Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  “Oh, lovely,” remarked Storan. “Studied protocol, this angel. Takes people and makes tents of them.”

  “Stop here.”

  “I’m going to say something, Captain, going to say it once, then speak no more. Turn away from this. In the name of the Goddess who watches over us and blesses our ways, turn from this. Let us walk back to the dory and return to the ship.”

  Darke never took Storan’s counsel lightly. In times of battle, Storan might joke or swear through his own and others’ fear of dying, but always his advice was well founded, and this time his voice was deep and certain. He was correct, and Darke knew it, but everything that was correct was not necessarily right.

  “I cannot do that, Storan,” Darke said. “Sorry, friend. And there is worse news yet. You are to wait here, outside of the tent, both of you.”

  Marsyas nodded.

  “Frogs fuck my liver and worms suck dry my balls to withered stones before I wait outside, letting you go in there and face some bastard mistake of Elyon’s creation. I have been your left hand since you were born wet and naked, and I will not let you go in there alone, Captain. Maybe he has us here to chat, this angel, or maybe he just needs another tent, and you are the right size for it. Whatever his plan, you have two choices: kill me where I stand or allow me and my grandpa’s axe to go in there with you.”

  “The angel gave me explicit terms, Storan.”

  “I give a flying shit in a hard wind.”

  Darke sighed. He glanced at Marsyas.

  Marsyas nodded. “Noise,” Marsyas grumbled with his broken tongue, “any bad noise, I come as well; otherwise, I stand here as commanded.”

  “Why can you not be as agreeable as Marsyas?” Darke asked Storan.

  Storan smiled. “I am agreeable. I am agreeing to go in there and give this sweet, cunning bastard a kiss on his pimpled ass. If that is not agreeable, my mother taught me ill all these years.”

  The tales had always fascinated Darke, but he had never seen one—an angel who had fallen from the sky. It was said they were members of the choirs of Elyon, the Most High, said that they sang the Holy-Holy-Holy that created the Earth. However, by word of Enoch, all of them now were damned, though Darke did not really countenance Enochians. Elyon’s business, in his opinion, had nothing to do with charity or damnation. The Lord of Hosts killed good men and made the wicked rich. Darke had little use for Enochian priests and their promise of Elyon’s grace in this world.

  Darke lifted the still damp parchment of human skin that was the tent’s doorway. He expected a giant, as were the sons of angels, as were the Etlantians, as were the few Nephilim he had seen and killed; but then he remembered how his grandmother had told it: “They begot the giants, Little One; they were never giants themselves. They, as we, are the image and expression of Elyon, the Most High, but they were never meant to have children, you see. They are immortal. They need no children to continue as men do, so when they cohabitated with women, their offspring were cursed, and the mark of the curse was that all were giants so no man would mistake them for a child of Elyon.”

  However, seeing the creature sitting on a bronze throne inside the tent, Darke would never have guessed him to have been a star that stepped from heaven. He looked not only mortal in size and bearing but also far from beautiful, as the ancient legends claimed angels to be. To see an angel was to see perfection, but this angel had apparently been scourged by age.

  Satariel was hideous: his hair was a sullied white, his pallid skin harrowed by wrinkles, his robes unclean, his smell rancid. His eyes were grayish blurs difficult to look into because of the ring of blinding light at the edges, but Darke defied his own fears and looked dead into them for a moment, a challenge, but it stung. He was forced to look away and was left confused, disoriented. The angel chuckled, an aged, whispery sound.

  “Try not to look directly into my eyes unless I tell you to do so, mortal,” he said carefully, in the language of men, with no hint of an ancient accent, nor did he use words known before the Earth was made.

  His hands, where they rested on the arms of his chair, were no more than knotted claws covered with the thinnest of leathered flesh. In fact, but for this loose, scabbed, craggy skin, he was skeletal.

  Storan knew enough not to speak; he had faced enough horrors to know when merely to step back and wait. Expressionless, axe sheathed, he kept his eyes directly ahead and unfocused. His interest here was only in his captain.

  “Captain Darke,” the angel mused. He then motioned Storan. “Here you are, but I do not remember agreeing to a second.”

  In response, Darke motioned toward some batlike creature the size of a dog standing near the leg of the angel’s throne. “Why not? It appears you have one,” Darke answered calmly. When mentioned by Darke, the creature crept under the table with a shudder and wet itself.

  The white eyes of the angel shifted to Storan as if inviting a response, but Storan did not flinch.

  “Should you want me to piss my leggings,” Storan replied without moving, “you will damned well have to do more than sit there looking ugly.”

  “Quiet, Storan,” Darke commanded sharply.

  Satariel chuckled. “One thing Elyon granted humans—a sense of mirth. Even in the darkest hours. How droll I find you all.” With an intelligent sigh, the angel leaned forward, the glow in his eyes dimmed.

  “You may now look at me,” the angel commanded.

  When he did, Darke could feel his mind being probed as though cold fingers were touching.

  “Enough,” Darke swore when the searching brought a sting of pain.

  Satariel smiled and withdrew the probe. “Do you know who I am, corsair?”

  “You are the killer of ships, the Etlantian bastard angel common legends name Satariel. More than that, I know not. I keep little stock of myth.”

  “Then we shall not bore each other with lineage. I shall tell you why I have sent for you, Shadow-Hawk. It is all quite simple: I can obtain something you want, and you can obtain something I want; we exchange the two, and all is well under heaven. We sail our different ways and never meet again.”

  “What could you have that I would possibly desire?”

  “Oh, many, many things. Things once tasted you could never resist. You would beg, drool, crawl, give yourself up to even the lowest of sexual acts just for another sniff. But I have in mind something less compulsive. In fact, it is a human—one much like you, one dragged from the sea five years ago, nearly drowned, barely alive. Of course the slavers who took him had no idea who he was. He was simply taken in netting with his drowning crew after the hull of his fabulous warship had been sundered, rived like splitting a common crab.”

  Darke flinched.

  “What? You thought your son had died nobly battling some Nephilim prince? No, no, quite the opposite. His ship was rammed from a fog bank by lowly slavers. They do have their modest talents—slavers. It was all a very dishonorable affair. Your son and his mighty Tarshian marines who had brought down seven Etlantian galleys at high sea and killed countless raiders did not so much as have time to draw their swords.

  “They were all sold to Etlantians. Most are dead now, worked to their graves. Your son proved exceptionally resilient to death. I suppose you can take pride in that, but he is without hope. You see, he works the oraculum mines. He is lowered each day into a narrow cavern of earth where he hacks at black rock—mining the Etlantians’ precious red metal. He is nearly blind, pity … those piercing blue eyes.”

  “Enough. Make your point.”

  “I am making my point. Are you not paying attention? Your son is dying. He is not well nourished—the Etlantians do not feed slaves well—no profit in it, too easy to get more. Your son’s liver is riddled with disease and his kidneys are failing—all from malnutrition. I might give him a single count of the moon more, but perhaps that is being generous. Had these fools who captured him known this was Lothian, the Tarshian emerald prince and son of Darke, you would, of course, have been off
ered ransom long ago, but your son has not revealed his identity to his captors. Perhaps this is to his credit, that he works himself to a sure death rather than disappoint his father. Unfortunately, these particular slavers are not much interested in the finer aspects of their craft. So, to sum up, once the Etlantians have drained his strength until he is no longer of use to them, they will let the Failures have him. The Failures always complain there is little meat on these specimens, but then again, they can always suck the marrow from the bones … or make soup.”

  Darke tightened his jaw.

  “No need to be angry with me, Tarshian.”

  “I thought you were at war with the Etlantians. Why would they give you my son?”

  The angel chuckled lightly. “You would not understand, but that is actually a very ironic way of putting it—me at war with them. But then, it is true I kill Etlantians whenever I find them, ill bred, well bred, even breeders. I have yet to kill one of my own brothers, but they tend to make themselves difficult to find lately. They fear me, you see.”

  “Why should they? You look just shy of a corpse.”

  “Come now, let us not insult each other. Have I insulted you? Have I?”

  Darke did not answer.

  “Although I suppose you have a point.” The angel lifted his arm and shook the loose baggage of skin that once was his bicep. He sighed. “Once my brothers saw that I had begun to age, they believed I had fallen to Enoch’s curse—which I suppose I have, which is all the more irritating since I never believed in Enoch or his ascendance to an audience with heaven. Nevertheless, my brothers believe it is communicable. Fear makes fools even of angels.”

  “Enough chat, Satariel. Get to the point.”

  “Ah, the point. Do you know of the Daath, those who claim they are descendants of the guardian of the ancient East of the Land, the literal bloodline of the archangel known by common tongue as Uriel?”

  “I have heard of them—no more. I would not know for certain if they even exist.”

  “Oh, they exist, and you are going to find them. Gather your maps and your talented pilots, and plot your course through dark water to the land called Dove Cara. It can be found along the eastern continent, south, not far from the tip of Etlantis’s fabled Mount Ammon. It is said the Daath were once troops of Etlantis. For nine hundred years they have been killers of one sort or another, and now even Etlantians hate them. So they kill Etlantians—how droll. Once you have found the Dove Cara, you will discover that there is a city above it, the fine castled city of the Daath, with its spires that remind one of the seventh star—the mothering star of Dannu. The city is called Terith-Aire, which translates something like Sky Dwelling. It is in their city that you will find their pure-blooded king. You see, since they sailed for Earth from the seventh star, the Daath have by faith kept their line of kings as pure as a breed of fine hounds. The hound I am most interested in is the scion of Uriel. I want him brought to me in sackcloth.”

  “I have no enmity for the Daath.”

  “Which makes you a logical choice. If I approached, they might suspect malevolence of some sort.”

  “You are an angel. Surely you can take what you want.” “The scion is well protected.”

  “Are you admitting there is something about them you fear?”

  “No, I am admitting there is something about them for which I have no patience. Now, you will bring this holy scion to an island of my specification—alive. Remember, Tarshian, as capable as you and your marine slayers are, the Daath are far deadlier than they appear. They may look human, but the blood of an archangel flows through their veins, which makes them sometimes particularly lethal, especially those who have trained in the arcane arts of the Shadow Walkers. Let us pray you do not meet one of them. Our association would end abruptly, as would the lives of you and your comrades. But then, Shadow Walkers or not, this is no mean task I put before you, corsair. The armies of the Daath number four legions. Still, keep in mind that you need concern yourself only with one. I am told you are an excellent thief. It is why I summoned you.”

  “How will I know this scion?”

  “You will know him because he will carry the mark of the father.” “And what mark is that?”

  “You will know it when you see it. The sword never leaves his side; it is unmistakable. They say that once Uriel himself used it to guard Elyon’s paradise at its eastern edge—the flaming sword that turned at once in all directions. I think it is all nonsense, personally.”

  “And what guarantee do I have that you will bring my son?”

  “I do not proffer guarantees. I am no merchant, corsair.” Satariel extended a parchment and what looked like a large, dirty rag. “The scroll—human parchment, my preference as you may have guessed—lists the island where the Daathan prince is to be delivered. And this is the sackcloth I want him wrapped in.”

  Darke stepped forward to take the scroll and cloth, but the bony hand of Satariel seized his wrist with the cold clammy touch of the dead, a solid, painful grip. The long, untrimmed nails bit into Darke’s skin, spilling blood.

  “You should take the time to learn whom you address,” the angel whispered, close now, so close Darke had to look purposely away from the eyes, for they had suddenly brightened. “I am Satariel, prince of Orphanim, of the third emanation of Elyon’s realm, Shabbathai, whose planet is Saturn. I was the bearer of the bull’s head in the hour of Trisagion, the great Holy-Holy-Holy, which formed the Earth in its hour from the word of the Elohim. When next you come before me, you will kneel, and should you again have such insolence as to look into my eyes, I assure you that you will be blinded for life!”

  He then released his grip, the nails leaving pricks of blood on Darke’s wrist.

  Darke stepped back. Angry, Storan shifted, hand on his axe.

  “Do not even think it, Storan!” Darke snapped, without turning.

  The angel chuckled. “Blood of mortals, Elyon’s most curious craft. We have made covenant, Shadow Hawk—blood covenant.” To emphasize this he licked Darke’s blood off his long, curled nail.

  “Now go,” the angel said—a command, the voice no longer whispery. “Get out of my sight, mortal. And thank your pitiful Elyon and weak mothering star that I do not slay your second like a fat cow.”

  Storan snarled, but Darke grabbed his arm and dragged him from the tent.

  “Let me go back in there, Captain!”

  “The only thing you are doing is getting off this beach before he changes his mind,” Darke commanded as he passed Marsyas, who fell in at his right flank.

  Darke did not show it; his voice did not betray it, but he had been shaken far more than ever he had been in a lifetime of battles.

  Chapter Two

  The Disciple of Ishtar

  The hidden island of Ophur in the Western Sea The last city of the Tarshians

  Whenever Darke and the others were gone this long and this far out to sea, a heavy, ever-deepening despair fell over Hyacinth with a weight that sometimes became unbearable. Of course, she was not alone. The island of Ophur, a volcanic cove of black sand where the last temples and buildings of the once mighty Tarshian kings still stood, was filled with women yearning for their men.

  From a hillside, Hyacinth would watch them, what she called the widow women, because they feared the sea would take their beloved. Those left behind on the island had built tall wooden towers along the mountain’s ridge where they could pace the walkways, their eyes always to the east, hoping to spot the approach of the ashen sail of Darke’s warship, the last of what had once been a magnificent fleet.

  On this voyage the women had waited and watched in vain, day after day, for what had become a full five count of moons—a long journey. Hyacinth wondered, watching them, what would happen if their men did not return. There were no other blackships of the Tarshians—only Darke’s; there would be no warnings, no words, just empty sea, day after day. Their hearts would never learn the fate of their men.

  Hyacinth gave her hea
rt to no man. In a place unspoken inside her, she might always love Darke, but even then, her heart she kept her own. If by the cruel sun, Darke was never to return, Hyacinth would not mourn, she would simply move on, for that is what her love would have done—merely crossed over.

  Hyacinth was not a Tarshian. She did not look like their women, most of whom were tall, with red hair and fair skin—starkly beautiful. It was said they were a race of kings and their queens whose bloodline had always been pure from the days of Adam and Yered. Hyacinth, however, was small and dark. Her hair was almost black, and tight curls often fell over her wide, rich brown eyes. Long ago, the captain had found her amid the ruins of a temple, unconscious, but still alive. She sometimes wondered, especially on days like this, when the men had been at sea for so long with no word, if perhaps it would have been better had the captain left her among the ruins of her people.

  But with Darke she had developed keen and sharpened skills as a raider and a pirate. She had become deadly with her poisons, knives, and light crossbow. And Hyacinth was an enchantress, which made her invaluable. Her talents as a spell binder, though perhaps not unmatched, were certainly formidable. In battle she was as valued as the most hardened Tarshian marine, and she would give her life without question for her captain. On voyages, Hyacinth was rarely left behind, but this time Darke had done so without any explanation. It left her angry, but what could she do? He was at sea and she could only watch from the cliffs near the villa Taran had built her.

  She had been raised in the village of Aravon, a coven of skilled sorcerers, future seers, and warlocks. But more than all spell binders, Aravon was an island of unmatched and unrivaled enchantresses—the most skilled and deft of any on earth. Hyacinth had just been growing into her talents when on a clear, shining day, they came—Etlantian raiders. They came swiftly, without warning: mighty warships, their sails embossed with the image of the bull. They descended like birds of prey; their prows hit the beachhead in a spray of sand; their gangplanks dropped, and horsemen swarmed the village. Despite the powers of the enchanters, these were firstborn Etlantian slayers and it was over quickly.