Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (9 page)

“Why not simply give them away?”

“Unless a rich man pays for what he gains, he gives it no value. They were too young to simply let loose. They would die in the streets or be made whores or the like. I thought them better off in the homes of the rich.”

“You know, I've forgotten how much you can talk once you get started.”

“Then you talk. You can start by telling me why you have dragged my sorry ass all the way back here to the Dove. I rather had my thoughts on some deep water; raiders getting thick out there, fine hunting.”

“I have already stated my reason—the body.”

“What is there to say you wouldn't have guessed yourself?”

“Amuse me.”

“All right, here is the story—they bring me this body. It is so tightly wrapped, it was clearly Unchurian work, cannot find body wrappers anywhere else that good. Besides, the wrappings were carved to the skin with the signet of their father. Rather we not speak his name openly, if you don't mind.”

“Fine with me.”

“So, I see that name inscribed on this body and I said to these fellows to take the body and burn it.” “What!”

“That's how I felt, knowing where it had come from. The Unchurians had floated it down the Ithen on a bamboo raft. From Hericlon. From the jungles, Captain. Just setting eyes on it was enough to determine I needed to know nothing more about this particular adventure. My adventuring days are over.”

“You wouldn't call hunting down raiders at high sea adventure, then?”

“No, that I call sport. This, this wrapped and inscribed body, this was trouble. So I say to these fellows, burn this unholy piece of dung on the shore, then bring your priests and pray over it till dawn. Of course they ran away. So what I did then, I went out and hired some unsavory types—had them ship it here, to you. Seemed logical. You would know as well as I the intention of floating this body down the Ithen. Then I settled down to drinking for five or six days, and would have managed it had I not gotten your message on the second. Not that I was surprised. So I caught a Pelegasian blackship to the Dove and now here I am. I say we burn it. Smoke will be slow to air out, but shouldn't disturb the residents.” “You know we cannot do that.”

“Elyon's name, Captain, just burn the damned thing! Have we not both had enough of this kind of trouble? For the love of God, can we not, just this once, be levelheaded about things and burn this poor fellow? You and I both know this means we are going to need to add a fresh edge on our killing blades, and the thing that bothers me about that—haven't we fought enough wars? We lost so many, Captain. We are a generation drained of blood. If you are going to tell me the gathering wars were just a prelude, then I say for the love of Elyon it is pissing unfair because we already did this! Understand me? We fought until there was nothing left us, gave Him our bone and blood and sweat, froze in the peaks of mountains, burned in traps, drowned in floods, and fell by the sword until surely we've given enough!”

“Something else you would rather do than kill bastards that need killing, Little Fox?”

Rhywder paused a moment to consider. “No. No, not really, I suppose. Guess not. Guess you have a point.”

“Then tell me what you know about the body. Did you unwrap it?”

“Captain, unless they are warm, breathing, and female, I typically do not unwrap bodies—just a policy I have kept over the years. Your priests must have done this, and not a bad job, I might add, seeing how they've taken care not to pull off the burnt skin.”

“You did not even look at her, did you?”

“Her? She's female? Ah, love of frogs, see, now right there is a just and good reason for burning. Just burn the poor bitch, Captain.”

“First you are going to look her over, which is something you should have done in Ishmia without wasting three days.”

Rhywder sighed, lifted his shoulder off the tomb, and started to walk around the body, studying it carefully.

“Ever seen a dead Nephilim come alive when the words of binding were spoken correctly by a sorcerer? Those cabbage-headed priests. The first thing they would have done—they would have started trying to incant the spells. That's why I sent the body here. Damn; the closest I have ever come to dying was in that village on the Weire coast when some priest started muttering out the incantations and cut into this Nephilim's corpse. Suddenly he gets one correct and I am meeting this fine, eight-foot gentleman of Etlantis when he comes back to life and sits upright.”

Rhywder paused to rub one of the girl's slender fingers. “Big bastard, too. Had a two-headed axe embedded in his chest. The Nephilim found it handy, so he ripped it out, stood up, and started killing everyone in sight.”

Rhywder paused, fingered a bit of the corpse's remaining hair. He circled and dropped back against the wall near Eryian, shivered, then spat to the side. “Name of Elyon, blessed be her soul.”

“What can you tell me?”

“She wore a ring on her right index finger—my guess is it was a signet of the second legion. There, on the thigh a sword scabbard seared into the skin. Her backup weapon. She was a Daath. Carried a crossbow, would be my guess.”

“How is that?”

“Quietus of Galaglea likes to train women to use a crossbow. The Etlantians always assume the women are easy prey until they find they have this new limb growing out of the center of their foreheads. My guess—she was a Daathan mercenary deployed in the jungles of Unchuria beyond Hericlon's gate.”

“So she was killed by Etlantians?”

“No. This one was killed by Unchurians.
His
children.”

“This angel we have chosen not to name out loud.”

“He had such pure light they say his firstborn were much like you, not giants, almost human except for the tint of their skin. Reddish, dark in the sun. And since this angel is the architect of weapons and warfare, I would guess they are just about as deadly as your Daathan legions. And this poor lass, she must have taken out a score or so before they brought her down by a fire lance. They have paid her honor, sending her downstream as a message for us.” “What kind of message?” “A warning.”

“Why should he warn us?”

“Courtesy. After all, he taught men the craft of war; he would tend to follow protocol.”

“Remind me of this death master.”

“You know as much as I, Captain.”

“Yes, but just remind me, if you would. Humor me.”

“They say there was a squabble. Far before our time. I understand one of the three who swore the Oath of Ammon turned against the others. Something to do with a woman. Always ends up being over a woman, eh, Captain? So he left the mother city some centuries before our own. Who knows what he has wrought there in the far south.”

“You haven't sailed there?”

“No one I know of has sailed that far south and returned, so anything I hear is no more than rumor.” “Why warn us?”

“War. He is letting us know he plans a preemptive strike against us.” “But would that make it not preemptive?”

“His message is secreted in symbols—clues. We might or might not have understood.”

“Honor among the deadly.”

“Yes. That would be my take of it. About one count of the moon back, I felt something ripple through the sky. You feel it, as well?”

Eryian nodded. There was actually nothing Rhywder could tell him he didn't already know. It had just been a long time since they had seen each other. This was no more than a chance for conversation.

“I think one of them lost the light,” Rhywder went on. “One of them has turned. Probably aged, or is plagued by disease. It panicked him and so he tried to escape this future to another. All he managed to do was send a ripple outward through Earth and sky and in doing so close the time between us and Aeon's End. He drew it closer—his fate and ours. I've always believed it was coming, just never imagined I would live to see it. Probably still won't. But we can assume that if we felt it, so did our friend down south.” Eryian nodded. “Let's take a ride,” he said.

“Why not. Oh, this poor lass. Perhaps you shouldn't burn her after all. She was a fighter if they honored her, and so should we. Even lay her to rest here, among the gallant.”

“I'll see the priests take care of it.”

Once outside the cavern, Rhywder and Eryian rode along the edge of the forest at the top of the Dove Cara. They rode in silence for a time, both with troubled thoughts.

“Tell me, Rhywder, if the angels are going to turn against us, why not the first of them, the Light Bearer?”

“He still believes himself to be our savior. He still believes the light of his heart can turn back the abyss.”

Eryian nodded. They paused at the edge of the cliff where the wind of the Western Sea furled their cloaks.

The warlord stared solemnly at the curl of the ocean's edge where it dropped over the horizon. “I am going to ask you to find out precisely what waits in the jungle, Little Fox. I need you to know their numbers and how much time we have before they reach Hericlon.”

Rhywder tightened his jaw. “Aye—thought as much.”

“Sorry, my friend.”

“Alone?”

“If anyone can get in there and out, it would be you. But I don't want you going in alone. I will send a chosen, a protector—someone who knows the shadows. He will meet you in the agora at sunup. Head south, stay light, move fast.”

“You had best tell your protector to have his affairs in order before we leave.” “He is the type who keeps his affairs as simple as the haft of his axe.” Rhywder nodded. “Got a feeling about this one. Got a feeling this is the one that will finally get me killed.”

“My experience is that you are not so easy to kill.”

Rhywder drew a deep breath and sighed. “Least there is one night left to both find me a woman and get falling down drunk enough not to remember if she was ugly.”

“Yes, you should use the night wisely.”

Rhywder turned, a sad look in his quick, blue eyes, as if he might be bidding the captain farewell. He lifted his hand, spread fingers in the sign of the word. Eryian did the same.

“Light of Elyon go with you, good friend,” said Eryian.

“As well, Captain … as well.”

Rhywder pulled on the reins and started for the city. Eryian remained staring at the sea.

F
or Adrea, the morning had begun routinely. She finished the milking and then watched as Lamachus and Aeson headed off for the south fields where they were going to mark the newborns. She helped her mother with simple chores, and then quietly slipped to the stables and saddled the dappled gray.

She made certain she wasn't followed, even taking the far way around the upper pastures and then waiting nearly a degree of the sun before she moved on. No one was following. She thought of riding into the trees for cover, but though they inspired her, they were sacred, and she still hadn't built up the courage to go in. Yet someone had—the rider who had been watching her.

It was still early enough when she reached the edge of the forest that its colonnades were deep in shadow. There were shrill calls of far birds. She noticed that within the wood, so little sun got through the upper foliage that it left the ground nearly barren.

It was hushed in shadow and she rode slowly along the edge, waiting for the sun to at least get high enough to dispel the darker shadows before going in, but this was the spot she had seen the rider and the flank of his white horse.

She heard hooves from behind, and turned. Her heart jumped. It was Lamachus, coming at full gallop, his wild hair flared. He rode like the warrior he had once been. When he reached her, he circled, then pulled up beside her, sweaty, his horse breathing hard, the air still cool enough that puffs of breath misted from its nostrils.

“He going to meet you here?” said Lamachus, his dark eyes focusing a growing anger.

“No one is meeting me!”

“Where is he, then? Does he hide in the trees?!” “Father, I was just riding.”

“You been doing a bit too much riding lately. How long has this been going on?” He paused, his temper on the verge of breaking. “Answer me, girl!” “There is nothing going on!”

He glanced at the forest, then rode forward a bit, lifting in the saddle. “You in there!” he screamed, and Lamachus had a thunderous voice that could echo. “Something you should know. I manage to lay hand on you, I will crack your skull from one side of your head to its other!”

“Father, this is ridiculous. There is no one there!”

“You keep back from my girl! Understand! Else we shall contend, Daath, and know this: I have downed more than a few Daath in my day.”

“Father, there is no one there! I have never even met a Daath.”

“Yes, well, this whole affair stinks of Daath. They take our women at will—have done so ever since the wars.”