Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  “Mothering son of whores!” the big axeman snarled, lifting his axe from the stone, still enraged that he had been disarmed. He was turning for the kill, but Danwyar stepped in his path, blocking him.

  “This one is mine,” Danwyar said. He walked calmly toward the Daath, leveled his crossbow, the bolt inches from the heart.

  With a tight screech, Hyacinth kicked the crossbow out of Danwyar’s hand, then spun to kick him again, throwing him back from the warlord.

  Danwyar barely maintained his composure, holding his now bruised wrist. “What in the—”

  “My poison will let him sleep!” she fired at him. “What need to kill him, Danwyar? Are we killers now?” She looked at the rest of them. She turned to Eryian. “Besides, he is simply too magnificent to kill.” She took a moment to admire his dark, ice-blue eyes.

  “Are we listening to women now?” Storan swore. “This—this thing just took out two of our men!”

  “Would you have done any different for your king?” Hyacinth snapped back at him. She had poised herself in front of the Daath, daring any of them to try to pass.

  Danwyar retrieved his crossbow and turned to Darke for a decision. “She is right on one count,” the captain said. “This is not our mark. Leave him.”

  “Captain, if he wakes up—”

  “He is awake, Danwyar,” Hyacinth snipped.

  It was true. Eryian was watching them.

  “He just cannot move, though in a few moments he will have a long, peaceful sleep.” Hyacinth turned to the warlord and waved good-bye. “Keep moving,” Darke ordered.

  “What if we meet another like that?” Storan grizzled as they followed Danwyar down the next hallway.

  “There are no others like that,” answered Darke. “That was Eryian, the Walker of Shadows.”

  The Tarshians moved on, leaving Eryian breathing slowly, trying to fight the poison still working through him. Finally, his eyes closed and he slept, as Hyacinth had predicted.

  They had reached the final stairway. Darke came to the edge first. He held up his hand. “The king’s chamber is below us,” he said. “The guards will be quick, deadly.”

  “Then let us not give them any opportunities,” said Danwyar. He took the point. Hyacinth moved quickly to the opposite side, her crossbow ready.

  Darke lifted the heavy crossbow off his back and stepped down just behind and between them.

  When the pirates came about the corner, there was a swift exchange. Danwyar dropped to his knees, sliding on the stone as he fired rapidly, one, two, three—four steel shafts ripping from the catgut of his bow. Hyacinth spun about a corner, leveled her aim, and fired into the eye of one guard. As the Daath twisted, Darke’s heavy bolt went through his chest and out the back. Both guards lay in their blood. It had been soundless.

  The Tarshians gathered before the heavy double doors of the king’s chamber. Darke reloaded. Storan took position on his left, axe clutched with both hands. Hyacinth crouched near Darke, loaded her special bolt—light, hollow. She pulled off the moss that kept the poison moist. The poison that had taken down the warlord would have killed any human instantly, possibly would have killed a Daath. This poison was different; it had several effects, but none of them lethal. As all her poisons, it was spellbound to work swiftly. She briefly wondered if she should have made it stronger; the warlord had proven the Daath were resistant to poison. As a backup, she readied a second bolt and pinned it in the side notch of her small crossbow. She leveled it over her left arm, ready.

  Danwyar’s drew a silver shaft to the string and pulled it taut. “Take out the doors, Storan,” Darke whispered.

  Storan brought the huge axe into the center of the doors, smashing through to break the crossbar. He kicked them open with a heavy boot.

  It was quick. Though the room was dark, the king was on the bed, sitting against the headboard. He had not been sleeping and as the doors flung open he reached for something beside him, but Danwyar’s steel bolt anchored his right hand through the palm to the back of the headboard. The shot had been a precise one. Danwyar did not want what might be the king’s sword hand badly injured. He had sunk the thin bolt dead center, between the bones.

  Hyacinth quickly fired her crossbow. The tiny bolt lodged in Loch’s neck, just below his chin. It had pink feathers and was so small it was no more than a dart.

  Darke felt a shiver. As adept at poisons as she was, the sleeper potion in Hyacinth’s dart wasn’t taking. The Daath snarled, curled his fingers back, and ripped his hand free, sheering off the feathers of Danwyar’s arrow. Hyacinth, careful to control her panic, quickly reloaded. It was but a breath before her second bolt hit the king, directly beneath the first, but in that time, Loch had lifted something nearby.

  Darke took breath, leveling the heavy crossbow at the Daath’s heart. This Daath moved quickly. He was not even going to chance a disarming shot; if things went wrong, the Daath would die first.

  The king, however, moved as quick and stealthily as had the warlord. But all he lifted was a double-edged sword. Darke did not fire; none of his men were even close. How could a broadsword pose any danger? Darke only briefly saw the blade—crystal, like glass.

  Then it flashed.

  Danwyar took a step back, blinded. Darke had somehow instinctually guarded his eyes, and Hyacinth, beside him, was shielded from a direct blast, but Storan took its full brunt and staggered like a drunken bull until he collided with the wall behind him.

  Hyacinth looked up. Loch was fading fast. She dared not use another bolt; it could prove too strong. He would surely sleep, but he might not wake. She was startled that he looked her directly in the eye. He lids were sagging, his breaths short.

  Darke was still ready to fire, but he took the chance the sleeper darts would take effect. The light had been blinding, but not lethal. In the brief seconds that passed, he realized the king was staring at Hyacinth. He was nearly unconscious, but the eye didn’t close. Darke wasn’t going to take the chance; he started to squeeze off the trigger when suddenly a second pulse flashed from the sword’s crystal blade.

  Darke’s bolt fired, but soared upward through the ceiling as the pirates were hit with pure light that tossed them like leaves in a wind. Darke was thrown against the stone behind him, hard enough that the wind was knocked from him and he dropped, nearly unconscious. Hyacinth was lighter; she was sent spinning and hit the wall the same as Darke, but as she fell to the floor, she landed in a crouch, like a cat. Storan was already against the wall. He did have enough sense to shield his eyes, but his head was slammed against the stone. Danwyar had managed to throw himself behind the doorway, out of the light’s path.

  On his knees, swearing, Darke reloaded the crossbow, but when he took aim, the Daath was no longer moving. Darke wondered, briefly, why they were still alive. The last burst, if it had been stronger, could have easily killed them. Darke saw the king’s eyes slowly close. His head dropped forward.

  “He is out,” Hyacinth said. “You can take him now.”

  The sword dropped from the king’s hand. It struck the marble floor and spun, as if alive, emitting flashes of colors, until it finally cooled. The blade looked like cold glass, as fragile as a goblet.

  “Be thanking the Goddess once out of here,” Storan muttered, his hands waving in front of his eyes until he reached the doorway. “I’m going to be blind now, Danwyar?”

  “No. It is wearing off. Go shoulder the king.”

  Storan felt his way along the wall. “Logical asking me, since I am the one cannot see my hand before my face.”

  “I am no better off,” Danwyar said, edging into the room carefully, waiting for the effect to fade.

  Hyacinth took Storan’s hand and guided him to Loch. She watched carefully as Storan lifted him. The Daath’s face was aquiline, beautiful, perfect. As Storan hoisted him onto his big shoulder, for a brief moment, the king’s eyes fell open. They were staring at Hyacinth, but he was not conscious. His eyes, however, were brilliant, filled with
a strange light, inhuman but fantastic, as if stars might spill through them. She gasped openly.

  “Angelslayer,” she whispered.

  The eyes closed. Storan had him secured on his shoulder and looked about, his sight finally returning. “At last,” he muttered. “Never wished to be blind, that be certain.”

  Danwyar looked at the king’s face. “Is there a mistake here, Hyacinth? He is no older than you! You are telling me this is the king of the Daath? The conqueror of the fabled gathering wars!”

  “This is the scion, Danwyar! You want to go search for another—go ahead, I am sure we have time. You think, Captain?”

  “We are getting out of here,” Darke commanded.

  “Wait!” Hyacinth hissed. “The sword! The sword!”

  They paused. Danwyar turned. He touched it carefully before lifting it. He found the sheath, shoved in the blade, and dropped the belt over his shoulder.

  “Go,” Darke said. “Danwyar, take point.”

  Danwyar ran at a crouch, bow loaded. Storan, hunched over with the body, followed behind. Darke made a quick search behind them. They had not been discovered. He ran with Hyacinth sprinting at his side.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sunblade

  Deep water, the Western Sea of Enoch

  From the forecastle, Darke watched the horizon. At first, he feared a storm of lashing wind and rain, but the farther he sailed into it, leaving the shore of the Dove Cara behind them, the more he realized it was nothing like any storm he had known. There were winds lashing, and the seas had been whipped to crests as high as six feet, but luckily they were coming at him head-on, from the storm’s center, which was due west, fitting the directions of the map. The storm seemed to be spreading outward as he watched, like a living thing, and now and then it flashed with deep veins of purple lightning lacing the black clouds.

  “Elyon’s name,” muttered Danwyar, “what be this we are sailing into, Captain?”

  “I feel confident we will discover that in due course, Danwyar. Slow to half.” “Half the speed!” shouted Danwyar, his command echoed to the stern where the rower’s drummer slowed his beat. “Bring in the main mast.”

  “Drop the main!” Danwyar commanded in a strained voice used to shouting. Danwyar then stepped beside Darke, setting his hands on the forecastle railing. “No rain; clouds like that and no rain.” “I do not think they are clouds,” Darke said. “How do you mean that?”

  “See how they slowly spin, how they seem to crawl across the night sky like fingers over the stars? You ever seen clouds do that, Danwyar?”

  Danwyar shook his head. “Due west, those clouds are over the mark on that map. Of course, you know that.” Darke did not comment.

  Danwyar studied the clouds, troubled, but something else seemed to be on his mind. He glanced to the captain, worried. “You all right, Captain?” “Why? Should I not be?” “Just that … I wanted to say, I know you feel it.”

  “What?”

  “Cold blood. That first one, his back to you—”

  “Keep your mind on this sky, Danwyar, as well as these waves.”

  “You should have let me take him out.”

  “Why? Would that make his blood any less damning? We did what we did, and we have both learned by now there is little use in looking back.”

  They both had to grip the railing as the ship pierced a particularly high wave. The wave rolled over them with a hard slap of cold spray.

  “I have been thinking on this, Captain.” Danwyar said.

  “And?”

  “Things have changed. You still believe we should sail into this?” “What has changed?”

  “The king of the Daath, he fought several wars. It is said he united all his tribes, hard fought, the gathering wars.” “I have heard.”

  “Whoever is it down in our hold, it is for certain not Argolis, king of the Daath. The little witch has made a mistake. I know you hesitate admitting, bearing a fondness for her—”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I am just trying to say that if we did have Argolis, maybe then we might have some kind of chance, not much of a chance, but something. Enough to spit on. As things stand now, we have no chance here whatsoever. So as second, I am saying we are damned fools, and you know and I know this angel is going to kill us and not even think about it the next morning.”

  “Anything more?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Such as suggesting we turn back for Ophur. Run maybe?”

  “I never spoke of turning.”

  “No? If you were me, standing where I am—this ship yours—are you going to tell me you would hold course into that storm?” “It is not my place to say.”

  “I am asking you to say; in fact, I am telling to say.” “Why? You intend to listen to me if I do?” “How would you call it, Danwyar?”

  “I never would have taken the parchment from that river giant in the first place. He was a low thief and a child killer, and I would have pinned his stinking parchment through his heart with his own dagger.”

  “You would not have read it first?”

  “No.”

  “You will never make a good liar, Danwyar. Pray you never have to lie your way out of some tight spot.”

  “Fine. Say what you wish. Only problem I have had since leaving shore is I am not sure how much I want to die, or you, or any of us, but that is what we are about to do. Die.”

  “It was bound to happen. Did your mother never explain that?”

  “That boy down there—twenty years old, I would guess.”

  “I would say closer to twenty and five.”

  “Ah, well, twenty and five. Now I can sleep tonight.”

  “Keep the ice in your veins, Danwyar. We have fought with odds against us before this.”

  “Not these odds.”

  “We will find a way to turn them, my friend. Have them lay back first tier oars, these waves are coming higher. When you have done that, bring me the priestess. I will be in my cabin.”

  Danwyar turned, dropped from the forecastle to stride the midwalk. The sea broke over the gunwales as he did. They were cutting crests able to sink them easily if Storan slipped on the tilling oar, but the helmsman’s grip was always firm.

  “Lay back first tier,” Danwyar cried. “Latch and seal!”

  In Darke’s cabin, Hyacinth made herself comfortable, sitting on his sleeping cot, using it as though it were a swing. Danwyar had joined them, closing the door against the spray of the sea. It was a strange quiet, the winds outside howling.

  “Some of that wine,” Hyacinth said, “the Tyrinian bloodroot. That would go nicely right now.”

  “Yes,” said Danwyar, “and we will have to break out some goat cheese, as well. Berries maybe.”

  “I would not turn down berries.”

  “Hyacinth,” Darke said, keeping his attention on the maps spread over the table before him as an oil lamp swung to and fro above. “Tell Danwyar about those clouds, what you might have read in that book of yours.”

  She was all too eager. “Those are called whirlers, Danwyar. They are like dark stars with tails spinning, whipping in and out of each other. They were called the thousand eyes, the mirrors of Elyon. If you stare at them for a long time, right into them without turning away, you can spot the eyes, watching back at you, living things.”

  “What a comfort. I will have to give that a try.”

  Darke looked up from the map. “In all your books, your scrolls, anything at all about how to kill one of these bastards?”

  “Captain, you cannot kill them. They do not die.”

  “There,” said Danwyar. “A bit of reason. A little sanity. It is almost refreshing.”

  “However,” she added, “we do have an Angelslayer down in that stinking bilge-soaked cage. He might know a bit about angels. Would you think?”

  “Danwyar is worried he is a little young to be the Daathan king. Any thoughts on that?”

  “He is young, but that is
the scion. I have not erred. I am certain.”

  Danwyar sighed, shaking his head.

  “Something to say, Danwyar?” she asked.

  “No. You are certain. What is there any one of us could say further?”

  “Good. Now, let me down there, Captain. Let me mind walk him.”

  Danwyar shook his bald head. “Yes. Pit our entire fate on witchery.”

  “Witchery?” said Hyacinth. “You really should be more careful how you put things, Danwyar,” she added, wriggling her fingers. Each nail bore a different poison. “Why not calm down and think all this over carefully.”

  “Calm down and think,” Danwyar said, irritated. “Of course, why have I not thought of that myself?”

  “I will put it simple for you, Danwyar—we not only have the fabled scion of the Daath, we have the mark of the father.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The sword,” Darke answered.

  “The captain remembers,” Hyacinth said. “It is named of Enoch the Arsayalalyur. They say in the time of Yered that Elyon looked down and took pity and sent the Daath and the mark of the father, the Arsayalalyur to stand in the day that comes, in the time the Earth nears Aeon’s End.”

  “Scriptures,” muttered Danwyar.

  “Truths,” counted Hyacinth. “That is the sword of an archangel. Uriel. A sunblade of the Pleiades, the same that left the scar cut into the rock of the East of the Land they call the Dove Cara. You saw it? It was hard to miss—the huge cleft cut into the stone beneath Terith-Aire.”

  “She has a point, Danwyar,” Darke said.

  “So we send her down there and soon have all the answers we need?” “Cannot hurt,” said the captain.

  “I recall one occasion she mind-ripped some poor bastard who could not stand for three days afterward. What if we need him still able to stand up?”

  “If he is so weak she can rip through him that easily,” said Darke, “then we truly have made a mistake; he is no scion of the Daath. Hyacinth, go do what you do.”