Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (44 page)

“Another happy red pavilion,” Storan mused. “Wonder if the blood has dried yet.”

Danwyar dropped into the muddied waters, and from the stern, Storan did the same, the water up to his shoulders. They shoved the keel hard into the sand. Hyacinth expected cold waters, but as she splashed into them, she found them warm and viscous.

They gathered on the black sand of the shore. Very fine, beautiful black sand. She almost wanted to gather some. Gryn drove a long, deep stake into it using the pommel of his sword and tied off the longboat. Marsyas dropped into the water and helped Darke hoist Loch over his huge shoulder.

They were within sight of the Etlantian ship. It was just off the shoreline —half in the water, half out. Darke took the time to walk along the beach, studying it.

The Etlantians built their ships double-skinned, their whaling thick strakes of purest cedar; and the ribbing, transoms, and keels were of solid oak. They were ships not easily sunk. With a ship of the line such as this, the sides, between the ribbing, and even the bottom were overlaid with plates of oraculum that could withstand the stoutest ram of a warship. All the plates of Euryathides's ship were in good condition, few of them even worn, which meant he kept his ship always in perfect repair. The four projectiles of rock that from the bay resembled fingers, pierced through the upper wales leaving cedar strakes split open to bleed a pale yellow color where it broke through the thick paint of the exterior. Darke saw the lower tier of rowers' thwarts, all of them empty, the oars ripped free of their thole-pins. There were broken oars scattered about in the sand and floating in the shallow surf. The main deck was clean. Lines hung silent in the light wind. The blood casks of naphtha for the fire throwers were full, leaking tar rivulets down their sides. The ship had been taken quickly without even the slightest warning.

“See anything, Captain?” Danwyar asked.

“One thing I do not see—survivors.”

Darke returned. He took the time to study the pavilion up the beachhead about a league's distance.

“May as well discover why we are here,” the captain said, starting toward it.

Storan fell in at the captain's left, Danwyar to the right.

The tent flaps of the pavilion were open, fluttering in the silent wind. Within was the dark image of a man. He seemed to be the only thing inside, a single figure sitting on a square black stone.

To the rear, Marsyas trudged with a silent Loch balanced over his muscled shoulder, Gryn beside him, and Taran keeping the flank covered, watching behind them as they walked.

They were halfway up the beachhead when suddenly Danwyar noticed something.

“Look about us,” he said. “Mounds, fresh-turned earth. Believe we found the crew.”

Darke paused. Both to the left and the right were orderly mounds planted in the black dirt. They had been following what was almost a path up the middle of them.

Danwyar lifted his already loaded bow, leveled it off, and buried a shaft into the center of a mound. In recoil, a human hand reared from the earth, fingers groping. It was a giant, an Etlantian of the second or third generation.

Hyacinth, near it, did a quick back step.

The hand fell limp.

“Thought you said you sensed nothing living, priestess,” said Danwyar. “That one seemed to have some life in him.”

“No life, although I would not dismiss some manner of spell binding.”

“Might be best we take the time to kill them all twice before going farther, perhaps it would eliminate any spells.”

“Or perhaps it wouldn't and we waste the afternoon,” answered Darke. “Leave them. Let us move on and see what waits in the pavilion.”

Danwyar gripped the shaft of his arrow and wrenched it free and reloaded.

Darke continued on toward the pavilion. He pulled his cloak back and withdrew the Daathan sunblade. It seemed strange, wielding a sword of glass. It looked fragile, as if it were used against anything of substance it would simply shatter. However, it was perfectly weighted. It was a double-edged broadsword but unlike other broadswords, which required a good deal of strength to use and having the disadvantage of wearing out its user quickly, the sunblade was much lighter, about the weight of a typical long sword, much easier to wield and not nearly as strenuous.

In truth, Darke had kept the sword only to see if the Daath had any salt in him. If this were his blade, a sunblade of lineage, nothing would stop him from taking it back given the least opportunity. The captain didn't plan on making it difficult if the boy tried, but he did want to see how quickly the Daath moved. If this one moved anywhere near as fast as his warlord, perhaps they had a chance in all this. He was well aware the most probable outcome of this expedition would be their death. The only chance they really had, the gamble Darke had taken with his own and his crew's lives, was that the Daath would be more than he looked. He was well built and solid, but too young to be astute in battle, with pale blue skin that made him look almost sickly. However, the king did wear one of the plain, darkened silver armbands the Daath used to mark their elite, those they called Shadow Walkers. He must have had some training to have obtained it. Darke doubted warriors as deft and proud as the Daath handed out such armbands without discretion.

Darke took a stance before the pavilion and angled the Angelslayer's sword. The angel hadn't taken the time to use a human to construct the pavilion this time. It was ordinary silken red with golden borders, rich, but not extravagant.

The priestess crouched to his left and stood ready beside him, if anything she was fraught with anticipation. She was going to take a position near the Daath when Storan set him down. She had far more faith in the Daath than did Darke, but then he had not walked in the king's skin. This time Hyacinth had brought along a different crossbow, made from her own drawings by a Pelegasian artisan who had heavily overcharged Darke, thought perhaps it was worth it. It had a bolt feeder that could auto-load and fire ten small bolts at a time. It was light, small enough for her to wield with one hand, and was constructed of polished yew. To either side were two chambers loaded with bolts that could be snapped in place when the top chamber was empty, giving her thirty shots with hardly a reload. With her array of poisons, in tight quarters, it was amazingly effective.

Danwyar took position at Darke's right. He held his bow to the side, near his hip, one of the silver arrows loaded and at the ready. They were hardwood arrows on the inside, but Danwyar took the time to coat them in silver so they always left his mark on the kills. He had two scabbards full of them, one on either hip.

Storan stepped to Darke's left as shieldbearer. He would cover Darke's sword arm, as well as use the heavy axe with his right. It was more of a two-handed axe, and eventually, whenever Storan's arm began to wear out, he would toss the shield and use both hands. Either way, he was ever his king's guardian. In tight battle nothing had ever gotten past his shield or his axe.

Taran kept back a few steps from the rest, along with Marsyas, to guard the rear. The Rat was a ranger. He never fought in tight quarters with the others, but ranged for the best position to use his fire bags and daggers. The daggers would burst to flame when he flung them, and he refused to show anyone the secret of his mixture that flamed just from being thrown.

“Set the Daath well in front of us,” Darke said. “He is, after all, our offering.”

Marsyas set Loch on his feet, still bagged, in front of the pavilion. The Etlantian then stepped to the right and drew his war hammer. Hyacinth quickly moved to Loch's right.

“Hyacinth, back with the others.”

“I will take my chances here,” she answered. Again she made it clear that though she had the privileges of being one of his crew, she was no Tarshian and not someone he could command. It had often amused Darke, though this time it irritated him.

All of the crew took their fighting stances, ready. Inside the sack, Loch was moving. He unsheathed the sword and slipped the shield off his back.

“Satariel!” Darke cried. His voice echoed away into the black rock.

From within the pavilion came a cackle. It could have been an old woman.

“I have your scion,” Darke said.

“Is he sacked?” asked the voice.

“He is sacked. Where is my son?”

“Here—with me. But first, we deal with the Daath.”

“He is in the sack, as you asked.”

The pavilion's silk burst into flame. It had no purpose but to distract them. The real threat was the ground directly before Loch. It erupted, flinging bits of black earth and rock; something was rearing up out of the Earth.

Hyacinth took a few steps back, leveling her crossbow, which left Loch the only one before the emerging creature.

Loch finally moved, and as Darke had hoped, he moved very quickly. His sword slit open the sackcloth. He turned, used a wrist grip, twisting the sword out of Darke's hand. Darke doubted he could have resisted even if he tried; his wrist shot a burst of pain up his arm. He had made the move so quickly, Storan hadn't even had time to react, though Danwyar's arrow tip tracked him, and could have easily taken him out. Loch tossed Darke the double-edged iron.

A scaled hydra reared from the black earth and was coming to life, separating into three serpentine heads, weaving deceptively among each other. Its focus seemed to be Loch alone, as if the others were not even present.

“My apologies, Captain,” Loch shouted, taking a stance before the hydra, “no offense—we are all in this together.”

“None taken,” answered Darke.

“God's blood,” Storan moaned. “Any of you see the hydra? Is this really a good time to chat?”

“The rest of you keep back,” Loch said. “The blood is like acid.”

“Aye, majesty,” grizzled Storan. “We will be careful as we can be!”

Each of the three heads flickered tongues wrapped in tiny cords of flame. They all wove in different directions, striking for Loch, but the Shadow Walker effortlessly dodged them.

Darke watched with interest. Loch was making it look simple, but he knew it was not; this was no ordinary beast, and was feared by most men as one of the deadliest serpents known. Danwyar was about to fire, searching out the hydra's heart, but Darke set a hand over his wrist, lowering the bow.

“Love of Elyon, will you kill the damn thing!” Storan shouted.

Loch grasped the hilt. The blade of aganon flashed from crystal to a searing white, as if it had been held over coals for hours. The king tracked the hydra's movement a moment longer, dodging the strikes, then stepped forward and severed all three heads in a matter of seconds, the sword flashing, heads spinning into the air. Each stump immediately began to sprout new growth, green/gold snouts pushing out of the blood that boiled about the severed flesh. When the blood hit the ground below it sizzled, the acid sinking burn marks through the black rock. Loch slammed the flat of the blade over the stumps one at a time. The blade was obviously very hot; with barely any pressure it instantly seared each stump to a thick, blackened scar. He had to hack off the last head a second time for it had nearly reached maturity. When the last stump was seared, he stepped back and watched. The body, spellbound to begin with, shivered, withering quickly, collapsing, leaving what looked to be freshly shed snakeskin. Scrambling, Hyacinth gathered the scattered teeth and crammed them into a deerskin bag at her hip.

“Suppose he has proven some worth, Captain,” observed Storan.

“I mean your captain no offense by taking the sword, helmsman, but we must use every advantage. The angel has laced this island with traps. He is a coward. He only watches from the distance. His traps, however, will prove very deadly—watch all directions and ignore nothing that moves or shifts.”

Darke was staring at the figure seated on a dark stump of rock in the ashes of the pavilion as it slowly lifted its head, looking up. It was the face of Lothian. The angel had done as he promised, he had delivered Darke's son. Lothian wore one of his old leather jerkins, worn and stained, and wide, looped boots Darke recognized. He also wore his Tarshian sword in the sheath Darke had hand-carved from leather and reinforced with silver studs. Long, rust-brown hair fell over the shoulders. But there the illusion of normalcy ended. His eyes were gone, and he was searching blindly. They had been torn out only recently. Blood streaked his cheeks. But it would not have made any difference. His skin was leathery and tight against the bone. He was nothing more than a corpse, weeks old.

“Who is there?” the figure asked. Lothian's voice—still strong. “Father, is that you?”

“I am here, my son, do not move.”

“It is you! But do you not know this bastard has laid a trap, many a trap, Father? You should never have come for me. I am not worth the lives of you and your crew. There is no way off this island.”

“What has he done to you?”

Danwyar was crouched, searching for any target, anything that moved. Marsyas had stepped back and turned in every direction, searching behind them. Hyacinth remained near Loch, and Taran had positioned himself on her left to protect her, the shadow of his oval shield over her shoulder.

Loch watched the figure in the pavilion carefully.

“Tell me what has happened to you, Lothian,” Darke said.

“I know not. A curse spellbound of the Watcher. He took my eyes this morning, using only the nails of his fingers. He has enjoyed himself for seven days as I watched my skin wither just as his is withered. I believe I am dead, days dead, and yet my soul is bound to my body and will not ascend. As well, the dying of my body has been such pain it is beyond endurance.”

“Help him, Loch,” said Darke. “Break the binding; give him heaven.” “I will, Captain. All of you please stay back.”

Loch stepped over the withered skin of the hydra. Winds stirred as he walked across the charred platform of the pavilion. The head of Lothian studied Loch with its melted eyes, as a blind man searches.