Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  The sounds of the battle were growing closer now. The stiff, steady drone of the dying was drawing near. They were boring inward. The day had been long, but slowly the Unchurians were reaching the center. It would be over within another degree of the sun.

  Eryian glanced to Cassium. “When he comes, when he finds us—do you have a plan?”

  “I can drop him—stun him at the very least. Let him see me first, then light the sword.”

  Eryian glanced at the blade. The flange was no longer pulsing, but seemed to be waiting, resting. It was much as he remembered the sword of Uriel in battle with Argolis, a brilliant, white diamond, steeled through the center.

  The sounds of battle were suddenly snuffed. It grew oddly quiet, a hush falling, odd, just like the snow that was lazily drifting from the sky.

  Cassium drew close to Eryian’s side.

  “They will soon breach the inner circle,” she said. “The last of us. But it seems they have stopped.”

  “These are Unchurians. They will bring in their highborn for the final kill.”

  The Unchurians had withdrawn, backing slowly into the trees, retreating to the hills encircling the vale. As the armies receded, the enormity of the death was left bare, and the ground could hardly been seen through the bodies that covered it. It was like a tide going out, leaving a mound of rich, red harvest.

  The last of the sons of Righel tightened into a much smaller circle. All that was left was an outer core of shieldbearers, and toward the center, the queen’s guard, the axemen of Braemacht.

  Eryian heard voices, soft and far from the hills, singing in clear, careful Unchurian. He understood little Unchurian, but this he recognized this. It was a prayer.

  “We are being dedicated,” he said. “These are old words, the ancient words of Etlantis.”

  “Yes,” she answered, “once the words of the choirs.”

  “Song,” Braemacht swore. “Well, we can give them song, as well.” He circled, looking at the others. “Sing!” he commanded. “What?” an axeman beside him exclaimed. “By Elyon’s Light, give them a song in answer.” “What song, my lord?” “I don’t give a damn! Just sing!”

  Braemacht banged his axe against his buckler began to sing in a high, loud voice.

  Several more joined in, then all of them, banging their axes in rhythm and singing. Their voices echoed through the vale. But Braemacht had not chosen a prayer. Unlike Amathon and the others, the queen’s guards were axemen, and they had chosen a tavern song, a drinking song, and their deep voices carried above the prayers of the Unchurian priests and swelled across the valley.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Sorcerers

  Rhywder was watching from a high knoll, atop a dark horse, amid the trees, Satrina beside him. Both of them were in disguise. They wore the robes of slain priests, cowls drawn up to cover their faces, the backs of their hands muddied.

  “Love of God,” Rhywder whispered. “They are singing a tavern song down there.”

  “But who are they?”

  “I still do not know, but by Elyon’s grace, they are glorious sons of bitches.”

  Satrina opened her eyes. For the past turn of the sun she had kept them closed. Now she gasped at the bodies below, mounds of them, like rolling hills of bloodied flesh piled one atop the other. She had never seen anything like it—a horrid, red stain that silently swallowed the falling snow.

  “What is happening now, Rhywder?” she said weakly. “Why have they stopped?”

  “The Unchurians are offering the last of these as a holy sacrifice. There must be someone down there, someone special.” “Why do you say that?”

  “This prayer, it is a sacrificial prayer, but not for just any sacrifice. They claim they are about to kill a Star Walker.” “What is that?”

  “A Watcher. A Star Walker is an angel—though I cannot guess why one has come here to fight against the death lord.” “There is an angel down there?”

  “There must be, and the white cloaks that have fallen, the shields with their circled cross, they are his sons.”

  “He is going to destroy them all, the death lord of the south, is he not?”

  “Yes. We should see him, the death lord. If it is an angel down there, he will come himself for the final kill. We must take care, Satrina. His focus will be elsewhere; there is little chance he will discover there are two priests not his own in the ranks, but we should remain quiet, hushed. It is odd we are about to witness one Watcher fall upon another; I cannot make sense of it. We have no choice but to watch him die. But he will die well, die strong. I sense someone powerful, someone strong, but the odd thing is that I do not sense a fallen. I have no feeling there is a fallen of the choir, but those are the words of the Unchurians; they believe they are about to fall upon a Watcher of Heaven.”

  “I am not sure I understand, but it sounds very sad.”

  Rhywder nodded. She glanced at him.

  “You will not, in the last moments, choose to do some wild, crazy thing, will you, Rhywder?”

  Rhywder didn’t answer that; he just watched the small circle of survivors below.

  “Promise me,” she said.

  “Of course,” he answered. “Why would I?”

  “Who leads these people, these Unchurians?”

  “I will not speak his name, but he was once a creator, once a member of choir that sang the Earth into being; in fact, this one is the second of the three. There were three lords who touched the stone of Ammon, and he was the second. He is very powerful, Satrina, but we are not going to fear him or think on him.”

  “What, then, are we to do?”

  “Wait. Continue to pretend we are priests of the Unchurians, and wait here, in these trees.”

  “And who leads them?”

  “How could a creator be brought to this, to the horror of Lamech’s village? How could that come to be from one who sang in the creation of the Earth?” “I have never understand such a thing myself, Satrina.”

  “Well, if it baffles you, I should not be bothered that it troubles me. You know so many things, so many secrets.”

  “Sometimes, Satrina, I think by knowing more, I know less.” She nodded. “Why did you nod?”

  “Because that is a typical Rhywder answer, one that makes no sense whatsoever. I am getting used to them now.”

  “I can say one thing; my grandmother once told me—”

  “Another grandmother saying. Some of these I like.”

  “Yes, well, once she told me that one cannot create from light alone, that creation also needs the dark, the shadow, and that not all shadow is evil.”

  “Oh, that was a good one, Rhywder. It is one of the most confusing grandmother sayings I have heard yet.”

  “I am glad I am able to please.”

  “Actually, Rhywder, I feel terrified right now.”

  “I, as well, Satrina.” Rhywder lifted his reins.

  “And those magnificent warriors down there—waiting to die—and no one to even help them.”

  “Whoever they are, they did not come to Hericlon’s vale without purpose.”

  “But they are being slaughtered! It seems to me they have come here but to die.”

  “Yes, but have you noticed, they have kept a very tight center. I have been watching, and all through the fight, nothing has moved in that center. They are protecting something. I want to find out what that is. Let us move forward slowly, Satrina.”

  “Oh, no,” Satrina muttered. “I knew it. Now we must move closer.” “Just a bit, keep your head up; remember you are a high cloaked priest of the Unchurian.”

  “Of course, how could I possibly forget?” “Stay with me; we will move slowly.”

  Rhywder nudged the horse’s side and began making his way slowly through the ranks of the Unchurians. Beneath his cloak, his hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Satrina looked straight ahead; for fear her hood might slip, so she kept her head very still and her back straight, doing her best to behave as a proper sorceress.
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  Rhywder then drew the horse to a halt. It waited, hide flinching, as Satrina drew alongside. Everything had paused, even the singing had stopped, and the gathered Unchurians were not making a move.

  “Why have we stopped?”

  Rhywder did not answer, hoping Satrina would get the hint to say nothing more. He sat erect, one hand on his thigh. He then pulled his horse tight against hers. Other Unchurians about them also moved to the sides. Passing among them, making their way to the fore, were high-blood warriors. They were mounted on muscled chargers, thick in weapons and the dark red armor. Rhywder had seen a few Uttuku in thorn armor bodies ride down into the battle during the day, but none like this. These were the angel’s elite firstborn. That was the reason for the pause, to let the princes come forward for the last offerings. They were coming like lords for the prime meat after the fat had been cut away. They were encircling the vale.

  Rhywder was forced to let them pass and not follow. There were no sorcerers among them.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The Sword of Righel

  There was more fury in the final attack than anything witnessed in the light of day. Dusk was low when the last of the sons of Righel began to die, slow at first, but as the lines weakened, bloodied, they began to die quickly. The warriors coming against them were the elite of Du’ldu, deadly at their craft, and even the sons of Righel could not turn them.

  “Axemen!” Braemacht screamed, tensing. He took a tight grip of his axe. The last of the front was giving way; the inner circle of shieldbearers was finally being breached. All that would be left were axemen.

  “Stand ready to protect your queen!” Braemacht screamed to the heavens. He was answered in a resounding roar as the axemen of Righel lifted their weapons.

  Eryian’s hand was curled about the hilt of Righel’s sword, and only with difficulity did he restrain himself from drawing it. If they came for her, if they tried to kill Cassium, he would unleash the light on them. It would no longer matter; he was not going to let her die easily.

  “Prepare …” Braemacht said, watching as the final fury broke through the shields before them. He then leveled the killing pike of his axe forward. “Now!” he screamed.

  The axemen rushed forward, huge, weighted in hard muscle; they were like stone monoliths hewing into the Unchurians, and even though they were the elite of the entire firstborn of Azazel, Braemacht and his axemen scattered them, cleaving horse and rider, cutting down everything in their path in a widening circle.

  At the center of their circle were now only two. Cassium crouched beside Eryian. Eryian took battle stance, his hand on the hilt of Righel’s sword, the tall oblong white shield covering Cassium’s right. He watched with baited breath. The axemen were no longer cutting into them; they had gone as far from their queen as they were going to and now they drew together, their axes for a moment holding back ten times their numbers.

  “Time narrows, my love,” Cassium whispered.

  “Time I cannot bear,” he answered.

  “Remember one thing,” she said, touching his forearm.

  Eryian paused. Her eyes studied him carefully. “We fight this day, and there is no doubt that evil has come against your sons and continues, but we will not turn on them in rage. Slay with your sword; never with your hatred. You are the valiant, Righel, hold to that part of you. Promise me. Even when he comes, promise you will not turn in rage.”

  He tightened his jaw.

  “Righel.”

  “I promise, my lady.”

  A sudden, fiery bolt shot up Eryian’s arm. It came without warning from the blade of Righel’s sword, and he sucked in a breath as several veins in his hand exploded. Blood flowed over the cross hilts. Eryian was seized in pain.

  Cassium stared amazed. “He is coming,” she said.

  Eryian swallowed the pain and continued to grip the hilt. His blood seeped through the pommel, and the scabbard against his thigh was hot.

  He staggered as another vein rippled beneath his the skin of his shoulder as though in spasm. Eryian was nearly staggered by the pain. “Elyon’s Light! This sword is sucking out life!”

  “It is your flesh. You carry the sword of an angel, and it feels the lord of death draw near.” Cassium drew away with a hiss. She crouched, one hand on his thigh, searching the hills.

  “Focus, Eryian. Try to feed it your soul, not your blood. It knows you; remind the blade who you are.”

  Eryian tried to focus. He let a whisper of the knowing spill though him. It was like a cool balm against the searing heat of the sword’s hilt, and for a moment the pain eased.

  The axemen had begun to fall. One by one they were brought down. Their end was only moments away.

  He saw Braemacht rock back, head twisted to the side. Something had struck the giant so hard, he was thrown. His huge killing axe fell in the muddied ground, and Braemacht slammed into the earth and slid to where Cassium knelt at Eryian’s side. She half-cried out, seeing his head twisted to the side. The giant’s hand clawed the earth and for a moment he struggled to lift himself, until his body finally stilled.

  Cassium and Eryian were the only two left. About them, in a widening circle, like a strange wheel turned on its side, were a tangle of bodies, both the Seraphim of Righel and the prime of the Unchurians.

  It was quiet. The surviving Unchurians, instead of closing in on them, were backing away, clearing ground. Snow drifted from the sky and was slowly covering the fallen, melting into the blood. Above, from the forest, a single rider started toward the center, his Unchurians parting to let him pass.

  Beside Eryian, Cassium slowly stood.

  In Eryian’s hands, it was as though the sword had sight, for when the rider came into view, it pulsed, sharp. Eryian braced against the coming pain, but instead his skin shivered, and he felt a raw, unyielding power from the blade. It no longer took his blood; the hilt no longer burned.

  Rhywder’s horse snorted, restless, and he kept tight reign. He stared, amazed. He could hear his heart pound in the quiet snow. There was a woman left alive down there. The Unchurian prime had fought back a central core of axemen and guardians, to reveal a woman. A woman, and beside her—none other than the good captain Eryian. Eryian had been the Star Walker they had dedicated. His past had always been a mystery, but Rhywder had never imagined he had once been an angel. It must have been some manner of attempted redemption, though Rhywder could not believe such an act as betraying the holy covenant of life could ever be forgiven. It was sad, actually. Still, this was the captain, and Rhywder would do whatever he could to in order to get him out of here.

  “Captain,” Rhywder whispered low. He started his horse forward, slowly, cautious. But before he left the shadow of the woods, he drew up sharp. It was the dark one—the Named.

  Azazel passed close enough to take Rhywder’s breath. If the angel saw him or sensed him, he did not seem to care. The Watcher was riveted solely on his prey. And once again this day, Rhywder found himself stunned beyond words. Azazel had taken on flesh! The angel had clothed himself in a human’s body, as an Uttuku would have done. Rhywder was fascinated and racked his brain for a possible reason why. How it could possibly have made sense? As he passed Rhywder saw it was a powerful body, heavily muscled, young, handsome, a body in its prime. Uttuku could not take a Nephilim, and he guessed the same applied even to an angel. This was a human, perhaps once a king or a warrior of great renown. He was bearded, with long, dark hair that fell over his muscled shoulders, twenty and seven at most. Rhywder had not seen the eyes, but they would have been as those of an Uttuku, a damp mesh of dark with an inner glow, and since this was an angel, looking into his eyes would have been like looking into the night sky.

  And then it made sense. Of course—Enoch’s curse had taken hold. The angel of death had turned, had himself begun to die, and the very revulsion of watching his own skin wither was too much for him to bear. Rhywder had to actually suppress an impulse to laugh. It was the finest of jokes. Of course, he was te
rrified—because, after all, they were about to die—so it was a simple thing to suppress, but that is what he wanted to do, laugh and laugh. Azazel, the lord of the holy choir of the Auphanim, had traded an immortal body of divine light for a human’s course. Death itself, it turned out, was terrifying to the very one whose word had spellbound it into existence. The mighty Reaper was horrified of his own creation. In the end, how Elyon truly mocked them all, those who had mocked Him by throwing away their most precious gift, the pearl, the covenant of everlasting, all for the mere pleasure of a woman.

  Of course, the body would have been spellbound as no other. It was likely far more powerful and stronger than even the hardened wood of a minion.

  Satrina pulled up beside Rhywder, and he waited until she was close, until her leg touched his.

  “Ride for Ishmia!” he whispered.

  He glanced at her. His face was in shadow, but through the cowl he could still see her eyes. Slowly, defiantly, she shook her head.

  Azazel rode across the plain of bodies slowly, his horse high-stepping as though it were moving through deep snow. He finally reached the small circle of ground about Eryian and Cassium. His horse danced, spirited, and gossamer-mesh eyes studied Eryian from beneath the helmet. He had taken a human body—not even Unchurian or Daathan, a pure-blooded human. He would have made the flesh almost invincible, and if it weakened, he could always find others. He had chosen to live as a wraith. Enoch’s curse had taken him; it was taking them all now. The eye of Daath was opened; the angels would begin to age, like men. This was flesh, except for the eyes. The eyes were hollowed out, coated in a mesh, and it was only through the mesh that Eryian recognized him, Azazel—the second of the three.

  The angel’s gaze then shifted to Cassium, a mixture of recognition and mild surprise. The rider urged the horse forward slowly, and circled about to the left. Eryian turned, following. The sword sparked, leaving trails of light that played out along the ground. If the demon noticed the sunblade, he didn’t seem to care. He turned the horse slowly, facing them. The horse shook out its mane.