Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (21 page)

“If you are to be my wife, surely I can offer a gift.”

“But he is so beautiful.”

“Yes. He is of the fin-finest bloodstock in all Galaglea. I could sell him to the Daath for quite a sum. But I choose him as a gift. And you”—he looked in her eyes sternly—“you cannot refuse.”

He offered her the reins. She paused, feeling suddenly guilty again.

“This has nothing to do with winning your favor,” he added. “It is because he is to horses what you are t-to women.”

The horse turned about, nipping at Marcian's hand, which must have offered too many apples and carrots. She noticed a white streak down the nose. Its eyes were keen and quick.

“He is beautiful, Marcian. I have no idea what to say.”

“You have no need to say anything. He can outdistance any … any horse in the land. I promise. I have trained him” He tucked the reins into her palm. “I am afraid my youngest son, Lucian, has given him an osten-ostentatious name. Thunderbolt.”

She smiled. “Seeing him, I would say it is a name that must fit him well.”

“Why not … why not ride him?”

“Tonight?”

“It is a beautiful night. Yes, tonight. With me. Now.” She noticed the horse study her with suspicion. She stroked the hide of the strong neck. “But what of Lamachus's stomach?” “We will let it grumble—with the rest of him.”

Marcian rode a strong roan stallion. Past the fences, they rode at a lope. His breastplate glimmered in the moonlight, his long gray hair flayed in the wind. The black stallion he had given her was resisting her, letting her know he belonged to the horseman and she shouldn't be getting any ideas.

“Can we let them run?” she asked.

“I would love to.”

He shook the reins and clicked his tongue. His roan stallion dropped into a run.

Thunderbolt paced him easily. They passed what seemed to be dozing cattle.

“Take hold,” he shouted, “and we will let them full out!”

“Let them out?” Adrea whispered to herself, for already they were at a gallop, but Marcian leaned forward and his roan gained amazing speed. Thunderbolt needed no prompting to keep up. The horse lowered its head and its shoulders pumped in a hard gallop that could easily have rivaled the great white mare of Loch's. They were sailing over tall grass.

“He's so fast!” she shouted across to Marcian.

“He could leave me behind,” Marcian shouted back. Finally, they slowed to a normal pace. Marcian smiled at her.

“Do you g-go to the ocean often?” Marcian asked. “Hardly ever.”

“I am afraid Galaglea is fa-far from the ocean. It is beautiful country, but far from the forest of the East of the Land and the ocean. I sense you are going to miss them both. Am I wrong?”

“No. I will miss a lot of things, but there is always much to be learned elsewhere I should guess.”

She paused, pulling up on the reins; Thunderbolt resisted until Marcian stopped. Adrea tried to turn him; Thunderbolt snorted and pulled back toward the captain.

“He seems bent on following your every move,” Adrea said.

“You have discovered that he has a mind of his own?”

“Oh, yes. But since we are to be horse and mistress, perhaps I should give him a taste of my mind—while he can still see you.”

“Keep careful rein.”

Adrea twisted the reins about and kicked Thunderbolt's sides with a shout. He bolted hard, but not smoothly, and had run only a short distance when he tried to force a turn on her. She straightened him out, firmly letting him know he had a new boss, but not with the reins or her body; she did it with her mind. She was able to feel through to him, able to assure him she would make a good mistress. He responded, he seemed to hear, and he demonstrated in a quick burst that he was easily the swiftest horse she had ever handled.

She was enjoying the wind in her hair when for a second the other world leaked through, the memories, knowing she was leaving in the morning. The ring was not completely effective. She slowed Thunderbolt, and turned him to ride back to Marcian. He was waiting patiently. She had a slight urge to let him know. He seemed so honorable, so kind. What she was going to do to him, despite her reasons, despite even Elyon's command, it still seemed wrong. If there were only a way she could tell him, but she knew she could say nothing, give no hint, and riding his magnificent gift left shame in her she couldn't easily dismiss.

A
t first it was but a dream as dreams are made—disembodied sounds, images blurred, shadows that whispered, but then changed. It became real. It became as brilliant and alive as living itself. It must have been the kind of dreams Loch spoke of. She was even aware she was sleeping, and she marveled that it was all so real, so vivid.

She was in a winter forest, the trees and earth covered in virgin snow. Beyond, amid a stand of conifers, waited the lone figure of Argolis, the young king of the Daath—this was Asteria's Argolis, the conqueror.

And Adrea
was
the young queen; she was Asteria, mounted on a heavy, mountain-bred workhorse, crossing the vale toward him. She was wrapped in thick, white fur specked with gray. Despite the fur, she shivered from weakness and she was in pain, stinging pain across her back and sides. She knew what it was. She had been whipped, and the cuts still burned. She was so weak it was hard to stay in the saddle.

From the distance, she could see the cold-blue eyes of Argolis. He was astride a large, dark charger. Around the king's shoulders bristled a thick cloak of silver wolf's fur. His cuirass glimmered with a reddish hue. He seemed etched in blood cast from the east rising sun of the early dawn. In those days they called him the Silver King. He was young, but hardened beyond his years, his eyes commanding and as edged as the cutting blade of a sword.

How many had fallen before the shields of Argolis and his Eagle, the dreaded warlord Eryian? They had swept the land with the fire of conquerors, and Asteria dared not probe too deeply into what drove him, whether the gathering wars were truly inspired of Elyon's Light or whether they were the consequence of Argolis's own dark fury. But she was certain of one thing, she loved him. She loved this king and she had just sacrificed all she knew for him.

Even now, his warriors would be marching upon her own village, her own people. The burnished swords and darkened shields of the Daath would be glinting in the dawn's light as the armies of the Shadow Lords pressed through the snowbound forest, closing on the people of the lake slow and certain.

The villagers, Asteria's people, by now had dug pits, anchored slaying spikes, thrown up dirt ramparts. They would be gathered, faces set against fear, weapons readied. But it would be quick. The tribes of Hebe and Lochlain would be swept as chaff before the winnower's fire. Argolis was the winnower, and this was his season.

The night before, Asteria had tried, with all the spirits that spoke through her, to save them.

She had managed to gather the elders before the council fire one last time, but they were tense, their minds already hardened against her, especially the king of the Hebe, Tisias. The Hebe and Lochlain were brother tribes, but Tisias had taken rule several years before. He stood tall, wrapped in the dark of the bear's skin he had famously slain with a dagger in his youth. Capys was the last elder of the lake walkers, the Lochlains, but he was old now, and his voice was not as strong as Tisias. Still, all of them had come, one last time, to listen to Asteria. She was called the Seer Child. She stood before the fire and the eyes of the warriors, the commanders and elders watching, waiting for her words, though they seemed dark in the night, far from her. Somehow, before she had even spoken, she sensed she had lost them.

But Asteria was the true Water Bearer, the seer, and though she was but ten and four years, already she had prophesied. She had warned them of the famine of the sixth year of Toth, she had foretold the fire that swept the vale of Siris, and she had even predicted the death of Demandes, the elder, seven days before the snow leopard brought him down.

As she stood before them, her red hair—uncut from birth, long to her hips—fanned out in the fire's fury. She knew there was no chance of turning their hearts, but she had to try, even if hope was lost.

“Hear me!” she cried. “Sons of Hebe and Lochlain, take mark this night! Do not lift your hand against the Silver King! He is mighty and he comes with the legions of the Daath, but think not of his sword, for he seeks not your blood, but only your vow that you honor the tribes of heaven's queen, Dannu. He speaks true, soften your hearts, and think on what I tell you.

“Separate, we are weak. United, all the tribes of Dannu, us, the Daath, even the Galagleans, think how strong we could be. No more fighting tribe against tribe. We would stand as one. I tell you now that in the day of our children, we will need all the strength we can gather. In the day of our children, such powers will come against our tribes that if we remain scattered, bickering, we will be destroyed, and we will be no more. We must gather, it is spoken of Dannu, and it is spoken of Elyon. In the day that will come, the day of our children, we must stand as one tribe, one force!”

“Led by the Daath!” shouted Tisias, cutting her off. “Commanded by their king, knees bent.”

“No, Tisias! It is not about pride. Can you not see, they were sent, long ago, they are here to be our sword and our spear! It is true they are born slayers, warriors of blood, but there comes a day when the Daath will be the first to stand against our enemies!”

“I have no enemy other than the Silver King,” Tisias shouted back. “I see no other enemy before me!”

At that they shouted in unison, in agreement, some banging sword against shield.

“He is not your enemy, Tisias.” “And this told me by his lover.” She was stunned, stricken.

“Yes, we know! You have gone to him in the night. You have lain with him. Dare you deny my words?”

She had no answer. It was true; Argolis already had taken her as his wife. It was to have been a secret until the tribes had agreed to the terms, but someone had betrayed them. She knew who it was, not a Hebe, not a Lochlain, they had been betrayed by a Daath, a captain of one of Argolis's legions with ambitions of his own. It was bloodlust, and it fanned the flames behind her with an evil she had no power to turn.

They were shouting now, driven to frenzy, and Tisias urged them on. When old Capys, the elder of the Lochlains, tried to speak in her defense, Tisias swept him aside before he could utter a word.

“No more!” the king screamed. “No more of this blasphemy! You may once have held the light, Seer Child, but now you have betrayed both your goddess and your tribes! And it had been for him, for this Silver King, that you betray us. This council is at an end. Seize her! Take her now! Take the witch!”

Asteria backed away, and fear swept her. The heat of the fire seared her back, but Tisias's guards closed on her, and looking past them, she saw the rage in Tisias's eyes. He was filled with rage—an unnatural rage. It was lost. There was no hope here.

“Please,” she whispered as they took her arms, pulling her forward. “Even if you believe I have somehow betrayed you, you cannot stand against him! You will all die! You cannot stand against the Daath! I plead for your lives!”

“Silence her,” shouted Tisias.

One of the guards slapped her cheek, and it was then that her brother, Rhywder, leapt on the guard's back, pulling him down, kicking him in the ribs. He fought the others for a moment, as well. He was a fighter, he always had been, but he was quickly overwhelmed, and it was Tisias who finally grabbed him and struck him so hard he went down and did not get back up.

Before they dragged him off, as well, his brothers-in-arms, his kindred quickly pulled him away and out of sight. They were too busy with Asteria to bother following.

Asteria was stripped of her robes and the night was cold against her pale skin as they tied her to the tanning post, high, leaving her feet dangling. The leather lashing that bound her wrists were tight; they cut into her skin. She wept for them—the tears that fell were not for fear of what they were about to do, but were only for her people, for she had somehow failed them. With tomorrow's dawn they would foolishly face the swords of Argolis's legions.

The first sting of Tisias's whip cut deep. Her skin was tender, and the whip felt like a blade cutting.

“Witch!” he screamed. “Where is your Silver King now?”

The whip cracked again and Asteria almost cried out, but she did not care of the pain; it meant nothing. She pressed her cheek against the wood and let herself think of him, of Argolis. As the strokes cut, she let the memory of his eyes be the last she saw before consciousness slipped away.

She hung there in the night, as the fire dwindled. She would have frozen to death; she had been left to die, but when the others were gone, Rhywder and his kindred came for her. He pulled her down, wrapped her in furs. She looked up to see the youth that had gathered with him, twenty and eight, all young archers, Rhywder's closest kindred. They had trained together for as long as they had known each other.