Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  “May as well discover why we are here,” the captain said, starting toward it.

  Storan fell in at the captain’s left, Danwyar to the right.

  The tent flaps of the pavilion were open, fluttering in the silent wind. Within was the dark image of a man. He seemed to be the only thing inside, a single figure sitting on a square black stone.

  To the rear, Marsyas trudged with a silent Loch balanced over his muscled shoulder, Gryn beside him, and Taran keeping the flank covered, watching behind them as they walked.

  They were halfway up the beachhead when suddenly Danwyar noticed something.

  “Look about us,” he said. “Mounds, fresh-turned earth. Believe we found the crew.”

  Darke paused. Both to the left and the right were orderly mounds planted in the black dirt. They had been following what was almost a path up the middle of them.

  Danwyar lifted his already loaded bow, leveled it off, and buried a shaft into the center of a mound. In recoil, a human hand reared from the earth, fingers groping. It was a giant, an Etlantian of the second or third generation.

  Hyacinth, near it, did a quick back step.

  The hand fell limp.

  “Thought you said you sensed nothing living, priestess,” said Danwyar. “That one seemed to have some life in him.”

  “No life, although I would not dismiss some manner of spell binding.”

  “Might be best we take the time to kill them all twice before going farther, perhaps it would eliminate any spells.”

  “Or perhaps it wouldn’t and we waste the afternoon,” answered Darke. “Leave them. Let us move on and see what waits in the pavilion.”

  Danwyar gripped the shaft of his arrow and wrenched it free and reloaded.

  Darke continued on toward the pavilion. He pulled his cloak back and withdrew the Daathan sunblade. It seemed strange, wielding a sword of glass. It looked fragile, as if it were used against anything of substance it would simply shatter. However, it was perfectly weighted. It was a double-edged broadsword but unlike other broadswords, which required a good deal of strength to use and having the disadvantage of wearing out its user quickly, the sunblade was much lighter, about the weight of a typical long sword, much easier to wield and not nearly as strenuous.

  In truth, Darke had kept the sword only to see if the Daath had any salt in him. If this were his blade, a sunblade of lineage, nothing would stop him from taking it back given the least opportunity. The captain didn’t plan on making it difficult if the boy tried, but he did want to see how quickly the Daath moved. If this one moved anywhere near as fast as his warlord, perhaps they had a chance in all this. He was well aware the most probable outcome of this expedition would be their death. The only chance they really had, the gamble Darke had taken with his own and his crew’s lives, was that the Daath would be more than he looked. He was well built and solid, but too young to be astute in battle, with pale blue skin that made him look almost sickly. However, the king did wear one of the plain, darkened silver armbands the Daath used to mark their elite, those they called Shadow Walkers. He must have had some training to have obtained it. Darke doubted warriors as deft and proud as the Daath handed out such armbands without discretion.

  Darke took a stance before the pavilion and angled the Angelslayer’s sword. The angel hadn’t taken the time to use a human to construct the pavilion this time. It was ordinary silken red with golden borders, rich, but not extravagant.

  The priestess crouched to his left and stood ready beside him, if anything she was fraught with anticipation. She was going to take a position near the Daath when Storan set him down. She had far more faith in the Daath than did Darke, but then he had not walked in the king’s skin. This time Hyacinth had brought along a different crossbow, made from her own drawings by a Pelegasian artisan who had heavily overcharged Darke, thought perhaps it was worth it. It had a bolt feeder that could auto-load and fire ten small bolts at a time. It was light, small enough for her to wield with one hand, and was constructed of polished yew. To either side were two chambers loaded with bolts that could be snapped in place when the top chamber was empty, giving her thirty shots with hardly a reload. With her array of poisons, in tight quarters, it was amazingly effective.

  Danwyar took position at Darke’s right. He held his bow to the side, near his hip, one of the silver arrows loaded and at the ready. They were hardwood arrows on the inside, but Danwyar took the time to coat them in silver so they always left his mark on the kills. He had two scabbards full of them, one on either hip.

  Storan stepped to Darke’s left as shieldbearer. He would cover Darke’s sword arm, as well as use the heavy axe with his right. It was more of a two-handed axe, and eventually, whenever Storan’s arm began to wear out, he would toss the shield and use both hands. Either way, he was ever his king’s guardian. In tight battle nothing had ever gotten past his shield or his axe.

  Taran kept back a few steps from the rest, along with Marsyas, to guard the rear. The Rat was a ranger. He never fought in tight quarters with the others, but ranged for the best position to use his fire bags and daggers. The daggers would burst to flame when he flung them, and he refused to show anyone the secret of his mixture that flamed just from being thrown.

  “Set the Daath well in front of us,” Darke said. “He is, after all, our offering.”

  Marsyas set Loch on his feet, still bagged, in front of the pavilion. The Etlantian then stepped to the right and drew his war hammer. Hyacinth quickly moved to Loch’s right.

  “Hyacinth, back with the others.”

  “I will take my chances here,” she answered. Again she made it clear that though she had the privileges of being one of his crew, she was no Tarshian and not someone he could command. It had often amused Darke, though this time it irritated him.

  All of the crew took their fighting stances, ready. Inside the sack, Loch was moving. He unsheathed the sword and slipped the shield off his back.

  “Satariel!” Darke cried. His voice echoed away into the black rock.

  From within the pavilion came a cackle. It could have been an old woman.

  “I have your scion,” Darke said.

  “Is he sacked?” asked the voice.

  “He is sacked. Where is my son?”

  “Here—with me. But first, we deal with the Daath.”

  “He is in the sack, as you asked.”

  The pavilion’s silk burst into flame. It had no purpose but to distract them. The real threat was the ground directly before Loch. It erupted, flinging bits of black earth and rock; something was rearing up out of the Earth.

  Hyacinth took a few steps back, leveling her crossbow, which left Loch the only one before the emerging creature.

  Loch finally moved, and as Darke had hoped, he moved very quickly. His sword slit open the sackcloth. He turned, used a wrist grip, twisting the sword out of Darke’s hand. Darke doubted he could have resisted even if he tried; his wrist shot a burst of pain up his arm. He had made the move so quickly, Storan hadn’t even had time to react, though Danwyar’s arrow tip tracked him, and could have easily taken him out. Loch tossed Darke the double-edged iron.

  A scaled hydra reared from the black earth and was coming to life, separating into three serpentine heads, weaving deceptively among each other. Its focus seemed to be Loch alone, as if the others were not even present.

  “My apologies, Captain,” Loch shouted, taking a stance before the hydra, “no offense—we are all in this together.”

  “None taken,” answered Darke.

  “God’s blood,” Storan moaned. “Any of you see the hydra? Is this really a good time to chat?”

  “The rest of you keep back,” Loch said. “The blood is like acid.”

  “Aye, majesty,” grizzled Storan. “We will be careful as we can be!”

  Each of the three heads flickered tongues wrapped in tiny cords of flame. They all wove in different directions, striking for Loch, but the Shadow Walker effortlessly dodged them.

/>   Darke watched with interest. Loch was making it look simple, but he knew it was not; this was no ordinary beast, and was feared by most men as one of the deadliest serpents known. Danwyar was about to fire, searching out the hydra’s heart, but Darke set a hand over his wrist, lowering the bow.

  “Love of Elyon, will you kill the damn thing!” Storan shouted.

  Loch grasped the hilt. The blade of aganon flashed from crystal to a searing white, as if it had been held over coals for hours. The king tracked the hydra’s movement a moment longer, dodging the strikes, then stepped forward and severed all three heads in a matter of seconds, the sword flashing, heads spinning into the air. Each stump immediately began to sprout new growth, green/gold snouts pushing out of the blood that boiled about the severed flesh. When the blood hit the ground below it sizzled, the acid sinking burn marks through the black rock. Loch slammed the flat of the blade over the stumps one at a time. The blade was obviously very hot; with barely any pressure it instantly seared each stump to a thick, blackened scar. He had to hack off the last head a second time for it had nearly reached maturity. When the last stump was seared, he stepped back and watched. The body, spellbound to begin with, shivered, withering quickly, collapsing, leaving what looked to be freshly shed snakeskin. Scrambling, Hyacinth gathered the scattered teeth and crammed them into a deerskin bag at her hip.

  “Suppose he has proven some worth, Captain,” observed Storan.

  “I mean your captain no offense by taking the sword, helmsman, but we must use every advantage. The angel has laced this island with traps. He is a coward. He only watches from the distance. His traps, however, will prove very deadly—watch all directions and ignore nothing that moves or shifts.”

  Darke was staring at the figure seated on a dark stump of rock in the ashes of the pavilion as it slowly lifted its head, looking up. It was the face of Lothian. The angel had done as he promised, he had delivered Darke’s son. Lothian wore one of his old leather jerkins, worn and stained, and wide, looped boots Darke recognized. He also wore his Tarshian sword in the sheath Darke had hand-carved from leather and reinforced with silver studs. Long, rust-brown hair fell over the shoulders. But there the illusion of normalcy ended. His eyes were gone, and he was searching blindly. They had been torn out only recently. Blood streaked his cheeks. But it would not have made any difference. His skin was leathery and tight against the bone. He was nothing more than a corpse, weeks old.

  “Who is there?” the figure asked. Lothian’s voice—still strong. “Father, is that you?”

  “I am here, my son, do not move.”

  “It is you! But do you not know this bastard has laid a trap, many a trap, Father? You should never have come for me. I am not worth the lives of you and your crew. There is no way off this island.”

  “What has he done to you?”

  Danwyar was crouched, searching for any target, anything that moved. Marsyas had stepped back and turned in every direction, searching behind them. Hyacinth remained near Loch, and Taran had positioned himself on her left to protect her, the shadow of his oval shield over her shoulder.

  Loch watched the figure in the pavilion carefully.

  “Tell me what has happened to you, Lothian,” Darke said.

  “I know not. A curse spellbound of the Watcher. He took my eyes this morning, using only the nails of his fingers. He has enjoyed himself for seven days as I watched my skin wither just as his is withered. I believe I am dead, days dead, and yet my soul is bound to my body and will not ascend. As well, the dying of my body has been such pain it is beyond endurance.”

  “Help him, Loch,” said Darke. “Break the binding; give him heaven.” “I will, Captain. All of you please stay back.”

  Loch stepped over the withered skin of the hydra. Winds stirred as he walked across the charred platform of the pavilion. The head of Lothian studied Loch with its melted eyes, as a blind man searches.

  “I feel you. I can sense you. Who are you, warrior?”

  “I am Daath, a Shadow Walker, Lothian. Take faith—your pain will soon end.”

  One hand of the corpse gripped the arm of the throne; fingers gripping, stretched out and gripping again, over and over. The empty eyes tried to follow Loch as he stepped back and to the side, studying Lothian carefully. Loch finally stepped directly in front of the pirate and with a flick of the sunblade, sliced opened the chest cavity. Lothian cried out as his chest spilt and gaped wide, the shrunken muscles and skin pulling open the ribs. It was dead, all of it but the nerves, which continued to feed the poor Tarshian pain. Near the edges of the ribs, his skin curled back like rolled papyrus. The lungs were withered, the bowels dried as a rope, knotted along its edges. The organs were black and shrunken. There was no blood; everything was so dry it looked ready to crumble like ash—except for the heart. The heart was being kept red and blue and alive; beating strong, as it had in life. Curled about it was a small, green serpent. Seeing Loch, it reared its head, flicking a bright red tongue with a hiss.

  There was a whispering chuckle that swiftly circled them like wind, coming from different directions at once—the angel mocking Darke. The captain tried not to let it affect him, but it did, his lip curled in a snarl.

  Without hesitation, Loch lopped off the serpent’s head with a slice of the Angelslayer’s tip. As the tiny serpent fell away, Lothian moaned and instantly his corpse collapsed. It sagged to one side, dropped to the platform, finally lifeless, the rags of clothing fluttering in the wind.

  “Sorry for your loss,” said Loch, stepping back, “but his soul ascends; he returns home.”

  “Wait,” said Hyacinth. She crept closer to where Lothian lay on his side. The body was still, but the jaw was working. The ribs were spreading outward, the organs swelling. The brain matter was growing so quickly it was squeezing through the orbitals of the eyes.

  “Something spawns,” the priestess warned.

  Loch took her shoulder and pulled her away, shoving her behind him.

  “Going to be a circus soon,” said Storan, “courtesy of this Star Walker prick.”

  Darke threw his head back. “Satariel!” he cried, furious. “Face us! Where are you, coward? You are an angel! We are mortal; dare you not show yourself? Face me, you bastard!”

  There was a growing sound of humming, like insects. Hyacinth backed away, close to Darke’s leg. Loch watched the dried organs swell, growing, wriggling. He stepped carefully.

  “Take up shields,” he warned, angling the one given him toward the corpse. It was a large oval shield, thankfully in this situation more than a buckler.

  Taran lifted his large oval shield and pulled Hyacinth to his side, covering them both.

  “You know what this is, Daath?” asked Darke. “I do not, but it will be like hail coming at us. Guard exposed flesh.” Loch stepped near Danwyar, who still searched with the tip of his bow. “That will do you little good,” said Loch.

  Danwyar glanced at him, irritated, but with the bow still strung, he angled it to the side with one hand and pulled his buckler from his back.

  “Guess is it good we brought you along,” he commented.

  “Much better to have never come,” Loch answered. “He has little interest in you. It is doubtful he would even have hunted you. He is obsessed only with his own fate.”

  “Does anyone think it best we leave this pavilion?” asked Danwyar, “or maybe we wait for lunch and some wine?”

  “Back step slowly,” said Darke, “shields at the ready.”

  Lothian’s spleen was the first to split open. What looked to be blood became thirty to sixty small winged creatures, fat as bumblebees, red as pomegranate seeds. They closed on Loch first, since he was foremost. He brought his shield up, crouched behind it. The pirates continued to back away. Loch looked to be turning back fire. As they struck his shield they splattered with bloody explosions.

  Those that spilled past Loch streamed for the others. The Tarshians were quick, their shields blocking the fliers, but occasionall
y one of them caught flesh. One hit Marsyas’s shoulder and bore in, whirling, drilling. He snatched it with his fingers and ripped it out, throwing it aside.

  But they seemed little interested in the pirates, or in Loch. They continued streaming, and it was Danwyar who first noticed their objective.

  “The mounds!” he cried. “They are going for the Etlantian dead—they are not even interested in us.”

  “Quicken your pace,” Darke commanded. “Loch! Get out of there. Keep with us.”

  Loch did; keeping his shield over his shoulder, he ran to catch them. All of Lothian’s organs had swollen to bursting now. The air was filled with the swarms of fat fliers. They soared over and around the Tarshians, still colliding with shields and taking any flesh they could find. Gryn swore as one hit the back of his hand, then bore through and kept going, leaving a bloodied hole.

  One hit Darke’s thigh, and Hyacinth was close enough to pick it out with the tip of her dagger. Once they caught the smell of the buried Etlantians, they seemed to be of one mind. They avoided the pirates and began going for the buried mounds, each choosing a different mound, hitting the dirt with splats and puffs of earth, and whirling as they bore downward.

  “They have no further interest in us, Captain!” Danwyar screamed.

  “For the ship!” shouted Darke. “Keep together, circle, guard all sides, but double-time for the shore!”

  In a pack, keeping together, shields surrounding them, they were quickly moving through the rows of planted corpses.

  “Break and run?” Danwyar queried.

  “No,” countered Darke. “It is what he expects. Keep together.”

  They moved in a group, all but Fire Rat; he chose distance. He had no shield, no weapons except for a long-bladed dagger and the rope that served as his belt, and so he ran, sprinting, his bags bouncing off his back. To use his weapons effectively, he needed distance.

  Suddenly he paused. His path was blocked. A pustule shot up out of the ground, then blossomed quickly, shooting skyward in mere seconds, first a short bush of thorny branches, then stretching limbs for the sun, arching upward like a man standing from a squat. The Fire Rat was taken, mesmerized—he had to see what happened.