As he drew nearer, Eryian could smell the blood of the angel in him. It was a pure-blood. It seemed almost touched with heaven’s light. Whatever the light of Elyon was, it had strange ways. Eryian had more than once sensed the light in a Nephilim. Though the creatures had turned long ago, though their hearts were evil, the light often still burned in them, a distant memory left in their blood from their father’s lineage.
At one point, the Unchurian turned against the sun and Eryian caught a glimpse of his skin. It was reddish, as were all Unchurian, but this one had for some reason chosen to become a blood drinker. It left his skin a darker sheen. That explained his being so far south and tracking Eryian. He was a loner, a wanderer, and probably had been to sea. He hunted humans, and he did so alone or, at times, with Etlantians. The firstborn of such a high lord of the angels such as Azazel were only blood drinkers by choice; they were still able to resist the curse of Enoch if they chose to because their blood was pure enough to resist. Eventually, all of them, all the children of the angels would fall to Enoch’s curse, but this one had done so by choice.
At one point the Unchurian paused and seemed to look directly at Eryian. He remained like that, perfectly still, the waves of heat occasionally blurring his image. A human, even an ordinary Daath, could sit where Eryian was and search for all he was worth and still not spot the rider. But for all his talent, the Unchurian still failed to sense Eryian. It was because Eryian had been here so long, moving not a single muscle but to breathe or blink, that he had blended into the tree he leaned against. The Unchurian chose to move on, closing. In that moment the contest was over—if ever a contest it had been. There remained only the kill. Eryian noticed a bow, already strung, strapped over one shoulder and a scabbard against the rider’s left thigh. There was a small axe lashed to the saddle blanket, hanging over the flank and a row of daggers in a dagger sheath across his chest. Eryian wondered how many this one had killed. Far more than he. Could it have been thousands?
The Unchurian began to ascend the hillock, weaving in and out of the few trees here. He rode calm, eased back, one hand resting on his thigh and the other holding the reins loosely. Once or twice the rider’s eyes would drop to the ground, scanning tracks, but mostly they searched the trees about him carefully. Again he looked directly at Eryian, but still missed him, even this close.
Finally, when the Unchurian was within range, Eryian slowly stood, his cloak falling open. He knew that to the Unchurian he had just appeared out of pure, thin air. The Unchurian instantly froze, hand near his throwing axe, the fingers touching the hilt. Eryian was certain he could move fast, he could fling that small axe in a second’s breath, and anyone but Eryian would be already dead, no matter the surprise of the sudden appearance. Eryian met his gaze, but the Unchurian watched back with steeled, dark eyes—no emotion, just a calm acceptance. Perhaps after living so many years, death offered an allure.
Eryian dropped swiftly to a crouch. The rider twisted, rearing his horse. His axe flung, but Eryian twisted sideways, feeling the wind of it as it passed. The Unchurian dropped over the saddle as the spooked horse ran. The assassin pulled himself across the ground and propped his back against a cedar trunk, watching Eryian. There was a slight gurgling sound with each labored breath. Eryian’s dagger was in his throat, just to the side of his larynx, but in the back of his throat it had pierced his spine. Most of his body was paralyzed.
“You are good,” the Unchurian said. “The best I have ever seen.”
Eryian nodded, crouching eye level, not far from the Unchurian. “Did he send you, or did you pick up the scent on your own?”
The Unchurian stared back a moment, drew what was a difficult breath. “I ride alone. I feel him sometimes, but I have not been there for many centuries. He wants you. He wants you badly. Tell me, Daath, why such interest in you?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Blood spilled in a slow line from the corner of the Unchurian’s lip. “If you would be kind, out of respect, a clean kill? I have no desire to die slow.” “How many more follow me?” Eryian asked. “Nothing living follows you now.”
Eryian nodded. He walked forward. When he was close he studied the dark eyes a moment longer. They watched back fearless, waiting. “How many years have you walked this Earth?” Eryian asked. “Six hundred seventy.”
Eryian lifted his boot and set it against the hilt. He pressed his weight forward slowly, until the pressure sheared the windpipe with a pop. The Unchurian struggled only briefly before his eyes stilled.
As streamers of morning cut the sky, Eryian reached the sea. He pulled the horse up on a black rock ridge, the sea crashing below. He stared across waters, to the west. She was there, far against the horizon—the ice peaks of Etlantis’s mountains brushing the far sky, shrouded in mist, the tallest of the Ammon. He turned the horse and slowly made his way down the hillside, then rode along the white sand toward the village. It was untouched, in all this time. Etlantis, war, famine, and fear, all had passed this village by as if it were on another planet. Elyon protected them; perhaps they were far more favored by heaven than any Daath.
This was Eryian’s first known memory, reaching this shore. Just out to sea was a spire of black rock, barely visible from here. It was from that rock that Eryian had first come. He remembered clearly gliding in a shallow craft for this very shore. He remembered the villagers, and he remembered how he had a distinct sense of purpose—he came without fear, understanding, even though he came without memories. He knew the land about him. He knew that south along the coast lay a city of Daath, their first city, their capital. He also knew of the ancient forest whose trees had once beheld the face of Elyon. He remembered that day clearly, and he thought it odd now, watching as the small village grew closer, how he had come so unafraid, so certain of himself. It was not until later in his life that he became disturbed and searched for reasons why, tried to understand. The day he had first touched this shore it was possible he knew things he did not know now. Though all that had gone before was lost to him, he still remembered the day with clarity, and coming back was somewhat like returning to an old home, as if a mother waited somewhere to welcome him. The spire out to sea beyond this shore was a part of the veil that covered his past. It was only through the knowing that he understood to come here. It had called. He was still not sure why, but he had answered, and he had returned. He did know that the spire was linked somehow to the homeland, one far and distant for the rock that lay out to sea was not of this Earth.
There were girls working on the beach, bringing in fishnets, and when they saw Eryian ride toward them and dismount, their nets were dropped and cries and laughter went up as they ran for him.
Eryian soon found himself encircled by giggling young girls. They wore wraps of white weft about their waists, slit up their thighs. Their breasts were bare. Certainly they did not know who he was, but riders occasionally came through here, and strangers were always welcomed. Somehow, Elyon protected them from blood drinkers. That was a kindness, Eryian thought, for Etlantis and the rogue warships that often left her shores to hunt flesh seemed ignorant of the small village less than a day’s journey from the island.
Eyrian stood taller then any of them by a head and shoulder. He smiled. Eryian had never learned the tongue—he had no idea what they were saying.
A party of warriors approached from the village huts that curled about the emerald lagoon. It seemed almost otherworldly here. The tall cliffs that ringed the village were black, stained with vine and moss, but the sand was as white as milk. He noticed a fat woman of impossible proportions gazing down from a village wicker tower with what seemed to be savage intent.
The leader, Danaoi, Eryian knew from before, and the look on his face left no doubt that Danaoi remembered him as well, though they had known each other only one day. There were probably tales of Eryian’s coming still left in this village. Danaoi was flanked by his warriors; his once-proud dark hair was now gray, but still flowing in bra
ids that fell over his shoulders. Eryian lifted his hand in the sign of the word and the king returned the same. The king then gestured to an old woman who had hurried out of one of the huts. When Eryian turned to her, she bowed.
“Well-come,” she offered, toothless, in careful Daathan.
Eryian snapped the shoulder buckles of his darkened silver breastplate, then lifted it and the accompanying back plate in the air.
“For Danaoi,” he shouted for all to hear and handed it to the king. The king stared at the breastplate as if it were a priceless treasure. He traced the silver eagle, then nodded and let one of his warriors hold it, walking about, circling to display it for the others who marveled in whispers of awe.
“I seek passage,” Eryian then told the old woman. He motioned to the far finger of dark rock that could be seen where the edge of the ocean curled over the horizon.
“The forbidden place,” the old woman whispered. “The place they say you once came from, they speak it still, the sacred spire.” “Yes,” Eryian answered.
She studied him carefully. “Passage is yours, Silver Eagle.” She then motioned, speaking quickly. Danaoi held up a fist, shouting commands, and instantly runners were sprinting to the beach. A girl took Eryian’s hand and led him down the white sand to a narrow, painted reed ship that was being shoved into the warm waters. Before she left him she spoke words Eryian truly wished he could have understood.
Five rowers were soon propelling him swiftly across blue-green waters, oars sweeping the sea quick and strong. Beside him, Danoi grinned and stood proud as the prow cut the blue waters.
Here the sea was different than it was off the shores off the city. It was emerald and at times clear as glass crystal. Gazing over the side, Eryian could see fish gliding sleek among the coral. Danaoi spoke to him, pointing, and Eryian turned to see the humps of dolphins arch, then disappear below the water.
The reed boat was moving quickly, the rowers were strong, but it was half a day before the crystal spire lifted into the sky and the circle of black stone at its base began to emerge from the sea.
Seeing it, Eryian felt the shiver of the knowing. If he could peel it back, he would remember this place, he would remember who had anchored it here in the coral blue of the ocean. The knowing was always close, whispering, but never did it speak all truth, only parts of truth. He had come here twice before. Both times the crystal spire had called him, and he had answered. He knew this time was to be its final call. He had felt its pulse shortly after Argolis had died.
The villagers did not know how to dock the craft, and they stared at the high spire in awe. It was black from the shore, but closer, it was crystalline, and slightly transparent. He knew they would never have ventured this close without him. Even if they had, they would not have found it. Eryian had heard stories of Etlantian ships, skilled seamen, who had tried to close on the spire, and though it seemed almost within reach, always it would vanish. The closer they came, the more it would seem to recede until they would find themselves lost in ocean and sky and it would take days to find their way home. Over the years, seamen had learned to avoid the spire; it was whispered to be the sea’s illusion, witchery.
“Stop here,” Eryian said quietly.
The villagers nodded, finding a shallow ramp cut into the rock. The crystal did not reflect sunlight, but rather swallowed it. The ocean about its edge stilled, perfectly calm, leaving a glasslike surface, and the villagers stared amazed at the reflection of themselves and their small boat on the water.
Eryian stepped over the gunwale onto the crystal surface. His boots made no sound as he walked, for the rock, though it appeared hard and black, was actually soft to the touch. It was the touch of aganon, the same stone that was found in the pommel of sunblades. Aganon overlaid the spire like a skin. There was no doorway, but as Eryian approached, the skin of the spire opened, soundless. Without the sensation of passing through a portal or doorway, he found himself inside. Though he did not allow himself to ponder it—even briefly—he knew this was no rock, no island. It was a ship—a star ship, once his own—and its name was Righel Seven.
The world of the ocean and clouds vanished and stars opened like a flower unfolding, spilling the rich, glittering milk of the star stream that moved like waters above him. Part of him was overcome with wonder, but another part, the deeper part, where the knowing lived, felt the gentle kiss of home and with it, sadness and longing. Eryian remembered something, how each time he came here, he had felt sadness. The floor was a perfect mirrored crystal. It reminded him of the blade of Argolis’s sword, and he thought now how once, kneeling to touch it, his finger against the stone had caused a shiver of light to spill through it.
In the center of the crystal was a black pedestal that held a polished, silvery-black container. It could have been a child’s casket. As Eryian walked toward it, the area about the pedestal spilled with blue light, welcoming him. As he touched the lid there was a song, a far, distant song, a choir that whispered him calm. He had not come for the sword during the gathering wars. The wars had been against their own blood and it had not yet been time. He never thought of it being here, resting here, and he had never believed it would call him. But the storm that came against them was the reason the sword had rested here so long. Not just in the years of Eryian’s memory, but far beyond. It had been here centuries. He knew, in fact, it had rested in this place since the time of Yered.
He opened the lid. Lying within what seemed to be living tissue was a sunblade. Like the Arsayalalyur, it was able to harness the fires of a distant star. Though his memories were fogged, he knew this blade well. It was the sword of Righel, the firstborn son of the mother star that was the mirror, Daath, and the archangel Uriel. Like the Arsayalalyur, the pommel, hilt, and cross guards were entwined with serpents laced with the purple stone of the pommel—the philosopher’s stone, the egg, or pelican as it was sometimes called. The blade was aganon, the same metal that formed the skin of the spire. It was smooth, unblemished glass. As he reached in and touched the hilt, purified light spilled through the room, not blinding, merely lighting it in a soft glow. The touch moved through him and he felt the connection, a touch from the light of the mothering star, Dannu, the Light Whose Name Is Splendor.
Eryian reverently lifted the blade from the coffinlike container. He lifted it high, pointed its crystal tip toward the sky dome, directly at the cluster of Blue Stars, the seven sisters. Home. Eryian let the blade drink his blood, and as he watched it swirl through the crystal, remembering the image of Loch’s blood reaching the flange. He had always known how a sunblade drew the blood of its user; he had just never guessed that Lochlain was the one. He had thought the blade would be no different for Loch than it had been for his father. Eryian’s blood turned the blade a dark, silvery red.
“Amon-Omen-Diamon,” Eryian commanded—words he knew, though their meaning he kept almost on purpose from his consciousness. The blade responded with a sharp thunder crack as a pure silver pulse focused and streamed from the tip of the sword into the sky dome, into the stars, into the sky. The dome was no illusion; it focused on the sky, seeing it far from Earth, but the bolt that left the tip of Righel’s sword soared through the heavens until it struck the seventh star of the Pleiades.
It was the signet: the signal. Though Eryian did not fully understand who was listening, he felt them answer. His call was heard. They had waited five hundred years—now they would come. Unnamed memories threatened, and suddenly he understood the veil, why it was there. He had brought it upon himself. It was spellbound, and Eryian had spoken the words of its binding. He slowly knelt, lowering the sword, bowing his head. For a moment he remained still, breathing carefully. He remembered without remembering, without seeing or touching the light that swam about him, but he wept knowing it would never be again, knowing that the end of the sadness he felt in this moment would soon become the end of all he knew.
When the villagers had seen the burst of light from the spire, the pulse that shatter
ed sound with an eagle’s scream and soared to vanish into the sky, they had fallen to their knees. Most had covered their eyes, but Danaoi stared breathless at the sky above them and watched as the bolt opened a pathway through to heaven. Though it was daylight, for an instant, stars spilled through and seemed somehow closer to the Earth than the night sky had ever been. With a blink, the opening closed and Danaoi knew the hush that followed was sacred. The villagers gasped, for the Silver Warrior was standing before them. He had vanished into the dark spire and now he had returned the same way, without a door or opening of any kind. He carried something he did not have when he entered, a magnificent scabbard and a hilt of dark ivory laced with veins of diamond. Danaoi had never seen anything like it, and he stared, amazed, even drawn to touch it though never would he have done so.
The Silver Warrior stepped into the boat.
“Row for home, Danaoi,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Death Ship
When Darke’s ship finally sighted the angel’s island, it was a dark knob, a fist of black rock, and the waters about it were stained, as though it were melting. From afar it looked like a pustule of the leathered, blue ocean’s surface. Nothing grew there. The rock was onyx black, at times rising in high, airless spires like temples. One edge facing the sea was sheer, a mile high, without blemish.
As they came about its edge, there was a bay curled into the muddied waters. Something was caught there, and the suddenness of it, the color, stunned Darke. It was a ship.
“Closer,” he said. “Sail for the bay.” Storan put his weight against the tilling oar.
The sky was smooth, gray, windless, and quiet. The waves had little ruffle to them. As they closed, the ship caught in the bay grew clearer. It was a huge ship, an Etlantian fleet of the line, three tiered and well kept, its paint still bright, the plates of its oraculum shielding intact and repaired where they had been damaged. Until recently, it had been used and functional. Now it lay keeled to its starboard side. Its waterline was thick with slime and carbuncles, but she looked undamaged from the bottom.
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 30
