Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (29 page)

“So they are numerous, these Unchurian?”

“The death lord moved south centuries ago—splitting with Etlantis. Over a woman, I understand. Always such matters seem to have a woman at their core—you ever notice that?”

“Makes logical sense if you ponder it.”

“As far as the cities in the far south, the deserts, no man knows their number. You can find Unchurian settlements not far from where we are now, just minor villages in the jungles. But the truth be known, all land south of the gate of Hericlon belongs to the death lord and the Unchurian, which is why the Galagleans were blessed fools to be crossing over to start settlements and villages.” “Forget that I am a Galaglean myself, Captain?”

“No, and you would be likely to take your women and all your children and start a settlement here yourself if you were a plodder.”

Agapenor grunted, not sure if he was insulted. “So these Unchurian were born of an angel, were they?”

“The angel who named death. We can speak that name, death lord, it is not spellbound as his other names. He is the one that bore the nation of Unchuria.”

“But they are not giants, I understand.”

“He was an angel lord; their blood is pure. They were once archangels, those named as lords. Unlike the others who fell to Earth, lesser angels, the blood of the angel lords were pure, and even though the death lord had sinned and taken mortal women as his brides, his blood was so pure, his bond with heaven so strong that for many generations his children were almost like men. Like the Daath, not human exactly, but neither were they giants. That time is past now. No man has ever returned from the southern deserts of Du'ldu to say, but according to the seers and priests of Enoch, he has fallen. The tether that bonded the death lord to heaven for so long, even for centuries after his sin, has finally withered. He now bears monsters, giants, Failures, just as the lesser angels. He has become one of the fallen. But the nations of Unchuria were his firstborn. They age like patriarchs, centuries old—which leaves them deadly warriors.”

Rhywder was about to say more when he heard something. He motioned silence, drew his dagger, but never had a chance to throw it.

A naked Unchurian, the very topic of their conversation, leapt from the mangrove roots for Agapenor. He was painted in yellow and blue markings. Agapenor grabbed the Unchurian and slammed him into the ground, hoisted his weight, and brought a knee into the man's chest with a crunch. He peeled the Unchurian's knife away, breaking fingers. When the Unchurian started to scream, Agapenor hammered in the face. The body of the Unchurian shivered and lay still. The nose was driven into the back of his skull.

“You see this, Rhywder?”

Rhywder could only stare, amazed. “This man is painted! What are these?” “Signets, incantations, pay them no mind.” “You mean you can read the bastard?” “Yes. Step back from him, Agapenor.”

“What is he? Not human—his eyes look more like a jungle cat than a human. Skin not painted is reddish. Speak of them, Rhywder, this would be an Unchurian! Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“He was not that quick for having lived centuries and bearing such a reputation as they do.”

“I believe you took him utterly by surprise.”

“The tops of his feet are painted with the heads of blue salamanders. Seems a lot of work to go to, to paint a man like that.” “Burn him.”

“As asked,” said Agapenor.

He grabbed the body by an arm and leg and heaved him into the fire. He kicked in more shredded wood that would burn quickly. Soon the Unchurian's skin caught fire and started to sizzle.

“Hate that smell,” grumbled Agapenor.

Rhywder drew back. He wanted nothing of spellbound incantations, but as the Unchurian burned, Rhywder saw names in the swirls of the smoke. Surprisingly, they were not spells; there was nothing alarming except for the fact these were names Rhywder had rarely seen. Valefar, Abigan, Bathim, Sarganatanas—they were the vulgar names of the fallen, the Watchers, but names used only by the Pelegasians who sailed the southern isles and the merchant cities of Weire. They were not meant so much as magick as they were devotion to the one who had painted them. This priest had not been sent to kill; he was not hunting Rhywder or Agapenor. It was more likely this was just a simple priest, most probably gathering roots and herbs for his poisons.

Suddenly, before Rhywder could turn from it, a sacred name curled from the smoke. It had been painted in devotion by the priest, but it was spellbound. Rhywder tried blocking it, but the name still managed to press through his thoughts. It was Mictlan, a true name of Azazel, but it was a name used only in the far, deep south, in the desert cities, never in the north. It was Azazel who, by a spoken word, created death, and that was the literal meaning of Mictlan: death speaker. What startled Rhywder was that as soon as the name had gotten in his thoughts, he did not feel the angel listening; instead the spell sunk into him, sending chills. It left him acutely aware there was something was close, threatening, terrifying. “You all right, Captain?”

Rhywder looked up. “Yes. That was a priest. Possibly why he was so easily killed.”

“A priest, yet he comes at us with a knife? They have brave priests.”

“He is far from home. The words on him, they were words you would never find this far north; he is from the deserts of Du'ldu. He has never seen our kind. My guess is he mistook us for plodders.”

“Serious error on his part.”

“That it was. Problem is, he would not be traveling alone. The raiding party we have been tracking, they must be closer than I guessed. You wait here, Agapenor, I am going to range a bit, see what I can see. Keep these horses alive. If any warriors discover you, they will take the horses. You, they will save for the blood drinkers. The blood of a human your size would be as valuable as keg of grog would be to you. So keep the horses alive. We will move out as soon as I return.”

“Simple enough.”

“Put out the fire—this priest is burnt enough. Wait in the dark, keep hidden in this thicket, and keep still.”

“Understood.” Agapenor used his boot to stomp out and scatter the last of the fire, smothering it with the moist, swampland dirt. The priest's body was a smoldering lump. Agapenor walked to the horses and unlatched his axe.

Rhywder splashed through knee-high swamp to a high, dead oak. The swamp had slain the tree, but it still reached barren fingers to the sky, the remnant of a former forest giant, the highest tree in miles. He scaled it swiftly, adrenaline charged, until he reached the top. There, his heart stilled, and his breath caught in his throat. He had found the dread that the priest's painted spell had inspired. It was not at all what he expected. The land beyond was dotted with a thousand fires—fires that covered the horizon, the hills, the plains, as far as he could see. They were like stars spread over the land. Despite what he had just told Agapenor, to Rhywder's astonishment, they were here, the armies of Du'ldu, armies unknown and unnumbered. Anything this large would move slowly, but if they managed to breach Hericlon's gate, it would mean annihilation.

Something whispered his name.

He turned. There was something small crouched on a limb next to him. It had tiny eyes of pitted stones and leathery skin—overlaid with a wooden skeleton. Perhaps it was an Uttuku body, but nothing like he had ever seen before. Suddenly it hissed and a tiny claw swiped across Rhywder's cheek, cutting a line of blood. It took him by surprise. Rhywder fell. His fall was broken occasionally by branches and he was able to twist, catching enough of them to land unharmed on his feet.

The shadows seemed to climb slowly, painfully down from the trees and pocket all about Agapenor. He swore it was almost a tangible thing. The horses began to stir. One suddenly jerked its head and screamed, twisting, but Agapenor pulled sharply down on the reins, holding tight. Something flew overhead, its wing beat like the slap of leather being tanned.

“Goddess be near,” Agapenor whispered. He kept between the horses, ready for anything. When he heard someone coming through the bush, straight for him, he readied his axe.

“It is me, Rhywder,” the Little Fox said. Agapenor relaxed.

Rhywder vaulted into the saddle, then took up the reins. “Mount up, Agapenor—something to show you.”

From the hillock overlooking an Unchurian camp, Rhywder and the axeman kept to the shadows. Agapenor stared in awe. A shadow crossed his face like a cold wind, as it had Rhywder's when he was crouched in the tree.

“Sweet Mother of us all,” moaned Agapenor. “We are all dead, Captain. Their fires have no number. You go on now, let the others know. Me, I believe I will go down and introduce myself.”

Rhywder caught his arm. “Winter is coming, Agapenor.”

Agapenor paused. “What should we care of winter?”

“Hericlon is impassable in winter. If Hericlon is held until the snows, no more than a single count of the moon from now, the Daath and the kindred will have a season to prepare. In a season, we could even escape to the Western Sea.”

Agapenor searched the thousands of fires beyond the hillock. “For Hericlon, then.”

Rhywder galloped at Agapenor's side. They thundered between jagged rock, through the thick of trees and vine. They circled about the edge of a clearing, keeping to shadows. Rhywder thought he knew a clear path to Hericlon, but it was as though the jungles had shifted. He swore he was following the same pathway back, but soon nothing looked familiar as if the thickets were closing around them, and eventually they found their way north blocked. Rhywder drew up on the reins, his horse dancing for a moment as he searched. The jungle thickets could be so dense at times there was no way to press through them. The only passage offered before them was a gaping hole dripping in moss. It looked like a mouth waiting, like something that might swallow them. At least this was a road; wagon wheels leaving gutted tracks snaked beneath the moss. “Looks awfully tight going in there.”

“I do not see a lot of other choices to continue north. Pretend it is plodder road through the thicket.”