Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (78 page)

“Damn,” he hissed. “No more—no more dreams. Battle shock, I have seen it. Never believed after all I have gone through that I would feel it myself.”

He then focused, forcing the dream images out, letting the pain suck at reality. He looked around—stone and wood walls; thick, double doors.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“A think this is a merchant's castle.”

“Where is Tillantus?”

“The legions are encamped outside of the city. He tells me to ensure you that he understands his orders are to hold the high ground, but you are
not
going to them. Eryian, for God's sake, I think you almost died, for real this time. You have passed out, and once you stopped breathing. It was the ranger, the Little Fox, that did something to you, pounded your chest and threw some powder over you, brought you back. He said you would live, but he made me promise you get enough rest to grow back some of your blood.” He turned to her.

“And your bones are broken, as well. But your high captain, that Tillantus, he spat aside. Tillantus did not believe you were going to make it. He told the Little Fox there was no witchery that could fool death. So when he brought you here, it was because they expected you to die, Eryian! Except … except for the Little Fox. He said you were going to live,
damn it.
He said otherwise he would not have saved your thin ass in the first place.”

Panic played in the air a moment. Again, the far, lost cry of Cassium's pain. As he closed his eyes, the images of the battle played against his eyelids like living paintings, and then, for a moment, Cassium's eyes, the soft light that spilled from them, and he felt the sadness grip. It was good he had trained his life against emotion; it finally came in handily. He now understood that he had lost her twice. He had, in fact, lost her in all of time. He opened his eyes to stare at the quiet flicker of the hearth fire. He loved Krysis, which meant love was not singular, but that did nothing to dull the sadness of Cassium's eyes as the light went out of them.

“Do not … let me sleep,” he said, staring blankly. He groped for her hand, and finding it, clutched it tightly, desperate.

“Eryian, my love, if you do not sleep, you cannot heal.”

He stared at her weakly and shook his head. “No. I can stand no more dreams—keep me awake for a time. Keep reminding me you are here.”

She studied him, and then lifted a wineglass. She tipped a small vial, then sprinkled powder into the wine and stirred it with her little finger.

“What is that?”

“With this you do not dream,” she said. She offered the glass and when he hesitated, she added, “Trust me, Eryian. How do you think I have slept at night all these years without you? It is sleep, and you must regain your strength, but I promise from experience, you will have no dreams. You will heal more quickly. Do it; drink it.”

He propped himself up, took the glass, and drained it. When he leaned back she pulled a hand through his hair, lifting it out of his eye. “Where is Little Eryian?” he asked. “Did you bring him?” “No. But he is the one that told me.” Eryian glanced to her. “Told you what?”

“What you were feeling. That unless Elyon moved His hand, you were about to die. He seems to know so much. He was right. And you were far, far from him. Believe me, you have no idea how hard it was to keep him from coming to you. He is under watch even now.”

The wine worked surprisingly quickly. Eryian could feel it leave a soft burn.

“Tillantus—tell him to bring up the rear legions. Tell him to move to the shallows near Ithen's ford … tell him they will soon come … without number.”

As Eryian drifted to sleep, his hand slipped from hers.

I
shmia was the trading and shipping center of Terith-Aire, watched over by an austere, aged magistrate of merchants. Docks cluttered its bay in a semicircle. The city had no standing army, but it did have a garrison of Daath, of which, in the courtyard, before the castle, Rhywder had assembled twenty. Rhywder knew that when the Unchurians swept north, Galaglea would be like an untended flock in their path—but they would also meet the onslaught with a full legion of hardheaded warriors. Enough to slow down even the armies of a thousand fires.

There was no hope for them—the Galagleans. He had sent riders, but he did not know if they would reach the city in time. But if Galagleans knew anything at all in this world, it was how to die well. For that reason there was a thin change, so thin it was like the edge of a surgeon's knife, but it was there. He could maybe reach this girl Marcian Antiope had spoken of. If the story were true, Elyon would aid them. Elyon chose His own time and His own purposes of intervening, but He did seem to want a Daath scion about, so for that reason, even if Rhywder rode down the throat of an army to save her, he would still believe there was a chance.

The Little Fox turned his horse and rode slowly past the twenty men he had picked.

Some of them he knew. He knew Rainus, their captain, a capable officer. He had fought with Rainus in the gathering wars; the man was brave and capable. As well, he was one of the best horsemen to be found, as were his men. It was odd, in war they were invaluable; in peace, Rainus and his men had been stationed here, to break up brawls in taverns and keep merchants from being robbed. But now they were about to come in quite handy.

“I have chosen you for speed,” Rhywder told them as he rode down their line. “We ride to save one girl from the edge of Galaglea. We will stop for nothing, and we shall reach her or die in the attempt. I suspect, luck being as it has been, we will meet the armies of the Unchurian coming or going, and I suspect the most part of us will not be returning. Any of you wish to leave, I will understand.”

“You,” said Rainus.

“What?”

“You should leave, my lord. The Daath, their king … now their warlord …”

“I am not a sitter of Daath, never had skills as a milkmaid; besides, it is a Daath we ride for. The girl has a child. It is the child, by the way, that will take priority. Not the girl—the child. Are we understood? Certain you are all willing to come, chances thin as they are?”

Rhywder's horse danced a moment. He waited. None of them responded; they were all Eryian's troops, and Eryian knew how to train men to die.

Rhywder shifted in the saddle, brought the horse about, and then stopped and stared at one of the warriors—something had caught his eye. The warrior was mounted on a roan horse, watching from beneath a bronze helmet, cheek guards closed, visor lowered, the face mostly in shadow—but the large, green eyes were hardly hidden. Rhywder sighed and lowered his head, shaking it.

“Satrina,” he said quietly.

The figure made no motion of recognition.

Rhywder looked up. “Satrina, I know you are in there. Take off the helmet.” The figure looked right, then left in question. “Remove the helmet!”

Slowly, she grunted, disgusted, and unlatched the strap, then pulled off the helmet. Long, silken hair fell over her shoulders and Satrina batted her long lashes.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Going with you, of course.”

Rhywder shook his head.

“Little Fox, I have saved your skin more times than you would want me to count! I am going with you! I want you back alive.” “You listen to me, Satrina …”

“Every time I listen to you, we get in trouble! I am coming with you, so do not try to stop me.”

Rhywder looked around, then motioned. “Rainus!”

The warrior drew from the ranks mounted on a great black stallion. Rainus was a big man, broad-shouldered and powerful, but he was ugly beneath his plumed helm. A long, gray Daathan cloak fell over the flanks of his horse.

“My lord,” he said, pulling up beside Rhywder.

“Take this bint and tie her to that pillar!”

Satrina gasped. She glanced to the pillar, then to Rainus. She backed her horse away slightly. “Rhywder! I am not your house-wench; you do not own me!”

Rhywder thought this over. “I am afraid you would make a very poor house-wench, Satrina. You cannot even cook.” “I can cook!”

“Really?”

As Rainus closed on her, Satrina glanced at him nervously. “You keep away from me!” she shouted, pulling the horse back. “You keep back or I swear … I will cut you.”

Rainus lifted a line of hemp from his saddle tassel with a muscular arm and laid it over his shoulder. The eyes beneath the helm were calm.

Satrina drew the sword she had bought that morning. It was a short sword like Rhywder's. “Do not assume I cannot use this!” she threatened. “I have killed bigger than you.”

Rhywder lifted a brow. According to the stories Antiope had told him, it was true. Even a thorn-skinned Nephilim.

Rainus pulled up beside her, grabbed her wrist, and then pried the sword loose and shoved it back in its scabbard. Before Satrina could make another move, she was lifted from the horse and dropped over Rainus's shoulder. His horse trotted quickly to the pillar and Rainus dropped from the saddle, her with him. He pinned her against the marble and started wrapping the rope about her.

Satrina kicked one of his greaves. Her boot left a ringing thud, and she hissed, having hurt her foot. Rainus was wrapping her from shoulder to knees.

“When are you going to learn you need me, Rhywder?” she screamed. “Leave one of your men to look after her,” Rhywder said as Rainus finished off the tie.

“Damn you, Rhywder!” she shouted, struggling against the thick rope.

“If faith holds, I will be home in less than a few days, Satrina, and since you can cook, I most like lamb in lemon pepper sauce. See if you cannot have that fixed for supper.”

“If I did not love you,” she said, “I swear I would utterly hate you, Rhywder!”

“Most women do hate me; it is only natural. Truth be, it is a puzzle, your fondness. But I love you, too, you lovely wench/cook/sword-wielding beauty.”

He turned his horse. “Move out,” he said quietly, and then led the warriors out of the plaza, hooves clattering on the polished limestone.

Satrina looked at the mounted warrior left to guard her. She smiled. “I think he tied these ropes awfully tight.”

The warrior made no response.

“It would be nice if you loosened them just a bit.” She waited—still no response. He might have been made of stone. “I could make it worth your time,” she said in her sexiest voice. There was still no response; the warrior purposely did not meet her eyes.

L
ucian Antiope was in the upper of his father's fields, scattering hay from an irregular pile into wooden troughs. Though the pastures beyond stretched far, vanishing into the hillocks and trees, Marcian's horses would always gather for the feed at dusk, crowding about the troughs, snorting, nipping at one another, tails swishing. They were intelligent, as much as humans in Lucian's opinion, just choosing not to live in houses or talk in Etlantian. But he had names for them all, and when he lectured them, they would always listen. Not coming for feed, knowing he was here—it was more than odd; it was alarming. Something was wrong and he did not like the feel of it—something scared him.

But near dusk, as shadows grew long and the wind died to stillness, the herd did not come, not even a single horse. Lucian stood, waiting. He even tossed a few forks of hay upward, letting the chill wind scatter the scent over his shoulder.

The wind was from the south, colder than he could remember it ever being this early. Looking southward, toward Galaglea, he was startled to see a dark storm forming over the far peaks of the Parminion Mountains, so thick the spire of Hericlon was even visible.

Lucian finally mounted his horse. One last time he scanned the trees for a sign of the herd, then he turned, and a moment later he gasped, startled, turning back once more toward Hericlon. It was more than a storm; it was night-black clouds and there was something in them, something deep in them, spinning, whirling. It reminded him of stars sucked into a whirlpool at high sea, spinning about its edge, and strangely, as well, it made him think of eyes.

The longer he stared, the more his skin crawled and the more he shivered. He had never seen anything like this. Unlike a storm, it moved slowly; it did not pass ever closer; whipped by winds, it merely waited. It was somewhere south, over the Vale of Tears, and whatever it was, a storm it was not.

He noticed them, westward, toward Galaglea, a red hue, like bloodstains against the sky. It was dusk, but he could see the western horizon and the setting sun. This was something else, something that left a chill through him. The sky was an orange/red because Galaglea was burning. It was impossible. The gates of Galaglea, even during the siege of the Daath in the gathering wars, had lasted three counts of the moon. The finest warriors in the world had not breached her walls until the diseases set in. Not only that, but though Galaglea had sent its legions for Hericlon; four cohorts of warriors remained stationed in the garrison stronghold not far from the city. They were more than enough to contain a fire within the city, yet it seemed they were doing nothing.

Lucian turned his horse and rode first at full, hard gallop, for his brother. When he reached Antenor, tall and lean in the saddle, he found him searching the skies above Galaglea, as well. Of all Marcian's boys, Antenor looked the most like his father, having the same lean figure, the same long nose. The youngest, Lucian, on the other hand, was built like his grandfather, an axeman, big in the shoulders, and though only ten and six years, already burly. The reason they were even on the ranch was that they were young. Marcian's other four sons, horsemen all, had left with him days ago at the call of the king to ride for Hericlon.

Lucian pulled up beside him, circling his horse, almost panicked, but remembering his father had taught him that panic, in times of need, was a weakness. He set his hand over the half of his grandfather's axe, which he always carried in a scabbard at his side, and felt through it a warning.