Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  “Etlantians, and they created it for the purpose of life over death, with life the preference—and pray Elyon we are granted such a preference.”

  “You pray to Elyon?”

  “I did not say that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Satrina—”

  “And as for having a woman up here, we could ask these strong silent types who are losing most of their skin, and if they could answer, I seriously doubt they would mind my being here at all.”

  “If you were to ask and they were able to answer, they could explain what women are good for: raising children, cooking—your specialty worth an entire year’s gambling debt—cleaning up, and otherwise keeping to themselves.”

  “You forgot something the Galagleans would have placed at the top of their list.”

  “That, as well—but there are young lads about.”

  “Rhywder, you do not know the first thing about women. Not in the slightest. Why bother even trying to fool me?”

  “I am not trying to fool you. I am trying to fool the Unchurians, and if they see you standing here chatting, it could compromise everything I have been working on all morning. You think it was easy getting these bastards to look deadly?”

  “Did you say dead or deadly?”

  “Satrina—”

  “Besides, I have spent time in military outposts, and I am not as innocent as you assume. Your idea is just silly. These poor creatures were once full-blooded Galaglean. I assure you they would not give a damn about a woman disturbing their ‘battlements.’ In fact, they would be trading rude jokes and having a good laugh. Likely, they would ask me to dance. Do you want me to dance for realism’s sake, since that is your objective?”

  The boys at the archer ports waited, eager for Rhywder’s answer.

  “No.”

  “Really? You have not seen me dance. I am quite good, you know. And look about, some of these guardians of the gate still have active flesh and blood. Let us ask them. Boys, have you ever seen a Pelegasian bar dance?”

  Out of fear of Rhywder, most of them did not answer, but one of them to the rear said, “No, ma’am, we have never seen a bar dance.”

  “We have never seen a bar,” another added.

  “Then I think you should be treated to a dance. What do you think, boys?”

  They could not hide their answer, despite Rhywder’s grim look.

  “Here we go then,” Satrina said. “I will need some clapping, pretend there is music, some flutes, a lyre or two, even a barrel drum. Ready? Let’s clap now.” She started them off leading them in cadence before Rhywder could complain.

  Legs kicking high, spinning as her skirt swirled, Satrina did a lively Pelegasian bar dance, of which Rhywder had seen many. She lacked a bar to be on top of, but she was not at all lack for legs or cleavage, and even Rhywder had to admit she was an excellent bar dancer, perhaps one with a little too much experience, leaving Rhywder to wonder even further about her past. A cook, a dancer as good as any well-tuned harlot, a rich gambling lord for a father, and a face as innocent as fresh rain. Then there was her sharp tongue and an accent indicating she was well schooled, probably raised in the upper quarters of a larger city, either Etlantis or Terith-Aire. She was no village girl. The boys were breathless as she lifted her skirt to kick her legs high with a yelp that would have brought heavy howling and applause in a good dockside tavern.

  “You have to be in a big bar,” she said to the boys, “packed with lots of smelly Pelegasians and merchants who have been stuck at sea for whole counts of the moon without sight of a woman. By now there would be cheering and clapping and I’d have coins all about my feet to collect later. Fact is,” she added with a spin, “if these fellows propped on sticks did not have their faces rotting off, they’d be banging their shields and stomping their feet in time with your clapping.” She glanced to Rhywder. “Even here on the battlements,” she added.

  “You have made your point,” Rhywder said calmly. “I suggest you stop before these poor boys are unable to sleep for a week.”

  Satrina stopped the dance with a last twirl and stared at Rhywder, grinning with her hands on her hips.

  “Where exactly are you from?” he asked.

  “My father was a lord of the mother city. He raised his fortune selling tapestry hangings, the best you could find in all the Western Sea.” “A rich father, yet you dance like a—”

  She waited for his wording, since he was so sensitive of his “lads.” “Like a well-trained dancer.”

  “I have had to make my way using all my talents, Rhywder. As I said, my father was a hopeless gambler and unskilled at it, as well.” She glanced at one of the corpses. “You know, the smell here is just too much. I suppose I will return to the garrison. When should I expect you?”

  “Expect me?”

  “Back, to your captain’s quarters, which I have cleaned and which smells vastly the opposite of this causeway battlement.” “I would tell you if I knew.”

  “Gets awfully boring down there. Tell you what, answer me a few questions and I might feel more satisfied about leaving, giving you some things to think over.”

  “About me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why do you want to know about me?” “I like you.”

  There were snickers. They were, after all, just kids. “You actually want me to answer questions?” “Yes. Questions I think up.” “And then you will leave?”

  “You and your decaying troops can guard over the passage without a woman in sight.”

  “Very well, I will grant you two questions.”

  “Three.”

  “Fine. Three.”

  She paused, thinking. “All right. First question. Have you ever had a lover? And I do not mean some hired bar wench at the end of a hard day—I mean an actual lover whom you spent more than a night with?”

  “And this is relevant because?”

  “Because it is my first question.”

  “If you must know, I like women. I like them a lot. Life would be a damned sight less bearable without them. But as for being attached to one—and boys, since you are all listening—not advised. They tend to be clingy. Start thinking they can tell you what to do, how much you can drink, how long you can stay out at night. That sort of thing. Not recommended, lads.”

  “So the answer is no?”

  “Yes, the answer is no.”

  “Okay, second question—I have three, correct?” “You do.”

  “Tell me about your mother.”

  “Her, I lost her when I was young. I cannot remember her face.” Rhywder paused as a gust of wind caught and swelled from the south. He sniffed it for Unchurian scent. “I used to think I missed her, but how could that be? I was only six. I cannot even remember her name.”

  “That is sad.”

  “Yes, it is sad. One more and you are out of questions. Use it wisely, Satrina.” “I will. Let me think. Ah, last question: how do you feel about children?” “I dislike children.”

  She sighed. “I am certain that is a lie, Rhywder.”

  “I am not lying, I am telling you straight out. I dislike children.”

  “No, I think you like them just fine, in fact, on occasion, visiting some married friend, I image you playing with them. You have, have you not? Tossed the ball. Chased hoops. Deny it, swearing honestly as you are.”

  “I have not sworn anything.”

  “Well—are you denying it or not?”

  “Very well, on occasion I put up with them. But I have limited patience. So then, all out of questions now.” “Guess I am.” “You are.”

  “Guess I will leave then.”

  “Good-bye, Satrina, it has been nice talking.”

  “Really?”

  “I suppose it has. Let us not make it a habit, however, particularly on the battlements.”

  “All right.”

  She walked backward a moment, smiling, then turned for the stairways. Rhywder watched her leave, watched her walk, the
way she swayed. Curious creature, she was. More curious than he had encountered in a long while. He found it amazing he had pulled her out of a well in a tiny village of idiotic Galagleans trying to plant crops and wheat in the southern land of the death lord. He was even more surprised she was an Etlantian. There were several human enclaves clustered about the mother city of Etlantis. They were well protected under the care of the Light Bearer for now, but he wondered how long before Enoch’s curse would turn on them, as well.

  Rhywder looked up at the approach of Ranulf. He had just come up the dark stone stairs from below and seemed pressed with purpose.

  “Captain,” Ranulf said respectfully.

  “Yes?”

  “It is a message. A carrier bird. He circled and landed near the stockade where we have drawn in our horses. This was in its leglet.”

  Rhywder took the tiny scroll and carefully unrolled it. “Was the bird a falcon?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “The cook’s steward must have reached Galaglea—amazing, though I did give him every chance I could manage. This is the signet of Quietus. He would have sent this dispatch once he had crossed the Ithen. He is close, then. Hear that, lads! Good news—Quietus is on the march. He will drag along at least a full legion.”

  “How close?” asked Ranulf.

  “From the Ithen, a day or perhaps two—depends on whether or not he presses the march. Quietus tends to be excitable. We should expect them soon, which is Elyon’s grace. A legion behind this gate, it can hold until Eryian arrives with Daathan troops. Over the fires tonight, we should celebrate, find the best victuals we can manage and perhaps, though you are lads, drain a bit of this Galaglean grog. If Eryian reaches Hericlon with Daath, we will hold through winter. There could be no better news.”

  “I think the mountain will ice early this year, my lord,” Ranulf responded. “There are already drifts from the upper peaks.”

  “That is good, Ranulf. It may just be possible things are not as grim as I imagined. If this turns out well, you boys will be remembered in song, I shall see to it. You are brave making this stand, only thirty of you, sent by your mothers and the seer of your tribe. I will see to it even if I pay the minstrels myself—how you stood to hold the Unchurians in a dreadful hour.”

  The boys grinned among themselves.

  Rhywder suddenly paused, noticing the passage south. “Speak of them,” he muttered.

  Three horsemen had turned the bend, riding slowly toward the gate, abreast. When they reached the shadow of Hericlon, they stopped. They were Unchurian. The center rider was a highborn, the hair black but for a streak of brilliant silver down the left side. A horse snorted, shaking its mane; the bridle clattered with a faint echo. They were firstborn, all of them possibly Nephilim of the death lord, not giants, but centuries old and deadly at their craft. Why send three such deadly killers? Rhywder did not like the smell of this at all. He searched the passage beyond, but it was quiet.

  The highborn to the right bore shoulder brooches fashioned in salamander heads—perhaps a captain. It seemed reckless to Rhywder; the Unchurian must have been unaware he was manning the causeway presently. The handsome Nephilim slowly raised his right hand. His palm spread in the sign of the word—which Rhywder found too offensive to dismiss. It was the signet of Elyon’s grace and light. The hand of an Unchurian mocked it. Rhywder curled back his lip, temper rising. When Ranulf started to lift his hand in answer, Rhywder caught his wrist sharply, pulling it down.

  Rhywder whispered through tight teeth. “Have one of your archers kill him—the one who made the sign of the word.”

  “Sir!”

  “Do it! Now!”

  Ranulf turned, nodded toward the right tower. In it, one of the youths stood. He was tall and slender, and Rhywder had given him a Galaglean cloak. He leveled his bow. The arrow whistled soundless and pierced the Unchurian’s breastplate with a whrang. The Unchurian swayed, but kept in his saddle, so the youth, obeying orders, sank two more shafts. Finally the captain fell to lie facedown in the dirt, the tips of arrow shafts pushed out his back plate. Wind blew his dark cloak over the back of his head.

  The second highborn stared down at his captain’s body. He looked back up. “We came in peace!” the Unchurian shouted. “Even offering the sign of greeting!”

  “I have witnessed your greetings firsthand, highborn. Tell your death lord he can drink my piss!”

  He spoke quietly to Ranulf. “Now the one on the left.”

  Ranulf grimaced, but nodded to the same archer. The boy’s arrow sang once more, his mark this time through the neck, taking out the horseman quickly.

  “Stay away from my gate!” Rhywder shouted at the last Unchurian.

  The Unchurian circled his spooked horse to keep it in rein. “Ah, your gate. We are coming for your gate! Here, you mark the path of the sun. When it has passed the shadow of the canyon, your gate will be ours. I thank you for your offer of piss, however, my lord Azazel prefers flesh—which we will take.” He rose in the saddle. “And you,” he said, pointing to Ranulf, “you boy, shall be the first.”

  He then twisted hard on the reins and galloped away. Ranulf shuddered, backing away from the edge. There was a faint whistle and suddenly, as though someone had yanked him from behind, Ranulf jerked from a tug at his neck. He staggered, off balance, and dropped over an archer’s port.

  He heard Satrina scream. She had just come up the stairs again.

  He ran for her. An arrow struck the stone near his foot; he felt the spark of the arrow’s iron tip. He grabbed Satrina, jerking her into a run, then threw her and dove beside her to the cover of the causeway wall. A second arrow whispered past as he did.

  “What are you doing here! You said you were returning to the garrison!” he shouted.

  “I … I was coming to …” she paused, wordless, staring at the bloodstain left strewn across the stone where Ranulf had been hit. “They killed that boy, Rhywder.”

  “They intend to kill more than him,” Rhywder said, holding her close against him by one arm. He searched upward. It was almost impossible to see where the arrows were coming from. The rock above them was sheer, but an archer had apparently scaled it from the southern side and found a pocket in which to hide.

  The siege had begun.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Siege

  Against the wall!” Rhywder cried. The youths scrambled. An arrow sank into the head of a Galaglean corpse, through the visor, and Rhywder stared, amazed as the briarwood stand wobbled, then toppled over. The corpse lay on its side against the rock. Rhywder held his breath. A second arrow buried itself into another propped-up Galaglean in the tower. The corpse shivered, then stilled, still standing. Before a breath, another arrow passed through the ribs and skittered up the rock of Hericlon. Then a third and then nothing. Other Galagleans were clearly in view, but the archer was no longer taking dummy bait.

  “Damn,” Rhywder swore. He paused, then glanced to Satrina. “Listen to me, Satrina. I am going to draw out his fire. When I do, you run for it. Take the west stairway; it is the most hidden from above. When you get to the courtyard, find a horse and ride north. You have got to find Quietus. The Galagleans are close. We will hold as long as we can, but you need to tell the Falcon the Unchurians are coming and we are going to need help, as fast as he can move his men and horses.”

  “Rhywder …”

  “For the love of Elyon, Satrina, this is no time to argue! When the time comes, you run! Do as I say!” She nodded, swallowing.

  Rhywder glanced to the left and right. The youths were pressed against the stone.

  Rhywder crept slowly along the wall, Satrina following, until he was close enough to speak to the boy in the west tower, the archer who had taken mark at Ranulf’s order. The boy was not much past ten and four years.

  “Your name?”

  “Aedan.”

  “You know these rocks very well, Aedan?” “I know Hericlon as well as any rock, my lord.” “Can you climb?�
� “Yes, my lord.”

  “That dagger in your belt—can you use it?” “I can, my lord.”

  “As you may have guessed, there is an archer in those rocks, somewhere straight above us. I want you to climb up there and kill him, Aedan.”

  The boy nodded. He stepped back, then looked up, through the tower port. Hericlon’s side was smooth rock, there were few handholds, but Aedan laid his bow aside, then lifted off the quiver and set it aside, as well. Clearly he was frightened, his hands trembling, but without hesitation, he stepped off onto the edge of the tower, found a hold on a fissure of rock, then began to climb, slowly.

  Rhywder remained crouched against the battlement. He lifted a large, oval Galaglean shield. Its face was pierced, a hole torn through the bronze plate.

  “Listen to me!” he shouted to the other youths. “I am going to draw fire from above. Mark the path of the arrows, especially any of you to the east. He is somewhere on the western cliffside, so look for a cove, an outcropping of rock, something he is able to crouch on. When I give the word, fire back in force. The girl has to reach the canyon alive. The archer up there will try to prevent that from happening.”

  He turned. Satrina was close, waiting.

  “You keep moving,” he said. “Do not stop, not an instant, not for anything.” “How can I just leave you here, Rhywder?”

  “That is not important any longer. If this gate falls, Satrina, we will all die—the cities, the villages—all our people. You have got to find Quietus; nothing else matters.”

  “I will find him, then. But you, you just stay alive, Rhywder.”

  Rhywder slid his hand through the leather arm brace behind the shield and glanced over his shoulder to the sky. “Satrina,” he said, softer, “I want you to know …” He paused, then caught her eyes for a moment. “I want you to know I have liked you better than I have liked most women.”

  She stared back a moment, touched a finger to his cheek. “And I have liked you better than I have liked most women, too, Rhywder.”

  Rhywder half-smiled but then grew serious. “Elyon’s faith be with you, Satrina. Godspeed!”