Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (20 page)

“What a happy story. Where did you learn of these Uttuku?”

“My grandmother. Did not believe her for the longest time, but as you witnessed, turned out she was telling me the truth.”

Agapenor shoved his axe through his belt. “Your grandmother a witch of some kind?”

“A priestess, what they call a Water Bearer.”

“Yes, heard of those. Lochlains. Most of them were killed in the gathering wars, I understand. You a Lochlain?” “I am.”

“Explains a lot.”

Rhywder wiped the blood off his sword, and sheathed it. “The more powerful Uttuku, the firstborn of angel lords and prefects, are able to grow their own bodies. They learned from their fathers the secrets of the bindings of roots. They grow their bodies from pods that spawn a particular kind of wood found nowhere else. Once it hardens it is strong as steel.”

Rhywder whistled for his horse, which had run from the wolves and now wandered just south of them. The horse started back, taking its time, and Agapenor's followed behind.

“So,” said Agapenor, “what you are saying is these already dead Nephilim walk about in bodies armored of wood strong as steel?”

“It is true. I know because I met one myself.”

“You met one of these? Personal?”

“It got very personal, actually.”

“And how did that work out?”

“I managed to kill him. Strange, but what haunted me ever since were his eyes—this soul in these black empty eyes. I still remember them, how they had this far light in them. What was troubling for me, I knew it to have once been the light of Elyon, the light of his father—an angel lord. That was truly the toughest fight I ever fought. I was so weary after that fight I did not get up for three days.”

The horses reached them. Agapenor shoved his axe into the saddle scabbard before mounting. He watched Rhywder mount with a troubled look and waited for Rhywder to meet his eyes.

“Tell me something, Captain, just what is it they have sent you up here to find?”

“I am not dead certain, but I can assure you of one thing, we will know when we find it.”

They started riding for the mountain whose peaks had snagged dark, ugly clouds. Rhywder knew they were clouds that had drifted from the south.

“Those we just killed,” Rhywder went on, “they were trained. The Unchurians do that, train them as assassins. Unchurians are masters of all things dead.”

“Ah, well, that will be a comfort for me,” Agapenor mumbled, “seeing as Unchuria is where we are headed and I have this fondness for lifeless things, particularly if they can walk about and take over your body and make you rot like a dead rat.”

A
drea stepped into the cottage and closed the door. She had been lost in thought, and when she glanced up, she stared, startled. She had broken conversation and all faces turned toward her. Lamachus stood wide-eyed, clasping a mug of ale, beads of it on his thistle beard. Camilla stood near the hearth where she had been removing loaves from the stone oven. Aeson was on a corner stool holding a clay cup with both hands—he had replaced the veils and bodice with a filthy leather tunic, but he still looked pretty, for he hadn't gotten all of the curls and baby's breath out of his hair. But most surprising—in the center, standing just opposite Lamachus, was Captain Marcian Antiope of Galaglea. He stood tall, oddly handsome in the brazen cuirass and blue cloak that arched from his shoulders. On their plain cottage table was set a dark helm with ornate cheek guards. Only Marcian offered her a smile. There were two retainers with him—probably his sons. They also wore the blue and bronze of Galaglean warriors. They stood off to the side, and both looked away when she tried to meet their eyes.

“Good God,” Lamachus muttered. “First the boy rides up dressed as a girl and now you coming in so late we were about to go off in search of you.”

“The dapple gray may have twisted his ankle. I was not sure, but I had to walk him just in case. He has been favoring that ankle.”

“Way you have been riding him these last days, surprised he has not collapsed from exhaustion.”

“Well,” Marcian cut in, “it is ba-barely dark. Not that late.”

“Hello, Marcian,” she said. “I would not have guessed you would be here.”

“I-I came without a … a … announcement,” he said.

Though words seemed difficult to him, he did not seem to mind struggling through them, and his stutters produced no emotional reaction.

Lamachus's face was flushed red, and she didn't meet his eyes. If not for Marcian, she would hardly have been able to ignore him, but in the presence of the horseman, Lamachus was forcing himself calm, though he seemed to tremble from the effort.

Her mother set the loaves on a wooden trencher. “Where have you been this late, Adrea?” she asked.

Almonds had been burnt in the incense bowl, and Adrea knew that was for special occasions only. The last of the smells was venison, which was cooking in herbs and butter. They must have been warned the captain was coming.

“I rode to the beach today,” she said. “I did not realize it would be this long getting there and back.”

“The beach!” bellowed Lamachus.

“I was thinking, Father, in Galaglea it would be long before I saw the ocean again. So I took one last ride. I am so sorry I am this late.” She was careful to keep one hand over the ring, but Lamachus was too lost in controlling his temper to notice.

“She does have a-a point, Lamachus. There is no ocean in Galaglea.”

“What you do not know, Marcian, is this girl has been riding that horse into the ground these last few days.”

“Perhaps she has a lot on her mind,” the captain suggested.

“Needed to see the ocean,” Lamachus hissed through tight teeth. “My guess is …” He paused, as if only now realizing he was losing his temper again. “Well,” he stammered, “you could be right, Marcian, she does have a lot to think about—marriage and leaving for Galaglea and all.”

“Yes. It is a lot, indeed,” Marcian said. “I was wondering, Lamachus, if-if I might borrow her.”

Lamachus had a look of grief on his face.

“It will be for but a short time,” the captain added, carefully. “I-I wanted to speak with her—alone.”

“Alone?” Lamachus stood. “You know, Marcian, it is never a good idea to go speaking to a woman alone on an empty stomach, particularly this woman. Beyond that, I believe I would like a few
words
with her myself.”

Marcian smiled. “Please,” he said with simple firmness that seemed left over from being a commander.

Lamachus stared back, frustrated. “Certainly,” he said.

“There is something I h-have meant to share with her. It should not take long.”

“Well,” Lamachus fidgeted. He set down his wine. “Suppose you ought to be able to talk to the girl. Being as you are about to wed her. Suppose it is logical.”

“Good.” Marcian set his hand tenderly on Adrea's shoulder and guided her to the door, but Lamachus was there ahead to open it.

“And, while you are speaking with her, Marcian, you might remind her that the next time she wants to be off to visit the ocean, she should tell her family so they are not left worrying half the night where she has gone.”

“Lamachus,” Camilla cautioned quietly.

Marcian motioned the doorway. Adrea smiled at him and at Lamachus as she stepped past.

Lamachus almost followed, but Camilla pulled him back. “Well,” he grizzled, “just remember the smell of this venison is going to have my stomach turning.” He tried a laugh, though it came out a bit false.

Marcian smiled and nodded.

Outside, she walked alone with him, and it wasn't until Marcian was well beyond the cottage before he spoke. “Your …” he paused, the words stuck for a moment. He took a breath and started over. “Your father seems strict with you.”

“Yes. He is that.”

“He must ca-care for you deeply. I would—a daughter like you.”

She didn't respond. It was dark out, and glancing down, she noticed the ring had darkened, as well. It looked rather plain as though it understood the need to disguise itself. That surprised her.

He gestured to the horses and they walked slowly toward the stalls. “I was … here this day on dispatch. Hence the captain's tassels. I prefer to wear them as little as possible.”

She glanced up. “Well, you do look impressive, Marcian.”

He shook his head. “War is never impressive. Never think that. I am afraid these tales you father has probably told you of Captain Antiope—they are … a bit overdone. I am a breeder of horses like my father before me. I was pressed into the service of the king; I am no wa-warrior and never was one.”

“Yet you are well known as the hero of Tarchon Pass.”

“My bro-brother died there. It was rage. Rage does not make heroes.” His eyes were serious on this point. They had paused and she noticed that his face was not at all as she remembered. Not so gaunt; rather it was handsome but for the nose. And the gray hair, it didn't leave him looking old as much as it lent him wisdom. Perhaps he would not have been all that difficult to live with. He was stroking the mane of one of his horses. “As you know, hardly able to forget I suppose, we are soon to be we-wed, Adrea.”

She did not answer. He tenderly looked in her eyes. The horse nudged him for more attention and he continued to stroke its mane. “D-do you fear all of this? Me? My sons?” The two attendant warriors had been his sons.

“I know not what to think. I am anxious, but how could I help but be somewhat anxious?”

“Of course. You need n-not explain.”

She nodded. “I have known only Lucania, my village, my father …” she paused, but strangely, as Loch had suggested, her world had slipped back into place, the day's memories had receded, left shadowy.

He was careful with his next question. “Be honest. Is it so hard that … that you would prefer I take my two sons and leave?”

She only shook her head, her eyes downcast. “No. If you sense anything, it is just that I was not expecting to see you tonight. I was surprised.”

He nodded. He brushed a tangle of hair from her cheek, which surprised her. His stutter only made him appear shy; he wasn't shy at all.

“You are … a most beautiful girl, Adrea. Much too beautiful for me. I am old; I feel very much like a-a thief. All this seems wrong, but somehow … well, when it happened—when I approached the matchmaker … I surprised even myself.” She couldn't meet his eyes, but it didn't matter. Marcian was gazing at the stars above the cottage. “Know that all this frightens me, as well,” he said. “I have six sons … and you … you cause me to feel younger than any of them. No more than a foolish, simple lad.” There was a smile, but it slipped away. “I did not feel this way when first I wed. I felt … as if I was old. An old, wise man I was at ten and seven years. And now … I am as lost as a young boy. Interesting, these tricks of time.”

“What was she like, Marcian?”

“She?”

“Your first wife.”

There was a long silence. A shadow passed over him. She could tell the memory was hard and that he rarely spoke of it. “Simple,” he finally answered. “She was … a soul to cherish.”

Adrea nodded. “I understand.”

“The war took her. The Daath set a blockade against Galaglea. She was taken by the same fever th-that—the same that took my son. I had named him August.” He smiled briefly. “He had stark white hair like an old man. I have learned by it that we all must take wh-what is given. Elyon offers little explanation.”

A slight sense of guilt brushed through her. She felt in him a deep love for the boy he called August. He must have been young, but he had been cherished, and merely saying his name had misted Marcian's eyes. She remembered Galaglea had withstood a long siege before giving into Argolis at the end of the gathering wars.

“You know when this all started?” he asked.

She shook her head, not looking up.

“I was riding though Lucania and I happened t-to see you among your father's stock. You were … were watching a mother clean her foal. And I thought—a thought from nowhere, unbidden—I thought: a son. For some unknown reason, something in me I-I really cannot explain. I saw you and remembered the eyes of little August, his shock of white hair.” He paused, took a careful breath. “I have sons grown to men. All … all these long years and suddenly, seeing you that day, I thought of August. So that is the story.” He lowered his eyes, perhaps misted with tears he hid well. “This feeling that if I had another son …” He broke off, lost for further words.

“You do not have to explain, Marcian. I believe I can understand.” She touched fingers to his wrist. “It must have been hard. You are not that old, you know.”

“You think so?”

“I do. Why should you not have a son if you feel this way? I see no reason.” He nodded, almost as if he were thankful there was no need to explain further.

“Marcian, I could ask no better. A captain, a horseman, a knight of my own land, honored of kings. If anything, in truth, I can only answer you that …” she paused, this time to choose her words carefully. “That I might be the one who is unworthy. Certainly not you.”

His somber gray eyes lifted to study her.

“Impossible,” he said.

Finally, he reached to finger the dangling bridle of the horse he had been stroking. The horses he had brought were all magnificent—four of them, coats shimmering. He was well known as a horse breeder, and he often sold warhorses to the Daath, many as fine as Loch's. This one was a black stallion, young, strong.

“I thought as long as I was going to be near Lucania this day,” he said, “th-that I might bring a gift.”

She gasped. “Oh, Marcian, you do not mean this horse? He is too magnificent, I could never accept—”