Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (14 page)

“I am … I am …”

“You seem uncertain.”

“My name is Aeson.”

“And these are attack hounds, Aeson?” the captain shouted over the baying. “No, no,” Aeson said, “they are just plain hounds—for herding.” “Shut them up.”

“Quiet. Bobo, Runt! Both of you! Quiet! Quiet!”

They went on baying. They were loyal hounds. Only Lamachus could silence them.

“You are certain they are yours?”

“It is your horses. They are scared of your horses.”

“Bobo! Runt!” the captain commanded. “Quiet!”

They stopped baying. Bobo sat on his haunches, his tongue lolling, exhausted.

“Now, boy, explain your purpose on this road.”

“Me? Riding. I am just out for a ride.”

“Do you always ride hanging sideways from your horse?”

“Oh, that. Practicing. Hoping to be a scout someday.”

“Well, you have a distance to go, but that was fairly skilled riding for a boy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Perhaps too skilled for a mere boy. Skilled enough, I might suspect, for an assassin.” “Assassin?”

“Could be you are a scout, riding sideways in early dawn with expertly trained hounds Bobo and Runt, or you could be an assassin, creeping up on the city with ill intent. Archlon, seize him!”

“What?” gasped Aeson.

Archlon, who was huge, leaned forward and effortlessly snatched Aeson from his horse.

“Skinny rat,” said Archlon. “Just what you would expect of an assassin.” “It is?” said Aeson, genuinely surprised. “Assassins are always skinny,” the captain said. “But I am no assassin! I promise!”

“Clever assassins would do no less. Take him to the city, to the maiden's chamber. Stretch him out a bit.” “Wait! Wait, my sister!” “I see no sister.”

“My sister, she is alone—down there—she …” “Alone?” said the captain. “Alone where?” “Did I say alone?”

“You did.”

“No, she is with someone, but I cannot leave her!” “You indicated she was west, toward the woods?” “No, I didn't indicate where she was at all.”

“Well, not to worry, young Aeson,” the captain smiled. “I will find her for you.”

“You harm her and, and I swear I will hunt you down!” “Seems he is an assassin, Captain,” said Archlon. “Plans to sic these attack hounds on me, no doubt.” “You touch my sister, and I will find you. I will make you pay!” Aeson shouted as Archlon rode off with him toward the city, hounds trailing.

T
he courtyard of Argolis's castle was built on the high, natural granite that capped the cliffs of the Dove Cara. The city was walled with timber and stone ramparts about its outer edges, but the cliff that overlooked the sea was dominated by the castle, a winding, pure white alabaster wonder with twisting, icelike crystal spires that reached to the sky. When the sun hit those spires just right, it would split into myriads of color. They said the castle was built long ago, in the days of Yered when the Daath first came to Earth, and not only was the outside unearthly, but the inside, as well. The castle's stairways and tunnels and rooms were like nothing found elsewhere in Rhywder's travels and he had traveled this mud ball a whole lot of years thus far.

Rhywder believed the voyagers built it, voyagers that sailed from the seventh star—that is what his grandmother told him and she was usually right about most things. Besides, those high-up crystal spires were smooth and unblemished after centuries and yet looked to be fashioned of nothing more than glass. No culture he knew of could manage that.

Sitting there, staring up at the Daathan castle, thinking how it was built by star voyagers, Rhywder had to ask himself: What happed to the ship? If they came in a ship that could sail stars, what had they done with it—misplaced it? Lost it in the woods? If he ever in this life or the next bumped into one of these voyagers, those would be the first words out of his lips: “So what did you do with the ship?” A star ship would sure make the trip south, which he was about to undertake, a whole lot easier.

Rhywder was sitting against the main fountain of the agora. In fact, he was sitting
in
the main fountain, letting the trickle of its cool water sooth his pounding head and run through his unclean beard. He had fulfilled his promise to get falling-down drunk and now he was paying for it. There was a woman involved, and he couldn't remember her face, just as he intended.

His tasseled boots were propped on his bedroll and saddle, which were sitting on the bricked edge of the fountain. His horse wandered not far. They had been together a long while, him and this horse; they knew each other well enough that there was little need for talking. The horse had heard nearly all his stories.

He marveled how the bottom of the well was a kind of silvery polished blue metal. He'd never found metal like that anywhere. Maybe it was the voyagers who brought it along. The center of the well, directly above where the water trickled over the top of his head, was a cluster of ice-spires, just like the spires of the castle. Voyager spires, that's what he called them.

What he really wanted to do, rather than go south and get killed in the jungles, was to sail off on a well-fitted warship and kill Etlantians at sea. They were stripping whole coastlines of villages these days, like eating fruit. He wanted badly to do some slaying, kill as many of these heartless bastards as possible. They ate children, something Rhywder could not abide. The Etlantians had gone bad, no other way to put it. Used to be there were honorable Etlantians. He'd known a few in his time, men he looked up to, men whose eyes held a strange light. But he had not seen one of those in a long time.

All that seemed left of the Etlantians now were these bastard child-eaters. They hunted in well-built, fast-running warships armored in oraculum that bore the rust-red bull's-head insignia of Etlantian raiders. To kill them you had to have a good, skilled, deadly crew that did not panic. That was what he really wanted to do, gather himself a pack of warships, stock them with the best fighters to be found, and start hunting. That stirred his blood even now, sitting here in this fountain. But it was not to be. He was going after a different kind of bastard.

Azazel.
He let himself think the name straight out, damned be what might happen. If he wanted, let the high-blood bastard fly through the air and kill Rhywder right here, right in this fountain, just for thinking his name. Azazel was the common name of the angel lord, but it was one that should never be spoken aloud, for it was spellbound. All the names of the angel lords and prefects were spellbound. Speaking their names aloud was heard by them, even if they were a continent or an ocean away. Thinking their names—who knew? Likely they heard the thinking of their names, as well. On this particular morning, being as he had the happy task of venturing into the jungle in front of him, Rhywder just did not give a damn.
Azazel,
he thought again, defiantly. Azazel and his Unchurians—they would be found somewhere past Hericlon's gate. Of course, he could not argue, Eryian was right. Some poor bastard had to go down there and get a read of how many there were and how long before they were going to reach Hericlon.

Suddenly a deep, gravely voice cut into his thoughts.

“Be you the Captain Rhywder?”

He had to hold his hand over his forehead to get a look through the falling water. The big man on the horse in front of him was a shadow blocking out the sun, a huge axeman almost the size of an Etlantian. This had to be Eryian's chosen.

“Who is asking?” said Rhywder.

“What, you avoiding credit seekers or husbands?”

“Just want to know who is asking.”

The axeman looked from one side to the other, then back to Rhywder. “Looks to me like I would be the only one here. Which would mean I am doing the asking.”

“And … you are?”

“I am Agapenor. You are not dressed as any captain I ever met, so if you are one you had best speak up before I get irritated.” “What would happen if you got irritated?”

“Look, this is a simple question I am asking, and I need an answer. Be you the Captain Rhywder or not?”

Rhywder slowly pulled himself to his feet, stepped out of the cool water of the fountain, and lifted his saddle and bedroll off the brickwork. From here out it was going to be a miserable, long hard ride to Hericlon, and from there: the jungles—nothing he hated worse than the jungles. He walked over, slung the saddle over his horse, and began to cinch it down.

“We will be moving dead south,” Rhywder said.
“Dead
being an apt word all considered. We will be keeping a tight pace, as well, so I hope you have a good mount. You have everything in order? Check your rations? Kiss your woman farewell?” Rhywder cinched down the last strap and looked up.

The big Galaglean was right in front of him, dismounted. He seized the Little Fox by the front of his tunic and narrowed his gaze as he growled, “Be you the Captain Rhywder or be you not the Captain Rhywder?”

“I be the Captain Rhywder.”

The big man paused. He seemed genuinely surprised. He released Rhywder's tunic as though his fingers were hard to manipulate. “My respectful apologies then, Captain. Just … a man needs be sure of things these days.”

“We'll not argue that point.”

Agapenor handed over the scroll that contained his orders. “I am Agapenor, first captain of the twelfth corps axemen under command of Argolis, king of the Daath, dispatched here by order of the warlord Eryian.”

“I guessed.”

Rhywder tossed the scroll. He pulled himself into the saddle. “Mount up, Agapenor, first captain of the twelfth; we have now been properly introduced.”

Agapenor mounted, wadded up the reins of his horse. He had a large-built charger, one of Eryian's war-stock that took the man's weight well.

“I assume you made all last arrangements, just in case.” Rhywder said. “Could turn out to be a tough ride we are about to engage.”

“I look at you; I know well enough we are not off to fish for groupers. Yes, Captain, I got things arranged.”

Rhywder set off at a lope and Agapenor fell in at his flank.

A
t the entrance to the cavern, Loch turned the great mare whose hooves kept dancing, ready to bolt. “Once we go in from here,” Loch said, “it is important to keep moving. The tunnels and catacombs in this place keep their own law.” “I will be at your flank.”

He paused to light a torch. That's when Loch actually looked at her—really looked at her—wet from the waterfall, her lashes damp, her hair played out in curls. She wore only a herder's leather tunic and a buffed horsehair cloak, but it didn't matter. The full, rich, red hair and unmarred beauty overwhelmed everything about her. Guilt in him wondered if that was why he had brought her, because he was fascinated with her beauty. But he could not ignore the dreams of her, the memories, some of them intimate—her touch, her smell. And so often the dreams held the sting of losing her. He shoved the torch into a saddle brace at the shoulders.

“Follow, keep up.”

“I will. I have no desire to be in this place unescorted.”

He smiled at that, and then he slapped the reins and started off at a fast trot. The shadows were everywhere. He paid them no attention. As he pressed the horses to a gallop, he commanded any who might be in their path.

“Make way!” he shouted.

There was scampering.

“About to become steep,” he told her without looking back, trusting that she was an able rider and could navigate the twisting path.

He turned a sharp corner and for a moment was out of sight. When she followed, she found it was hard rock, slick, wet in places with a pitched grade. This was taking all her skill; she would have fallen if the passage had not been wide enough for switchbacks.

When she reached the bottom and found him waiting for her, she had to draw the gray up and then turn to circle at his side.

“It is true what I have heard,” he said. “You are a fantastic rider. I have never seen such a capable horsewoman.”

“I thought you said we were to keep moving.”

“We should … we will. I just … I had to admire your skill. Most need assistance down this incline. My compliments, Adrea.”

“Most? Are you saying I am not the first you have guided down this path?” “No, not the first.”

“And these poor creatures, the things I see scurrying away in terror of you. What are they?”

“Far from poor creatures. If not for me, they would be at your throat.” “They know you?”

“Let us say they have not forgotten our first encounter.” He paused, then stared openly. “What? Is something wrong?”

“No. I was just at a loss for words. Elyon's name, but you are beautiful.”

There were echoes in the caverns behind them. One of them was a low, mournful wail, a word she could almost make out, as if it were human.

“My lord,” she said, “might we keep moving?”

“Of course.” He turned and broke into a hard gallop.

This time, it took all her talent to keep pace. There were times the torchlight reflected off the walls, and for some reason she noticed his night-black hair, the way it was so carefully braided with leather.

“Sharp corners ahead,” he shouted. “Keep shy of the walls; they are laced with obsidian carved to rip horseflesh. You should keep well to my right flank.”

“I am on your right flank.”

He looked back. “Where did you learn to ride like this?”

“Since I could climb up onto one, I have been riding horses.”

“It is evident. There are warriors I am certain you could leave in the dust confused and bewildered that a woman had just bested them.” “But not you?”

“No. Not me. Sorry, no disrespect intended.” “None taken.”