Satrina kept walking. She turned the causeway and descended without looking back. Rhywder stared after her a moment, then glanced at Marcian.
“She does have one point,” said Marcian. “I have been worried myself. You have not left the battlements and not only should you eat her mush and her rare apple, but you should get some sleep, as well, my lord. We are guarding against a formidable evil. If you weaken yourself without sleep or food, what good does that accomplish?”
No stutter now, Rhywder noted. He deeply wanted to ask what these women had done to the poor man, but refrained.
“Now that you mention it, Antiope, those fellows down there, below the gate, the ones with all the arrows in them, they haven’t had breakfast, either, so …” Rhywder stepped forward and heaved the table over the battlements. “Let them have some mush.” The stools followed. “In case they want to sit as they have their mush.”
Rhywder noticed, though he said nothing, that Marcian’s expression bore the slightest hint of disapproval.
“Tell you something, Antiope; it has to do with principle, all this mush business. These women, as I am sure I need not explain to you, guessing your past, need to understand their place. Am I right or not?”
Marcian hesitated. “I suppose …”
“I have been without a woman for thirty-eight years, and now, for the love of frogs, is the wrong time to begin getting soft. The nations of the Unchurians waiting to hang us from posts and drain our blood for wine, and she comes up with breakfast! Women! I tell you, give them the slightest notion you care for them and they take over your life. Bloody start feeding you mush on the battlements! Well, not me. By God and whore’s blood! No woman—no serving wench woman—is going to put a tail on my ass.”
Rhywder stared over the southern pass, breathing heavily, having made his point. No one met his eye. All remained sober. But inside, though he tried his best, he had not convinced himself, and he wished secretly he could have the table and mush and apple back.
“Now,” Rhywder said quietly, collecting himself, “this thing on your mind that concerns the Daath—though let me make it clear I am not their king, and as soon as there is opportunity I will make it known to them—now is as good a time as any to speak of it.”
Marcian looked to either side. “Perhaps over against the side, my lord.” “My ear alone, you mean?”
“Aye.”
“Good enough.”
Rhywder walked to the other side of the causeway, put his hands behind his back, and stared down at the garrison. He tried to spot Satrina, looking for the blue veils, but did not find her.
“So, what would you have to tell me about the Daath? Understand you supply them with the finest of horseflesh.”
“I sell them horses, yes, but this is about a woman.”
“Ah.”
“I some months ago was in a village near the Daathan village of Lucania. Are you aware of it?”
“They settled it with captives after the gathering wars. I understand mostly Galaglean, but the few remaining people of my tribe, as well, the Lake People, Lochlains. Quaint village as I recall. Rumors that the Daath occasionally steal their women from that village. Must have their women well trained there, you think?”
“I am no Daath, but I can attest they do have exceptionally beautiful woman in that village, but it was not just her beauty, something else, something of the heart in her.”
Rhywder glanced at him, growing curious now.
“I cannot explain. No one believed, I am sure, but it was nothing to do with lust. I am not that kind of man, and age has left me even more so. The thing of it is, I lost a child in the wars, during the siege of Galaglea, when they hurled the diseased corpses over the walls and the fevers took. I lost my wife and a wee boy with white hair. His name was August because he seemed so wise with his white hair.”
“Just to mention, that siege was never my idea, Antiope. I stood opposed, but by then Argolis had changed; he had become a hard man.”
“No need to explain, I only brought it up to mention my boy. I watched him crawl, even saw him began to talk, then I buried him. But I wander—my point is that I saw this girl one day in the village of Lucania and suddenly this idea springs up in me: one more child, one more. I am forty and two, not young. Perhaps it was wrong, my thinking, but as if some madness had struck me, I approached her father, made an offer, a very generous one. It was set to happen, the wedding, but something went wrong the day she was to arrive. They only came to tell me the father was dead and the girl missing. I was ashamed of ever entering into it all, somehow as if it were my fault.”
“Nothing in your story as yet inspires shame, Antiope. So how does this involve the Daath?”
“It was only weeks before we were called here. I was in the upper field, feeding the herd. I am afraid I name them. Anyway, I was there calling out their names when … when all I can say is, it was as if the air and the earth and time itself split open, like a knife cutting open skin. I have never seen anything like it, and doubt I ever will again. And from this opening there came a horseman. He was Etlantian. I believe him to have been a Nephilim but, unlike most, he was true of heart. There was a glow to his eyes that left me certain of that. Whoever he was, I sensed he was still connected to the heavens and the Blue Stars we call home. Without speaking, before I could even react, he turned the glow of his eyes upon me and set my mind at rest. I felt—it was like standing before a being of heaven’s grace.”
Marcian paused and glanced to Rhywder.
“Keep talking, Marcian, I have seen such beings. I have traveled far in my day.”
“Yes, you seem to understand things. In the saddle with him was the girl, the one I told you of, from the village. Her name is Adrea, and she truly is a beautiful girl, long fire-red hair, though it is her heart that leaves her so exceptional. I was nearly overcome, I had no words, all I could do was stare, utterly amazed. I had seen her only days before, to give her a present before the wedding. What stunned me was that this girl, Adrea, she was pregnant. She was full term, about to have a child. I know that is impossible. She was a vir-vir—”
“Virgin.”
“Yes, but days before, and now—near birthing.” He paused, staring down at the garrison. “If you find my story too much to believe, I can understand, but I swear of its truth.”
“I believe you, Marcian. You witnessed a time jump. It can be done only by those beings who understand the star knowledge, and this rider you speak of, his name is Sandalaphon.”
“Yes! How did you know?”
“I know things, Marcian. Go on, I am listening.”
“He told me, as you just stated, that his name was Sandalaphon, a protector of the Daath, and that was all I needed to understand of him. He explained many things to me, and it seemed, oddly, he did so without words, as if his knowledge, the things he knew, passed from him to my mind. He told me that he was giving me the power to hide all that he had said, that no normal being would ever discern I knew these things, these secrets he revealed, but that a time would come when I would find the man to tell these things to. I believe you are that man.”
He paused a moment. Rhywder did not respond; he simply waited for the Galaglean to continue, but already he was guessing what the man was going to say. It made sense; it fit all that was happening. It explained a great deal. The eye of Daath had been opened. The battle for this gate was more than an ordinary war; it was the fulfillment of prophecy. It was the winnowing. Rhywder felt a shiver. He never believed he would witness the days of the winnowing wars.
“The things I say next, my lord—”
“I understand, Marcian, the things you say next would be hard for many to understand, but you can trust in me. Tell me what the Nephilim said to you.”
“First, he took my sorrow, for I had loved this girl deeply. In the short time I had known her, I loved her like a daughter. I know that sounds odd, that I would marry a daughter, but that is how I felt toward her. She owned a piece of my heart
and that she had lain with another would have brought me pain, but he took that pain; he took my sorrow. He told me that this girl now carried in her womb the scion of Uriel, the Archangel of the Seventh Choir, the one who held the fiery sword before the East of the Land.”
Rhywder nodded.
“You believe, then?”
“I do. The girl, Adrea, was she a Water Bearer?”
“Aye, an exceptional one; she knew things. When I first met her, of course, I thought her only the daughter of a cattleman, but this girl, she is filled with such knowledge that to think of it now almost brings tears to my eyes, knowing I am here, and she is far away, remembering how much I miss her.” “You have told no one.”
“I have never spoken of it until now, this very moment.”
Suddenly Rhywder felt something. It was like a cold wave flushing through him, and it left his skin shivering. He turned to look south, alarmed. He realized what had just happened.
“My lord?” asked Marcian.
“You were right in telling me, Marcian, but I fear …” he paused, wincing. It was happening swiftly, he could hear rumblings, and then he saw the sky. Whirlers. The eyes, the thousands of eyes. He was there, Azazel.
“What is happening?” Marcian said, also alarmed. “Is that a storm?”
“Much worse.”
A whispered chuckle swarmed around them both, and Marcian turned searching, alarmed.
“What was that?” the Galaglean asked. “Did you hear it?” “I heard, and so did he. I fear he was listening, Marcian.”
“Who?”
“Azazel, the angel of death. Elyon save us—”
Suddenly, without warning, a powerful stone blew and struck just beneath the causeway where Rhywder and Marcian stood. It hit so hard, the mighty bridgework of Hericlon itself swayed outward. Before them, in the passage south, there were catapults. Scores of them, filling the passageway, and they were unlike any Rhywder had seen before, built massive, not of wood, but of oraculum.
“Name of the Goddess,” whispered Marcian.
“He was listening as if he stood beside us,” Rhywder said. “This is why he has been waiting!”
Another stone struck, and the causeway trembled along its length, leaving them off balance.
“Rhywder!” He heard a scream and turned. Satrina was running for him. Another struck, and this time the stonework along the southern edge was broken loose. The Galagleans had lifted spear and bow, but the catapults were out of range, and even then, their operators were protected by massive sheets of oraculum.
Satrina reached his side. “I felt something,” she said, “so cold, it went through my skin and—”
She broke off, seeing the catapults launch a dozen huge stones at once. She grabbed Rhywder’s arm as they struck. The causeway heaved, thrown back by the blows. Rhywder could hardly believe the massive ancient stonework of Hericlon could ever be shaken. Two or three archers where thrown over the ports; others knocked to the stone of the causeway.
“By the name of Elyon, what have I done?” moaned Marcian.
“It is not your fault,” Rhywder answered.
“But what can we do?”
“There come certain times to die, Marcian, and I fear this is one of them. Satrina, get out of here!” “I am not leaving you!”
Rhywder could only watch the southern passage helplessly. The whirlers of the angel spilled among the catapults. He was there, out there among them. It was like a darkness beyond dark, a black night moving for them. The same sounds as the last siege broke through the air, the singing, the beating of drums. The catapults vanished in the whirlers. He had never seen them close, the eyes in them, watching. There was movement in the darkness, the snort of horses, a thunderous clatter; the Unchurians were gathering. It was happening too fast.
“Both of you, both of you, run!” Marcian said. “Do you hear me, Rhywder, Little Fox of Lochlain? If it was you I was meant to find, you must run! You must find her, save her! Go, now, we will hold against the onslaught!”
They had to grip the stone as another volley of the catapult struck. Satrina stumbled, almost falling, but he caught her arm.
“You cannot hold, Marcian, he will drop this gate but moments from now. Time is lost us.”
“We are Galagleans. We have held Hericlon for seven centuries! No army has ever breached Hericlon.”
“There has never been an army like this one,” Rhywder said.
The chanting rose, solemn. It might once have been a song of angels: words of the choir, the spellbound words of heaven.
Satrina grabbed his arm. “Rhywder, there are fast horses below.”
Another blow struck, and the entire causeway swung outward as if it were nothing more than a rope bridge. Men lost their footing and were tossed into the night. Others managed to grip the causeway wall. Rhywder held Satrina by the waist.
“She is right!” screamed Marcian. “I know it is not your nature, but you must run; you must find her! Save her!”
Rhywder glanced at him. He looked to the stairways.
Winds struck, like the torrents of a hurricane off the coast. They assailed the causeway so savagely, many of the guards were hurled over the edge into the air with screams.
Marcian grabbed Rhywder by both arms. “I love that girl with all my heart and all my soul,” he screamed above the winds, “and the child, as well. Go, Shadow Walker, you are named his protector! Run! You have to save them. Somehow, we will hold this damned gate!”
“Galaglean, we are both about to die.”
“No! I see it in your eyes. Elyon is with you, Walker of the Lake. He names you; He chooses you. You cannot fail them! You are the one, his protector! Now, go!”
Rhywder gritted his teeth. “Damn!” he swore, grabbing Satrina’s arm. They both ran for the stairway.
Marcian turned. “Archers to the ports, steady, hold steady to the rock and wait for the mark!” Then the fire against the ancient gate of Hericlon came like a hailstorm from heaven. The gate had stood in this valley since the days of Dawnshroud. It was nearly immortal, built during a time of war when the Earth was still being formed. Its rock was the rock of the very Trisagion, the song of the choirs that brought the Earth into being out of the abyss. It was as ancient as heaven was ancient, but the heavy volley of hard iron-laced missiles that next struck its face seemed as if they had been hurled from the stars.
Marcian stared into it in disbelief, but then, there was little he no longer believed. Elyon was real, the scriptures, the tales of the seers they called the mad wanderers of Enoch—it was all truth. Prophecy was bearing down on them, and it had been written before the Earth was ever formed. It was an angel of the fallen coming against them now, Azazel. He knew that name; he remembered Azazel was the one who spoke death and death became the fate of men. The chants of the angel’s warriors rose even above the winds as if to lay a signet over this chapter, this page of the ending. He cared nothing of dying, really. Even as his first captain screamed, vanishing into a flaming iron rock so molten it splashed, burning Marcian’s cheek, even then he did not fear dying, and he spent the last moments of his life praying not for himself, not for his men, not for Hericlon, but only for her and the child.
“I found the Protector, my lord—now You must protect him. He must reach her, and only Your will can make it so.”
A huge stone, fired like a meteor, ripped away the portion of the causeway Marcian had been standing on. He vanished, and the entire rampart began to buckle inward, folding. As the center went down, the weight of the massive portcullis fell, sucking in the causeway with it.
Rhywder thought they were almost going to make it. They had reached the side stairways, and even if the gate fell, the stairways were cut out of the rock of Hericlon itself.
They would surely hold, he had thought, but they did not. As the heavy ancient stone of the causeway beneath their feet gave way, it pulled whole sections of the stairway from the side of Hericlon’s face. It was over. This was over, but he did gra
b Satrina by the waist, even as the stone beneath his feet reeled upward, buckling before it dropped. He threw her into the standing stone tower, also cut out of the rock face of the mountain.
And then there was nothing beneath Rhywder’s feet. He should have been falling, but instead he was hanging, swaying, and looking up, he was astonished to see she had hold of his wrist with both her hands.
“Satrina, you cannot bear my weight! Let me go!”
“You fall; I fall! What is the difference? Instead of telling me how little you fear death, help, for God’s sake, help me!”
He did. He was desperately trying to clamber up the face of the stone, but it curled under him in a bowl, and there was little grip for his feet. “Satrina, just let me go! Save yourself!”
“No! Either you make it over this bastion, or we both drop into the cauldron below.”
And it was a cauldron, for stone and the oraculum of the portcullis were raining down upon the passageway, and the mountain itself was shaking as if in a quake. Smoke and debris boiled upward in billows of dust.
He kicked off a boot, then the other. With bare feet he gained some grip, though little. Satrina was being pulled over the edge. She was on her belly on the stone, holding with both hands, fighting to stay in the tower.
The roar of Hericlon’s fall was deafening. Through the plumes of debris and dust he could hardly see her.
Satrina then grabbed a chain, one used to haul up buckets from below. It was wrapped about a pulley and its end was a claw. Satrina held Rhywder by one hand and hurled it, wrapping it about a stone column of the tower, and then jerked it tight. She lifted the hook, swinging it.
Rhywder was about to pry her hand loose, let himself drop. She would be left in the tower, but there was the far chance she would somehow survive. At least a chance. Suddenly he howled in pain, something had pierced through his arm. She let go, but instead of falling, he was now swinging from a hooked chain that was threatening to rip out the back of his left arm. He was hooked like a fish.
Satrina slammed both feet against the edge of the tower and began hauling in the chain; hand over hand, using the pulley. It took all her strength. She screeched through tightened teeth, the muscles in her neck strained. Rhywder’s right hand finally grasped hold of the tower’s edge. He snarled and hurled himself over, landing on top of her, and they lay there for a moment, both breathing heavily.
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 44