“Satrina, yes, I know of you. They told me of you. Know that I am here to guard my brother’s life, and by extension yours, as well. I will not fall, I will not drop of axe or sword or spear, and I will keep him alive from this day until some later year when my body fails me. But my faith is firm—those who pursue us, they will not take my brother. Not this hour, not this day—not this fight. He will survive.” Lucian lifted his hand in a fist, then slammed it against his chest in promise. He now bore full Daathan armor, and when he pulled on the helm, there was no longer any boy; there was a blood warrior waiting with strong, broad shoulders and a dark, sure-hafted killing axe at his side.
“I have no doubt,” said Rhywder in answer, “that should any Unchurian make it through the second legion and breach the King’s Guard surrounding these, the chosen, that you will be there to make them tremble.”
“What is your name?” Satrina asked from where she was watching on the porch.
“I am called Lucian. I have two mounts, good mounts.” Lucian turned to the captain. “This one—this one is yours, Rhywder of the Lake,” the boy said, leading a dark stallion forward.
Rhywder marveled, noting the smooth muscular flanks. “That is quite a horse.”
“Much of my father’s stock was in Lucania. This one my father was very proud of—the breed line of this horse stretches back to my grandfather and beyond. This mount will serve you well. You have my word that he will take you where you need to go.”
Rhywder took the reins and pulled himself into the saddle. The horse snorted, as though it were ready to run a race. Rhywder patted its neck. He noticed Lucian watching with a slight grin of satisfaction. It was his father’s craft, horses such as these, and this was obviously one of the finest.
A Shadow Warrior was helping Satrina and the child into the saddle of a light, roan mare, obviously swift and able.
“Lucian,” she said, “I am grateful you will be with us. The strength of your spirit offers comfort.”
Lucian nodded. “Thank you, good lady.”
Rhywder leaned forward to kiss Satrina’s cheek, then turned the reins of his horse. “Watch the sky, Tillantus,” he shouted. “Move at hard pace for Terith-Aire, but watch the shadows and the sky. The fliers have thick wings; you can hear them. They are capable of a dive that could take out one of these chosen even from the center, so keep your bowmen alert.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Tillantus watched, somber, as Rhywder left them, riding slowly back toward the city.
“Satrina, I shall see you when next I do!” the Little Fox shouted last before he was out of sight.
At a harsh cry from Tillantus, the horsemen of the second legion started forward. Lucian led Satrina’s mount as she held the child. Satrina stared at the children following all about them. They were young, their skin sometimes tinted with the blue ice of a Daath, sometimes porcelain as a Galaglean, sometimes with the golden hair of a Lochlain, but all seemed so beautiful, so perfect, some clutched against the darkened silver breastplates, others riding their own mounts. The group was about half boys and half girls, and it was strange—there was a smell of youth to them, literally a smell of fresh rain, as well as light. Light was all about them, not light one could see or read by, but more like a part of the air they breathed. The chosen, she thought: the seventy and seven. As they moved through the outer streets of Ishmia, they were ringed in a wall of powerful, armored horsemen. Surely no harm could reach them.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Mist
Hyacinth pulled up on the reins and searched ahead. She had heard mention of the Ithen, but this was nothing like she imagined. There were yellowwood and oak as old as the Earth, vines and creepers, and shadows—many shadows. This was a sacred forest; she could feel the knowing of the trees. Clustered about her were prime Daathan warriors, among them the gray-haired Daathan captain whom Loch had called Tillantus. “Could you stop here a moment?” she said aside to the captain. “Certainly, my lady.” He motioned the others, and they drew to a halt. Below, beyond the ancient forest, there was a narrow valley of sea grass, weaving in the soft wind. Cutting through its center was a well-used, paved road that led to the walls of Terith-Aire, and from here, as well, a view of the high-walled, spired city. The road was thick with people, and to either side of them, warriors. All were filing toward the city’s its alabaster battlements. The thought left Hyacinth panicked.
“My lady,” the captain said. “Is there a problem?” “Before I go any farther, I must see Loch.”
“That cannot be done, my lady. I do not know the whereabouts of your king, but we have orders to deliver you to the city. The Second Century is just below us, and you are to ride with the chosen.”
Hyacinth pulled her horse about, twisting the reins. “I can sense him; I will find him myself.”
As she turned her horse, her way was instantly blocked.
“I cannot let you do that,” the captain said. He reached forward to take her reins, and Hyacinth quickly wrenched open the cheek guard of his helm. The sharp nail of her little finger left a scratch across his skin before he could react. He snarled and reached to catch her arm, but before he could move, Hyacinth’s dagger tip was against a vein in his neck.
“We should come to an understanding, Captain. I am not one of your milk women!”
The captain narrowed his brow, then paused, looking past her. Hyacinth turned. It was Loch. It seemed he had appeared from nowhere.
Loch nodded to Tillantus. “Have the men circle wide, Tillantus, and leave several to wait for her beyond the clearing.”
“Aye, my lord,” Tillantus said, snapping his cheek guard into place. “And to you, my lady,” he added, bowing from the saddle.
He turned and motioned to the others, and his men began moving through the trees. She dropped her knife into its sheath.
“Do you really think the walls of Terith-Aire are going to protect them?” she asked.
“No, but it is their best chance.”
“Well, I am staying with you.”
“That is not meant to be.”
“Do not give me any more of your futures, Loch! I am not one of them, these Daath, all cold to me, like they have ice in their blood. The Tarshians were hard enough to endure; I cannot live with these, not without you, and I will not be shut behind their walls. You’re the reason I’m still here. I’m not leaving you.”
He rode forward, pulling up beside her. He had become hard to read, but as he watched, his eyes seemed to change, as though he had stepped into them for her—they softened. The warrior had receded for the moment; this was the Lochlain to whom she had first been attracted.
“Are they taking care of you?”
“Where have you been?”
“There are things I needed to finish.”
“And are they finished?”
He nodded.
“Why are you not with the others—leading these legions?” she asked. “Are these not your armies? And you their king?” “I am not here to command armies.”
“Then what?” The quick eyes were demanding. “What are you here for?” “To stop him.”
“Him?”
“You know his name; you sensed him as well as I. We can speak it here; he is close enough it no longer matters. I must stop Azazel.” She could only gasp at first, speechless. “Alone?” “How else? You believe armies are going to help?”
“How can you possibly stop an angel that has prepared for this moment, the taking of the Daath, for seven hundred years? How, Loch?”
“It is much as with Satariel, I do not know precisely how, but I sense it; I feel something drawing me. I believe I can find a way.”
“Here? In these trees?”
“This forest is as ancient as life on Earth. It is the East of the Land; there is much magick here, much power, and none of it belongs to him. If I am to make a stand against this creature, this is my place of choosing.”
She scanned the trees, realizing what he meant. “The
East of the Land, the forest that borders the place where Elyon first touched His finger.”
“Yes. These trees were witness. There is also an ancient structure here, a ring of stone, and something else; I believe it to have been a temple. One the first ever formed on Earth.”
Her eyes then locked on his. “You knew even when you brought me back, you knew then you would come here—did you not?”
“No, I had a sense of the future, but until now I did not know.”
“And so now you know and now you are planning to die here. Tell me that is not true.”
He didn’t answer.
“And you think I am going with them? I have no place with these Daath, Lochlain! I cannot stay with them. If you choose to die here, then in the name of your god, let me choose the same, with you, as I said I would be. What else have I to live for? What reason should I follow these horsemen and these warriors who mean nothing to me?” “You have forgotten so soon?”
“What?”
“Your child.”
“My …”
“You already carry him, Hyacinth. From the night on the island.”
She paused, startled. She shook her head. “If I were with child, I would know! That was merely a signet of love; that was not taking your seed for a child. I could not have been fooled in that!”
He studied her, waiting, and suddenly Hyacinth realized that somewhere, inside, she did know. She had chosen, the light rain that night, the touch of him, somehow, far and away, she had chosen. “No,” she whispered, “no. This was not supposed to be. I died—with them, on Ophur, and you should have left me. Loch, you should never have done this! I am not a bearer of children! I am not supposed to be here. I was never part of your prophecy! Enochian, all of them, their scriptures, their high words—I am no part of that!”
“I am sorry, Hyacinth, but you are. More than you know. You bear inside you a child, and you no longer have a choice of dying with me. Your place is in the center of the Second Century, with the chosen, for your child, as much as you might deny it, is one of their protectors. He must survive.”
A tear ran freely along Hyacinth’s cheek, and she made no move to stop it. “You tricked me.”
He lifted his hand, touched her tear, and took it. “Perhaps. I have also loved you, without restraint, as much as her, as much as the red-hair.” “Damn you.” “Good-bye, Hyacinth.” “No … no, Loch. You cannot do this! No.”
He slowly backed his horse away. “Do not try to follow. The child, Hyacinth. If you follow, it will be lost, and that cannot happen. Find the center where they keep the chosen, stay with them. If you do, your child will survive this day. Few others will, Hyacinth. So you have no choice.”
“You bastard! Loch, you cannot leave me here!”
He held his hand in the sign of the word, but she did not respond. Instead she spat to the side. “There, that is for your god!”
“My love,” he whispered finally, “farewell, little one,” and then turned the horse.
“Nooo! You cannot leave me!”
The last she saw of his face, the warrior had returned; the eyes had darkened like night closing without stars. He quickened the pace, and his horse started moving swiftly, deeper into the trees.
“Loch!” she screamed and started to follow, but then paused, drew back. Tears streamed down her face, and never before in her life had Hyacinth felt her heart shatter so completely. She paused, glancing back toward the valley where Tillantus had left the cold Daathan warriors waiting to escort her. When she turned back, he was gone. The mist of the forest had swallowed him or he had vanished into his Shadow Warrior twilight.
“Loch!”
Only the forest answered.
“Damn you!” Hyacinth screamed, tears spilling unhinged.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Star Temple
Loch’s horse stepped through heavy mist between the ancient trees. The forest had swallowed all sound, but he could sense a steady rumble, growing closer now. The Unchurians would soon close on the forest of the East of the Land, and somewhere among them, the demon Azazel was searching with all his power for Loch, for the one that had lit the sunblade the night before. The sunblade sucked blood and life and aged him quickly, but it also gave back knowledge. Loch had cloaked himself like the dead of night. Even the angel Azazel would not sense him or the Angelslayer that hung at his hip.
He paused, searching, then turned the horse to step through the trees into a clearing. He had been here before. The standing stones. There was soft, quiet light to them. He understood it now. It focused unseen light, for though the forest was dark from the thick, overcast sky, and the light of the stones cast no shadow, these stones were still connected by a thin tendril to the moon, the mirror of the light of the mothering star, the eye of Daath.
He looked around. This was it, this was the place, and if you were to bring an army straight through to Terith-Aire, you would not veer westward and choose the King’s Road, you would bring them through here, through these trees. The city had been built in line with this circle of stone. It had once, when the Daath were younger, centuries ago, drew power from this circle, fed off it like drinking from the purest lake. But centuries dim the light of flesh, even if it is mixed with that of an archangel. Men, flesh, it began to believe in its own, weave its own fantasies of faith—the illusion of this world, this earth, cloaked in its veil, was too overcoming, too complete. Few humans ever managed to hold to Elyon’s Light, and few ever would. But sometimes, in some moments, a few were enough.
He swung a leg over and dropped from the horse. He lowered himself to one knee and closed his eyes, feeling the stones that surrounded him. There was a presence of aged air, the witness of time, but there was more … and suddenly he could see it, through closed eyes, as it once was—more than a temple, a city had been here. They had touched down on this spot when the ship called Daath left from the Blue Stars, when it came in answer to the cries of the Earth to its Maker, that the blood in its soil was too fouled with sorrow and suffering.
Loch’s eyes flicked open. The ruins. The mound of earth he had often studied. He knew there was something beneath it; he could see in places where the earth and vine broke through a smooth, almost unblemished surface. But he had not realized quite what it was until now. Until the knowing of the sword gave his the wisdom of an old man.
Looking up, he saw a spark, a far blue light from the tip of the mound that rose from the forest foliage. It sparked into the sky. Perhaps to the Blue Stars, no, no, not perhaps, it was real, all these things, they were real. A spark of knowing had just flashed homeward. He stood, feeling his skin shiver. It had spoken like stars, and it touched with the same acid light of the Angelslayer.
He heard a far trembling and glanced back toward Lucania. Adrea’s home. Once her simple home, her harsh father, her giving mother, her small kid brother that held such tender memories in her heart. A brief sadness passed through him and then he realized how close they were, that the far trembling he had just felt was the armies of Unchuria closing. They were moving slow and steady. Many of them had already entered the shadow of the forest called the East of the Land. Most would not know or understand how ancient, how sacred it was. But some would. He would.
Loch watched until he could see shapes beginning to merge from the dark of the forest. Fog had begun to curl along the ground about the stone.
Loch slipped the bridle off his horse, then slapped its flank, letting it leave at a high trot.
He moved quickly to the edge of the clearing, and then began his ascent of the ruin, using the vines and creepers that wrapped the side. The edge was steep, covered so thick in dirt and vines it seemed no more than a mound of earth. But every so often there was a glimpse of the smooth skin below. The ruin’s age was almost equal to that of the trees that had swallowed it, but whenever the surface broke through, it was unblemished.
He moved quickly, and as he reached the level of the treetops, he paused to look down. The armies of the U
nchurians were moving slowly through the mist below, crossing the clearing and the ring of stone in a straight line for the city. As he guessed, they had ignored the King’s Highway; they would cut through the forest at its center line and break into the open field where the second legion was now crossing for Terith-Aire. What was left of the first legion, battered and thinned from the battle of Ishmia, would be forming a line against the northern edge of the forest, but the Unchurians in their numbers believed they could shatter that line, perhaps before the others could gather inside their walls.
Since the sword had begun to teach him, Loch had learned to see the light of souls beneath the skin. Some, like Hyacinth, burned so intensely they were almost white. But many of the riders below moved with a darkness that swallowed light—they had been given power through blood. They were covenant bearers and their lord, who had devoted all his knowledge and faith to the killer star that waited at the far end of the universe, seemed to not even possess souls, as though they were merely skin and bones of killing machines.
He turned and continued climbing. At times he used his dagger in crevices and vines. He soon pulled himself above the rich canopy of the East of the Land, and this high up, the air was a mist that still bore the taste of fresh rain. The surface of the temple broke through more often now, but it also became more difficult to climb. Where dirt and foliage gave way, there were no handholds, only a smooth surface that looked like finely polished silver, burnished a bit, like the armor of the Daath. He knew what this metal was; it was aganon, the same that formed the metal of the blade of the Angelslayer; only in this form it was solid and always this color, a darkened silver. It was stronger even than the famed Etlantian oraculum. But Loch was surprised that the whole of the temple was sheathed in it, an entire skin of aganon. He began to think now, as he climbed, that it was more than a temple. It was a star ship, and then he knew, he understood. This was it, the Voyager; this was Daathan, sheathed in aganon, to sail even stars and the dark matter of heaven’s fury.
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 67
