Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (27 page)

In a single beat of its wings, the Nephilim was suddenly close enough to touch Adrea. But at first he did not try. He simply stared at her, taken, as if he wished to admire her beauty. One eye socket was crushed by Loch's blow, but both of them held a dark, distant light she could barely make out—the soul of the Nephilim.

Over his shoulder, Adrea noticed Loch come to his knees and wrench the dagger from his shoulder where it had lodged mostly in his armor. On his feet, he soundlessly moved for his sword.

The Nephilim touched her hair.

Loch was running for them, his long sword against his chest, but the creature did not look back; instead he seemed to tip his head, noticing something. He looked to Adrea's stomach.

When Loch reached them, the beast simply snarled. He turned to knock the long sword aside with a sweep of his hand. He twisted to the side, grabbing Loch by one arm, and threw him over his shoulder, slamming him so hard into the ground that Loch did not get up or even move.

Now the Nephilim could take his time. He stepped back toward Adrea, started to reach for her—but Adrea had laid the tip of Loch's knife against the vein in her throat.

“Touch me and I am dead. You will have no life to suck. I deny you.”

“Cut your pretty throat,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper, distorted. “It will be disheartening, but I have the life I came in search of. I will kill this one, his father is already dead, and the last scion of the Daath is in you. It is over; it ends now.”

She tried to stab at her abdomen, but this creature moved far swifter than she. He slapped the dagger from her hand. He grabbed her hair, drew a sword, and was about to behead her when suddenly there was a pulse, a burst of some kind, like nothing Adrea had seen before. It was pure and white and focused. The Nephilim simply turned into shadow, then scattered as dust in the light wind from the ocean.

Adrea turned to see the Etlantian named Sandalaphon behind her on a huge horse. He was watching her, sheathing a sword whose blade was still pulsing with a silver-blue.

He looked at her only a moment, then rode past toward Loch. Adrea felt something from him—she sensed it. The creature he had just slain was once his brother. He had just killed one of his own—a light bearer's child.

“No shame, Loch,” the giant said sternly as Loch moaned, slowly struggling to get to his feet. “You did all you could. He would have proved hard to kill for anyone.”

Loch was able to stand, breathing with difficulty until he pried off his dented armor and threw it aside. He looked around for a corpse. “Where is he?” asked Loch. “The Nephilim?”

“Slain,” Sandalaphon said. “He is dust. His spirit—who can say? You had no chance, Lochlain. He was a firstborn son of a prefect. He would have killed you both and taken the child.”

“His father?” asked Loch.

“His father was my father,” Sandalaphon answered. “They did not yet realize there was a child. This one just slain, he discovered the scion, but only when he was near enough to smell the girl. Until then he was unaware. But his senses were keen, strong; others may now know what he saw.

“Assassins moved through this land from the south, they were few in number, but they spread out and chose their targets carefully. They meant to wipe out the bloodline of Uriel by killing both you and your father. They failed to take you, and though you will still be hunted, for now you are safe. But know something, prince of Daath; they have slain your father. Argolis is dead.”

There was only slight emotion in Loch's face over his father's death. He seemed determined not to care, but his eyes were no longer black. They softened.

“Many will soon move against the Daath,” Sandalaphon said. “It begins. Azazel comes with his armies against your people from the south of Hericlon—he comes with many. But do not fear the sea, as well. I suspect Eryian will learn enough to move his legions for the south. But if they find this girl, none of it that will matter.”

“Then what?” asked Loch. “Hide her? Where?”

“It is not possible to hide her in this world. They see everything in this world and shortly they are all going to realize what has occurred. You have taken a queen that opened the eye of Daath. No one expected that. Not even me.”

“Then what are we to do?”

“I can think of only one thing to try. I must take her and attempt to jump time. If I can, I will open but a small rift, one barely felt, and find a future so closely parallel to this that it will intercept, fuse, become one.”

“That happens?”

“It can be done. I know that is difficult to understand, but that is the way of the star knowledge. There are things I cannot fully explain. It will be difficult, even for me, and it is possible I will fail. But I see no other path. Even if I were to remain, try to protect her, they would get past me. The only chance we have is for me to attempt a star walk.

“I will leave you as bait, but even you will not know my destination. I am sorry. If I fail, you may not be able to find her, even in all of time, but then if I fail, all will fail, Aeon's End will swallow this Earth, this universe, everything you see or know.”

“You are certain of this?” “I am certain.”

Loch noticed tears streaming down Adrea's cheeks.

“I am sorry—I know you have both only now found each other. But it must be done, and it must be now; we cannot delay.” “Now?” asked Loch. “This moment?”

“The powers that seek out the scion of Uriel are stronger than even you imagine. We cannot wait. It must be now. Which leaves you both to say good-bye.”

Loch turned to her. His eyes were burning and if he let his emotions out, he might have found words for her, but all he could do was offer his hand in the sign. When her fingers touched his, he pulled her close; he pulled her hard against him and held her for all he was worth. No tears came. Perhaps he had no tears, but he clung to her because he would need to remember this, the feel of her, the smell of her.

“Good-bye, my love,” she whispered in his ear.

He stepped back. She stared at him, lines of tears down her cheeks.

Sandalaphon bent in the saddle and lifted her, pulled her against his chest.

“You have done well, scion of Uriel. You fought as a lion. Faith's Light, kindred.”

Loch swallowed past the knot in his throat and turned away. He did not want to see them vanish. He closed his eyes, head lowered. He felt something pass through him, like a cold, soft wind. The earth around him shivered slightly, and then quiet closed in. He shivered, sadness moving through him like rain as he slowly turned. They were gone. There was nothing there but the dead Unchurians and fallen horses.

He had been alone before, but never so utterly. He could no longer feel her, not her flesh, not her soul, not her spirit. He no longer even had the ring to give him dreams of her. It was as though she had vanished utterly from his world. Perhaps forever.

He walked through the field, steeling himself against the sadness, tightly drawing in his emotion and forcing it deep where it could not affect him. He began a run, keeping an easy, steady pace toward Terith-Aire. It was a far distance, but he thought of nothing as he ran; he left his mind as empty as the sky.

I
t had been a far journey from the gate of Hericlon to Galaglea for Cathus. It was like nothing he had known. But after four days, he was still alive. One would not have guessed by looking at his emaciated form, but Cathus the thief was very good at staying alive.

He had ridden as Rhywder had commanded. He had pressed down the twisting passes of Hericlon and about the edge of the Vale of Tears. Once or twice he passed through something insubstantial, a mist like it was formed of gnats, but he continued to ride. He did not look back. His fear of the night mounted until it became as fears often did, until it melted into itself, numbness, a resignation. If something was going to happen, then so be it. His father had taught him that before he was killed in a tavern bar, leaving Cathus homeless.

Cathus was ten and five years. He had lied about his age to join the Daathan legions, but in these days, the Daath cared little of names or ages; there were garrisons in far lands that housed many youths who had simply run away. And Cathus had been running all his life. He had grown in the twisted streets of the rich port city of Ishmia. He had never known father or mother. How he had reached an age where he could steal and eat, he did not remember.

The first night of Cathus's ride from Hericlon passed without event. Ca-thus had circled the quarry, and though it was wide and deep and stank of swampland, still it was quiet. He kept along the trees, his shield over his shoulder, one hand always on his dagger.

He had slept the day curled under a fallen log, his horse given heaps of pulled grass and tied to a sapling in a gully. With nightfall he rode on. It was the second night when things grew difficult. It was not long before he found he was pursued—not by demons or spirits or haunting or screaming winds, but riders. If you see a man, him you fear, the Little Fox had told him.

Looking back, he saw them coming through the trees, six or more—Unchurians.

Cathus was good at running away, and they had given him an agile, quick horse. He took a twisting, deceptive run through the trees, keeping low. Ca-thus decided perhaps his ability to fade into shadow had something to do with the rooster's blood they had smeared into the hide of the horse. It had seemed idiotic as he had watched the big Galagleans painting the hide with rooster blood from a bucket, but now Cathus understood it was the reason he was able to outride his pursuers the entire night.

At first light, the trees ran out. There was a long stretch of clear ground before the lake of the Ithen, and here they killed his horse. Cathus was certain they had meant to kill him, but the javelin, dark-wrought with a heavy, barbed tip, dropped low and lanced the horse's underbelly. Cathus dove over the mane and hit the ground in a roll. He sprang to his feet. The riders were closing on him at full gallop, spears and even axes at the ready. Cathus gasped and did a full-out run for the waters of the lake. He wasn't going to reach a shallow crossing below as the captain had told him, but the lake was his only chance.

Cathus's long sinewy legs stretched their limit, going hard, his straggly hair blown back as javelins and arrows sang about him.

“Elyon's Light be with me!” Cathus screamed aloud, taking his longest strides. “Elyon be my shield. I know I done many wrong things, but forgive me now, save me now!” He ran in switchbacks, losing precious distance, but never giving them a direct target for their terrible spears. One soared past his ears with a scream.

They were closing. It would all be over soon. The thunder sound of hooves was bearing down on him. He was never going to make it. Cathus urged speed to his legs. He closed his eyes and threw his head back, and he ran as he had never run in his life. He felt that if a wind could catch him from the back, he could have flown. He hit the dark water still running, wildly high-stepping, and dove headlong. With a gulp he was under, and he swam deep. Though he was winded, he swam hard, keeping as much underwater as he could. When he broke the surface, frantic for air, arrows immediately zinged through the water about him. Cathus dove under again, stroking beneath the waters like fish must do all their lives. He broke the surface and this time glanced back. They were still mounted, dark riders, searching along the shoreline. But they didn't wish to swim and possibly they didn't deem him worth the trouble. They watched from the banks, then one turned, then another, and they rode slowly back for the trees.

Cathus swam the entire length of Ithen Lake. It was a hard swim. If he had the horse he could have ridden past the point where the Galagleans had dammed the river that formed the lake long ago, and found a shallow crossing. But now he had no choice other than a long swim.

At times he rested, rolling onto his back and doing a lazy stroke while he caught his breath. The water of the old quarry was very, very deep. No one alive knew how deep. It was black and he imagined creatures lying on the slimy bottom watching him with jelly eyes.

When finally he staggered onto dry land, it was midmorning, and his legs and arms were rubbery and aching. He stood a moment, swooning. He glanced down to find the scroll was useless mush. He pulled it out and spread it on a rock very, very carefully. The print was still legible—the ink was water-resistant—but he would have to let the paper dry or it would become pulp. There was a hollow in the rock, out of the sun, and he crawled in to wait. There he fell asleep.

From ages of sleeping in treacherous alleys and gutters and beneath wharves, Cathus had learned to keep an ear awake for sounds. Thus, his eyes flicked suddenly open when he heard the air stir. A horse danced. A hand lifted the scroll from the rock. From beneath the rock, Cathus saw the rider. He was tall in the saddle. Long, straight hair fell over his shoulder. It was black, but for a lock of it, to the left, which was a silvery sheen. Cathus screamed and leapt to his feet. There were trees to the right, and Cathus ran for them, gasping. For a moment the rider didn't pursue, but then he turned the reins and the horse galloped with heavy hooves.

Cathus was a good runner, but he could not outrun a horse. He would in moments be dead. At the very moment he felt the rider close, some weapon rising for the back of his neck, Cathus dove for the earth, rolling. The rider brought his horse about. Sharp hooves assailed the earth about Cathus as he rolled one direction, then another. The rider finally snarled, then dropped off the horse. Cathus scrambled to his feet and ducked the arc of a sword blade, then dove to tackle the Unchurian's feet. The rider had not expected this, especially from an emaciated boy. They rolled in the dirt. The Unchurian was strong, he would have killed Cathus easily, but Cathus had one skill that had kept him these years in the streets as a vagrant. He knew how to use a dagger. Cathus stabbed the assassin between the ribs, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing.