Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (60 page)

R
hywder stood alongside Marcian on the causeway. They had patrolled the gate of Hericlon for two days now and in all that time Marcian ached to tell him. After all, one should not keep secrets from a king, and this one—the Walker of the Lake, as some called him—he was not ordinary among men. Marcian finally decided to trust the Lochlain. If anyone on this Earth could be trusted with what he knew, this was the man. Marcian even thought for a moment it was the only purpose they had reached the causeway; to save the one they called the Little Fox, to give them this small time on the causeway. His secret had been a burden like a sin, but it was sadness he could no longer bear. Finally, he walked up to the stone causeway wall next to Rhywder and paused there a moment looking over the deep canyon beyond them. It seemed odd the man who by all word and purpose was king of the Daath was not one himself.

Rhywder now wore Daathan armor, which he seemed used to, the mantle, the ash-gray cloak that made his movements indistinct sometimes as he paced. Some called them shadow cloaks. He noticed the insignia on Rhywder's bared arm, the plain silver band of Argolis's Shadow Walkers.

“My lord,” Marcian said quietly, perhaps too quietly, for Rhywder did not even seem to hear him.

“Two days!” shouted the Little Fox. “Two days and nothing! What does he wait for, by the sacrosanct name of the Goddess, why does he wait?”

“I do not understand your anxiety,” Marcian said, putting aside his message for the moment. “They are all very dead down there.”

“Other than those that died beyond the gate by your archers, hardly a single firstborn is among them, anyone notice?” “I suppose you are correct.”

“Like dumping mud on us before pouring out the hot oil. Fodder used up, now the armies of the Unchurian are all waiting, the most powerful warriors we have ever faced, waiting just beyond that bend! But why does he not come!”

“The gate is lowered. How could they pass through?”

“He could fold this gate like you fold a parchment.”

“We do not speak
his
name?”

“You speak his name, you give him power; you speak his name, and he can look into your mind like a hawk can spot a mouse. Never say his name, remember that.”

“I will.”

“Your men, as well. If fools among us whisper of named Watchers, tell them to keep their thoughts to themselves.” “Certainly, my lord.”

“At least the gate is destroyed. Still—makes no sense he has not moved on us.”

“You have not heard of Quietus's plans?” “What plans?”

“Even now he rebuilds the cogs and machinery. He plans to open the gate.”

“What?”

“He wants to lead the Champions through. He speaks of vengeance.” Rhywder quickly crossed to the Galaglean side of the causeway and looked down. It did not take him long to discover the workers. “That is madness.”

“It will be difficult dissuading him, my lord.” “Then kill him.”

“What?”

“You or I—before he sets that machinery into place.” “But, my lord …”

“Choose now, Antiope. You or me?” “My lord, he is my king.”

“Then I will kill him, but this gate never rises from the Earth again.”

“It is for vengeance. The Champions, all they want is another war. In a way, Quietus has outlived his time—as have I, for that matter. The blood of Tarchon Pass never really washes, does it?”

“It is blood on all our souls.”

“My lord, there is something I must tell you.”

Rhywder turned, waited.

“We cannot be overheard.”

“Your message is for me?”

“It concerns the Daath. You are quite possibly their king. It is something I have kept hidden deep, even from my own thoughts, my own imagination.”

“Yes?”

Marcian suddenly paused as if stricken. It was Satrina, walking toward them, wearing skirts and purple veils, all of them accenting her eyes. She carried no weapons. She had long ago given Rhywder back his short sword. Odd, Rhywder thought, that the sight of Satrina and her veils would leave this fearless Galaglean commander looking as if he had lost his train of thought in the middle of the battle.

“What is this, Satrina?” Rhywder asked.

“Breakfast, the best I can find—on its way up.”

“I do not even in dreams recall asking you to bring up breakfast.”

She looked also to Marcian. “Marcian.”

“Good … mor-morning,” Marcian said.

Rhywder glanced at him. It had sounded like he stuttered. He turned back to Satrina. “I am on watch, Satrina.”

“Yes, I know that. I know all about how women are not supposed to be on the battlements; we went over that before.”

“To no avail, apparently.”

“You have not been down from here in two days, Rhywder. You have to eat sometime. Marcian, do you not agree? He should have some breakfast, should he not?”

“It co-could not hurt … Rhy-Rhywder.”

Rhywder stared at him a moment, narrowed a brow. That was a stutter. He was an awesome warrior, but women left him weak. It was typical. It was the problem with women in the first place.

Rhywder turned and attempted to be firm. “I cannot eat here, Satrina.”

“This is just corn mush; it is all these Galagleans have. Before all they had was sour mead and they brought kegs and kegs more, but of food, this is it. Corn mush. I tried to make it edible with spices.”

Her servant girls were setting up a table. Rhywder could hardly believe his eyes. He noticed looks from the Galagleans, this time living Galagleans. He prayed to Elyon she would not attempt to demonstrate how they would enjoy some dancing.

“In order for me to eat that,” Rhywder said calmly, remembering now why it was that a proper warrior should not let women get attachments to them, “then there would have to be enough corn mush for every man on this bridge.”

“But they come down off the causeway. They get their own—I see them, they come down from watch and boys carrying mush about in wooden pots are always there to serve them. You are special in that you have not left this causeway since it has been retaken. You did not even come down to sleep, I noticed.”

“There are more Unchurians out that than I have numbers to count, Satrina, and sooner or later—”

“Which is why I slept alone. Still, you have to eat, and look here, I did find an apple. Actually, Marcian, since I knew you were the high captain on the causeway, I brought enough for you, as well, though I could only find one apple.”

“That … I … It was not necessary.”

The man had somewhere, sometime in his life been traumatized by women, for he was nervous as a cat in a canoe headed for the falls.

The two girls finished their setup: a small table, two stools, fairly nice, all told. Satrina sprinkled herbs over the top of the goat's milk and mush. Goblets filled with Galaglean mead were set out, as well.

Satrina smiled. “Very good girls, we can leave now.”

They begin to walk across the causeway toward the stairs.

“Satrina, come back and take your mush with you!”

Satrina kept walking. She turned the causeway and descended without looking back. Rhywder stared after her a moment, then glanced at Marcian.

“She does have one point,” said Marcian. “I have been worried myself. You have not left the battlements and not only should you eat her mush and her rare apple, but you should get some sleep, as well, my lord. We are guarding against a formidable evil. If you weaken yourself without sleep or food, what good does that accomplish?”

No stutter now, Rhywder noted. He deeply wanted to ask what these women had done to the poor man, but refrained.

“Now that you mention it, Antiope, those fellows down there, below the gate, the ones with all the arrows in them, they haven't had breakfast, either, so …” Rhywder stepped forward and heaved the table over the battlements. “Let them have some mush.” The stools followed. “In case they want to sit as they have their mush.”

Rhywder noticed, though he said nothing, that Marcian's expression bore the slightest hint of disapproval.

“Tell you something, Antiope; it has to do with principle, all this mush business. These women, as I am sure I need not explain to you, guessing your past, need to understand their place. Am I right or not?”

Marcian hesitated. “I suppose …”

“I have been without a woman for thirty-eight years, and now, for the love of frogs, is the wrong time to begin getting soft. The nations of the Unchurians waiting to hang us from posts and drain our blood for wine, and she comes up with breakfast! Women! I tell you, give them the slightest notion you care for them and they take over your life. Bloody start feeding you mush on the battlements! Well, not me. By God and whore's blood! No woman—
no serving wench woman
—is going to put a tail on my ass.”

Rhywder stared over the southern pass, breathing heavily, having made his point. No one met his eye. All remained sober. But inside, though he tried his best, he had not convinced himself, and he wished secretly he could have the table and mush and apple back.

“Now,” Rhywder said quietly, collecting himself, “this thing on your mind that concerns the Daath—though let me make it clear I am not their king, and as soon as there is opportunity I will make it known to them—now is as good a time as any to speak of it.”

Marcian looked to either side. “Perhaps over against the side, my lord.” “My ear alone, you mean?”

“Aye.”

“Good enough.”

Rhywder walked to the other side of the causeway, put his hands behind his back, and stared down at the garrison. He tried to spot Satrina, looking for the blue veils, but did not find her.

“So, what would you have to tell me about the Daath? Understand you supply them with the finest of horseflesh.”

“I sell them horses, yes, but this is about a woman.”

“Ah.”

“I some months ago was in a village near the Daathan village of Lucania. Are you aware of it?”

“They settled it with captives after the gathering wars. I understand mostly Galaglean, but the few remaining people of my tribe, as well, the Lake People, Lochlains. Quaint village as I recall. Rumors that the Daath occasionally steal their women from that village. Must have their women well trained there, you think?”

“I am no Daath, but I can attest they do have exceptionally beautiful woman in that village, but it was not just her beauty, something else, something of the heart in her.”

Rhywder glanced at him, growing curious now.

“I cannot explain. No one believed, I am sure, but it was nothing to do with lust. I am not that kind of man, and age has left me even more so. The thing of it is, I lost a child in the wars, during the siege of Galaglea, when they hurled the diseased corpses over the walls and the fevers took. I lost my wife and a wee boy with white hair. His name was August because he seemed so wise with his white hair.”

“Just to mention, that siege was never my idea, Antiope. I stood opposed, but by then Argolis had changed; he had become a hard man.”

“No need to explain, I only brought it up to mention my boy. I watched him crawl, even saw him began to talk, then I buried him. But I wander—my point is that I saw this girl one day in the village of Lucania and suddenly this idea springs up in me: one more child, one more. I am forty and two, not young. Perhaps it was wrong, my thinking, but as if some madness had struck me, I approached her father, made an offer, a very generous one. It was set to happen, the wedding, but something went wrong the day she was to arrive. They only came to tell me the father was dead and the girl missing. I was ashamed of ever entering into it all, somehow as if it were my fault.”

“Nothing in your story as yet inspires shame, Antiope. So how does this involve the Daath?”

“It was only weeks before we were called here. I was in the upper field, feeding the herd. I am afraid I name them. Anyway, I was there calling out their names when … when all I can say is, it was as if the air and the earth and time itself split open, like a knife cutting open skin. I have never seen anything like it, and doubt I ever will again. And from this opening there came a horseman. He was Etlantian. I believe him to have been a Nephilim but, unlike most, he was true of heart. There was a glow to his eyes that left me certain of that. Whoever he was, I sensed he was still connected to the heavens and the Blue Stars we call home. Without speaking, before I could even react, he turned the glow of his eyes upon me and set my mind at rest. I felt—it was like standing before a being of heaven's grace.”

Marcian paused and glanced to Rhywder.

“Keep talking, Marcian, I have seen such beings. I have traveled far in my day.”

“Yes, you seem to understand things. In the saddle with him was the girl, the one I told you of, from the village. Her name is Adrea, and she truly is a beautiful girl, long fire-red hair, though it is her heart that leaves her so exceptional. I was nearly overcome, I had no words, all I could do was stare, utterly amazed. I had seen her only days before, to give her a present before the wedding. What stunned me was that this girl, Adrea, she was pregnant. She was full term, about to have a child. I know that is impossible. She was a vir-vir—”

“Virgin.”

“Yes, but days before, and now—near birthing.” He paused, staring down at the garrison. “If you find my story too much to believe, I can understand, but I swear of its truth.”

“I believe you, Marcian. You witnessed a time jump. It can be done only by those beings who understand the star knowledge, and this rider you speak of, his name is Sandalaphon.”

“Yes! How did you know?”

“I know things, Marcian. Go on, I am listening.”

“He told me, as you just stated, that his name was Sandalaphon, a protector of the Daath, and that was all I needed to understand of him. He explained many things to me, and it seemed, oddly, he did so without words, as if his knowledge, the things he knew, passed from him to my mind. He told me that he was giving me the power to hide all that he had said, that no normal being would ever discern I knew these things, these secrets he revealed, but that a time would come when I would find the man to tell these things to. I believe you are that man.”