“If it isn’t the two lovers,” he said, his voice two voices, twain, one the voice of the angel, and a second that echoed beneath it, the voice of the human he had taken. “How moving. You have come here, to the Vale of Tears, to bleed once more? I am admittedly stunned. I knew your sons were mighty beyond measure, but I never guessed it was you they were hiding in their center.”
Cassium snarled and dropped forward, crouched, and crossed her wrists. “By the Boundless and Limitless Light I speak, by the Son of Women I speak, by the mirrored shadow of the Creator I name you, fallen one: Amen-Omen-Diaman, behold the Light Whose Name Is Splendor!” From her palms streamed a wind of light.
The horse reared, screaming, and then seemed to dissolve, vaporized. Azazel landed on his feet and crouched. It seemed a hard wind tore at him, and he forced to turn to the side. For a moment it looked as if he were going to fall. He had been driven to one knee, face to the ground, crossing an arm to block the light, but then the wind stilled and the light faded. Cassium drew back. A moment the rider remained crouched, stunned, but slowly he regained his strength. He lifted his head. The meshed eyes were empty of light, black as if he were blinded, but still intact, they slowly turned on Cassium.
Cassium gasped, glancing to Eryian. She had paled, frightened. “That was everything!” she whispered to Eryian. “Everything I have—all I know. He wears the flesh of a man—it shielded him, Righel. It shielded him!”
A moment later Eryian caught her eyes, and he saw panic—that and a quick, whispered good-bye.
Eryian started to move, but Azazel moved his left hand, extending three fingers, and the warlord was thrown aside. It was as though the air itself had come against him, and he was slammed into the earth on his back. The sword was knocked from his hand. It lay just beyond his fingers; still simmering, snaking bolts of light from the blade, but Eryian could not move to reach it. The pressure folding in against him continued to increase, as if the angel were gaining strength, recovering. Eryian felt a rib snap with sudden, sharp pain, threatening to pierce his heart. Eryian hissed. He was being crushed by air.
The Unchurian slowly lifted his right hand. “Cassium,” the twain voice whispered. “How well I remember you. How these many years I have missed you.” His wrist turned deftly.
It was as if his hand had seized Cassium, she was lifted from the ground and hung a moment, her back arched, and she gasped in sudden pain. She began to spin, slowly at first, then faster, until her arms were thrown out, her hair whipping.
Eryian struggled with all he had, stretching his fingers. Cassium began to scream. A splatter of blood slapped across Eryian’s cuirass. The air continued to crush him back; another rib snapped. His fingers stretched, closer, all his strength to reach the blade.
Blood began to stream from Cassium’s pores, spraying outward everywhere, her hands, her arms, her face. She was spinning into a blur.
Eryian drew strength and with a snarl heaved himself to the side. He touched the hilt of Righel’s sword and sucked in its power, drinking its light—giving it whatever it wished to take, flesh, blood, it did not matter. The pressure against him shattered. He was instantly on his feet, turning, and for a moment, an instant, it was not Eryian who lifted the sunblade. It was Righel.
Cassium dropped to the ground like a broken doll. Blood pooled about her into the dirt.
Eryian stared through Righel’s eyes; he remembered her words, what she had said of anger, of rage, but he could not suppress it.
“Look familiar, star jumper?” Azazel said, amused. “Her blood across your breastplate? Her light was not pure enough. As I, as we, she is unforgiven. But be assured, her heart still beats—if you want to call what she now has inside her a heart. It will take days; it is a craft of death that took some time to perfect. It leaves astonishing pain, unendurable, I imagine, even for a Star Walker Queen.” Azazel then paused, tipped his head to the side. “You are different. I have taken and perfected mortal flesh, like a new set of clothes. But look here, you—you are mortal! What is it you have done, Righel? Wait; let me guess—you think that by laying down your mantle and taking up a mortal’s coil that somehow He will forgive you? You have wasted your time. A pity, my brother, but you have wasted centuries. Elyon turned His face; He will not look back, not for any of us. And now look at your pretty Star Walker Queen—she was once so beautiful. What a sad end, Righel. Tell me something—what exactly do you plan to do with that sword? It belongs to an angel, not a mortal.”
Eryian threw all his conscious energy into the sword, feeding it, letting it drink not only his rage, but his soul. And Righel’s blade responded, it swiftly drank his lifeblood, and moments before it would have killed him, Eryian brought the sword over his shoulder in an arc and flung it like a dagger, hard into the chest of the Watcher. It was a burning, molten white. It pierced Aza-zel’s armor like cutting through lard until the hand guards slammed against the oraculum breastplate where it lodged. Azazel gasped, sucking for air. Apparently, his mortal body sustained pain. It may have been momentary pain, but he was obviously staggered. He dropped to his knees and the blade exploded in a brilliant starburst that pulsed outward, imploding with a deafening roar.
Eryian threw himself down, covering his head. He felt the wave of energy pass over him. Had it caught him, it would have destroyed him instantly, but he was close to Azazel and the wave passed over both him and Cassium’s crushed body. It felt like a seething, boiling surge of heat, passing with heavy wind.
It annihilated everything in its path. Men and horse seemed to melt into acid shadows. The earth, laden with bodies, charred and curled upward, blown back. But Azazel’s body remained intact, back arched, paralyzed in pain, flesh peeling away. His very body divided the explosion, and it streamed past him to either side, leaving a vee-shaped shadow that expanded from the point where he knelt. But everything to either side was vaporized the instant the light struck it, trees, rock, horses, bodies; all were being obliterated by the fire of a distant star.
Rhywder brought his horse about hard, sucking in a breath. He was far up the hill, but by the luck that always seemed to follow him, both he and Satrina were directly behind the angel. The blast streamed to either side of them, but they, and the Unchurian warriors around them, were left in the shadow, untouched. He saw the trees lying back like feathers, saw huge chunks of Hericlon’s rock torn free and thrown into the air like pebbles. It was called Severity, the pure and unbridled light of Elyon, light without forgiveness, light that did not judge but simply destroyed everything in its path. Unchurians were vaporized, flashing into shadows that seemed to hang in the air for a moment before they vanished. Yet he and Satrina were protected by the angel’s body. Rhywder had guessed it to be spellbound, and it was. It was nearly as invincible as the divine flesh it had been traded for. Rhywder believed both he and Satrina bore pure hearts, but the light of Elyon did not make judgments; it was light that was absolute. Had they not been protected by the angel’s shadow, they would have become shadows of ash as the thousands of warriors to either side of them.
Rhywder threw his cloak aside and sank his heels hard into the ribs of the horse, leaning forward, clutching the reins in one tight fist, lowering his head, shielding his eyes from the blinding white of the heat flash as he raced for the crouched body at full gallop. Satrina, on instinct, followed. Rhywder did not really think he could take the bastard out, but by Elyon’s grace, the Watcher’s flesh, spellbound or not, had to have been weakened and he was gong to give it a try.
The explosion ended, though it seemed to leave a concussion reverberating through the air, like waves that rippled in and out of each other, but Eryian slowly came to his knees. He turned to see Cassium’s mangled body lying in the dirt. It was as if all substance had been torn from her, even bone and organs, until she lay like a piece of bloodied linen, discarded, twisted to one side. He noticed her small finger twitch. Unbelievably, she was still breathing. Azazel was right; he had crafted the cruelest of deaths. Somehow, by so
me spell, she was still alive.
The Unchurian remained on his knees. His armor, his cloak, his flesh, everything had been torn from him and he was left only muscle and blood, his body glowing and fading in waves of red and white as if he were a fire still smoldering. There was no trace of Righel’s sword; it had been consumed. Azazel’s head was hanging, but he was clearly still alive, although stunned like a dazed bull. Blisters on his body oozed blood, but even then it was slowly beginning to heal. New veins were forming and snaking in and out of the burned muscle tissue, repairing it.
For a moment Eryian thought he heard the voice of Rhywder calling him. He slowly looked up. It was Rhywder, coming toward him at full gallop. He wore the garb of an Unchurian priest, a heavy axe spinning over his head, gaining momentum.
“Captain!” Rhywder screamed. “It is me! Rhywder! And you were right—they are Unchurians!”
Eryian gasped in disbelief, seeing the Little Fox flying toward him, and just behind Rhywder was a girl with long hair streaming back in the wind of her horse’s gallop.
Rhywder dropped sideways in the saddle. Azazel may have only dropped to his knees, but Rhywder was going to guess his flesh was weakened, as well. It was a pretty fair gamble—that was one bastard of an explosion. He wouldn’t have wanted to be at its center, even if he had been an angel. As Rhywder closed on him at full gallop, he saw Azazel slowly turn his head to look behind, to see what was coming. It was an oraculum axe and as Rhywder passed at full gallop, he sheared off the head with a resounding chunk. It spun high into the air, like a red ball. In Rhywder’s memory, even high Uttuku found it difficult to live without heads, but the angel seemed little affected. He was still kneeling, his hands on his bloodied thighs. His body, apparently, was repairing itself. It just no longer had a head.
Rhywder pulled up sharply on the reins as his horse spun about, hooves digging against the dirt.
“Captain,” Rhywder said, his horse dancing, but Eryian didn’t look up; he was staring the slain woman beside him. Surely she was dead, but then he realized her eyes were still in her face, though it was flattened. They blinked, these beautiful ice-eyes. She was alive!
Satrina had circled her mount at Rhywder’s side.
Eryian crawled toward the woman. “Leave me, Little Fox,” he said, his voice weak.
“Rhywder,” Satrina whispered, alarmed. Rhywder looked up. She pointed to the hillocks of Hericlon’s spurs. Unchurians—lots of them. They were left in confusion, but were slowly regrouping. There seemed an endless supply of these Unchurians. Even more were coming from Hericlon’s passage to take up formation along the ridge, and others, highborn, were beginning to descend toward the plateau.
“And there,” Satrina whispered, even more alarmed. “Look!”
Rhywder glanced at the body that housed Azazel. Now he knew why the angel had taken on the body of a human. It was virtually invincible. A head of bone had already regrown on his shoulders, and muscle and veins were crawling across the white bone, groping, reforming. He was going to grow himself a new head.
“Elyon bless us,” Rhywder whispered. “All sanity is lost.” Rhywder turned in the saddle. “Captain!” he shouted, holding his spooked horse in tight rein, “we have mighty little time left, and damn it, I am getting you out of here!”
“Leave me!” Eryian said once more. “That is an order, Captain Rhywder.”
“You forget, but you told me those days are over now. You are coming with me, Eryian, like it or not.”
Rhywder scanned the ridge. Highborn. Lots of them, descending slowly as if they were putting on a show, but they were likely wary of another explosion.
“Damn it, Captain, I have followed you, fought for you, killed for you, but not today. Today, you are going to do what I tell you to do. We are getting out of here.”
“No, Rhywder. My place is here—with these fallen.”
“They are dead. I will grant they were damned noble, but it is over and they are dead, Captain. And you are not.”
Rhywder dropped from the saddle. Eryian was weakened, probably with a few bones broken, and blood seemed to have been sucked through the skin of his hands and arms so that when Rhywder grabbed his arm, he was slippery. So the Little Fox gripped tighter and since Eryian was weakened, he was wrenched to his feet. He stared at Rhywder. Those dark blue eyes of the warlord, Rhywder had never seen the will taken from them, but they were empty now. They were only sad and resigned to one things, and he guessed that was to die here.
“I know as well as you,” Rhywder said, “how there come times to die. But by Elyon’s name, this is not one of them!”
The sound of hooves. The high-bloods were closing on them. And though Rhywder didn’t look on Azazel directly, he knew that the muscle was in place now, the cheekbones and forehead were molding, even skin had begun to grow back in place. He was getting stronger by the moment.
“So the thing is, Captain, you can go with me willingly—or I can just take you. You are too weak to stop me. It is your choice, but you have got precious time to make it. What will it be?”
Eryian studied him carefully. He reached forward and suddenly wrenched Rhywder’s short sword from his belt. Rhywder paused, not sure of the captain’s intent, but then Eryian turned, dropped to his knees over the crushed woman. He met her eyes. Rhywder could not imagine the pain she was in. Eryian clutched the hilt of Rhywder’s sword in both hands, then lifted it over her chest. Rhywder could not believe she still moved, but she did, she lifted her hand, a limp hand that seemed to have no bone, but still she spread her fingers in the sign of the word. She whispered something—Etlantian words, some manner of spell-binding. Rhywder felt something pass through them all, like a wind of light. It took his breath, clear and clean, a tender wind, like the touch of a warm, soft kiss.
The lady’s small hand then dropped, and in the same moment, Eryian screamed and plunged the sword into her chest, though the heart. Her body jerked, and moments later Rhywder saw the light finally, mercifully slip from her eyes. Whoever she was, she had finally left for home.
“Godspeed, good woman,” whispered Rhywder.
Eryian stood and handed Rhywder back his sword.
“Thanks,” Rhywder said. “Now let us get out of here.” He glanced to Hericlon. The angel’s high-bloods were coming at full gallop.
Rhywder suddenly realized it wasn’t going to be easy outrunning them. “Time to leave, Captain,” he said, vaulting into the saddle of the horse. Only then did he realize something was different. The horse was white. He glanced to Satrina, who stared back amazed.
“She changed them,” Satrina whispered. “Her whisper, her last words—she changed the horses!”
Satrina’s horse was white, as well, and more than that, Rhywder noticed—laid tightly against the flanks were the feathered humps of muscled wings.
Whoever she had been, she knew star knowledge. But even with these, time was thinning, the highborn were closing swiftly, screaming, weapons clearing, and the gossamer mesh of the Unchurian’s eyes was knitting into place. Rhywder knew that once Azazel was whole, the mesh of those eyes would mold into the dark star of the universe—the might of his power. Rhywder sank his knees into the flanks and let the horse rear. He felt the wings unfold beneath his thighs. He gripped the reins in one fist and leaned in the saddle.
“Follow us, Satrina!” he screamed, then seized Eryian’s wrist in a tight lock. With a shout he kneed the flanks, pulling hard up on the reins, and with a strong wing beat the animal soared, lifting into the darkening blue sky. There was a quick thunder beat of wings against the air, and with a surge they pressed into the wind of flight, wheeling ever higher. With the slightest twist of the reins, he was able to guide the mount toward the river. He glanced over his shoulder to see Satrina leaning forward, hugging the neck of her horse, concentrating as though she knew exactly how to do this, her bared legs tucked back to ride the muscles of the wing. With the next wing beat, they soared higher, so swiftly Rhywder could feel his stomach i
n his toes. He pulled Eryian upward, until the captain could grasp the horn of the saddle. Then they soared into the very clouds.
It was some moments before the body of the Unchurian stood, but finally the demon rose to his feet and looked up, watching the sky calmly. His wounds were still closing, meshing. The blood on his arms and face dried and fell away, ashen, into the wind. The highborn had reached his side, weapons drawn, and his armies, those deeper into the forests and high upon the fingers of Hericlon’s spurs where they had survived the acid wind, began to gather toward him.
Staring at the sky, he smiled. “Still as lucky as ever,” he whispered.
Chapter Forty-Four
Dreams
Eryian watched images dance among the flame of a hearth. He realized he was awake—but the afterimages of his dreams still burned in the lick of flames, and the far scream of combat seemed a faint echo. He didn’t know where he was; only that he felt weak, and pain burned through him. Eryian slowly turned his head, a slight movement that spun the room unsteadily. He thought he saw Krysis, his wife, the light of the fire whispering off her golden hair and playing soft shadows along her high cheekbones. Her head was lowered.
“Krysis,” he whispered.
She glanced up with a start and her liquid blue eyes searched quickly, the mouth parting slightly. “Eryian!” she whispered back. She was real. Her hand entwined his fingers. She knelt from the chair and laid her head against his arm, her touch soft—the dampness of a tear. “You are alive,” she said quietly.
She lifted a cup of water to his lips and he drank.
“Krysis,” he whispered. “How did … where …”
“When we heard that you had moved for battle I made them bring me this far at least.”
“And this far?”
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 55
