Rhywder swore—the docking posts at the end were giving way. The whole structure was buckling. Any second the huge warship would impact. The Little Fox screamed and rammed the spikes of his boots into the warhorse’s side and the horse surged forward as if it understood—it must either make this jump or die. They soared over purple waters and then there was a hollow thud as the hind flanks of the horse hit the stone edge of the far landing. Rhywder heard the horse’s bones crack. Rhywder and the boy were thrown. Behind them, the ship collided with docking, exploding. Spinning chunks of hull planking soared overhead. The powerful Galaglean charger rolled to one side and seemed to have been sucked back into a sea of flame, but he had gotten them across; they had made it clear.
“Run!” Rhywder shouted, seizing Little Eryian’s wrist, and they ran along the edge of a stone docking wall. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the rest of the Etlantian galleys still out to sea. The entire armada was aflame. He could not believe it. There would be no ships! What were they running for? There was no hope—and then he saw it: a single mast, a bull’s head, full sail billowed out, smart enough not to even attempt the city’s docking, but driving at full oar for the sandy beach north of the city.
When he reached the edge of the landing, he took the boy by his waist. Beyond, over the edge of the landing, was a canal, and beyond that, the stretch of sandy beach the ship was headed for, and on it, signal flags anchored, white cloaks. “Swim for those flags, boy!” he shouted, throwing Little Eryian into the sea, then dove in after him.
From where she galloped—tight within the center cluster of Shadow Warriors, with beautiful children who rode, terrified—Hyacinth could now see the shoreline. For a moment her breath was caught. It was an Etlantian sail, glittering full-out with the bull’s head of Etlantis, always their enemies, but beneath that sail were the fire jets of Darke’s own blackship peeling white sprays of the sea from either side of the prow.
Hyacinth lifted herself up in the saddle.
“That way!” she screamed to the warriors. “There! An Etlantian ship!”
The last warriors of the Daath surrounding the children saw her motion and turned, driving in a hard run for the shoreline where the ship was gliding toward them. Just above, the last of the Daathan’s First Century still held a line against the western edge of the forest, but it was sundering and moments would soon become seconds before even Darke’s ship could not escape this madness—but it was him, it was the captain. She could not see him, but who else would sail through a firestorm to repay a debt?
Satrina rode with one hand beneath the saddle and with the other she held the child tight against her. She could feel him breathe in tight, quick gasps. She searched for Rhywder, but there was no sign of him. Everywhere, there were fires. Fires crawled like living things across the grass.
Toward the forest of the East of the Land, only a thin line of battered and bloodied Daath still held. Beyond them, the Unchurians raged insane, driven to utter frenzy. She heard a Daathan captain screaming, “Hold! Hold, you bastards, for your children are behind you! By Elyon’s Light you will hold this line!”
But as mighty and determined as they were, they were being massacred. The flank above them, east, had been overwhelmed, and they were hopelessly outnumbered. Though the beach was before them, though a ship sailed to reach them, the last of the Shadow Warriors were falling now, and when their line gave way, the Unchurians would overwhelm them all. Only a miracle could spare them time to reach the shore. Only the word of Elyon Himself could save them. But Satrina believed. She had not struggled with the Little Fox of Lochlain all this way for it to just end in massacre. Someone, someone would intervene. That was her faith, and she held it as tightly as she held the child that was the scion of the Daath against her.
The one they called Azazel, once the lord of the choir of the Auphanim, and his followers rode slowly into the circle of stone within the ancient forest of the East of the Land. It was a sacred path, this, one used by those who came called of Elyon. It passed through the East of the Land, along its border, and this ancient circle of stone still held a tissue of the power that had created the world called Earth.
Beyond, the battle would soon be ended. Azazel was riding to watch over the final moments, following the pathway ironically once cut of the Daath themselves, those who were to have been saviors of this age of men, the first age. The rest, the next aeons, would belong to them, to the oath takers, and this moment was choice above all moments in his long life that stretched through stars; through many worlds, this moment would shine. Azazel was about to witness the fall of the Daath, their armies, their might and mystery, and most of all, their chosen, their fabled seventy and seven that were said, by the weak prophecies of Enoch, to stand in the last hour of the first apocalypse of men.
Azazel had managed to shift time, to kill futures by flinging them from the sky, until now only his future remained. There was no hope left to them. Even if the young king showed up with his sunblade, the outcome of that meeting would be far different from when the boy had faced the weak and febrile Satariel. Why he had vanished, this scion, Azazel could not guess, but nor did he care. The sword called the Angelslayer meant nothing to him; he could destroy it with thought alone if need be.
His skin was the flesh of a mortal already, and surprisingly, strengthened by an overlaid multitude of spell bindings, it was stronger than his own given flesh—as was proven when the mighty Righel tried to use a sunblade to cut him down. Azazel could withstand the Angelslayer, Uriel’s sword. In fact, given the time left the Daath and their king and their fabled blade of Uriel, it was over, for there was no chance, no possible future to which the Daath could escape. He even knew of the blackship of the Etlantian killer, Darke, the Tarshian. He knew all; his eyes had searched the sky and the land; his eyes had seen all there was to see. Except, curiously, this strange scion named Loch, who had utterly vanished—it was a mystery, but sooner or later it would resolve. Too late to change what was now going to take place.
Azazel moved slowly. He would emerge from the forest with a splendid view from high ground just in time to witness the slaying of the children—that was the moment of ending; that was when time would alter forever. The Earth and all it offered would become the breeding grounds of those who had performed the Oath of Binding so long ago on Mount Ammon. It had come full circle. Elyon’s world was ordered and maintained by law and edict, by oath and by light, and Azazel, following his one given leader, the Light Bearer, the first to step down from the sky and lead his brothers against heaven, had used those very edicts, those very words that formed worlds of star matter, that formed universes of dark nodes as tiny and infinitesimal as a grain of sand. He had used them to bring about a future in which his sons and the sons of those who swore their oath seven hundred years before would own the Earth, would guide it past the eye of Daath and leave it strong, poised at the edge of all living matter where a heaven of their own would begin to form. Those who had come here in that day, in the day of Yered, they were Elohim, and they had sung in the choir of the first speaking, the Holy-Holy-Holy, which formed this existence—and they would soon bind it as their own.
In fact, it seemed already done, already finished, for Azazel could feel it now, all of it. He could feel the Earth; he could feel the sky like a part of his being. It was about to end, this prophecy of the crippled one, the one called Enoch. Azazel had plotted this moment for centuries, and he could taste it, feel it in the depth of his acquired skin.
What Azazel did not feel was the sword of the Angelslayer above him as its hilt notched against the capstone of the queen’s temple—the hidden, cloaked star ship named Daathan, which, as brilliant and knowing as he was, Azazel had not sensed rising through the trees above him. He had not felt it there because it was cloaked in a skin of aganon and blessed of the light of the far mothering star, Dannu. It was invisible to his thousand eyes. Neither could Azazel feel the eleventh scion, the boy king named Lochlain, who now took his last breath a
s he angled the sword and set its tip against his heart where he knelt on the capstone of the temple.
“Amen-Omen-Diamon,” Loch whispered, then let his weight fall forward, let the tip of Uriel’s sword pierce his flesh, then deep, into the richest of his blood, the very center of his heart and there it drank full, lighting as it had not ignited in centuries.
The forest below Loch, especially the sacred ring of standing stone that funneled the light of the mothering star, came alive in both the giving light of a mother and the terrible Light of Severity that was Elyon’s eye. The Light of Severity struck even the trees and melted them away, stripping the plaza and bringing to life the two smaller ships that had long ago set sail from the seventh star and had moments before been hills in the surrounding oak. They, too, were coated in aganon. The entire plaza came to life. The Unchurians about Azazel screamed as they were ripped into shadows with terrible pain, and even the demon himself screamed. It was true, his spellbound flesh, designed to withstand the light of sunblades, was maintaining, but much of it was stripped away, the legs, the arms, until but a burnt and agonized torso writhed in the lighted, brilliant circle of stone, living now with the light of the mothering star, the Light Whose Name Is Splendor.
His eyes were seared, his pain unimaginable, but Azazel still looked up, and before him stood the son of Uriel, the one named Sandalaphon.
“Even you, Azazel, so loved of Elyon that He gave you all power, even you stand now before the words of Enoch. The boy has crippled you, left you human. Now the sword of Uriel shall bind you in the Earth. Face now the prophecy of Enoch. Though once you walked as angels, yea, now you shall die; even as men shall die, so shall you. Beneath this sacred ground has been prepared your prison, the fiery columns that shall bind you for ten thousand years, until the coming of the one.”
Sandalaphon drew his sword from its ornate sheath.
Through his damaged eyes, Azazel watched as the sword lit, striking the ground all about him with the divine Light of Severity and opening in the Earth a pit that would reach deep, almost to the Earth’s heart. There, where the falls of fiery columns moved continually, the prison that would be Azazel’s prison was formed, and the cores he had chosen to clothe himself in tumbled to the depths. Behind him it closed, sealed over, closing in the heat of burning that would continue beyond all endurance, even for one such as Azazel, for the next ten thousand years.
At the capstone of the star ship named Daathan, Sandalaphon gently lifted Loch’s body back, then withdrew the sword. His back had arched in the last moment, dislodging his back plate and splitting open the leather of his tunic. The wings had torn through and spread outward in a magnificent silver blue, full and rich. He had become, in the final moment, the lineage of his bloodline. He lifted Loch in his arms, letting a single tear fall, for in his day, Sandalaphon had loved this boy. Lochlain, the son of Asteria, had accepted his fate from the time he was only a child and he had done it with grace and dignity. Sandalaphon turned, lifting the sword and its sheath, which he would give to the Presence inside for keeping, to the Lady of the Waters who was once a Star Walker Queen. She would hold it until the time when the last Daath, the ones who would face Aeon’s End, would come for it. They would know the place, and they would know the time. As Sandalaphon stepped through the smooth, unmarked doorway, he seemed to just vanish, taking with him the limp body of the Daathan king, already drained of all blood, along with the sword and sheath of the Angelslayer.
Darke searched, tingling—something had happened. The sky was cleared, the angel’s storm had simply vanished in a blink, and what was a quiet dusk fell over the still chaotic coastline of the Daath. The quakes had stilled. The fires burned, but instead of moving like fingers over the land searching for prey, they now burned lifeless. The thunder and quaking had ceased in a single motion, and the only sound was of dying, above, on the ridge, at the line of forest where the Daath still held back the Unchurians. The Unchurians had sensed something, for they had suddenly been driven to complete, unabated rage—and it was not the rage of tactics or warfare, or of any purpose—they had gone utterly insane. Darke stared amazed, because the Unchurians were now not only killing the last of the Shadow Warriors—they were now killing everything in sight, even each other.
“We must get out of here,” Darke whispered to the Pelegasian captain.
“I will not argue that sentiment.”
And then it dawned on him. Darke guessed the cause. Somehow, somewhere beyond, above, Loch had just spared his people a last sliver of time. It was a thin sliver. Had he not been here at this shore, the number of purely insane, raging Unchurians would still have overwhelmed them, and would surely do so by day’s end. But the sliver of time would allow the Shadow Warriors leading the children to reach him, and should Darke reach deep water, there would be no finding him. He would escape even angel’s eyes should they re-emerge. But they would not; he was certain at least of that. The boy that they all had doubted so had just killed a second angel, and unlike the struggle with Satariel, this one had been snuffed quickly.
The prow post of Darke’s ship hit the sand. The throwers were snuffed and oozed black pus.
Darke watched from the forecastle. Galloping toward him were a tight core of Shadow Warriors; he could tell by the look of them they were the elite, chosen for this one task, to deliver the flowers of the Daath to shelter. Within their ranks, Darke saw youth. It touched his heart, for the Daath were bringing no others, just the children, some riding, others clutched in the saddles against warriors’ shadowy armor. They knew they died this day—the protectors that brought them, but they also knew this was the seed, and Darke could guess their number from the words of the Book of Angels, the Book of Enoch—these were the seventy and seven.
“Prepare to take on boarders!” Darke shouted. Rope ladders were thrown. As the Daath reached him, warriors splashed through the warm waters and surrounded the ship on either side—winded, sweaty horses; darkened, silver armor watery in firelight. Children were being lifted from the saddles and handed up. Darke stared as a young girl of perfect beauty and rich curls of red hair was lifted by a strong hand and pulled up by a dirty hand of one of the Pelegasians.
Then he paused, and a moment he felt his heart stop in his chest. He almost cried out. Below, Hyacinth was watching him. She was seated atop a roan horse, her long dark braids flayed by wind, tears in her eyes. He saw her whisper, “Captain! Oh, Captain!”
Darke gasped and leapt over the railing. He used a swifter rope to climb down the side of the hull. He dropped in the water, then turned, striding, and as Hyacinth dropped out of the saddle, he caught her, pulled her tight against him, and as he held her, his eyes stung with tears. In his life, Darke had never shed tears, but now he did. She was alive. Hyacinth was alive!
Satrina searched, beginning to panic. She looked to one of the Shadow Warriors, one of the King’s Guard that would have known the Little Fox, looked through the visor of his helmet and caught his eyes. “We must find Rhywder!”
“We must get the youth aboard this ship, my lady. It is all. You and the child will go now.”
“No, we have to find Rhywder! He has to come! Do you not see, he is supposed to be here! We must find him!”
“Wrong, my lady, Rhywder must find us—and if not, he had done for king and these children all he could. And you, Ringbearer, you will sail without him. Now, board the ship. We cannot risk the child.”
Lucian pulled up beside her. His big, dark brown eyes offered an understanding gaze.
“Lucian!” gasped Satrina. “Take the child! I must find Rhywder!”
She started to hand Lucian the baby, but he seized her arm so tight it was painful. “No!” he screamed at her, furious for some reason. “No! You are his mother now! You are his mother, damn it!” Tears blurred the boy’s eyes. “If he cannot believe in you, then who? Who will be his protector, his mother? Who?”
Satrina swallowed. He was right. She did not yet love this child as a mother, but she
felt a bond, even now. Of course, though he was a boy, he was right—in this moment, wiser than her. Weeping, she urged the horse forward, and with Lucian guiding her hand, she took hold of the ladder and started to climb. To either side, Shadow Warriors were climbing the swifter ropes beside her—not to board, but to hold oval shields over her and the child—guarding against any possible attack, any missile, any sudden strike from the sky or elsewhere. Then she thought she heard Rhywder’s voice. She turned, searching over the edge of a shield.
“Here! Over here!” screamed Rhywder. He was running up the white sand beach, holding a boy’s arm, jerking him along in a stumbling, flying run.
“A horse!” Rhywder shouted. “I bring the son of Eryian!”
Several riders bolted from the ranks and sped along the sand toward Rhywder.
Rhywder threw Little Eryian to a horseman, who immediately wrenched up on the reins, rearing the horse, turning, then thundered back for the ship. Above them, on the ridge of the East of the Land, unbelievably, there was still a thin line of Shadow Warriors fighting bitterly to hold back what was utter madness, utter insanity. They were about to fall, they were being overwhelmed on their eastern flank, and it was becoming a brawl. A good captain could have smashed through the line of Daath, could have gone for this ship, but then Rhywder, stunned, realized the fighting was simply sheer insanity. He saw the skies, the land no longer splitting with chasms. The angel was dead, and the boy had done what he was born to do; he had given the children a sliver of time that was impossible, that could never have been and yet was.
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 71
