  Rhywder sighed, shaking his head.

  Outside, more then ten Galagleans had gathered about the captain’s quarters and were left staring at Agapenor. He could guess what was on their minds.

  “Any of you wish to know what is happening here, just step up,” said Agapenor. “Step up and ask.”

  One of them did, a large Galaglean, though not as large as Agapenor. “Can we leave this godless vale? Drop the gate and try to reach King Quietus in Galaglea? If we move in force instead of one or two at a time—”

  Agapenor grabbed the warrior by his breastplate, knocked off his helmet, and whapped him in the side of his head. The Galaglean’s knees buckled and Agapenor let him stagger to the side. “Now this man here—he did not ask the proper question. But any others of you that are curious and have other questions, step right up.”

  Anton stared at the Little Fox, horrified. “You … you are going to leave, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “South? You are going into the southland, where they are being murdered and burned?”

  “I am, but there are a few things I will do to help before I leave. Are your food stores intact?”

  “Yes, the food stores are safe.” “Water wells?”

  “The wells are fine, though the water seems darker. But no one has gotten sick.”

  “Good, good. Now, tomorrow at dawn, send a party of seven riders north, just to the edge of the vale, no farther. Along the foothills and the forest have them gather mandrake and garlic. There is garlic that grows along the edge of the western woods, and mandrake near the foothills. Have them gather as much as they can in a single trip.”

  “And what are we to do with it?”

  “Every man wears at least one mandrake root about his neck, and all of you should wear wreaths of garlic cloves. Wear them day and night. The kind of creatures that killed your warriors today will often enter the mandrake before they enter a body. They are fooled by it, an old witch’s trick.” “Yes, I understand—mandrake root and garlic.”

  “Tonight, once the moon reaches mid-sky, I want you to slay your fattest bull and speak Elyon’s name over it. Take the blood and paint the lintels of your barracks. From the top of the gate’s causeway, lower a wooden scaffold over the outer edge and paint the lettering of the gate’s archway, making sure you cover every letter inscribed in the stone. Understand?”

  “And will that help?”

  “The screamers will stop coming.”

  Anton nodded. “Are … are you a priest?”

  “Hardly. Now, I want you to bring me a rider, someone light and small. From your stockade select a black horse, the swiftest you have. Cut the neck of one of your laying hens and smear its blood into the coat of the horse, work it deep into the hide.”

  The boy stared back stricken. He nodded and stood, waiting.

  “Do it; go, now, I do not have much more time!”

  Anton rushed out of the quarters leaving the doorway open. Rhywder sighed, poured himself some wine. Anton was shouting orders. Agapenor ducked his head and stepped inside.

  “What now, Captain?”

  “We will be leaving south.”

  “And you are going to leave the gate in the hands of these fools?”

  “With the portcullis closed, nothing will get through. It sounds as if there are nothing more than raiding parties out there. Failures and giants hunting blood. Nothing leads me to believe there is anything close enough to threaten Hericlon, at least not yet. They just need to get a runner through to Galaglea. Luckily, it is not that far.”

  Anton and two guards, both big Galagleans, entered with a boy, a young Daath, barely sixteen. Rhywder was encouraged to find the boy’s
hair was dyed silver. There was a brotherhood of young thieves in Ishmia who died their hair silver, and this boy was most probably one of them. At last a bit of luck— he would at least be skilled at running, and probably was good with daggers. He was mostly skin and bone. Agapenor fingered one of the boy’s arms and glanced to Anton.

  “Food rations running low, Captain?”

  “This boy is the cook’s steward,” answered Anton. “He is small and light, and he is a good rider. He just does not eat much. His name is Cathus.”

  “There a reason you do not eat, Cathus?” asked Agapenor.

  “I eat,” the boy answered. “When I am hungry, I eat.”

  “He will do fine,” Rhywder said. “Strip him of the tunic.”

  Cathus was given no time to protest. His tunic was pulled up over his head. Rhywder unlatched the witch’s talisman from his belt and set it against the boy’s ribs, strapping it in place with a strip of leather.

  “Do not remove this,” Rhywder warned him.

  The boy half-nodded.

  “Give him back his tunic. Fit him with leather armor and give him a short sword before he leaves.”

  “Leaves?” the boy said. “I am going to leave?” “You know your way to Galaglea?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is where you are going.”

  Rhywder fished a small pouch from his belt and gave it to the boy. “Eat some of those.”

  The boy pulled out crumpled, white flower petals. “What are they?” “They will make you bold. Keep eating them every few hours.” The boy folded a couple into his mouth, chewing.

  “Now listen careful, boy, if you see a specter, a wraith of the night, there is no need to fear it; the talisman I strapped to your chest will protect you. But if you see a man, if you see any riders—outrun them. We are giving you a fast horse, and using a bit of witchery to make him even faster. Let us hope no one finds you, but should it happen, you are light, your horse is fast, and speed will be your only prayer, understand?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Keep moving. Do not ride in the open, stay out of the Vale of Tears, circle to the west, near the trees, until you reach the flooded quarry. Once clear of the quarry, find yourself a shallow crossing along the river Ithen, and then head for Galaglea. If you have to, ride this horse into the ground, but get to Galaglea; understand?”

  The boy nodded. They were strapping on leather armor. Anton handed the boy a scabbard and a short sword.

  Rhywder pulled a papyrus scroll from Anton’s table and wrote upon it. He folded it, used Anton’s candle to seal the edge, and pressed the signet of his ring into the wax. He stuffed the papyrus into the boy’s tunic. “That is for Quietus, the king of the Galagleans. Since he is a king, he should not be difficult to find. Show that paper to anyone who asks to see it. Any questions?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Good. You just ride for all you are worth until you reach the wooden ramparts of Galaglea. Now, go, boy. Elyon’s Light be with you and Godspeed.” Rhywder slapped him on the back.

  The boy nodded at Rhywder and stepped into the night.

  Agapenor grunted. “That boy will never reach daylight, let alone Galaglea.”

  “We have given him a good horse and he is a thief, which means he can ride and use a blade. Have a bit of faith, Agapenor.” Rhywder turned to give Anton a grim look. “I may or may not return, but whether you see me again or not, remember one thing: the gate remains closed.”

  “It will,” Anton assured him.

  As they left Anton’s quarters and walked for the horses, Agapenor chuckled. “It looks as if all is well, Captain Rhywder of Lochlain. The Goddess smiles on you this night. You have sent a noble champion sure to reach Quietus in Galaglea, and you have a bold Daathan warrior and these fearless Galagleans left to hold the gate of Hericlon against all of Unchuria. No worries that I can see.”

  “None that I can think of, either, my friend,” Rhywder answered, pulling himself into the saddle. “Let us find out what is waiting in the splendid swamplands due south.”

  “I will try not to wet myself from anticipation.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Axeman

  It was before sunup, the dawn’s mist still on the ground. Aeson and Lamachus had set out already to cut timber for a new fence beam so Adrea did not worry of having to explain Loch’s appearance. She had thought of saying good-bye to Aeson, and that night she almost did, but all she managed was to cry, so she decided to send an epistle later on, words of farewell by papyrus.

  Adrea searched from the house, from behind the fence. She was packed, everything stowed and ready. Thunderbolt was saddled and she searched the skies, worried. She had thought over taking the horseman’s gift or leaving the stallion behind, but finally decided to take him. He was swift, he would be useful, but that was not her reason. She knew enough of Marcian’s nature that she believed he would want her to keep the horse.

  She had said nothing to her mother. There would be too many tears, so she decided on a letter for her, as well, and perhaps one for Lamachus, who would never forgive her this.

  Aeson helped Lamachus lash the last of the newly cut fence posts onto the side of the packhorse with strips of leather. They only needed one, actually, but there was no reason not to stock up—posts were laid to either side of the horse, enough to last a season of moons. Aeson would have ridden farther to the south, far past the sacred woods of the East of the Land, but Lamachus had found a small stand of wood that was separate by nearly a quarter of a league. Some would consider it too close; call it a part of the forest, and Aeson worried, but Lamachus told him this wood was safe to cut. It was new wood, he reasoned, since it was not part of the ancient trees, what could be the harm of it? They worked in the dark, cutting and shaping. Lamachus was determined to get the baron’s fence solid before night and that meant a lot of riding, so they had come out early. Aeson kept staring into the shadows of the East of the Land. He kept thinking they were just too close, but he realized it was something else crawling beneath his skin. He began to have the certain feeling that in the deep shadows of the ancient wood something was stirring. He even thought for a moment he saw something indistinct, maybe no more than gray mist, but after seeing it he could not get it out of his head. Something was in the forest, something watching them, but how could he explain to Lamachus he was afraid? That they needed to forget about the posts and leave? There was no possible way, so instead Aeson worked as hard and fast as he could.

  “You need not kill yourself, boy,” Lamachus said at one point. “We have time.”

  “Just feel energetic, Father.”

  He was trimming off limbs with single blows, working quickly. But the eyes, the thing watching them, waiting in the shadows of the East of the Land—it did not move, it had found what it was seeking, and Aeson figured it had been seeking them. Aeson was almost in a panic, but he could think of nothing to say that would do anything but provoke Lamachus.

  Besides, Lamachus seemed burdened himself. It had been with him all morning, since leaving the cabin, this heaviness—sadness. It was an odd emotion for Lamachus to carry.

  Usually he was telling stories or talking of the wars, but this morning he had hardly spoken and once or twice he had sighed, heavily. Once he paused, holding his axe, looking to Aeson.

  “You think I have ever been good to her, boy?”

  “Adrea, you mean?”

  “Her whole life—I ever been good to her?” “Of course, Father.”

  “You know, son, I have loved that girl. When she was little and I would toss her into the air and she would screech with delight, ah, did I ever love her. But she grew and things—somehow they changed. I no longer knew how to speak to her, what to say to her. But lately, well, lately I been downright mean. And wrong, not trusting her. Marcian saw that. Just wrong.”

  “It is the pressure of knowing she is leaving, Father; it weighs on all of us.”

  “Aye, but then I think to myself, I been
cold with her my whole life. Now it is ending, she will be leaving, and I cannot go back, make things different. God, why could I not have given the girl a hug now and then, why not tell her what has been in my heart? But no, I’ve just been hard on her, thinking it is a hard life and she best just learn that truth. It is the war did this to me. Stripped so much out of me. Hard was all it left me.”

  “She knows you love her, Father.”

  He sighed, cinching down the last strap.

  “Well—that should do it, you think?”

  “Plenty. Enough for spring and even summer, I figure.”

  “You worked damned hard, guess that is why we are done so early.”

  He shoved his axe in the saddle thong. Aeson was anxious to leave, he had already mounted, but for a moment Lamachus just stood there, staring off at the dim predawn sky.

  “No matter how I think it, though,” he said, “what I come up with is that I have been a bastard to her, Aeson, pure and simple. She is a good girl; she has not been betraying me, not that girl. She has a heart in her that is pure, always has been. What is the matter with me, son?”

  “It is simply your nature, Father, being firm. She will be fine; she is strong.” Aeson wanted to tell him to mount up, to get out of there. His skin was crawling. He couldn’t remember ever being this frightened.

  Lamachus sighed, deeply. He finally circled around and mounted his horse. “Well,” he said sadly, “still a bit of time left, I suppose. Maybe I can make it right, not much, but maybe just a bit right. You think?”

  Suddenly Lamachus turned to the east, toward the forest. He had spotted something in the trees. He had been a warrior and his eyes were quick. Whatever he spotted, it startled him. His mouth dropped open from what he saw.

  Aeson turned, breathless.

  They came swiftly, no warning, not a sound. It happened so fast neither Lamachus nor Aeson had any time to react. Lamachus pulled back so hard his horse reared, but they came like the wind, twisting out of the shadows. First they soared high and then dove straight for Lamachus.