Looking back, he saw them coming through the trees, six or more—Unchurians.
Cathus was good at running away, and they had given him an agile, quick horse. He took a twisting, deceptive run through the trees, keeping low. Ca-thus decided perhaps his ability to fade into shadow had something to do with the rooster’s blood they had smeared into the hide of the horse. It had seemed idiotic as he had watched the big Galagleans painting the hide with rooster blood from a bucket, but now Cathus understood it was the reason he was able to outride his pursuers the entire night.
At first light, the trees ran out. There was a long stretch of clear ground before the lake of the Ithen, and here they killed his horse. Cathus was certain they had meant to kill him, but the javelin, dark-wrought with a heavy, barbed tip, dropped low and lanced the horse’s underbelly. Cathus dove over the mane and hit the ground in a roll. He sprang to his feet. The riders were closing on him at full gallop, spears and even axes at the ready. Cathus gasped and did a full-out run for the waters of the lake. He wasn’t going to reach a shallow crossing below as the captain had told him, but the lake was his only chance.
Cathus’s long sinewy legs stretched their limit, going hard, his straggly hair blown back as javelins and arrows sang about him.
“Elyon’s Light be with me!” Cathus screamed aloud, taking his longest strides. “Elyon be my shield. I know I done many wrong things, but forgive me now, save me now!” He ran in switchbacks, losing precious distance, but never giving them a direct target for their terrible spears. One soared past his ears with a scream.
They were closing. It would all be over soon. The thunder sound of hooves was bearing down on him. He was never going to make it. Cathus urged speed to his legs. He closed his eyes and threw his head back, and he ran as he had never run in his life. He felt that if a wind could catch him from the back, he could have flown. He hit the dark water still running, wildly high-stepping, and dove headlong. With a gulp he was under, and he swam deep. Though he was winded, he swam hard, keeping as much underwater as he could. When he broke the surface, frantic for air, arrows immediately zinged through the water about him. Cathus dove under again, stroking beneath the waters like fish must do all their lives. He broke the surface and this time glanced back. They were still mounted, dark riders, searching along the shoreline. But they didn’t wish to swim and possibly they didn’t deem him worth the trouble. They watched from the banks, then one turned, then another, and they rode slowly back for the trees.
Cathus swam the entire length of Ithen Lake. It was a hard swim. If he had the horse he could have ridden past the point where the Galagleans had dammed the river that formed the lake long ago, and found a shallow crossing. But now he had no choice other than a long swim.
At times he rested, rolling onto his back and doing a lazy stroke while he caught his breath. The water of the old quarry was very, very deep. No one alive knew how deep. It was black and he imagined creatures lying on the slimy bottom watching him with jelly eyes.
When finally he staggered onto dry land, it was midmorning, and his legs and arms were rubbery and aching. He stood a moment, swooning. He glanced down to find the scroll was useless mush. He pulled it out and spread it on a rock very, very carefully. The print was still legible—the ink was water-resistant—but he would have to let the paper dry or it would become pulp. There was a hollow in the rock, out of the sun, and he crawled in to wait. There he fell asleep.
From ages of sleeping in treacherous alleys and gutters and beneath wharves, Cathus had learned to keep an ear awake for sounds. Thus, his eyes flicked suddenly open when he heard the air stir. A horse danced. A hand lifted the scroll from the rock. From beneath the rock, Cathus saw the rider. He was tall in the saddle. Long, straight hair fell over his shoulder. It was black, but for a lock of it, to the left, which was a silvery sheen. Cathus screamed and leapt to his feet. There were trees to the right, and Cathus ran for them, gasping. For a moment the rider didn’t pursue, but then he turned the reins and the horse galloped with heavy hooves.
Cathus was a good runner, but he could not outrun a horse. He would in moments be dead. At the very moment he felt the rider close, some weapon rising for the back of his neck, Cathus dove for the earth, rolling. The rider brought his horse about. Sharp hooves assailed the earth about Cathus as he rolled one direction, then another. The rider finally snarled, then dropped off the horse. Cathus scrambled to his feet and ducked the arc of a sword blade, then dove to tackle the Unchurian’s feet. The rider had not expected this, especially from an emaciated boy. They rolled in the dirt. The Unchurian was strong, he would have killed Cathus easily, but Cathus had one skill that had kept him these years in the streets as a vagrant. He knew how to use a dagger. Cathus stabbed the assassin between the ribs, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing.
When Cathus struggled away and looked down, he was amazed, for he must have stabbed the Unchurian six or seven times. Blood was everywhere. His head was dizzy from sheer terror.
The Unchurian was not dead. He had propped himself on one elbow and lifted his own hand from his gut to study the dripping blood. He looked to Ca-thus, stunned. “You little whelp-shit,” he snarled. Then, he fell over and died.
Cathus looked at the horse. As he started for the reins, it reared and attacked him. A hoof hit his shoulder, and Cathus staggered. The horse reared and came for him again. Cathus dove to the side and rolled into the body of the Unchurian. Seeing the assassin’s long sword in the dirt he scrambled, grabbing the hilt with both hands. On his knees, he screamed, slashing at the horse. He thrust the blade deep into the horse’s chest. It almost fell over him, but Cathus scrambled out of the way.
The rest of the day, Cathus ran. Surely he was as good a runner as any champion in the games, keeping measured pace. Surely, the day would come when bards would tell of the great run of Cathus. He could imagine many of the verses already.
When finally he reached Galaglea, Cathus felt like a bird that had died, its corpse blown in the wind. He was so spent; he staggered, exhausted, past thick-built, wooden houses and halls. Galaglea was a land of thick timber, and they liked to leave the outside of their buildings unfinished with the bark still on the wood.
The palace of the king, Quietus the Falcon, was a great wooden hall, and Cathus made his way wearily through its great oaken pillars. It was a night of feasting and the king and his lords were gathered, but as Cathus entered, he was immediately seized by guards and thrown into a hole in the earth. Heavy bars were dropped, and his cries fell on deaf ears.
“I must see the Falcon! I have come from Hericlon! I have swum the Ithen Lake. I have run all the way to Galaglea! Someone must hear me!”
He was left in the hole for hours, but he kept screaming, he never stopped, and someone must have become irritated, because finally a big Galaglean guard came to reach in and pull him out with a yank. He was dragged to the king, right into the big mead hall, right past the lords of Galaglea, who were having their meal, smelly from shanks of pig and flagons of sour mead.
Quietus, the Falcon of Galaglea, was a huge man with a large head and a mane of thick, shaggy hair. His red beard of stiff hairs fell to his chest. Cathus was held before the king by two Galagleans, who held both his arms, his legs sagging. He hadn’t even tried to use them since he had nearly run them off his body and was so nearly starved he was sure he couldn’t walk.
“This be the waif?” Quietus said, setting down his clay mug and looking to Cathus.
“This is he, my lord.”
“Boy, I have been told you keep screaming that you have run all the way from Hericlon. That true?”
“No, I had a horse part of the way. It was smeared in chicken blood. But I swam the Ithen Lake and ran all the way from there in one day.”
“Why for the love of God would you smear your horse in chicken blood?”
“It was the Daath ordered that, my lord Quietus.”
“What Daath? Explain me this.”
“He called himse
lf Rhywder, the Little Fox.”
Quietus drew back with a start. He glanced at one of the big captains beside him, then back to Cathus. “Can you prove me this, boy?”
“He pressed his ring signet into the scroll I carry.”
Quietus stretched forth his hand. “Hand me the scroll.”
Cathus looked down and gasped. “Oh, lord, oh, Elyon’s name, I … I forgot it! I left it on the rock.”
“You ran all the way here from Hericlon to give me a scroll but you forgot to bring it along?” Quietus looked wide-eyed and many Galagleans chuckled. “I wouldn’t have forgot it if I hadn’t been attacked, my lord.” “Who attacked you?” “An Unchurian assassin.” “Where?”
“Beyond the lake, my lord.”
“Unchurians are killed on sight at Hericlon, boy. How did one get beyond to reach you at the lake?”
“They are getting through. They have raided the villages and mines to the south of Hericlon, they have slaughtered and burned villagers, they are blood drinkers, flesh eaters. Some even eat children, my lord. I hear the whole of the south has fallen.”
Quietus raised a thorny brow. “That is not possible, boy. The Unchurian south of Hericlon live in trees and hunt ground rats.” “These are different.” “Explain me this.” “The one I killed …” “You killed one!”
“Yes, my lord, with my dagger. I kilt him. I cut up his stomach good. He was tall, not like Unchurian, and part of his hair was silver.” Quietus stared at him a moment. “Which part?”
“A strand to the right; his hair was all black but for the silver strand.” Quietus glanced at one of his captain. “The mark of a firstborn,” he said, “could only have come from the deep south. How would the boy know that?” The captain shook his head.
Quietus eyed Cathus skeptically. “Bah, can’t believe a word of this. Take him. Throw him back in the hole.”
Cathus gulped as they turned to drag him off. “Wait,” Quietus said.
Cathus was wrenched around once more to face Quietus.
“Say the name of my century captain, boy, who be stationed at Hericlon.”
“Craigus, my lord, but he has been killed now.”
“What?”
“They most have been killed. We have only thirty left to man the gate. The one named Craigus, he hacked out his own face with a dagger. It is said he was taken by evil spirits, the Uttuku.”
Quietus narrowed his brows. “Boy would not make up such a tale; how would he even know of Uttuku being so young and thin as a bird? Something wrong here.” Quietus glanced to the captain beside him. “What you make of this, Rathon?”
“Seems a good liar if a liar he is, but I fear I smell the truth, my lord. Hericlon is in trouble, and how would he know the name of Rhywder, a boy like this?”
The entire hall of men was silent as Quietus closed his eyes in what Cathus imagined to be heavy, deep thought. In short time, Cathus was either to be thrown in the hole or written of in books by bards and sung of by minstrels for his heroic run. He waited, breathless, until Quietus finally looked up.
“Damned with it. I can’t decide,” Quietus said. “But we march on Hericlon if for no other reason than to smell horseflesh and to strap on weapons once more.” He stood, raised a fist. “For Hericlon!” he shouted.
The Galagleans all screamed in response.
“Gather yourselves up and speak to your womenfolk!” Quietus shouted above them. “We march in tomorrow for the gate!”
Great cries went up. The nobles stood and screamed. Knives were driven into the great, oaken tables. Clay mugs were smashed against the walls, dripping grog. Quietus stormed out of the hall, and his lords followed him. In moments the entire hall was emptied of Galagleans. Cathus stood alone but for a gathering of children who were playing with a wooden hoop. Cathus crawled onto the table, squatted before a large wooden platter of massacred pig, and began to stuff himself. He considered Galagleans, as a race, wholly insane, but they could roast a good pig.
Chapter Eighteen
Unchurians
Agapenor gazed at Rhywder. The Little Fox was turning two rabbits on a spit over a low fire. He had lured the small beasts from their hole by crouching at the entrance and making whispering sounds through his hands that implied he spoke rabbit.
“You have a woman, Little Fox?” Agapenor asked. “Some redhead bint in the city who marks each day until you return? Or perhaps a village maid who warms her bed with stones when the Little Fox is not about?”
Rhywder looked up. He lifted a sizzling, well-cooked rabbit and tossed it, spit and all. Agapenor caught the sizzling flesh in his fist and held it, even though the hot juice was dripping. He grinned.
“I was going to mention it might be hot,” Rhywder said. “Looks like I need not bother.”
“It is calluses,” Agapenor said, tearing away a rabbit leg. “Calluses build up. You work the stakes with a heavy axe, years pass, your hand becomes like leather.” He sucked the meat off one leg and it left white and clean. “So, you have any women, Rhywder?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Let us just say that I do not keep women and leave it at that.”
“Ah … one of those kind.” A second cleaned leg bone was tossed. “Would not have thought that of you.”
Rhywder paused. “No, Agapenor, I prefer women. I just do not keep them. They tend to follow you around, cook you things. Become a bother.”
Rhywder carefully broke off a hind leg of rabbit and bit off a chunk of meat. In contrast, watching Rhywder with bemusement, Agapenor took the remainder of his small rabbit, opened his mouth wide, wider, and with some effort managed to stuff the entire body into his mouth. There was a wide grin across the puffed-out cheeks as he began to chew, with difficulty at first, crunching. Apparently it was all for Rhywder’s amusement.
Rhywder had to wince.
“I have but one woman,” Agapenor said when he could talk, after pulling out chunks of spine and tossing them. “One woman—a full-blooded woman whose bottom I can hold in both my hands.” He held out his big hands in demonstration of the indicated size. “One woman! What do you think of that, Little Fox?”
“That is a big woman.”
“Children, as well. My woman bore me twelve fat children.”
The axeman continually amazed him. “How many, did you say?”
“Nine of them boys, all strong; three of them wee girls. Ah, God, but I do love the wee girls more, curse me but I do. I oft think of them when I find myself in godless places such as this one you have brought me to presently.”
He pulled a bone from his mouth that had been cleaned and sucked white as a newly formed tooth. He studied it a moment, admiring his work, then tossed it. “I wish to know where we are. Tell me.”
Agapenor lifted a wineskin and tore off the cork. He tipped his head back, drinking until the last drop was gone, and tossed the empty skin.
They were camped beneath tangled mangrove roots, near a swamp whose smell threatened to become odious if the wind shifted, but would hide them well from any scouting parties. Insects bearing certain disease were thick in the air. They rubbed themselves down with garlic cream to ward off bugs. And after a day of sweat against the garlic, the Galaglean smelt like a decaying elephant. Rhywder was keeping well upwind of him.
They crisscrossed jungle. Dusk, the day before, they had come upon an abandoned camp. They had ridden through it awestruck. Bones riddled the ground from feeding, and the underbrush had been trampled to mud all around. Agapenor had paused.
“You notice most of these bones look human?”
“They are human—my guess, the majority of these bones are gathered villagers. I think these were giants, probably Failures that came through here living Enoch’s curse, flesh and blood needed to sustain them.”
In a grove, Rhywder found an altar strewn with rotting hearts. He was used to seeing altar stone sheathed in rotting blood, but this one was weathered and clean. Instead it was littered with scores of h
earts that were left nothing but tight little knots, like peach pits. They had obviously had the blood completely sucked out of them.
Whatever caused the carnage was close; Rhywder and Agapenor moved cautiously. They had ridden fairly deep in and when Rhywder found them, the tracks were swinging north toward Hericlon. They were moving slow, foraging as they went, gorging on villages. But they were moving in a meandering pattern, swinging wide before turning northward, which was how he and Agapenor had ended up behind them.
The stars were out, the moon nearly full, and they had not eaten in days, so Rhywder had chosen to take a chance with a fire. The thicket was good cover and the stink of the swamp would mask the smell of cooking. He imagined Agapenor was close to starving from eating roots and berries. Hot food would replenish them both.
“I am not entirely sure where we are,” Rhywder finally answered. “But no worries, I can always find my way out. By the stars we are farther east of Hericlon than I expected.”
“You read stars?”
Rhywder nodded.
“Where is it you learn all these secret things?”
“I travel a lot. And my grandmother, she had star knowledge, she was gifted, taught me things when I was young.” “So why do they call you Little Fox?”
“My sister did that. Asteria. She called me Little Fox because I was small as a lad.”
“Well, at least you have a sister. A mother maybe? Have a mother?” “Both dead.”
“Ah. Pity for you. Father?” Rhywder shook his head. “You have no one who is family?” “Nephew.”
“Tell me of the nephew.”
“Strange boy. He never talked that much growing up. So what are we doing, here, Agapenor? Why all the questions?”
“We be having a chat, Captain. We should be sharing some mead, but you seem to have forgot to bring any.”
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 20
