Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (80 page)

“I do not doubt.” He pushed past Lucian, walking through the goatskin curtain over the doorway. Lucian remained alone with her a moment.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Anything you need? Anything I can do?”

“I am fine.”

“Just that … you look awful.”

“Well, having a baby is difficult, Lucian, even if you are a veteran of it—and for me, this is my first.”

Lucian stared at the covers as though he were frightened. “Does his name have a meaning?”

“It is from Enochian scripture, when translated it means Burning One.” “You are sure you do not need anything? Some food? Some wine?” “What I need most is just rest, Lucian. Water if you would, a goatskin of water.”

“Immediately, right away.” He paused at the hanging in the doorway. “Should I bring anything for the little one? Or does he not eat yet?” “Oh, yes, he eats very well.”

Strangely, in the following days, the resemblance to Loch seemed to fade, and then was gone completely. Seraphon began to look like himself. His eyes seemed to soften until at times she could even stare into them. Whenever she did, they looked back as though he were mature, as though there were no secrets between them—he knew her as well as anyone. If he could talk, he would have offered comfort. Still, he frightened her. The air about him seemed quicker, as though it were too close, as though something unnamable moved about him. Sometimes she would feel him stir in her arms, and looking down, she would find him staring back, studying her, fascinated—searching through all her secrets.

Lucian never dared hold the child, but often for hours he would kneel by the crib Marcian had carved, playing. It seemed at times, when Adrea watched, that the child was amusing Lucian more than Lucian was amusing him.

Lucian had slipped a torque of pure gold from among his family's heirlooms, and with care and patience, had etched out the letters
seraphon
in bold Galaglean script. It would eventually be a wristband, but it was also fashioned of coiled silver bands and flexible enough that Lucian curled it about the tiny ankle, overlapping it.

“Someday he will grow into this,” Lucian had said proudly.

On another night, Lucian had been staring into the crib for a long while when he said, “He does not look much like Marcian, does he? Or any of us—even you, for that matter.”

“Babies sometimes look like themselves, Lucian,” Adrea answered from where she was straining goat's milk over a bronze bowl.

“Perhaps he has his father's eyes,” Antenor said, leaning against a far wall and whittling at a stick with his dagger, sweat and dirt smudged across his face from the day's work. “Though, truth be told, sometimes, those eyes scare me.”

“It is because he knows,” Lucian explained. He was flipping the bells tied over Seraphon's crib. The child was watching intently.

“Knows?” Antenor said. “Knows what?”

“He knows us. Who we are. He knows secret things.”

“What in the bleeding world are you talking about, Lucian?”

Lucian looked up, his expression firm. “He knows, Antenor. He knows things we never dreamed of knowing.”

“He is a few days old and he knows more than us? Your head is so addled, Lucian, I sometimes wonder if we should not take you to the blind woman who takes care of the infirm.”

Lucian came slowly to his feet, facing Antenor.

“Elyon's grace save us,” Antenor complained. “First the child was delivered in the talons of silver eagles with mercury wings, and now he knows—knows secret things, knows who we are.” Antenor chuckled until Lucian tackled him at the waist. Adrea gasped; they were fighting again, and she started for them, but in moments Lucian had brought Antenor to the floor, straddling him, lifting a wide fist and hitting his older brother with a hard thud.

“He does know and you are going to say it!” shouted Lucian. “Say he knows things, Antenor! Say it and mean it!”

Blood pooled across Antenor's upper lip.

“Lucian!” Adrea shouted, and the boy paused a moment, realizing he had lost his temper again.

Antenor took the moment to knee Lucian in the crotch, then pushed him off and kicked him back against the wall. Lucian slid to his knees, groaning. “Ah, mother of frogs,” he murmured through clenched teeth, “that hurt …”

Antenor got up and walked over to the washbasin. He spat out blood, then washed more from his face. “If he broke a tooth, I swear …”

Adrea lifted Antenor's chin and studied his lip. She pressed against the front teeth. “You seem to be all right, Antenor. A little better off than Lucian right now.”

Lucian was hugged against the wall, doubled up.

“He will never learn,” said Antenor. “I have kicked him between the legs at least ten times. He is dumb as an ox. He carries around that huge axe now as if there is some reason for it, as if he has become a great warrior, but he still falls for a kick in the nuts like he has since he was five.” Antenor lifted a weft of cloth, and went out the door, slamming it behind him. Lucian sat with his back against the wall, his head forward.

“Anything I can do to help?” asked Adrea.

Lucian only shook his head.

When the riders came over the rise, heading for Marcian's cottage, Adrea had finally been drawn to step outside, to look up and see them. She knew they were not Galaglean and neither were they Daath, but she could tell by the way they rode, they had come with purpose.

Seraphon had been sleeping, nestled in a blue, woolen blanket in Marcian's crib. But suddenly he woke. He cried out. Adrea went to him, and when she looked into the crib, he stopped crying and his eyes bore directly into hers. In that moment she knew what was coming, almost as though he had spoken it. Searchers.

She went to the dresser and opened the box. Inside it was lined with black velvet, and lying in it was the ring. Seeing it, memories began to spill. She touched the stone and with a sudden gasp it all came back to her, everything, even up until the last strange moment that Sandalaphon the Nephilim had taken her through the rift of time. She slipped the ring over her finger and set its golden box in a pouch of her belt, buckling it down. She knew everything now. The riders coming for her were Unchurians, and they were coming to take her life, her's and the child's.

There was a thud on the porch and Adrea looked up. She turned. Marcian's wooden door was flung wide.

At the same time, the thick, opaque window glass shattered and a dark figure hurtled through it, tucked. He came to his feet and turned. He was tall, and his hair was a silvery gray, his skin reddish. He drew his sword with a swift, quiet hiss.

Another stood in the doorway. This one waited, his cloak drawn away from one shoulder.

Seraphon lay breathless and silent. Adrea shoved his crib back, into the corner, then stepped between it and them. She kept her eyes on the Unchurian with the sword. He but watched, quietly. He didn't move. He held the sword loosely in one hand.

Adrea then screamed and turned, quickly grabbing the bone-cutting knife and flung it, hard, the way Lamachus flung his axe. The Unchurian was taken by surprise. He caught the blade in his hand, but it sliced open his middle fingers all the way to his wrist.

A javelin through the open window took the Unchurian in the back. Adrea saw the tip tear through his chest. The Unchurian grunted, as though irritated, then dropped to his knees and fell forward. The second Unchurian, in the doorway, now stepped forward, drawing a dagger pinned in his fingers ready to sling it, only to stagger and drop. There were two arrow shafts in his back.

Antenor stepped over his body and turned, searching, an arrow shaft pinned in his bow. He shifted to a crouch and angled it through the doorway.

“More of them,” he said. “Riders—did not get a clear count. Where is Lucian?”

Adrea saw Lucian's leg drop over the windowsill. He clambered in.

“You see others?” Antenor said to his brother.

“I saw only these two.” Lucian answered.

“That was too easy,” Antenor said.

“The others spread out; they will come. The surprise is over—they will know we are here, as well. Then we will find out if it is easy.”

Lucian lifted the latch and opened the chest in the corner. He lifted his grandfather's axe. Its metal had been burnished to a black hue, but the edge was sharpened silver, flashing.

Adrea took the child in her arms. “We should try to reach the city.”

Lucian shook his head. “Galaglea is burning.”

Staring out the doorway, Adrea saw that the horizon was on fire. But these fires were much closer than Galaglea. “Not only Galaglea,” Adrea gasped.

Lucian had been buckling on the axe belt. Seeing Adrea's expression, he leapt to the doorway. “Brushfire—that is dry autumn wheat—it will come down that hill like a wave of water.”

Antenor lowered the bow tip. The field of wheat beyond the house was quickly becoming a sea of fire. It looked molten.

“Go for the horses, Antenor,” Lucian said. “Harness the chariot for Adrea and Seraphon!”

Antenor hadn't moved. He could only stare, mesmerized. The fire seemed to be swarming toward them intentionally. “It is coming too fast,” Antenor muttered.

“Antenor!” Lucian shook him until he focused. “Get the horses! Now!”

Antenor turned and broke into a run. Lucian glanced back.

Adrea was holding Seraphon against her. As she started for the door a voice whispered,
“You die
.” She turned. The one Lucian had killed with a javelin was sitting up against the wall. The Unchurian was dead, his expression pale and frozen, but the jaw worked slowly. “You die this day. Welcome to the dead, Daathan queen; we come for you.”

Lucian glanced at her, then swiftly decapitated the already dead man. “He called you a Daathan queen …”

“There is no time, Lucian; get us out of here!”

He grabbed her shoulder and ran with her for the horse stables. Outside, the heat felt strangely benevolent, cascading in waves of angry wind. The flame left the bronze of the chariot watery as Antenor rode it from the shed, already harnessed. The horses twisted madly at the bar, eyes wide, nostrils filled with the scent of burning. One reared and Antenor reined it in. He then held the horses tight by their harness straps.

“Get in Adrea!”

Lucian had dashed into the stables, throwing open as many gates as he could, and then came out leading two horses. He held their reins and threw a saddle over one.

“You can manage a chariot?” asked Lucian.

“I can!”

Lucian climbed into the saddle, taking up the reins. Antenor still had to cinch down his straps. Lucian watched, amazed at how quickly the fires had reached the bottom of the hill and were throwing fingers for the cottage.

Antenor leapt into the other saddle. For a moment he had trouble keeping his horse from spooking; it was circling, shaking out its mane, snorting. Antenor stared in awe at the flames.

“It moves too fast! We will never outrun this!” Antenor shouted, somewhat panicked.

In the chariot, Adrea knelt, tying Seraphon against the inside front wall, using the carrier thongs to lash him. He was wrapped in his thick blue, woolen blanket, and he stared back with his cold blue eyes as though he understood everything that was about to unfold. His eyes offered her a strange comfort, as if telling her that though terrible things were about to unfold, it would be all right. In the end, it would be all right. Adrea lifted the reins.

“Good enough, let us get out of here!” Lucian cried. “Take the east road to Ishmia!”

Adrea lashed the horses with a whip, clutching the railing of the car as it bolted. The horses galloped forward with wide eyes, sweating. Adrea leaned into a sharp turn about the side of the cottage. The wheels of the chariot sent a spray of dust into the red sky.

The chariot, with the two horses at its flanks, turned west, for the narrow, wagon-gutted roadway that snaked into the forest. Antenor galloped beside the chariot, but Lucian kept to the rear, riding in their dust, searching behind, to the sides. He held the reins in one hand, the axe in another. He had told Adrea he had only touched the axe of Moloch once or twice, but it was clear he had practiced with another, for it was loose and ready in his hand.