Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

“Your horse,” Eryian said. When the warrior hesitated, Eryian stepped forward, grabbed the man by his belt, and wrenched him out of the saddle. He mounted, drew up the reins, and turned to ride at a fast trot toward the dock, gripping the mane for balance when the horse broke into a gallop.

  Near a lamp maker’s shop, which was looted but still intact, he pulled the horse up, circled about, then urged the charger onto the wooden porch. He kicked in the door with his good leg, leaned forward, and rode in. Hooves clattered on hollow wood. He straightened in the saddle and searched. He kicked aside a table that had been displaying glass oil lamps, then pulled up near a wall of shelves and clay vessels. He scooped a handful of the thick oil paste, and smeared it first over his face, then his forearms and legs. He rubbed oil into his hair until the silver was matted and black. He then turned the horse and leaned forward as he rode beneath the doorway.

  The horse pranced, spooked as it rode into the street, then broke into a gallop. Eryian’s silver breastplate clattered across the stone when he flung it aside, then the back plate.

  He rode toward the docks, and there, as the horse picked its way through the course, Eryian searched. He leaned in the saddle to pluck away dark Unchurian armor. He gathered weapons. The saltwater was soaked into the wood in places, and the bodies sloshed. Eryian found a boathouse still intact and rode into it, then rode out, dragging an oar boat. He pulled it to where the dock slid into the water and rode the horse until the water was up to its neck. Using his good leg, he swung over the saddle, then rolled into the boat. He now wore a dark cloak, cowled, and armor that swallowed the night. He straightened himself, then pulled the cowl over his head and took up the oars. He began stroking. Even deep into the bay, the water was ashen with a film that left the oars stained black at the tips. It was snowing, and the moon was against far, white clouds. The snow seemed to settle into the dark water as though it had never been there.

  On the opposite bank, black water lapped about the edge of the boat as Eryian dropped over the gunwale and waded to shore. He had lashed the splints as tightly as possible, even cutting off blood flow to his foot, but that would no longer matter soon.

  The snow was thick and lazy; it seemed to leave warmth as Eryian made his way through the trees that lined the shore. The entire shore was littered with the cindered husks of ships, dark against the white clouds of night. He made his way south, using his leg despite pain, and moving rather quickly, keeping always to the thickest wood. The priests rode the trees. In Hericlon’s vale, he had watched their shadowy figures and realized the priests of Unchuria made themselves shadow, using a force of will to blend with the dark of forest. Eryian paused, pressing back against a thick, bowled cedar trunk. He could hear a heavy crunch of leaves, a horse coming from the left, riding slow. Eryian stilled as death was still, and watched as a figure rode through the white puffs of snow, searching. Suddenly it pulled the reins taut and froze, seeing Eryian.

  This was one of the marked, a priest, cowl drawn. He watched Eryian with confusion, perhaps awe. He was trying to read Eryian, searching, but Eryian fed the priest only his pain. From the rider’s saddle tassel hung a dulled, gray throwing axe. Nothing moved but the snow. Nothing breathed. The rider then shot his hand back and the axe was snapped from the tassel. The horse reared. Eryian calmly lifted his arm and a crossbow bolt ripped out the back of the Unchurian’s cowl after driving through the face. It sounded as though the bolt had struck a water flask.

  Eryian rode cloaked, the Unchurian’s throwing axe lashed to the side of his splinted leg. All his weapons were concealed. He rode slowly, the horse’s hooves soundless in the snow as he wove among the trees, and Eryian was shadow.

  He followed a dulled, aching vision in his mind of a tent, with staffs carved in salamanders. It would be centermost in the first Unchurian camp. He could feel the air now as though it were a living thing, something easy to follow.

  As he rode from the forest, he could make out the dark shape of ramparts thrown up in a clearing. This was one of hundreds, of thousands, but it was here he would find the demon, the one lord of the high choir, now fallen, lower than the Earth. If Elyon’s Light were with him, surely such a creature could be slain, but Elyon was far. Eryian had lost Him; he came with only his skill, his weapons, and a plan to use the one small weakness Azazel had exposed, to use it to the fullest. Eryian rode calmly beneath the manned archway, and the guards but glanced down as Eryian passed below. He rode for the center, in line with Hericlon’s vale.

  He rode quietly. None of the warriors in the camp even looked in his direction. Either they did not see him, or when they did, they took him for one of the marked ones, the quiet ones. Eryian never looked to the side. He rode calmly, one hand on his thigh, near the cloak.

  An Unchurian warrior suddenly stepped in his path, but Eryian only veered the horse slightly, slipping past. Eryian turned his horse up a wagon-gutted roadway, then started up a slight hill toward the purple and blue pavilions on top.

  Here the ground was soft in snow. There had been no tracks on this road since sundown, and the snowfall was heavy. Above, there were no guards near the pavilion—none were needed. An angel waited here, but even Azazel would not sense Eryian coming. Eryian was not there; he was only shadow—there were things in his time he had learned that were beyond human, and he was about to employ them all. The pavilion stood alone, in silence, firelight illuminating it from within. To either side of the entrance, staffs bore the emblems of the salamander.

  Eryian pulled up on the reins. He had reached the crest, on a level with the tent. There was no snow here. Near the tent, the ground was dark and barren.

  Eryian brought his leg about and slid off the horse. Above, he saw starlight. The clouds were thick; they had covered the night sky since he left Ishmia, but here a hollow pierced the cloud cover, high and centered.

  He drew back the dark cloak and laid one hand on the ivory hilt of one sword. Eryian could see within the edge of the tent. Eryian took a step, then dragged his leg forward and took another step. More and more of the tent came into view. It was unadorned, empty, and the ground was dirt. The flaps were parted. The Salamander, the Reaper, the being who once stood before the face of God among the choir of the Auphanim, was seated in a throne of black iron, watching Eryian with smoked, mesh eyes, as still as stone. It seemed he was just waiting there with no look of surprise, no expression whatsoever.

  Eryian took several steady breaths, then forced his mind inward, and with all his strength, in his mind he pierced through the veil of the meshed eyes, and with his sprit he spoke, not to the Reaper, Azazel, who had crafted death, but to the mortal coil of flesh he had taken as his shield in this last ploy against heaven. For all his power the demon had one weakness: he was not of angel’s flesh—he had taken a mortal body prisoner, possessed it, and the human who once dwelt there was crushed somewhere inside. But Azazel would have chosen a strong one, even a king or a prince, a warlord; he could take any human he wanted, no matter their strength, so he would have chosen the strongest he could find. And Eryian, searching quickly, found his spirit, lost inside, imprisoned in a kind of mist of darkness and void. He had been devoted to his father, Azazel. He was, amazingly, truly a king. Azazel had taken the body of his own firstborn son, Menelagor, the king of all Unchuria, the lord of the south, the Given, blessed at birth by his father and the Star Walker Queen that was his mother, destined for all glory, now crushed into a dark cavern, lost and confused. Suddenly, Azazel realized what the warlord was doing, and for a moment, Eryian saw the meshed eyes flicker, uncertain. Eryian lifted his arm and fired the crossbow.

  “Menelagor!” Eryian screamed, more than just words, a spellbound command to bring him forth, cast in the Light of Severity.

  The bolt jerked the body, slamming deep into the chest, and the Salamander hissed between his teeth—as the same time something had flickered in the eyes, a moment’s focus, the blinded Menelagor.

  “Amen-Omen-Diaman, in the word of the Light Whose Name
Is Splendor, I command your spirit forth, mortal, Menelagor, the king of all the southland, come, I command you to fill your skin!”

  It would be a hard spell to resist, and Azazel would be forced to turn his mind to pushing it back, holding the prisonor inside intact.

  Eryian continued walking, moving quicker now, casting his cloak aside. From his back he drew a second crossbow and destroyed the left eye, the blunt iron dart shattering the bone at the back of the skull. Eryian threw both crossbows aside, still walking.

  “Stay with me, mortal—come forth, take your skin, and I will bring you the peace of death.”

  Menelagor moaned, a sick, dry moan, the shriek of a dead man. His spirit, for a moment, seemed to mold into the face, changing its shape and leaving the eyes dead sockets—the meshed, almost starry gaze of Azazel was for seconds gone, taken by a ploy he had not guessed. In all of the futures he could have foretold, this one the angel had not seen.

  Eryian ripped the axe from its tie and flung it with a snap of his wrist. It anchored the throat against the wooden neck of the throne. The body jerked in spasm.

  “Stay with me—look through my eyes, Unchurian! Menelagor, keep focus on my spirit, my eyes. Stay in your flesh, for I am about to deliver to you your freedom from the darkness.”

  Eryian passed through the tent flaps. From a back scabbard, with both hands he flung knifes. Menelagor seemed to welcome them as they pierced his lungs. He began to whisper; perhaps it was a prayer of his own—if this breed had ever been taught prayer. The half-human king was in his flesh now. He held his arms out in supplication, waiting to be delivered.

  Eryian pulled a battle axe from a belt tie, snapping the leather. “Welcome death,” he said, focused on the spirit now breathing through the gray flesh. Time was quick, time was slow, but as Eryian lifted the axe to cut the spine, time closed.

  Azazel, with a scream of fury at being tricked, spilled through the hollowed eyes like a wind of the darkest winter. Eryian was staggered. The axe spun from his fingers into the night.

  The Reaper pulled his throat free of Eryian’s axe, though it tore out part of the neck.

  “No!” Eryian screamed. He reached to his back scabbard and drew a second blade—this one white steel. He stepped forward, bringing the sword in an arc. The Salamander hissed, deflecting the blow, though it sliced through the tips of the fingers, shearing them off. A side of Menelagor’s head was cut away, spinning off with a dark knot of hair flying.

  Then it was over.

  Something slammed into Eryian’s back, knocking the breath from him, shattering bone. In a moment sight was gone, grayed, and then Eryian found himself on his back—he had been sucked into the earth. His arms were pinned. His leg split through the cast to reach stone. Eryian could no longer move. The earth about him shattered with a sharp crack, and a slab of stone slowly lifted upward, tilting, until Eryian could stare into the face of the his ancient nemesis. He had damaged Azazel once again, leaving his face almost halved, leaving him bloodied along one side, something watery from the wound in the skull. Azazel ripped out the crossbow bolt from his eyes and now, despite the blood, both eyes glossed over with the moist spider mesh of the demon. They instantly burned to life, black but light, somehow connected to the far dark star of the universe.

  Azazel sucked away Eryian’s breath.

  “Clever, star lord,” he whispered. “Almost you did it. Almost you turned me. And all by whispering Elyon’s name and the mothering star as if her light still touched our heart. Worthy, my friend, I will give it that. A worthy effort, but in the end, we always knew whose name you truly whispered. You believe the death you have wrought leaves no mark on your soul?”

  Eryian felt the blue light receding. It was lifeblood, it was the light of sunblades, and losing it was a lot like drowning—like his first death, when he fell to flesh and Daathan blood seven centuries ago. The knowing lifted from his chest leaving him empty, and that left tears in his eyes.

  “You came in fury—that was your error, fool. She told you the secret of your redemption, fallen one, but you would not listen; the years have made you too proud. Much like me. It was not the name of Light, not the Splendor—it is the name of my lord that will now press against your lips. Hail, Light Bearer, hail, he who was prince of all heavens! The war has not ended, and Earth is its final killing ground. We stand ready for them—even the archangels. And besides, now you will join us. How can we fail?”

  Eryian could hear them, the others, the thousands, the millions who had fallen, the Uttuku. They seemed to welcome him, and their voices were like ice.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Guardians

  Rhywder filled his haversack with dried meat and bread cakes from the villa’s pantry. Satrina stood by the door with the child bundled, held fast against her. “Will you be with us, Rhywder?” she said.

  “I will be close. In any event, the full Second Century of the Daath are sworn to protect you, the child, and the chosen.” “The chosen?”

  “Always they have prepared for this moment. The strongest and brightest of their children. It is a sacred number; along with the child, it becomes seventy and seven, and you will be in their center, so I am certain you will not be lonely, Satrina.”

  “It is not loneliness I fear; it is you, off on some heroic last stand to die.”

  “I wish I could stay, my love, but I am afraid I must ride with my king. If it is true that he sends me on some heroic last stand to die, then yes, but our stand now will be these children, to get them to the ships of Etlantis that remains their only hope.”

  Eryian was missing. In one of his last orders, the warlord had sent the king’s personal guard, all that was left of them, to ring like an iron fortress of armor and shields, the scion, the Ringbearer, and the chosen seventy and seven. A maniple of fine warriors they could not afford to lose had insisted on riding in search of Eryian, but Rhywder did not believe they would find their warlord. When he had heard what had happened to Krysis, he guessed Eryian’s last move.

  He was about to open the door when Satrina laid her hand on his wrist. She waited until he met her eyes. “I have been wondering, Rhywder, and I wish to ask you—what is going to happen to all of us? The Unchurians are just going to keep coming. Nothing can stop them, not even the walls of Terith-Aire or even the ships of Etlantis.”

  Rhywder stared at her a moment. “One thing I have learned. You live the battle when it comes, you take what is given you, and you fight for what you believe. You leave the rest to Elyon. In the end, the battle is always His. Let Him work out the details of how the sun shall rise in the morning.” Rhywder lifted the latch, then drew open the door. He paused, a bit startled.

  The street was filled with Shadow Warriors—the best, the finest. These were the first blood of the King’s Guard; they had been well hardened of war, and even this last carnage had not shaken them. Bloodstained armor glittered stark in the sunlight; horses shifted. The first captain, broad-shouldered and weighted in age, Rhywder knew to be Tillantus. His eyes were stern. Rhywder knew the loss of Eryian was hard on him, but no pain would dull his resolve. More than the warriors, what surprised Rhywder were the children. Gathered in the street, surrounded by the Daathan guard, were children—some young, some older. There were girls in the flower of youth, young warriors barely fitted for their armor. Rhywder stared at them, amazed. They all seemed so beautiful, so beyond the terrors of the last days that they seemed misplaced, out of time here among the smell of blood and sulfur. There were precisely seventy and six of them. Seraphon would make them seventy and seven, make them scripture. Rhywder swore he had never seen so many tender, innocent eyes gathered in one place.

  Tillantus urged his mount forward, drawing up beside Rhywder. “Little Fox,” he said. “We meet again.”

  “How did you acquire so many children?” Rhywder asked.

  Tillantus only smiled. It faded quickly. “All I know is that these little ones the Unchurian will never see, so help my sword, my lifebl
ood, and Elyon’s grace. There is more of heaven’s light in this plaza than is gathered in all the world, and these men will deliver them safely.”

  Rhywder shivered—not from the children, but because he knew this was the last move, the last spoken tactic of the final battle. The children would be taken from Terith-Aire and hidden for another day, another future, a generation where the true final battle of Earth and the crossing of Aeon’s End would come. Just as written, all had unfolded. What was left gave even Rhywder a dark feeling that clawed at his chest, but he blunted it. Some things Rhywder chose to put aside, and prophecy was one of them. It spilled all over this gathering of the chosen, but he turned it aside. Knowing prophecy was a weakness when your job was the sword or the axe or the bow. It was not a warrior’s place to read the future.

  He turned. Directly before the door, mounted, holding two horses in rein was Marcian’s boy. He knew the name now; this was Lucian, son of Marcian Antiope and grandson of the fabled Moloch of Galaglea—carrying, in fact, the axe of that legendary figure. Rhywder briefly wondered if this one, Lucian, might be the only Galaglean warrior left alive. Their entire legion had fallen, the city burned, though there had been a few refugees. The fight and fires of the days before had left their scars on the boy, had lifted all youth from him. He might just as well be a full-blooded warrior now, and he was named, of his own request, in fact, his demand—Lucian was the guardian of the child Seraphon. Nothing would deter him, so Rhywder had blessed the calling, as well, telling the boy it was now ordained, and telling any others that should know.

  “Your horses, Captain Rhywder,” the boy said. He had two horses in rein; one for him, one for Satrina.

  “Still alive, I see.”

  “Yes, I am still alive. My bruises are healing, my burns still sting, but I am as able as ever I have been.”

  Rhywder smiled. “Well, boy, you are a damned impressive fighter, I give you that—and here is your liege, Seraphon, and this is his Ringbearer, whose name is Satrina.”