Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the sword by the hilt.

  “You left it embedded in the Nephilim’s neck, but I thought you might want it back. It is a sword of a Shadow Walker.” He then noticed Rhywder’s armband. “Yours, perhaps?”

  Rhywder nodded. He saw by the tassels on the man’s shoulders this was a horse captain; in fact, he knew this man. He was the captain of the Galaglean Second Century Calvary. He remembered the name and the face from the legendary battle of Tarchon Pass. He had met the captain that day, both during and after the fighting. It was a hard day to forget.

  “I remember you,” Rhywder said. “Antiope, am I right?”

  “You are, but I am afraid I do not know your name.”

  “Rhywder. We met at Tarchon Pass.”

  Marcian stared at him a moment, then nodded. “Of course. I do know of you, Rhywder the Lochlain, Walker of the Lake. You were here then? Before we came—you defended the gate?”

  “I did.”

  “With a handful of boys?” “Uncommon boys. Did any survive?”

  “A few, as were, still being drained of blood. So then, I am guessing it was you who burned the machinery?” “Yes. It remains burned, I pray?”

  Marcian sighed. “Rebuilt, but now destroyed. With much difficulty and bloodshed that will haunt my dreams for months to come. They still did not leave—the Unchurian prime, they watched us through the gate. I assembled archers along the length of the portcullis and ordered them to fire directly into the Unchurian. They were left with the choice of dying or retreating. You would be amazed at the number of dead that lay beyond that portcullis. They have no fear of dying.”

  “They have been taught well, Captain—by a lord for whom death is an art.”

  “Tell me, Rhywder, is this your woman?”

  Rhywder glanced at Satrina, her eyes so innocent, even here, with carnage all about them. Satrina waited for his answer with more anticipation than Marcian.

  “Yes,” Rhywder answered. “Yes, this is my woman.”

  “Whoever you are, you need be proud this day. I can say with all honesty I have never seen such a warrior. She wears a skirt and yet, with your sword she killed a nameless beast nearly fifteen feet high with scores of arms bearing hands of five-inch claws. And, as well on her own, she brought down a Nephilim minion, armored of wood stronger than steel, but she put your sword to its hilt into the back of its brain.”

  Rhywder stared at Satrina, amazed. Satrina grinned back and shrugged her shoulders.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Violet Eyes

  For the second time Rhywder lifted from a dark fog of pain, opening his eyes to look up—there she was. Again. Impossible, but there she was—using a cloth to clean his wounds much as she was doing when he saw her for the first time. She quickly noticed he was awake. “Rhywder!”

  “How it is possible you are here? We were about to be overwhelmed; the armies of the Unchurian, they took us all. How could it be possible I am still alive, looking in your eyes, Satrina?”

  “I told you all this. I brought the Galagleans, and you were correct, it was a good idea. They are all very good at killing things—especially when there are hundreds and hundreds of them. So they became very incensed and they just simply killed everything in sight, Rhywder. The whole passage became a bucket of blood and dead Unchurians. And speaking of blood, the Unchurians, they were draining yours into a wine cask—draining it slowly so it could mix with the seasonings, just as you said they sometimes do. They were planning to have a party drinking the blood of those brave boys and yours, as well. It was all spoiled by my inviting the Galagleans.”

  Rhywder slowly lifted his hand. He found he could wiggle his fingers. “I thought I was paralyzed.”

  “You were stunned. They have huge beasts with stingers, the Unchurians. They cut off the stingers, then use them as daggers to stun their victims. It made it easier for them to tie you up and make the proper cuts for your blood draining. Apparently if you are alive and breathing air, your blood has a finer quality in the wine making.”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “The captain learned about it by asking around. Marcian, you remember him?”

  “Oh, yes …”

  “Apparently, among the blood drinkers, those cursed of Enoch, human blood is made into the finest of wines. By using different seasonings and rates of mixing with living blood, they create different wines for different palates. There are priests among them who do nothing else but make and perfect these wines, can you imagine that? Is it not awful?”

  Rhywder remembered very little, but he did remember being astonished when, instead of throwing him over the side or killing him by sword, they instead lifted him and brought him hand over hand, over the plank, down the stairs.

  Rhywder turned the memories away and focused on Satrina’s violet eyes. There he saw a whole different world, one that left him with feelings he had never felt before.

  “I have something for the pain. Do you need it?”

  He shook his head and murmured, “Your eyes … all I need.”

  A tear ringed the edge of Satrina’s lash. “You were almost dead,” she told him. “I do not know what I would have done had you died, Rhywder. I have come to love you deeply, I fear.”

  Past her shoulder, Rhywder saw the tent flap thrown open and a large bearded warrior step through, flanked by two captains. They seemed to fill the tent, and Satrina crouched at Rhywder’s side.

  The Galaglean king eyed her with an incredulous look, then turned to Rhywder.

  “I know you,” Quietus said. “You are the Lochlain, name of Rhywder. The Shadow Walker of Argolis and once brother of the queen.” “Yes. And you are Quietus.” “We have met?”

  “I have seen you once or twice. You present a figure hard to forget.” “You, as well, Little Fox. Are you fully conscious, Walker of the Lake?” “I believe so.”

  “There is word that when your people reach you that you are to be named the king of the Daath.”

  “What?”

  “Argolis is dead. His son is missing, dead as well, it is assumed. The closest blood they have to the Daathan throne is you, the brother to Asteria, uncle of the son of Argolis. So then, by blood, I have been told, you are now to be their king, Rhywder of Lochlain. All that lacks is the ceremony and the naming. Of course there would be Daath required for that, but in principle, I suppose we now speak king to king.”

  Quietus brought a fist to his chest, as well as his guards.

  Rhywder was stunned. Argolis was dead? The boy, as well? All the years, all the blood, the gathering wars, the death of Asteria, an entire era had ended. He found it hard to believe.

  “Eryian, the warlord?” Rhywder asked.

  “Alive, assembling now. A week or less he should reach the vale. I will let your wench keep you, my lord, but should you require anything whatsoever, my men will be outside your tent.”

  “She is no wench,” Rhywder said clearly. “She is a lady.”

  “Of course, my lord, I meant no disrespect. Just that … the manner in which she fought, there are no ladies I have ever known could fight like her, but of course, my lord. My lady.”

  He bowed to both before the three of them left.

  Alone, Rhywder slowly turned his eyes on Satrina as the tent flaps were being tied off. “Help … help me to my knees,” he whispered.

  She gripped his shoulder and Rhywder pulled himself to his knees, shakily. The ground swayed a moment, but he used her to steady himself, weakly gripping her shoulders. He looked into the deep, soft, violet eyes, as though they might be the only light in the room.

  “You loved your king?” she said.

  “Perhaps.”

  “I think you did. By the look in your eye, you did. I am sorry for your loss.”

  He gently touched her cheek, then pulled her against him and held her tight. The warmth of her, the smell of her, he never imagined a woman could stir such feelings.

  Chapter Thirty-Fiver />
  Ophur

  Ophur was hidden. It rested deep in the purple water of the Western Sea, open sea, but hidden sea, shrouded in fog. Once, some race had carved puzzles through the coral that surrounded Ophur. Any ship that did not know the route would find its hull shredded, and occasionally the Tarshians would find the wreckage of ships that had sunk. There were never survivors; sharks kept the waters about Ophur scoured.

  This was the last city of the Tarshians. There were no others. Loch watched in wonder as they glided past beds of coral through a gray fog. There was sacredness here, a quiet, only the oars sounding as they sifted the waters. As suddenly, as though they had appeared from nothingness, outcroppings of rock would pass the hull, and in such moments the oars folded back against the upper strakes and the ship glided past smooth and quiet. They passed beneath a bridge of black rock that slowly emerged from the fog, and atop it stood warriors, watching silently, holding oval shields embossed with the emblem of the entwined serpent.

  No sooner had they passed beneath the bridge than sun broke through and a crystal bay unfolded. As the ship glided into it, the prow post looked beheaded; bleeding white wood from the oiled stock where the serpent head had been sheared by an Etlantian oar. Darke’s ship looked more battered and scarred than it had ever been.

  “Ophur!” Hyacinth whispered beside him.

  The island of Ophur was a volcano, and the cone rose into the clouds. Upon its spurs, nestled into the cove, were buildings of alabaster and limestone, many coated in an emerald green, beautiful in the sunlight. They were once called the Emerald Kings, the Tarshians, and they had not always been enemies of Etlantis, not until the turning had begun and the curse of Enoch had caused the villages along the coastline of the continent of Mu to be stripped and burned. Only then had the wars against the Etlantians started. That was seven years ago.

  In contrast to the silence of passing through the mist, cries now went up from shore, and as Darke’s ship drifted along the shallow waters and white crystal sand, people thronged: men, women, and children. From everywhere they came, racing along the shore, shouting, cheering. Darke stood upon the forecastle. He looked over his people silently, the expression on his face weathered, hardened; but slowly, hearing their calls, Darke held forth his hand, fingers wide in the sign of the word, and they cheered even more.

  Loch had never seen such honor paid a king. Argolis had always returned with almost silence. Too many dead in Argolis’s campaigns. His was a necessary war, but there were no cheers for the gathering that came to Terith-Aire when Loch was young. Whenever the seers called for a gathering, it could only mean an even greater war, an even greater threat, would soon follow. In the day of Argolis, it was only a far threat, for Eryian had told them it would come in a future time. But the future was now.

  There were minstrels below on the sand that had made their way through the crowds, and they played horns fashioned of wood, flutes, as well as lyres. He recognized something of the melody and even the tune. Songs from different shores, yet they had a shared beginning, for they were the songs of a distant star.

  The ship keeled amid the sand, and several of the men leapt over the side to clutch stay ropes and haul her up against the mooring posts. Darke lifted his hand to motion for silence.

  Carried on their shields, the dead were brought. Taran was the first, his sword laid over his chest. Others followed, lowered down by ropes and taken by black-robed priests.

  Hyacinth lowered her head upon seeing Taran. With his sword over his chest, his arms folded, the boy looked noble in death. Loch noticed she quickly brushed away a tear as though it were an irritant. The boy, Taran, must have mattered to her. He certainly had fought for the little priestess with all his life and spirit, as Loch would have fought for Adrea. Taran had laid down his life for Hyacinth and yet, with tears brushed away, when finally the priestess looked up, there was no hint of emotion. But then, she was an enchantress; she could show any emotion she wished on demand.

  Storan heaved a rope ladder over the bulwark. It unrolled and clattered against the hull. Storan stood aside to let his captain pass.

  Darke descended slowly. Upon the beach, he gathered his people who waded into the waters to reach him, then walked up the shore with him. They loved him. These people, they loved rather than feared their king. Loch had never before seen love given a king. Argolis had ruled with a steel hand, even, Loch believed, letting his own queen be killed to solidify the throne and the kingdom.

  A few, mostly the poets, scholars, and elders, did not follow with the commoners. They had remained to see the other. They knew Darke returned with the ones some called the voyagers, because it was said they had come in the time of Yered. They traveled from the Blue Stars the common people called the Pleiades. Their kings were always said to have known the star knowledge, and their blood was of an archangel, though they appeared human. It was this reason so many were staring at him openly, some with reverence, and others with guarded judgment.

  Storan laid a hand upon Loch’s shoulder. “You are next, your majesty. They know who you are; they wait for you.”

  “I guessed as much.”

  “Might give them a nod or two; let them know we are united, friends now.” “Are we friends, Storan?”

  “Men who taste death in battle are bonded in ways beyond mere friendship. The Tarshians bear no ill against the Daath; if ever your people, we will honor them. Now go, let them see the king of the Daath.”

  They watched silently as he descended. Ironically, it was quite like the way people watched his father return, with awe, even fear at his coming. Loch descended the rope and dropped into the sand. When he turned, he was not sure what to do. He had never been schooled in the art of being a king—he had no idea what to say to these people. The crowd was quiet and hushed as the Tarshians gathered to see the Daath. He was most thankful when Hyacinth dropped down beside him.

  “It is him!” she shouted. “He is all they say he is, for I have seen him turn back the fire of an angel. This, who comes, is the prophecy, the Arsayalalyur foretold of Enoch.”

  A moment longer they were quiet, but quiet was not the way of the Tarshians, and when Hyacinth shouted, “Welcome him!” they broke out in cheering.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  “Of course,” she answered.

  “Now, could you get me out of here?”

  “Follow.”

  She parted them, making a pathway through. Some were silent as he passed, but others cheered and leapt and there were even dancers spinning. But the robed ones, the scholars, they watched him as if he had stepped from the very pages of myth.

  As Loch passed the minstrels who had gathered, they at once began playing the song of Elyon, the song of the Limitless Light. It was one he had always, every day he saw her in the village, played for Adrea.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Star Voyager

  There was a heavy sound of surf from the rocky knoll when Taran’s villa fell into view. A wind, cold and stark off the shore, left an icy mist among the thick conifers. Loch had never seen land like this. He had known forest, but that was mostly oak. The villa was built into the buttress of a rock cliff.

  “Yours?” he asked, impressed. “The boy, the one who died.” “He built it for you, then?” She nodded.

  “He must have been very skilled, a master, and I do not say that lightly.”

  Maybe a mist crossed her eyes, but she willed it gone. This was an enchantress. She could make you see what you wanted to see.

  The villa was built of thick wood and mortar and blended perfectly with the tall evergreens and gray spine of the volcano that made up the island’s spire. In Terith-Aire, such a craftsman as this would seldom have been given a sword. Artisans were highly valued. But he understood there were few Tarshians; they had all of them become raiders.

  A servant came to meet them, but scurried away at an impatient gesture from Hyacinth. The stone walkway was lined with pomegranate trees—not native to t
he island.

  “Where would these trees have come from?”

  “Taran, again. He brought and planted them. They are from the mother island.”

  “He brought you trees?” She nodded, sadly.

  At the villa, Hyacinth lifted the crossbar, then pushed open a heavy oaken door. Loch followed her through hallways adorned in hanging armor and icons of all religions: a golden calf; a bearded hawk; the serpent, lord of seas; the shining Etlantian Apollo—whose name among the common people was Light Bringer and was said to been the first to come, the first to step down from the heavens. A savior. Some of these items were priceless.

  Loch and Hyacinth were both bloodied. Any servants who saw them seemed uncertain, but Hyacinth quickly waved them off if they attempted to approach.

  “Who has the taste in artifacts?” asked Loch.

  “The dead boy.”

  “Did you care for him?”

  “Of course, I did.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “What is love? These people believing in love—just give them time and they all wake up.”

  “Perhaps, but this boy, as you keep referring to him, as if his name is now forgotten—I believe he loved you deeply.”

  “You said of your red-hair to speak of her no more. Can I ask the same?” “If you wish.”

  “I wish. He is gone. Yes, he was kind and he loved me and he brought me gifts from all over the world, everywhere they sailed. He was precious, but he did not survive. They nearly tore off his head. I grieve, but he is gone. And so is the red-hair! I know you believe she is all you will ever know, all you will ever bleed for—your last breath hers. You are still here, alive, and though it seems blasphemy to think it, there are still others who could know you. Perhaps, by some chance of fate, even one like me.”

  “You?”

  “It is possible.”

  “Why do you say such a thing?”