Angelslayer: The Winnowing War
Page 72
Above, it was over now. The last few standing of the first legion of the Daath were now being hacked mercilessly to pieces. The Unchurians killing them were not satisfied with mere death; they were hacking the Daath into bloodied pieces of flesh.
Any second they would pour toward the ship and the shore of the Western Sea in a flood of uncontrollable rage.
Rhywder leapt into the saddle behind a Shadow Warrior, one of Argolis’s protectors—a man he knew, his name was Mammanon. They galloped hard toward the ship.
“I must find a mount!” Rhywder shouted. “A spare horse!”
When they reached the ship, for a moment, Mammanon turned in the saddle, met Rhywder’s eyes.
“Godspeed, Captain,” he said, then took his arm and flung Rhywder from the saddle. Rhywder landed on his side, hard in the sand.
“Farewell, Little Fox!” another of the king’s guard shouted. “Faith’s Light, my lord!”
The Shadow Warriors that had escorted the children to the shore were now turning, drawing weapons. A pure, frothing, insane number of Unchurians were pouring toward the shore. The Shadow Warriors drew weapons and in a single shout, galloped forward, heading into the heart of the charging Unchurians, even though they were but a handful, no more than ten or twelve riders.
“No!” screamed Rhywder. “A horse! Someone give me a horse!” He leapt to his feet, searching frantically.
“Turn back, you bastards!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “I command you to give me a horse!”
But they did not turn; they did not even look back. They were a tiny dot about to be swallowed into madness.
Rhywder stood gripping his short sword in a tight fist.
“Rhywder!” he heard a scream.
He looked back. Satrina was on the forecastle, shouting over the side, the child clasped to her breast.
Pirates muscled into the prow, pushing the ship into deep water where the oars could catch and quickly pull her from the shore. Watching Satrina, Rhywder began to back step up the beach slowly. He then turned and started at a run for his men.
“Give way the oars!” Darke shouted from the prow, Hyacinth beside him. “We have to bring him, Captain.”
“Looks as though he has chosen otherwise, my lady,” responded Darke somberly.
The oars swept, then dipped, taking a backstroke that sucked the darkship into deeper water where she could turn.
Satrina screamed. She threw herself against the railing and screamed, red-faced.
“Rhywder! You little bastard! Rhywder, you have to come with us! Rhywder!”
Rhywder continued running for the others, for his brothers, sword drawn—time to die. Once more, time to die. But then, reaching the top of a dune, he paused. He watched them, tingling, the small band of Shadow Warriors looking insignificant as they were engulfed, swallowed. They had vanished without effect, and the Unchurians were all that were left, still coming, furious.
“Give way port oar!” Darke’s voice echoed.
Rhywder looked back over his shoulder. The ship began to swing about, pointing her sharp prow to the sea, and as the ship made its turn, Satrina was at a run down the decking, clasping the blue cloak that bundled the child against her, but running for all she was worth. “Rhywder! Run! You can make it!”
When the ship had turned, Satrina was topmost. She had reached the stern and leapt onto the decking, and now she was leaning over the railing, screaming. Even from here, Rhywder could see the tears streaming over her cheeks.
“Rhywder!”
The oars lifted for a stroke.
Rhywder glanced once behind. The Unchurians were rolling like a wave, coming for him.
Rhywder finally swore and flung his short sword. He turned and sprinted down the side of the dune in a hard run for the sea.
“You can make it, Rhywder!” Satrina screamed. “Swim!”
He tore free his cloak, cast aside his crossbow, his scabbard, the killing axe, all but his jerkin, and dove headlong into a wave. He came out of it stroking hard.
From the prow Darke watched. “Hold the oars,” he said quietly. “What!” shouted the Pelegasian captain. “I said, hold the oars and throw out a line.”
It was one of Darke’s youth, a Tarshian, who responded. He grabbed a coiled grappling rope, then ran, and when he reached the railing he threw the coiled rope high over the stern. It played out and dropped to the sea. Rhywder lunged for it, missed. Its cork bobbed just before him and he took a deep breath and lunged again. This time he caught it and began pulling himself hand over hand.
“Give way oars,” Darke shouted. A moment longer and they would have been within range of fire arrows.
Rhywder was wrenched forward hard when the oars took hold; he had to cling with all his might. He fought through a swiftly curling wall of seawater as a wave crashed over him. He continued to pull himself along, until he reached the stern and used the rope to walk up the side of the dark hull, clamber over the stern railing, and fall to the deck. Satrina dropped beside him, still clasping the child. Slowly, Rhywder turned to her, and Satrina pulled him against her with a shriek.
The blackship of Captain Darke sailed into the night, into windswept sea, and vanished into the deep waters of the Western Sea. Aboard his ship were the last of the Daath alive in this world, the last of Uriel’s seed—those who, in the final days of the first apocalypse of men, would be called the Angelslayers.
K. MICHAEL WRIGHT
K. Michael Wright grew up near an Assinaboine Indian reservation in Montana where he first gained a deep appreciation for Native American culture, which later led to extensive travel and research into Mesoamerican myth and history.
After picking up a BA in History, he earned a Master’s of Fine Arts degree in Creative and Critical Writing from Brigham Young University, during which time he won the Kennedy Center Award for Excellence for his play Outrun the Night.
After graduating, he moved to LA and worked in production companies and as a screenwriter. He also wrote scripts for the Canadian Broadcast Company in Vancouver. He eventually “did time” in New York as a consultant and technical writer for companies like Comedy Central and Bank of New York. Tolteca is his first novel.
Mr. Wright lives in an historic 1630 house in New England and also spends time in Utah. Among his hobbies are building wooden model ships, online computer gaming, and karate (SKA).