Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (41 page)

Those men not hit by arrows turned their mounts and attacked, ripping into the trees without command. The Walkers about the king were slaughtered; the rain of darts was heavy, almost a solid mass. Tillantus vaulted onto a horse and set off at hard gallop into the trees, his heavy broadsword in his huge hand.

When the Shadow Walkers reached them, which took mere seconds, the Unchurian assassins made no attempt to fight back; they had already accomplished their mission. Dying meant nothing to them.

Eryian ran, dodging the last of the arrows. The shieldbearers that lay about Argolis were literally feathered in dark shafts, like the quills of porcupines. Argolis was on his side. Eryian dropped to his knees, cast aside his shield. It was over; the slaughter in the woods had ended, though the Shadow Walkers continued to search.

Eryian and Argolis had been through many years together, all they had lived, the blood, the kinship they had shared … it had ended without ceremony. Argolis was dead, his eyes open, but empty. No last words, nothing. Eryian moaned and began to pull a shaft from Argolis's chest as though it might have mattered.

Eryian woke suddenly with quick breaths. He cursed the dreams. They had come almost every time he fell asleep since the king's death, except for the sleep of the little witch's poison. He knelt for a moment, trying to calm himself, letting the white sun of midday wake him.

He looked up. Something in the distance had moved. It was far, and the horizon was an unsteady image of heat simmering. It had only been a flicker of movement, but he knew he was no longer alone. He sensed nothing and though he could feel nothing at the moment, he knew. It was an assassin, but one deeply skilled at stealth. The assassin had vanished, even as Eryian had caught a glimpse of the movement.

“Come ahead, then,” Eryian whispered, still angry from the dream. He would welcome killing another assassin—a skilled one. It might make it easer to sleep when next he did. He gathered his gear and mounted.

Eryian kept a steady pace through the dunes. At one point he noticed a curl of sand that had drifted to twenty feet and looked so much like a wave it could easily have broken into foam. Eryian rode calmly, occasionally checking his flank. Whatever followed, it knew shadows as well as he did, an expert, which gave him comfort. Though he had not much farther to go, at least he had something to help time pass.

Eryian rode through the night, keeping the horse at an easy lope, but nothing closed on him. The rider kept back, and it was close to dawn when Eryian reached the end of the dunes. At the top of a hillock thick in cedar and foxtail grass he tied his horse, out of sight and smell. He found a vantage point that offered a good view. He had time to wait. He planned to catch the legions at the river Ithen before they turned east for Hericlon, but he had been making good time, and he could waste a bit now. Eryian sat back against a tree and drew his cloak about his shoulder, then faded into the shadow. Someone could have been four feet away and not have noticed him. For a long time nothing stirred—only a small gathering of gazelle that wandered slowly and gracefully out near the sea. It was beautiful country. If a man rode to the tops of the higher hills not far to the east, and from there, he could see the tip of Mount Ammon on a clear day.

The sun was nearly midpoint in the sky when he finally caught movement. The rider seemed to come out of the heat waves as though he had simply materialized—excellent, he was amazingly hard to follow. He moved carefully, weaving in and out of sight in the distance. He was good, too good to have been an ordinary warrior. Eryian guessed him to be first generation, which meant he may have lived as much as seven hundred years. He wondered what a life lived that long would be like. Were there still memories from the first days? His first woman, his first child? He rode with gifted stealth, silent and steady, never leaving himself open for long. The hood of his gray-black cloak was dropped back and only occasionally did he glance to the ground to track. He most probably tracked best by smell, but the wind was against Eryian right now, and he wasn't that far from his last bath. Long, straight hair fell across the Unchurian's broad shoulders, night-black but for a streak of silver to one edge. He remembered now, the streak of silver. All of the elite had it, the first-and second-born. It was their mark, like the silver band of a Shadow Walker, only this was natural, not dyed, but given of the angel by breeding to those who were gifted with the death lord's blessing. Azazel might even know this one's name. The Unchurian's careful movements, his secrecy—he was easily the equal of a Daathan Walker. If not by whatever accident that had alerted Eryian, he might have been a problem.

As he drew nearer, Eryian could smell the blood of the angel in him. It was a pure-blood. It seemed almost touched with heaven's light. Whatever the light of Elyon was, it had strange ways. Eryian had more than once sensed the light in a Nephilim. Though the creatures had turned long ago, though their hearts were evil, the light often still burned in them, a distant memory left in their blood from their father's lineage.

At one point, the Unchurian turned against the sun and Eryian caught a glimpse of his skin. It was reddish, as were all Unchurian, but this one had for some reason chosen to become a blood drinker. It left his skin a darker sheen. That explained his being so far south and tracking Eryian. He was a loner, a wanderer, and probably had been to sea. He hunted humans, and he did so alone or, at times, with Etlantians. The firstborn of such a high lord of the angels such as Azazel were only blood drinkers by choice; they were still able to resist the curse of Enoch if they chose to because their blood was pure enough to resist. Eventually, all of them, all the children of the angels would fall to Enoch's curse, but this one had done so by choice.

At one point the Unchurian paused and seemed to look directly at Eryian. He remained like that, perfectly still, the waves of heat occasionally blurring his image. A human, even an ordinary Daath, could sit where Eryian was and search for all he was worth and still not spot the rider. But for all his talent, the Unchurian still failed to sense Eryian. It was because Eryian had been here so long, moving not a single muscle but to breathe or blink, that he had blended into the tree he leaned against. The Unchurian chose to move on, closing. In that moment the contest was over—if ever a contest it had been. There remained only the kill. Eryian noticed a bow, already strung, strapped over one shoulder and a scabbard against the rider's left thigh. There was a small axe lashed to the saddle blanket, hanging over the flank and a row of daggers in a dagger sheath across his chest. Eryian wondered how many this one had killed. Far more than he. Could it have been thousands?

The Unchurian began to ascend the hillock, weaving in and out of the few trees here. He rode calm, eased back, one hand resting on his thigh and the other holding the reins loosely. Once or twice the rider's eyes would drop to the ground, scanning tracks, but mostly they searched the trees about him carefully. Again he looked directly at Eryian, but still missed him, even this close.

Finally, when the Unchurian was within range, Eryian slowly stood, his cloak falling open. He knew that to the Unchurian he had just appeared out of pure, thin air. The Unchurian instantly froze, hand near his throwing axe, the fingers touching the hilt. Eryian was certain he could move fast, he could fling that small axe in a second's breath, and anyone but Eryian would be already dead, no matter the surprise of the sudden appearance. Eryian met his gaze, but the Unchurian watched back with steeled, dark eyes—no emotion, just a calm acceptance. Perhaps after living so many years, death offered an allure.

Eryian dropped swiftly to a crouch. The rider twisted, rearing his horse. His axe flung, but Eryian twisted sideways, feeling the wind of it as it passed. The Unchurian dropped over the saddle as the spooked horse ran. The assassin pulled himself across the ground and propped his back against a cedar trunk, watching Eryian. There was a slight gurgling sound with each labored breath. Eryian's dagger was in his throat, just to the side of his larynx, but in the back of his throat it had pierced his spine. Most of his body was paralyzed.

“You are good,” the Unchurian said. “The best I have ever seen.”

Eryian nodded, crouching eye level, not far from the Unchurian. “Did he send you, or did you pick up the scent on your own?”

The Unchurian stared back a moment, drew what was a difficult breath. “I ride alone. I feel him sometimes, but I have not been there for many centuries. He wants you. He wants you badly. Tell me, Daath, why such interest in you?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Blood spilled in a slow line from the corner of the Unchurian's lip. “If you would be kind, out of respect, a clean kill? I have no desire to die slow.” “How many more follow me?” Eryian asked. “Nothing living follows you now.”

Eryian nodded. He walked forward. When he was close he studied the dark eyes a moment longer. They watched back fearless, waiting. “How many years have you walked this Earth?” Eryian asked. “Six hundred seventy.”

Eryian lifted his boot and set it against the hilt. He pressed his weight forward slowly, until the pressure sheared the windpipe with a pop. The Unchurian struggled only briefly before his eyes stilled.

As streamers of morning cut the sky, Eryian reached the sea. He pulled the horse up on a black rock ridge, the sea crashing below. He stared across waters, to the west. She was there, far against the horizon—the ice peaks of Etlantis's mountains brushing the far sky, shrouded in mist, the tallest of the Ammon. He turned the horse and slowly made his way down the hillside, then rode along the white sand toward the village. It was untouched, in all this time. Etlantis, war, famine, and fear, all had passed this village by as if it were on another planet. Elyon protected them; perhaps they were far more favored by heaven than any Daath.

This was Eryian's first known memory, reaching this shore. Just out to sea was a spire of black rock, barely visible from here. It was from that rock that Eryian had first come. He remembered clearly gliding in a shallow craft for this very shore. He remembered the villagers, and he remembered how he had a distinct sense of purpose—he came without fear, understanding, even though he came without memories. He knew the land about him. He knew that south along the coast lay a city of Daath, their first city, their capital. He also knew of the ancient forest whose trees had once beheld the face of Elyon. He remembered that day clearly, and he thought it odd now, watching as the small village grew closer, how he had come so unafraid, so certain of himself. It was not until later in his life that he became disturbed and searched for reasons why, tried to understand. The day he had first touched this shore it was possible he knew things he did not know now. Though all that had gone before was lost to him, he still remembered the day with clarity, and coming back was somewhat like returning to an old home, as if a mother waited somewhere to welcome him. The spire out to sea beyond this shore was a part of the veil that covered his past. It was only through
the knowing
that he understood to come here. It had called. He was still not sure why, but he had answered, and he had returned. He did know that the spire was linked somehow to the homeland, one far and distant for the rock that lay out to sea was not of this Earth.

There were girls working on the beach, bringing in fishnets, and when they saw Eryian ride toward them and dismount, their nets were dropped and cries and laughter went up as they ran for him.

Eryian soon found himself encircled by giggling young girls. They wore wraps of white weft about their waists, slit up their thighs. Their breasts were bare. Certainly they did not know who he was, but riders occasionally came through here, and strangers were always welcomed. Somehow, Elyon protected them from blood drinkers. That was a kindness, Eryian thought, for Etlantis and the rogue warships that often left her shores to hunt flesh seemed ignorant of the small village less than a day's journey from the island.