Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  Endgame was like a smell here. “Any bloodroot about?” Loch asked.

  “This is Ishmia; there is no shortage of bloodroot wine here. I will have a cask brought up.” He gestured to a guard who turned with a flair of his shadow cloak.

  “Galaglea?” Loch asked.

  “Burned. We could not have reached them in time, not with the fall of Hericlon.”

  “Were there survivors?”

  “Some, though they are few. There is a small camp east, near the sea.” Loch pulled himself forward and allowed Hyacinth to help him to his feet. “I’ll need a horse, Mammanon.” “I will see to it, my lord.”

  Mammanon turned and lowered his head to Hyacinth, then strode from the room. His guards followed, and the door was closed.

  Hyacinth turned to watch Loch carefully. “You are going to search for the red hair?”

  “I must.” He lifted the belt and sheath of the Angelslayer from the bedpost. “I will wish, for you—that she still lives.”

  He buckled the clasp, then paused to study her a moment. “I have always felt her, but I feel nothing now. It is doubtful, but thank you for such words, Hyacinth. You have changed a great deal, do you know that?”

  She nodded. “Death will do that to a person, I suppose. Still, I have not changed as much as you.” She reached to touch a strand of silvery hair that curled past his temple. The night-black hair had begun to turn, as some of the elder Daath, into a silvery sheen. “It is aging you quickly now. I would think you could fire only once or twice more and you would reach your end. Please be careful, my love. Keep your palm from its hilt. It is like a beast to me, a beast hungering for you. It seeks more than your blood; it seeks now your soul.”

  “This palace is surely well guarded. You will be safe until I return.”

  “I can attest to that, Daath are everywhere, all around every corner. They make me terribly nervous, Lochlain. Are you sure I cannot come with you? You might need me—assassins, I can smell them.”

  He shook his head.

  “I say again you might need me, my king.”

  “Not for this.”

  She nodded. “Just … do not leave me here long. Alone—with them. Promise.”

  “My word. But you need not fear them. You are their queen.”

  “The red-hair was their queen—I will not even be remembered, but I am your queen, Loch. I am yours until the end.”

  “Your Book of Angels speaks of the Water Bearer’s son, but when I feel the futures, I feel two of them. Two that shall lead—one born of fury; one born of strength. I believe the Angelslayer shall bring the storm, but it is the other, the second, who will ride it. It is a future marked of two queens.” He softly touched her cheek, then turned.

  “Loch …” She started for him, but he was already gone. When the door closed behind him, she slowly slid down the stone to sit against it, curling her toes into the thick rug. She laid her head back and closed her eyes. What he had said terrified her. Partly because she felt it in her, and partly because she felt she could never bear a son like that, a son that could ride Aeon’s Storm.

  Loch rode slowly among the refugees. There were no more than forty or fifty—tired faces, sleeping children. Loch could feel their sadness. He had paused, tingling, seeing a girl whose back was to him. Long red hair spilled over white shoulders, but when she turned, she was far too young. She had stared at Loch openly, frightened. Loch stepped from the saddle, then came to one knee and offered his hand. She hesitated, her mother moving closer, and when her hand touched his fingers, he gently kissed it.

  “Elyon’s grace take your sorrow,” he said.

  He mounted and rode through the rest of the camp at a trot. She was not going to be here, in this scattering of broken Galagleans. Adrea was not among them.

  Alone, Loch rode along the shore, watching the twilight bleed stars. Sensing he was being followed, he drew up the reins and turned the horse. It looked like a scout approaching, no silver armor, just dusted, stained leather and wild red hair. He recognized the figure instantly. He was only mildly surprised to find his uncle still alive. The Little Fox of Lochlain had always been hard to kill.

  Rhywder drew up before his nephew and stared at him a moment, taken by the change in his face, his eyes. No longer a boy, no longer common at all. The Daath had a king, an able king, far more powerful than Argolis had been. “You have changed, boy,” Rhywder said.

  “Time has gotten thin—have we not all changed a bit?”

  Rhywder paused. Even the boy’s voice was different—edged and certain. “Aye,” answered Rhywder, “that is has.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “When I heard you were in the city, I guessed you would come here.” Loch studied Rhywder carefully, sensing what he was about to say. “I know about the Water Bearer,” Rhywder told him. “I know where she is.” “Alive?”

  “In a way.”

  “How do you mean that?”

  “Spellbound—one of the magicks I happen to know of.” He handed Loch a small, leaden box. “The ring,” he said. “Why is it not on her finger?”

  “To keep her hidden it lies in that box. It is lined in golden, spellbound foil—not mine, but gold of the Watcher, Sandalaphon. The ring cannot be seen even by those with shadow sight. I suppose it should be with the child, as it was with you after Asteria died.”

  “You speak as if already she is dead.”

  Rhywder did not answer. “Come, I will take you to her.”

  The horses danced outside of a simple, wooden cottage—ordinary, even poorly kept. A good choice for hiding—set in the center of a forest clearing, well back from the city. It was bared and bolted. Loch stared at it, though Rhywder could detect no emotion on his face.

  “How bad?” Loch asked. “Does she suffer?”

  Rhywder tightened his jaw. “She sleeps. It was a minion got to her. We killed it, but there was a lot of her blood when I lifted her.” “How does she survive?”

  “I used a particular magick on her. Rare, few even know of it. It is Unchurian; I learned it of a witch. They know death, the witches of Unchuria, they learn all its secrets of their lord. This one gave this secret for her life.”

  “Explain this magick.”

  “There is a potion used by the Unchurian priests—usually for torture. They can cut you, peel the skin off slowly, for days letting the tissue beneath dry in burning pain. There is no finer torture because you do not die. I killed a priest back there in Hericlon, inherited his potions, and the powders needed were among them. It is meant for torture, but I have used it to keep her alive, adding a second spellbound herb that would leave her sleeping.”

  “Why go to such trouble if she lies so near death?”

  “Let us say I guessed I might see you again and further guessed you would wish to bid her farewell.” Rhywder reached in his belt pocket and pulled out a small crystal the color of dried blood. “When you break this crystal over her, the spell-binding potion will be neutralized. That should wake her—but when she wakes,” Rhywder paused, “when she wakes, it is short time before she dies. Moments only. I am sorry, Loch, I could do no more.”

  Loch moved his horse closer and took the crystal from Rhywder’s fingers. He curled it into his fist. “My thanks, uncle. You can leave me now.”

  “It is not safe, even here. We have held back the Unchurians for now, but not their assassins. They make their way through; they kill at random. We have lost many able Walkers. I should wait, watch over you.”

  “They find me—they welcome death.”

  Rhywder paused. “I suppose you have a point.” Rhywder lifted the reins and backed the horse away. “Faith’s Light, my king,” Rhywder said as he turned the reins and rode away at a lope.

  Loch lifted the heavy bolt of the door and dropped it. It opened with a whine as he stepped inside. It was a hunter’s cottage, lit only by moonlight. In the shadows, Adrea lay on a simple bed, a thick, Galaglean quilt over her body. Her hair was soft across the pillow, p
layed out. She looked perfect, beautiful, her skin porcelain. Loch walked to her side, then knelt. He lifted his fist and crushed the Unchurian crystal, letting a vapor of dark blood spill over her.

  Adrea’s eyes flicked open and she took a breath as through breaking water. She searched quickly, frightened; she cried out in pain, arching her back, and Loch gently touched her shoulder.

  She searched the darkness of the room, panicked. “Seraphon? Where is Seraphon?”

  “You need not fear for him. He is well protected now.” At his voice she turned, startled.

  “Lochlain …” she whispered. She lifted her hand, weakly, to touch his face, but the pain again seized her and she cried out in a soft whisper.

  He let a soft pulse of blue light pass from his fingers to hers. When it did, Loch lowered his head, closing his eyes. Adrea slowly eased back.

  “What … what did you just do?”

  “Took your pain,” he said. He sucked breath against the pain now in him. It was strong as it rippled through him. It was no wonder she had cried out. But Loch had gotten used to pain. He looked up through dark, Shadow Walker eyes.

  “You have changed,” she said. “You are so different from when we last touched.”

  “More than I ever wished, I am afraid.” He stroked her hair. It was so soft, silken. “Adrea, I am sorry.” “For what?” “Everything.”

  “As you once told me, Loch, we had no choice. If I have learned anything from you, from the ring, from the birthing of your scion, I have learned that all of it was truth. The path is marked of heaven’s grace. It is all truth, Loch. All you have shown me, all you believed. Faith’s Light, my love, and you will you find your way.” She had to pause to take breath. Even without pain, breathing was difficult. “I am dying?” He nodded.

  “Seraphon … I will not see little Seraphon again …” “Not in this world.”

  Tears fell. “Promise me, Loch, swear to me he will be cared for—more than protected, as you were, but that he will be loved.” “I promise.”

  She turned slowly to gaze at him. “You have aged. You look as old as your father.”

  “It is the sword.”

  She studied him a moment, searching his eyes. “Yes, that and taking her, bringing her back from death—the priestess.” “You know?”

  “As brave as you are, you have one weakness; you fear to walk alone. Even though it is your path, still you fear it. But you will learn. You are the Voyager, my love; in the end you will understand who you are.”

  His eyes misted. It surprised him. He thought all emotion had been taken from him just as the blood sucked through the pommel of the Angelslayer, but suddenly it flooded him and he remembered the love he bore for her, the love they had shared through worlds he could no longer name.

  She gasped—her breath short. She watched a tear run across his cheek and was able to reach up, take it in her fingers. “Sometimes …” she whispered, “when I was alone and frightened, there was a place I would go. A place where we reached the ship that day. We outran the assassins, and the ship sailed into the deep waters of the Western Sea where we found it, the island of Enoch, and there we looked into the eyes of God.” She half-smiled. “Have you ever gone there? Have you seen that future?”

  He shook his head.

  “We lived long there. We learned to know each other’s thoughts in this world’s flesh, to love each other beyond merely our memories, and we changed. We grew old. It was a good thing, a good place, Loch. It was a life well lived—a long life.”

  Her breath was shallow as she lifted her hand, spreading her fingers in the sign of the word. He lifted his own to meet them, and then, as she had once before in a dream, she curled her fingers tightly into his.

  “When it is ended,” she said softly, “if Earth survives Aeon’s End—you can find me if you wish. I will be there—that place, the place where the ship would have taken us—I will wait for you there, on the island. As long as it takes you to find me, I will wait for you, Voyager.” The light from her eyes left quietly. Loch slowly lowered his head until it rested against her shoulder and for a long time, he did not move.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Bloodstone

  Satrina was sitting against the wall, watching the child as he slept. She stared at him, fascinated. He seemed so beautiful, so peaceful. Sleeping, his eyes closed, he might almost have been an ordinary child. She crawled over to lift the blanket to his shoulders, and as she did, he turned, curling into it.

  When there was a knock at the villa door, Satrina got up, walked to the door, and opened it without looking. She believed there could be no danger if the child was sleeping. If there would have been danger, he would have wakened and warned her. But she was startled nonetheless, and stared a moment openly. She knew without asking who this was. The face of the child—it was much like his. The dark eyes, the cut of the cheekbone.

  She bowed her head and stepped back. “My lord,” she said, but was surprised when he touched her shoulder.

  “No, I do not come as your lord. I may never have been a lord, or a king. It was never my path. Please, just call me Loch.”

  His eyes were hard to look at directly, so intense, dark as night, and yet there was a ring of light about their edge that left a chill through her. She thought she could see through them, a different soul, far more tender than the Shadow Walker, a singer.

  “I am Satrina.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Come,” she said, and led him into the room where the infant lay sleeping. “This is Seraphon; this is your son. I suspect he is the reason you are here.”

  Loch stepped near the bed, staring, though the cloak hid Seraphon’s face. Satrina started to pull it aside, but he caught her hand. When she looked to him, it startled her to see a single tear openly fall, even from the dark eyes of a Shadow Walker. It was a tear of the singer that had retreated deep within. He then took her wrist and placed the leaden box in her hand. He curled her fingers about it before she could speak. “When he is of age, you will know to open this and give him what is inside. Only he can find the one who must bear it. Until that time, keep it always on your person. I name you the Ringbearer, Satrina. Teach him. Teach him of the light and the splendor; teach him all you know, for his path will not be easy. His destiny will come with the rain of fire. You must teach him well, for he must walk the edge of Aeon’s End.”

  “Yes, of course, but my lord, have you not made some mistake? I am no one special. I am a barmaid; my father a drunk, a gambler. I am not royalty, far from it. How can you name me the Ringbearer of a king?”

  “I see your eyes, your soul. You will give him what his mother asked. A mother’s love, it is in your eyes. You are the one.”

  He looked one more time at the child, and seemed about to say more, but suddenly turned. His cloak flared, and he left the door open behind him. He was gone before she realized he had moved. He had vanished into shadow as the Daath were said to do. Satrina looked down and opened her palm. It was a carefully wrought plain leaden box, small, the hinges tiny, but still she shivered. She could almost sense what was inside. She knew enough of the legends of the Daath, of their kings and their queens—this was the ring of the Water Bearer—the bloodstone of the Daath from the seven centuries they had dwelt on Earth. They had been sent as the protectors, and this was the ring of their last queen. Sensing movement, she turned to the crib. Slowly, she withdrew the coverlet. Seraphon was staring up at her, watching carefully, as if he understood perfectly all that had just transpired. She clutched the box tightly in her hand.

  “Little one,” she whispered, “I fear your father has just made a terrible error in judgment.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Ice

  Eryian paused in the hallway of the palace, tingling with alarm. He was alone, using a bronze walking crutch. His leg was bound in a wooden cast, lashed with leather. The hallway before him was quiet; the wall brackets of the torches had been torn loose. The stone here was a sweating cold,
frosted in the corners. There was also a smell, something vague but noxious, something that bristled his skin as he continued, making his way down the corridor.

  He stopped before the dark hole of the chamber where he had last seen Krysis. The door was gone, but for splinters of wood at the hinges. In the hall were the bodies of two Shadow Walkers, both warriors prime, one thrown back against the stone and seemingly crushed into it, the other basically cut in half.

  A chill left him numb as he entered the room. There was blood on the walls. Lines of it glistened where moonlight caught it still damp.

  The bed had been pushed to one corner of the room and its center was caved in.

  A hand dangled over its edge, small, white, with painted nails. Feathers and down from the mattress were torn and bloodied, scattered, some drifting with the cold wind from the window. He didn’t want to know this; he didn’t want to see more. He started toward the bed, forgetting to use the crutch, and fell, wincing in pain as the leg twisted. He straightened, pulled himself onto one knee.

  Krysis’s eyes were open, dulled, staring upward. She had died in a scream, her golden hair flung across the coverlet, her head to the side. There was a deep gash through her breast, cutting deep through muscle, and blood still oozed. Her legs were askew over the back of the bed. A bedpost had been rammed between them, still in place.

  Eryian quickly turned away. He knelt a moment, taking quick, hard breaths, then he slammed his fist against the stone with a scream.

  There was a whisper, a voice as quiet as soft wind.

  “Time to come home, star jumper.”

  In the night, at the edge of an empty street, Eryian waited, leaning against the walking cane. He watched calmly as a warrior rode toward him from the cluttered villas beyond. When Eryian stepped into the light, the Daath warrior pulled up on the reins, startled. “My lord,” he gasped.