Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (46 page)

Hyacinth stayed beside Loch with Taran to her right. Taran was using sword and shield to ward off anything that came near Hyacinth, hardly protecting himself. He had already taken blows to his back and sides, but he dodged them effectively enough that none were deep or lethal. He used his heavy, black double-edged sword in the same cut over and over to guard his right. He swiped through guts, their softer midsections, cutting deep enough that they fell over backward, snapping the rubbery spines or sometimes dragging their bodies as their legs continued their wobbly assault, harmlessly bumping and slamming into Taran's side until they lost control, spilling ooze across the rock.

The ground, mostly rock and dirt, had become slippery. It was difficult moving quickly without sliding, but these were pirates, used to heaving seas, all but Loch. He was finding it maddening, sometimes sliding backward instead of running, other times nearly falling.

Hyacinth moved backward half-crouched. Just as Danwyar, she was firing her tiny missiles into their eyes, upward through the tops of their heads, which were hardening as each moment passed and would catch the tips long enough to take the poison. The poison would often discolor their blood, swirling through their brains—orange, yellow, brown, sometimes a rich purple or dark blue.

One of them, feeling the poison, began whirling in a circle, its arms flailing and waving in what might have been a practiced dance until it finally dropped to a writhing mass on the black rock.

“He plays with us,” Hyacinth said to Loch, “toys with us while he laughs somewhere.”

Even though the ashore boat was close, there were now enough matured pod beasts that they had slowed the rapid retreat. The pirates were still steadily moving for shore, but Marsyas and Storan were doing all the work, hacking their way through, the heavy axe and the big Etlantian's war hammer working as if cutting through a thick jungle.

Hyacinth continued piercing eyes. At least when her bolts went through they stopped in their tracks.

“How many bolts do you have left?” asked Loch.

“Ten and four.”

“Kill sparingly. Let me and your protector Taran take the brunt of them.”

She obeyed, keeping the small crossbow at the ready, but waiting to choose her mark only when they were too close to her or Loch.

The path to the sea was finally blocked by a mass of them. The pirates for the moment found themselves surrounded, fighting on all sides. Marsyas's hammer took off heads one after the other, and Storan found his axe worked through the midsections.

Loch finally let the sword suck blood from his palm. It surged in pain up his arm and through his head, but the sword finally came to life, spilling light. Almost immediately they backed off, covering their eyes, some even screeching or screaming, and ran, arms waving above them in terror.

Hyacinth gasped. “They fear you,” she said.

“They fear the sword.”

Darke was busy killing, but he turned to see the Daath, poised and ready. The monsters gathered in a frightened mass before him; those behind them pressing forward, but those in front terrified by the humming light slashing into them, ripping them open, spilling out the fluids and blood and guts.

“To the front,” Darke cried, “Loch, move to the front, cut a path to the sea.”

Loch back stepped.

“Marsyas, cover Hyacinth!” he commanded.

Loch and Marsyas stepped past each other. From Marsyas's side they immediately came forward. There were perhaps hundreds back here. Marsyas prepared to slay, though he was exhausted, weary to the point of collapsing.

Loch stepped forward, separating from the others slightly, letting blood into the hilt. The sword readily drank, as if it were thankful. Like quenching thirst it sucked hard until the sting of blood slipping through his skin made his head light, while at the same time bolts of pain shot up his arm, through his shoulder, into his head with hammer blows. He let out a thin ribbon of blue light, focusing past the pain to move the blade slowly from right to left. The flowing, weaving ribbon of light cut hot and searing through legs, midsections, chests—anything it struck. All of creatures within sight of Loch were thrown into a wild panic. The ones in front desperately tried to run, only to slam into those behind.

The pirates needed clear passage to the ashore boat. Loch's arm was nearly paralyzed with pain, but he dropped a moment to one knee, lowered his head, and let the Angelslayer take a solid stream of his blood, granting it all it wished. Pain ripped into him, screaming, searing pain as blood tore through the skin of his palm and even streamed from the vessels in his wrist, sucking into the hilt and then through the blade. Darke saw a vessel in Loch's temple burst open, spewing blood into his hair. With a deafening crack of thunder, a blue bolt of light left the tip of the Angelslayer and spread out as it moved toward the giants. They were screaming in wild panic, throwing themselves back, but the light continued coming for them, widening, until it was like a wave rolling. It slammed into the thorn beasts, flinging them in all directions, tearing their flesh to shreds, their fluids spraying as they were blown into pieces. When it was over, the creatures were cleared all the way to the shore. A path to the boat had been opened. The ground before it was drenched in shredded flesh, vicious fluids, and bloodied debris.

The pain ripping through Loch was unbearable. It left things blurry. He ignored it, standing.

“I will take the rear now,” he said to Darke. “Go for the boat!”

He turned and moved for the rear. He was nearly blind with pain, but he forced the Shadow Walker to see through it. He kept his balance, kept his focus. He let the blade cool down, and as he did some of the pain began to abate.

Taran, Marsyas, and Danwyar had been left to hold off hundreds closing on the rear. Now the light of the Angelslayer backed them off as Loch stepped past the captain to Hyacinth's side.

Darke glanced to the waterline; it was cleared, but just as he turned, a pod creature caught him in the shoulder, shearing away a chunk of flesh. Darke hissed, furious, and sliced him open, sideways from the midsection through the top of his head, but they were getting harder to cut; they were maturing. As they dried, their exoskeleton was taking on dimension, forming a coating of armor that by now was almost thick as leather.

Suddenly a circle of whispered chuckling swirled around them like wind. It was the angel, watching his circus, amused.

“Double-time for the shore,” Darke commanded, “and hold the sides and flanks. We must still stay together—but move! Move!”

They were moving quickly now. It seemed close, the ashore boat, they could have sprinted to it in minutes, but they were being pressed too hard from the side and rear. If they turned to spring, those to the rear would be caught and torn to pieces.

Taran cried out. He had been fighting hard, his sword arcing and thrusting with deadly mark, shearing arms, legs, guts, slashing through faces. He had killed countless numbers of them, but a giant had suddenly stepped around the edge of his shield, moving with speed unlike the others, and this one sank thorny, arced teeth of hard thorn wood into the muscle of Taran's lower neck and shoulder, then ripped away a chunk large enough for the creature to step back, chew, and swallow. Taran's sword ripped through his gut as he did, but blood flushed across Taran's chest and his head was left leaning sideways.

“No!!” shrieked Hyacinth, whirling to send two bolts ripping into the giants coming at the weakened Taran, smelling his blood. She sunk her bolts through the eye sockets, and the pod beasts reeled in confusion, blocking those behind. One wailed, clutching for its eye as the poison visibly swarmed through its head, through the pink tissue of its brain.

But the smell of blood was strong and it drew them with renewed vigor. From the left another got close enough to grab Taran's shoulder with thorn claws, about to tear off Taran's arm. A bolt of light pulsed through the monster, igniting him like a torch before he exploded in bits of flesh and slop. The thorn claws were left lodged in Taran's shoulder, along with a piece of the arm above the elbow that flapped as Taran continued to fight, wielding the broadsword to protect Hyacinth at his side.

Loch hissed. Each time he fired the sword, an arc of pain ripped through his arm and up his neck. The sword caused a split in the veins in the back of his hand. As blood spilled from the wound, it was quickly taken by the sword. The Angelslayer seemed to crave Loch's blood as badly as the thorn giants, and it drew in the blood from the split veins in his hand in tiny streams, like rain being driven by wind. The blade rippled in fire now, a deep orange-red. The stream of fire roared as it streamed into the creatures. Loch gasped, sucking for air; it was out of his control; the sword was sucking in the blood from the wound without slowing.

For a moment he almost blacked out, but then he dropped to one knee and lifted the blade, using the pain and loss of blood to level off the stream of fire, letting it tear into them. The thorned beasts screamed. Some tried to turn and run. Panic spread as Loch swung the screaming swath of flame from one side to the other, shearing most in half, bursting others open, turning some into pillars of fire that caught others aflame as they ran through the crowded giants howling. At one point he kept it leveled straight and the stream of pure fire sunk deeper and deeper through them, killing dozens, as if cutting a roadway through the midst of them..

But he could barely focus, barely keep him eyes open. The loss of blood was tapping his strength, leaving him so weak he felt as he if were about to collapse inward, just like one of the creatures whose bloodline failed to hold their bodies. Suddenly, Loch's arm began to jerk in spasms and the light from the blade came in pulses, uncontrolled bursts of energy destroying everything they struck. Loch was unable to hold either the bursts or train their direction. At one point a solid, blue, crackling bolt of light spread in a wide, shimmering arc, imploding as many as fifteen at once, like a heavy blade ripping a deep swath through their fleshy outer layers.

“He cannot stop!” Hyacinth cried. “Help him; he cannot stop!”

Loch dropped his head back, growling through tight teeth as the pain overwhelmed him. His head was near to bursting; every muscle and tendon of his body was screaming. He managed to keep the sword level and he knew he was still slaying from the screams he could hear, but his head was tipped back and all he could see was sky graying—he was losing his vision.

Lightning crackled from the top of his shoulder, shooting out of his skin and twirling down his arm and forearm. When it struck the hilt, it flew outward in star-fire bursts blindly striking anything in their path. A wide burst of white light tore a deep gash in the black rock, ripping through the feet of giants, but doing more damage to the rock than any flesh. Amazingly, the rock bled. Red, rich blood spilled from the gash, as if it were skin itself and beneath was blood and veins. Another misfired bolt exploded a spire with a crack and the shards of crystal spun into the sky in fiery streamers.

“Help him!” Hyacinth screamed again.

Darke had reached Loch's side, swearing. He stepped in front of Loch and grabbed his hand where it held the hilt. Fire ran up the captain's arm, it even seared the flesh on the back of Darke's hand, but he continued to hold. He slammed his boot into the Daath's chest, knocking him back and ripping the sword free of Loch's grip.

Darke screamed in pain. It was sucking blood from him, as well, and for a moment it continued ejecting a stream of fire that Darke could not control. It soared skyward, high into the night like an eruption. Finally, it ran dry. The blade stopped taking Darke's blood. The captain hissed in obvious pain, backing away to turn for the boat.

“For the boat, everyone!” he screamed.

He ran with the sword to the side. The Angelslayer continued to glow, swimming in a myriad of colors, all metallic, red, blue, white diamond. Darke refused to drop it. He held though the hilt was burning the flesh of his palm.

“Run! Move! Move!” he shouted.

Loch's out-of-control fire bursts had, for the moment, cleared the monsters from the rear and flanks. Some remained on the side, but they hesitated to attack. All were still spooked, like children who had witnessed a horrifying event.

“Storan, take the king!”

Storan yanked Loch up so hard and so quickly, it seemed he almost tore off Loch's arm doing so. He threw Loch's limp body over his shoulder and ran for the shore. Marsyas wrapped Taran's arm about his neck and pulled him along as they ran. Taran was trying to run himself, but one leg was dragging behind. The left half of his body was paralyzed, and his sword fell away, his hand no longer able to hold it.

The thorn beasts were re-form ing again, overcoming their fears. They had also hardened. The outer shells of armor was a darker yellow, the color of polished yew. They finally gathered their courage and began their strange leaping, half-flying pursuit of the pirates, closing once more on the rear.

“Move! Move!” cried Darke, urging them on. They were clear for the shore, but the flanks were closing on Storan and Marsyas.

As he ran, stepping sideways, Danwyar continued to feed bolts into his bow. They were close to the beach, and he was keeping nothing in reserve; each shot was for a head. None of his bolts missed. Most of Danwyar's shafts pierced through since the flesh and outer shells were still soft, but they were maturing rapidly enough that many of the exoskeletons were hard enough to catch the darts, leaving them lodged in the foreheads. These staggered blindly about. None of the creatures dropped quickly from Danwyar's bolts; they all took moments to die, even though the shots were all lethal and eventually they dropped. When his last dart was spent, Danwyar shoved his arm through the bowstring, slung it over his back, and ripped free his short sword.

Some of the giants were reaching the flanks, and though he was shouldering Loch, Storan still slew with the axe, and to his rear, any that drew close to Marsyas's hammer had their heads smashed like bursting melons.