Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (91 page)

Something attacked. Rhywder spun about, his sword drawn, only to find a dog. It was a yapping, insane dog, and it seemed to unnerve him even more than a minion might have. The small, mange-furred animal shot under his blade, and before Rhywder could flinch, it sunk its jaws into his ankle.

“Ahhh! You little bastard!” Rhywder kicked the animal airborne. It slammed into the wooden side of a candle shop, then scrambled onto spindly legs, barking with obsession, a small, rattish creature so furious and active it seemed mounted on springs.

Rhywder sheathed the sword and continued on, but the animal dogged him with incessant, manic yelping, at times bravely shooting forward to nip at Rhywder's heels.

“This has become ludicrous!” Rhywder screamed at one point, spinning around and again kicking the creature into the air. It somersaulted and rolled—a ball of dirty fir. It went down behind a stone fence and for a moment Rhywder thought that was the end of it, when suddenly, it sprang back up, yelping with renewed vigor. At least it had guts.

Rhywder tried to ignore it. He turned, weary, feeling sick. His stomach was coiling in knots. He paused—this was it. This was the villa he had chosen for Satrina. In the street outside of the villa lay a slain guard. His bowels were spread along the wood porch.

“Ah, love of God,” Rhywder moaned. If something had happened to her, he could not bear it.

The Little Fox leapt the stone hedge, then sprinted, ripping open the door, stepping inside. He stood, out of breath, panic gripping him as he searched. A table was overturned; a body was hunched over in the corner. Rhywder half-moaned as he continued to search.

“Satrina,” he whispered, not yet daring to speak.

Panic was hot and quick, and then melted to a sinking feeling, a hopeless dread.

Slowly he sank to his knees, unable to search for her body, his nerve for once, failing. Tears came, spilling from his eyes uncontrollably.

“Rhywder,” she whispered softly from the shadows.

He looked up. Satrina stood in a doorway, watching him, holding the child, still wrapped in its blue cloak.

“Satrina!”

She laid the child in a wicker basket, and Rhywder was on his feet. He stepped forward and pulled her close, burying his face in her tangled hair. For a time he but held her, let the warmth of her soothe him.

“There was fighting here, but we survived, me and the little one.”

He stepped back, traced her cheek, then dropped against the wall and slid to sit with his head propped back, weary. She sat down beside him in the shadows and held his hand.

Rhywder's hand was calloused and hard and blunt, but the smell of him beside her was something she wouldn't have traded for anything in the world.

They both ended up staring at the creature in the doorway, bristled on skinny haunches, its dark eyes blinking through tangles of hair. “A friend of yours, Rhywder?”

Rhywder drew back his lip in a snarl, and the creature was tripped into insane, manic yelping, bouncing on its paws. Satrina chuckled.

W
hen Loch opened his eyes, he had to search his memory to recall where he was. Ishmia. When he focused, the three captains within the room knelt, bringing their fists to their chest. A fourth quickly left, possibly to summon Eryian. Loch found himself in a great, oaken bed, a palace room thick in gray stone and warm from a full fire in the hearth. Beside the bed, Hyacinth stood, hands folded in front of her. She looked very relieved that he was awake. She sighed.

“We have assumed she is with you, my lord,” said Mammanon from the doorway. Loch recognized him as one of the captains of his father's personal guard. A Shadow Walker lord. “She is,” Loch answered.

The big axeman nodded. He slowly brought his fist to his shoulder, bowing his head to Hyacinth. He then turned to Loch. “Eryian sends Elyon's grace, my lord.”

“Have we turned them?”

“Thinned them out a bit, but if I were to trust my own fears, they would be spawning new numbers in the hills beyond the isthmus right now. There seems no end to them.”

Loch eased back against the headboards.

“Anything I can do for you, my lord?”

Loch stared at him a moment. The axeman was weary, bloodstained from battle.

Endgame was like a smell here. “Any bloodroot about?” Loch asked.

“This is Ishmia; there is no shortage of bloodroot wine here. I will have a cask brought up.” He gestured to a guard who turned with a flair of his shadow cloak.

“Galaglea?” Loch asked.

“Burned. We could not have reached them in time, not with the fall of Hericlon.”

“Were there survivors?”

“Some, though they are few. There is a small camp east, near the sea.” Loch pulled himself forward and allowed Hyacinth to help him to his feet. “I'll need a horse, Mammanon.” “I will see to it, my lord.”

Mammanon turned and lowered his head to Hyacinth, then strode from the room. His guards followed, and the door was closed.

Hyacinth turned to watch Loch carefully. “You are going to search for the red hair?”

“I must.” He lifted the belt and sheath of the Angelslayer from the bedpost. “I will wish, for you—that she still lives.”

He buckled the clasp, then paused to study her a moment. “I have always felt her, but I feel nothing now. It is doubtful, but thank you for such words, Hyacinth. You have changed a great deal, do you know that?”

She nodded. “Death will do that to a person, I suppose. Still, I have not changed as much as you.” She reached to touch a strand of silvery hair that curled past his temple. The night-black hair had begun to turn, as some of the elder Daath, into a silvery sheen. “It is aging you quickly now. I would think you could fire only once or twice more and you would reach your end. Please be careful, my love. Keep your palm from its hilt. It is like a beast to me, a beast hungering for you. It seeks more than your blood; it seeks now your soul.”

“This palace is surely well guarded. You will be safe until I return.”

“I can attest to that, Daath are everywhere, all around every corner. They make me terribly nervous, Lochlain. Are you sure I cannot come with you? You might need me—assassins, I can smell them.”

He shook his head.

“I say again you might need me, my king.”

“Not for this.”

She nodded. “Just … do not leave me here long. Alone—with them. Promise.”

“My word. But you need not fear them. You are their queen.”

“The red-hair was their queen—I will not even be remembered, but I am your queen, Loch. I am yours until the end.”

“Your Book of Angels speaks of the Water Bearer's son, but when I feel the futures, I feel two of them. Two that shall lead—one born of fury; one born of strength. I believe the Angelslayer shall bring the storm, but it is the other, the second, who will ride it. It is a future marked of two queens.” He softly touched her cheek, then turned.

“Loch …” She started for him, but he was already gone. When the door closed behind him, she slowly slid down the stone to sit against it, curling her toes into the thick rug. She laid her head back and closed her eyes. What he had said terrified her. Partly because she felt it in her, and partly because she felt she could never bear a son like that, a son that could ride Aeon's Storm.

Loch rode slowly among the refugees. There were no more than forty or fifty—tired faces, sleeping children. Loch could feel their sadness. He had paused, tingling, seeing a girl whose back was to him. Long red hair spilled over white shoulders, but when she turned, she was far too young. She had stared at Loch openly, frightened. Loch stepped from the saddle, then came to one knee and offered his hand. She hesitated, her mother moving closer, and when her hand touched his fingers, he gently kissed it.

“Elyon's grace take your sorrow,” he said.

He mounted and rode through the rest of the camp at a trot. She was not going to be here, in this scattering of broken Galagleans. Adrea was not among them.

Alone, Loch rode along the shore, watching the twilight bleed stars. Sensing he was being followed, he drew up the reins and turned the horse. It looked like a scout approaching, no silver armor, just dusted, stained leather and wild red hair. He recognized the figure instantly. He was only mildly surprised to find his uncle still alive. The Little Fox of Lochlain had always been hard to kill.

Rhywder drew up before his nephew and stared at him a moment, taken by the change in his face, his eyes. No longer a boy, no longer common at all. The Daath had a king, an able king, far more powerful than Argolis had been. “You have changed, boy,” Rhywder said.

“Time has gotten thin—have we not all changed a bit?”

Rhywder paused. Even the boy's voice was different—edged and certain. “Aye,” answered Rhywder, “that is has.”

“How did you find me?”

“When I heard you were in the city, I guessed you would come here.” Loch studied Rhywder carefully, sensing what he was about to say. “I know about the Water Bearer,” Rhywder told him. “I know where she is.” “Alive?”

“In a way.”

“How do you mean that?”

“Spellbound—one of the magicks I happen to know of.” He handed Loch a small, leaden box. “The ring,” he said. “Why is it not on her finger?”

“To keep her hidden it lies in that box. It is lined in golden, spellbound foil—not mine, but gold of the Watcher, Sandalaphon. The ring cannot be seen even by those with shadow sight. I suppose it should be with the child, as it was with you after Asteria died.”

“You speak as if already she is dead.”

Rhywder did not answer. “Come, I will take you to her.”

The horses danced outside of a simple, wooden cottage—ordinary, even poorly kept. A good choice for hiding—set in the center of a forest clearing, well back from the city. It was bared and bolted. Loch stared at it, though Rhywder could detect no emotion on his face.

“How bad?” Loch asked. “Does she suffer?”

Rhywder tightened his jaw. “She sleeps. It was a minion got to her. We killed it, but there was a lot of her blood when I lifted her.” “How does she survive?”

“I used a particular magick on her. Rare, few even know of it. It is Unchurian; I learned it of a witch. They know death, the witches of Unchuria, they learn all its secrets of their lord. This one gave this secret for her life.”

“Explain this magick.”

“There is a potion used by the Unchurian priests—usually for torture. They can cut you, peel the skin off slowly, for days letting the tissue beneath dry in burning pain. There is no finer torture because you do not die. I killed a priest back there in Hericlon, inherited his potions, and the powders needed were among them. It is meant for torture, but I have used it to keep her alive, adding a second spellbound herb that would leave her sleeping.”

“Why go to such trouble if she lies so near death?”

“Let us say I guessed I might see you again and further guessed you would wish to bid her farewell.” Rhywder reached in his belt pocket and pulled out a small crystal the color of dried blood. “When you break this crystal over her, the spell-binding potion will be neutralized. That should wake her—but when she wakes,” Rhywder paused, “when she wakes, it is short time before she dies. Moments only. I am sorry, Loch, I could do no more.”

Loch moved his horse closer and took the crystal from Rhywder's fingers. He curled it into his fist. “My thanks, uncle. You can leave me now.”

“It is not safe, even here. We have held back the Unchurians for now, but not their assassins. They make their way through; they kill at random. We have lost many able Walkers. I should wait, watch over you.”

“They find me—they welcome death.”

Rhywder paused. “I suppose you have a point.” Rhywder lifted the reins and backed the horse away. “Faith's Light, my king,” Rhywder said as he turned the reins and rode away at a lope.