Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (8 page)

“Yes, Father.”

“You see any castles between them?” “Was not me that said there was a castle; it was Adrea.” “Are you telling me your sister believes there are castles growing out of my middle toes?”

“No, I meant …”

“I want you both staying away from the north woods. Now, since you two are so smart, I will not need to be repeating all this, will I? She is up to something, and you should perhaps remind her I am not so slow as to be unaware.”

“No. Certainly not. Well … good night then, Father.”

Lamachus grunted and continued to eye him until Aeson was safely behind the door's coverlet.

Aeson found Adrea near the window, looking up at the moon, where it hid behind scattered clouds.

“You heard all that?” he asked.

Adrea nodded.

“We best not ride up there for a while. No need to anyway. Is there?”

Adrea knelt and whispered out the candlelight.

“Have you ever dreamed there was something more, Aeson? Something out there that would make our simple lives here seem meaningless?” “Like what?”

“Have you ever heard of Aeon's End?”

“No, and I do not want to hear of it because I want to be able to sleep tonight.”

“I study the sky from this window each night, and somehow it is different. The patterns of the star system I call the horsemen, it has changed. I cannot even say how, but those are the words of the Followers that say in the coming of the last days the stars will lose their way in the sky.”

Aeson slid down and turned to pull the blanket over him, closing his eyes.

“We are all just asleep here, in our quiet little village,” Adrea said. “The Daath as well, for that matter, in their mighty city. Sleeping just like us while the Earth begins to tilt and the words of the prophets begin to move across the sky. I do not know how to explain it all, but it is written, and I feel it, and I am not simply going to sleep through it like everyone else.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I am not sure. Run away. Maybe.”

“Really? You would do that?”

“Better than waiting here, doing nothing, missing it all.” “Missing what, Adrea?”

“The coming of prophecy—words and scripture as ancient as this Earth.”

She glanced at him, but Aeson slipped farther into his blanket, his back to her, and soon pretended to be dozing. She turned to stare out the window. Something up there had possessed her, for several counts of the moon—ever since she had noticed a particularly brilliant star streak across the sky.

Moments later, Aeson was probably actually asleep. Lamachus worked him hard enough that he could often fall asleep the second his head touched the blanket. But Adrea could not sleep at all lately. She would stare for hours at the stars, something stirring inside her that almost wanted to make her scream.

Something out there was calling her, speaking her name, and she ached inside because she had no idea how to answer.

A
s the blackship from which he had just disembarked turned back to the sea, Rhywder slung his saddle over his horse and cinched it down. He paused to take a last glance at the darkened sails of the Pelegasian. She was a weathered old warship, but had he a choice, leaving with her would have offered far more comfort than what waited for him here. He paused to take a long drink from the wineskin of bloodroot that hung from his saddlebag. Behind him were the mighty cliffs of the Dove Cara; and above those cliffs, barely visible from where Rhywder stood, were the alabaster spires of Terith-Aire. It had been over a year that he had been at sea, longer since he had been in the city. Glancing up, it seemed something of a dream against the blue sky—that or a nightmare. The walls and towers of Terith-Aire, some said, Rhywder among the believers, were not of this world, but were crafted of voyagers from a distant star.

Rhywder pulled himself into the saddle. For whatever reason the warlord had summoned him, it wasn't going to be happy news, so Rhywder was going to enjoy his innocence as long as possible. He rode slow and easy in the saddle.

He did not look like a captain of the fabled Shadow Walkers. In ten centuries, only four humans had worn the plain, silver upper armband that was the signet of a Daathan Shadow Walker, and Rhywder was one of them. In the gathering wars he rode at the left hand of the Daathan king, Argolis. He was a ranger and a scout, as well as the most fierce and loyal protector of his king. Also, before she died, Rhywder's sister, Asteria, a seer and child of the mothering star of Dannu, had been Argolis's wife, the fifth queen of the Daath.

These days, Rhywder chose to travel unmarked. He looked like a lone, weary adventurer, down on his luck. His red hair was unkempt, as was his beard. His cloak, a fabled Daathan cloak, was so weathered it had lost its luster and was left gray and dusty. He preferred it this way, appearing as a road-weary wayfarer. He did not like being singled out or discovered. He had learned to keep his head low, dress as an ordinary adventurer—easier to avoid those looking for fame—and bringing down a Shadow Walker would be a prized mark.

Beyond, a hidden cavern led to the city above. It was ancient, secretly cut into the rock, and known only to a few. Here one first had to ride through tidal pools and beneath hanging moss, then duck to avoid low branches, wind through massive rocks, and wade into the deep water of the stream that ran from the eastern ridge to the sea. It was sweet water, this stream, always clean and clear. Rhywder was tempted to drop off and get a drink, maybe even splash some water in his face, but that seemed too much bother, so he kept riding. His horse had to swim some distance and then maneuver several sandbanks to reach the hidden, narrow cavern that curled off into darkness.

Things scampered here. They scampered because they could smell him, not simply the stink of a year at sea. They could smell who he was, what he was. Others they might have grizzled at; still others they might have eaten. They were a hoard of Etlantian Failures, and Enoch's curse had left them desperate for human blood or flesh. What could possibly have been Elyon's purpose in these savage miscreants, Rhywder had never fathomed. Sometimes they were nothing more than teeth and claws moving on stubs of legs.

He lit a small torch and anchored it in a side notch of his saddle. He saw some of them slipping into shadows from the light. He glanced at the wall of bones they had built at the entrance to the passageway. They had been working on it all these years. It was a wall made wholly of human bones, mostly thigh heads to smooth the facing. Skull caps were used to form words of binding—Etlantian words—all of them warnings for any who dared pass. Once again, this left Rhywder puzzled: not only had Elyon fashioned these pitiful creatures, but also He had given them intelligence sufficient to craft Etlantian incantations into bone walls. Rhywder had faith in Elyon; he would give his blood and had bound his soul to the Lord of Kings, but His ways left Rhywder endlessly bewildered.

From here the cavern was a long winding passageway to the top of the Dove Cara, emerging in the forest men called the East of the Land. It was an odd passageway, cut deep into the rock, sometimes well crafted into winding stairs a horse could easily climb, and other times so narrow it seemed the masons had grown lazy. Everywhere there were traps. Of course, Rhywder knew them all, but in the old days, during the gathering wars, when novices attempted the ascent, Rhywder would commonly pass bodies slowly being drained of blood. The curse of Enoch had turned human blood to precious nectar for these creatures, and they loved nothing more than to hang bodies and drain their blood into casks that were later sealed with wax and hidden in the dark recesses of the passageway.

Higher up were natural caverns, large and dripping with stalactites. The Daath had built row after row of recessed chambers in the catacombs. They were the burial places for Daathan royalty—kings and queens, those of noble blood, and warriors who had distinguished themselves in battle. Seven generations of Daath were buried here, among them his sister, laid in a golden sepulcher encrusted with diamonds. She had been called the Seer Child; her natural gifts of magic and her ability to peer into futures were unparalleled, even in the history of the mystical Daath.

The Daath, though originally descended of the archangel Uriel, were the mirror image of the mothering star, Dannu, the Goddess named Daath. The Daath had always chosen their queens from their sister tribe, the Lochlains. Though they were considered the children of men, it was said that the blood of Dannu in the Lochlains refined and purified the severity of Uriel's light. Otherwise, his descendants may have fallen victim to Enoch's curse, just as the offspring of the angels who swore upon Mount Ammon.

Though his sister's gifts had been legendary, Rhywder himself had but a few tricks, learned mostly of his grandmother. Rhywder's true magic was in his ability to keep his flat ass walking upright—that and granting him occasional uncanny luck at the tables of tavern bean games.

Riding past row after row of vaults in the labyrinthine catacomb reminded him of the processions of the fallen that he had attended in this chamber. The gathering wars had been meant to bring the tribes of Dannu under a single rule, and in truth, it had made them the most powerful standing legions on Earth. Even the Etlantians did not challenge the Daath and their followers. However, in the shadows of their dead, Rhywder wondered at the cost. So many had fallen in uniting the tribes of the Goddess; Argolis had slain nearly a third of their number.

Ahead was the first tomb built, carved into the natural rock and bearing, in gilt Etlantian lettering, the name of the first Daathan king, Righel of the Seventh Star. To most he was known simply as the Voyager. It was said he crossed the stars of heaven in the days of Yered, when the covenant was sealed by the angels upon Mount Ammon.

Waiting for Rhywder, standing near the lit braziers of Righel's tomb, was the warlord of the Daath, Eryian—the Eagle of Argolis. Even standing still, waiting, his bearing was intimidating. His every move was practiced and precise, nothing wasted. As a warrior he was unmatched; no one could cross swords with the Eagle. Eryian wore burnished silver Daathan armor, as well as one of the fabled Daathan cloaks, said to bear magical abilities.

The warlord's eyes were cruel in the dark of the cavern, lit only by flame, though in broad sunlight they could soften to a silvery blue and even, at times, look forgiving. Here, cloaked in his darkened armor, he looked nothing less than a wraith—as though he were a natural creature of the catacombs.

The warlord was Rhywder's high captain. Rhywder may have pledged his sword, his bow, his life to Argolis, but his honor and his heart he had pledged to this man, Eryian the Eagle.

He circled his mount before Eryian. It had been long since they had seen each other. Rhywder knew his own face had acquired a few wrinkles since they had last met, but the warlord had hardly aged at all. They were all like that. He had learned never to wager on the age of a Daath. Stoic as the warlord was, Rhywder dropped from his horse and stepped up to embrace the captain, squeezing him hard, even slapping him on the back. They had fought through white-knuckled terror and witnessed blood that could curl one's soul—their closeness was the kind of bond shared only among warriors.

Rhywder stepped back and grinned wide. Eryian did not. He wasn't a man for displaying emotions. Rhywder briefly wondered if it was all the dead of the gathering wars, all those souls on the captain's shoulders, for he had been its architect; he had persuaded Argolis to gather the tribes despite the terrible cost.

Before Righel's tomb was a basalt altar. Something had been laid out on its smooth, dark surface. It was a body. Rhywder did not look at it directly, but he knew its origin. He leaned back against the crypt near the warlord and crossed his arms, crossed his dusty, weathered boots.

“Do not tell me that is the same cloak you wore when you left here over a year ago,” Eryian said dryly.

“This is the same cloak I wore when I left here over a year ago.”

“Elyon's name, but you stink, Rhywder. Might you have thought to bathe before coming here?”

“What would be the logic in that? This is a catacomb. Everything here rots. Why should I not? Besides, your message said it was urgent, Captain.”

“You no longer need call me that. We are merely brothers now. The gathering is long past.”

“Know that; but you are still, and always will be, my Captain. Blood be blood, my lord, and time will never change that oath. What is so urgent? Ah, let me guess. Could it be this body I see laid out on Righel's altar?”

“This?” said Eryian. “No, this is your lunch, Little Fox, nicely roasted. You have been on the road so long—I acquired the best cuisine I could manage.”

“My grateful thanks, Captain, but I've had lunch already.” Rhywder smiled and patted his wineskin. “Still working on it, actually. The intent is not to stop until I fall on my face and sleep in my own spittle.”

“A noble intent, Rhywder. Now, tell me what you know of the body.”

“Ah, then you were merely joking about it being cuisine?”

“I understand you were the one who found it.”

“Well, more as though they brought it to me. Someone let word out I was docked in Ishmia. I was bringing in acceptable slaves. You know—those with no home or chance to stay alive—children mostly. A few widowed women. I planned on selling them on Ishmia's pier.”

“I thought you hated the very idea of selling slaves and, most of all, slavers themselves.”

“In fact, Captain, this last voyage I laid seventeen slave ships into the deep of the ocean, along with their captains and crew. We lost some slaves; more than I would have wished, but you would certainly understand necessary casualties. I saved those I could, leaving the adults and able-bodied on free islands, but the fry—the wee ones—those were the ones I auctioned off in Ishmia.”