Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  “What just happened?” she asked.

  “I have made you a queen.”

  “Why do that? Why?”

  “They will need you.”

  “Who? Your Daath? They do not need me, Loch. You make an error; I am only a sorcereress, a spell binder. I have no light to give them. Or you.”

  He shook his head. “It is not the Daath I speak of.”

  “Then who, Loch?”

  “Your son and those he will save.”

  She shivered.

  “My son?”

  He nodded.

  “And what of you? You have bound me to you, made me queen—what do you feel for me, Loch?”

  “Sadness, thirst—love. Someone once told me love did not exist. They were wrong.”

  His hand had been resting on the hilt of the Angelslayer. He lifted the sword slowly and held its flange near his opened palm. Though his skin was unbroken, from the pores, a thin vapor of blood moved along his wrist, and then, with a shiver of quick, blue light, it was swallowed into the purple pommel of the sword’s hilt and spilled red and rich into the crystal of the blade.

  “I am dying, Hyacinth. With each taste the sword takes, I age, I lose more life.”

  She shook her head. “No. Tell your protector to heal you.” “There is nothing Sandalaphon can do.”

  “Then throw the damned sword into the ocean! You have done what they asked of you! You have done all your powerful Elyon could ever want.”

  “No. He wants more, my heart. I am to sacrifice it, and I have little time left.” “Loch, you can stop this, turn it!”

  “It is my birthmark. But as someone told me once, time may be thin, but I will take it anyway. I will take the time there is left and use it now as I please. For once in my life I will speak my will, not the prophets'.”

  As he watched her a slight smile curled on his lips. On the hardened, aged face, it looked almost a glimmer of what he was, or had been. “The sky has opened. I see them now. They used to hide, just beyond, always in shadow, but now I see them plainly.”

  “See who, Loch?”

  “The paths of futures. In this one,” he said, touching her cheek, “in this one you are tender and giving, and strong. In this one your son steps into a rift of shadow when all else may have been lost. The hard in you is lost now; I see only loving in your eyes. I know I am not your love, you know that you are not mine, but for now, for this time left to us, we will cheat that. We will be for each other a light to follow, a strength to hold.”

  She paused, searching his eyes carefully now, and they frightened her, for there was something different just beneath their surface, only a whisper of it, but there. Stars. His eyes were opening to stars, just as the giant who was his protector—just as the angel’s had. She knew when the heavens opened, the Loch who had held her the night they slept so close—the prince in him—the human, would never return.

  “I will stay with you, Angelslayer,” she said. And for once, for the first time, he did not flinch at the name. A tear fell across her cheek. “I will follow you; I will be your balm when pain strikes. I am yours.”

  He slowly leaned forward and pulled her into a kiss. She felt a sliver of panic. How many times had she dreamed of his touch, and now it seemed to come spilling with stars and the whisper of futures past. His hand pressed against her back, lifting her. Shivers spread along her skin as he laid her back. Hyacinth closed her eyes. As he took her, a cool, quiet rain fell against her face, which was good—it would hide her tears.

  Chapter Fifty

  Water

  There was a mist upon the dawn like a shroud. Fog curled its breath along the banks of the Ithen as though time had been slowed. The legions of the Daath were formed beyond the banks of Ishmia, along the high ridge that overlooked its wide river mouth. If the Unchurians were to come, they would have to cross here, where the river, though broad, was still shallow before it opened to the sea. Eastward, toward Galaglea, the forests still burned, though their light seemed far. Across from them was the last finger of Hericlon’s forest, and about its ridges and trails, Eryian had laced the ground with traps and acid pits—and hidden beneath false earth was heavy oil. Many would die here. How many sons the demon had spawned, he could not guess, but this stand would cost them heavily. Perhaps they did have a number, perhaps if he killed enough of them, killed them and killed them, they would thin to pale numbers and be forced back to their southern jungles.

  Snow drifted; flakes vanished into the icy, blue waters of the river. Eryian rode along the north bank, pacing, watching the south as the low fog curled tendrils about the legs of his horse.

  “Nice weather to slay Unchurians,” said Tillantus, who rode at his side, one hand on his thigh. Eryian nodded.

  Far to the west of where Eryian waited, the Galagleans had centuries ago built a dam to control the waters of the Ithen for irrigation. It still stood, had still been used, until Galaglea had burned the day before. In the wide, icy shallows before the dam, Rhywder squinted, scanning the still groves of aspen and birch along the south cliffs. The trees were cloaked in a hushed, white snow, but he knew everything south of the Ithen was now Unchurian.

  The Ithen dam was a massive structure of wood and hard rock clay across the canyon mouth. Its limestone spillway was worn and blackened; it bore green scars of mineral and held back the waters of the mighty Ithen, forcing them deep and blue into the spurs of the mountains, where most of the year they were iced.

  At the rocky shores of the river just below the dam, ice had formed in plates. Rhywder pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulder as his horse waded through the current.

  Rhywder had come with a crew of engineers. During the night they had built a rampart intertwined with saplings and sandbags over the top of the spillway to slow the overflow currents. In the shallows below, they had brought siege craft—thick-beamed, towering catapults, in places glittering from bronze reinforcement plates. Three of them spanned the narrow ravine before the spillway like sentinels—only these sentinels were aimed at the center of the dam’s spillway.

  The legs and hooves of Rhywder’s horse had been wrapped in leather and fur against the ice water. Rhywder circled the charger about a catapult platform, pulling up where an engineer was working the sinews, winching them tight. The catapult’s bowl was laden with heavy, sharp-edged rock.

  “This one higher,” Rhywder said, gauging his sight line along the top of the spillway.

  “Higher?” The man paused.

  “A few degrees higher.”

  “But, if I sight higher, Captain, the missiles will miss the dam altogether.” Rhywder turned slowly, squinting one eye. “Higher,” he repeated. The man swore quietly and took hold of the winch lever, adjusting it back slightly.

  Rhywder turned to study the spillway. He had gauged the other two for the weakest spots in the limestone face.

  The captain of the engineers was riding toward him, his horse pushing through the waters. He was a shipbuilder; Rhywder knew the look, skin leathered and eyes dulled by the sun. A look much like a plodder. The lean, narrow Ishmian pulled his mount alongside Rhywder’s and glanced about nervously. “Something is wrong here. My skin is pimpled.”

  “Perhaps you descend from some manner of bird,” Rhywder answered, not turning.

  The Ishmian narrowed his brow. He pointed a finger. “That catapult is chalked too far back.”

  “It is chalked where I want it chalked.” “You want it to miss?”

  Rhywder leaned in the saddle, reached forward, and seized the man by his leather jerkin.

  Rhywder’s breath was a mist as he pressed it between his teeth. “You people seem to have a problem hearing what I say. Perhaps I should clean the salt out of your ears, shipwright!”

  Rhywder shoved the man back. The Ishmian caught himself in the saddle, then straightened.

  The Little Fox turned back to study the face of the dam. The catapults were anchored into the sandy riverbed with thick, wedged billets of oak, driven d
eep. Mooring lines had been lashed to hold against the current as long as possible once the dam began to give way. Mud still streamed from the edges of the billets as though from wounds. Rhywder studied each of the catapults once more.

  “Looks good. This should be like punching holes in plaster. You and your men can move out.”

  “Move out?” the engineer said with a look of surprise.

  “You and your people can leave the riverbed. Take position upon the north ridge. Provide me a line of archers.”

  “Against what?”

  “Surprises.” Rhywder studied him, his dark eyes daring another question.

  The Ishmian backed his horse away, then circled it. “To the north canyon wall! Everyone!” He glanced to Rhywder. “Forgive one last question, but how do you propose the sinews be loosed?”

  “I do not propose to loosen them,” Rhywder replied. “I propose to cut them. I do not believe we will be reusing these particular machines.”

  “But there are three! And you are one man!”

  “I know how many I am, shipwright.”

  The engineers were making their way to the north canyon wall, where ropes snaked up the side to the top.

  “You try to cut all three sinews and you will not get out of the river alive!” The captain said, his tone earnest.

  Rhywder didn’t answer; he waited, still calm, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

  The man studied him, then turned his horse and pressed it into a quick trot, splashing through the blue waters. He glanced over his shoulder to shout, “I think you are a damn fool!”

  Rhywder chuckled.

  Tillantus pointed south, his eyes cold beneath the bronze helm. “They come, my lord,” he said quietly. Eryian turned.

  From beyond the far bank, images stirred, dark shadows merging wraithlike from mist. Black armor stilled in a dull gleam. Gray cloaks were matted in snow. The horns of their helmets curled against the white of the sky.

  The fog began to roll back, as though tide receding. The air was left cold and clean. When the fog had cleared, the valley was filled with them, quiet beneath the falling snow—Unchurians as far as the eye could see. The sons of Righel had thinned them, but they were still the most massive army Eryian had ever beheld. From the riverbank, they lined the hills until they melted to ants, then to bristled to fur. He wondered if they had been bred and kept young for centuries just for this, just for this one single moment in time, to wipe the Daath from the face of the Earth. The demon’s plan. “You will fail,” Eryian said, knowing somewhere he was heard. “By light and faith, you will fail.”

  “Mother of gods,” Tillantus whispered. “What are they? How could there be so many?”

  “Return to ranks, commander,” Eryian said beneath his breath. “And we shall see if we cannot thin them out this day.” He began to back the horse away from the river’s edge.

  From the opposite bank, a line of tall, muscular horsemen faced him, heavy with weapons. Steam curled from the nostrils of their armored horses.

  Eryian lifted his sword in a gesture of greeting, then brought it back to touch the shoulder of his cuirass. “Azazel, you may have a queen, but never her. Let that sink into you now; let it be your thought as you feed me your sons.”

  He wrenched back on the reins, turning his horse, and set it at a gallop for his men, ducking low against the mane. No arrows followed—no javelin. The Unchurians waited, calm, then they came forward with thunder, churning the waters of the Ithen, and the ground trembled.

  The legions of the Daath were assembled along the high ground of a wide butte beyond the river. It stretched seven miles, first from a gentle slope, then steeper near the top. Just before the flat rocky summit, the dirt was like sand. Eryian and Tillantus were galloping up the side. They rode through a long line of archers who crouched in the dirt, lifting silver arrows to their bows.

  Below them, the blanket of snow stretching from the river was being churned to black mud by hooves.

  “Archers!” Eryian cried, and along the ranks, his captains echoed the command.

  As the Unchurians closed on the line of archers, a solid wall of arrows massed a dark cloud against the sky, and with a muscled grunt, the Unchurian attack crumpled. There were two thousand archers, and the Daath, when their arrows were spent, wielded long swords as their brothers; they were trained as slayers. The dark wall of arrows struck like a terrible storm—shields shattering, horses rolling, the dead vanishing beneath thundering hooves.

  When Eryian and Tillantus reached the Daath’s front line at the top of the butte, the glimmering smoke shields opened to swallow their lords. Now on center ground, Eryian turned his horse and shouted, “Release the first barrier!”

  Out of the dirt, lines of rope jerked taut, and the torsion of thousands of steel-honed lances were released dead center before the heavy charge of Unchurians. The lances sprung upward, locked into place, and impaled Unchurian horseflesh with a hard grunt. Horses and men were sliced, thrown, then crushed beneath the armored weight of those behind. A wall of bodies and armor built upon the lance tips until it literally formed a long, narrow dune of bloodied flesh. Then, horsemen began to spill over as though through deep mud, leaping the last few feet, then charging forward on solid ground, armor and weapons ringing, hooves beating the earth to a heavy pulse. The pikes had slain thousands, but had caused only a moment’s delay.

  “Javelins!” Eryian cried, and his command was echoed down the lines.

  Daathan javelins soared, quilling the white, morning sky. They struck with a scream of death, and the front of the Unchurian horsemen for a moment buckled, then spilled over and continued rolling forward, crushing the fallen.

  “Release the first signal,” Eryian said to Tillantus.

  Rhywder paced, riding the shallows, at times glancing over his shoulder to the south where from a high ridge, tree shadows flirted with him. Bobbing on the water, lashed to ropes in a line stretching between the catapults, were wooden kegs, their planking sealed with wax.

  “Captain!” a voice called from the north ridge of the dam. Looking up, he saw the Ishmian shipwright waving frantically. “There! My God! There, in the sky! It is the first signal, Captain!”

  Rhywder turned. He caught the last moment’s breath of a far, fiery dart, launched upward, into the white clouds, streaming a line of smoke. Rhywder unlatched his killing axe from the rear saddle tassels, then spurred his horse forward, galloping for the barrels.

  Rhywder began to shear open the casks with strong swipes of the axe, shattering the planking. They bled. Oil oozed, then swirled upon the waters. He was careful to space the cuts until the river was swathed with a long, glittering stretch of naphtha film. It would have, in ordinary times, been a bane to smother fish and choke birds caught in it. But now it would be a cloak and in fifteen degrees’ movement of the sun, this cloak would flow far enough downstream to reach the battle, which from here was a far, distant roar, a blunt and terrifying sound, caught in low clouds and amplified by the still air. The oil was so thick it seemed to tumble in long streamers.

  Eryian lowered his sword and the command launched catapults that flung huge, wobbling bladders of naphtha, sown together so taut, they burst only on impact. Arrows dogged their flights, fired, and the effect was strafing explosions of flame that melted skin and left black smoke.

  “More of your sons,” Eryian whispered. He knew the demon heard each word, though silence was the only answer. “Before this day, even you must feel their loss.”

  But even fire seemed not to slow the Unchurians; it seemed they absorbed the rivers of fire and multiplied in the thick smoke.

  Eryian ordered runners down the side of the butte where thick, aged logs of dried oak had been lashed in heaps and coated with pitch. Once lit, they burnt their ties quickly and rolled free, flames spinning. The Unchurians literally threw themselves into the face of the avalanche of fiery thunder, until the logs pummeled their way through, leaving blood and blackened flesh scattered in wid
e swaths. For a moment they had been stopped, staggered, but then, like insects, they began to scurry, trampling their wounded, until they surged forth with new energy. Eryian let them come.

  “Elyon’s breath, Eryian,” Tillantus whispered beside him, “this has no pity; this is madness. He throws these men at death as if there were no thought of its cost.”

  “There is none, Tillantus.”

  The ropes of the boulders were then cut. Huge rocks with sharp-edged corners had been bored and caulked with black pitch and came like tumbling comets. The collage of horses and men on the slope became a circus carnage into which Eryian poured arsenals of arrows and javelins. When they struck, many of the boulders burst in explosion. The Unchurian advance was once more halted, halfway up. The ground below the butte was littered with a sheer mountain of dead and dying. The winnowing wars had been brutal, but never had Eryian seen this many die so quickly, so without ceremony. The Unchurian front had been decimated. Bodies coated the hillside, burning.

  But more were coming, a new front fast morphing from the dead. They climbed and threw themselves over the rubble of their brothers’ bodies. Horses struggled through the course of deep swamp.

  Tillantus, beside his captain, watched from beneath the silver visor of his helm. “This is useless. We have slain more than our own number and yet they still come. Is there an end to them?”

  “All things must have an end; it is a decree of heaven,” Eryian said, watching without emotion.

  Those coming up the hill now were savage, some half-naked, with painted skins and crude weapons. Eryian had destroyed an entire legion of the high-blood horsemen. Before, his old enemy had fed the sons of Righel fodder to weaken the circle of shields, but this time he had had chosen to send in high-blood firstborn in hopes of quickly breaching defenses. But they had died. There were still more, waiting beyond, but these had died hard. Had they been his own sons, Eryian’s heart would be breaking.