“However, no need to send warships, the boy can take care of this on his own.” “Very well. I will say, I do hope to see him again. Some do not trust in him, but he was strong, with an inner light. I will pray for his safe return.” “Do that. In the meantime, we have enough to concern ourselves with.” “Aye, that is fact.” “The legions?” “Ready to march, my lord.”
“First sign of dawn you will leave for the hillock above Ishmia, overlooking the river Ithen. I will meet you there,” Eryian directed. “Meet us?”
“Something I must take care of.” “Alone?”
“I need no one slowing me down. I will not be long, by the time you have reached the river Ithen, I will have caught up with you.” “Aye, my lord.”
“Hope for word from the Little Fox; he should return from the southland soon if he is to return at all.”
“We will keep a careful eye, my lord.”
Eryian wondered of him briefly. He loved Rhywder as a brother; it would not be easy to learn he had fallen. But if anyone could keep Hericlon in the hands of the Daath long enough to save the gate, it would be Rhywder. He noticed Tillantus watching, waiting for any command.
“It would seem we are all out of kings,” Eryian said.
“Aye, grown short of them. An odd thing. However, be assured, the lords of the Daath follow your word now. We may be out of kings, but we are not shy of blood warriors capable of holding against the winds of the abyss of Ain should it be required.”
Eryian nodded. “One more thing—we need a swift rider for Galaglea. The Little Fox may have already sent word to Quietus, and the hour is late if he has not, but there is no reason to leave stones unturned.”
“Aye, the Galagleans for Hericlon. But pray we get there before they blunder. Never have put much stock in a Galaglean’s ability to think and ride a horse at the same time.”
“Leave only a cohort to guard the city. The sixth of the second legion will do. I sense Terith-Aire in no danger with the Etlantians to our north, holding the seas, as well. We can safely focus all our strength against the south.”
“I would agree.”
“However, as a precaution, wherever you move the second legion, ensure the chosen are with them, always in their center, the Seventh Cohort of Shadow Walkers as their guardians. Leave their protection to no one else.”
“As you speak, my lord, they have been gathered.”
The chosen were the seventy and seven children of the pure-blooded Daath. In times of threat or war, they were always taken from their families and protected by Shadow Walkers against all possible enemies. The Walkers held talismans against Uttuku, and one of them was worth twenty of any ordinary warrior. They were trained since the gathering wars, and there were no guardians deadlier. When the children were under their protection, not only were they surrounded by the seventh, but they were also placed in the center of the second Daathan legion. If anything wished to reach them, not only would they have to drive through the first and then the second legions of the Daath, but then they would face the Seventh Cohort of the Shadow Warriors, the most elite guardians ever gathered.
“I trust you can manage without me a day or two, Tillantus?”
“You can trust in me, my lord. We will reach Ishmia and the river Ithen. Do not fear the chosen. However, my lord, are certain you wish to do whatever this is you have in mind alone? There are Walkers I could send with you that would certainly not slow you down. I bear no comfort with you traveling alone. These are not ordinary times we face.”
“I make a small target, Tillantus, both swift and dangerous. Do not fear for me; I will be back before you are certain I have left. Until then, assume you are in sole command; Tillantus; assume you are king.”
“Aye, my lord.” Tillantus drew a fist to his chest and bowed his head as Eryian strode past. “Godspeed, my lord. Faith’s Light!” “Her light with you, as well, Captain.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Star Spire
That night, Eryian rode. Leirn was the farthest northern outpost of the Daath, and he rode past it when the moon had reached its zenith. There were small glimmers of fire in hearths from a few of the huddled houses, but most were dark. Dogs bayed as he crossed one field, and the owner of the cottage burst through the door, axe in hand, but Eryian moved unseen.
He didn’t follow the narrow wagon road beyond Leirn, but kept far to the right of it. The country beyond was mostly flat and offered only an occasional tree or scrub as a barrier. There were sand-swept crescent dunes and far to the right were skeletal buttes.
Eryian’s horse flew, low, sleek, the hooves steady but well trained and in the soft dirt almost silent.
He guessed it was near to dawn when he spotted riders—four, riding in formation toward him. Eryian slowed and studied them as they closed straight on, dark shapes against the deep purple hue of sky.
They began to gallop. He saw a broadsword lifted from its scabbard. One unlatched a heavy, double-bladed axe. Unchurian. He sensed they had actually come from the sea, for he knew any that had crossed Hericlon had been killed and there was no logical reason for them to have come this far south. Perhaps they had taken a Pelegasian merchantman. It bothered him thinking they were seaborne more than it bothered him he would have to kill them. Eryian galloped directly for them. The assassins spread out.
He drew his sword only in the last moment, just as they were about to clash, Eryian pulled up on the reins and turned the horse sharply. It danced sideways into them. He opened the throat of the lead axeman as the Unchurian veered to keep from colliding with Eryian’s horse. Eryian then dropped off his mount and crouched.
The other three circled. Eryian took the reins of the fallen warrior’s mount and pulled it close to his own. One of them closed, sword drawn, and Eryian slipped beneath the belly of the assassin’s horse, then behind the flanks where he grabbed a wad of dark cloak, and wrenched the warrior out the saddle, thrusting his sword in and out of the backplate. It was heavy armor and penetrating it had taken more strength than he would have guessed.
The other two realized they had chosen a wrong mark. Just as they turned, Eryian dropped one with a dagger through the neck. For the other he had to unsheathe his bow from the saddle, string it, then steady his aim due to the distance, but to make it difficult, he put the shaft directly through the base of the man’s skull. The Unchurian dropped backward and it seemed a long time before he stopped rolling.
Eryian unstrung the bow and shoved it into the saddle sheath, troubled that there were four relatively minor assassins moving on Terith-Aire from the south. Their mission was probably meant to spread as much unease and terror as possible. Staring at one of the bodies, he was sure of it; they had meant to secret themselves in the city, killing from city streets at night, leaving grizzly offerings until they were finally trapped and killed. He kicked the body over. The side of the dead assasin’s forehead was branded, as were all of the warriors from Du’ldu. The brand was a tightening swirl, the flesh pressed outward, making it look like something glued on. The swirl was an ancient mark of the angels, representing the whirlers, the angel eyes. It could be found in caves and ancient rock. He mounted and paused a moment, his horse dancing restless.
Something else was in the wind, not close, but Eryian sensed it. This one was different, skilled. Even the warlord was going to have to watch his back now. It irritated him. He did not wish to waste time killing hunters from Du’ldu.
As Eryian rode, the arid plains of the north were quiet. Odd, but he felt Azazel watching, not as if the angel were at all close, but watching from far. Eryian watched back, defiant, letting him know by thought he wasn’t fooled by the eyes that followed. If ever they met, angel or not, Eryian would leave a mark not easily forgotten. In response he heard a whispering chuckle. Why did he know this one? What was the history? Eryian tried once more, in vain, for the next few degrees of the night, to pierce the muddied veil of his past. It was real, images that moved like they were painted by some poorly skilled
artist, but nothing he could make out clearly.
There were men who prayed. The seers, some of them, claimed to learn from Elyon, through a whispered voice, truths and warnings and even found comfort in knowing their Creator, but Eryian had never prayed. He was tempted. If seers could speak with Elyon, why should he not be able to, as he had done nothing in his life but follow the charges given him. He could ask that this fog be lifted, allowing him to remember his past. It had never bothered him this way before, so why was it getting to him now?
When dawn came, he rode until he found a small group of palms. He tied off the horse and stretched out for a light, troubled sleep. When the dreams came, he tried to pull out of them, tried to awaken, but they sucked him inward as if he had been caught in a net, dragged into them, and once more he was riding down a shadowy road that soon focused. It was washed in a hot, white sun and Eryian was with the king’s hunting party once again. There was laughter, murmuring, the clatter of horse gear and weapons.
Eryian rode point, possibly the only one in the entire party that was not drunk. They rode in loose formation. These were all of the King’s Guard, the first cohort of the Shadow Walkers, deft and able, but on this day they laughed, and there were women with them, some held in the saddles of the Walkers, others riding beside them. As they approached a wooded stretch of road east of a plodder’s farm, Eryian pulled up on the reins, slowing. Something he didn’t like, something hiding from him possibly, but if it was, it was doing an excellent job. Eryian tried to sense anything, any true danger, but the woods ahead were quiet. Perhaps that was all that bothered him, how they were so quiet. No birds, no animals, no wind in the leaves. It was a small clot of yew and oak, and it did not stretch far. To either side was high wheat grass. Eryian raised his fist and the column came to a halt.
Tillantus pulled up beside him, the big man concerned at the pause. He had a girl in his saddle. He dwarfed her, his big arm about her waist. She looked like a child clutched against his sweated tunic. He frowned at Eryian.
“Something wrong? Or you just pausing to sniff the air?” He was almost drunk enough to fall off his horse, and he shoved his special black leather wineskin at Eryian forcefully. “We will be at the castle in short time and you have not taken a single drink all afternoon. Love of Elyon, this was to be an easy day. It is at the king’s command we drink.”
“You know I do not drink, Tillantus.”
“Damned odd for it, too. Why anyone would choose not to drink the whole of their lives?” The thought troubled Tillantus enough that he took a long drink himself to compensate.
“I want you to ride back; keep close to Argolis. Keep your shield ready.”
Tillantus searched the trees. “For what? It is still daylight half a league from the city. Are we afraid we might be robbed?”
The girl chuckled. She couldn’t have been more than ten and seven, Tillantus forty and six. He had always had this taste for young ones. He once told Eryian it was why he chose not to marry. The freedom of having whomever he wished without being bothered about it was well worth having to cook his own food.
“Give me five men, Tillantus, Rownan among them. Put some able shieldbearers behind the king … some at his flanks, as well.” “What is it? You see something?” Eryian shook his head.
“Smell something? God’s blood, if that stand of wood gives you a problem we can ride east and around it, though I cannot imagine why we should.”
“We can do that, Captain, but I do not think it is necessary. Just taking precautions is all. Humor me.”
“Aye.” Tillantus turned his horse and shouted commands. “We are all of us going to humor the captain now!” he shouted. “Rownan, you and four men ride ahead into that stretch of wood at Eryian’s flank. Ergon, you take some shieldbearers and stay close to the king. You women, you take the flanks here in the center.”
There was considerable laughter over that.
Eryian turned in the saddle to look back to Argolis. He was in the rear. There were two women at his side, and the warrior king who was feared beyond any man alive was chuckling with them, curling his fingers through one’s rich blond hair.
As Eryian rode forward with five of his guard, the dreaded Rownan at his right, he at least felt better about shadows. There had been a growing ill ease in him all through the hunt, but the king and the others had sensed nothing. Earlier, when Argolis had trapped a boar in a rock cleft and closed on foot with a single dagger for the kill, Eryian had suddenly dropped the animal with a crossbow bolt. Argolis turned with a baffled look on his face.
“Something about that boar did not look right,” Eryian said, drawing heavy laughter from all of them.
“Assassin boar!” one of the Walkers had shouted.
Midway through the trees, Eryian began to wonder of himself. There was no movement; nothing stirred. Then he heard the low whisper of arrows, and it cut through him like a blade. He turned in the saddle, sword drawn, but anything he could possibly do was going to be too late. He could not have sensed these shadows even if he had ridden over one—they had trained their whole lives for this one, single moment. The arrows came thick, humming like insects, boring into the staggered line of warriors and their women. Tillantus’s horse reared as darts sunk into its flanks and sides. The big man was thrown, and the only one to take the hits was the girl with him. She screamed, twisting in midair as shafts ripped through her. Eryian dropped from his horse and ran for the king with his shield over his right shoulder. “Argolis!” he screamed.
Those men not hit by arrows turned their mounts and attacked, ripping into the trees without command. The Walkers about the king were slaughtered; the rain of darts was heavy, almost a solid mass. Tillantus vaulted onto a horse and set off at hard gallop into the trees, his heavy broadsword in his huge hand.
When the Shadow Walkers reached them, which took mere seconds, the Unchurian assassins made no attempt to fight back; they had already accomplished their mission. Dying meant nothing to them.
Eryian ran, dodging the last of the arrows. The shieldbearers that lay about Argolis were literally feathered in dark shafts, like the quills of porcupines. Argolis was on his side. Eryian dropped to his knees, cast aside his shield. It was over; the slaughter in the woods had ended, though the Shadow Walkers continued to search.
Eryian and Argolis had been through many years together, all they had lived, the blood, the kinship they had shared … it had ended without ceremony. Argolis was dead, his eyes open, but empty. No last words, nothing. Eryian moaned and began to pull a shaft from Argolis’s chest as though it might have mattered.
Eryian woke suddenly with quick breaths. He cursed the dreams. They had come almost every time he fell asleep since the king’s death, except for the sleep of the little witch’s poison. He knelt for a moment, trying to calm himself, letting the white sun of midday wake him.
He looked up. Something in the distance had moved. It was far, and the horizon was an unsteady image of heat simmering. It had only been a flicker of movement, but he knew he was no longer alone. He sensed nothing and though he could feel nothing at the moment, he knew. It was an assassin, but one deeply skilled at stealth. The assassin had vanished, even as Eryian had caught a glimpse of the movement.
“Come ahead, then,” Eryian whispered, still angry from the dream. He would welcome killing another assassin—a skilled one. It might make it easer to sleep when next he did. He gathered his gear and mounted.
Eryian kept a steady pace through the dunes. At one point he noticed a curl of sand that had drifted to twenty feet and looked so much like a wave it could easily have broken into foam. Eryian rode calmly, occasionally checking his flank. Whatever followed, it knew shadows as well as he did, an expert, which gave him comfort. Though he had not much farther to go, at least he had something to help time pass.
Eryian rode through the night, keeping the horse at an easy lope, but nothing closed on him. The rider kept back, and it was close to dawn when Eryian reached the end of the
dunes. At the top of a hillock thick in cedar and foxtail grass he tied his horse, out of sight and smell. He found a vantage point that offered a good view. He had time to wait. He planned to catch the legions at the river Ithen before they turned east for Hericlon, but he had been making good time, and he could waste a bit now. Eryian sat back against a tree and drew his cloak about his shoulder, then faded into the shadow. Someone could have been four feet away and not have noticed him. For a long time nothing stirred—only a small gathering of gazelle that wandered slowly and gracefully out near the sea. It was beautiful country. If a man rode to the tops of the higher hills not far to the east, and from there, he could see the tip of Mount Ammon on a clear day.
The sun was nearly midpoint in the sky when he finally caught movement. The rider seemed to come out of the heat waves as though he had simply materialized—excellent, he was amazingly hard to follow. He moved carefully, weaving in and out of sight in the distance. He was good, too good to have been an ordinary warrior. Eryian guessed him to be first generation, which meant he may have lived as much as seven hundred years. He wondered what a life lived that long would be like. Were there still memories from the first days? His first woman, his first child? He rode with gifted stealth, silent and steady, never leaving himself open for long. The hood of his gray-black cloak was dropped back and only occasionally did he glance to the ground to track. He most probably tracked best by smell, but the wind was against Eryian right now, and he wasn’t that far from his last bath. Long, straight hair fell across the Unchurian’s broad shoulders, night-black but for a streak of silver to one edge. He remembered now, the streak of silver. All of the elite had it, the first-and second-born. It was their mark, like the silver band of a Shadow Walker, only this was natural, not dyed, but given of the angel by breeding to those who were gifted with the death lord’s blessing. Azazel might even know this one’s name. The Unchurian’s careful movements, his secrecy—he was easily the equal of a Daathan Walker. If not by whatever accident that had alerted Eryian, he might have been a problem.
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 29
