“I haven’t, but I suppose you are right.”
Eryian guessed Loch was talking merely to cover his apprehension. The sword of Uriel left him uneasy; still, even with the effects of nearly a skin of wine in him, he remained calm as he carefully traced the elaborate etchings of the black ivory hilt. He paused short of touching the purple bloodstone of the pommel. It was like a diamond, but at the same time it looked soft to the touch. Eryian knew Loch would recognize it as the same stone set into the crown of his mother’s ring. Yet, the pommel of Uriel’s sword promised far more power, and Loch’s mere proximity had ignited a soft, inner glow deep within its core.
Silver serpents curled about the inner black ivory of the hilt, carved so intricately their scales glittered. They formed finger notches that were said to mold to the sword’s owner. The heads of each serpent bore tiny, red diamond eyes and curled fanged teeth of the same purple stone as the pommel. The teeth sunk into the pommel from seven sides—not merely anchoring it, but melding with it, and like veins, lines of purple curled through each serpent, vanishing into the mount of the cross guards. They ensured that anyone who gripped the hilt would also touch the pommel’s stone.
Eryian found himself as fascinated as Loch, and he watched as the pommel seemed to smell the boy’s blood, its inner light stirring, as though there were far, tiny stars deep within. Argolis had produced no such effect. His son, however, seemed to be awakening Uriel’s sword from a long slumber. Loch was the sixth king of the Daath. Prophecy spoke there would be only seven.
Loch finally curled his hand about the hilt, letting his fingers slip into its mold. The blade flashed a glimmering, metallic silver. Eryian watched breathless as blood was drawn through the skin of Loch’s palm. He knew what was happening, but he had never guessed it would happen to Loch. It left him stunned, realizing that the sixth king of the Daath was about to light the blade of Uriel. The blood turned the pommel a deeper red, then curled through the veins of the serpents and into the metallic sheen of the flange, where it coalesced in a swirl of bright red. Without warning, a lightning pulse burst through the blade. The entire room was engulfed in a brilliant white flash, so vivid and pure that for seconds it blinded Eryian. It took some moments before the room slowly came back into focus, as if it were cooling down, though there had been no sensation of heat. When the room was again normal, the blade had returned to its smooth, crystal glass.
Loch was breathing carefully, though he did not seem so much surprised as he was fascinated. Eryian understood what had just happened, but he had been taken by surprise. He would not have guessed the boy’s blood to have been that strong.
“Any speculations?” Loch said, calmly.
“Only one and it is not speculation. I speak of the eye of Daath.”
“Yes, I know all of it. It has been seared into my blood through dreams that have haunted me since I first touched the ring. The mirrored image of Dannu, as real as the Goddess—but separate, distinct. She is the mothering star of our people, unlike any other—yet you speak of her almost as if she were to be feared.”
“You have already opened the eye of Daath. Tell me that is not truth.”
For a moment, Loch ignored him. He sheathed the sword, dropping it back on the bed’s thick coverlet.
“How could you feel the need to hide anything from me?” Eryian pressed. “You do not trust me? As long as you have known me, you still find a need to hide truth? Just tell me, Loch. You made that young Water Bearer the sixth queen of the Daath.”
“That is your assumption.”
“I make no assumptions. What I cannot understand is why you would deceive me.”
Loch turned to stare at Eryian coldly. The anger in him, the fuel Eryian had used to mold the Shadow Walker, was close to the surface, simmering like fire running over coals.
“Tell me to my face the eye has not been opened,” Eryian demanded. “I know as well as you what moves in the heavens. Tell me!”
“I have spoken no lies. In this world, her soul no longer breathes. She is gone. But you are correct, warlord. The eye of Daath is open. Her mirrored light now spills from heaven.”
“Then we have loosened the curse of Ammon’s covenant.”
“No—I have. This is on me; it always was on me. Like shattering stone I have released her wrath—a shadow that will pass through the Earth, touching us all, men, angels, their Watchers and prefects, even the mighty lords of the choir, and all their children born of the Star Walker Queens. And when it is over, the Seraphon will walk the Earth at last. We will be all out of prophecies.”
Eryian tightened his jaw. “Anything else you have kept hidden?”
“You think I know? What do I know, Eryian? Sometimes I feel I know nothing at all. Sometimes I believe I do not have the slightest idea what is happening, why I feel the things I do, the emotions that rip through me. Why was I driven to find her? Why does she mean so much to me? And why was she taken so quickly? If all this was meant to be, how could I have lost her having barely found her? You tell me, Eryian! You tell me.”
Eryian finally got the true emotion he had been seeking. It spilled from Loch, a deep sorrow, a piercing sadness. Eryian glanced down, away from the intensity of the boy’s eyes. He had not even guessed, he had never thought of what it meant to Loch, the sadness that had crushed him twice, first his mother and now this girl. He did not understand how, but the love Loch had for her was as strong as what he felt for Krysis. For the first time Eryian had the impulse to touch him, even hold him, as if he was a son, but he only watched, shaken by what he felt.
“I … I am sorry, Loch,” he said quietly, but with true sincerity.
“Did you not say you needed to leave, warlord? Something about your family?”
Eryian half-bowed, then strode to the door and knocked for the guards. He glanced to Loch one last time, but all he could offer was to let his own emotion spill through his eyes, something he had done for no man, something he knew Loch would not miss.
Once Eryian was gone, the guards closed the heavy doors behind him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Pirates
In the black night, the single ashore boat from Darke’s ship was but a shadow as it cut through whitecaps. The seven in the boat kept low and all of them wore cloaks that were the same dark-gray as the storm clouds above. Storan manned the oars, his cloak thrown back over his shoulders and the great muscles of his arms straining with each stroke. Darke crouched near the bow, searching the face of the cliff that rose before them. The tide had come in, but not just any tide, a rare tide. A tide this deep filled the Dove Cara only twice each year, covering the white sand high enough to bear an ashore boat all the way to the cliff side. Darke had learned about the high tide expensively, paying a Pelegasian captain handsomely for the information. It turned out the timing was perfect, this particular night, the sabbat of the autumn equinox, just happened to be one of the two. But such coincidence did not surprise him. Satariel had known well the timing of this rare tide. It was probably linked to some prophecy, just as everything else about this damned mission.
Darke had never been in this place. The hard, slate-gray granite rose sharply upward, and above it, he could make out the lighted spires of a city unlike any he had seen before. Above to the left he could also make out the dark shapes of the fabled trees that were the forest known as the East of the Land. There was myth to this place; he could feel it, land all about that was marked with legend as ancient as the Earth, but Darke put that out of his mind. He had a job to do, a difficult one, and should he make the slightest error, none of them would ever see Ophur or the Western Sea that was their home again. Darke raised his hand and Storan laid back the oars. They were close enough. The crossbow machine was too heavy for a man to lift, so it had been set in the bottom of the longboat and lashed against the gunwales. Danwyar the Bald crouched behind it. The heavy iron beams were straining at their torsion. As the marksman adjusted his aim, the crossbow trembled. Danwyar centered along the bo
lt’s shaft, checking the angle carefully until he was satisfied. He then eased back and gripped the trigger release. The tip of the crossbow’s bolt was a heavy iron grappling hook, and in the bottom of the stern, a long line of triple-bound hemp was coiled.
“Take hold,” Danwyar said quietly. The crossbow launched with a heavy whang. The recoil lifted the bow out of the water and dropped it back down with a heavy splash. The grappling hook soared into the night, arching, then dropped over a peaked crag midway up where it caught on a spur, anchoring. Danwyar quickly pulled in slack. When it came taut, Storan helped to pull the longboat hand over hand until they were at the base of the cliff. There they tied off.
Darke stood and shouldered a smaller grappling bolt loaded in a heavy crossbow. He took a solid grip of the hemp, tested it with a jerk, and began climbing up the black rock. There was a mist of rain from the heavy storm that was drawing black fingers across the sky bearing from the south. Occasionally the sky would flicker blue lightning fingers through the black clouds. It was no ordinary storm. It was the kind of storm most sailors would have avoided at all cost, but it was just one other thing Darke put out of his mind as he ascended the sheer rock face of the Dove Cara.
Behind, the others followed. The lightest, the priestess, came last.
When Darke reached the crag, he paused and leaned back to brace himself against the rock. He lifted the heavy crossbow. Above, he could see the edge of the Daathan’s stone wall. It was not difficult to make out, for it was white alabaster. Along the causeway were archer ports, and every so often covered towers. He fired the bolt. The hook sailed high, trailing its rope. It was wrapped in linen and when it dropped against the causeway’s stone, there was almost no sound. Darke tested it and began to climb.
When he reached the alabaster wall, the captain pulled himself over the edge and dropped nimbly, silently onto the wide causeway. He lifted the crossbow and this time loaded it with a plain, feathered silver bolt. Across from him was one of the towers and in it a guard, a tall Daath who was yet to turn this way, his cloak wrapped about him against the chill of the wind. There was no sound when the bolt sheared through the warrior’s throat. The Daath crumpled into the tower. It was the first cold blood Darke had ever taken in his life and the taste of it soured in him, but that was yet another thing he put out of his mind. Warriors lived and died by blood; it was their profession—at least this was no innocent.
Darke crouched against the stone and waited. The wind moaned as it streamed through the causeway ports. There was a touch to Darke’s shoulder, and he turned to see Hyacinth crouch beside him, the last over the edge, her brown eyes flashing. They were gathered—the seven of them. Storan was at Darke’s left. Danwyar was training his steel arrows on the causeway to the south.
“Well, that was a damned long climb,” Storan muttered in a whisper. Darke secretly knew how much Storan hated heights.
Hyacinth had already gone to work. She crouched and withdrew a gray sachet from the folds of her cloak. Close against the wall, protected from the wind, she sprinkled red ocher. Darke heard Storan moan—the big helmsman hated magick of all kinds.
She lifted a small bottle with a cork stopper and stared at the tiny creature within. “Show us the scion of the Daath and you are free! The wind is yours!”
Hyacinth held the bottle over the ocher and dropped it. When it shattered, the creature sprang upward but could not soar; captured in a reddish smoke bubble. She looked to Hyacinth, and then spun in a tight circle, like a dancer, weaving an image of the castle that soon took on substance until it was a tiny, ghostlike replica. The creature turned on its wing and followed along the causeway, past the tower where Darke had slain the guard, then down a stairway and through a vaulted window. Wings a blur, she flew down stone hallways. She paused at a corner long enough for Darke to mark the fixture on the wall—a double set of crossed torches whose holders were shaped as serpent’s tails. The sylph took wing down another hall, and then a third. She turned swiftly down miniature phantom steps, and finally paused in a wide hallway. Here a line of silver torches burned from gold brackets. The creature moved only slightly down the hallway to pause before a set of heavy, double oaken doors. They were closed and guards were to either side. The sylph, hovering, finally turned to the priestess, waiting.
“We have seen the king’s chamber,” Hyacinth said.
She waved her hand through the smoke, breaking it open, and watched as the creature soared into the wind.
“We suppose to remember that?” Storan said.
“I will,” Danwyar assured them, angling his silver bow to the side. “Follow.”
With Danwyar in the lead, the seven ran, hunched over, across the causeway and down the stairway of the tower where the Daathan guard lay slumped in the corner, his helmet askew.
Once inside, they moved through shadows without sound. Storan reached up and snuffed each torch as they passed. When they stepped about one corner, they came suddenly face to face with three Daathan warriors. There was a moment’s stunned hesitation between both parties.
The warriors drew quick weapons. Darke high-stepped and cut down the first. Before the others could move, Hyacinth and Danwyar’s bolts whispered. Danwyar’s arrows were quick thuds, close enough to pierce the armor. Hyacinth wore a small crossbow strapped to her wrist. She had designed it herself, could aim by guiding her hand, and loaded it always with poisons. The three Daath had been brought down with hardly a sound.
Darke paused to admire their armor, so thin and light, darkened silver, and their skin, pale, bloodless, tinted almost blue.
“Not so tough,” Storan muttered. “These so-called vampire Daath—not so tough to kill, you ask me.”
“They are not vampires,” Hyacinth corrected him. “Who told you that?”
“Who cares? My point is they die quick as any other.”
“Make no mistake,” whispered Darke, “they are deadly killers. If we are discovered without surprising them, as we did these, none of us are getting out of here alive.”
At Darke’s signal, Danwyar went ahead. At each corner, he braced, turned with bow drawn, then kept going if it was clear. They reached a branch. At one point a hallway split to the left, then, a few feet beyond, it turned right. Danwyar motioned he would cover the left—the first branch, and singled Rathe, a quick pirate who wore only light leather armor and was an expert with daggers, to check the right before they moved on.
Rathe crouched, moving forward swiftly. As he turned the corner, before he ever realized what had happened, he found himself walking straight into the warlord of the Daath—Eryian, the Eagle of Argolis. The warlord’s surprise was a flick of hesitation before his heavy sword cleared its sheath. Rathe had not even touched the hilt of his many daggers when his chest was opened. He was then beheaded. In seconds both arms were shorn off.
Stunned, Darke saw Rathe’s torso, stripped of limbs, stagger back into the wall. He knew the manner of the kill had been for effect, to strike terror. And it worked; even though Darke had seen deathly slaughter, a chill ran through him.
Darke drew sword. As the warlord came around the corner, closing on him, he was like a shadow. Suddenly he unfolded—two, three of him—all exactly alike, mirrored images. Darke had heard of it, but had never seen it done. It was effective.
Storan shifted to Darke’s left, clutching his axe.
In the last instant, the mirrors vanished as Eryian closed for the kill—choosing Darke as his target. Darke was an able, cunning swordsman, and he blocked the first blow of the warlord’s blade, though barely. It struck so solid that it numbed Darke’s wrist, nearly dislodging his sword.
Darke staggered, and for the first time in his life found himself desperately trying not to die. The warlord’s sword hummed as it moved. At times it phased out of focus, splintering into three, then four swords. Darke guessed each one true by the sword’s path, but he knew he could not keep this up long. The lord of the Tarshians had never met his match, but he knew if it were but h
im and this warlord, he would not survive. Even now, with his men to either side, in moments this Daath was going to slay him. One blow sent him staggering, off balance. The next thrust was for the death, but it was blocked by one of Darke’s men, Kerrian, who threw himself into the sword’s path. Kerrian’s head was perfectly sliced down the center and laid open to either side. The warlord’s every strike was meant to inspire terror.
The Daath moved past Kerrian, still coming for Darke. The warlord’s blade met the shank of Storan’s axe so solidly the weapon was knocked from Storan’s hands. It was the first time Storan had ever been disarmed. It seemed impossible. Sensing the big man’s strength and threat, the Daath’s sword went for Storan’s throat, but just short of the blow he was forced back by a rapid series of steel arrows.
Danwyar fired his missiles swiftly—feeding them into the silver short bow one after the other in rapid succession.
Hyacinth slid to the floor on her stomach, crouched at Darke’s thigh, and laying her small crossbow over her left arm for aim, fired, her teeth bared in a snarl. It was her captain the Daath was coming for, and her aim was certain.
The warlord had twisted from the path of each of Danwyar’s missiles with amazing speed, stepping sideways, then back, then against the wall. One of Danwyar’s shafts managed to graze his armor with a singing clank, but that was as close as Danwyar came. It was Hyacinth’s small bolt that brought the warlord down.
Eryian turned for the kill, but paused, surprised by what was happening inside him. Hyacinth’s bolt was lodged in the side of his neck, near a vital vein, but not lethal. It was the poison that had stopped him. The warlord stared at all of them in disbelief, then stepped back and finally dropped against the wall behind him, sliding down until he was sitting, his sword still in his hand, one knee bent. It looked as though he was merely resting. Hyacinth was a master of poisons and this one moved more quickly than any viper’s. It was magick, aided by Hyacinth’s best poison spell, swifter than lightning. The pirates could actually see it move through the Daathan’s blood, the vessels in his neck turning purple as the poison sunk deeper.
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 24
