Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (34 page)

“We have seen the king's chamber,” Hyacinth said.

She waved her hand through the smoke, breaking it open, and watched as the creature soared into the wind.

“We suppose to remember that?” Storan said.

“I will,” Danwyar assured them, angling his silver bow to the side. “Follow.”

With Danwyar in the lead, the seven ran, hunched over, across the causeway and down the stairway of the tower where the Daathan guard lay slumped in the corner, his helmet askew.

Once inside, they moved through shadows without sound. Storan reached up and snuffed each torch as they passed. When they stepped about one corner, they came suddenly face to face with three Daathan warriors. There was a moment's stunned hesitation between both parties.

The warriors drew quick weapons. Darke high-stepped and cut down the first. Before the others could move, Hyacinth and Danwyar's bolts whispered. Danwyar's arrows were quick thuds, close enough to pierce the armor. Hyacinth wore a small crossbow strapped to her wrist. She had designed it herself, could aim by guiding her hand, and loaded it always with poisons. The three Daath had been brought down with hardly a sound.

Darke paused to admire their armor, so thin and light, darkened silver, and their skin, pale, bloodless, tinted almost blue.

“Not so tough,” Storan muttered. “These so-called vampire Daath—not so tough to kill, you ask me.”

“They are not vampires,” Hyacinth corrected him. “Who told you that?”

“Who cares? My point is they die quick as any other.”

“Make no mistake,” whispered Darke, “they are deadly killers. If we are discovered without surprising them, as we did these, none of us are getting out of here alive.”

At Darke's signal, Danwyar went ahead. At each corner, he braced, turned with bow drawn, then kept going if it was clear. They reached a branch. At one point a hallway split to the left, then, a few feet beyond, it turned right. Danwyar motioned he would cover the left—the first branch, and singled Rathe, a quick pirate who wore only light leather armor and was an expert with daggers, to check the right before they moved on.

Rathe crouched, moving forward swiftly. As he turned the corner, before he ever realized what had happened, he found himself walking straight into the warlord of the Daath—Eryian, the Eagle of Argolis. The warlord's surprise was a flick of hesitation before his heavy sword cleared its sheath. Rathe had not even touched the hilt of his many daggers when his chest was opened. He was then beheaded. In seconds both arms were shorn off.

Stunned, Darke saw Rathe's torso, stripped of limbs, stagger back into the wall. He knew the manner of the kill had been for effect, to strike terror. And it worked; even though Darke had seen deathly slaughter, a chill ran through him.

Darke drew sword. As the warlord came around the corner, closing on him, he was like a shadow. Suddenly he unfolded—two, three of him—all exactly alike, mirrored images. Darke had heard of it, but had never seen it done. It was effective.

Storan shifted to Darke's left, clutching his axe.

In the last instant, the mirrors vanished as Eryian closed for the kill—choosing Darke as his target. Darke was an able, cunning swordsman, and he blocked the first blow of the warlord's blade, though barely. It struck so solid that it numbed Darke's wrist, nearly dislodging his sword.

Darke staggered, and for the first time in his life found himself desperately trying not to die. The warlord's sword hummed as it moved. At times it phased out of focus, splintering into three, then four swords. Darke guessed each one true by the sword's path, but he knew he could not keep this up long. The lord of the Tarshians had never met his match, but he knew if it were but him and this warlord, he would not survive. Even now, with his men to either side, in moments this Daath was going to slay him. One blow sent him staggering, off balance. The next thrust was for the death, but it was blocked by one of Darke's men, Kerrian, who threw himself into the sword's path. Kerrian's head was perfectly sliced down the center and laid open to either side. The warlord's every strike was meant to inspire terror.

The Daath moved past Kerrian, still coming for Darke. The warlord's blade met the shank of Storan's axe so solidly the weapon was knocked from Storan's hands. It was the first time Storan had ever been disarmed. It seemed impossible. Sensing the big man's strength and threat, the Daath's sword went for Storan's throat, but just short of the blow he was forced back by a rapid series of steel arrows.

Danwyar fired his missiles swiftly—feeding them into the silver short bow one after the other in rapid succession.

Hyacinth slid to the floor on her stomach, crouched at Darke's thigh, and laying her small crossbow over her left arm for aim, fired, her teeth bared in a snarl. It was her captain the Daath was coming for, and her aim was certain.

The warlord had twisted from the path of each of Danwyar's missiles with amazing speed, stepping sideways, then back, then against the wall. One of Danwyar's shafts managed to graze his armor with a singing clank, but that was as close as Danwyar came. It was Hyacinth's small bolt that brought the warlord down.

Eryian turned for the kill, but paused, surprised by what was happening inside him. Hyacinth's bolt was lodged in the side of his neck, near a vital vein, but not lethal. It was the poison that had stopped him. The warlord stared at all of them in disbelief, then stepped back and finally dropped against the wall behind him, sliding down until he was sitting, his sword still in his hand, one knee bent. It looked as though he was merely resting. Hyacinth was a master of poisons and this one moved more quickly than any viper's. It was magick, aided by Hyacinth's best poison spell, swifter than lightning. The pirates could actually see it move through the Daathan's blood, the vessels in his neck turning purple as the poison sunk deeper.

“Mothering son of whores!” the big axeman snarled, lifting his axe from the stone, still enraged that he had been disarmed. He was turning for the kill, but Danwyar stepped in his path, blocking him.

“This one is mine,” Danwyar said. He walked calmly toward the Daath, leveled his crossbow, the bolt inches from the heart.

With a tight screech, Hyacinth kicked the crossbow out of Danwyar's hand, then spun to kick him again, throwing him back from the warlord.

Danwyar barely maintained his composure, holding his now bruised wrist. “What in the—”

“My poison will let him sleep!” she fired at him. “What need to kill him, Danwyar? Are we killers now?” She looked at the rest of them. She turned to Eryian. “Besides, he is simply too magnificent to kill.” She took a moment to admire his dark, ice-blue eyes.

“Are we listening to women now?” Storan swore. “This—this
thing
just took out two of our men!”

“Would you have done any different for your king?” Hyacinth snapped back at him. She had poised herself in front of the Daath, daring any of them to try to pass.

Danwyar retrieved his crossbow and turned to Darke for a decision. “She is right on one count,” the captain said. “This is not our mark. Leave him.”

“Captain, if he wakes up—”

“He is awake, Danwyar,” Hyacinth snipped.

It was true. Eryian was watching them.

“He just cannot move, though in a few moments he will have a long, peaceful sleep.” Hyacinth turned to the warlord and waved good-bye. “Keep moving,” Darke ordered.

“What if we meet another like that?” Storan grizzled as they followed Danwyar down the next hallway.

“There
are
no others like that,” answered Darke. “That was Eryian, the Walker of Shadows.”

The Tarshians moved on, leaving Eryian breathing slowly, trying to fight the poison still working through him. Finally, his eyes closed and he slept, as Hyacinth had predicted.

They had reached the final stairway. Darke came to the edge first. He held up his hand. “The king's chamber is below us,” he said. “The guards will be quick, deadly.”

“Then let us not give them any opportunities,” said Danwyar. He took the point. Hyacinth moved quickly to the opposite side, her crossbow ready.

Darke lifted the heavy crossbow off his back and stepped down just behind and between them.

When the pirates came about the corner, there was a swift exchange. Danwyar dropped to his knees, sliding on the stone as he fired rapidly, one, two, three—four steel shafts ripping from the catgut of his bow. Hyacinth spun about a corner, leveled her aim, and fired into the eye of one guard. As the Daath twisted, Darke's heavy bolt went through his chest and out the back. Both guards lay in their blood. It had been soundless.

The Tarshians gathered before the heavy double doors of the king's chamber. Darke reloaded. Storan took position on his left, axe clutched with both hands. Hyacinth crouched near Darke, loaded her special bolt—light, hollow. She pulled off the moss that kept the poison moist. The poison that had taken down the warlord would have killed any human instantly, possibly would have killed a Daath. This poison was different; it had several effects, but none of them lethal. As all her poisons, it was spellbound to work swiftly. She briefly wondered if she should have made it stronger; the warlord had proven the Daath were resistant to poison. As a backup, she readied a second bolt and pinned it in the side notch of her small crossbow. She leveled it over her left arm, ready.

Danwyar's drew a silver shaft to the string and pulled it taut. “Take out the doors, Storan,” Darke whispered.

Storan brought the huge axe into the center of the doors, smashing through to break the crossbar. He kicked them open with a heavy boot.

It was quick. Though the room was dark, the king was on the bed, sitting against the headboard. He had not been sleeping and as the doors flung open he reached for something beside him, but Danwyar's steel bolt anchored his right hand through the palm to the back of the headboard. The shot had been a precise one. Danwyar did not want what might be the king's sword hand badly injured. He had sunk the thin bolt dead center, between the bones.

Hyacinth quickly fired her crossbow. The tiny bolt lodged in Loch's neck, just below his chin. It had pink feathers and was so small it was no more than a dart.

Darke felt a shiver. As adept at poisons as she was, the sleeper potion in Hyacinth's dart wasn't taking. The Daath snarled, curled his fingers back, and ripped his hand free, sheering off the feathers of Danwyar's arrow. Hyacinth, careful to control her panic, quickly reloaded. It was but a breath before her second bolt hit the king, directly beneath the first, but in that time, Loch had lifted something nearby.

Darke took breath, leveling the heavy crossbow at the Daath's heart. This Daath moved quickly. He was not even going to chance a disarming shot; if things went wrong, the Daath would die first.

The king, however, moved as quick and stealthily as had the warlord. But all he lifted was a double-edged sword. Darke did not fire; none of his men were even close. How could a broadsword pose any danger? Darke only briefly saw the blade—crystal, like glass.

Then it flashed.

Danwyar took a step back, blinded. Darke had somehow instinctually guarded his eyes, and Hyacinth, beside him, was shielded from a direct blast, but Storan took its full brunt and staggered like a drunken bull until he collided with the wall behind him.

Hyacinth looked up. Loch was fading fast. She dared not use another bolt; it could prove too strong. He would surely sleep, but he might not wake. She was startled that he looked her directly in the eye. He lids were sagging, his breaths short.

Darke was still ready to fire, but he took the chance the sleeper darts would take effect. The light had been blinding, but not lethal. In the brief seconds that passed, he realized the king was staring at Hyacinth. He was nearly unconscious, but the eye didn't close. Darke wasn't going to take the chance; he started to squeeze off the trigger when suddenly a second pulse flashed from the sword's crystal blade.

Darke's bolt fired, but soared upward through the ceiling as the pirates were hit with pure light that tossed them like leaves in a wind. Darke was thrown against the stone behind him, hard enough that the wind was knocked from him and he dropped, nearly unconscious. Hyacinth was lighter; she was sent spinning and hit the wall the same as Darke, but as she fell to the floor, she landed in a crouch, like a cat. Storan was already against the wall. He did have enough sense to shield his eyes, but his head was slammed against the stone. Danwyar had managed to throw himself behind the doorway, out of the light's path.

On his knees, swearing, Darke reloaded the crossbow, but when he took aim, the Daath was no longer moving. Darke wondered, briefly, why they were still alive. The last burst, if it had been stronger, could have easily killed them. Darke saw the king's eyes slowly close. His head dropped forward.

“He is out,” Hyacinth said. “You can take him now.”