Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (3 page)

“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 offered 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.

W
henever 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 heart 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.

The Etlantian raiders hunted all humans, but more than any others, they searched out the covens of spell binders, especially the covens of Ishtar, the enchantresses.

Hyacinth had witnessed the death of all she had known and loved, and she had learned something that day. She had learned that there was no bottom to the depth of sadness Elyon granted His children; such sadness was as endless as the stars.

By the time Darke's blackship had found them, the village was only ash, embers, and death. It had been a fierce battle; many Etlantians had fallen, but of the magick casters, Darke found only one left alive, a small, dark-haired enchantress buried beneath cindered beams.

So it was that a child of Ishtar's horned moon came to dwell in Ophur, the last hidden outpost of the Tarshians.

When sailing with Darke, she was most alive, but those few times she was left behind were unbearable and she hated nothing more. Mysteriously, on this last voyage, Darke had not even consulted her. He had left in the night, under cover of darkness. As his absence stretched over five counts of the moon, her despair had become nearly intolerable. And worse, there was an unexplained dread that had taken hold of her. It was a fear she could not name, and it whispered an unspoken promise. Something was hunting them, Darke and the Tarshians. She felt it crawl over the winds and sky, but she could do nothing. It was deceptive, cunning, and more deadly than anything they had faced before. Why he had left her behind she could not fathom. If ever he had needed her, he needed her now.

Finally, she decided to take her fears—the dread of the hunter and the overpowering fear for her captain—and deceive them with a child's game. It may have seemed simple, but it would at least keep her from going mad.

So she turned to simple magick—children's magick. When she was a small girl, little Hyacinth had always had trouble sleeping indoors, especially in the stocky wooden huts of the magi who, despite their talents in spell binding, built plain and sometimes ominous huts of unfinished wood and great, ugly halls that looked like shadow castles. So, to help her, Hyacinth's mentor had taught her to capture the stars, how to bring them into her sleeping chambers. To Hyacinth, there was no greater comfort than the glittering wonder of the mothering sky.