Free Angelslayer: The Winnowing War by K. Michael Wright

armband that was the signet of a Daathan Shadow Walker, and Rhywder was one of them. In the gathering wars he rode at the left hand of the Daathan king, Argolis. He was a ranger and a scout, as well as the most fierce and loyal protector of his king. Also, before she died, Rhywder’s sister, Asteria, a seer and child of the mothering star of Dannu, had been Argolis’s wife, the fifth queen of the Daath.
    These days, Rhywder chose to travel unmarked. He looked like a lone, weary adventurer, down on his luck. His red hair was unkempt, as was his beard. His cloak, a fabled Daathan cloak, was so weathered it had lost its luster and was left gray and dusty. He preferred it this way, appearing as a road-weary wayfarer. He did not like being singled out or discovered. He had learned to keep his head low, dress as an ordinary adventurer—easier to avoid those looking for fame—and bringing down a Shadow Walker would be a prized mark.
    Beyond, a hidden cavern led to the city above. It was ancient, secretly cut into the rock, and known only to a few. Here one first had to ride through tidal pools and beneath hanging moss, then duck to avoid low branches, wind through massive rocks, and wade into the deep water of the stream that ran from the eastern ridge to the sea. It was sweet water, this stream, always clean and clear. Rhywder was tempted to drop off and get a drink, maybe even splash some water in his face, but that seemed too much bother, so he kept riding. His horse had to swim some distance and then maneuver several sandbanks to reach the hidden, narrow cavern that curled off into darkness.
    Things scampered here. They scampered because they could smell him, not simply the stink of a year at sea. They could smell who he was, what he was. Others they might have grizzled at; still others they might have eaten. They were a hoard of Etlantian Failures, and Enoch’s curse had left them desperate for human blood or flesh. What could possibly have been Elyon’s purpose in these savage miscreants, Rhywder had never fathomed. Sometimes they were nothing more than teeth and claws moving on stubs of legs.
    He lit a small torch and anchored it in a side notch of his saddle. He saw some of them slipping into shadows from the light. He glanced at the wall of bones they had built at the entrance to the passageway. They had been working on it all these years. It was a wall made wholly of human bones, mostly thigh heads to smooth the facing. Skull caps were used to form words of binding—Etlantian words—all of them warnings for any who dared pass. Once again, this left Rhywder puzzled: not only had Elyon fashioned these pitiful creatures, but also He had given them intelligence sufficient to craft Etlantian incantations into bone walls. Rhywder had faith in Elyon; he would give his blood and had bound his soul to the Lord of Kings, but His ways left Rhywder endlessly bewildered.
    From here the cavern was a long winding passageway to the top of the Dove Cara, emerging in the forest men called the East of the Land. It was an odd passageway, cut deep into the rock, sometimes well crafted into winding stairs a horse could easily climb, and other times so narrow it seemed the masons had grown lazy. Everywhere there were traps. Of course, Rhywder knew them all, but in the old days, during the gathering wars, when novices attempted the ascent, Rhywder would commonly pass bodies slowly being drained of blood. The curse of Enoch had turned human blood to precious nectar for these creatures, and they loved nothing more than to hang bodies and drain their blood into casks that were later sealed with wax and hidden in the dark recesses of the passageway.
    Higher up were natural caverns, large and dripping with stalactites. The Daath had built row after row of recessed chambers in the catacombs. They were the burial places for Daathan royalty—kings and queens, those of noble blood, and warriors who had distinguished