Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (90 page)

Assembled on the bank were four riders. They were not Daathan or Ishmian. They might have been Etlantian, but they were not. They were giants, Nephilim, but the curse was not over them. These were sons of archangels, and their hearts, as Sandalaphon, were pure even now, even centuries from the light that spawned them. They were true Watchers. They saw what happened in this world, but as Sandalaphon, by edict they could do little.

Loch had seen these men once before. They were with Sandalaphon, and they had been there, in the shadows the day his mother died and when the others had left, when Loch was alone with her a moment, these same Nephilim gathered about the body of the fallen queen and bowed their heads, honoring her. He had heard once, of Sandalaphon, that Asteria was as pure as any queen he had ever known, that she was as white and perfect as even the mothering star.

Now the Nephilim waited, wrapped against the cold in leather and fur. They waited calmly until Loch, Sandalaphon, and Hyacinth were come ashore.

Three horses had been brought, a large one—an Etlantian mount, dark and bred strong—for Sandalaphon, and two smaller, one of them light, steady, swift—a horse for Hyacinth—and the last a warhorse—a charger for Loch, black and shiny.

They mounted. Sandalaphon took up his reins, then studied Loch a moment.

“Ishmia is besieged,” Sandalaphon said. “Your warlord, Eryian, has little time left before his life is taken. He is outnumbered and will certainly die. As always, time is thin, Angelslayer.”

“As always,” Loch answered back.

“We cannot follow, cannot help,” Sandalaphon said.

“I understand—the edict of heaven.”

Sandalaphon turned and lifted a silver cage from the hand of one of the riders. He lifted the door latch and held it high, letting the silver eagle soar into the sky.

“Why this?” asked Loch.

“We have followers, Etlantians. It is their messenger. The chosen of the Daath—the children, including the scion—must survive at all cost. The legions of your people will, of course, fight to the death, but that cannot save the chosen. Thus our brothers will come with seven ships—sailing for the docks of Terith-Aire. They will be marked of white sails and silvered armor over their hulls. They are your final hope—but should they reach the chosen in time, they will press for deep water, and the Unchurian, even the dark one, Azazel, cannot pursue in deep water.”

Sandalaphon paused a moment then. Sadness leaked through his eyes, even as somber as they always were, a mist that might even have been tears—something Loch had never seen in him before.

“My time is almost finished here—one last task, but that shall be quick. I know the weight of heaven bears down upon you, Lochlain. I know you have turned against trying to understand heaven's path and I can hardly blame you—but that aside, what I say now is personal. Something I have never spoken in all these years.”

“And what is that?”

“I care for you. Even from your birth—across these two decades I have cared for you. Deeply. I see the pain in your eyes and I stir inside, but I know you will stay true to the course. I know who you are. More than I, perhaps, in aeons past—more than I. We may not meet again in this life, Angelslayer, so I bid you farewell. I leave you Elyon's grace, Elyon's Light.”

He lifted his hand in the sign of the word. After a moment, Loch did, as well. It was Sandalaphon who pressed forward to touch his palm against Loch's. He then drew back and looked to Hyacinth.

“My lady, all blessings I give you,” he said.

“And you, Sandalaphon. I regret I could not have known you better.”

“Heaven's grace, in time we may,” he said with a slight smile. He then glanced at the others, and took up his reins. “Godspeed, both of you,” he said and the five riders turned, heading north and east, the hooves of their horses barely brushing the earth as they galloped, swift, so swiftly they were soon out of sight.

At the top of the ridge, Loch circled his horse, staring below. The entire bay of Ishmia was flickering fire. They might have been campfires in the waters, but they were ships. Many were burning, but many more were not, and these were sailing for the port. The docks and wharfs of Ishmia had been destroyed, and what looked Etlantian warships were embedded into their ruins like a line of spears, forming new docks, new wharfs. Loch could see that when the galley reached them, hundreds of thousands of warriors waited to cross. And perhaps his heart was not entirely hardened, for a line of Daathan warriors, mostly shieldbearers, were holding against minions and skilled firstborn warriors. The bodies in the bay held testament of the battle that had raged there.

He then saw a small number, six or seven of his father's personal guard, fighting alongside an injured, weakened Eryian. All of the Daath remaining were locked in death grips. It would be over in moments alone. The killing was swift; the outcome certain.

“Your people, Loch—they have not a chance,” Hyacinth said, watching below, “and there, from the south, even more coming!”

Loch glanced to the southern bay. It was a mass of ships, thick with triangular sails, thousands, more ships than he had ever seen gathered before.

He slowly drew the sword. As the Angelslayer came free of its sheath, it was not crystal or silvered. It was a solid, harsh light that brightened the area all around them.

“When I am done with this, Hyacinth, take me to my people,” he said, meeting her eye.

“I will,” Hyacinth whispered.

Loch curled both hands about the hilt of the sword. The muscles of his neck were stretched taut. He set his teeth tight against the coming pain, and then he screamed, leveling the sunblade.

There was a sound, an imploding
whumph.
Blue lightning simmered about Loch and Hyacinth, crackling. It formed a barrier between them and what the sword was becoming. Loch closed his eyes, focusing. He was shivering, he looked weak, and when Hyacinth saw him, she screamed, for blood spilled out of him everywhere, one stream from his temple, along his cheek, another from his lip, still another from his eye, and every drop formed lines that quickly wove themselves into the pommel of the blade's hilt. Hyacinth was forced to throw her arm over her eyes when the starstream burst from the sword.

As the minions closed on him, tearing through the last of the King's Guard, Eryian heard a thunderbolt so powerful it swallowed sound, snuffed it out, and left everything in a numbed emptiness—almost the most profound silence he had ever heard. A vacuum of silence, the very fabric of dark space, and then, like a breath, the sky sucked inward and then burst with the fire of a sun. He recognized this kind of fire. He had seen it before, felt it. It had burst from Righel's sword when it exploded in the body of Azazel. But this light was not random. It was as if it had eyes to search. Eryian watched living tendrils of white air taking out the minions, striking down from the sky and selectively vaporizing them. And when their skeletal bodies flashed to ashes, each of their spirit shadows were sucked upward to join the rising brilliance that had become the sky. A sun storm. Creation's fire. He stared amazed as the very air above the Isthmus caught fire and with terrible heat, broiling, destroyed everything above water. Eryian's men had to look away, shield their eyes. He alone was able to watch as every bit of debris, every ship, every floating corpse, was vaporized and sucked into a vortex that streamed skyward, left of the horsemen in the stars—the stream of light soared for the Seven Sisters, the Pleiades. When he looked back at the isthmus, the water was boiling.

Then, with a shudder of air—as though heaven's door had just slammed shut—it was over. The quiet that followed was a deafening cowl of numbness. Steam misted. There was nothing left of them. No ships, no highborns, no minions. It was not the end of the Unchurians—for across the far water he could still see their armies in the trees among the southern hills. But for this day, it was over. Many of Eryian's men dropped to their knees beside him.

For a moment, Ishmia remained as light as day, and the air glowed, silvery. Then, slowly, the night sky seemed to bleed through its tissue, and darkness closed like a word of mercy. Eryian searched the hillside where the sun strike had come from. He saw two riders. One, he knew, despite the distance, was Loch, the son of Argolis, still wearing Daathan armor and cloak. The other, he did not know. Eryian felt a shiver. The blade that had just spoken was the Angelslayer. The boy had become more powerful than Eryian could ever have guessed, yet, at the same time he saw the sword fall from his hand. The rider next to him, a girl, caught it, slipped it, still glowing a fantastic white, into the sheath at Loch's hip. She then took the reins of his horse. Loch fell forward, barely conscious, gripping the mane of his horse to stay in the saddle. The girl was leading them down the hillside, and when she was close enough, he recognized her face: the little pirate whose poison had dropped even him.

I
t was night when Rhywder reached the city, breathless, weary, his lungs rasping. From the white spiral of light that had spun into the sky for the Pleiades, he expected to find nothing. That had been star fire, capable of vaporizing the entire city, and from the distance it had looked as though the sky itself had sucked Ishmia into oblivion. But as he got closer, he saw houses, a few hearth fires, life. As he staggered through the streets, his legs at one point buckled, gripped in painful spasms since he had run so hard and so long to reach here. Slowly he pulled himself to his feet, leaned against a stone pillar to rest.

He stared at the ruins of a burnt-out villa. It looked as though it had been struck by a comet; the roof was caved in, the door and one set of shutters lay in the street where they had been thrown clear by an explosion. The catapult rock still glowed amid the embers.

Rhywder turned and staggered forward. He began to search for the villa where they had taken Satrina. He knew the color, he knew about where it should be, but so many of the houses were gutted, it was difficult finding his path. The cobblestone was lit eerily in dying embers. In places flame still cast and unsteady shadow.

He staggered past a fish vendor's shop. The vendor, naked, lay dead across one of the counters, and fish were scattered, crushed and stinking. Rhywder stared a moment. Sitting sleepy-eyed in the corner, belly fat and fish heads littered about him, was a small minion. It looked to have eaten itself into a stupor.

Rhywder backed slowly away, then turned.

As he walked, fire weaved a tapestry glow against the sky. Doors and shutters of intact houses were lashed and bolted. Ishmia was emptied; there were only scattered Daathan warriors and the dead left now. He could not piece together what had happened. The Unchurians had reached the city, but for some reason, they had not held it. Ishmia, damaged as she was, remained in Daathan hands, and the fire stream he had witnessed came not from a Watcher's sword, but from somewhere else. There could be but one possible answer. Loch. He had been found or returned. The star fire could only have come from the sword of Argolis.

Rhywder knew he must be close to where Satrina was to have been taken. Parts of the street made sense. When he heard a noise from a villa he paused. He stepped onto the porch and knocked on the door. “I am Lochlain,” he said. “Not an enemy. I need only direction.”

The voice that answered sent a shiver along his skin. It was a woman's voice, parched as though from thirst: “Go away.”

Rhywder slowly backed from the villa, then turned into the street. The deeper into the city he got, the worse it looked. He saw dead scattered, civilian dead, some already gnawed by dogs. He kept swallowing his panic. He paused before a horse trough and knelt to splash water across his face to keep focus. He stood dripping. The villa was just up this street, he was almost certain. He just wasn't certain he could go on. On the cobblestone just beyond the trough was a pool of sticky blood, a thick pool, clotted over with a film.