“Perhaps I should have packed four or five mules for you.”
“Perhaps, since this red wine of yours tastes like pissed vinegar.”
“You should know—having finished it off.”
“Tell me of these Unchurian. Are the tracks we have been following—Unchurian?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Any secrets you know of them, as you did the Uttuku?”
“Once, I was aboard a Pelegasian and its captain sailed southward farther than I have ever been. He kept out to sea, but he was a bold son of a whore, and he came close enough to shore get a look at Unchurian cities along the shore. The cities were red stone, square and blunt, built one on top of the other like blocks, until they were stacked high as mountains. Ugly cities, no beauty to them, all of them stained the dull color of dried blood. It is said there are many more of them in the deserts of desolation, Du’ldu. No man I have ever met has returned from that place, Du’ldu. They say it lies on the edge of the Earth, the kingdom of the death lord.”
“So they are numerous, these Unchurian?”
“The death lord moved south centuries ago—splitting with Etlantis. Over a woman, I understand. Always such matters seem to have a woman at their core—you ever notice that?”
“Makes logical sense if you ponder it.”
“As far as the cities in the far south, the deserts, no man knows their number. You can find Unchurian settlements not far from where we are now, just minor villages in the jungles. But the truth be known, all land south of the gate of Hericlon belongs to the death lord and the Unchurian, which is why the Galagleans were blessed fools to be crossing over to start settlements and villages.” “Forget that I am a Galaglean myself, Captain?”
“No, and you would be likely to take your women and all your children and start a settlement here yourself if you were a plodder.”
Agapenor grunted, not sure if he was insulted. “So these Unchurian were born of an angel, were they?”
“The angel who named death. We can speak that name, death lord, it is not spellbound as his other names. He is the one that bore the nation of Unchuria.”
“But they are not giants, I understand.”
“He was an angel lord; their blood is pure. They were once archangels, those named as lords. Unlike the others who fell to Earth, lesser angels, the blood of the angel lords were pure, and even though the death lord had sinned and taken mortal women as his brides, his blood was so pure, his bond with heaven so strong that for many generations his children were almost like men. Like the Daath, not human exactly, but neither were they giants. That time is past now. No man has ever returned from the southern deserts of Du’ldu to say, but according to the seers and priests of Enoch, he has fallen. The tether that bonded the death lord to heaven for so long, even for centuries after his sin, has finally withered. He now bears monsters, giants, Failures, just as the lesser angels. He has become one of the fallen. But the nations of Unchuria were his firstborn. They age like patriarchs, centuries old—which leaves them deadly warriors.”
Rhywder was about to say more when he heard something. He motioned silence, drew his dagger, but never had a chance to throw it.
A naked Unchurian, the very topic of their conversation, leapt from the mangrove roots for Agapenor. He was painted in yellow and blue markings. Agapenor grabbed the Unchurian and slammed him into the ground, hoisted his weight, and brought a knee into the man’s chest with a crunch. He peeled the Unchurian’s knife away, breaking fingers. When the Unchurian started to scream, Agapenor hammered in the face. The body of the Unchurian shivered and lay still. The nose was driven into the back of his skull.
“You see this, Rhywder?”
Rhywder could only stare, amazed. “This man is painted! What are these?” “Signets, incantations, pay them no mind.” “You mean you can read the bastard?” “Yes. Step back from him, Agapenor.”
“What is he? Not human—his eyes look more like a jungle cat than a human. Skin not painted is reddish. Speak of them, Rhywder, this would be an Unchurian! Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“He was not that quick for having lived centuries and bearing such a reputation as they do.”
“I believe you took him utterly by surprise.”
“The tops of his feet are painted with the heads of blue salamanders. Seems a lot of work to go to, to paint a man like that.” “Burn him.”
“As asked,” said Agapenor.
He grabbed the body by an arm and leg and heaved him into the fire. He kicked in more shredded wood that would burn quickly. Soon the Unchurian’s skin caught fire and started to sizzle.
“Hate that smell,” grumbled Agapenor.
Rhywder drew back. He wanted nothing of spellbound incantations, but as the Unchurian burned, Rhywder saw names in the swirls of the smoke. Surprisingly, they were not spells; there was nothing alarming except for the fact these were names Rhywder had rarely seen. Valefar, Abigan, Bathim, Sarganatanas—they were the vulgar names of the fallen, the Watchers, but names used only by the Pelegasians who sailed the southern isles and the merchant cities of Weire. They were not meant so much as magick as they were devotion to the one who had painted them. This priest had not been sent to kill; he was not hunting Rhywder or Agapenor. It was more likely this was just a simple priest, most probably gathering roots and herbs for his poisons.
Suddenly, before Rhywder could turn from it, a sacred name curled from the smoke. It had been painted in devotion by the priest, but it was spellbound. Rhywder tried blocking it, but the name still managed to press through his thoughts. It was Mictlan, a true name of Azazel, but it was a name used only in the far, deep south, in the desert cities, never in the north. It was Azazel who, by a spoken word, created death, and that was the literal meaning of Mictlan: death speaker. What startled Rhywder was that as soon as the name had gotten in his thoughts, he did not feel the angel listening; instead the spell sunk into him, sending chills. It left him acutely aware there was something was close, threatening, terrifying. “You all right, Captain?”
Rhywder looked up. “Yes. That was a priest. Possibly why he was so easily killed.”
“A priest, yet he comes at us with a knife? They have brave priests.”
“He is far from home. The words on him, they were words you would never find this far north; he is from the deserts of Du’ldu. He has never seen our kind. My guess is he mistook us for plodders.”
“Serious error on his part.”
“That it was. Problem is, he would not be traveling alone. The raiding party we have been tracking, they must be closer than I guessed. You wait here, Agapenor, I am going to range a bit, see what I can see. Keep these horses alive. If any warriors discover you, they will take the horses. You, they will save for the blood drinkers. The blood of a human your size would be as valuable as keg of grog would be to you. So keep the horses alive. We will move out as soon as I return.”
“Simple enough.”
“Put out the fire—this priest is burnt enough. Wait in the dark, keep hidden in this thicket, and keep still.”
“Understood.” Agapenor used his boot to stomp out and scatter the last of the fire, smothering it with the moist, swampland dirt. The priest’s body was a smoldering lump. Agapenor walked to the horses and unlatched his axe.
Rhywder splashed through knee-high swamp to a high, dead oak. The swamp had slain the tree, but it still reached barren fingers to the sky, the remnant of a former forest giant, the highest tree in miles. He scaled it swiftly, adrenaline charged, until he reached the top. There, his heart stilled, and his breath caught in his throat. He had found the dread that the priest’s painted spell had inspired. It was not at all what he expected. The land beyond was dotted with a thousand fires—fires that covered the horizon, the hills, the plains, as far as he could see. They were like stars spread over the land. Despite what he had just told Agapenor, to Rhywder’s astonishment, they were here, the armies of Du’ldu, armies unknown and unnumbered.
Anything this large would move slowly, but if they managed to breach Hericlon’s gate, it would mean annihilation.
Something whispered his name.
He turned. There was something small crouched on a limb next to him. It had tiny eyes of pitted stones and leathery skin—overlaid with a wooden skeleton. Perhaps it was an Uttuku body, but nothing like he had ever seen before. Suddenly it hissed and a tiny claw swiped across Rhywder’s cheek, cutting a line of blood. It took him by surprise. Rhywder fell. His fall was broken occasionally by branches and he was able to twist, catching enough of them to land unharmed on his feet.
The shadows seemed to climb slowly, painfully down from the trees and pocket all about Agapenor. He swore it was almost a tangible thing. The horses began to stir. One suddenly jerked its head and screamed, twisting, but Agapenor pulled sharply down on the reins, holding tight. Something flew overhead, its wing beat like the slap of leather being tanned.
“Goddess be near,” Agapenor whispered. He kept between the horses, ready for anything. When he heard someone coming through the bush, straight for him, he readied his axe.
“It is me, Rhywder,” the Little Fox said. Agapenor relaxed.
Rhywder vaulted into the saddle, then took up the reins. “Mount up, Agapenor—something to show you.”
From the hillock overlooking an Unchurian camp, Rhywder and the axeman kept to the shadows. Agapenor stared in awe. A shadow crossed his face like a cold wind, as it had Rhywder’s when he was crouched in the tree.
“Sweet Mother of us all,” moaned Agapenor. “We are all dead, Captain. Their fires have no number. You go on now, let the others know. Me, I believe I will go down and introduce myself.”
Rhywder caught his arm. “Winter is coming, Agapenor.”
Agapenor paused. “What should we care of winter?”
“Hericlon is impassable in winter. If Hericlon is held until the snows, no more than a single count of the moon from now, the Daath and the kindred will have a season to prepare. In a season, we could even escape to the Western Sea.”
Agapenor searched the thousands of fires beyond the hillock. “For Hericlon, then.”
Rhywder galloped at Agapenor’s side. They thundered between jagged rock, through the thick of trees and vine. They circled about the edge of a clearing, keeping to shadows. Rhywder thought he knew a clear path to Hericlon, but it was as though the jungles had shifted. He swore he was following the same pathway back, but soon nothing looked familiar as if the thickets were closing around them, and eventually they found their way north blocked. Rhywder drew up on the reins, his horse dancing for a moment as he searched. The jungle thickets could be so dense at times there was no way to press through them. The only passage offered before them was a gaping hole dripping in moss. It looked like a mouth waiting, like something that might swallow them. At least this was a road; wagon wheels leaving gutted tracks snaked beneath the moss. “Looks awfully tight going in there.”
“I do not see a lot of other choices to continue north. Pretend it is plodder road through the thicket.”
“Pretending has helped you before?” “Works well until you find out otherwise.”
Agapenor urged his horse forward and they rode carefully across the clearing and into the shadows of the mossy arch.
Rhywder knew the jungle. He had felt his way through foliage denser than this, but never had the darkness seemed so thick. The air itself seemed to crawl across his skin, damp and thick. They were soon riding slow, searching their way each step, enveloped in dark fog. Rhywder could hardly make out trees only a few feet away.
“This is impossible,” muttered Agapenor. “It is another trap.”
“We are moving north—that is good enough for now.”
“How would you know? You see stars through this?”
“I sense north. It is a talent, taught me of my grandmother.”
“Way I feel right now, I wish your grandmother were here with us.”
There was a scream, not human. A piercing howl. The trees shook violently. Rhywder looked up. Dropping from the high foliage were howlers. Howlers never hunted humans in packs. Uttuku again, just as the wolves, coming fast, only this time they had not lain in wait. The Uttuku had fresh bodies a long way from decomposing.
“Kill them quick, Agapenor!”
“You saying I should not be gentle?”
Agapenor ripped his axe free. Rhywder reared his horse as one clamped onto his shoulder with picket white teeth. He stabbed it in the back until it dropped off. Two others hit him so hard he went over the flanks. On the ground, he saw the neck of his horse shorn open. As his old friend dropped to its knees, struggling, he noticed one of the creatures clinging to its side, desperately sucking blood from a severed vein.
He heard Agapenor growling as he slew.
A howler rushed Rhywder, moving so quickly it managed to rip out a swath of flesh from his thigh. It left hot, burning pain. Rhywder swore, coming to his knees, then broke the howler’s sternum with the pommel of the short sword. He slit the throat of another. He stabbed the face of one clawing up his leg. One he grabbed by the head and wrenched back, breaking the neck. And that was it. The killing had been quick. There had been no shortage of howlers; they had simply been easy kills.
Agapenor knelt over mounds of bodies beside his dead horse. His tunic was nearly torn away; there were gouges and scratches everywhere. The axeman still clutched his weapon in one sticky, bloodied hand, but his other hand was cupped over one eye. Blood streamed between the fingers.
“Bastards took my eye,” Agapenor hissed through clenched teeth. “I been through motherless dark and killed giants and Nephilim alike, yet it is a damned monkey is what gets my eye!”
Rhywder came to his side and steadied him. “We have to stop that blood, Agapenor.” He wadded a torn strip of cloth and stuffed it into Agapenor’s empty socket, feeling the skull cavity as he did. Agapenor moaned slightly and started to reach up, but Rhywder pushed his hand away. He wound the rest of the cloth about Agapenor’s head and tied off the end.
“No worries, friend,” said Rhywder. “I know a good stone worker in a village east of Galaglea. Best you can find. He can cut you an eye from onyx and sapphire that will leave you the envy of all.”
Agapenor studied him a moment. “You say that as though you believe we are getting out of this thicket alive.”
“We are.” Rhywder helped Agapenor to his feet. “I have seen worse than this.”
“Not I, Captain, not I. We are two and behind us is an army like the sands of the endless sea. They smelled us, you and I both know it. If I were a wagering sort, my guess is there would be heavy odds against us making it through this glade alive.”
“We continue moving north. Forget everything else. Besides, if you were the wagering sort, you would have learned to never think on the odds.” He grabbed Agapenor’s arm and pulled him forward.
“Worse than this,” the big man muttered. “You tell me you seen worse than this?”
“Try to keep focused. West and north there was a Galaglean village—horses.”
“Something wrong in me. Some manner of feeling crawling through me like I am coming unhinged.”
“It was your eye—hard thing, losing an eye. Stay with me, Agapenor, we keep due north until we find open ground.”
“Aye, open ground. Would not mind dying if it were open ground. Or a forest. Forest is good dying ground. But this here, a stinking motherless jungle? Somehow it is Elyon’s amusement I get to die in a place like this?”
“Nobody is going to die.” Rhywder paused to pull a wad of coca leaves from one of the pockets of his belt. “Here, suck hard on this—steadies your nerves.”
Agapenor stuffed it in his cheek. “Never needed anything to steady my nerves afore. There is something unnatural in me, Little Fox. Was those damned monkeys, left some manner of curse working in me.”
Suddenly there was singing—women, voices rhythmic and smooth that seemed to float through the air.
/> Agapenor drew up, stunned at what he was hearing.
Rhywder quickly grabbed the big man’s shoulder. “Ignore that, understand? Do not listen.”
He turned Agapenor and looked dead into his remaining eye. “Stay with me, Agapenor, stay with me.”
Agapenor half-nodded. “Aye …”
“We just keep moving! Block it out, do not listen.”
Agapenor stumbled a few feet, then just stared into the dark. “But … can you not hear that, Rhywder?”
“Agapenor, you are being spellbound. Listen to me!” He shook Agapenor and the axeman finally looked down at him. “Try to keep your mind on something, anything else. Just keep moving; keep your mind on moving north and nothing else!”
He managed to jerk Agapenor back into a run, but after a bit the big man pulled free and stopped once more. It was useless. His remaining eye was glossed over—he was gone.
The lure began to work into Rhywder, as well. It was a choir well taught, well schooled, all young voices, girls. Rhywder was slowly being spellbound, and even though he fought with all the magick he knew, the song twisted through his brain like worms. He glanced up. The fog was gone. Above, the horned moon of Dannu’s last harvest was bright and mid-sky. This was the night of sabbat. It was sacred to all those who practiced Ishtar’s arts, to the Followers of Enoch as well, but here in the south, the sabbat’s song was twisted into mockery and the voices were lacing every word with a siren enchantment. They worked in the names of the fallen, all in vulgar tongue: Abaddon, Asmodeus, Astaroth, Leviathan, Semyazza. And in the background of the vulgar names, one singer whose voice was pure and light as fresh rain sang over and over the known name of Azazel.
“You wait here,” said Agapenor. “I shall come back for you.” He began to push forward through the bushes toward the singing as if he were walking blind.
“Agapenor, wait!” Rhywder circled around in front of him, trying to push him back, while desperately fighting the spell himself. “Those are not girls you hear, they are”—Rhywder paused, unsteady, the song working through him—“witches,” he stammered, “siren song—it is a siren song …”
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 21
