Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  “I never asked,” Loch said. He gripped the hilt of the Angelslayer in both hands. It was calmly pooling blood sucked through his palms, from the pommel stone into the flange where it swirled through the glow of the crystal a rich, dark red.

  “The sword of Uriel,” said the angel. “Centuries since I have seen that glow. Do you even know what it is you hold in your hand?”

  “Your end? Is that not what the frail prophets have told us?”

  This seemed to irritate him a bit. “Yes, well, this has all been entertaining—pirates that can slay pure-blooded firstborn and a boy little more than twenty years carrying the sword of an archangel, even the sword that once guarded the East of the Land. Elyon knows I am a curious creature, but I am done with trying to understand any more of this madness. It has come time to die, boy. Let us finish it.”

  The angel’s blade came to life, but it was Loch who moved first. He dropped to a roll, his cloak flaring. It was the move of a Shadow Walker, and for a moment Loch vanished, though the angel seemed to track him easily. When Loch came into focus, he was crouched, the sword poised to fire a blast of blue light that struck the angel in the chest. It had been swift, and when it struck, it exploded, bathing the plaza in blinding light. But Satariel had not so much as flinched. His horse had staggered a bit, back stepping, but nothing more.

  Satariel remained calm, his blade humming, no longer crystal but now a deep, severe burn of white light. “That was it? This is mockery, nothing more than mockery. Make your last offerings, boy, your time is about to end.”

  To block the light of the angel’s sword, Loch had to pour everything into the hilt of the Angelslayer and use its fire as a shield. The angel’s strike bore down upon him like a wall of heavy stone, but the Angelslayer was able keep it from flinging him into the dawn’s light. The cost in Loch’s blood was heavy. A vessel blew open from the back of his hand, and the pain of keeping the Angelslayer lit surged through his head.

  He then snuffed the Angelslayer’s light and dropped quickly, letting the angel’s blast pass over his shoulder, sundering the stonework behind with a gash that drove deep into the island’s core. Loch rolled and was able to angle the sword quickly enough for a second strike, this time into Satariel’s arm, which was bare flesh. It struck with such suddenness, even the angel flinched, which gave Loch time enough to slash the stream of light sideways and shear off the head of the angel’s horse. As the horse’s body crumpled, Loch ran—more than ran; as Eryian had taught him from youth, he flashed into a blur and then, aided by the cloak, he was able to vanish so completely, even the angel lost track of him for seconds. It was as though he had dived into a hole in the dim light of the dawn and when he appeared—he was behind Satariel.

  “Father!” one of the Nephilim screamed.

  With a war cry, Loch sank the Angelslayer into the flesh of the angel’s neck at the edge of his armor, driving it downward, deep into the shoulder muscle—into what should have been lungs and vitals. He then fired the blade, letting it suck blood through the hilt so hard it was leaving him dizzy, his head spinning, light. A vessel burst open from his forearm, then another from his temple. Pain surged like he was burning alive, but he continued to funnel his blood and more—something of his soul—into the blade. Satariel’s skin about the wound started to boil, the angel’s blood spitting about the wound, a rich, lavish red.

  With a snarl, the angel reached back, curled his hand about the flange of Uriel’s sword, and yanked it out of his back. Loch could not hold on; the angel was too strong. Satariel threw the sword with a growl, and it hit the limestone—still alive, spinning, crackling, sending streamers of lightning that snaked across the stone until finally it came to a rest and slowly cooled.

  The angel then grabbed Loch by one arm and flung him, as well, through the air to strike the shattered stone of the wall so hard he dropped to the plaza, almost unconscious and crouched on one knee, using one hand to hold himself up. He was breathing heavily; not only had the sword had taken everything from him, but the blow had nearly killed him. He felt crushed ribs, his shoulder dislodged. He was staring downward and the fine, polished limestone blurred in and out of focus. He noticed his own blood was dropping in splats. Pain was his entire world—a continual heartbeat of pain, sucking him in and out of consciousness. But somehow, he forced himself to focus past it and slowly looked up.

  The angel, breathing through tight teeth, was also in pain. In fact, the skin of his face was reddened and he was sweating blood. He slowly stood up, watching Loch with black, empty eyes. Satariel’s own sunblade was angled to the side, a soft white, like ivory. His sons were fanned out to either flank. One even started forward, furious.

  “No!” warned Satariel. The Nephilim backed off. “Stand up, Angelslayer,” Satariel commanded.

  Loch could barely even hear his voice; it was as if the pain and blood loss had left him in a void at the edge of consciousness.

  “I said, stand up! Or do you wish to die on your knees like the mongrel you are?”

  Loch struggled. He had to brace himself against the stone, and it took effort, but he pulled himself slowly to his feet. And though he stood like a drunk, unsteady, using a hand on the stone wall to brace himself, he turned and faced the angel with the dark, wolflike eyes of the Shadow Walker. Satariel at last seemed impressed.

  “Perhaps you are the seed of Uriel, Daath. A move like that—other than the scion of an Archangel, who could have moved like that? But the sad part of all this is you are no prophecy, boy. All that remains is your death.”

  Loch stared back uncaring.

  There was a moan and Loch noticed from the corner of his eye that it was Darke. The captain wasn’t dead. In fact, he had been watching, propped up on one elbow, holding his one hand to his crushed chest, blood spilling through his fingers. He was having trouble breathing, but his eyes were still strong.

  “Should I finish the Tarshian, Father?” asked the firstborn that had brought Darke down.

  “No, let him live. I want him to know your brother Arazach and five others are even now riding for the hidden cave, for the little ones and the women. I have told Arazach to kill them slowly—a slow burning over coals. For all my sons you have slain, Shadow Hawk.”

  Darke reacted, stunned.

  “How does it feel knowing you end here, you, your people, your entire bloodline—forever and all time? Rather something of an anticlimax, is it not?”

  Darke watched back with smoldering eyes. “I think you forget something,” he said through tight teeth.

  “And what would that be, Emerald King?”

  “The Angelslayer is still standing.” Darke rolled, ripping a crossbow from his back, swiftly coming to a crouch, and firing. The bolt struck the angel, even pierced his left shoulder, through the weakened skin of Loch’s burn and out the back, but there was no reaction from Satariel—he seemed to have barely felt it—and the wound instantly began to close. But it made no difference; it was meaningless—a distraction. Darke had even thrown the crossbow aside. He was now holding the sword of Uriel.

  “What is that line from Enoch I always liked?” Darke asked. “Oh, yes, Hyacinth read it to me—I was thinking of it earlier. ‘Yea, though once you walked as sons of gods, Bene ba Elohim, you shall die as men shall die.’ Darke threw the sword and Loch caught the hilt with both hands. The blade instantly flashed white-hot. The Daath looked pale and almost dead, as if he could barely stand, let alone use the sword once more, but still it came alive, simmering with a far promise.

  “This time use it, Daath!” shouted Darke. “Use the damned sword, not your blood, and send this motherless bastard to creation’s end!”

  Darke then back stepped, leapt onto his horse, drawing up the reins and sinking his heels into the sides with a scream. The horse bolted forward into a heavy gallop—he was riding for the chosen—the last of his people, the last of his kind.

  Satariel made no move to follow, nor his sons. The angel turned to Loch, watching him calmly. �
��Good advice, but you can hardly stand up, Angelslayer. I doubt you can even lift the sword, let alone light the blade once more. What exactly are you planning to do?”

  “What the Tarshian said,” Loch answered, out of breath, still unsteady. He tightly curled both hands about the hilt and eased into a back stance. “I think … I think I finally understand.”

  “And how can you possibly do more than you have? Please—I would love to know what you are thinking.”

  “I am thinking that it is not me. Not my blood—is it not the blade’s thirst for blood that can kill an angel. Something else kills angels. All I need to do is let go and remember the home of this blade, the star from where it was born. Am I right, Satariel, Lord of the Choir of Orphanim?”

  Satariel drew his lip back in a snarl. “Enough of this! It ends here; it ends now!” The angel’s sunblade came alive, moving in a furious arc. It was blinding, searing. Loch had to avert his eyes, but he spun to the side as Satariel’s fire cut a deep swath through the plaza’s stone, sending chips of granite spinning past his cheek. Loch crouched, bracing himself, and brought the sword of Uriel over his head to catch Satariel’s light, snagging it, letting it stream into the Angelslayer’s blade. It came hot, intense, with a sound like lightning crackling. The blast spilling over the plaza was so bright even the Nephilim had to shield their eyes. It continued, bearing down with more and more force, a sizzling, whirling blast, the heat of it burning Loch’s face. But as furious as it was, it was being swallowed into the Angelslayer, as if the blade welcomed it. Loch was still losing blood. It was even flowing from the skin on his wrist in tiny streamers, like red strings. Loch knew he would soon black out; he felt his life draining, even his eyes were growing dim, but he lowered his head and leaned into it, continued to press into the stream of Satariel’s fire.

  And then—finally, he heard her voice. Her. Not Adrea, not his mother. On the beach that day, when Loch gave Adrea the ring of the Water Bearer, she had opened the eye of Daath. And it was her voice that whispered now. The mirrored image of the mothering star finally crossed the void, through a rift in time and heaven.

  The light that pierced through to the small plaza in Ophur was not blinding, not like the severity of Elyon’s wrath as the fire of the angel. It was merely the touch of creation; it was the Light Whose Name Is Splendor.

  Although the light that burst through like a wave breaking seemed so bright and searing it should have blinded all of them, it did not. There was no pain to it, not for Loch. It was more like a wind spilling out, and Loch felt as though he were falling, that if he let himself go, he would fall into the sky, into this light, and reach heaven.

  The fire of the mothering star came against the angel Satariel and his sons. It was the very word of the angel’s song, which had once been his heart and his hope, that now struck the angel. Bathed in its light, he dropped to his knees, stunned, and lowered his head as the mothering light ripped through him like a howling wind. Satariel’s sword exploded. Pieces of the blade spun outward in shards as if it had been no more than a crystal goblet.

  The angel held his ground, though it seemed the light that passed through him hit like a hard rain pelting, like a fierce storm off the sea, almost flinging him into the rising sun of dawn behind his back; he continued to kneel against it. His sons, the gathered Nephilim to either side, dissolved into what seemed to be teardrops of shadow, and then they were no more, though behind them the green foliage of the conifers and the grasses were left untouched, unaffected.

  The angel kept his head lowered into the blast, the wind of it tearing at him furious, screaming without sound—it was the feel of sound, a sad wail of a mother over a dying son, a cry of terrible loss. Satariel’s cloak was shredded but stayed intact, though pieces of his oraculum armor shattered and tore away.

  And then, as simply and mysteriously as it had came, the light ended, the eye of Daath closed as if the light in the plaza had been snuffed with a candle douser. Dawn’s light fell over them in a bright, red hue and sound thinned to a quiet with far, soft flicker of fires burning below in Ophur. The Angelslayer was just a crystal blade, no blood swirling, no silver flashing.

  Loch dropped forward, so weak he could not believe he was still conscious. He was on both knees, leaning against the sword for support, head hanging down. For a moment, he felt as if he were about to pass into shadow—and yet there was such peace in him, such a gentle, soft touch somehow slowly restoring his strength. He did not understand what had happened, not fully. It had filled him with a wondrous knowing—what was called the star knowledge—but even as he tried to comprehend it, he could feel it fading, slipping away. Faith was always a light that dimmed too quickly.

  He set the tip of the sword against the limestone and drew himself to one knee, then looked up.

  The angel was kneeling, head down. Satariel seemed confused, staring at the hilt of his shattered sword in utter disbelief. He finally tossed it aside, angrily. Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet, steadying himself. He had changed. Most striking were his eyes. Before they had been a terrifying black—threatening to spill the stars of the gods’ wrath at any moment, but now Satariel’s eyes were a clear, ice-blue—they were, in fact, the eyes of a human.

  “Thou art mortal,” a low, quiet voice said. “As mortal as the blood that has cried for centuries from this Earth, as mortal as the innocents you have slain all these years, Satariel.”

  Satariel turned. Loch knew the voice and looked to see Sandalaphon near the edge of the shattered stone wall just behind him—as if he might have been there watching all along.

  Satariel glared at Sandalaphon, then looked down at himself. He held out his hands, turned them. His skin was different somehow, softer, merely flesh. With the fingers of his right hand he ripped open his left wrist and watched, stunned as red blood flowed, spilled onto the stone. The wound did not heal as it had when Darke’s bolt pierced his shoulder. He just continued to bleed. When he looked up, there was panic in his eyes, in his face. He brought his fingers stiff, forming a knife-hand, then staved it into his own chest and ripped out his own heart. For a moment, he stood there, staring at it in his hand, squeezed tight, blood spilling. He then fell to his knees, then onto the stone, facedown.

  Loch turned to look at Sandalaphon. “How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough.”

  “But you did not help? Why?”

  “I am forbidden in many things. Time must unfold of its own. Heaven binds me. Not my heart, however. I bleed for you, Lochlain—but I am bound, and more than that, it is written, and so it must be, that the fallen must be made flesh by the scion of a Daath and the blood of a human. It is why Elyon sent the Arsayalalyur in answer to the cries of the Earth—that the blood of men would answer the death of their fathers; it is why the Daath have for centuries mixed their blood with their kindred, the Lochlain. But we are not quite finished. There is one thing left. Satariel must be bound. It is why I am here. Only the sword of Gabriel can bind them.”

  “You carry the sword of Gabriel?”

  “He is my father. Close your eyes and cover your face—the light will blind you otherwise.”

  Sandalaphon drew the sword.

  Loch turned away, but he heard the sounds, a thousand winds, the earth opening like a tree being split apart and then a rushing, like waters, and then something collapsing, closing with a thunderclap. When he could finally look up, there was a pale, green, glasslike circle impressed into the ground where Satariel had been lying.

  “What happened?” asked Loch. “Where is he?”

  “There is a prison fashioned for them. They will dwell there ten thousand years, until the coming of the lamb, until the Earth opens up its dead in the first lifting. Their prison is deep, bound on all sides by the pillars of fire that hold the form of the Earth, anchoring its heart.” Sandalaphon then studied Loch a moment with a look of concern. “You want to know, but I cannot speak of her, Lochlain. I care, I feel your pain, but there is nothing I c
an tell you. She is where hope still dwells—as the rest of us; she lives now by heaven’s oath. The blood of the archangel is strong in you, but there is still anger, and the anger you feel is human—flesh continues to weaken you. This is not finished yet—it is only the beginning.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Satariel was the first to age, the first to actually fall from the grace of the knowing. There were seven prefects who swore the Oath of Binding upon Mount Ammon in the time of Yered. They were the seven Watchers of heaven, and six still burn with the star knowledge, the light of Elyon. Beyond them were the three, the lords of the choir. Even now, one of them, a Named, a lord of the Seraphim—the second of the three—come against your people. You will have to stop him, as well, before it is too late, before the chosen are lost to time and the Earth is swallowed by Aeon’s End.”

  “Another? The weak one has left me all but dead, and you tell me there is another?”

  “Another that is far more powerful than you or I can imagine.” Loch just stared at him; he had no words for this.

  “I have a small ship in the lagoon,” Sandalaphon said. “It light and shallow, but it is very swift.”

  “The captain—first I must help him.”

  “The sons of Satariel have become but spirits now, most of them lost and panicked. They are doomed to wander the Earth and plague mankind until the opening of the Earth. Those few left alive, the Tarshian will take care of himself. We must leave—time is thin, it grows thinner each second.”

  Loch just stared at him, winded, still weak. He wanted to scream at him, wanted to scream at heaven, but he was too weak, too tired to fight any longer. He turned to stare at Hyacinth, her long, curled brown hair snarled in the pool of her own blood that had formed to the side of her head and etched into the cracks of the plaza’s limestone fitting. He walked to her, knelt beside her, and touching her shoulder, slowly turned her over. He stared at her face, half of it bloodied, but he took the time to smooth a lock of hair out of her eye.