“I … I know you. I understand that, but I must not yield, not now.”
She paused. He thought for a moment her lip might have trembled. She bit it softly. She nodded. “Yes. You know me.”
“Then it is why you have come—in answer to my call?”
“As you always knew we would,” she said.
Eryian looked past her a moment, to the top of the white ship lined with rows of warriors.
“Three ships?” he asked. “How many men?”
“These are the thousand, Eryian, warlord of Argolis. These are the thousand sons of Righel.”
The name startled him, and he realized that though her eyes were dimmed now, when she had spoken that name, for a second they had spilled light like the stars breaking on a clear night. The effect left him shaken. She seemed to expect more, and was studying him for a reaction. Finally, she looked down; almost as though she was hurt, but when the eyes lifted they were calm and assuring.
“I did not expect this to be hard … Eryian. Is that what you wish me to call you? Eryian?”
“It is my name here.”
There were questions flooding him, but he did not ask them; he did not even think them through because the answers were already whispering all about, memories spilling—and it was only with difficulty he was able to turn them back. They were memories that threatened to overwhelm him, and he could not afford to be weakened. Emotions were weakness, and these were strong. Yet it was hard. Turning from their whisper was like turning his face from the light.
“Whoever you are,” he said, “good lady, I thank you for coming.”
She bowed her head and her hand brushed her cheek. It had been too quick to tell for certain, but she may have brushed away a tear. Still, when she looked back up, she smiled. Then she did something unexpected. She carefully touched his cheek, and when she did it was like quick current through him, something sad and far.
“For you,” she said, “we would cross any sea—any night, any stars.”
Eryian’s mouth parted, stunned. That voice. He had heard it laugh, heard it sing, heard it weep. She withdrew her hand and Eryian was almost thankful.
“Should I have them disembark?” she asked.
“What …”
“Your priests, Eryian. Should they disembark here?” “Priests?”
“Yes—these waiting on the ships, they are warrior priests. They were trained of a very powerful being. You have summoned the warriors of Righel—the thousand firstborn.”
“Firstborn … these are Nephilim?”
“Like no others. They are not fallen, and they were born of Earth, but far. Their light is of a heaven, their home an ice moon that circles a planet near the seventh star. These are the sons of an angel who had never lost the star knowledge; they are pure.”
Eryian closed his eyes a moment and forced the memories back. He would deal with it later. When he looked back up, he was sternly in control.
“Do we disembark, my lord?”
“No,” he stammered. “No. I would like your ships farther in. This river is deep and your hulls are warships, shallow enough to sail far up its neck to the east. Far enough to reach a place called Hericlon’s vale.”
“The vale of Hericlon,” she whispered darkly. “Yes, I remember. It is fitting; I suppose that if we are to meet him, it would be at Hericlon.”
She studied him, and then, as though purposely, she let the star fire spill from her eyes a moment and Eryian spun with visions that bled out so swiftly he wasn’t sure where it had spoken, or what it had been, but it seemed to have been the scream of dying souls, a scream of thousands. Eryian knew what it was; not memory, it was one of many futures. She knew, as well as he did, who they where about to face. There were stars that burned dark at the far end of the universe, stars that swallowed light and stole the fire of suns. Long ago, in the time of Yered, one of them had stepped from the sky to follow the Light Bearer, one of the firstborn of Elyon. And he was there; this being, Azazel, was waiting now in Hericlon’s passage.
She stood and held out her hand. “Come,” she said, “they have been waiting long to see you.”
“Your warrior priests?” he asked.
She paused a moment, studying him. “I understand that you have chosen to hide. I cannot blame you. Perhaps it is even necessary. I remember how the veil was often a comfort. Very well, then. Come—Eryian, warlord of Argolis—meet the warrior priests of the seventh choir, the Choir of the Fiery Serpents of Elyon, the thousand Seraphim who are known as the Sons of Righel.”
“And you, my lady?”
“You can’t guess my name, Eryian?”
He could. He started to, but hesitated.
She smiled. “I am Cassium.”
“You were his—Righel’s. You are one of them. You are a Star Walker Queen.”
“Yes, in a way I am. Righel taught me many things—he taught me the names of the heavens before the Earth was born, and the secrets of stars that burn deep beyond the rift of knowing, but also, before he left, he taught me of the Light Whose Name Is Splendor. But I am unlike the Star Walker Queens that are whispered of who dwelt in the time of Dawnshroud. I am not undead, merely aged carefully. And I do not hold the keys of turning, though perhaps I do remember a bit of magic.” She smiled. “He changed me, but in a way he left me the same. That was his last gift to me.”
“What gift?”
“My soul. If you had looked in my eyes in the age of Dawnshroud, you would barely have noticed it. But Righel laid hands on me and restored it; he did not let me turn.”
She watched for his reaction, then smiled. The smile touched him. It was so familiar, the way it curled, the way dimples appeared; the quiet, half smile of Cassium, and he knew she could laugh with the thrill of a child. She was toying with him, letting memories spill like water over the lip of a glass. Eryian pulled himself sharply into focus, and though the smile remained, the memories drew back quietly.
“Come, Eryian. The Seraphim wish to see you.”
As he followed her toward the ship, Eryian was grateful she had not pressed the knowing further. He knew the sword he had retrieved from the star spire off the coast was called the sword of Righel, and he knew that he was the Voyager of the seventh star. So not only did he carry Righel’s sword, he was now about to take command of a thousand of his sons. Argolis had once told him Righel was a myth, a legend to inspire men to die, that the crypt in the tunnels beneath Terith-Aire was empty and always would be. Perhaps Argolis had known something he did not.
Eryian noticed as he climbed the ladder that the skin of the ship was more than just a brilliant silver-white, there was a oily light playing over it, reflecting darkly the purple waters of the Western Sea. He stepped over the railing onto the forecastle. He turned to help her over, as well. On this ship, from here to the stern, they all looked to him. One of them lifted his sword in salute, laying it across his heart, and bowed to one knee. Eryian was surprised, even stunned, when the rest of them bowed, as well, fists to their hearts in pledge.
“We honor you, my lord,” said the first to bow. “I am Amathon, Commander of the First Century of Shieldbearers.”
“Amathon,” Eryian replied, nodding. “You may call me captain, or Eryian, if you prefer.”
“Yes, my lord.” The commander then motioned to an axeman beside him. “This is my second, my brother, Braemacht, who is commander of the queen’s personal guard.”
Even for a Nephilim, Braemacht was big. His axe had a back hammer and a killing spike on the pommel—built for close-in killing. If anyone ever reached the queen, they would face this one and others like him. His eyes, bright blue, met Eryian’s briefly. “My lord,” he said quietly.
In order, the others were introduced. The captains of the First and Second Century Horsemen; the thin, gaunt captain of archers, whose silver bow curled above his shoulder like the edge of a wing; the commander of the throwers; the spearmen; and two Century Captains of heavy sword.
“The Daath owe yo
u all a heavy debt,” Eryian said. “We are to sail east, up the neck of this river to a place called Hericlon’s vale.”
“Yes. We know of this place. It is the killing ground,” said Amathon.
“Why do you say that?”
“It has always been known as the killing ground, from the time of Yered, from the days of the Dawnshroud.” “You say that as if you were there.”
Amathon glanced briefly at Braemacht. “We were, my lord. We were there.” “For now, Amathon,” said Cassium, “the veil protects us. For now we are going to let memories lie.”
As the ships sailed up the Ithen, they glided through the dark waters much faster than oars or their strange gossamer sails could account for. There was wind in his hair as Eryian stood on the prow, watching the river unfold. The woman stood next to him. There was a smell from her, like the smell of fresh, pure, running waters. And even that, her smell, seemed to tingle a far memory inside him.
“What kind of ship is this?” Eryian asked.
“It is a warship,” she answered.
“Not like any I have ever seen.”
She smiled, saying something without really saying it. Eryian felt that if he wanted, if he let go, he could hear her with words. He turned, pointing.
“There,” Eryian said. “The legions of the Daath salute you.”
They turned to see a wall of shields and swords lifted high in the sun. A great war cry went up as they passed.
“You have trained them?” she said.
“Yes.”
“They are warriors as were warriors of old.”
She lifted her hand, pointing fingers to the sky. From amidships a cage was dropped open and a second silver eagle soared. Just beyond the ride, hovering in midair, the eagle arched its talons and screeched its caw, an echoing war cry. Then, as the other, it soared into the sky until it was only a dot and vanished from sight. A thundering cry went up from the Daath and the ship drew past, then continued east up the river, gaining speed.
Eryian glanced back to her. She was studying the river ahead of them, holding her cloak against the chill. She was smaller than Eryian, only coming to his shoulder.
“Do they know they are children of the seventh star? Did you teach them that?”
“Some believe, but warriors, after the blood slips from their blade from the first kill, stop bothering with scripture. Here, in this world, they must realize life is a matter of flesh and bone. They leave the rest, the secrets, to their women.”
“It is said the Daath will be remembered as the Angelslayers.” Something in the way she said that gave him pause. “If they survive, if time allows, I believe they will,” he answered. “Yet you are not certain?” “I am certain of nothing in this world, my lady.”
“I was not sure when it all began, the things you did, the things you started, but now it starts to make sense. You stayed behind to teach them, to raise up Angelslayers. I can understand why you would choose to do so. In a way, their swords, in the final shadow of Aeon’s End, shall also be your sword.”
“How well did I know you, Cassium? The memories whisper, but I fear that flesh is too weak for memories, considering what I face due to the east. I hope you understand.”
“I try. The world is such a perfect illusion, Eryian. Sometimes it is difficult to know what truth is and what is merely mist and shadow. Maybe, in the end, truth itself is only shadow. I hope not. It will come to you—who we were, who we are. The more you hear my voice, the more you look in my eyes. There,” she pointed. “Hericlon’s vale.”
Eryian turned, startled. “We have reached it this soon?”
“These are not ships as you know in this world. They move swiftly. Do you choose to make landfall here, then?”
“Is there a reason I should not?”
“Hericlon no longer stands. You know that, of course.”
He took a startled breath. He hadn’t. Hericlon had fallen. There was nothing to turn back the armies of Du’ldu. The kindred of Dannu, the Daath, the ancient city of Terith-Aire, all lie before the armies of the south almost naked. Even these, mystic ships spilling with the light of stars, even these could not turn back Azazel. It seemed already lost, but that is not how Eryian had taught his men, and it was not what he let slip through his mind now.
“We are in the open here,” Eryian said, concerned. “It is low ground, and our flanks are not guarded.”
“You wish us to turn back?”
He paused, uncertain.
“I thought we had come to face him, Eryian. Is that not the reason you sent the beacon from the star ship? Are we here only for your Daath? Or did we come to find him?”
He had always known the spire that lay out to sea was a star ship, that the ceiling was not only a map of the night sky, but was also the ship’s guidance. He thought for a moment to peel back the veil, but that was still dangerous, he was flesh, his emotions like a vapor near the surface, and with Hericlon fallen, he could afford no weakness. He had to keep these emotions at bay—if there was a past to be revealed, he had been someone else then. Here and now, he was mortal, flesh and blood. He scanned the vale before them.
“We could reach the center, that middle ground. We could face him there.”
She nodded. “Does he know you are here?”
“He must see your ships; he must see the sons of Righel. Even standing from the mountain’s passage he could see the river if he were watching. But no, he does not know of me. I am hidden from him. I have not revealed myself, and neither have I felt his probes searching. But looking south, I do realize you are right, Cassium. Hericlon has fallen.”
“You did not expect that?”
“I had hope—that was all. Mere hope; a mortal’s hope.” “Azazel would not make such an error. Of course you knew that, Eryian. You may hide, but you have not forgotten who he is. And he now moves in the shadow of Endgame. He will make no errors. He comes for your Daath, and you must know when he reaches them, he will slay them.”
“There is yet a turn that even Azazel has not guessed.”
She curled a smile, and after a moment he looked into the bright ice of her eyes. “You are still in there,” she said. “I am sorry that I doubted at all. Forgive me, my lord.”
“Forgive what?”
“Just that at first I did not know what to trust. It has been so long for me. I have not seen Earth in many years. Centuries. I have forgotten what it was like. We will take that central ground come the dawn—face him there. At last it comes, then; at last we end the book whose chapters have been so carefully written. Between then and now, if you would, Eryian, warlord of Daath, might we spend the evening here, along this beach? It is so beautiful here. The smell of Earth—the sky, the ridge of trees along that spine of the mountain. I had forgotten how beautiful, how splendid is the world of Elyon. I would like that, to camp here.”
“Of course.”
Close to her, he again felt a slight chill of her beauty touch him.
“I believe I understand you,” she said. “Why it is you so carefully turn back memory. If you are not certain, then he will not be certain. Even Azazel would not think to search this vale for a memory that is no more than a shadow.”
She lifted her hand, and that seemed all it took to guide the ships inward. He looked for a helmsman, but nothing on this ship was as it should be.
Eryian watched as the giants, the sons of Righel, laid out camp. Tents quickly lined the water’s edge. He noticed they had captains among them who rode tall, white horses. One pulled alongside him, and when Eryian turned, he realized this was Amathon.
“Captain,” Eryian said with a nod.
“This valley is cold with the south wind,” Amathon said.
“Yes. I know I should be the one with answers, but tell me, Amathon, do you know their numbers? The armies of Du’ldu? What is your guess?”
“Numbers will not be what matters. My mother tells me we have not come seeking this army. They may number as the sand of the shores, but as someone
once told me, someone whose word I have ever held close, when outnumbered, seek the head, not the body. If one severs the head, the rest shall fold.”
“And who told you that, Amathon?”
“My father.”
Amathon then pushed his mount forward, circling his fist to direct a disembarking column of spearmen. The shadow of the mountain was once again filled with Nephilim, high-blood firstborn who had not touched these shores since the time of Dawnshroud.
Eryian stared at the far ice spire of Hericlon against the dark horizon. Dusk had fallen and stars scattered, but the mountain itself snagged a dark cloud that obscured the sky. He knew it was not a storm cloud, that it held no rain or moisture. They were the whirlers, the thousand eyes of the angel. It was darkness boiling. Eryian wondered a moment of the Little Fox. If Hericlon had fallen, it could hardly be possible the Walker of the Lake still lived. He would not have turned from the gate, but then, in the gathering wars, Rhywder had surprised him more than once.
“Godspeed, brother,” he said to the night, just in case Rhywder was out there somewhere.
He felt a whisper beside him and turned, finding Cassium. Her platinum hair brushed his bared shoulder, leaving a tingle.
“Seven centuries,” she said. “One thousand prime of Righel’s sons return to the killing ground. It will be as it was when the old ones fought here before the gate was ever built. It is war, but then it is almost poetry, the timing of it, the way the stars have turned and this movement has come to pass. Surely even the angel must know the shadow of Aeon’s abyss closes on the Earth as we speak. Has living here so clouded his thoughts that he somehow believes he can escape it?”
She glanced at Eryian, but smiled as she realized he may or may not understand her. Yet, what he did understand were the dimples, there again, they left him a feeling of warmth and care. “But then,” she said, “all that is just scripture, not something you have bothered with. There is one here called Enoch. Do you know of him?” “Of course.”
“He is called the Scribe by them, by the angels. They sent him, you know, to plead their cause. A mortal—they sent a mortal to stand before the face of Elyon and plead the cause of the sons of heaven. Such pitiful irony in that. When I learned of it, I did not know whether to laugh or weep.”
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 49
