“You cannot do what you are thinking,” Sandalaphon said.
“I can and I will. She is coming with us.” He lifted the Angelslayer, laying the crystal blade against the smooth surgeon’s cut in Hyacinth’s neck.
“Lochlain, if you do this—it will weaken you—like sin weakens a pure heart. It is against heaven.”
“Giving life is against heaven? How could I not have guessed?”
“You must try to understand. Do this and a part of you will be lost that cannot ever be regained.”
“She comes with us, Sandalaphon, and if it is of any interest to heaven, what harm it leaves me could hardly be more meaningless right now.”
He closed his eyes and began to focus on the feeling that swam in the pommel’s stone. He knew how to do this. Enough of the star knowledge was still in him, the knowing grace. He understood it was going to fade like dreams fade, that he would soon wake and it would be gone. Even the faith that it had ever happened would be gone. Like the face of his mother. He had tried to remember her, tried so hard, but the years took her face, her memory, her smell. But in this moment, Loch knew, he understood, and he let his mind open, let a trickle more of his own blood, through the palms of his hands.
“Amen-Omen-Diaman,” he whispered—spell-binding words whose meaning he would soon forget. It would not matter—it was not the words, it was the understanding of them, the burning of starlight left in them. He then let a part of himself through the pommel stone into the blade, a part of his life, not his soul, more a part of his faith, of his inner light, something that would leave him weakened, perhaps forever.
The blade flashed softly—nothing like the fire of battle—and with a start, Hyacinth gasped, sucking in air as if she had just surfaced from almost drowning. When Loch lifted the sword away, her wound was healed, the skin smooth, no scars. She started to get up and he set his hand on her shoulder, helping her to sit up. She stared at him, startled.
“Loch?”
He nodded.
“Is it … is it over?”
“Yes.”
“And the others—did any of the others make it alive?” “They have been slaughtered, all but a few.” “The captain? Darke—did they kill him?” “No. He will survive.”
Her eyes searched his quickly; she then touched his neck. “Was I … did I die?”
“You are going to be weak for the next few days. Your blood loss was great; it will have to replenish before you have the strength to walk.” “You used the sword. You brought me back.” He didn’t answer.
“You should not have done this, Loch. Not for one such as I—not for me.”
Loch glanced over his shoulder. “This is Sandalaphon. I must return. You can stay if you wish, or if you choose, you can come with me, Hyacinth. Which do you wish?”
“What would you want me to do?”
“Come with me.”
“It is not over, is it? All you must face—it has not ended.”
“No.”
“I have been in you, touched you—I may even love you. I will go with you, Loch. But you should have left me here, dead; you should not have weakened yourself. I am only a witch; I am no Water Bearer.”
“I know who you are. Sandalaphon will carry you; I am too weak. We must leave now.”
Hyacinth looked to the giant, but her eyes were sad, misted in tears.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Cassium
Eryian stood on a knoll and from there he could see the bustling city of Ishmia, once a fishing village, now a trading port that could only be rivaled by the Mother City herself. Almost any ship bound for Etlantis from the south stopped here. Ishmia had grown fat and rich, but Eryian could only think of how many would die if Hericlon fell, if the named one of Du’ldu crossed and came north for Terith-Aire. Ishmia would lay between them, unwalled, a sprawling city impossible to defend.
He turned east to follow the ribbon of dark water that was the river Ithen. It flowed from the mountains east, from Hericlon’s vale and once was much wider until the Galagleans, upriver near the vale, built a dam that tamed it. Still, as he watched its dark waters he felt something cold from them; he felt as if something had changed and it left an ill ease he didn’t want to feel. He looked to the east, troubled.
It was said the Etlantians had built the massive gate of Hericlon long ago, when first the angels had come to teach the children of men. But the second to follow the Light Bearer, Azazel, fought with him over a woman, slaying her in the end, and to escape the Light Bearer’s wrath, he sailed to the south. The angels themselves bordered on war and the passage through Hericlon divided all that was the death lords between those who sided with Etlantis and her king, the bringer of heaven’s light. It was then the Etlantians built the massive gate of huge cyclopean blocks of black stone cut from the mountain and the massive portcullis poured of pure oraculum, the heaviest, strongest structure on the whole of the Earth. For all the centuries of mankind, Hericlon had stood as the might of Etlantis against the rogue angel who not only broke his covenant with the choir of heaven by swearing upon Mount Ammon, but also was the first of the angels to commit murder.
Staring to the east, Eryian knew something had changed. He could not let himself believe that the mighty gate had fallen, that the passage was open and the lord of death would pass through now like the shadow of a dark star. And yet it whispered to him, a cold wind that came down the river Ithen, a dire warning that all was not right, that the balance of the Earth had changed and nothing he could do could turn it back.
It was near sunset and Eryian searched the sky. He had returned from the spire. He carried at his hip the sword that was known as the sword of Righel—a sunblade forged of aganon, the metal of a distant planet that circled the seventh star, the mothering star whose name was Dannu, whose sister was her mirror image, the queen they called the Daath. And now, reaching Tillantus and the legions above Ishmia overlooking the Ithen, he saw in the sky the answer to the call he sent to heaven from the star spire. It was the herald, the talisman. At first, against the darkened sky of the west, it was a quick, brilliant flash, a pulse of light as if something had burst through the heavens. Many of the Daathan warriors gathered on the high ground above Ishmia looked up to see the sky briefly lit. Eryian then heard the caw of an eagle and he saw the circle overhead, a silver eagle, its talons arched. He followed its path, saw where it dipped one wing downward indicating direction. Then in an arc, the sun glinting off its brilliant wings, it soared and vanished into the sky. The signet of the seventh star. Eryian’s call had been answered. Something inside him understood it all, what it meant, why it came, but his flesh still held back the memories of the spire and the sword and even the meaning of the talisman, though he understand to follow its signal.
Tillantus had been near Eryian at the time, and he stared upward, amazed.
“My lord, you see that?” he asked. “Thought it was an eagle, but it soared so high, it seemed to vanish into heaven. A silver eagle, never seen the like of that. Have you?”
“No, Tillantus. But you are right. It is a signal; it comes as herald.”
“How do you mean that, my lord?”
Eryian turned his gaze north toward the coastline. He saw them. The bird had dipped its wing above the western shore, across the river from the city. It was there they would meet him, and searching he saw the tips of their masts, white masts against the darkening western sky, three ships sailing for the coast. It left a shiver across his skin. It was all real, the fog of memories that had lived hidden deep inside all these years, tangled memories, like the shadows of dream still left in daylight. The knowing in him whispered. If he wanted, he knew they he could finally peel back the veil, but ironically, he chose not to. The sadness that had struck him in the star spire, which had left him so overwhelmed, was not something he wanted to bring to life. These memories, whatever they were, however far back they reached, he would leave as shadows for now.
“Are you all right, my lord?” asked his firs
t captain. “I must ride north, Tillantus.” “Let me guess: alone.”
“Not this time.” Eryian pointed. “If you look, you can see their masts against the skyline.”
“Ships!” Tillantus said, spotting them. “And tall, those are tall masts, my lord. Etlantian?”
“Yes. Once of Etlantis. Long ago.”
“It is why you left the night the king was taken—to summon them. Am I right?”
“Yes, these ships have answered my call.” “And why, my lord, if I may ask?”
“I wish I knew, Tillantus. I knew to send the beacon, I knew when they would come, even where to find them when they did—but odd of it, I cannot tell you why.”
“Perhaps it is a spellbound cast of the angel; perhaps they wait as a trap.”
“I think not, but whoever they are, I will ride out to meet them.” He noted Tillantus’s disapproving glance. “You will hold here, on this high ridge. These are warships; their hulls are shallow enough to make passage from here to the vale. With them I can reach the mountain much quicker than our legions. And if they find the gate of Hericlon is still ours, trust me, those who come, the three masts you see against the horizon, they can hold Hericlon. They can hold till the winter snows seal off all passage through the mountains of Par-minion, and that would grant us time.”
“But, my lord, why should the Daath not march to follow, to meet you there in any event, the gate fallen or held?”
“If the gate is lost, the vale is low ground and offers no cover for your flanks. Here you are on high ground, the deepest part of the river below you. It is good ground to hold. It will cost heavily, the taking of this ridge against the legions of the Daath. The waters beyond widen to the sea and the port of Ishmia, and the death lord comes with the armies of Du’ldu. They are desert armies; they do not come with warships or galleys. They will follow the river and seeing the Daath gathered here, he will come for you. You will be his target; why venture farther when what he comes for waits here?”
“You speak, my lord, as though you believe Hericlon may have actually fallen.”
“Perhaps it is merely a chill wind that comes down the Ithen I am feeling. They are not uncommon this time of year. Let us just say I will lead these ships upriver, not because I fear the gate is no longer ours, but in hopes to reach it quickly. Should it be that Hericlon has fallen, better it is they, those who come at my signal to this shore, meet the first wave of the Unchurians than to waste our legions trying to hold low ground with no barriers to our flanks. You would agree?”
“Aye, my lord. So then, Captain, it has come to this? That we even speak of Hericlon’s fall? A gate that has held against the south for centuries uncounted. If that has happened, in Elyon’s blessed name, what is it we face? What comes against us?”
“A Watcher, one who turned long ago. I choose this night not to name him, to leave him unknown, to give no honor. Prepare this ridge as I have instructed, give me three days upriver, as well as your prayers to heaven. You will see them pass, three white ships as we move upstream for the vale. They are Elyon’s gift. I do not leave you without hope, Tillantus—they are our hope, our last hope against the tide. I may return, the gate secure, the winter snows locking her down, leaving her impregnable. That is why they have come, so honor them as they pass. Have our legions lift their swords in the sign that hope lives, that they come not to fall, but in Faith’s Light. However, if by act of heaven, I do not return—”
“My lord, Eryian! Forgive me, but if you do not return, we are lost!”
“Until the last man falls, you have not yet lost, Tillantus. If one Daath still stands, you have not lost. And if I do not make it back, you will hold the ridge as I have instructed. Make the cost here heavy. If that fails, then pull back to the East of the Land. At its northern ridge, with the trees as your final barrier, make your last stand against them. Keep the chosen always to the rear, always protected. Nothing reaches the chosen; do you understand that?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“And if that hour should arrive, Tillantus, that you make your stand with the forest before you, then look to the sea. Ships will come from the west, from Etlantia, a fleet of them. These you can trust; they will not fly the bull of Etlantis, but their sails shall be white. Hold the line against the East of the Land and ensure against all cost that the chosen reach the Etlantians. More than this, I cannot give you. I pray such hour never comes, that the final stand I just described never sees light. Yet, have we not learned in our day that Elyon often chooses His own path despite the prayers of the valiant?”
Tillantus studied Eryian, troubled, his eyes hardened. “Never believed in prophecy. Never listened to these wandering seers of Enoch or any of the legends passed down. If I am one of the valiant, my lord, I have not offered Elyon any prayers. Myself, I always believed in the haft of my axe and the spit on my balls.”
Eryian smiled.
“You speak of legend, my lord,” said Tillantus. “You speak of the winnowing war as if it lies at our doorstep. Tell me I am wrong.” Eryian did not answer.
“Then all those years,” Tillantus said, “the gathering of the tribes—Argolis was not wrong. You were not wrong. And the hour spoken of in that long-ago day seems now to have arrived. If that be so, for myself, I do not see the silver eagle that soared into the sky just now. The bird I saw was the Raven of Aeon’s End.”
“You are the best warrior and the finest commander I have even known, Tillantus. If it falls to you, save the chosen at all cost. I must leave now; I must meet the ships that sail from the deep of the Western Sea.” “Aye, my lord.”
Eryian paused a moment longer, then reached his gauntleted hand and with a slap, Tillantus gripped his wrist hard, meeting his eyes in promise. “If we do not meet again, Tillantus, Elyon’s Light guide your path.” Tillantus stared hard, then nodded. “Godspeed, as well, my captain.”
After crossing the isthmus of the Ithen where it spilled to the sea, Eryian led his horse off the boat, thanked his ferrymen, and sent them back with coin. The ferrymen had noticed, curious of the ships that came down from the west, but they had not dared ask Eryian from where or why.
Eryian rode south until he reached a long stretch of white sand. There he waited. He watched the tips of the white masts against the horizon. He had known they would come, he had known their count, three ships, but the rest of what he knew he left in memory’s fog. Better that way, he told himself. He would learn what he needed when time came to know it. He calmly watched now as they drew up in order, closing on the beach. Though they were built as Etlantian ships, they were also built low and sleek—warships. As he had guessed, their sails were not marked by the bull of Etlantis. That was because they had not come from the Mother Island. He knew that; he understood that well. He had never seen white ships before, the hulls and sails were bright against the blue sea and dark sky. They could have been sculpted of ice.
Eryian rode through the sea grass at the edge of the shore, then along the sand where waves crested. They had seen him; they were going to shore their keels on the beach where he waited, and as he watched it seemed almost they were not sailing, but gliding, no wind against their full, billowed sails and no oars propelling them, yet they came on steady and certain. Sky ships, something in him whispered. They had not sailed out of the Western Sea; they had crossed from a far place, a place in the sky marked by the Seven Sisters. When they touched the waters, silver-white oars lifted out like feathered wings to dip into the sea, slowing them and letting the keels gracefully nudge into the sand.
Close up, the lead ship’s prow post was a silver-white eagle with spreading wings. He saw warriors above the railings—giants. They did not wear the oraculum red armor or cloaks of Etlantians; their armor was silvered, their cloaks white. They all watched with more than mere interest; they were watching him with something like fascination.
A rope ladder unfurled, clattering against the white-silver planking of the hull. Eryian saw a woman’s leg step over the
white gunwale. Not a giant, as the warriors—this was a mortal woman. The first sight of her, coming down the ladder, took his breath. She wore a robe that was crystal blue, and her hair was white-gold.
Eryian dismounted.
She stepped into the shallow, warm sea waters at the edge of the sand and walked toward him. He was surprised she was barefooted. But there was something to her, the way she moved, and her face, her eyes, they struck him like a bolt from a crossbow. He knew her. But he kept the veil in place; he did not let memory break. He lowered himself to one knee, even lowered his head, for though he chose to keep his memories silent, he knew this was a queen.
She stopped before him.
“My lady,” Eryian said quietly.
Surprisingly, she did not offer her hand. Instead, she lowered herself, dropping onto her knees in the sand before him, and there she waited for Eryian to meet her eyes at her level.
“You do not bow to me; it is I who bow before you. Have you forgotten?” She didn’t wait for an answer; she found it in his eyes. “You have—you hold the veil, you do not know who I am, do you? Do you know even who you are? Do you know that?”
“I am Eryian, warlord of Argolis, king of the Daath.”
The lips parted slightly, and she gasped. “You have buried them deep, the memories. Necessary, perhaps—but how it saddens me. Yet, it is your choice, my lord, and I will honor it.”
Her eyes were ice diamonds; they burned with a light beyond human, but they were also kind, and seeing them this close, such a terrible sadness struck him, he felt his eyes sting. He knew her in a way that he wanted to hold her, but he restrained himself, just stared at her face, shaken. It was impossible to tell how old she was, for she looked pure, and her features were as fine and carefully cut as though her skin had been carved of ivory. It was a face filled with tenderness, as beautiful as any woman he had ever laid eyes on. Shivers ran through him.
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 48
