Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (11 page)

“We have to get a priest. We have to get a priest up here, Father.”

Lamachus's face went red. “What? Have you gone utterly mad? That damned half-witted priest would be slaughtering my cattle and cutting off privates from all my prime bulls before the sun could set. Lord spare us, just what I need, as if life were not already trial enough.”

“One of the giants, a flesh eater, has been here and could still be here.”

“Having sex with my cows? Boy, you speak another word, and you will be picking yourself up off the ground. Now gather what few senses you have, and once you've managed that, burn this miscarriage and say nothing more about it. Nothing! To anyone. Do you understand me?”

Aeson was still staring at the steaming blood and flesh.

“I said, did you understand me?”

He finally looked up. As terrifying as the stillbirth was, the expression on Lamachus's face was even more so. “Yes,” Aeson answered quickly. “Yes, I heard you, Father.”

“Good, good, that is progress. Hope. Now burn this thing, scatter its ashes, and then forget you ever saw it. In fact, best you forget the whole day; imagine you were too sick to get out of bed this morning.”

Lamachus mounted, gave Aeson a stern glance of warning, then put his heels to his horse's sides and left at a gallop for the cottage.

Alone, Aeson stared at the mutation and felt sick in his stomach. He kept thinking it was going to move. He looked around at the hills, the far line of trees, fearing something might be watching; come for its child. When he turned back, the eyes of the face nearest him were open. They were dead, opaque eyes staring right at him, and he knew they had been closed moments before.

It was late when Aeson came home. He was blackened with ash and smelled of burnt flesh. Camilla looked up, astonished. She had bread cakes waiting, with goat's milk and cheese.

“Lord!” his mother exclaimed. “Aeson, have you been in a fire?”

Aeson nodded. He splashed water from the washbasin onto his face. “I had to burn something.”

“You look exhausted.”

Camilla glanced at Lamachus, who sat near the back wall in his oaken chair with a clay mug of grog on its armrest.

“You are working the boy too hard, Lamachus.”

“Maybe I have not worked him hard enough. Seems he has got too much time to imagine on things that are nonsense.”

“Father, we should have …” He paused, catching Lamachus's grim expression of warning.

“What?” dared Lamachus.

“Maybe we should have at least had it washed.”

“What is he talking about?” asked Camilla.

“Not your concern, woman,” Lamachus answered, shifting in his chair. “Your boy is soft in the head. Tell you what, Aeson, you return to the field, open your breech, and void your piss upon the ash. That should wash it, cleanse it, and curse it all in the same breath. Then our souls can rest the night in peace, ah? You think?”

Aeson stared back, solemn, but Lamachus just chuckled.

“Aye, boy, save us from these flesh-eating calves!” At this he chuckled harder.

“Lamachus, what on earth is this about?”

“It is about you, your daughter, and those damned seer-speakers wandering about filling up people's heads with idiotic ideas. Back in the old country, they would be stoned, which is what would happen to them here if not for the stinking Daath looking over our shoulders. I had a proper god when I fought in the battle of Anarch and I need not be trading him in for the drivel of the Followers of Enoch, and if I should catch any of you listening to their babble, so help me you will regret it; promise you that. Aeson, my boy, I have some strong advice—you forget all this, go in and get some sleep. We have more than enough work tomorrow in that north field.”

Aeson tightened his jaw, then turned for his room.

Before she could say anything, Lamachus looked to Camilla and narrowed his thick brows. She sighed and went back to washing the last of the dishes. “He did not even get supper, Lamachus,” she said.

“Something you brought on him. And no more! I am done with this nonsense, understand me? Followers of Enoch—I find one, I intend to break his nose just for giving me this day.”

In his and Adrea's room, Aeson leaned against the wall and slid down it until he was sitting, staring across at Adrea. Her knees were drawn up to her chin, her arms folded around them, and her eyes swollen from crying. “Adrea! Are you all right?”

“I am fine. And we can all be comforted I am still marketable.” Aeson narrowed his brow. “What did he do to you? I know he did something. What was it this time?”

“Nothing, Aeson. It was nothing.”

“Someday I will be grown, and he will not make you cry ever again.”

“He cannot help himself. He has seen a lot of war, a lot of men die, some of them his own brothers. It changes men. Maybe it would leave you with a short temper, as well. We need to learn to be forgiving. He is still our father.”

Aeson sighed. Then, suddenly, it came to him. The cylinder! He had forgotten all about it. He scrambled to his knees and searched the pouch of his belt, panicked that it had been lost. “Ah, no … wait, here it is.” He pulled it out, sighed in relief, and held it up. “See this?”

She didn't answer.

“A harlot gave me this. I was in the east pasture, the baron's land, fixing that same fence again—damn cow, maybe a rock to its head would fix that fence. But what happened is a harlot on a roan stallion came up and gave me this.” “Aeson, what are you talking about?” “It is for you!” “What is for me?”

“This!” He twirled the cylinder. It was embossed with etchings, and he was certain it was pure silver by the way the moonlight played on its surface. “The harlot, she had rings on every finger, and anklets of silver, and she smelled of myrrh. She knew you. She knew me by name and she called you the red-hair. She was Daathan, her hair was dyed silver—I guess they do that. And look here on the edge of this chamber; that is the seal of the eagle.”

Adrea was now beside him and snatched it from his fingers before he could say anything more. “When did this happen?”

“This morning.”

“And you waited until now to give it to me!”

“I had chores, and Lamachus was watching me all day.”

Adrea studied the eagle signet with interest. “The rider of the wood,” she whispered. Adrea closed her hand about the cylinder and crawled back to her bed mat. Aeson was watching, wide-eyed.

“All right, Aeson, you have given it to me. Thank you.”

“Are you not going to open it?”

She hesitated. She would have preferred opening it when she was alone, but she could wait no more than Aeson could. She broke the waxen seal with her thumbnail and pried out the wooden stopper. A papyrus scroll spilled into her palm. She carefully unrolled it and studied the print. Aeson was pressed beside her.

“I am not that good with Etlantian script,” she said, “but I can read most of it. These are directions—they say to go east, several leagues beyond the King's Highway. I know where that is. I have ridden there before.”

“You have? You have ridden past the King's Highway on your own?”

Pointing to the scroll, Adrea continued, “Do not be silly; of course I have, many times. In fact, this is the cliff that borders the eastern edge of the ocean near the forest. This is the top of the Dove Cara! And here—this names a time, the first degree of sunrise tomorrow morning.”

She stared at Aeson, amazed, who stared back with equal amazement. “What are you going to do?” he gasped. Her expression did not require an answer. “You are going to do it! You are! Alone?”

“No, I will ask Lamachus to escort me. What? I suppose you would have me wait here hoping Marcian might drop by?”

Aeson gave it some thought, narrowing his most serious brow, and then looked up with an idea. “Lamachus will be watching your every move, especially in the morning, but perhaps I can give him something more important to watch. Something he would not have the choice of ignoring.”

“Such as?”

“Leave that to me.”

“You surprise me, Aeson. I would think you would warn me to stay away. What if it is a Daath planning to steal me?”

“You did not see the harlot—those rich veils, the bracelets, and the cylinder. That cylinder is pure silver. If it is a Daath, he is not an ordinary Daath. So I think you should go. But only on one condition.”

“You are laying down conditions?”

“I follow you. I will be close—not that anyone will notice, however. I will use stealth.”

“You are practiced at stealth, are you?”

“Yes. I practice all the time. Do you know how boring it can be pushing cattle all day? I am planning on becoming an able scout. You think I want to herd cattle all my life? I can stay hidden. Anything goes wrong, be assured I will not be far.”

“Then I have little to worry of, do I? Just make sure of one thing: make sure Lamachus does not notice my leaving.”

“I will make certain you are the last thing on Lamachus's mind.” He grinned.

S
even thick, bronze coins were slammed down onto a rough-hewn table and then mashed in place by a fat thumb. The pits smelled. The whole tavern smelled, but Agapenor had no choice. He was being called out. “Seven!” bellowed Cindos, one of Agapenor's sergeants, invaluable in battle but utterly useless in peacetime. Cindos kept his thumb on his precious stack of coins and raised his fist in the air to stir the whole cavern into madness, which was working quite well. It was just the opposite reason Agapenor had come to the city. He had been hoping to find a quiet place to have a few drinks before shipping out in the morning, but that was definitely a dream lost now.

“Seven!” Cindos screamed again. “By God, I lay seven bronze on our man Agapenor!”

There were murmurs all about.

A Daathan warrior stepped forward. There was an entire contingent of Daath in the tavern, all members of the tenth cohort of the second legion. Agapenor had no idea how they had overtaken the tavern so quickly. When Agapenor and his five axemen had first come in, there were a few Galagleans and a scattering of Pelegasian seamen. Now it was wall to wall with Daath.

“Seven bronze?” the tall, lean Daathan captain said, smiling at Cindos. “Hardly a difficult wager, Galaglean—seven pieces of bronze. This is all you can say of your mighty commander?” The Daath cast a demeaning glance at Agapenor. The captain had narrow black eyes, almost like a cat. There was a time, back in the gathering wars, when Agapenor faced such eyes as those, in battle, and they still sent waves of rage through him. Insolent bastards.

The Daathan captain drew a solid gold piece out of his belt pouch and tossed it onto the table, dwarfing Cindos's bet. “One gold on my man,” the captain said flatly.

Cindos stared angrily. It was overbetting, meant to make a fool of him. One gold piece was more than Cindos drew in a full count of the moon. Agapenor laid a hand on Cindos's shoulder.

“Let it be, Cindos,” Agapenor said. “We will find another tavern.”

Cindos pulled away. He furiously kicked over a stool and banged his fist so hard on the table everything bounced up and came back down, mugs rolling off, mead spilling onto the already mead-sodden floor.

“I will make good, spear-chucker!” Cindos screamed into the Daathan's face. He looked about at his fellow axemen. “Well!” Cindos demanded. “This spear-chucker wagers gold! Do we answer him?”

“What is it, Cindos?” one of the Galagleans asked. “You have no money left?”

“Gods, no. Put all the money I have down because I got faith in my captain! What about the rest of you? This is Agapenor they have challenged! We going to let him down, my brothers?”

Agapenor gritted his teeth. He reached into his own belt and slammed a fistful of coins onto the table, some silver, some even gold. He really didn't give a damn.