Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  Storan lifted his axe and started it spinning with a heavy song.

  Darke killed the first Etlantian with a flicker thrust of his sword, through the side armor, angled for the heart. It was a move he had practiced for years, and it never failed him. His sword was also oily with Hyacinth’s poisons. He turned quickly for another kill, but an Etlantian coming at full gallop hit him in the chest with a flail, and Darke went over the flanks, swearing as he hit the ground. He had never been struck that hard.

  Storan sheared off a wrist, and when the Etlantian drew back, reaching for a second weapon with his remaining hand, Storan opened his gut, a swift, heavy arc through the oraculum. Storan’s axe was like no other, and gutting the famed oraculum armor was his fondest killing stroke. As the Etlantian fell, Storan wrenched the reins about hard and dug his spiked heels into the sides of his horse, pursuing another.

  Danwyar’s horse came off a slight hillock, leaping past an Etlantian. He did not even turn to look back as he left a darkened silver shaft buried in the Nephilim’s eye, through the fine, carved helmet. The edge of the helmet had stripped off the white quill feathers. The Nephilim spun, but the poison was taking hold quickly. He slumped forward as if he were drunk.

  Darke came to his feet. He ducked the hiss of a curved blade and cut through the quarter-flank of the Etlantian’s horse as it passed. He vaulted into the saddle of his own horse, turning it about. The giant had landed on his feet as his charger went down, but Darke simply flung a dagger—no ceremony to it, burying its poison in the Nephilim’s throat. He coughed like he was catching a cold, and just as Danwyar’s bolt, the poison worked slowly at first, then hit hard. The Nephilim turned his horse for the counterattack, but then fell sideways out of the saddle. His helmet rolled as he hit the ground.

  Fire Rat killed differently than the others. He rode well, a small, quick mount that the big Etlantians could hardly keep track of, and each time he passed one, he would fling a goat’s bag of naphtha. They were weighted with heavy stones and rope that wrapped about the giant’s necks until the bags struck and exploded in wreaths of searing white flame—the Rat’s own special recipes, sometimes brilliant white, sometimes orange, other times even blue flame, but all equally deadly, wreathing heads and helmets and melting flesh to its bone. One he flung about a horse’s neck, a larger bag that exploded in a roar that swam outward, enveloping both the giant and his charger. As well bred as they were, even Nephilim did not like to burn, and the warrior screamed furiously as his face melted in his helmet.

  Hyacinth stared over the city below, watching in stunned silence. Some of the big Etlantians were dying, but the tide was turning fast. Not only was the fabled Emerald city of Ophur in flames, but the angel’s sons were beginning to kill the legendary sea raiders like cattle being slaughtered for a feast. She felt her breath grow short, seeing warriors dying that she believed invincible, warriors she never thought she would see fall in battle.

  “Loch …” she said, turning, still searching for him. Gone. He had vanished, making it impossible for her to follow. She ran to the edge of the butte. “Loch!” she cried. The sound of hooves turned riders toward her, Etlantians—they had reached even the edge of the knoll where Taran’s villa was built, and seeing her, they came as a group of five, thundering up the side of the hill that led to Taran’s villa, coming directly for her. Hyacinth gasped and started running for the trees.

  Danwyar was riding one down when unexpectedly, the Etlantian turned and flung a killing axe from his side. There was no time to dodge. The axe head sheared through Danwyar’s upper arm, through muscle and bone, then spun away into the dark. He had just lost the use of one arm, but he ignored it, galloping after the giant as if nothing had happened, reaching over his shoulder to draw his crossbow. But his cherished silver bow fell to the ground.

  He put the bolt through the oraculum breastplate with a solid ponk, anchoring it through the heart. The giant arched his back, and Danwyar had to drop from his saddle. He could not use the crossbow and guide the horse at the same time. He turned, then suddenly felt his blood run cold. Four riders were closing on him. He had been killing hard and fast, dodging, outflanking—the silver arrows had taken down seven Nephilim. Perhaps that was why they were finally noticing the swift-moving archer. He used his thigh to prop the crossbow and shoved in another bolt. This was not going to last long. Hard to reload with one hand.

  He remained calm, centering his crossbow and waiting. He needed closer range. He wondered if he could get two. That would be a good end to things, bring down two more with just one arm. As the first drew close enough he watched the heavy crossbow bolt sink dead center through the opening in the helmet. That went upward into the brain and even a firstborn could not ignore it—the Etlantian went over the flanks, armor breaking away from him as he hit the ground rolling.

  “Goddess be kind,” Danwyar whispered, trying to get one more bolt in. One more—that would be satisfying. He lifted the crossbow, loaded, but they caught him.

  A javelin struck Danwyar in the stomach. It could easily have been a death thrust, but purposely it only tore through into his guts, a slow kill. He tried to lift the crossbow, but his strength was failing too quickly and it slipped from his hand. Three of them circled him as he hit the ground on his back. One passed by at a gallop and wrenched the javelin free, ripping away flesh and blood through Danwyar’s leathers.

  “Giving you honor, slayer,” one said in a deep voice, pulling his horse to a stop and staring down at the Tarshian. He then lifted a chained hook, spinning it and anchored the point through Danwyar’s good arm. Another Etlantian anchored his leg. The hooks burned as they ripped into his flesh, and when they were attached, the riders brought the chains taut. Now his last leg. He hissed through tight teeth. He was going to be quartered; another was approaching from the right.

  “Piss on you all!” he screamed. “Piss on you and piss on your mothers, you godless sons of whores!”

  “They have got Danwyar!” Storan cried, seeing four horsemen about the little archer. He wrenched hard on the reins, turning his big horse so sharply it nearly spilled him, but then launched into a heavy, muscled gallop after Danwyar. He angled his axe for the strike.

  Storan heard Danwyar’s cry. They ripped limbs off him. It was more than Storan could take. His eyes went red with blood.

  Darke saw Storan’s attack, but could not help. He had killed one highborn, but a second did something unexpected; he leapt from the horse and tackled Darke. When they hit the ground, the weight of the giant crushed the air from him, but before he was pinned, Darke managed to roll sideways, clearing enough distance to pull a dagger. Apparently the Etlantian had meant to beat him to death, no weapon drawn—just fists. Darke’s dagger went upward under his chin. The giant went at it, managed to rip it out, caring nothing of the blood, but the poison then took hold and the Nephilim seemed to pause as though troubled, then fell forward on one hand, head hanging, and finally dropped completely.

  Darke came to his knees, searching for his horse.

  Storan guessed Danwyar already dead—he was a torso now. It brought tears of pure fury to the big helmsman’s eyes. He would, in Elyon’s blessed name, take out a few of these bastards, so help him, but then one of them turned. Time seemed to slow, everything slowed, and Storan clearly saw the eyes of this one—as if they drew him in. All the eyes of the Nephilim had a kind of light to them, but this one was different. He wore no helmet, his hair was white and ashen, and his eyes were black, as if they were holes in his head, but the thing about them was the feeling stars were about to spill through, as if these eyes opened through to heaven. It was not a highborn. This was the angel, and those eyes caused even Storan’s to give a moment’s pause, a second’s flicker, and then he continued to charge forward with a battle cry, coming straight for the Watcher, straight for the bastard fallen from the stars as if this were going to be no different than any other kill.

  Darke saw it; he was too far to do anything to help, though
it would not have mattered.

  The angel first drove Storan’s horse mad. It reared, twisting, and Storan was thrown, though the big axeman did not seem to even care. He managed to land on his feet and kept coming, unfazed, at full run, axe ready, his war cry echoing into the early dawn, promising fury.

  The angel seemed only amused, he watched Storan with interest before he calmly drew what looked to be a pure crystal sword from its sheath and leveled the tip. It was like the Daath’s blade, a sunblade.

  But it fired nothing more than a small pulse, like a stone of tight, fixed light. It unceremoniously pierced Storan’s heart, blowing through the armor of the backplate. Storan was thrown back. He slid in the dirt until he lay still, eyes open face twisted to the side.

  Darke lowered his head and curled his hand to a fist on his knee. He let the cold tear that fell across his cheek turn deep in his gut as he focused but contained his rage. When he looked up, he saw the angel and three of his sons turn and ride slowly north. They hadn’t noticed him—maybe they didn’t care, Darke never having been their target. They were going for the knoll, for Taran’s villa, as if no one needed to explain how to find the Daath.

  Darke held back a moment, then vaulted onto his horse. No more of them around. Killing mostly done now. Few screams—battle cries still from below, but it was over. Finished. All the years of struggle against the Etlantians, seven hundred years of it, and the last fight ended so quickly, it almost seemed without climax.

  Darke turned the reins and started following the angel and his sons, but not at a gallop. He paced them, keeping to the shadows.

  He passed Storan’s body and did not look down. But when he reached Danwyar he paused, circling the horse. Danwyar’s eyes were still open. They blinked. He was still alive. Tough little bastard, he was. Always had been. Danwyar looked up to his captain once more.

  “Guess I lost that last one,” Danwyar whispered, weakly. “But you keep going—find the Daath—make certain that unholy bastard angel gets taken out, you do that, Captain, you do that.”

  “My word on it,” Darke answered as he unsheathed a dagger from his the belt over his back.

  “A good fight,” Danwyar said, blood drooling from the corner of his mouth. “Ending was written, but damned good fight, you think?”

  “That it was. See you in the otherland, my brother.” Darke planted the dagger into Danwyar’s heart and watched the eyes quickly fade lifeless.

  Darke turned the mount and continued pacing the angel, keeping his thoughts inward, keeping everything hidden now.

  Hyacinth ran. The five horsemen had reached the plateau, and now they were easily going to catch her before she could reach the cover of the trees. Then, quite suddenly, there was a star-fire crack and one of them went down, violently flung off his horse, hitting the ground so hard she heard bones cracking. She saw him—Loch, standing near the trees. His face was cold, expressionless. He killed them, one by one, though she could see each bolt he fired from the sword rocked his body. It sucked blood and pain; she knew that from feeling it when she was inside him.

  The last of the Etlantians tried to reach him, galloping hard, axe raised. Loch calmly let him get close, welcoming him. There was a dead coldness in Loch’s eyes, no hint of the calm brown eyes she had seen the night before—they were now black as night and no longer human, but almost the eyes of a cat. Just as the Etlantian let out his war cry, close enough for the strike, Loch’s blade fired a blast that tore off the Nephilim’s head. The giant road past, axe still poised, and it was some moments before the body even fell from its mount.

  She noticed Loch was bleeding. He hadn’t been touched—none of them had reached him, but a line of blood streamed down his cheek from a split vessel near his right eye. The sword was going to suck out his life; he had measured the strikes—he had to pace himself—and she wanted to tell him, warn him, but he merely looked at her a moment.

  “Stay back, Hyacinth,” he said. “It will be over soon.”

  He then turned and started down the granite stairway that led to the city. There was a plaza just below Taran’s villa, surrounded by conifers. She saw four riders slowly moving for it from the south, and one of the riders, the one in the center—though he wore similar armor and the same dull red cloak as the others—bore himself different. He wore no helmet and she realized, seeing the white hair, sensing him, that he was the angel. This time there was no fear in Satariel. She sensed he had come to merely get it done with, finish it.

  Fire Rat sprinted hard through the shadow of the trees toward the last he had seen of his captain. Behind him, the body of a Nephilim was twisting in circles, burning. As powerful as they were, these firstborn, they really seemed to hate burning; it seemed to throw them into utter rage. Even if they lived, they would have no skin or eyes or hair. But Fire Rat had no more bags—no more bags of naphtha, no more hollowed knives with their flint and sulfur detonators. He had nothing left but his frail, ragged body and his thin legs as he ran full-out after his king, panting in measured breaths.

  On the smooth, round stonework of the plaza, Satariel brought his horse to a halt. It danced a moment on the stone. The three firstborn with him drew up on either flank. There they waited for the Daath as he walked down a pathway, then about the edge of a granite wall. It was an overlook, with a view of the city below that was now a view of bodies and fire. When Loch reached the plaza, he stepped into the light, then stopped near the edge of the back wall, finished in limestone, and calmly met the angel’s eyes. He showed no emotion, no clue to what was inside. If Eryian had taught him anything, he had taught him to keep his thoughts, his intent, always hidden.

  Hyacinth reached him, slightly out of breath.

  “You do not mind well, do you, Hyacinth?” Loch said.

  “Not this time,” she answered.

  “Hyacinth,” said the angel. “I have always liked them—the way the bulbs can wait decades and still grow to full bloom.”

  She said nothing, her eyes narrowed, her crossbow angled to the side, loaded with her most potent poison.

  Satariel studied her a moment longer, then said quietly, “Kill her, Aragel.” One of the firstborn started forward, slowly.

  As Loch began to lift the sword, Hyacinth laid her hand over his. “No,” she whispered. “Save your blood. I can take him, Loch. Just let him a bit closer.”

  She waited, keeping the small crossbow with its six loads loose and ready. But when the firstborn named Aragel was halfway across the plaza, he paused, turning at a sound from the forest. It was Darke, coming at a full gallop. The firstborn seemed almost curious, watching from beneath his smoked helm with bright, ice-blue eyes as the Tarshian burst from the trees, hooves clattering on the stone of the plaza. Aragel did not even bother to draw his sword until Darke was almost on him. In the final second, Aragel’s sword cleared the scabbard in a song, a dark, burnished oraculum blade, well used, moving in a blur—as did Darke’s. Their blades rang out, slamming into each other as the horses collided, rearing, circling. As others, Darke saw the surprise in the Etlantian’s eyes—that a mortal could move this quick, this deadly. He ducked, letting the firstborn’s blade slice over his shoulder and used his side thrust, through the leather ties of the oraculum armor. In and out, with a serpent’s flicker, Darke’s long sword pierced the heart. For a moment it had little effect; Aragel was lifting his sword for another strike, but then he paused, drew a startled breath, then fell over the side of his horse, his armor clanking as it hit the stone.

  Darke turned toward the angel. Satariel stared at his son’s body a moment with a look of disgust before lifting his gaze to Darke.

  “Still alive,” he mused. “You truly vex me, Tarshian. But the girl dies now.”

  Moving swiftly, with a flick of his wrist, the angel flung something from his side, a small spinning disk of silvery light.

  “No!” screamed Darke.

  Hyacinth had no time to react. The disk swiped soundless through her neck, cleanly shearing muscl
e and vein, whipping her head to the side so hard she was spun about and landed on the stone, facedown, her brown hair splayed out into the blood that quickly pooled about her head. Her small crossbow dropped from her fingers, but just before she fell a bolt had fired, aimlessly into the night.

  Loch did not move. Even if he had wanted, it had happened too quickly. He remained still, his cold, dark eyes fixed on Satariel.

  Darke screamed and launched his charger against the angel. He could no longer hold his rage, but it was another of the sons that rode to meet him. Rage and fury can make a warrior a terror in battle, but it also takes away focus, and this time a spinning, spiked morning star struck Darke’s cuirasses in the chest before his sword could move. Darke’s chest plate caved in, mangled, blood splattering. He was thrown from the saddle. He hit the limestone on his back, sliding. His sword clattered across the stone, knocked from his hand. He lay for a moment on his back, tried to turn to the side to get back up, but instead stilled.

  The firstborn circled his horse back to Satariel’s side. Loch watched as others joined them. The battle was finished below—this was what was left of the angel’s sons. Loch did not know how many had landed on Ophur, but he guessed they had been thinned. Perhaps fifteen of them still alive, forming a semicircle to either side of the angel.

  The angel studied him for emotion over Hyacinth or the captain’s fall, but Loch’s eyes remained cold and empty, like a wolf watching, centered only on Satariel.

  “What is it about you?” the angel said, genuinely curious. “I have tried to understand, but I can only marvel that this is what Elyon sends in the final hour of turning—nothing more than a boy. I cannot fathom how you are to be the savior your frail prophets have written of for seven hundred years. Before you die, pray—can you explain it to me?”