Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

“Satrina is trained in herbs and cures,” the man added. “You are lucky. You would surely have died.”

  “Satrina,” Rhywder said, “that is your name?”

  She nodded.

  “Pretty name.”

  “Thank you. I have drawn much pus, but it is laudable pus, a sign that your body is fighting back. You were strong; others might have died. The worst of your wounds I seared with hot oil. It will leave scars, but the wounds are cleaned. You did not feel the pain since you were unconscious.”

  Rhywder nodded. “I am grateful. Excuse me a moment …”

  He took the horsehair blanket off the table he had been lying on, grabbed his short sword, which was nearby, and cut a hole through the center.

  “You have anything like a belt?” he asked, pulling the blanket over his head.

  She handed him a long, purple scarf. He tied it around his waist, cinched it tight, and shoved his sword through it. “I want the best horse you can find, light, fast,” he told the plodder. “And throw in a breechcloth, if you would not mind. I have never fancied riding with naked thigh.”

  “Neither have I,” the girl said. “The burns …”

  Rhywder glanced at her. She smiled back. “Ignore him, Satrina, he is mad.”

  “What if he is telling the truth, Lamech?” she asked, keeping her eyes on Rhywder. A little flirtatious, he thought, considering her husband was but feet away.

  “I know a madman when I see one.”

  “So do I, but I believe you are wrong. In fact, we should listen to every word he speaks because this one bears the mark of a Shadow Walker—he wears the silver armband.”

  “It can easily be faked. What would an elite warrior be doing fleeing naked through the jungle?”

  “But what if it is not faked? He speaks of armies, moving for Hericlon, a lot of armies.”

  “That is impossible. There are not even cities within thousands of leagues. Only jungle. He is mad, Satrina, he—”

  Rhywder grabbed Lamech by the front of his tunic, then slammed him against the wall. “If I hear anymore, I am going to lose my temper, plodder. Now, you listen to me, you simple bastard. There were enough Unchurians on my trail to leave this village ash and fodder in a heartbeat! I am trying to save your pitiful life! Now get me a horse. After I ride, you and your woman gather weapons and prepare your people to ride for Hericlon or you will be feeding worms before sundown.”

  “It is already sundown,” Lamech said.

  “Already sundown …”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have I been unconscious?”

  “One day before this,” the girl answered, “and now till dusk of the next.”

  Rhywder felt a stab of panic. “Elyon’s grace,” he whispered as he stepped past them. He walked over and kicked open the door so hard it snapped the leather hinges. Rhywder stepped out of the cabin. The sun was low, and the shadows were long.

  “Have there been riders?”

  He glanced back into the cabin. “Satrina, have there been riders?”

  She shook her head, looking a bit alarmed. “You broke my door,” Lamech moaned. “You, Satrina! Come!” Rhywder said.

  The girl started forward, but Lamech laid a hand on her shoulder. Satrina pulled away sharply and walked to stand beside Rhywder.

  “What do you need, Shadow Walker?” she said.

  “How many people are in this village?”

  “There are fifty men. Many women and children.”

  “There are more to come next season,” Lamech said from inside.

  Rhywder turned an angry eye on him. “One more word from you, plodder, and I will shove your tongue down your throat. Understood?”

  The man backed farther into the shadows.

  Rhywder turned to the girl. “Get us both horses. We will try to gather in as many of these villagers as we can and find someone capable of leading you.”

  “That would be Urich, he is the leader of this village.”

  “He will do. If your people can reach Hericlon before the Unchurians overtake you, it is possible you might be safe, at least for the winter—provided Hericlon still stands.”

  “Why do you not lead us? You are a Shadow Walker.”

  “I have to ride ahead—there is little time, I must move with all speed.”

  Rhywder watched children chase a wobbly wooden wheel down a wagon-scarred road. Chickens were all over. Gardens.

  The girl suddenly grabbed Rhywder’s arm, pointing. “Look!”

  From the line of trees above Lamech’s cabin burst a host of riders. They came with thunder and heavy horses, cloaks flared, a hundred and more. Rhywder recognized them immediately; they were high-blood Unchurians, a raiding party. They would not be interested in blood; they came to spread terror. They fanned out, trampling the gathered stalks of harvest wheat.

  Rhywder grabbed the girl, pulling her into the cabin. All that was left of Lamech was his ass as he crawled through the back window.

  “What are you doing with a frog like that?” he asked.

  “Cooking for him.”

  “Then you would know if there is a cellar.”

  She nodded, but her attention was focused past him, through the doorway where an arrow looked as if it had been sucked into a villager, throwing him into rows of dry, brittle cornstalks. Arrows now whistled everywhere. A woman screamed, twisting to clutch at a feather shaft imbedded in her back as if it were a bug biting.

  Rhywder grabbed Satrina by the shoulders. “A cellar! A fruit bin! Anything!”

  She nodded, though still staring through the doorway. A woman was beheaded by an axe as the rider swiftly passed by. Headless, her body, for a moment, continued running on its own.

  Rhywder noticed something in the floor. He kicked away a footstool, threw the table aside, and threw open the floor planking by its ringed latch. All he could see was darkness below, but he threw her in. She vanished with a shriek.

  “Stay in there!”

  He turned, ripping a bow and quiver of darts from where they were mounted over the hearth, ran through the doorway, and dropped to a crouch in the shadows of the porch.

  “Elyon, I deliver you these souls,” he whispered, his arrow taking quick marks. He was not killing Unchurians; he was killing the villagers. He was first searching out the children. If there was time, he would take women, as well. He dropped children one after the other.

  He put a bolt through a little girl, through her back, and it tore at his heart to see her blond hair fly as she fell. His next arrow passed through the neck of a young boy who had been staring at the riders, curious. They spotted him now. Unchurians broke off toward Rhywder; the rest were, as Rhywder feared, keeping the villagers alive for torture.

  Suddenly a warrior dropped off of the roof timbers, onto the porch, directly in front of him with a scream. Rhywder sunk his arrow through the Unchurian’s sternum and he dropped to the ground with a puff of dust.

  “Damn idiot,” Rhywder muttered.

  Another came from the side. He was mounted, cloak flaring as he vaulted his horse onto the porch. Rhywder rolled back into the cabin. He brought an arrow to the string, but the horseman reached the doorway quickly. He rode in, ducking beneath the lintel. Rhywder fired the bolt into the Unchurian’s cheek at an angle that went through the left eye.

  Now the horse came at him, hooves flailing. Rhywder rolled to the side, then crouched and quickly jabbed in and out of the heart with his short sword. A wooden chair exploded beneath the horse’s weight as it fell to the side, but the animal also collided against several supporting beams. They cracked. The roof moaned. Rhywder looked up with a gasp. Just as it caved in, Rhywder was barely able to dive in the cellar.

  It was an alarmingly long drop. Surprised, he struck water with a splash. It was wide, a stream, with considerable current. Rhywder would have been swept under by its force had not the girl grabbed his horsehair tunic and pulled him back up. He came out of the water breathless, drenched, and blinked at her, stunned.

>   “A well?” he asked. “I threw you into a well?”

  “It is better than burning.”

  “Burning?”

  She pointed and he glanced up. He was surprised to see flames had quickly taken hold; they were roiling over the wood above the well’s opening. “The casks of naphtha must have spilled and sparked a fire.” “Why would you have naphtha?”

  “Lamech used it to burn trees in the early spring to clear more fields for planting.”

  “And the fool kept it in your cabin?”

  “He did.”

  There was a heavy moan and Rhywder pulled her back against the muddy wall as debris crashed downward. Mostly it was broken chunks of flaming wood. Rhywder was able to shove them under and let the current take them.

  He leaned back against the cut rock, letting the cold water numb out some of the stinging pain left from bites.

  “Might be best you just stay here with me,” she said.

  “By rights I should climb back up, see if I can help anyone.”

  “With a fire above us? Please stay. They are killing everyone. You will but die up there unless you wait for them to move on. You are brave, but you are only one. They are many.”

  He paused. She had a point. “Sorry about your man.”

  “Why would these Unchurians do this? What have we done to them? I did not even know they existed. Why kill all our people?”

  “It is not your fight; it is ours, the Daath. They are here to spread terror, let the word reach the homeland and the gate of what is coming for them.”

  There was a scream from above and she clenched her eyes against the sounds. Rhywder stared at her a moment. She was pressed against the rock, soaked. He knew that wasn’t the place or time to notice, but she had fine tits.

  “What do we do now?” she asked, opening her eyes. They were near tears, though for a girl she was holding up well, better than most women he had known.

  “Nothing for a time. I suppose we have no choice but to wait. Know any good stories?”

  She shook her head.

  “No problem. I have a few.”

  Deep into the night, when the girl had fallen asleep against his shoulder, Rhywder finally looked up. It was almost dawn. The fires of the village that had raged all night were out now; there was only lingering black smoke. Earlier there had been figures moving, still more screams, but now everything had died down to moans. The Unchurians had left, and they had not eaten the flesh; they had reaped terror and moved on. It was a cruel way of waging war, but one that Argolis himself had used on occasion to force surrender of a village. He noticed her bright eyes blink open. “Is it over?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all right, Shadow Walker?” “I am fine.”

  “But you do not look well.”

  “I feel like my skin is blistering—as you said—something to do with letting out pus.”

  “More than pus. There was poison in you. That or the bites were from very foul teeth.”

  “Foul they were.”

  “I wanted you to know that I do not mind that you threw me in here. You did not realize it was deep.” “No. I did not.”

  “At least the cool waters have eased your fever. That is very helpful. I hope you live. You are brave and good.” “Fairly brave yourself,” he said. “No, not me, I was terrified. Am terrified.” “Terrified has nothing to do with being brave.”

  A dim shaft of light highlighted her face; it almost left her looking in her teens, though he knew she was older. It was the button nose and the leftover light spray of freckles.

  “Are we going to die?” she asked.

  “We are not dead yet, which is good enough. Death—dying, it’s not that important.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It is a passage. Dying young, like you, would almost be a blessing.” “I am thirty and two, Shadow Warrior.” Rhywder was surprised. Shocked. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thirty and two? Almost as old as me. How is it you look so young?”

  “Only the shadows down here, I am sure. They must be playing tricks.”

  She glanced up and shivered slightly, not from cold, but from fear. Above, floating black smoke was lit in a dim, red hue by the first light of dawn. He carefully put his arm around her.

  “Whenever I am afraid, very afraid, I often think of what my grandmother once told me. She said one night, showing me the stars, the moon, the clouds—she told me that all of it, everything we saw—was not real. The world, she said, the Earth, it is all an illusion.”

  “And that comforts you?”

  “It is more the thought that this is what Elyon has created, this is how He meant it to be, a winnowing. Within the world, terror is very real. These are the killing fields—the places of harvest. They send us here from the Blue Stars—leaving no memories of home, drawing a veil over our eyes, but the purpose is the harvest, the reaping.”

  “And what is it you believe Elyon is harvesting?”

  “The valiant. I believe that is His harvest. The good, the valiant. But my point is that death is leaving the illusion for the real, for home. Never fear death. Think of it as going home, Satrina.”

  She nodded. “I suppose that could be comfort.”

  Rhywder stepped into the center, the shaft of dusk’s light falling over him. He took hold of the rope that held the well bucket, testing its strength. It had been anchored to a rock just below the lip of the well, which was their luck. It had not burned.

  “I will go up first. With this rope, it should not be hard. Understand, though, things above are not likely to be pretty.”

  “But the terror is all an illusion, correct?” she reminded him.

  “Yes. All an illusion.” He took a tight grip of the rope. “When I reach the top, wrap the rope about your waist, take hold, and then I will pull you up. When you get to the top, I want you to do something.”

  “What is that?”

  “Keep your eyes on me. Do not look around. I have had the pleasure of terror such as this—we are old acquaintances—but there is no good in you looking around. Agreed?”

  She nodded.

  Rhywder began to climb. When he reached the top, he knelt for a moment, head spinning. He was impossibly weak. If they were found, he knew he would not last long in a fight. Finally, he surveyed what was left of Euphoria. Fires still burned. Smoke drifted like fog. Living villagers were impaled and set in various positions, hundreds of them—even infants. It meant the firstborn Unchurians were of such pure blood that the curse of Enoch had not taken them. They were going to be deadly opponents, centuries old.

  He turned. “Ready?” he whispered.

  “Ready,” came an answer from below.

  He hauled her up quickly, hand over hand until he could grip her wrist. He helped her over the edge, and immediately put both hands on her shoulders, turning her so that her eyes met only his. She was a bit older than he thought, but her face was so fresh and pretty, she could easily have been twenty. It was a face he could get used to looking at, and such thoughts puzzled him, considering their circumstances. “Satrina.”

  “Yes?”

  “This is what we are going to do—we are going to walk through the embers to the end of the village. Do not look around. Just keep your eyes on me, understand?”

  Satrina nodded, frightened.

  Rhywder stood, took her hand, and started over the embers carefully. Some of them were still hot. He pushed aside fatigue and began walking fast, long-striding, and she was running to keep up when suddenly she let loose of his hand. He turned. She was staring at an impaled body. The legs had no feet; they had been severed. The man was gagging as the spike kept pushing against the roof of his mouth. Impalement, if performed with skill, could take as much as two days to kill a man. This one was still alive.

  “Tenron!” she gasped, recognizing him.

  “Ah, Elyon’s blessed name,” Rhywder said, drawing his short sword. He slammed it up through the heart of T
enron, then out. He wiped the blood on the man’s tunic.

  “Eyes on me, Satrina. Only me.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her away, walking quickly.

  “Should we not try to help any of the others? There could be others like Tenron—still not dead.”

  “That would be a kindness, but we have no time. Those riders were spreading terror. Behind them will be the main armies of the Unchurians. The armies move much slower, but should they reach us, there will be nowhere to hide.”

  “But wait!”

  He wrenched her arm, pulling her along. “We have no time, Satrina. We cannot stop for anything!”

  “Not even a horse?”

  He stopped. He looked past her, catching movement—a horse wandering idly up the hill.

  “Damn, a horse. Yes, we could use that horse. Just shut your eyes. Do not move, wait right here.”

  “All right.”

  Rhywder crouched and carefully ran for the horse, his feet soundless. When he was close, it reared its head, shook out the mane—the night had left it clearly terrified. Spooked, it was about to bolt, but Rhywder held up his hands, fingers spread, palms outward. “Wait,” he urged with practiced tone. The horse paused. “Careful, boy, easy on … we need each other, my friend.” Rhywder leaned forward slowly and carefully managed to take the dangling reins.

  He rode back for Satrina who was waiting as though it were winter, arms wrapped about her shoulders, eyes clenched tight. She opened them slowly and looked up.

  “Did … did you just talk to this horse?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You can talk to horses?”

  “Anyone can talk to horses. It is getting them to listen that is the trick.”

  They had ridden through the day, but as the night sky began to draw down, he could see Hericlon’s peak ahead of them, like a far, ice finger. Rhywder was by now having trouble staying in the saddle.

  Satrina had notched her hands into his belt, laying her head against his back, and drifted in and out of half sleep.

  He was finding it a struggle just to keep from losing consciousness. He kept the horse at a steady pace, but it was getting hard to stay focused. Whatever poison was in him, it played images through his mind, such as his sister when he was young. Asteria. She had been filled with such light. When she was born, he remembered that people would not look in her eyes. They were black, like night, and she was small, baldheaded. The Asteria child could turn and look right through someone’s soul. He had seen adults actually back away. His mother had told Rhywder that it was because the veil was still thin with her. It was why Asteria still saw heaven and knew its secrets.