Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  “Because she is a weakness in you and you let it drain your strength. You feed it your soul. Who am I to say, but right now, perhaps—weakness is not what you should dwell on. It could be the angel is the kind that seeks out every weakness he can find.”

  “What does it matter? Satariel is going to kill me if that is his aim. You saw what he did. The only mystery is why he held back. Why he did not finish it when he had the chance?”

  “Really? If he wishes, you die, and it is that simple? Yet, here you are. Did you not see his face? He fears you more than his grave. If it is all that simple, then why all these legends of the Angelslayer?”

  “People need their legends. They need to believe, pretend in faith, pretend there is more, but as you say of lovers, eventually they wake up.”

  A strong scent of spices struck them as Hyacinth threw open a set of double copper doorways. They stepped into an oval room where servants were pouring the last urns of hot water into an octagonal bath. The servants quickly slipped away. Silver dolphins, carefully wrought, continued to pour water in fountains as the flames of the hearth danced on their polished surface.

  “Your bath,” Hyacinth said.

  “I do not recall asking for a bath.”

  “You are bloodied and you have wounds. The waters are treated; they will help heal you.”

  “Ah, yes, I almost forgot, you are a priestess of Ishtar, well practiced in the healing arts.”

  “For many of my sisters, yes, though I practiced other arts. I may be better at poisons, but these waters, the herbs and oils, are effective in healing fresh wounds.”

  “You say you are not practiced at the art, yet you brought your captain from the brink of death.”

  “That was your blood and your sword. I merely guided your hand.” “The sword can heal?”

  “It can even bring back life from the dead, or so say its legend. You do not know the legends of your own legacy, the mark of the father, the sword of Uriel? But then, as you say, what need of legends and pretense?”

  Loch looked over the flowing waters of the bath. “You are as bloodied and wounded as I. Since I am stronger and heal of my own nature, you should take this bath. I would like to walk the ledge beyond the villa, past the pomegranate trees. Look over the view of the Western Sea.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “I have other things to ponder than a bath.”

  From behind, she kicked him so suddenly Loch fell headlong into the steaming water. He came to his feet and then gave her a look out of dead black eyes that was admittedly a bit frightening.

  “Do you dislike me?” she asked, simply.

  “Listen,” he said, firmly, “Hyacinth, skin walker, enchanter, whatever you wish to be—do you think for a moment we are going to survive this? He is an angel of the choir, and if I cannot figure out how to slay him, then all these people, this emerald village, your captain—not to mention you, Hyacinth—all of you will die. But you are like some schoolgirl. Like it is a game we play here!”

  “It is always a game, but that does not answer the question. Do you dislike me?”

  “I would like you fine—in a different world, different place.”

  “One without her, you mean.”

  “She is more to me than you know.”

  “Wrong. I know everything about you, Lochlain.”

  “I could have blocked your probes.”

  “You tried, and each time I had already moved on, learning all I wished. Do you care to test me? Have me guess your secrets?”

  “You did not seem to pick up that we are in his shadow, that you Tarshians have drawn out a Watcher of the heavens and that I cannot save you.”

  “I am not a Tarshian, and I knew all this before my captain even chose to steal you from your palace. Of course, it was all a trap. The Watcher wants you dead. But do not forget it is Darke that has drawn out the Watcher, not you. Use your training, Shadow Walker. Focus on something else. You weaken yourself.”

  “Hyacinth, we have little time. Whatever he struck me with, lightning, star fire, had he not held back, that alone could have ended it.”

  “And there lies the point. Can you not see? He could easily have killed you. Flick his lash—the scion of the Daath has left nothing but a cinder of history. And yet—here you are. Alive. How very odd. Obtuse—that is a good word for you. You see the stone in font of you and all its square angles, but alas, you fail to see the crack though its center.” “Which is?”

  “That he fears you. He failed to take you on his island; he failed to kill you from the forecastle even when you faced him eye to eye. Even now he takes his time closing on us. His ship was left slowly turning in the waters, crippled as if he were mortal. He is weak; all you need is to take faith instead of tossing it aside as pretense from which we will all wake up. That is not how you have lived your life. Why throw it aside now? Because you lost her? All because of her, you chose to fall on your sword?”

  He stared back, but said nothing.

  “And these lives, they are not on your shoulders. No one believes or expects you to save them, Loch. They knew; they are gamblers. To them, this is just another gamble, one with a thin edge, but it is what they do—it is how they have lived their lives. Darke knew he was an angel. The captain knew his powers were beyond imagining. It is his fault you are even here, and if any lives hang in the balance, their weight is on his shoulders, including yours. What you must do is turn your mind from these things. They cloud your thinking. Close it off for a time. Rest, regain your strength. Your strength, your skill … your courage.”

  “I have not lost courage.”

  “You weaken yourself. The more you dwell on the eyes of the Watcher, the more they weaken you. Lochlain, if only you knew who you actually were! If what you need right now is faith, then look in my eyes, take mine. I believe in you. I have since the moment they lifted you from your chamber. Your head fell back, your eyes for a moment fell open, and it was as if the stars were about to spill through them. What is it your people say? Faith’s Light, is that not it?” She paused, her eyes hardening. “Faith’s Light, Lochlain! Forget the Watcher. You are not weak. Think of the blood you lost, and rest, let the waters soothe your wounds and put your mind on something else.”

  Loch studied her. She had a point. Perhaps she was more clever than he gave her credit for. Of one thing he was certain; she was unlike any woman he had known before. He did not want to look in her eyes; he wanted to remember only Adrea. But the priestess was right. Adrea was gone.

  “So then,” she continued, “instead of brooding over the sea or searching for the magick spellbound shard that will destroy him—it is time to forget him. Forget he even exists. Let the moment and the waters heal you. Gain strength. The thrust that becomes a kill has no thought; it is simply executed. Your warlord taught you that, did he not? When the time comes, you will know. To dwell on it now is but to weaken your courage.”

  She waded into the water and unlatched his breastplate and back plate, lifting them over his head, laying them on the edge of the bath. She did not remove his leather jerkin, but she did take an urn and wash what wounds were exposed. She lifted the braids from his hair and pulled her fingers through it. His eyes were no longer black; they had warmed to a softer brown, almost looking human.

  “I will tell you a secret, Daath,” she said, stepping back to strip off her own armor, but not stopping there, pulling off her leathers, as well. “All your life you have known what was coming. You have magick in you, enough to see futures, and you have seen your own, a gift few of us are granted. You have honed your skill with ever fiber and sinew and muscle you have. But in the end, to do what you must do, you need to let go. Simply let go.”

  Naked, she now stood opposite him. She began to wash some of her wounds. As she did, she noticed from the corner of her eye that he watched. He was not as icy as his skin sometimes looked; there was human blood in him.

  “We are dancing on the edge of a blade at the end of
time itself, Lochlain. The world is no longer following rules as it once did—all the rules have broken apart.” She moved closer. “Let her go, just for now.” Hyacinth shook out her hair, then stood, thigh-high in the water. She had never stood naked before a man in her life. But he did not study her body, only her eyes.

  She ran her finger down his cheek. She unlatched the first tie of his leather tunic.

  “This cannot help,” he said.

  She snapped a second tie. “Do you know that I have shown myself to no man and yet you have not even looked at me? Just my eyes. Why? Are you afraid?”

  “You stir something deep inside me, Hyacinth. I cannot deny I am drawn to you in a way I do not understand—but you cannot be the future I choose.” “Then let me be the moment you choose.” He slowly, purposely shook his head. “I am sorry.” She studied his eyes a bit longer. “You are certain?” He paused, nodded.

  She turned and walked up the stairs out of the bath, lifted a robe, then left the doors to the bath open as she slowly walked into the shadows of the villa, not looking back.

  Hyacinth sat alone in one of Taran’s huge side bed chairs, curled into it, wearing a black silk tunic. On her lap—the star book. She wasn’t reading, just marveling over the golden, tissue-thin pages of the Book of Enoch. The doors opened without announcement. He stared at her a moment, uncertain. “I suppose you knew I would come,” he said.

  “Do not suppose anything of me, Daath. I am not like the women you have a taste for.”

  “I have a question.” “You are here—ask.”

  “It is you. You are the question. Who are you? Why do lure me?”

  “I know what I am and who I am, but really—do not trouble yourself with me—it is not me you need. Not me you want. It is any woman who might soothe the pain of her loss. You almost fear nothing, not the night, not the angel, not even your own self-doubt. The only thing you fear in this moment is being alone.”

  He did not argue.

  “So then stay with me. Just sleep. Sleep this night by my side.”

  As they lay on the bearskins, shafts of moonlight falling, he held her lightly against him. He let himself feel something for her; he didn’t understand it or care to. It was just there, the feel of her, the smell of her. She shielded sorrow, left quiet comfort. There could be nothing wrong in that.

  “Of titles the legends have for you,” she said quietly, not turning, “do you know my most favorite?”

  He waited.

  “The wanderer—the Voyager. Star Voyager. That is who you are, Loch, the lone voyager of the night. It is your true strength.”

  He stared out the window at the passing moon. His strength. Alone. It somehow made sense—he had always been afraid of being alone and yet, what he had to face, in the end, he knew he must face alone. Still, this night, he kept his arms about her, kept her warmth against him—he let her take his fears.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The Fall of Hericlon

  Rhywder stood alongside Marcian on the causeway. They had patrolled the gate of Hericlon for two days now and in all that time Marcian ached to tell him. After all, one should not keep secrets from a king, and this one—the Walker of the Lake, as some called him—he was not ordinary among men. Marcian finally decided to trust the Lochlain. If anyone on this Earth could be trusted with what he knew, this was the man. Marcian even thought for a moment it was the only purpose they had reached the causeway; to save the one they called the Little Fox, to give them this small time on the causeway. His secret had been a burden like a sin, but it was sadness he could no longer bear. Finally, he walked up to the stone causeway wall next to Rhywder and paused there a moment looking over the deep canyon beyond them. It seemed odd the man who by all word and purpose was king of the Daath was not one himself.

  Rhywder now wore Daathan armor, which he seemed used to, the mantle, the ash-gray cloak that made his movements indistinct sometimes as he paced. Some called them shadow cloaks. He noticed the insignia on Rhywder’s bared arm, the plain silver band of Argolis’s Shadow Walkers.

  “My lord,” Marcian said quietly, perhaps too quietly, for Rhywder did not even seem to hear him.

  “Two days!” shouted the Little Fox. “Two days and nothing! What does he wait for, by the sacrosanct name of the Goddess, why does he wait?”

  “I do not understand your anxiety,” Marcian said, putting aside his message for the moment. “They are all very dead down there.”

  “Other than those that died beyond the gate by your archers, hardly a single firstborn is among them, anyone notice?” “I suppose you are correct.”

  “Like dumping mud on us before pouring out the hot oil. Fodder used up, now the armies of the Unchurian are all waiting, the most powerful warriors we have ever faced, waiting just beyond that bend! But why does he not come!”

  “The gate is lowered. How could they pass through?”

  “He could fold this gate like you fold a parchment.”

  “We do not speak his name?”

  “You speak his name, you give him power; you speak his name, and he can look into your mind like a hawk can spot a mouse. Never say his name, remember that.”

  “I will.”

  “Your men, as well. If fools among us whisper of named Watchers, tell them to keep their thoughts to themselves.” “Certainly, my lord.”

  “At least the gate is destroyed. Still—makes no sense he has not moved on us.”

  “You have not heard of Quietus’s plans?” “What plans?”

  “Even now he rebuilds the cogs and machinery. He plans to open the gate.”

  “What?”

  “He wants to lead the Champions through. He speaks of vengeance.” Rhywder quickly crossed to the Galaglean side of the causeway and looked down. It did not take him long to discover the workers. “That is madness.”

  “It will be difficult dissuading him, my lord.” “Then kill him.”

  “What?”

  “You or I—before he sets that machinery into place.” “But, my lord …”

  “Choose now, Antiope. You or me?” “My lord, he is my king.”

  “Then I will kill him, but this gate never rises from the Earth again.”

  “It is for vengeance. The Champions, all they want is another war. In a way, Quietus has outlived his time—as have I, for that matter. The blood of Tarchon Pass never really washes, does it?”

  “It is blood on all our souls.”

  “My lord, there is something I must tell you.”

  Rhywder turned, waited.

  “We cannot be overheard.”

  “Your message is for me?”

  “It concerns the Daath. You are quite possibly their king. It is something I have kept hidden deep, even from my own thoughts, my own imagination.”

  “Yes?”

  Marcian suddenly paused as if stricken. It was Satrina, walking toward them, wearing skirts and purple veils, all of them accenting her eyes. She carried no weapons. She had long ago given Rhywder back his short sword. Odd, Rhywder thought, that the sight of Satrina and her veils would leave this fearless Galaglean commander looking as if he had lost his train of thought in the middle of the battle.

  “What is this, Satrina?” Rhywder asked.

  “Breakfast, the best I can find—on its way up.”

  “I do not even in dreams recall asking you to bring up breakfast.”

  She looked also to Marcian. “Marcian.”

  “Good … mor-morning,” Marcian said.

  Rhywder glanced at him. It had sounded like he stuttered. He turned back to Satrina. “I am on watch, Satrina.”

  “Yes, I know that. I know all about how women are not supposed to be on the battlements; we went over that before.”

  “To no avail, apparently.”

  “You have not been down from here in two days, Rhywder. You have to eat sometime. Marcian, do you not agree? He should have some breakfast, should he not?”

  “It co-could not hurt … Rhy-Rhywder.”
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br />   Rhywder stared at him a moment, narrowed a brow. That was a stutter. He was an awesome warrior, but women left him weak. It was typical. It was the problem with women in the first place.

  Rhywder turned and attempted to be firm. “I cannot eat here, Satrina.”

  “This is just corn mush; it is all these Galagleans have. Before all they had was sour mead and they brought kegs and kegs more, but of food, this is it. Corn mush. I tried to make it edible with spices.”

  Her servant girls were setting up a table. Rhywder could hardly believe his eyes. He noticed looks from the Galagleans, this time living Galagleans. He prayed to Elyon she would not attempt to demonstrate how they would enjoy some dancing.

  “In order for me to eat that,” Rhywder said calmly, remembering now why it was that a proper warrior should not let women get attachments to them, “then there would have to be enough corn mush for every man on this bridge.”

  “But they come down off the causeway. They get their own—I see them, they come down from watch and boys carrying mush about in wooden pots are always there to serve them. You are special in that you have not left this causeway since it has been retaken. You did not even come down to sleep, I noticed.”

  “There are more Unchurians out that than I have numbers to count, Satrina, and sooner or later—”

  “Which is why I slept alone. Still, you have to eat, and look here, I did find an apple. Actually, Marcian, since I knew you were the high captain on the causeway, I brought enough for you, as well, though I could only find one apple.”

  “That … I … It was not necessary.”

  The man had somewhere, sometime in his life been traumatized by women, for he was nervous as a cat in a canoe headed for the falls.

  The two girls finished their setup: a small table, two stools, fairly nice, all told. Satrina sprinkled herbs over the top of the goat’s milk and mush. Goblets filled with Galaglean mead were set out, as well.

  Satrina smiled. “Very good girls, we can leave now.”

  They begin to walk across the causeway toward the stairs.

  “Satrina, come back and take your mush with you!”