Eryian turned from the causeway and down a flight of stairs to the king’s chamber below. There he sprawled in a high-backed chair, watching the shadows of the hearth fire play on the marble wall. There was no solace. Here the shadow of Argolis’s death closed in on him like a haunting. He despised the emotion it left in him, both the piercing sadness of a fallen brother and the rage that he had been unable to prevent it. Rage was fuel in war, in battle, but if it turned, it could also mean a warrior’s death. It overrode even a warrior’s highly trained instincts of survival.
Eryian’s cuirass was stained of Argolis’s blood and in the quiet of the room, the sounds whispered like ghosts; the screams of horses; the swift, stinging hum of an arrow’s flight. For a moment he wondered if it had been personal, if Azazel were not grinning at him from the south, taunting him—you live to suffer your agony and rage while your king is sealed along with the others in their fine tombs beneath Terith-Aire.
Eryian heard voices from the hallway, and then a single thud on the door.
“Enter,” he said.
The doors swung open. It was the boy, Lochlain. He was stained with blood. It was clear the fight he had waged had been desperate, yet the boy bore no serious wounds. One of his shoulders looked bad, but all Loch had done was to tuck wrappings beneath his tunic against the bleeding. Eryian had taught the young scion well. Those were no ordinary assassins that had come against the prince; they had been handpicked to eliminate something no less than an angel, and yet, here he was, barely scratched. Eryian almost wished he could have witnessed the fight.
He had trained Loch, not by order of the king, not by any orders—it had been something of a project he had become obsessed with over the years. This lad might well be considered Eryian’s personal work of art.
When his mother had died, the boy had stopped speaking. He had completely withdrawn from the world, blaming Argolis for the death, and perhaps he was not wrong. Politics had become thickly complicated at the end of the war. There was some evidence that the king had no choice but to sacrifice even the women he loved—though it was far from proven. Eryian wasn’t certain himself how she had died, other than it was poison that took her. The boy had withdrawn so far into the shadows that Eryian had decided he was lost. Should it matter if he took the emotionally crippled youth and instead of watching him waste into shadow, craft him into the perfect slayer? It became a project that soon obsessed Eryian, but one he kept secret, which was fine with the boy. If Lochlain had any inbreed talent, it was that of keeping secrets. Even Argolis wasn’t aware—that or he took no interest.
Eryian had good material to work with; the boy’s blood was pure and one could feel the fires of Uriel’s light flowing through him—as quiet and withdrawn as he was. And there was ample fuel—hatred, a simmering deep hatred Eryian was able to nurse to its full potential. He had worked the boy for years; in fact, he had worked Lochlain his entire life, teaching him everything Eryian knew, every trick, every sly move. Loch had taken to the training with unspoken passion. He spoke little, he never smiled, but he listened to every word, studied every move with keen, quick eyes that missed nothing. Indeed, Eryian had been able to craft a very capable, very deadly slayer. The boy had been a minstrel when his mother was alive, and would have likely become some kind of distant poet-king, but Eryian had changed all that—molded him, turned him from a lyre player into a Shadow Walker of remarkable skill and alacrity. In fact, presently Lochlain’s only weakness was his youth, but given battle, such as he had seen this day, the youth in him would quickly burn off. If he lived long enough, Eryian’s project might well become the deadliest warrior alive. But Eryian believed that would take more years than the boy had to live. Considering the climate, considering the storms working over the skies of the south, it was unlikely Loch would age long enough for his skills to fully ferment.
Though they had worked together intensely, even intimately, Eryian had made certain they shared little emotion. A slayer had no need for emotion, none whatsoever. It was a weakness. If there were a way to eviscerate emotion from his warriors, Eryian would have done it. No doubt Azazel had been able to accomplish just that—bred it out of them probably.
Presently, stepping into the room, the boy showed no emotion whatsoever. Though Eryian could easily read most men, Lochlain blocked any clue. If there was sadness, anger, frustration, none of it showed in his face or his manner. Eryian almost wanted to smile, almost wished there were someone here he could share his achievement with. Perhaps it was cruel, what he had done, molding this boy into a killer. He wondered, in the back of his mind, what had become of the poet—if he was even still alive, buried somewhere deep within the Shadow Walker.
Loch’s night-black hair was tangled and bloodied, but still tied in leather braids. His scabbard was empty. Oddly, in his belt was a Nephilim’s dagger, and not just any Nephilim’s dagger. The giant’s name was inscribed on the black ivory hilt. It startled Eryian. Agrarel. It was the name of the firstborn of an angel lord. As remarkable and skilled as Eryian had crafted the young scion, Agrarel had lived seven hundred years, a mark too deadly to have died at Loch’s hand. Yet, curiously, there was the firstborn’s dagger, shoved though the boy’s sword belt. Eryian wanted to ask, but he wouldn’t and he guessed, as well, the boy wasn’t going to offer any explanation.
“We should talk, warlord.”
Eryian nodded to the guards. They stepped back, closed the doors. “Anything you have to tell me?” Loch asked.
“Those who attacked your father are dead. Two-score Unchurian assassins, all of them archers, though archers with varied and perfected skills. They have been hunted down and eliminated.”
“As well as those I killed near the river?”
“Including them, exactly two score; their leader prefers even numbers.” “Really? And how do you know that?”
“I am not certain, but I know. There are no assassins left alive in the shadow of Terith-Aire, or even within the East of the Land. The death lord’s gamble appears to have failed.”
“The death lord?”
Eryian nodded. He noticed the chain bearing Asteria’s ring was no longer about the boy’s neck. What Eryian had heard of the girl must have borne some truth, though he doubted it would be easily obtained. He had taught Loch to keep such matters his own. But if what his captains had told him was the truth, where was the girl?
“How is it you managed to survive, warlord?” Loch asked.
Eryian tightened his gaze, but offered no response. He knew Loch used the question as a dagger.
“I have a question a bit more relevant,” Eryian countered. “Where is the girl?”
“What girl?”
“The young Galaglean,” Eryian pressed. “The Water Bearer.” “No idea what you are speaking of … oh, wait, yes, there was the harlot, from the village south, Lucania. She was with me this morning. She did not survive.” “You are telling me the girl is dead?” Loch nodded.
Eryian knew there was something hidden in Loch’s answer, yet at the same time he sensed it was not a lie. Eryian attempted to learn more, but the boy’s mind blocked his probe as effectively as a stone wall. Ironically, it was Eryian’s own training working against him. It left him frustrated, but also, proud.
“Our people are out there,” Loch said, “gathered in the streets. Hundreds of them.”
“They have just lost their king.”
“Am I to address them from the parapet or gather them in the square?
What?”
“Eventually you should speak to them. They are your people now, Lochlain. But for today, I have told them everything they need to know. They were gathered in the agora. They understand Argolis is dead; they assumed I was all they had left. My men are spreading the word now that you have survived. They still have a king.”
“What comfort that must give them, since they have no idea who I am. Most of them believe I am touched, as they put it.”
“Is that not how you wished it? To remain a myst
ery?”
“I suppose.”
“It turns out you have done well. If anything, they fear you. You can gain their trust in time. I have noticed that if you wish, you can be quite persuasive.”
Loch crossed to the table of urns and searched over them. “My uncle Rhywder often spoke of a certain wine. Bloodroot. Which would it be?” “Tyrinian wine—it is in the black urn.”
Loch lifted an empty wineskin from his shoulder and poured from the dolphin flagon until he had filled the skin. He took a long drink. “Must be hard for you, Eryian,” he said, “losing a king.”
“As it should be losing a father.”
“He was never a father. You of all people should know that.” Loch dropped back against the throne’s platform, propped one knee. “How did these two-score Unchurian assassins reach Terith-Aire?”
“By being few. Through Hericlon, two, three at a time. Most probably disguised as villagers. The assassins were unusual in one respect; all of them were from the land unknown, Du’ldu.”
“They came that far? Just to kill me and my father?”
“If Azazel had taken out the two living scions of Uriel, it would have been victory. Tidy. He might not have even bothered with breaching the gate.”
“You mean he would have gone home?”
“Destroy the scion: Azazel ends the prophecy, that simple.”
“Azazel—you do not fear speaking his spellbound name?”
“I do not fear him or any of his names. I fear what he brings—his sons. He is moving with them gathered for Hericlon.”
“Can you hold the gate?”
“Only if I reach it in time.”
“How did they come this far so quickly? Is not Du’ldu at the ends of the Earth? He must have been on the march for many counts of the moon, and yet we knew nothing?”
“He is a high lord of the holy choir of the Auphanim; does it actually surprise you he can cross his own lands in stealth?”
“I suppose you have a point. What is our next move?”
“You are now the king, Lochlain. Our next move is whatever you tell us it is.”
“I am hardly their king, lineage aside. In Elyon’s name, you and I both know I cannot lead them in battle, it would be foolish. I can ride at their front, show my face to the enemy, raise my sword as a beacon for your Shadow Warriors to follow. But you are their warlord—they followed you through a war that nearly halved their number. Those that survived are now gathered. The Daath are your right arm; the others trust you without question. They will follow you through the abyss of Ain.” “Loch, you cannot—”
“I am not their king!” Loch snarled. “In time, whatever is left us, it could change. But currently I am nothing more than a symbol, and not one they trust. If such a day comes, I will grow old, pass out edicts, do what is needed, but that is going to take far more than a speech in the agora. For now and until I say otherwise, those people out there—they are your people. As your king I name you counselor as well as warlord. I will do so before them in the square tomorrow. If not in name, then in authority, you are their leader. Are we understood?”
“You seem to have no difficulty at all with command. Understood, my liege.”
“So what is our next move, counselor?”
“My men march for Hericlon at dawn; they assemble as we speak. The tribal warriors to the north will be gathered as soon as riders can reach them. The snow walkers of Aragon will never cross Parminion’s western passage in time to be of any use. That leaves the two legions of Quietus. The Galagleans are close enough to reach Hericlon. If they have been warned, there is still hope. But should Quietus face Azazel alone, even with the gate beneath him, I have little faith he can hold for long. Which means our fate lies with the Daathan legions. It is a week’s pressed march at best. However, should we make it, I can hold Hericlon until winter, and with winter we will survive. Azazel cannot cross, no matter his numbers. So we play a very desperate gamble and that is our next move.”
Loch leaned his head back. He took another long drink. Eryian was impressed, bloodroot was strong wine, it struck most men quickly, but the boy did not seem the slightest bit unsteady. He guessed it was his uncle Rhywder’s blood in him.
“What about the sea?” Loch asked.
“The Unchurian have never been seamen; they build no warships and very few merchant vessels. As far as I know they have no fleet remotely capable of assault from the sea.”
“Do not ignore the sea. I was given that warning.”
Eryian nodded; he did not need to question the source. “Very well, we have seven warships in Ishmia. I will send a rider tonight; they can be deployed along the coast by tomorrow’s dawn. I am certain nothing greater than a raiding party can threaten us. The Etlantians own all waters west and north, and right now they need us as much as we need them. The Light Bearer is no ally of Azazel.”
Loch nodded with a sigh. “Good enough.” Loch glanced at Eryian, offered the wineskin, which Eryian declined.
“You are certain? I would think your heart would be heavy this night, warlord.” “It is.”
Loch took another drink himself. “So then,” he said, “it has finally come to pass. The legends spoken for seven centuries, the curse of the covenant sealed upon the stone of Ammon. It begins with this—a weak attempt to sever the root of Uriel’s seed and now the unknown armies of Du’ldu moving against the Daath. I understand that in latter days this will be known as the winnowing war. Do I speak truth, warlord?”
“You speak prophecy. I have yet to be certain prophecy and truth are the same.”
“Whichever, I doubt either of us is going to see the end of this.”
“I cannot argue that point.”
Though Eryian had never taught Loch of destiny or the spoken legends, he guessed the boy was as well versed as any, having borne the ring of the Water Bearer about his neck for so many years.
“One small matter,” said Eryian. “At dawn your father’s tomb will be closed. Do you wish to see the body?”
“Why? Seal it.”
“Very well.”
“Burn it. Drop it in the sea.”
Eryian stood. Perhaps the wine was taking effect. “I should leave, my king. I should return home. My wife and child may have heard of the assassination and would have no idea if I am alive or dead.”
“Of course, but before you go …” Loch turned and pointed the wineskin’s golden lip to Argolis’s oaken bed. On its coverlet rested a scabbard.
“My father’s sword,” Loch said. “Were you even going to mention it?”
“It is your sword now, and there is nothing I can say of it that you do not already know.”
Loch tossed the wineskin aside. He walked to stand over the scabbard, studying it for a moment. It was black ivory and carved intricately with precise, minute images of horses at full gallop, some enhanced by thin veneers of silver. The edges were darkly stained, polished oak.
“The sword the ancients called the Arsayalalyur,” Loch said. “By word of the seers, it is now bound to me blood and soul. Is that true, warlord?”
“You know it is true, Loch.”
“The mark of the father. Uriel’s blade. The same that guarded the East of the Land, ever turning in all directions with the fire of severity, the light of Elyon’s gaze. Yes, I know all these things, these sayings, but I have seen that weapon in my father’s hand. I have seen him lift it high in parades of honor for all the people to look upon, and having seen his fingers about its hilt, I no longer believe it is legend or prophecy. It is merely a weapon. This cannot possibly be the sword of an archangel. What about you, warlord? Did you ever ponder it was no more than a prop?”
“It is not ordinary. I have felt something being near it. I will admit your father did not seem to draw its power. I cannot say why.”
“Because it is not a sunblade. If ever Uriel’s sword was once in our possession, it has been lost. This is nothing more than an elaborate copy, if not an outright travesty. Either that or
my father did not carry the blood of Uriel in his veins. And if he was not Uriel’s scion, well—neither am I.”
“I have no answers for you, Loch. The sword has always been a mystery to me. Your father did change the texture of the blade.”
“How so?”
“It was silver when you saw it held in parades, am I right?”
“And—”
“If you draw it from the scabbard you will understand. But there is one thing I can say. If such a blade as the sword of Uriel did exist, a sunblade forged of the seventh star, then it would exist beyond faith.” “What do you mean by that?”
“That it would be what it is whether you or I, or even your father, believed or did not believe.”
Loch stared at Eryian a moment, considering. “Always the master. Always the teacher.” “You did ask.”
“Yes. Well, simple enough to find out, is it not?”
Without further hesitation Loch lifted the scabbard. He avoided the hilt on purpose and grasped one cross guard to pull it clear of the scabbard enough to clutch the flange. He then pulled the sword out of it black velvet lining and tossed the scabbard aside. Eryian hadn’t expected that. He had never seen Loch so much as glance in the sword’s direction when it was his father’s, but the boy knew not to touch the hilt. He was not as certain it was a prop as he implied.
Loch carefully lifted the double-edged blade against the fire of the hearth, turning it.
“Weighted, but light for a broadsword,” he commented. The blade was clear, and the hearth’s flame slid off it watery as if reflected from glass.
“I have not seen it like this,” Loch said. “It could be simple glass.” “Not simple. It bears no imperfection of any kind, not a scratch, not a nick.”
“Like the spires.”
“How do you mean?” Eryian asked.
“The high spires of the castle. I have never seen them close up, but from parts of the causeway you can see them clearly. Seven centuries and they are flawless, no effects of weather. Dirt and even dust never cling to their side. Have you noticed that?”
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 23
