Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  When it hit, the earth rippled in response. Rhywder looked up. The bottom bar of the portcullis was driven hard into the earth; small mounds of rubble were thrown up and the spikes had buried themselves deep, all the way to the first crossbeam. The chain was still clattering inside the winch assembly.

  He stood and helped her to her feet.

  “Oh, no,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  She pointed.

  The horse was dancing, nervous—on the other side of the bars. “Damn!” Rhywder swore. “Why did you let him leave on that side!”

  “Me?”

  “You are the one has a relationship with him! Calling him over, here horse, come horse. Why not tell him to stay on this side of damned gate?” “You talked to him first, why did you not tell him!” “Because I was lifting a three-ton portcullis!” “You cannot lift three tons, Rhywder.”

  “Well, I did!”

  “You used the levers. Do you think I am an idiot?”

  “One of us is an idiot because now we no longer have a horse!”

  She arched a brow. “Technically we still have him. We just cannot use him.”

  “He will be eaten by nightfall.” Rhywder paused now to give her a proper, warning glance, but it had no effect at all. “You know, for a woman, you have a rather sharp tongue.”

  “And you can say that with certainty, can you?” “What do you mean?”

  “I am beginning to think you do not have much experience with women.” “I have got experience!”

  “Really?”

  “Plenty of it.”

  “And how much silver did all this experience cost?”

  “Look, I have had other things occupying me these years, so I give a damn what the cost.” “Obviously.”

  “And that means something?” “Everything means something, Rhywder.”

  “That’s enough. No more speaking. We have lost the horse; now we are afoot.”

  “And it is my fault.”

  “That is correct. Now be quiet while I think.”

  “Very well,” she answered. “I will stop talking and you can think all night if you want.”

  He nodded. “All right, then.” He stepped back. He turned, stared at the gate. At length he glanced back at her.

  “What?” she said. “I am not saying a word!” “You are watching me.”

  “You cannot think when I am watching you?” She sighed, frustrated. “Fine.” She turned. “I will watch him, then.” She stared at a Galaglean whose face was peeling shreds of skin. She shivered from the sight.

  “I know what we need,” Rhywder said.

  “What?”

  “What we need is a good fire.”

  Rhywder and Satrina sat against a wall in the commander’s quarters, watching the winch assembly burn through the garrison window. Rhywder had dropped the crossbeam over the door and had thrown a table up against it. He was chewing on a strip of dried meat. He glanced at her, cut off a piece, and offered it.

  “I am not hungry.”

  “Eat it anyway,” he said, tossing it into her lap.

  He then slid down the wall and eased his head back. Satrina was amazed at how quickly he fell asleep. She guessed that warriors learned how to sleep quickly, anywhere. But she had never been a warrior. She remained for some time watching the winches burn. The fire cast shadowy figures up the side of the canyon wall. She tried the dried leathery meat. It was salty, much like eating a sandal thong, but he was right, she hadn’t eaten in a long time.

  With morning’s light, Rhywder woke her. The winch assembly was ash and charred embers, except for the chain and metal wheels, which were still glowing red. As they stepped into the morning air, it was chill—a winter chill. Below, in the valleys, it was only last harvest, but here it was already cold and bitter.

  They began walking down the canyon, the wind following. Morning’s light was welcome as it trickled down the jagged walls, but it had no strength.

  They had not gone far when Rhywder pulled her aside quickly, drawing them both into shadow. Footfall echoed ahead of them.

  Coming up the canyon from the north side were some thirty youth—one of the tribes of Dannu. They wore leather jerkins and thick, fur-wrapped boots. A few axes dangled from wide belts. They were healthy stock, with streaming white hair and sun-darkened skin. Rhywder recognized the features as common to the southern mountain tribes who lived north of Hericlon. He himself had descended from such a tribe, though his tribe had been higher up in the mountain near the famous lake of Lochlain. Rhywder stepped suddenly from the shadow, directly before them.

  Soundless they crouched and a number of obsidian-tipped arrows centered on Rhywder. He lifted his hand and offered the sign of the word.

  “Calm,” he said. “I am a friend.”

  One of them raised his hand, returning the sign, although somewhat wary. The boy was tall and well built, and despite his youth, his expression was steeled. His hair was long and white, falling over muscled shoulders. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I am kin. I am of the tribe of Lochlain.”

  “Lochlain—” one of the boys whispered.

  “The people of Lochlain were slain by the Eagle of Argolis,” the leader said, “none of them live.”

  “I live. I am the Walker of the Lake, as well as many others. There are a number of king’s guard who were Lochlain. You may have heard of me. I am called Rhywder, the Little Fox, the Walker of the Lake.” Rhywder tapped his armband—the signet they should all recognize.

  The boy gasped. “That is the armband of a Shadow Walker!”

  “Correct.”

  “If you are a Shadow Walker, why are you dressed like this?”

  Rhywder was still wearing the horsehair tunic he had fashioned in Satrina’s cabin. “My clothes were ripped apart by witches.”

  There was silence a moment. The leader glanced to the others, then back. “Prove you are the Little Fox or we will kill you.”

  Rhywder puzzled over that a moment. He stepped back and did a series of agile somersaults. When he finished he waved his arms as an actor might and smiled.

  “What?” said the youth. “What was that?”

  “Only the Little Fox can do that.”

  The boys looked about at each other, uncertain.

  “Do we believe him, then?” one of them asked.

  “We will believe him,” the leader said. “He is either who he says he is, or a very poor circus performer. I am going to take him at his word.” He then stepped forward, bowing. “I am Ranulf. We are a tribe of Dannu, the mothering goddess of our kindred, if you are Lochlain as you claim.”

  “You are correct, Ranulf. I am honored to meet you.”

  “Our seer-speakers commanded us to go to the mountain of Hericlon. We have gathered weapons, and we have come. Mostly, we are good with the bow, but we can use sword and shield, as well.” Rhywder studied them. “And you are young.”

  “Our elders are slain. Monsters, Failures of the giants. Most of our fathers had died fighting them. We are all that is left but the women and little ones who are left hoping we find what is killing us before they strike again. They seem to come for blood, to drink our blood. My queen believes they are coming through the gate unimpeded.”

  “They were. But Hericlon is now a fortress; the portcullis is dropped and will not rise again for a long stretch of time. I will take command of you boys. You, the speaker, Ranulf, I name you captain. Now come, we are going to defend the gate of Hericlon against the coming of the worst of your nightmares and beyond. We will not be bored. And before we die, we may learn something.”

  They had been warned by their high priest, and by the look of their faces, many had already been told the cost might include their lives, yet they had come, for behind them were their mothers and younger brothers and sisters, all they had. They tensed suddenly, angling their bows upon Satrina as she stepped from the shadows. The bows slowly lowered. The leader stared, amazed.

  “This is Satrina,�
� Rhywder said.

  The boy bowed. “My lady,” he said reverently.

  “She is no lady,” said Rhywder. “Just a plodder’s wife.”

  “I am nobody’s wife, Rhywder.”

  “You mean—but what about the plodder?”

  “He purchased my deed for one year. I was his cook.”

  “Deed! By Elyon’s name, are you saying you were a slave?”

  She shrugged. “I was a slave. Now I am … with you. Free, I suppose. I doubt Lamech still holds my bond.”

  “How did a woman like you come to be a slave?”

  “To pay off my father’s gambling debts. He lost a few too many bean games. He faced one year’s servitude, so he traded me to the Pelegasians. The plodder found me on the blocks in Ishmia when he came for his yearly supplies.”

  “And the fool hired you as a cook?”

  “Why not? I cook well.”

  “Just, well, let us say if it had been me, cooking would not have been my first thought in making your purchase.”

  “Of course. I suppose you ‘purchase’ quite a few women, do you not, Little Fox?”

  “There is that sharp tongue on you again.”

  “I keep it in my mouth for arrogant types like you. And what exactly leads you to believe I am not a lady? I could have been a lady. What if my father was a big fat lord?”

  “If he were a big fat lord, he should have been able to pay off his bean game debts.”

  “He could have been playing with other big fat lords. Very highly regarded bean games, wagering everything they had—horses, castles, daughters who are fine young ladies—”

  “For the love of frogs, I cannot believe I am standing here in the very shadows of Hericlon’s vale with an Unchurian army breathing down my ass debating whether lords play highly wagered bean games. I think you are the most unnerving woman I have ever met.”

  “For a Shadow Walker, you are rather easily unnerved, are you not?”

  “All right, that is quite enough.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, besides, we are here as an example to these boys. So enough from you. Not another word, understand?” She started to speak, but he stepped closer. “Not another word.” He waited, daring her. Satrina only batted her pretty eyes. “Good. Now—go stand over there.”

  She backed up. “Here? Oops—a word.”

  “Just stand back while I talk to these boys. They have journeyed a long ways; they no doubt have questions and do not need a woman confusing things.” She backed to the wall. “Good, that will do.” She nodded.

  “All right then. Now …” Rhywder turned and composed himself. It was only then he realized the youth had all been watching, intrigued. “Ignore her,” Rhywder commanded. “Just pay her no attention. Understand?” “Yes, my lord,” Ranulf answered for the others. “And for Elyon’s name, do not ask her questions!” “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, how many are you?” “We are thirty, my lord.” “Thirty. Horses? Any with horses?”

  The boy turned, motioning. From the rear, one led two horses by the reins. Rhywder nodded. “Two. You have brought two horses?” “They—the monsters, they killed a lot of the horses. Most we left with our mothers in case we fail and they must flee the village.” “I see.”

  Rhywder looked back down the canyon. The wind moaned out of it, threatening, and the boys of the village stared down its shadows, uneasy. “What am I to call you boys?”

  “We are Kerrigans. Our people are the tribe of Kerrigan, once a great king.”

  “Well, Kerrigans, your seer-speaker knew the stars well. The gate was in danger and was left open, letting unnamed evil through from the south. We are going to stop that from happening for now. Sooner or later we are bound to have all sorts of company—either from the south or the Galagleans reaching us from the north.”

  “The Galagleans are coming?”

  “If Elyon has been kind, they are.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Firstling

  When Quietus had crossed the river Ithen, he had his priest find a stone for sacrifice. The air was chill for being so early in the season, and the Falcon could see his breath as his men gathered about. The firstling fought the priest, which Quietus considered good. The priest’s cowl fell back as he caught the head and wrenched upward, cutting the throat sharply with an onyx blade.

  Marcian watched, unemotional. They were on high ground now. The tips of pines covered the distant valley.

  “By the lords of the seventh star,” the priest cried, “and through the blood of kings, give us this hour!” The priest lifted a goblet of blood. It steamed in the cool air. Quietus stepped forward and brought the cup to his lips. Such offerings were considered pagan by the Daath and even the other tribes of Dannu, who were Followers as a rule. But this was ancient tradition of one of the greatest of all kinds, and Quietus drank heavily, then turned and offered it to his captains. He watched as they drank. He watched Marcian as he lifted the cup, knowing that Marcian was, like his young wife, now one of the Followers of Enoch. But he drank as the others did, taking strength into his marrow. Still, Quietus sensed something amiss in the Captain of the Horsemen. Antiope was hiding something.

  The fire was seeded with oblation of the calf’s blood. The meat would be divided among the captains. It was time for bloodletting, even if it was to be the primitive Unchurian villagers of the south. A hunt was welcome—vengeance of any fallen Galagleans was welcome, as well.

  “Release the herald,” Quietus said.

  “Aye, my lord,” said the priest. He lifted the black cage of the falcon. The bird within waited with dark eyes for the latch to fall and then dutifully stepped onto Quietus’s arm. Quietus stroked the neck.

  “Let them know I am come,” he whispered.

  The wings unfolded and with a screech, the bird circled into the chill air.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Messenger

  Rhywder strode along the causeway, studying the cleft of the canyon beyond. He turned and watched a corpse rise from the causeway rock, lashed about a briarwood stake, rotted hands tied to a javelin haft, the breastplate and helmet covering most of the dried or rotted skin. In the towers, skeletal archers searched the canyon with what seemed intent and purpose. The blue cloaks of the Galagleans waved in the canyon winds once more; the causeway looked well manned.

  As Rhywder paced, he noticed Satrina catch up to walk beside him. He tried to ignore her—not that he did not like her company; he had, in fact, begun to discover an unnerving fondness for her—but right now he was on watch, with the southern passage to focus on, and for some reason, this woman seemed able to unhinge his focus with little effort. “See any Unchurians?” she asked.

  “Our lives are hanging by a thin cord and you sound as if we might be strolling a marketplace.”

  “Not really. I dread going to market.” She lifted a wineskin from her shoulder. “Like some mead?”

  He paused, uncertain.

  “It is garrison stock,” she said. “Strange ways these Galagleans have. There are barrels of it—no wine, love of Elyon, not even water barrels—just barley and endless kegs of this soupy, sour mead.”

  “You make it sound so appealing.” He snatched the skin, and tossed it to one of the youths, who caught it, startled.

  “Have a drink,” he told the boy, then turned back to her. “Now—if you would, Satrina, I would like you to return to the garrison.” “Why?”

  “I am not used to giving reasons when I ask something of someone.”

  “Even a woman? You order women around, as well?”

  “I give orders because it is my calling and my rank.”

  “Rank is a good word for this task; the smell up here is overpowering.”

  “Satrina, a number of these boys are observing.”

  “And? This means?”

  “They need to know I am their commander—that I command, you get my meaning?”

  “Sorry, Rhywder, boys or no, you do not yet command me. Besides,
there is nothing whatsoever to do down there.”

  “And you think there will be something to do up here?” “You are up here.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “At least there is someone to talk to over the age of ten and six. This passage is quiet enough, nothing out there at all. Why would you not have time to talk a bit?”

  “The Unchurians are eventually going to attempt to take this gate.”

  “Ah, which explains the reason for this overwhelming smell of all the week-old corpses; you are attempting to fool anyone coming from the south.”

  “And attempting to make us look more frightening than we actually are—you, me and thirty youth whose oldest, the captain, is ten and eight.”

  She glanced at the skeletal half-fleshed faces of the Galagleans. “Frightening they are, Rhywder, especially if the Unchurian have keen eyesight.”

  “The idea, actually, is to appear more numerous. They are meant to look alive, Satrina.”

  “More makeup. Maybe some wigs. You have little skill in theatrical arts, Little Fox?”

  “Nor have I needed any.”

  “Until now. Presently it might prove useful.”

  “They stand upright; they wield weapons. Good enough for me. The passage is eighty feet below us.”

  “Good, as well—and lucky for us the wind is coming from the south and not toward it.”

  “Yes, all good things. Now, if you carefully consider my objective of convincing anyone approaching from the south the gate is still held by the Galagleans, then you would understand without my having to explain it that a woman up here chatting with them is not helpful.”

  “That is utterly silly. Galagleans do not cohabit with women? Is that what you are saying? I have never met a Galaglean turn down the opportunity to spend time with a woman, and I have known not a few of them in my day.”

  “I am saying they do not train women to man their battlements.”

  “Who would think I am here to man the battlements? Perhaps I am here for amusement, some company. Could get lonely up here, truth be spoken; this passage is the most god-awful place I have ever been to. Who thought it up?”