Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (23 page)

“Not to dampen your spirits, but you might want to build one more pyre.”

“What?”

“One of your men a few leagues back.”

The young captain looked at the others. “They got Cragus! God, even Cragus did not make it.”

“How far?” one of the Galagleans asked.

“Just behind us. You will only need two men; the canyon is safe for now.” At a motion, the guard and one other rode off, hooves echoing. “Take us to your quarters, Captain,” Rhywder said.

In the garrison's quarters, Anton—the Daath captain who was perhaps twenty and four years at most—poured himself some wine, his hands shaking as he brought the goblet to his lips and drained it. Agapenor tightened his jaw, shifting, uneasy.

“You were asking of the gate?” Anton muttered, refilling the goblet. “A good place, this gate. A good command if what you desire is to slowly drive yourself mad, day by day. Each night it has been getting worse. No sun. You believe that? I have not seen the sun in weeks.” He drained the second goblet. “The nights are clear, but each morning, just as dawn comes, these dark clouds move in from the south. Even at midday, the shadows of the passage are so thick it is like an eternal night. It is as if something were designing this madness, and all with such care.”

“Tell us about the pyres,” Rhywder said.

“Love of Elyon. It happened this morning, not far past dawn, though who can say for sure since dawn no longer comes. Without warning, without reason, the Galagleans in the pass below the causeway just started killing each other. They were veterans, good men. All of the Galagleans I have left are hardened. The cowards have already deserted; all I have left are veterans of Quietus. All I know is I heard screaming, and when I stepped into the passage they had already started killing each other. Never seen anything like it, no one could stop them, they simply fought to the death.” “How many did you lose?”

“A full score, twenty and two men, all lying there dead—and not just dead but cut to pieces. It was savage: arms severed, guts spilled, pure carnage. The passage was covered in blood.”

Thinking of it, a shiver swept through Anton. He started to pour another goblet, but Agapenor set the flagon of wine aside.

“You need to pay more attention to Captain Rhywder, and less to the wine,” Agapenor said.

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

“You need me, Rhywder?” Agapenor asked. “Otherwise, I will be just outside. Feel the need to get some air.”

Rhywder nodded. Agapenor ducked through the doorway to step outside, letting the door close behind him. Rhywder felt a bit sorry for the boy; he was obviously in over his head.

“You have some capable veterans out there, Captain. Would you like me to place one of them in command?”

“No, I admit I am shaken, but they listen to me. I have been in command here for seven counts of the moon. I am still capable.”

“Good to know. So how long has this been going on?”

“What? Killing each other, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Only today. Can you explain any of it? Is it witchery? Some kind of spell binding we are under?”

“Anything else unordinary?”

“There are the screamers. I would not call them ordinary.” “Screamers?”

“They come every night now. Gray shades, they come down the passage screaming like I have never heard—high-pitched inhuman screams. Some of them pass right through the stone of the gate, other just fly overhead. I have no idea what they are. They do not seem to cause any harm, but it goes on sometimes all night. It has been weeks now. No one has been getting any sleep. I think some of the Galagleans are suggesting we drop the portcullis and try to get through the vale, get help. But there are others, some of the older commanders, who understand we need to hold. I have been relying on them.”

“Has anything else passed through? Anything corporal?”

“Villagers. They were coming through in steady numbers a few weeks back. Some with carts for their dead. It is why we had left the portcullis raised, though the past few days they have slowed to a trickle. And those who do make it are burnt or wounded. Some have begged I send patrols out for their kindred. As if I have men to spare.”

“Have they said what has been killing them?”

“Yes, they talk of mutations—giants, the monstrous ones. I believe they are referring to Failures, raiding parties of Failures. I am told they mostly come for blood. I have heard they hang the villagers upside down to drain them of blood for drinking.”

“Any word of Unchurians?”

“You mean the ones like us, like the Daath, only red-skinned?” “Yes. Do any of the villages say they have seen Unchurians?” “No. No, I have heard nothing of Unchurians.” “So the only ones coming through the gate have been villagers?” “Yes. Those and the screamers.”

Rhywder nodded. “All right, I want you to listen to me, Anton. I need your full attention.” Anton nodded.

“Not long from now, there could be something coming against Hericlon from the south. It could be giants, Failures, possibly even Unchurians. They may come as raiding parties, but it is also possible Hericlon may be invaded.”

“Are you saying we are at war?”

“Yes, it is possible the Unchurians will attack in force, but I doubt it will happen soon. I believe there is time to get word to Quietus in Galaglea. And keep in mind, this is Hericlon. With this gate you have enough men to hold back an entire army if it came to that. I doubt very much that will happen, but you and your men need to be aware that Hericlon must be held at all cost until help arrives. At all cost. So this is what you are going to do: you are going to drop the portcullis and once it is closed, you will open it for no one. Understand? No matter what comes, the gate remains closed.”

Anton nodded. “What about villagers? Will they not need passage?”

“They will not be getting passage because it could be a trap. If you lift the gate, things can get through; if you keep the portcullis closed, this gate is nearly impregnable. From now on, from this point forth, you will lift it for no one. Tell the villagers to turn back and clear the passage or they will be killed. And if they do not listen and you have to, kill them. Trust nothing; trust no one. Keep the passage clear and the gate closed. Do you understand me?”

“Kill villagers?”

“Kill anything that tries to get through to the north. You cannot risk it. If Hericlon is breached, our homeland is at risk and that cannot happen. This gate is closed; this passage is no longer open to anyone.”

“As you say, but—”

“Trust nothing, Anton! You can no longer take any chances; you are too few and there is too much at stake. The gate of Hericlon will remain closed. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes.”

“How many men do you have left?” “Thirty—thirty Galagleans.” “That is all?”

“We were seventy, but many of them deserted.”

“You have veterans out there, warriors who will stand their ground. Gather them and make sure there are no more desertions. We will take some measures, get help from Galaglea, protect you from the Uttuku—”

“Uttuku? What are Uttuku?”

Rhywder sighed, shaking his head.

Outside, more then ten Galagleans had gathered about the captain's quarters and were left staring at Agapenor. He could guess what was on their minds.

“Any of you wish to know what is happening here, just step up,” said Agapenor. “Step up and ask.”

One of them did, a large Galaglean, though not as large as Agapenor. “Can we leave this godless vale? Drop the gate and try to reach King Quietus in Galaglea? If we move in force instead of one or two at a time—”

Agapenor grabbed the warrior by his breastplate, knocked off his helmet, and whapped him in the side of his head. The Galaglean's knees buckled and Agapenor let him stagger to the side. “Now this man here—he did not ask the proper question. But any others of you that are curious and have other questions, step right up.”

Anton stared at the Little Fox, horrified. “You … you are going to leave, sir?”

“Yes.”

“South? You are going into the southland, where they are being murdered and burned?”

“I am, but there are a few things I will do to help before I leave. Are your food stores intact?”

“Yes, the food stores are safe.” “Water wells?”

“The wells are fine, though the water seems darker. But no one has gotten sick.”

“Good, good. Now, tomorrow at dawn, send a party of seven riders north, just to the edge of the vale, no farther. Along the foothills and the forest have them gather mandrake and garlic. There is garlic that grows along the edge of the western woods, and mandrake near the foothills. Have them gather as much as they can in a single trip.”

“And what are we to do with it?”

“Every man wears at least one mandrake root about his neck, and all of you should wear wreaths of garlic cloves. Wear them day and night. The kind of creatures that killed your warriors today will often enter the mandrake before they enter a body. They are fooled by it, an old witch's trick.” “Yes, I understand—mandrake root and garlic.”

“Tonight, once the moon reaches mid-sky, I want you to slay your fattest bull and speak Elyon's name over it. Take the blood and paint the lintels of your barracks. From the top of the gate's causeway, lower a wooden scaffold over the outer edge and paint the lettering of the gate's archway, making sure you cover every letter inscribed in the stone. Understand?”

“And will that help?”

“The screamers will stop coming.”

Anton nodded. “Are … are you a priest?”

“Hardly. Now, I want you to bring me a rider, someone light and small. From your stockade select a black horse, the swiftest you have. Cut the neck of one of your laying hens and smear its blood into the coat of the horse, work it deep into the hide.”

The boy stared back stricken. He nodded and stood, waiting.

“Do it; go, now, I do not have much more time!”

Anton rushed out of the quarters leaving the doorway open. Rhywder sighed, poured himself some wine. Anton was shouting orders. Agapenor ducked his head and stepped inside.

“What now, Captain?”

“We will be leaving south.”

“And you are going to leave the gate in the hands of these fools?”

“With the portcullis closed, nothing will get through. It sounds as if there are nothing more than raiding parties out there. Failures and giants hunting blood. Nothing leads me to believe there is anything close enough to threaten Hericlon, at least not yet. They just need to get a runner through to Galaglea. Luckily, it is not that far.”

Anton and two guards, both big Galagleans, entered with a boy, a young Daath, barely sixteen. Rhywder was encouraged to find the boy's hair was dyed silver. There was a brotherhood of young thieves in Ishmia who died their hair silver, and this boy was most probably one of them. At last a bit of luck— he would at least be skilled at running, and probably was good with daggers. He was mostly skin and bone. Agapenor fingered one of the boy's arms and glanced to Anton.