Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (38 page)

Deep into the night, when the girl had fallen asleep against his shoulder, Rhywder finally looked up. It was almost dawn. The fires of the village that had raged all night were out now; there was only lingering black smoke. Earlier there had been figures moving, still more screams, but now everything had died down to moans. The Unchurians had left, and they had not eaten the flesh; they had reaped terror and moved on. It was a cruel way of waging war, but one that Argolis himself had used on occasion to force surrender of a village. He noticed her bright eyes blink open. “Is it over?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you all right, Shadow Walker?” “I am fine.”

“But you do not look well.”

“I feel like my skin is blistering—as you said—something to do with letting out pus.”

“More than pus. There was poison in you. That or the bites were from very foul teeth.”

“Foul they were.”

“I wanted you to know that I do not mind that you threw me in here. You did not realize it was deep.” “No. I did not.”

“At least the cool waters have eased your fever. That is very helpful. I hope you live. You are brave and good.” “Fairly brave yourself,” he said. “No, not me, I was terrified. Am terrified.” “Terrified has nothing to do with being brave.”

A dim shaft of light highlighted her face; it almost left her looking in her teens, though he knew she was older. It was the button nose and the leftover light spray of freckles.

“Are we going to die?” she asked.

“We are not dead yet, which is good enough. Death—dying, it's not that important.”

“How do you mean?”

“It is a passage. Dying young, like you, would almost be a blessing.” “I am thirty and two, Shadow Warrior.” Rhywder was surprised. Shocked. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Thirty and two? Almost as old as me. How is it you look so young?”

“Only the shadows down here, I am sure. They must be playing tricks.”

She glanced up and shivered slightly, not from cold, but from fear. Above, floating black smoke was lit in a dim, red hue by the first light of dawn. He carefully put his arm around her.

“Whenever I am afraid, very afraid, I often think of what my grandmother once told me. She said one night, showing me the stars, the moon, the clouds—she told me that all of it, everything we saw—was not real. The world, she said, the Earth, it is all an illusion.”

“And
that
comforts you?”

“It is more the thought that this is what Elyon has created, this is how He meant it to be, a winnowing. Within the world, terror is very real. These are the killing fields—the places of harvest. They send us here from the Blue Stars—leaving no memories of home, drawing a veil over our eyes, but the purpose is the harvest, the reaping.”

“And what is it you believe Elyon is harvesting?”

“The valiant. I believe that is His harvest. The good, the valiant. But my point is that death is leaving the illusion for the real, for home. Never fear death. Think of it as going home, Satrina.”

She nodded. “I suppose that could be comfort.”

Rhywder stepped into the center, the shaft of dusk's light falling over him. He took hold of the rope that held the well bucket, testing its strength. It had been anchored to a rock just below the lip of the well, which was their luck. It had not burned.

“I will go up first. With this rope, it should not be hard. Understand, though, things above are not likely to be pretty.”

“But the terror is all an illusion, correct?” she reminded him.

“Yes. All an illusion.” He took a tight grip of the rope. “When I reach the top, wrap the rope about your waist, take hold, and then I will pull you up. When you get to the top, I want you to do something.”

“What is that?”

“Keep your eyes on me. Do not look around. I have had the pleasure of terror such as this—we are old acquaintances—but there is no good in you looking around. Agreed?”

She nodded.

Rhywder began to climb. When he reached the top, he knelt for a moment, head spinning. He was impossibly weak. If they were found, he knew he would not last long in a fight. Finally, he surveyed what was left of Euphoria. Fires still burned. Smoke drifted like fog. Living villagers were impaled and set in various positions, hundreds of them—even infants. It meant the firstborn Unchurians were of such pure blood that the curse of Enoch had not taken them. They were going to be deadly opponents, centuries old.

He turned. “Ready?” he whispered.

“Ready,” came an answer from below.

He hauled her up quickly, hand over hand until he could grip her wrist. He helped her over the edge, and immediately put both hands on her shoulders, turning her so that her eyes met only his. She was a bit older than he thought, but her face was so fresh and pretty, she could easily have been twenty. It was a face he could get used to looking at, and such thoughts puzzled him, considering their circumstances. “Satrina.”

“Yes?”

“This is what we are going to do—we are going to walk through the embers to the end of the village. Do not look around. Just keep your eyes on me, understand?”

Satrina nodded, frightened.

Rhywder stood, took her hand, and started over the embers carefully. Some of them were still hot. He pushed aside fatigue and began walking fast, long-striding, and she was running to keep up when suddenly she let loose of his hand. He turned. She was staring at an impaled body. The legs had no feet; they had been severed. The man was gagging as the spike kept pushing against the roof of his mouth. Impalement, if performed with skill, could take as much as two days to kill a man. This one was still alive.

“Tenron!” she gasped, recognizing him.

“Ah, Elyon's blessed name,” Rhywder said, drawing his short sword. He slammed it up through the heart of Tenron, then out. He wiped the blood on the man's tunic.

“Eyes on me, Satrina. Only me.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her away, walking quickly.

“Should we not try to help any of the others? There could be others like Tenron—still not dead.”

“That would be a kindness, but we have no time. Those riders were spreading terror. Behind them will be the main armies of the Unchurians. The armies move much slower, but should they reach us, there will be nowhere to hide.”

“But wait!”

He wrenched her arm, pulling her along. “We have no time, Satrina. We cannot stop for anything!”

“Not even a horse?”

He stopped. He looked past her, catching movement—a horse wandering idly up the hill.

“Damn, a horse. Yes, we could use that horse. Just shut your eyes. Do not move, wait right here.”

“All right.”

Rhywder crouched and carefully ran for the horse, his feet soundless. When he was close, it reared its head, shook out the mane—the night had left it clearly terrified. Spooked, it was about to bolt, but Rhywder held up his hands, fingers spread, palms outward. “Wait,” he urged with practiced tone. The horse paused. “Careful, boy, easy on … we need each other, my friend.” Rhywder leaned forward slowly and carefully managed to take the dangling reins.

He rode back for Satrina who was waiting as though it were winter, arms wrapped about her shoulders, eyes clenched tight. She opened them slowly and looked up.

“Did … did you just talk to this horse?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You can talk to horses?”

“Anyone can talk to horses. It is getting them to listen that is the trick.”

They had ridden through the day, but as the night sky began to draw down, he could see Hericlon's peak ahead of them, like a far, ice finger. Rhywder was by now having trouble staying in the saddle.

Satrina had notched her hands into his belt, laying her head against his back, and drifted in and out of half sleep.

He was finding it a struggle just to keep from losing consciousness. He kept the horse at a steady pace, but it was getting hard to stay focused. Whatever poison was in him, it played images through his mind, such as his sister when he was young. Asteria. She had been filled with such light. When she was born, he remembered that people would not look in her eyes. They were black, like night, and she was small, baldheaded. The Asteria child could turn and look right through someone's soul. He had seen adults actually back away. His mother had told Rhywder that it was because the veil was still thin with her. It was why Asteria still saw heaven and knew its secrets.

“She will not speak until she forgets them,” his mother had told him.

And indeed, Asteria had not spoken for many years. When she did speak, her sentences were fully formed, and still, despite the precaution, it seemed to Rhywder Asteria had remained filled with Elyon's secrets. Even in the end, when she struggled so against the twisted intrigues of politics that eventually got her killed, it had always seemed that Asteria could, if she wished, part the veil with her delicate, long fingers and casually speak with Elyon.

He watched the sky wash with purple into an image of the sea and upon it a pale shadow of the last ship he had sailed—the stained, weathered strakes; the oiled, darkened sail. He could hear the waters; he could see the oars dip like great wings to fling the sea in a spray. They had hunted slavers, Pelegasians who had become wanton butchers to obtain flesh for the markets of Etlantis and Weire, which were flourishing these days. Rhywder had captained the blackship, moving like a shadow of death at night, striking from nowhere to take out the slaver galleys.

Rhywder jerked up. Things had momentarily grayed out. He had nearly fallen from the horse.

There was a far rumbling of thunder. A storm front was coming in from the south. When he turned, it struck him. They were not ordinary clouds. He had never seen a storm like this. He continued to stare, wondering if this was another delusion, but it seemed he could see eyes in the dark clouds, a thousand eyes swirling.

Rhywder didn't feel himself fall from the horse until the ground struck him. He had landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him. He moaned and slowly turned onto his back, lifting himself onto his elbows.

Satrina had quickly dropped off the saddle to crouch beside him. She wiped sweat from his forehead with the hem of her skirt.

He caught a glint of her thigh and wondered of himself. The middle of nowhere, death crawling after them, but still he noticed how she had legs like a dancer. It was impossible she was thirty and two.

“Poor Shadow Walker,” she said. “This is the poison in you.” “Bitches.” “What bitches?” “The ones that bit me.”

“You mean the animals that attacked you were female?” “Aye, the kind I always knew were out there somewhere.” “You are speaking strangely.”

“No more than usual. Help me up, I have to get back in the saddle.” “You should rest, Shadow Walker.” “Name is Rhywder.”

“What?”

“My name. Rhywder. You can stop calling me Shadow Walker. I am Rhywder, the Little Fox of Lochlain.”

She nodded. “Whatever your name, you cannot keep going. You are pale. Why not sit here and take a short rest?”

He used her shoulder to pull himself up, kneeling. And then—he just stared at her, suddenly caught in her eyes. Maybe it was an effect of the poison, but her wide, quick violet eyes framed in the tangles of her red-brown hair—they just drew him in. She seemed so out of place here. Like a bright child in the darkest nightmare.

She reached forward and touched his brow. “Ah, this is good, Rhywder.”

“What is good?”

“Your forehead—your fever has broken into a cold sweat.” “You think?” She nodded.

“Then why do I feel so strange?”

“A cold sweat will do that to you. Flushes you all over, like little fingers running over your skin. Do you feel that?”

“More or less. Possibly why I keep staring at you.”

“The good thing is, the sweat means the poison has passed through your blood. You should start to get better now. And you were strong, so I believe you will recover quickly. As long as you do not drink your own urine,” she added with a smile, a bit of humor.

“I have always made that a strict rule, never to … to drink my own—” He tightened his jaw, staring. “Love of God you are …” “I am what?” “Just simply beautiful.”

She blinked, startled. “Why, thank you. And, since you mention it—so are you.”

He narrowed a brow. “So I am what?” “You are beautiful, as well.”

“No, no. You see me walk into a tavern, beautiful is not what should come to mind.”

She reached carefully to smooth back the tangles of his red hair, though he pulled away as she did. “And you have such kind eyes.”

“Pardon, but in this same tavern, kind is not what you should think in seeing my eyes.”

“I suppose I have never visited this tavern.”

He moaned and pulled himself to his feet. She stood, her hand taking his arm to steady him.