Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (6 page)

“Perhaps.” She steadied herself and started turning through pages once more. “I do not fear death, Captain. It is the way he sent his probe. He poisoned it with fear; he weakened me. I am stronger than this. Do not believe I can be shaken so easily.”

“I know you, Hyacinth; I have seen you in battle. I have no doubt of your courage.”

Still, her hands trembled as she searched the pages, and he caught a tear fall over her cheek, one she ignored and one he pretended not to notice. It tore at his heart, and his anger flared. Time would come, this creature's powers aside, and in the Endgame, Darke would bring this bastard down.

“Here, these pages,” she pointed. “Now I remember why the angels grew so angry and why they began to lose the light and become the fallen. When they realized their offspring would fail, that instead of ruling the Earth, their children would amount to nothing, they sent for the one human they trusted. He was Enoch. They knew him to be the seventh of the first, which means he was the seventh born of Adam, the first man. The angels trusted him; they called him the Scribe and believed him to be righteous. So they asked him to plead their cause before Elyon. And he did. It was the archangel Uriel who lifted Enoch through the many fiery pillars that support the heavens. Enoch beheld many wonders, but most glorious of all,” she paused, “he looked upon the face of Elyon. I will read: ‘And Elyon spoke, saying “Why have you come before me, Enoch?” And Enoch then pleaded the cause of the angels, that they were now repentant. He told Elyon they had stepped down from heaven only to help mankind, and Enoch pleaded that they and their children be spared His wrath.'”

“And Elyon's answer?”

“It was Azazel who met Enoch when he returned to the Earth. The Angel of Death asked what Elyon had said, and Enoch delivered Elyon's words: ‘You are angels, sons of the Most High, and yet it is a man you send before me to speak in your stead? You have become fallen, and from this time forth, you will be cut off from the light of heaven. Yea, though once you walked as sons of gods, Bene ba Elohim, you shall die as men shall die, and your souls shall be imprisoned. You shall dwell in the deserts of Dua'el and in other desolate places where you shall be bound by the same fiery pillars that separate the depths of the Earth.

“'As for your offspring, even your firstborn, all will perish when the Earth passes through the abyss of Ain to be cleansed of your abominations. And until then, henceforth from this moment, no longer will they find nourishment in the fruits of the Earth, no longer shall the waters and sweet streams satiate their thirst: they shall be forced to drink the blood of men to give them life, to eat the flesh of men to give them strength.'”

“Sounds more as if Elyon's curse was against men,” Darke cut in. “This is when it started, is it not—the raids, the wars? This is when the warships of Etlantis began to strip whole coastlines of villages, leaving only bones and ash, slaying even women, even children. And this is Elyon's curse against angels?”

“Yes. It is known as the curse of Enoch.”

“Call me simple, but is it not men who fell, men who were burnt and tortured, drained of their blood? Is it not men who suffer this curse?”

“It is the angels' curse because, unlike the animals they had trapped or the water of streams from which they had drunk, men fight back. When they are threatened, men become slayers. And it was men such as you, Captain, the lionhearted, such as the Tarshians, who were among the first to strike back, to sink the warships of the Etlantians, and even to kill their princes.”

“Yet far more innocents fell, whole villages of women and children! How can this be ordained of Elyon?”

“The souls of men return to heaven. The souls of the giants have no home; they are not of heaven, but are bound to Earth, and so they are doomed to become wanderers. They are left to scourge the Earth and are called the Uttuku. They will plague mankind until the final coming of the Son of Women in the Aeon of judgment, a time far from our own.”

“So as well as sending the Etlantians against us, Elyon offers evil spirits as a bonus to drive sane men mad and tempt thieves and murderers. What a kind and loving God, Hyacinth. No wonder I take no comfort of priests.”

“If we are not tested, Captain, how shall we ever grow?”

“Grow? I have watched my own brothers die in my arms! I have watched the cities of the Tarshians burn one by one until I am the last of my kind, and you tell me it is all for the sake of Elyon's pride?”

“Do not ever speak so against Him, Captain, I beg you.”

“Believe what you will, Hyacinth. Myself, I shall not be found praying for light of a God who leaves His own children to suffer such horrors. Is there anything else? Anything worse this book has to offer? Or can it get any worse?”

“One more passage, the last riddle of your puzzle.”

“Tell me, and then I must go walk the shores, calm my blood.”

She nodded and turned through pages. Darke could no longer kneel beside her. He stood and began to pace, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Here,” she said, “this is the last part you should know. ‘And the Earth itself became so heavy with the bloodshed of the giants that she cried out to heaven, to the mothering stars and to the light of Elyon, and the Earth wept for the carnage and death that weighted upon her soul. Finally Elyon turned His face and He sent forth the Arsayalalyur to be His wrath, to answer the blood of the innocent.'”

“And where is this Arsayalalyur? When does he show his face? Once the last of us have perished?”

“The Arsayalalyur was sent long ago. Time in heaven is not as it is on Earth. Elyon sent the Arsayalalyur back into the days of Yered, when the Oath of Binding was uttered by the lords of the Watchers on Mount Ammon.”

“Then this savior has been here all along?”

“Elyon's works are a mystery to men, but all He does is for us to return our souls to the light. Wait, I remember something, from my teachings. I remember something of the Arsayalalyur! Why did it not come to me sooner?”

“What?”

“The Arsayalalyur is known as the mark of the father, and the father is Uriel. It has been so long since I studied those words, forgive I did not remember sooner, but that it is, Captain—that is the key!”

“Explain.”

“It is a sword. The Arsayalalyur is the sword of Uriel. In our words, made plain, it would be called the Angelslayer.”

Darke paused. “You referred to it as the mark of the father?”

“Yes, and the father is Uriel—the archangel. And his children are the voyagers, the ones you mentioned first, sent in the day of Yered. Uriel's children are the Daath!”

“He spoke of that—the angel. He spoke of the mark of the father …”

“The one who carries the mark of the father is the Daathan king, for the sword of Uriel can never leave his side.”

“Then you are telling me these Daath carry the one weapon that might make a difference, and yet they watch from the spires of their city as the children of men are slaughtered? And this is Elyon's wrath!”

“Captain, I beg you—”

“Enough of this book. I know all I need to know.”

She reverently, rather sadly, closed the book. Darke turned, furious, but at the cavern's exit, he paused.

“Wait … have you any magick that could show me this supposed savior, this mighty Daathan king?”

“Yes … I may be able to do that.”

She searched quickly through jars and potions until she found an enormous glass bulb, almost too big for her to lift. She set it in the floor, then lifted the top of the glass and laid it aside. The room filled with the stink of heavy musk. It was so strong it made Hyacinth sneeze.

“Forgive the smell,” she said. “This is very old. It is called a flounder mushroom. See the way it grows on its side, as if it were hiding on the seafloor?”

“What good is it?”

“It is rare. I do not know how Taran managed to find it, but he explained he admired the round glass it grew in. Come. You will need to be close; the image will likely be tiny.”

He walked over and knelt beside her.

“I sense you are angry with me, Captain.”

“Not with you, Little Flower, never with you.”

“Do not be angry with Elyon. We cannot hope to understand His ways, but—”

“No more talk of Elyon! Now what does this damned mushroom do?”

She lifted a flint and struck it with a quick flick of her wrist. The mushroom ignited instantly, a thick, greenish smoke billowing upward. The fungus quickly withered to black ash. She blew away the smoke and uttered quick words of binding over the ash. At first nothing happened.

Darke stared, impatient. “A burnt mushroom—that is the king?”

Hyacinth sighed. “Show us the scion of the Daath,” she commanded. The ash instantly blossomed into a tiny vision of the tops of trees, oak mostly—a thick, massive stand of oak that looked as old as the Earth. Hyacinth stared at it a moment, puzzled.

“Nothing but trees,” said Darke.

“Will
you have patience, Captain?” she snapped, almost losing her own. She searched the trees carefully, finally lying on her side until she could peer beneath them. “Here,” she said. “Here he is.”

Agitated, Darke lay down beside her, so close he could smell her hair—its scent, of course, that of hyacinths.

“The figure there,” she said. “Do you see him? I believe he is playing a lyre. He plays quite well, actually.”

“A lyre player? A minstrel is the king of Daathan slayers so deadly they are called killer angels?”

“Yes, Captain, I sense truth; there is no mistake. You are looking at the scion of the Daath.”

Darke stood brushing himself off. “Apparently you are right. I have made a deadly covenant, since it turns out my single possible strategy against this angel is a boy no older than you. I have as my secret weapon a deadly slayer who is going to strike from nowhere without sound or warning
with his lyre!
I need a walk. I need to smell the sea, get out of this damned musty dungeon.”

He left without saying more, but Hyacinth had not even heard his last words. She was stricken, staring at the tiny figure. She was able to focus, move in closer, until she could see his face. He was, indeed, Daath. His skin bore a light blue tint, his hair, where it fell over his shoulders from under the hooded cloak, was braided, night-black. His face was the most beautiful she had ever seen. The song he played enchanted her with the power of a siren.

“Greetings, my little Angelslayer,” she said. She reached into a pouch of her belt and from between her fingers she crushed a tincture of rosemary, grinding it to a powder that fell over the tiny oak trees. Hyacinth smiled as the lyre player looked up, puzzled at the light rain of red blossoms.

T
he skies were an unwashed blue as Adrea set her father's finest horse, the dappled gray stallion, at a gallop. She hugged the withers as the horse cleared the border fence just beyond the cottage and let the stallion run. It tossed its head back and muscled into a hard gallop. Adrea leaned into its wind. She loved to let him run, and though few would know it, she was one of the best riders in her village.

Later, far from her father's cottage, she saw a figure wave from a hillock. He started his mount at a trot, then broke into a gallop to catch up. She silently cursed. Her brother, Aeson, had found her. Probably he had been lying in wait for her. He knew she had been coming this way for days now, riding this same ridge, and he was far too curious to ignore what she might be up to. Aeson hugged the neck of his horse, riding bareback, and Adrea had to slow to let him catch her. He rode alongside her a moment, quiet, tumble-brown hair bouncing. Aeson was ten and three years. “I thought you had cattle to feed, Aeson.” “They can forage for tubers.” “What about Lamachus?”

“He can forage for tubers, as well. I intend to spend a little time with my sister before she is sold.”

“Aeson, I am not being—”

“Sold—like hung venison. I listened to them last night. You know the kind of things they said about you?”

“No, and I do not want to, but I get this feeling I am going to hear it anyway.”

“Lamachus, he liked to bang his fist against the table when he said such things as ‘good woman, Marcian!' and ‘blood Galaglean' so I figured it would not be too much longer before they would be in to pick you for bugs and have a notch cut in your ear, mark you for milking.” Aeson studied her for reaction.

“Things like this are done—tradition,” she said.

“Maybe for others, but you are not ordinary. You are different from others, something in you, and they ought to know.”

“That is silly, Aeson. I am no different from anyone else in Lucania.”

“Maybe you do not know it, but I guess you never looked in your own eyes. I see it; I see who you are. They should not give you to just anyone.”

“Have you not listened to Lamachus? Marcian is a captain; one of Quietus's veterans.” She spoke in imitation of Lamachus's deep, gravely voice, “A hero of Tarchon Pass.”

“Who could be your grandfather.”

“But Aeson, he is rich. He is a horse breeder.”

“Maybe being rich has a lot more to do with this than tradition.”

Adrea didn't argue. The night before, the horse breeder had ridden up to the cottage with four men, all wearing the rust-red cloaks of Galaglean warriors. The men turned out to be the horseman's sons, his four eldest, and they never spoke, never even took off their helmets. They waited silently the whole time near the stockade.

“At least he is not a Daath,” Aeson said.

“What should that matter?”

“You know why they brought us here, the Daath—what the wars were about. You know why they keep us. We are their breeding stock. They like the red hair and fair skin. I am surprised one has not taken you already.”