Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  That night, the night Marcian left, she had wept bitterly when finally alone. She perhaps had never had a chance to love him, but she knew he loved her, deeply, and his sheer devotion and care had broken her heart when she realized that, of course, he would not return. The Enochian prophecies were unfolding like a rising blood moon, nothing wavering, just as foretold.

  Whatever the Galagleans rode out to face, it would swallow them. Her knowledge of such things came in bits and pieces, but she was sure of it as she watched him ride away with his four sons.

  After Marcian had left, the nights had become a terror for her. When the sun would start to go down, a far, whispering panic tingled, and she shivered with an unknown sadness, with thoughts of Loch, whose memory Sandalaphon had left with her. Though he had dulled these memories and the sadness that went with them he had somehow eased them, as well, as though she were drugged.

  Oddly, Marcian’s sons had been well trained and never questioned that he had brought back a girl who was nearly full term. Their father’s business was his own, and they accepted her readily, though she found herself being treated more as a sister than as a mother, something for which she was thankful.

  It was Marcian’s youngest boy, Lucian, who had given her the greatest comfort. He was ten and six, and he was not ordinary. Adrea had always felt that a protector would come, the knowing in her always whispered it, but she thought it would be one like Sandalaphon. In the days after Marcian left, she came to realize that instead, her and the child’s protector was to be this strange boy.

  Once, the young, stocky Lucian had come to her and asked if he could speak to her alone before Antenor returned from the fields. She nodded that, of course, he could. At times he may have seemed slower mentally than the others, but that was just because he was so stocky, so large, and he looked far older than his ten and six years. At times, when she saw only his shadow, he was as large as a man, with broad, muscular shoulders. He had knelt beside the bed and spoke very carefully that day.

  “I had a dream, and you should know of it,” he said. “I know that you understand magick, that you could spell bind if you had to.”

  She started to speak, but he waved her off. “No denying, Adrea, you know magick. I have seen it in your eyes. In my dream I was told you are a queen. I know my father is not a king, and I am not sure I understand, but it was a strange dream and I could not question the things I saw, the things I now know. The child you bear, it is not Marcian’s, I know that. My brothers do not, but I have learned through my dreams. Do not be angry with me and do not attempt to lie; I believe it is the light of the mothering star that speaks to me. I was told, as well, that when the child comes, I am to be its protector, both to protect you and him.”

  “Lucian—” she began, but he waved her off.

  “I know I am young, only ten and six, not the age of a warrior; however, long ago I was given something of my father, and now I understand its meaning.” He pointed to a crate in the corner of the cabin. “You should know that in that crate, wrapped in fine cloth, is the great axe of my grandfather, Moloch of Galaglea. Some weapons, just as people, are ordinary, but my grandfather was no common warrior and his axe grew stronger with each righteous kill he made. Each he made for the kingdom of heaven, and so many did he slay, so valiant did he defend the light and the peoples of the mountain, I believe with my soul that Elyon imbued his axe with power. And when he died, something of his strength was left within its blade. If Antenor were here, he would be shaking his head. He has always believed I am touched, but I think you understand the things I tell you. I have been touched, it is true; I was never ordinary, and this is why. All things for a reason, my father always told me that. My father also told me when I was young that he had been given to understand this axe was to be mine, that the time would come when I should take it out and that he would teach me how to use it. He is not with us, but I believe the sword itself can teach me, or so say my dreams. Does that sound strange to you?”

  She did not know how to answer, but she shook her head. The dreams were a way the heavens spoke; it had been like that for Loch. She remembered that of him.

  “I will speak of it no more, but I wanted you to understand, to know that it is me. I am the one that is sent. I know, as well, that just as the axe of Moloch is not ordinary, neither is the child in you. He will be born a savior.”

  She shivered. “Did you just call him a savior?”

  “Yes. It means one who will save. And three or four times, I have seen over the cottage silver eagles. They are his signet. All this is between you and me alone, but I know I am to protect him, to guard him all the days of my life.”

  The son of Loch and Adrea was born on a hot afternoon, and she had borne him alone, sweating in the dark of her room, gripping the brass headboard with both hands until her knuckles grew white. The pain was severe and she believed there were times she had passed out, but when each surge came, she braced and tried not to scream. She did not want them hearing; they were boys and would only complicate things.

  Near noon, lying naked in the shadows, streaked by the dusty light that slivered through cracks in the wallboards, delirious with the pain and weakness of pushing, she finally gave birth. She did not panic; she knew of birth, for she had been taught. There was a moment, just as the child came free, when the cabin was bathed in blinding light and she thought she was passing out again, but this time it was a different light. The child had been trying to cry, but it was covered with a pinkish covering, and was fighting for air against it. Seraphon had been born in a cowl. She quickly peeled away the tissue. Warm water soaked into the floorboards.

  Afterward, as the brightness cooled, she could see beings, shadowy, ethereal, but there—watching, all around her. She did not move or try to touch them, but she did lift the child where they could see. They were beings of a choir, and she heard them naming him in the words of the seventh star, the choir of the fiery serpents, the Seraphim. He was born the seventh and last king of the Daath. In the scriptures of Enoch he was named the Arsayalalyur, who would come to answer the blood of innocents laid at the feet of the Fallen. The Earth would, in his day, be enveloped in the first apocalypse of men.

  Once the linens were changed and the blood and afterbirth had been washed away, she put on a light cotton dress and sat in the coverlets watching him. There was much of Loch in the tiny face, but she could also see herself in the high cut of the cheekbone. Since Sandalaphon had brought her through time, Loch’s memory had faded somewhat, the sadness dimmed almost as though by some drug, but that day she had seen a tiny cameo of him, molded in his features, letting her remember what he looked like, and through the child, she remembered also his love, how it reached through the aeons.

  “We will find him, little one,” she whispered. “Somehow, we will find your father.”

  He looked far more Daath than even Loch, and no one who had spent company with Daath would have guessed this child for a Galaglean—but Lucian and Antenor were young; they had never even so much as met a Daath or seen a newborn. Lucian knew the child was not his father’s, but Antenor did not know to question it, even though the child’s skin held a pale bluish tint. For the longest time his eyes burned with the tendril of the light of the mothering star.

  “Will they always be this way—burning like this?” Lucian had asked.

  “No, they will turn. It is heaven’s light you see. The veil is open and as long as he remains a part of heaven, his eyes will glow with its knowledge. In a few days it should fade.”

  “I will tell you the exact moment he was born,” Lucian said. They were gathered about her, having come back from the fields to find they had a brother.

  “I was in the field and the sun was exactly mid-sky and that was when I saw the eagles. You did not see them, Antenor?”

  “What eagles?”

  “Silvered eagles—the purest silver, their wings were fantastic, they were the color of mercury. They came streaking out of the eastern clouds. Seven of th
em—seven exactly. They circled the cottage and then soared into the heavens. I can even tell you what they were.”

  “Please do.”

  “Messengers. Heralds. They came to honor him.”

  “Do not worry of him, Adrea; he has always been touched. He talks to the horses, has given them all mythical names. Father is somber; I suppose he got it from Mother. She was filled, like him, with imaginings.”

  “Say any more of my being ‘touched,’ Antenor, and I will bloody your nose.”

  “Let us ask Adrea; she is bright, smarter than anyone I have known. Adrea, do you believe silver eagles came out of the sky to celebrate the birth of … of …”

  “Seraphon, his name is Seraphon.”

  “Yes. So, do you? Came down from the heavens to honor Seraphon’s coming as if he were born a king or a seer of some kind?”

  Adrea paused. “I believe he is a very special child, Antenor—but all mothers believe that. As for the eagles—I was inside, birthing. I did not have time to study the skies.”

  Antenor stared for a moment, then turned and shook his head at Lucian.

  “There is more to this world than you think, Antenor,” Lucian proclaimed.

  “I do not doubt.” He pushed past Lucian, walking through the goatskin curtain over the doorway. Lucian remained alone with her a moment.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “Anything you need? Anything I can do?”

  “I am fine.”

  “Just that … you look awful.”

  “Well, having a baby is difficult, Lucian, even if you are a veteran of it—and for me, this is my first.”

  Lucian stared at the covers as though he were frightened. “Does his name have a meaning?”

  “It is from Enochian scripture, when translated it means Burning One.” “You are sure you do not need anything? Some food? Some wine?” “What I need most is just rest, Lucian. Water if you would, a goatskin of water.”

  “Immediately, right away.” He paused at the hanging in the doorway. “Should I bring anything for the little one? Or does he not eat yet?” “Oh, yes, he eats very well.”

  Strangely, in the following days, the resemblance to Loch seemed to fade, and then was gone completely. Seraphon began to look like himself. His eyes seemed to soften until at times she could even stare into them. Whenever she did, they looked back as though he were mature, as though there were no secrets between them—he knew her as well as anyone. If he could talk, he would have offered comfort. Still, he frightened her. The air about him seemed quicker, as though it were too close, as though something unnamable moved about him. Sometimes she would feel him stir in her arms, and looking down, she would find him staring back, studying her, fascinated—searching through all her secrets.

  Lucian never dared hold the child, but often for hours he would kneel by the crib Marcian had carved, playing. It seemed at times, when Adrea watched, that the child was amusing Lucian more than Lucian was amusing him.

  Lucian had slipped a torque of pure gold from among his family’s heirlooms, and with care and patience, had etched out the letters seraphon in bold Galaglean script. It would eventually be a wristband, but it was also fashioned of coiled silver bands and flexible enough that Lucian curled it about the tiny ankle, overlapping it.

  “Someday he will grow into this,” Lucian had said proudly.

  On another night, Lucian had been staring into the crib for a long while when he said, “He does not look much like Marcian, does he? Or any of us—even you, for that matter.”

  “Babies sometimes look like themselves, Lucian,” Adrea answered from where she was straining goat’s milk over a bronze bowl.

  “Perhaps he has his father’s eyes,” Antenor said, leaning against a far wall and whittling at a stick with his dagger, sweat and dirt smudged across his face from the day’s work. “Though, truth be told, sometimes, those eyes scare me.”

  “It is because he knows,” Lucian explained. He was flipping the bells tied over Seraphon’s crib. The child was watching intently.

  “Knows?” Antenor said. “Knows what?”

  “He knows us. Who we are. He knows secret things.”

  “What in the bleeding world are you talking about, Lucian?”

  Lucian looked up, his expression firm. “He knows, Antenor. He knows things we never dreamed of knowing.”

  “He is a few days old and he knows more than us? Your head is so addled, Lucian, I sometimes wonder if we should not take you to the blind woman who takes care of the infirm.”

  Lucian came slowly to his feet, facing Antenor.

  “Elyon’s grace save us,” Antenor complained. “First the child was delivered in the talons of silver eagles with mercury wings, and now he knows—knows secret things, knows who we are.” Antenor chuckled until Lucian tackled him at the waist. Adrea gasped; they were fighting again, and she started for them, but in moments Lucian had brought Antenor to the floor, straddling him, lifting a wide fist and hitting his older brother with a hard thud.

  “He does know and you are going to say it!” shouted Lucian. “Say he knows things, Antenor! Say it and mean it!”

  Blood pooled across Antenor’s upper lip.

  “Lucian!” Adrea shouted, and the boy paused a moment, realizing he had lost his temper again.

  Antenor took the moment to knee Lucian in the crotch, then pushed him off and kicked him back against the wall. Lucian slid to his knees, groaning. “Ah, mother of frogs,” he murmured through clenched teeth, “that hurt …”

  Antenor got up and walked over to the washbasin. He spat out blood, then washed more from his face. “If he broke a tooth, I swear …”

  Adrea lifted Antenor’s chin and studied his lip. She pressed against the front teeth. “You seem to be all right, Antenor. A little better off than Lucian right now.”

  Lucian was hugged against the wall, doubled up.

  “He will never learn,” said Antenor. “I have kicked him between the legs at least ten times. He is dumb as an ox. He carries around that huge axe now as if there is some reason for it, as if he has become a great warrior, but he still falls for a kick in the nuts like he has since he was five.” Antenor lifted a weft of cloth, and went out the door, slamming it behind him. Lucian sat with his back against the wall, his head forward.

  “Anything I can do to help?” asked Adrea.

  Lucian only shook his head.

  When the riders came over the rise, heading for Marcian’s cottage, Adrea had finally been drawn to step outside, to look up and see them. She knew they were not Galaglean and neither were they Daath, but she could tell by the way they rode, they had come with purpose.

  Seraphon had been sleeping, nestled in a blue, woolen blanket in Marcian’s crib. But suddenly he woke. He cried out. Adrea went to him, and when she looked into the crib, he stopped crying and his eyes bore directly into hers. In that moment she knew what was coming, almost as though he had spoken it. Searchers.

  She went to the dresser and opened the box. Inside it was lined with black velvet, and lying in it was the ring. Seeing it, memories began to spill. She touched the stone and with a sudden gasp it all came back to her, everything, even up until the last strange moment that Sandalaphon the Nephilim had taken her through the rift of time. She slipped the ring over her finger and set its golden box in a pouch of her belt, buckling it down. She knew everything now. The riders coming for her were Unchurians, and they were coming to take her life, her’s and the child’s.

  There was a thud on the porch and Adrea looked up. She turned. Marcian’s wooden door was flung wide.

  At the same time, the thick, opaque window glass shattered and a dark figure hurtled through it, tucked. He came to his feet and turned. He was tall, and his hair was a silvery gray, his skin reddish. He drew his sword with a swift, quiet hiss.

  Another stood in the doorway. This one waited, his cloak drawn away from one shoulder.

  Seraphon lay breathless and silent. Adrea shoved his crib back, into the corner,
then stepped between it and them. She kept her eyes on the Unchurian with the sword. He but watched, quietly. He didn’t move. He held the sword loosely in one hand.

  Adrea then screamed and turned, quickly grabbing the bone-cutting knife and flung it, hard, the way Lamachus flung his axe. The Unchurian was taken by surprise. He caught the blade in his hand, but it sliced open his middle fingers all the way to his wrist.

  A javelin through the open window took the Unchurian in the back. Adrea saw the tip tear through his chest. The Unchurian grunted, as though irritated, then dropped to his knees and fell forward. The second Unchurian, in the doorway, now stepped forward, drawing a dagger pinned in his fingers ready to sling it, only to stagger and drop. There were two arrow shafts in his back.

  Antenor stepped over his body and turned, searching, an arrow shaft pinned in his bow. He shifted to a crouch and angled it through the doorway.

  “More of them,” he said. “Riders—did not get a clear count. Where is Lucian?”

  Adrea saw Lucian’s leg drop over the windowsill. He clambered in.

  “You see others?” Antenor said to his brother.

  “I saw only these two.” Lucian answered.

  “That was too easy,” Antenor said.

  “The others spread out; they will come. The surprise is over—they will know we are here, as well. Then we will find out if it is easy.”

  Lucian lifted the latch and opened the chest in the corner. He lifted his grandfather’s axe. Its metal had been burnished to a black hue, but the edge was sharpened silver, flashing.

  Adrea took the child in her arms. “We should try to reach the city.”

  Lucian shook his head. “Galaglea is burning.”