Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (37 page)

He blinked, awake. He was staring at a girl. She was pretty, with gentle brown hair and long lashes that capped violet eyes. She was dipping a cloth into a porcelain bowl that curled in steam. When she turned she drew back with a start.

“Lamech—he wakes!” she exclaimed.

The plodder, minus his hounds, appeared beside her. He didn't go well with the girl—a plodder with dull eyes and calloused hands. This girl did not look anything like that should have belonged to Lamech, but then, here in these villages beyond the gate, some wives were bought from Galaglea without ever knowing their destination—if so, Lamech was lucky, she was not hard at all to look upon.

“Can you hear me?” Lamech asked.

“Yes,” Rhywder answered.

“We believe you are a madman. Are you mad? Is this the lunar effect working upon you, making you mutter words of wolves and howlers and cats?” “Moon does get to me at times.”

“So I surmised when I saw you come from the wood! One like you came once before from that wood—walked upon four feet like a dog and died of a fever two days later.”

“You are saying I was walking on four feet?”

“No, but look at you, you have lost blood to hundreds of savage bites. They are all over you, all of them from small teeth. Weasels perhaps?” Rhywder paused, staring at the girl. She offered a simple smile. “Where am I?” he asked. “Euphoria,” the man answered. “What did you say?” “Euphoria.”

“You have named a stinking hole in the jungle Euphoria?” “This is not jungle.”

“We are near the mountains,” explained the girl. “It is fair pasture land.”

“Exactly,” confirmed the plodder. “In fact, it was a vast meadow when we happened upon it. Lots of trees for building; it was almost perfect, a joy to behold, hence we named it Euphoria.”

Rhywder dropped off the table. “You say I am near Hericlon?”

The girl offered a wineskin. “Drink,” she urged. “It is fresh spring water. You need liquids.”

“Thank you, but tell me first—how close to Hericlon?”

“Less than a day's ride,” the girl said. She held the wineskin, insistent. He thought again it was damned odd a girl this remarkable would be housed with a fool plodder.

“Thanks,” Rhywder said, drinking long and hard, then handing her back the skin. “I will need a horse. You have a horse?” She shook her head. “I do,” answered Lamech.

“Bring it, plodder. And get your people together—leave now for Hericlon. If you are lucky you can reach the gate before the armies reach you. I will have them raise the gate to get your people through, but there is very little time, so you must all move quickly. I will ride ahead; I have a warning to deliver to the homeland.”

“Armies?” Lamech asked, arching a brow. “What armies?”

“Unchurian armies, about ten hundred, hundred thousand Unchurian armies—and that might even be a shy estimate.”

“Impossible. Unchurians live in the trees. We have scared most of them off long ago.”

“Bushmen are not Unchurian. You have never met an Unchurian, old man, and let us pray we can keep it that way because if you do not get your people out of here, you are going to be their sustenance. They crave both human blood and flesh.” Rhywder glanced down. “I am naked—”

“I have been cleansing your wounds,” the girl said calmly. “Every day, in fact. I have them under control, but many of them continue to fester.”

“Satrina is trained in herbs and cures,” the man added. “You are lucky. You would surely have died.”

“Satrina,” Rhywder said, “that is your name?”

She nodded.

“Pretty name.”

“Thank you. I have drawn much pus, but it is laudable pus, a sign that your body is fighting back. You were strong; others might have died. The worst of your wounds I seared with hot oil. It will leave scars, but the wounds are cleaned. You did not feel the pain since you were unconscious.”

Rhywder nodded. “I am grateful. Excuse me a moment …”

He took the horsehair blanket off the table he had been lying on, grabbed his short sword, which was nearby, and cut a hole through the center.

“You have anything like a belt?” he asked, pulling the blanket over his head.

She handed him a long, purple scarf. He tied it around his waist, cinched it tight, and shoved his sword through it. “I want the best horse you can find, light, fast,” he told the plodder. “And throw in a breechcloth, if you would not mind. I have never fancied riding with naked thigh.”

“Neither have I,” the girl said. “The burns …”

Rhywder glanced at her. She smiled back. “Ignore him, Satrina, he is mad.”

“What if he is telling the truth, Lamech?” she asked, keeping her eyes on Rhywder. A little flirtatious, he thought, considering her husband was but feet away.

“I know a madman when I see one.”

“So do I, but I believe you are wrong. In fact, we should listen to every word he speaks because this one bears the mark of a Shadow Walker—he wears the silver armband.”

“It can easily be faked. What would an elite warrior be doing fleeing naked through the jungle?”

“But what if it is not faked? He speaks of armies, moving for Hericlon, a lot of armies.”

“That is impossible. There are not even cities within thousands of leagues. Only jungle. He is mad, Satrina, he—”

Rhywder grabbed Lamech by the front of his tunic, then slammed him against the wall. “If I hear anymore, I am going to lose my temper, plodder. Now, you listen to me, you simple bastard. There were enough Unchurians on my trail to leave this village ash and fodder in a heartbeat! I am trying to save your pitiful life! Now get me a horse. After I ride, you and your woman gather weapons and prepare your people to ride for Hericlon or you will be feeding worms before sundown.”

“It is already sundown,” Lamech said.

“Already sundown …”

“Yes.”

“How long have I been unconscious?”

“One day before this,” the girl answered, “and now till dusk of the next.”

Rhywder felt a stab of panic. “Elyon's grace,” he whispered as he stepped past them. He walked over and kicked open the door so hard it snapped the leather hinges. Rhywder stepped out of the cabin. The sun was low, and the shadows were long.

“Have there been riders?”

He glanced back into the cabin. “Satrina, have there been riders?”

She shook her head, looking a bit alarmed. “You broke my door,” Lamech moaned. “You, Satrina! Come!” Rhywder said.

The girl started forward, but Lamech laid a hand on her shoulder. Satrina pulled away sharply and walked to stand beside Rhywder.

“What do you need, Shadow Walker?” she said.

“How many people are in this village?”

“There are fifty men. Many women and children.”

“There are more to come next season,” Lamech said from inside.

Rhywder turned an angry eye on him. “One more word from you, plodder, and I will shove your tongue down your throat. Understood?”

The man backed farther into the shadows.

Rhywder turned to the girl. “Get us both horses. We will try to gather in as many of these villagers as we can and find someone capable of leading you.”

“That would be Urich, he is the leader of this village.”

“He will do. If your people can reach Hericlon before the Unchurians overtake you, it is possible you might be safe, at least for the winter—provided Hericlon still stands.”

“Why do you not lead us? You are a Shadow Walker.”

“I have to ride ahead—there is little time, I must move with all speed.”

Rhywder watched children chase a wobbly wooden wheel down a wagon-scarred road. Chickens were all over. Gardens.

The girl suddenly grabbed Rhywder's arm, pointing. “Look!”

From the line of trees above Lamech's cabin burst a host of riders. They came with thunder and heavy horses, cloaks flared, a hundred and more. Rhywder recognized them immediately; they were high-blood Unchurians, a raiding party. They would not be interested in blood; they came to spread terror. They fanned out, trampling the gathered stalks of harvest wheat.

Rhywder grabbed the girl, pulling her into the cabin. All that was left of Lamech was his ass as he crawled through the back window.

“What are you doing with a frog like that?” he asked.

“Cooking for him.”

“Then you would know if there is a cellar.”

She nodded, but her attention was focused past him, through the doorway where an arrow looked as if it had been sucked into a villager, throwing him into rows of dry, brittle cornstalks. Arrows now whistled everywhere. A woman screamed, twisting to clutch at a feather shaft imbedded in her back as if it were a bug biting.

Rhywder grabbed Satrina by the shoulders. “A cellar! A fruit bin! Anything!”

She nodded, though still staring through the doorway. A woman was beheaded by an axe as the rider swiftly passed by. Headless, her body, for a moment, continued running on its own.

Rhywder noticed something in the floor. He kicked away a footstool, threw the table aside, and threw open the floor planking by its ringed latch. All he could see was darkness below, but he threw her in. She vanished with a shriek.

“Stay in there!”

He turned, ripping a bow and quiver of darts from where they were mounted over the hearth, ran through the doorway, and dropped to a crouch in the shadows of the porch.

“Elyon, I deliver you these souls,” he whispered, his arrow taking quick marks. He was not killing Unchurians; he was killing the villagers. He was first searching out the children. If there was time, he would take women, as well. He dropped children one after the other.

He put a bolt through a little girl, through her back, and it tore at his heart to see her blond hair fly as she fell. His next arrow passed through the neck of a young boy who had been staring at the riders, curious. They spotted him now. Unchurians broke off toward Rhywder; the rest were, as Rhywder feared, keeping the villagers alive for torture.

Suddenly a warrior dropped off of the roof timbers, onto the porch, directly in front of him with a scream. Rhywder sunk his arrow through the Unchurian's sternum and he dropped to the ground with a puff of dust.

“Damn idiot,” Rhywder muttered.

Another came from the side. He was mounted, cloak flaring as he vaulted his horse onto the porch. Rhywder rolled back into the cabin. He brought an arrow to the string, but the horseman reached the doorway quickly. He rode in, ducking beneath the lintel. Rhywder fired the bolt into the Unchurian's cheek at an angle that went through the left eye.

Now the horse came at him, hooves flailing. Rhywder rolled to the side, then crouched and quickly jabbed in and out of the heart with his short sword. A wooden chair exploded beneath the horse's weight as it fell to the side, but the animal also collided against several supporting beams. They cracked. The roof moaned. Rhywder looked up with a gasp. Just as it caved in, Rhywder was barely able to dive in the cellar.

It was an alarmingly long drop. Surprised, he struck water with a splash. It was wide, a stream, with considerable current. Rhywder would have been swept under by its force had not the girl grabbed his horsehair tunic and pulled him back up. He came out of the water breathless, drenched, and blinked at her, stunned.

“A well?” he asked. “I threw you into a well?”

“It is better than burning.”

“Burning?”

She pointed and he glanced up. He was surprised to see flames had quickly taken hold; they were roiling over the wood above the well's opening. “The casks of naphtha must have spilled and sparked a fire.” “Why would you have naphtha?”

“Lamech used it to burn trees in the early spring to clear more fields for planting.”

“And the fool kept it in your cabin?”

“He did.”

There was a heavy moan and Rhywder pulled her back against the muddy wall as debris crashed downward. Mostly it was broken chunks of flaming wood. Rhywder was able to shove them under and let the current take them.

He leaned back against the cut rock, letting the cold water numb out some of the stinging pain left from bites.

“Might be best you just stay here with me,” she said.

“By rights I should climb back up, see if I can help anyone.”

“With a fire above us? Please stay. They are killing everyone. You will but die up there unless you wait for them to move on. You are brave, but you are only one. They are many.”

He paused. She had a point. “Sorry about your man.”

“Why would these Unchurians do this? What have we done to them? I did not even know they existed. Why kill all our people?”

“It is not your fight; it is ours, the Daath. They are here to spread terror, let the word reach the homeland and the gate of what is coming for them.”

There was a scream from above and she clenched her eyes against the sounds. Rhywder stared at her a moment. She was pressed against the rock, soaked. He knew that wasn't the place or time to notice, but she had fine tits.

“What do we do now?” she asked, opening her eyes. They were near tears, though for a girl she was holding up well, better than most women he had known.

“Nothing for a time. I suppose we have no choice but to wait. Know any good stories?”

She shook her head.

“No problem. I have a few.”