Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

Staring out the doorway, Adrea saw that the horizon was on fire. But these fires were much closer than Galaglea. “Not only Galaglea,” Adrea gasped.

  Lucian had been buckling on the axe belt. Seeing Adrea’s expression, he leapt to the doorway. “Brushfire—that is dry autumn wheat—it will come down that hill like a wave of water.”

  Antenor lowered the bow tip. The field of wheat beyond the house was quickly becoming a sea of fire. It looked molten.

  “Go for the horses, Antenor,” Lucian said. “Harness the chariot for Adrea and Seraphon!”

  Antenor hadn’t moved. He could only stare, mesmerized. The fire seemed to be swarming toward them intentionally. “It is coming too fast,” Antenor muttered.

  “Antenor!” Lucian shook him until he focused. “Get the horses! Now!”

  Antenor turned and broke into a run. Lucian glanced back.

  Adrea was holding Seraphon against her. As she started for the door a voice whispered, “You die.” She turned. The one Lucian had killed with a javelin was sitting up against the wall. The Unchurian was dead, his expression pale and frozen, but the jaw worked slowly. “You die this day. Welcome to the dead, Daathan queen; we come for you.”

  Lucian glanced at her, then swiftly decapitated the already dead man. “He called you a Daathan queen …”

  “There is no time, Lucian; get us out of here!”

  He grabbed her shoulder and ran with her for the horse stables. Outside, the heat felt strangely benevolent, cascading in waves of angry wind. The flame left the bronze of the chariot watery as Antenor rode it from the shed, already harnessed. The horses twisted madly at the bar, eyes wide, nostrils filled with the scent of burning. One reared and Antenor reined it in. He then held the horses tight by their harness straps.

  “Get in Adrea!”

  Lucian had dashed into the stables, throwing open as many gates as he could, and then came out leading two horses. He held their reins and threw a saddle over one.

  “You can manage a chariot?” asked Lucian.

  “I can!”

  Lucian climbed into the saddle, taking up the reins. Antenor still had to cinch down his straps. Lucian watched, amazed at how quickly the fires had reached the bottom of the hill and were throwing fingers for the cottage.

  Antenor leapt into the other saddle. For a moment he had trouble keeping his horse from spooking; it was circling, shaking out its mane, snorting. Antenor stared in awe at the flames.

  “It moves too fast! We will never outrun this!” Antenor shouted, somewhat panicked.

  In the chariot, Adrea knelt, tying Seraphon against the inside front wall, using the carrier thongs to lash him. He was wrapped in his thick blue, woolen blanket, and he stared back with his cold blue eyes as though he understood everything that was about to unfold. His eyes offered her a strange comfort, as if telling her that though terrible things were about to unfold, it would be all right. In the end, it would be all right. Adrea lifted the reins.

  “Good enough, let us get out of here!” Lucian cried. “Take the east road to Ishmia!”

  Adrea lashed the horses with a whip, clutching the railing of the car as it bolted. The horses galloped forward with wide eyes, sweating. Adrea leaned into a sharp turn about the side of the cottage. The wheels of the chariot sent a spray of dust into the red sky.

  The chariot, with the two horses at its flanks, turned west, for the narrow, wagon-gutted roadway that snaked into the forest. Antenor galloped beside the chariot, but Lucian kept to the rear, riding in their dust, searching behind, to the sides. He held the reins in one hand, the axe in another. He had told Adrea he had only touched the axe of Moloch once or twice, but it was clear he had practiced with another, for it was loose and ready in his hand.

  Antenor was consumed in panic; his face was flushed. He had seen fire before, but this was more than fire. It had life. It had turned when they turned, and he had seen fingers of flame leap from the top of the stables for the trees as they galloped into the forest—it was like a spirit of fire with eyes to follow them.

  Antenor glanced to Adrea. He knew she was wise and kind, but he had never seen this part of her. She was fearless. She held the reins tight in both hands, guiding the chariot as it turned a bend in the road. It tipped to one wheel, then dropped back, but Adrea seemed unaffected, nor did she look back to the fire that seemed to be leaping from tree to tree behind them, almost like a creature following.

  It had been sunset, but as they rode into the forest, it was dark, with only the firelight to guide them. A dark had settled down out of the sky and pocketed in the trees, leaving them almost black. The fire’s flicker, following as fast as their horses could press, left everything wet and slippery looking. Antenor glanced skyward, feeling a sudden chill. Something had passed overhead. He hadn’t really seen it, but he heard it—a swift wing beat, not a bird, not anything he had ever seen, it was leathery and heavy sounding.

  Lucian kept his heels tight against the flanks as the big horse drove forward. Its eyes were on Adrea, as though the horse understood the danger. They were riding through a thickening cowl of gray smoke, and Lucian knew the fire was not natural. It was possibly Uttuku, for it leapt, flying through the trees with a sound like dragons following. Lucian was sweating in the heat. He heard a wing beat. Lucian gripped the worn, dark wood haft of his grandfather’s axe for strength. Suddenly there was a powerful wing beat. Something had soared out of the sky and alighted on the side of the car, right next to Adrea.

  Antenor was closest and when he saw the creature, he thought of nothing else but Adrea and the child. He twisted hard on the reins, driving his horse into the side of the chariot. A creature with clawed feet clung to the bronze rail of the car. It moved swiftly, at times blurring out of focus. Before he could react, it turned its eyes upon him and reached out with a fantastically long, powerful arm, shredding the neck of Antenor’s horse. The horse reared back, and if Antenor had not been trained by his father to be the best of horsemen, he would have fallen, but he only slipped, clinging to the saddle, trying to pull himself back up and bring the horse in line at the same time.

  Lucian thundered past. Antenor caught only a glimpse of his brother, long hair streaming wild as he leaned into Thunderbolt’s gallop, his axe lifted, ready. He looked so much older, nothing at all like a boy, and he was screaming a war cry through clenched teeth.

  As Lucian closed on the chariot, he grew furious. Whatever had dropped from the sky now jumped into the car beside Adrea, and before Lucian could reach them, the manlike creature had seized Adrea by her neck. She screamed, attacking with her nails, but his face was bony armor. Though he was smaller than Adrea, he easily lifted her, and with a grunt, flung her over the side of the car. She vanished with a shriek.

  Lucian felt himself screaming, but he could not stop for her, could not turn; he galloped past after the chariot. The creature had taken the reins of the horses, and was now whipping them, urging speed. Lucian saw Seraphon, bundled and tied in the front of the chariot.

  From the corner of his eyes, Lucian saw riders—nearly a score of them—coming from the trees. He knew there were others; the two that had gone for the cabin were just to slow them. Here, in the fire’s fog, was where the riders intended to trap them. The riders parted, half of them turning for the spot where Adrea had been thrown. The others swung toward Lucian and the chariot, coming at an angle downward through the trees.

  Lucian was at the chariot’s side, not close enough to see the creature’s face as it turned, glancing over its shoulder at him—but ignoring him as though he were just a boy, no threat posed. Lucian pulled himself to crouch in the saddle, and then hurled over the railing. His axe was heavy, swift. It missed the creature’s back, as he had wanted, but did thud through the bone of the creature’s shoulder. Losing an arm seemed to have little effect. He had wrapped the reins about the railing and now turned to deal with Lucian, reaching forward with his single arm to slam Lucian against the side of the car. He was amazingly strong. A dark wood-li
ke hand shot out and clamped hold of Lucian’s neck. Lucian could feel the fingers forcing their way through the skin. This close, the creature’s eyes looked as though they were backlit by small fires. It was growling.

  Lucian snarled, brought his axe in a low arc, and hard as the wooden armor was, he sheared though the creature’s gut. Then he split open its head and hurled the body out of the chariot.

  Antenor had managed to climb back into the saddle, and now he pulled his horse up sharp. It reared, screamed. It didn’t want to turn—the flames were curling right for them—but Adrea was back there, and he was going for her. He galloped hard, then circled her body. She looked so broken, lying facedown. He turned, searching. He had lost sight of Lucian, and the smoke that stung in his lungs was growing thicker each moment. As he watched, it closed in about him like a hand, and soon even the trees just beyond were hidden, and it seemed, though the fire was burning all about them, that it had pulled back, leaving only the smoke. This much smoke should be choking him. He should not be able to breathe, but this was different. It was not so much smoke as it was darkness—a living kind of darkness that closed about them, even cutting off sound.

  “Adrea!” he whispered, but she didn’t move. He wondered a moment if she were still alive.

  Riders were coming. He could not see them, the dark prevented that, but he could hear them—a drum of horse hooves.

  “Adrea!” he cried, but she did not respond. Her hair was flayed out across the ground. Her wrist was turned about so one palm was upward. “Elyon, give me strength,” he whispered, pulling his bow from off his back and dropped beside her body, crouching, quickly bringing the arrow’s gut taut with an arrow. He sensed the beat of hooves, and then fired. A horse burst from the dark, but he had taken mark—it was riderless. He quickly pulled a second arrow taut. He could hear others closing. Antenor fired, but the bolt went over the rider’s shoulder. Antenor ripped his sword from its sheath, preparing himself. The rider had slowed, was circling them. It was not human; it bore great wings of leather and its skull was a skeletal mask of hardened black wood that curled in a mock cheek guard and arched at the temples in spines. Its body was covered in muscular-shaped blackened armor, a kind of hardened wood.

  The minion swung one leg over and dropped from the horse.

  Antenor screamed as came at him, but it ended quickly. The creature’s backhand blow hit so hard, Antenor heard the crack of his own neck snapping and his legs went out from under him.

  The creature now stood over Adrea. It lowered itself to one knee. It tipped its head, studying her. With a clawed finger, it prodded her bared shoulder. It turned her, rolling her onto her back. It leaned close, studying her face. Its eyes were a mesh of dark webbing, but somewhere behind them burned a low light. It gently swept a curl of red hair from Adrea’s cheek. It had no mouth, but phantasm lips moved, and a shadowy tongue flickered just beneath the transparent leather skin.

  “Do you know what I love about war?” it whispered. Adrea’s eyes were closed—she could have been dead, but she was still breathing, a light, fluttery breath, barely clinging to life. The creature leaned closer. “Plunder and rape. But most of all … rape.”

  Rhywder and the maniple of Ishmians had ridden hard the entire day, resting little. He had seen the fires from the distance, and he knew the Unchurians had reached Galaglea, for she was burning. The city left a stain against the setting sun and a pall of black smoke. He had spent time there, Galaglea; the people there, so many, the legion of Galagleans who must have fallen, it left a pain in him. But Rhywder was coming for two, the girl and her child, and that is where he kept his mind focused. They had ridden even harder, and now they should have been to the east and north—which, from the information he had gathered, should have been near Marcian’s land. Ahead of them, across a clearing of dull green meadow grass, was a thick forest, and it, as well, was afire, flames curling mighty fingers into the sky, and the roar was furious. The road they were following snaked right into it.

  Rhywder pulled up, circling his horse. Rainus and the others drew up about him. “You are not going to suggest we go in there,” said Rainus.

  Rhywder started to shake his head, then paused. A chariot and rider came out of the forest, right out of the flame. The chariot horses were at breakneck gallop, the car was flying, bouncing off the road, and the rider—which looked to be a boy of about ten and six years—continued to crack his whip, gripping the rail with one hand. He glanced behind, over his shoulder. Rhywder then saw why—there were riders in pursuit, assassins, twenty or more, pressing down on the chariot, cloaks whipping like wings.

  “Save that boy!” Rhywder screamed, launching his horse and drawing his sword. Rainus and the guards closed quickly at his flank, then fanned out to either side.

  A javelin arched over the boy’s shoulder and almost broached his horses. He cracked the whip again. One of the assassins was closing, the horse in a low, pressed thunder. The Unchurian leaned sideways, almost out of the saddle, and seized hold of the chariot rail. He leapt, but the boy with a scream had kicked him back, and the Unchurian went flying. His body hit and rolled, swept beneath the hooves of the other assassins.

  The distance was closing. The boy had seen them now. “You there!” he screamed. “Daath! Help me!”

  Rhywder screamed, drawing his sword, and his horse launched in a pressed gallop.

  Rainus and the others were soon at his flank. The distance between them and the chariot was fast closing, but the assassins were also closing their gap.

  Another javelin soared, and this one took out one of the chariot’s horses, through its back. It twisted, going down. The car was flipped sideways, snapping the harness, and it rolled, spinning. Rhywder’s horse had to leap, clearing the chariot.

  The Daath slammed into the assassins at full gallop. They met each other with powerful, shattering blows of mace and sword. Armor and shield were split open. Both Unchurians and Daath dropped as the two ripped past each other. Rhywder’s blade ripped through an assassin’s stomach, then another’s neck. He wrenched back on the reins, turning the horse sharply.

  “Take them out!” Rhywder shouted to Rainus. “Every damned one of them!” He then spurred his horse toward the chariot. As the others circled for attack, two assassins had split off and were moving for the overturned car. From behind it, the youth who had been the driver was on his feet. He held a killing axe, a well-used killing axe that smelled of blood, and he waited, staring, cold-blooded and calm as the assassins rode him down. He whipped the axe in spinning arcs—he knew how to use it. With one stroke he killed a horse; with another he sheared off a leg at the hip. As the horse went down and the second assassin turned with his sword for a strike, his head was severed with a scream. The boy fought as a born slayer, like nothing Rhywder had seen.

  At full gallop, Rhywder lifted a crossbow from his shoulder scabbard. He heard Rainus and the city guard locked in battle, weapons ringing. The youth now drew his sword and angled it, crouched and ready—yet another coming, but Rhywder took out the assassin from behind with the crossbow bolt. As the riderless horse passed the chariot, the boy sheathed his axe, then leapt, catching the saddle of an Unchurian mount with one hand to pull himself up. Mounted, he twisted the reins and waited for Rhywder.

  “There is a child beneath this chariot!” the boy shouted. “He is still unharmed.”

  “This is the child of Marcian’s woman?” Rhywder asked. “You are the one sent to protect him; you should know!” “How would you know that?”

  “I knew someone would be sent. I did not know who, but someone would come. Stay with him; I must find Adrea!”

  He whipped the reins, setting his horse at a gallop straight for the burning forest.

  “Boy!” Rhywder shouted, but the Galaglean didn’t look back. Galagleans were blood-bred with head of solid bone.

  Rhywder dropped out of the saddle and crouched, looking beneath the overturned car.

  He was startled. A child wrapped in a blue bl
anket was watching back calmly—watching as though it knew his name, and the eyes were so alive, so quick, they sent a shiver across Rhywder’s back.

  Rainus and three of the Daath were riding slowly toward him. The battle had ended, and these were the survivors. Of the twenty city cohorts he had set out with, there were now only four left alive, and it was going to be a long road back.

  Rhywder stood. Rainus was cut fairly bad, his cuirass was dented in at the stomach, and blood had washed over his thigh.

  Rhywder looked to the forest. The boy had gone in, at full gallop, without hesitation.

  “Ah, for the love of frogs,” Rhywder muttered. He pulled himself into the saddle. “Rainus, with your life and more, protect that child!”

  “My lord! What child?”

  “The one beneath that chariot.” Rhywder turned the reins. “And if this damn Galaglean gets me killed, head back for Ishmia and get that child to Eryian. The warlord will know who he is.”

  Rhywder could not believe he was riding into death once more, but he was; the forest was melting all about him. To the left a huge limb crashed down, long streamers of white fire trailing. The heat was searing, and everywhere flame licked. The roadway was the only clear path, and he kept the horse in tight rein—it was going to bolt any second, eyes wide and terrified. He had not gone far in when he saw them. It looked like something out of madness; the boy was going face to face with a minion. The boy fought savagely, screaming, and it was only his fury keeping him alive, for the minion was far too powerful. Each blow of the minion’s hand staggered the young Galaglean, but he had refused to drop.

  Rhywder leveled the crossbow, coming at them full gallop. The minion looked up just as the bolt slammed into its head, between the eyes, cracking the bone armor. At this, the minion screamed, furious, hand in fists. The boy hurtled forward like a mad dog. The minion reached a hand to tear the bolt free only to have the boy’s axe open its chest like a crab’s, with a crack, vitals spilled. And the boy did not stop there; he took off a leg, as well, the axe was sharp; it sliced quick and sure of its path. The minion reeled, wings arched to keep from falling.