“How … how did you do that?” Rhywder gasped.
“My father was a fisherman,” she said, sweated, equally out of breath. “He taught me to hook fish.”
“I thought he was a rich lord.” “A fisherman cannot be rich?”
He turned to the side, holding her tight, and looked into the deep violet eyes with their long lashes. “You,” he gasped in pain, “you are some woman.”
“I am, Rhywder, and as I swore, I am keeping you alive.”
Below, there was a tremendous shout of victory, thousands of voices strong, tens of thousands, more. Hericlon was gone forever. The villages, the cities of the Daath, all the tribes of the Dannu, now lay before the dark that took the gate like sheep before a gathering of wolves. The Galagleans were fighting to the death, but it would soon be over. Rhywder felt tears in his eyes for them—not just the Galagleans dying down below, but all their people. There would be nothing to stop him now; Azazel would sweep over the north like a dark storm. No power on Earth could turn him back.
“Rhywder,” Satrina whispered in his ear.
“Yes?”
“I know now that I love you. I thought it, but then—it has been such a short time, how does one love in such a short time? But the answer does not matter, because I love you more than I have ever loved anyone.”
Rhywder stared in her eyes. Tears welled in both their eyes.
“Me,” he answered, “I have never loved anything, nor ever expected to, but if this is what it feels like, it leaves me without words. So I guess I love you, as well, Satrina. I guess I love you with all I have in me.” He then took a tight breath against gritted teeth. “Now, can we get this damned hook out of my arm?”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Watcher
Loch suddenly came awake. It was as though a cold wind had struck, but when he opened his eyes, the room was quiet, dark. He sat up. Hyacinth came to a crouch beside him, sensing the same thing—a whisper, as though someone had been close, almost close enough to touch. She searched the room, frightened.
“We are not alone,” she said. She turned to him as a cold breath of ice passed through them. She laid a hand to her breast and gasped. “Look!” she said, pointing to his scabbard.
Uriel’s sword was still in its sheath of carved black ivory, but against the lip, the flange and blade were breathing a pulse of soft blue light. He looked to Hyacinth, and he saw panic in her dark brown eyes.
“I did not think it would come this quickly,” she said. “It is him. Satariel has come, and this time he will not be denied.”
A tremor moved beneath the floorboards. The walls and icons of Taran’s house shook, dust spilled from the ceiling, but Hyacinth did not even seem to notice, her eyes remained on him.
“You stay here,” he said, quickly pulling on his armor.
“Impossible. You know me well enough.”
He took her at arms’ length. “Hyacinth, I do not know how to kill this bastard, and I fear for you,” he said, searching her eyes. His own were a warm brown, not the Shadow Walker, but the human, the warm blood of the Water Bearer. “I care for you. I do not want you to die here. Stay back, Hyacinth. You said it last night, I must face this alone.”
“Listen to me first. There is something I sense, something you must understand.”
“What?”
“I wish I could explain it, what I feel, what I sense, but all I know to say is that to kill him, you must let go, Loch. The Shadow Walker cannot defeat the Watcher of heaven; it is something else in you. Remember that.”
He pulled on the shadowy Daathan cloak as he stood. “I will try, but there is no time left to outguess this. I am going to find him, and if I can, I will slay him. Do not try to follow me. If he sees you, he will kill you. He will use you against me, just as you warned me of Adrea. You cannot help me in this. As you said, I am the Wanderer, and this is a path I must walk alone. Good-bye, Little Flower.”
He leaned forward and kissed her, as he had wanted to the night before in the baths. He then turned, and as his cloak flared, he disappeared.
She ran to the door, searching, but he was nowhere to be seen. It was as if he had vanished into the dark of the early dawn.
“Loch!” she cried, desperate, but there came no answer.
From the rock bridge that spanned the narrow neck of the lagoon that led into the cove of Ophur, two archers stared, amazed, as flame curled from the volcano’s shadow. It had never been active—dead all these years. Even the crater was ash and silent; a smell of sulfur, but little else. Now billows of black smoke poured into the sky, and flames licked upward. The natural rock bridge they were standing on began to tremble. Rumblers were passing through the island. One of the archers then pointed, pulling his bow from his back, but there was little the two guardians of Ophur could do. The ship sailing toward them, coming out of the dark of night and the natural fog of the island was like a mountain. The massive prow post rose to nearly the height of the bridge. The hull was sheathed in weathered planks of oraculum. In seven centuries, no ship had ever found the Ophur. Some had tried, many had been found smashed upon the corals and beaten by the sea, but this one, with its ashen sails and its heavy bull’s-head ram, smoothly parted the black waters as it slowly closed on them. It almost seemed to know the course as well as Darke. Lamps burned from either side of the bow, and yet they seemed to swallow the light of early dawn—even drink it. The sail was ragged, but the red stain of the bull’s head of Etlantis was still visible, as well as another image above—a circled cross.
From the forecastle of the huge ship, a catapult launched. Its flaming iron ball struck the center of the natural black stone. Chunks of rock and debris rained down, but before the waters could even still, the prow of the angel’s ship cut through them. The Etlantian galley then sailed for the inland lagoon of Ophur—its natural harbor. The shore was surrounded by the city; the emerald houses, the temples, and colonnaded buildings waited. The angel’s ship came silently but for a curl of seawater at its prow and the flap of the worn sails from the warm winds blowing from the volcano that lit the early dawn in an eerie glow.
Darke held his horse in rein. He had been waiting, and now he watched from a grove of olives, with shimmering leaves that tossed in the sudden warm wind swirling upward from the volcano’s flame. The emerald paint of the buildings and temples were bathed in the burn of the mountain’s fire. Its rumble beneath their feet threatened to burst into a quake, but he guessed that would not happen. He guessed the fires, the rumbles of the mountain, all were for atmosphere—effect. It had been the same on the angel’s island, the volcanic rock molded in spires like the finest cathedrals of the Followers. Satariel had a taste for theatrics.
Darke watched without emotion as the massive ship sailed out of the early dawn’s night for the center beach, taking its time as if to appreciate the view of the fabled, hidden lagoon of Ophur. There were four, maybe five Tarshian blackships at anchor in the lagoon. Perhaps for sport, they were being pelted by the heavy catapults and ballistae of the Etlantian. One of them exploded in flame from the fire jet of the Etlantian’s prow, which launched a stream of naphtha into the blackship’s midsection.
Darke’s own ship was well hidden. He had not really expected to live through this, but he hoped his ship might. It had served well these many years, it was a fast and reliable hunter, and maybe someday it would be found, marveled over. Certainly, if he wanted, the angel could find it and sink it, but the Etlantian would first have to circle the island and navigate even more labyrinths carved in the thick coral.
For a brief moment, considering the battle in which he was about to engage, Darke wondered how much of the angel’s celestial powers were lost. How close he had come to being human. He thought of what Hyacinth had read of Enoch: Yea, though once you walked as sons of gods, Bene ba Elohim, you shall die as men shall die. In the time of first coming, the time of the oath of binding upon the mountain of Etlantis, the angels had been creators, fashioners of world
s, the walkers of the stars and darkness, but how far had Satariel come from such power over the centuries since he had turned from heaven’s light.
The ground trembled, this time a quake splitting open a rift that slithered like a snake through the ground, shattering two or three houses to either side of him. But the houses were empty. The only humans on this beach were warriors. The women and children had all been hidden.
Darke really did not expect to prevail in this; he even doubted the Daath would prevail—the boy was fearless, but too young, too inexperienced, and the sword had nearly killed him on the island. Their only chance was that Enoch’s curse had worked upon the angel to such an extent that he was no longer immortal. Even then, it would be no simple kill. Satariel came with his sons.
But Darke was determined that at least Ophur would cost them. These were the Tarshians, the raiders of Ishtar’s horned moon that had fought Etlantians all their lives. Once they had ruled the seven kingdoms of the Western Sea, and for seven hundred years they had been killing Etlantians. It had come down to this, one final city, one final stand, and even though it was an angel of the holy choirs that was about to take the shore of the island, even for the Watcher, this would be no simple kill.
As another crack in the earth snaked almost beneath Storan’s horse and his big roan reared, Storan drew in on the reins and calmed the animal. The horses of Ophur were practiced for battle, but cracks in the earth and the threatening rumble of the island’s volcano were not part of their training.
Though Darke did not expect to live through this night, there was hope at least for his seed, the very last of the Tarshians on the face of the Earth—for these he had prayed Elyon for survival, and during the night, his men had taken them to a cave hidden so well it could hardly be worth the angel’s trouble to search. After this aged, riddled creature had killed his Daathan scion, what interest would he have in searching the island further? Still, it worried him. As the moments closed before battle, it was the only thing on Darke’s mind.
“You are certain the women and children are safe?” he asked Storan once more, not even letting himself think or speak of a location, knowing his thoughts could no longer be trusted as his own.
“Aye, Captain,” answered Storan, “hidden well. Your woman, I might add, was most difficult of all. Claimed she should be here, with you and that sword she carries. Nearly had to bind her hand and foot.”
“But you, of course, convinced her to remain with the others?”
“I told her if the Tarshians lost their king, at least they deserved to look to their queen for guidance. She seemed not to argue with that. Good woman, she is, wish I had known such a woman in my years.”
“Perhaps you will. It is not over yet, Storan.”
“Not yet, but I do understand that on that ship are firstborn. Not a single inbreed, not a single weakened generation—no Failures; no fourth, third, or even second birthing. These are said to be all high-blood Nephilim. Is that not sweet? Perhaps we cannot kill this withered old bastard—but we can by Ely-on’s grace winnow his firstborn seed. Hope that stabs at his heart in the end.”
“I doubt he has a heart,” said Danwyar from Darke’s left. Danwyar slowly lifted his silver bow from his back and calmly threaded it with one of his poison-treated silver arrows. The arrows, the daggers, even the spears of the Tarshians were all treated with poisons taught them of the little priestess. She was damned gifted with poison. It was an irony—the secret of the Tarshians in their final hour was nothing more than the moss-dampened poisons of a little witch no older than twenty and two years.
Storan rubbed dirt in his hands and curled one hard about the leather wrappings of his axe haft. “You know what I am thinking, Captain? I am thinking this monster ship—just another Etlantian. No more, just another high-blood bastard believes himself to own the sea. Well, no one owns her, though this one has been courting her a damned long time, I suppose.”
“He might have even created her,” answered Darke.
Storan just spat to the side. “Piss that he ever created a pea. Nonetheless, my point is that these coming for us, they are Etlantians—just like the hundreds we have laid in the deep. Do not know about the angel, but the others, firstborn or not, we know they bleed, their flesh slices open, their bones break, and perhaps they are damned hard to kill, but by the Goddess’s breath and my mother’s blessing, have we not put down more of these bastards than any Etlantian slayers on this planet?”
“That we have, my good friend.”
“We have done this world a service, by Elyon’s grace. Done it a service. So on this godless dawn we will do it one more job and take a few more of these high-bloods with us to the otherworld. I will admit, I’d rather be tangling with them at sea, but this will do. So that was my thinking on it—this here, it is just another killing time.”
Darke took a breath. His sword was still sheathed. His mount stirred, restless, shaking out its mane—sensing the danger. Killing time, Darke thought—just another killing time—and this one would probably include the Tarshian warriors, as well. He did not fear death. He held no hope on the babblings of Enochian priests over what waited beyond; that Elyon’s Light would be there like a tunnel opening through time. What he had seen of death left him believing it was just a swallowing of life. No maidens, no beams of starlight to herald them as warriors fallen on fields of battle. It was an end to things—nothing more. And that was fine. They had done well with their lives. They had fought unspeakable darkness. Perhaps, at least, there was purpose to that. They had killed raiders that raped and burned and ate even children. That had to be a good thing—Elyon’s heaven waiting or not.
It ended there, but then—all things ended eventually.
When the Etlantian ship reached the shore of white, glittering sand, the gleaming oraculum bull’s-head ram plowed into it, spraying it outward. And then, for a moment—nothing. Just still and quiet, the warm waters of the lagoon lapping at its hull, lamplights burning from both fore and aft, as well as top lights high in the nests of the masts—but Darke was struck how they did not seem to flicker with the light of this Earth, this planet; it seemed the angel burned the light of his home star in his lamps, and like him, it was dim, shadowy.
And just as still, just as quiet and waiting, were the hundreds of Darke’s warriors hidden among the foliage and buildings of Ophur. No hearth fires burned—the island looked deserted.
A drawbridge dropped open from the ship’s hull, well weighted in heavy strakes of wood and brass linings. It slammed into the sand and sea, water sprayed, the ground shook, and immediately, almost before it had touched down, the Etlantians came on heavy horse, weapons drawn—Etlantians as Darke had never seen. Storan was right—Nephilim, all of them. Their armor was a dark-worked version of oraculum that was the rust-red color of dried blood. Their cloaks were red, also, but worn, dusty, as if they had never traded them for new ones. Their weapons swallowed light—it was as if the swords and morning stars and war hammers were burning, but instead of giving off a glow, they swallowed the light about them, leaving a void, a shadowy nothingness. Darke had never seen weapons like that. In other times, other fights, he would have fixed himself on the thought of taking one for his own.
The Nephilim fanned out as they hit the sand, then separated and rode in groups of three, outward in all directions, for the city. He might have expected hundreds, but there were no more than twenty or thirty raiders here, and although the emerald building looked utterly abandoned, it was as if they were not fooled in the slightest. Their horses were large chargers bred on the island of Etlantis to bear the weight of the giants. But Darke had fought mostly at sea, and he was taken with the thunderous blows of their heavy hooves. So these were the sons of the angel. There were few, but if they were as deadly as they looked, they just as well had been hundreds. Still, considering Satariel and his flair for the dramatic, perhaps it was more show than deadly. All wore helmets, but the eyes behind them glowed as though backlit, sometimes the
clear blue of new stars, sometimes a shimmering white, the same burn as that given off by the lamps of the ship. He had seen Nephilim before. Their souls always shone through their eyes.
“Elyon’s Light be with us, brothers,” Storan prayed—rare for the helmsman.
Darke held up his hand. It was a signal for his hidden warriors. Not over yet, all this. They were impressive, these sons of the angel, but now they would face the deadliest giant killers living—Tarshians.
Darke dropped his hand, the signal.
Below, in the tiers of the city, Darke’s men attacked. They rode out from behind taverns, whorehouses, and temples. They launched their attack on sleek, swift horses, weapons readied.
The Etlantians fanned out, each group of three choosing a target. The first of Darke’s men was killed by a swift, solid blow of a war hammer that caved in his chest, splintering the bone. Another fell, his face cloven, blood spilling rich. A Tarshian horse was lifted off its front hooves and thrown back as a heavy axe sheared open its chest. One Etlantian dropped, with a poisoned javelin through his breastplate. Here and there an Etlantian fell, but the pirates were being hewn down like chaff. It was more than theater—the angel’s sons were as deadly as they looked.
Darke drew his sword, lifting it, and spurned his charger forward. Storan came at his flank, leaning into the gallop, teeth clenched and a low growl in his throat.
Danwyar rode to Darke’s left. He gripped the flanks of his horse tight with bared knees, reins in his teeth, and leveled off his bow.
Across the clearing, from the burning city, five of the angel’s sons spotted them and turned to engage. Darke noticed how their red-black breastplates curled upward, emphasizing the broad, powerful shoulders. One bore a helm of curled ram’s horns of tarnished gold.
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 45
