Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  “Let the witch tell us all how to live through whirlers and angel eyes.”

  Hyacinth offered Danwyar a downturned brow. “What did you just call me? Do you really wish to keep prodding me? Danwyar the Bald? Do you?”

  Danwyar didn’t respond. Hyacinth brushed past his shoulder as she stepped into the night. Darke paused to glance at Danwyar with half a grin.

  “One day, my friend, you are going to push her too far.”

  Loch found he was tightly bound in triple-meshed hemp, strong, tied with such precision it was eating skillfully into his flesh. He ignored the pain; it held no interest. But he did let himself pay attention to the oncoming storm. It was curious. It was whipping the sea into high waves, and the warship was cutting through them like a spear, leaving him struggling against sickness. He had not spent time on ships. The Tarshians that had taken him were not only able to navigate deep water, a rare skill in itself, but they were also able to do so in high seas that would swallow most warships like a stone. He guessed this to be the one they called the Shadow Hawk, the Tarshian named Darke. These were no ordinary seamen. But, as well, this was no ordinary storm. It was a storm without thunder, yet he saw the distinct blue veins of lightning flickering through the beams of the top hatch, which could only mean one thing. A degree of the moon earlier, he had been facing the death lord of the south, Azazel, with armies that had no number any man could name.

  Now, suddenly his world had once again turned direction. He still faced an angel, for the flickers of lightning were distinctive. But this one bore out to sea, and it was the Western Sea, which could only mean he was a rogue; he kept on the move. A rogue of Etlantis. Loch could almost sense his name, but he could feel him. He was weaker than Azazel, but this was an angel of the choir, far more powerful than the pirates who were sailing down the throat of his storm.

  He turned with interest when the latch of his cage clicked, turning, and the doorway dropped open. A girl, the priestess who had hit him with the sleeper darts, squeezed past his bound feet, then locked them both inside and set the key in her bodice, between her breasts. Water spilled through the top hatch in icy streams and the spray kept Loch soaked, but he let it keep his mind sharp.

  “I have heard the Daath are resistant to cold,” she said. “Apparently it is true.”

  The priestess before him was seaworthy; she could ride the waves easier than he could; she bore no signs of the sickness he felt welling up inside. And she was also used to the cold seawater, though she shivered when a spray of it hit them directly, pouring from the hatchway above. For a while, all she did was crouch across from him, watching. She lifted her small fingernail.

  “One wrong move,” she said, “and it is nighttime, Prince.”

  “How many wrong moves do you believe I am capable of? The only things left unbound are my eyebrows.”

  “Yes. They have treated you like a piece of meat. Who tied you up this way? It was Storan, wasn’t it? He is a pig. Does it hurt?”

  “It is not supposed to hurt?”

  “Here, I can help.”

  She crawled over and used the nail of her small finger as a lancet to make a tiny cut in his lower lip, then laid her second finger, and what was under its nail, over the blood pressing tight.

  “Feel it?”

  He nodded. It did, in fact, hit him hard—a warm, heavy euphoria. It was a powerful opiate. “If you do not mind, that is enough,” he said, turning his head away.

  “Very well.”

  He laid his head back against the hard, wet wood. The effects were instant, and while it was sweet relief to be out of pain, it was no longer as easy to think or concentrate. “I did not ask to be put to sleep,” he said.

  “You should sleep, actually. While there is time. You will need all the strength you have, I would imagine. For now we are in no danger, Darke can navigate these seas, high as they are, and we are far from the storm you see though the hatchway. It is deceptive; it looks close and yet it is at least a day or more from us. It is an angel’s storm, but you know that, do you not? Yes. You know a lot, more than I, possibly. At least we can hope.”

  “You are saying you people know what you are sailing into?”

  “Of course we know. Do you think you are aboard a Pelegasian merchantman’s ship? This is the warship of Darke, once the lord of all the emerald cities of Tarshish.”

  “Then you are Tarshians?” “They are. Not me.”

  “But apparently all of you are mad. You sail into the eyes of an angel.” She crawled over to him, brushed her fingers though his thick black hair. “Why did you let us take you?” she asked, innocently. “Let you?”

  She kneeled close to him. She had a scent, hyacinths. Her eyes were a beautiful, rich brown. It bothered him that her potion was not only an opiate; it was also heavily laced with aphrodisiac. She was difficult to ignore.

  “I was there,” she said, “in the castle. You know that, you met my eyes. I watched as you sent the second burst of light through the sword of Uriel. You could have stopped us; you could have killed us all. Why did you not?”

  He studied her, but didn’t answer.

  “We might just as well be open with each other. It is a small ship, and we will be together now for at least a count of time. Why not kill us?”

  “Something to learn of you, not certain what is it yet,” he said.

  He wanted to tell her to move back—her powder was crawling through him like fingers across his skin—but he did not want to give her the clue her potion had been effective. Her eyes were painted in dark lines and accented by malachite on her upper lids, much like they had painted poor Aeson in what now seemed a world away. Her lips were a rich red of her own blood. He recognized many of the rings on her fingers. She was a priestess of Ishtar. Her tightly curled locks of dark hair fell down her back and dark shoulders, wreathing her face.

  “I am called Hyacinth.”

  “But you are no Tarshian.”

  “Of course not. I told you that. If you were to sail the Western Sea, off the southern tip of the continent of Mu, you would find many of us. I am going to call you Lochlain—I like it better than the other names you have, such as the son of Argolis or the king of the Daath. I want you to remain still, relaxed; I am not going to harm you.”

  “Harm me?”

  “It might even prove pleasant.”

  There was nothing he could do to stop her; he was bound too tightly. She gently laid her head against his chest. Her hands slid up slowly, sliding over his shoulders until her fingers curled into his hair on either side of his head.

  Before he could block her, before he even realized what she was attempting, she was inside him. She moved through his memories far too quickly for even Loch to counter, and he was trained at blocking his thoughts, turning away such mind probes.

  It was said that every skilled magi learns but one true spell in a lifetime. Some could gain the skill to stop a heart, others could master fire like commanding wind; they could become healers, even able, it was rumored, to bring life to the dead. And though a skilled spell binder could practice much magick and become proficient in a number of arts and bindings, human witches could become true masters of but one, for such power took a lifetime or more to learn. There were, of course, Star Walker Queens who learned the stark knowledge of angels and Nephilim; but this was a girl, a mortal, and a young one at that. Obviously, this was her mastery, because Loch himself had practiced the art and she easily outmaneuvered him, moving much too quickly for his mind to block. She countered his ever move, almost as if she were enjoying herself, so light and swift that it was like a dance. He could almost picture her turning in cat steps, leaping, moving effortlessly through his every memory, every thought, until she was done with him. Finished, she had crawled back to crouch in the corner, though he did not remember her moving away. She had sent shivers all through him, not just in his head, but through his skin, his body.

  “Do you have a name for what you just did?” he asked.


  “I only know it in my native tongue; it would sound nonsense to you, but it mostly means rape. It is a lot like being raped. I can make it hurt if ever I wish. You are skilled. I was surprised, you attempted to block me, and better than any I have engaged before. The band on your arm. A Shadow Walker. You have been well trained. Most of my kind would have been unable to read you at all.”

  She paused, watching him curiously for a time. “Odd,” she said.

  “What?”

  “That the Daath would choose a red-haired milkmaid as their queen.”

  Her words had taken him by surprise. “Do not speak of her again,” Loch warned with a voice that even the priestess could not ignore.

  “Understood, your majesty.” She gestured with a wave of her hands.

  “You are talented, priestess, but you are not as capable as you think. You see the surface, but you miss the depths. As for any questions you have, since you went to the trouble of raping me, answer them yourself.”

  She paused. “You have a temper.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Oh, but I do. One more question, if you wouldn’t mind, just curiosity in me. You have always cursed yourself over it, hated yourself, but do you actually believe you could have stopped them? Only nine years old?”

  He forced himself still, keeping his anger beneath the surface, but his eyes grew black, inhuman.

  “What are you trying to do, priestess?”

  “Those were the two daggers nearest your heart. I needed to know if you could be easily broken.” “And are you finished?”

  “Yes. You handle yourself very well. Exceptionally well. Is this how they teach all Shadow Walkers? To not feel even the most tender pain?” She paused a moment. Something in her eyes changed. For some reason, whoever she was, she let herself through into her eyes. He thought he saw them mist. She wasn’t hiding; her feelings were honest. It left him confused. “What I just did was very cruel. Try to forgive me.”

  He said nothing. He left his eyes dark, inhuman.

  “The red-hair especially. Such loss you feel. It leaves me saddened—no one has ever or will ever love me that way. I wonder of its taste. You are truly a king. I will mock you no more, Shadow Walker.”

  She watched him carefully now, but he did not let her emotions stir him, though he had to curse the potion she had left swimming through his blood. He wanted to look away from her eyes as a tear dropped quietly across her cheek, but he was going to betray no weakness.

  “You want me to leave, do you not?”

  “You should have what you came for.”

  “Curiously, I do not. I came to learn how to kill an angel, but though you are a Shadow Walker, you have taken little blood.”

  “He cannot be killed—the one your captain is hunting. He is prefect by his smell; with a word he could leave us all dust and wind. You should tell this Captain Darke to turn back.”

  “That would be useless.”

  “Then we are going to die, priestess.”

  “Those we are with—they know, as the Daath, how to die well, if it is any comfort.”

  “It is not. My people need me. I am of no use to you. Let me free; I can reach the shore from here.”

  “In these waves? They would take you like a stone.”

  As if to prove her point, the ship rose nearly vertical, then dropped to slam back into the sea before pulling out of the wave.

  “I could stay here … with you,” she said tenderly. “If you wish.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged—no answer. She crawled to the hatch, but paused before closing it. “If you need anything, if you are in too much pain, merely kick against the door. When they come, ask for Hyacinth.” Her dark brown eyes studied him a moment longer, then the hatch closed and the key clicked as the lock turned.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Satrina

  Lamech shielded his eyes against the sun and lifted his foot off the beam of his plough, pulling up on the reins of his oxen. A figure had just staggered from the thicket bordering his grain field. He was not tall, but was powerfully built. He was naked but for a shredded tunic tied to his waist and a rope through which he had shoved a short sword. He was bloody, blood dried all over him, over his face and eyes.

  The hounds spotted him and charged, baying at full cry. The figure, startled, stopped short and looked up. Lamech saw the short sword flicker. Lamech was running, leaping furrows.

  “No! No, do not kill my dogs! Please! Wait!”

  The figure paused, staring at Lamech, then at the hounds that were nipping at him, snarling, surrounding him. “Please! Do not kill them!”

  “You want them—call them off, plodder!” snarled the stranger.

  “Dogs! Dogs!” Lamech screamed, waving his arms.

  It was not working—his dogs were ignoring Lamech.

  “Back off!” Rhywder snapped in sharp command and at this the hounds stopped baying. Most dropped onto their haunches and waited for Rhywder to say more, as if they were his dogs now, but Rhywder just dropped to his knees, then passed out. One of the hounds stepped forward to lick his cheek.

  Rhywder laid half-conscious. It seemed he could smell stew and bread baking, and it seemed he heard voices. He had been dreaming of his sister; they were running through fields, poppy fields in bloom, but then like a dark cloud invading, consciousness returned in a painful, aching fog that slowly came into focus. He had no idea where he was. He found himself lying on a table staring up at a cabin’s ceiling. A well-built cabin, actually, the jointed work was with skill, sealed with pitch against moisture.

  For the last seven days, Rhywder had run through jungle, winded, weakened from loss of blood and sleep. He had been delirious, but he had kept running. He remembered now, thinking he had to reach Hericlon, he had to reach the gate, he could stop for nothing, sleep nor pain.

  Then he remembered the night the women had caught him in a streambed. He killed them all, screaming, working the short sword, his back against the stream’s bank so they could not outmaneuver him. He slew relentlessly, with angled, quick kills—they never managed to overwhelm him or pin him down. They simply could not get past his blade. That he had clung to his short sword had saved his life. He worked the blade so hard he had to switch hands, his right arm wearing out. His left was weaker, not as skilled, but he had trained to fight with either hand and he continued killing until finally, Elyon’s grace was with him and there were no more. The last image left of them was a young girl’s head as it bounced down the river rocks.

  He blinked, awake. He was staring at a girl. She was pretty, with gentle brown hair and long lashes that capped violet eyes. She was dipping a cloth into a porcelain bowl that curled in steam. When she turned she drew back with a start.

  “Lamech—he wakes!” she exclaimed.

  The plodder, minus his hounds, appeared beside her. He didn’t go well with the girl—a plodder with dull eyes and calloused hands. This girl did not look anything like that should have belonged to Lamech, but then, here in these villages beyond the gate, some wives were bought from Galaglea without ever knowing their destination—if so, Lamech was lucky, she was not hard at all to look upon.

  “Can you hear me?” Lamech asked.

  “Yes,” Rhywder answered.

  “We believe you are a madman. Are you mad? Is this the lunar effect working upon you, making you mutter words of wolves and howlers and cats?” “Moon does get to me at times.”

  “So I surmised when I saw you come from the wood! One like you came once before from that wood—walked upon four feet like a dog and died of a fever two days later.”

  “You are saying I was walking on four feet?”

  “No, but look at you, you have lost blood to hundreds of savage bites. They are all over you, all of them from small teeth. Weasels perhaps?” Rhywder paused, staring at the girl. She offered a simple smile. “Where am I?” he asked. “Euphoria,” the man answered. “What did you say?” “Euphoria.”

  “You h
ave named a stinking hole in the jungle Euphoria?” “This is not jungle.”

  “We are near the mountains,” explained the girl. “It is fair pasture land.”

  “Exactly,” confirmed the plodder. “In fact, it was a vast meadow when we happened upon it. Lots of trees for building; it was almost perfect, a joy to behold, hence we named it Euphoria.”

  Rhywder dropped off the table. “You say I am near Hericlon?”

  The girl offered a wineskin. “Drink,” she urged. “It is fresh spring water. You need liquids.”

  “Thank you, but tell me first—how close to Hericlon?”

  “Less than a day’s ride,” the girl said. She held the wineskin, insistent. He thought again it was damned odd a girl this remarkable would be housed with a fool plodder.

  “Thanks,” Rhywder said, drinking long and hard, then handing her back the skin. “I will need a horse. You have a horse?” She shook her head. “I do,” answered Lamech.

  “Bring it, plodder. And get your people together—leave now for Hericlon. If you are lucky you can reach the gate before the armies reach you. I will have them raise the gate to get your people through, but there is very little time, so you must all move quickly. I will ride ahead; I have a warning to deliver to the homeland.”

  “Armies?” Lamech asked, arching a brow. “What armies?”

  “Unchurian armies, about ten hundred, hundred thousand Unchurian armies—and that might even be a shy estimate.”

  “Impossible. Unchurians live in the trees. We have scared most of them off long ago.”

  “Bushmen are not Unchurian. You have never met an Unchurian, old man, and let us pray we can keep it that way because if you do not get your people out of here, you are going to be their sustenance. They crave both human blood and flesh.” Rhywder glanced down. “I am naked—”

  “I have been cleansing your wounds,” the girl said calmly. “Every day, in fact. I have them under control, but many of them continue to fester.”