Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (47 page)

Hyacinth suddenly cried out, “Help me! Help me now!” With her crossbow and knives spent, she had been trying to dislodge her short sword from a sternum bone that had hardened enough to clasp it tight. The wood-beast had grabbed her and was leaning to shear her neck.

Gryn leaped over a fallen beast and with a warrior's cry he beheaded the giant. When that wasn't enough, the claws still going for the little priestess, Gryn sheared off the arm. Hyacinth staggered out of the monster's grip.

But as Gryn turned there were as many as five or six on him. He slashed through two of them before one finally ripped open his entire shoulder. His sword arm fell to the ground. The giant leaned down and shoved his face into Gryn's open chest to suck in the vitals as if they were the most succulent of fruit.

No one could help. Horrified, Hyacinth had no choice but to turn and run for the others.

One of them stepped behind and curled his hand over Gryn's head, sinking the dagger fingers into his eyes, ripping off the top of the skull to slurp out the brains.

Fire Rat was waging a war of his own. He had chosen his position not far from the boat and as the Tarshians fled from the giants, he was launching his bladder bags against their right flank. Already there were clusters of burning lumps where he had struck. His bags were all about him. He grabbed another and spun it over his head, gaining momentum, then let it fly. It went just over Gryn's headless shoulder. One of them feeding on him looked up in time for the rocks attached to the tether lines of Rat's bladder bag to catch his throat. The bag whipped in circles around and around the creature's neck until it struck the side of its head and Rat's fire chemicals erupted outward, spewing wide and high and raining over dozens. Every monster feeding on Gryn was now aflame; some were trying to run fast enough to suck the flame out, but they eventually fell, melting inward.

Rat spun another bladder over his head, and aiming carefully, he sent it spinning into a group of them closing on the captain's right. It caught a monster's head and when the bag erupted, even Darke and Storan had to shield themselves from the heat wave and the shower of flaming naphtha. It had been close, but it freed passage to the boat.

The exoskeleton bodies were maturing enough that now only the high blood of Euryathides's crew could maintain them. The firstborn were forming the hardened plates of armor and taking on the look of the Nephilim that had attacked Loch and Adrea. Others, however, did not have the pure blood required to preserve and hold the mature body's integrity. They would falter, their legs wobbling, their arms groping madly for balance before they fell. Their skin and armor plating would quickly decompose, rejecting the host spirit just as dematerializing Uttuku.

Rat looked down and was shocked to find he was out of bags. When he looked back up, ten to fifteen monsters were closing on him, and they came with amazing speed. They were using the wings at their ankles to leap into the air, flying for stretches, using their arms to guide the flight. Rat was about to be overtaken. He ran for the boat. He was small, but his legs were long and they stretched in a wild, lanky run, his head thrown back, his long, flaxen gold hair flying behind him, but the giants were hop-flying and some were almost in reach, the clawed fingers reaching for his neck and shoulders. Seeing how close they were, he ran all the harder, giving it everything he had. In panic he cried out in his own tongue.

“Galaaaack!”

Marsyas heard and turned. Seeing the little Rat about to become victuals for these giants, he snarled.

“Danwyar,” he mumbled through his half tongue. When Danwyar turned, Marsyas heaved Taran into his arms, then turned and ran, his heavy boots pounding the hard rock. He lifted his war hammer, swinging it over his head.

As Fire Rat flew past him, Marsyas, the Etlantian waded into Rat's attackers, stopping them in their tracks, his deadly hammer smashing into heads and chests. They turned on the giant instead, forgetting the little Rat in favor of the meat offered of a fully grown Etlantian. But their cuisine proved deadly. One of the leapers was coming down directly on top of Marsyas, arms outstretched and claws ready to shred, but the Etlantian's war hammer punched through his gut and out his back with a splatter of blood and ooze. Marsyas had to rip his hammer free as the fluids and vitals splashed into his face. He took stance, gripped the hammer with both hands, and took them on, cleaving in heads, taking out midsections and chests. For a moment none of them could get past the singing war hammer, it ripped through them all, and Marsyas hammered them into a mound of mush all about his feet. But there were too many. Finally a claw ripped away the good side of his face, the good eye, the side almost handsome when it was turned in the right direction. As his hammer arm was ripped off and fed upon, they swarmed over him, delighted with the sizable feast.

Danwyar was helping Taran, who was trying to run, dragging his leg. “I am okay, I'll keep up,” Taran said, but his words were slurred and his head hung sideways against his shoulder.

They finally reached the boat.

“Get aboard and get us out of here!” cried Darke.

Storan hurled Loch's body over the gunwale near the prow post, then turned to take up stance, axe ready if any closed in as the rest boarded. A few of the giants reached them, but none got past Storan's axe though he was nearly spent, his axe arm almost useless as rubber.

Darke helped Danwyar hoist Taran over the edge, then took Hyacinth's wrist and hurled her over as if she were a child.

“Go!” he shouted at Danwyar.

“You go, Captain. I do not leave this beach until you are aboard!” Darke gave him a frustrated glance but took hold of the prow post and stepped up a whaling strip and over the edge.

“Let us get out of here, Storan,” Danwyar cried.

“Aye,” Storan agreed. The beasts were rushing for them, leaping, flying, but there was barely time for Storan and Danwyar to heave their shoulders into the sides of the boat and shove the keel out of the sand. Half-running, boots slipping in the sand, they pushed the boat into deep water. The beasts were just behind, reaching for them. Danwyar planted one of his last daggers in the forehead of one as Storan clambered over the edge. Danwyar took hold of the gunwale with one hand and hurled himself over the edge. The two of them immediately took up the oars, lifting them high into the air, then back down where they slammed into the dark water and took hold of the sea like clawed hands to pull the boat with a lurch swiftly into the deep. Darke stepped to the prow. A number of thorn-beasts lined up along the shore and stared, watching with uncertainty.

As the boat swiftly pulled into deep water, both Storan and Danwyar at the oars, the others, all but Darke, lay strewn in the bottom. Hyacinth crawled over to Loch, worried. A vessel had split open in his neck, not a vital one, but he was losing blood. She tore a swath of cotton from her skirt and wrapped it about his neck, tying it off with enough pressure to stop the bleeding. She found another vessel opened at his temple and she pressed her palm against it to let the blood clot. So much blood had soaked into his black hair it was matted against the side of his face. The sword had come very close to killing him. He was barely breathing.

Fire Rat lay against one side, breathless from his desperate run. He had put everything into it and now sucked air like he was drowning.

Taran was lying on his side awkwardly; facedown, one arm twisted beneath him, his head turned upward to the side. He saw Hyacinth, but only his eyes moved to her. Even then, through all that was happening, most of his body paralyzed, he still grinned out of half his face. “Don woory,” he slurred, “we make it!” His blood was forming a thick pool to either side of the keel.

“Oh, Taran,” she said sadly, quietly beneath her breath.

Danwyar and Storan wrenched in time against the looms with such strength, the stern was lifted out of the water slightly with each surge. They were clear; the shore was quickly receding. Hyacinth spoke quick words over Gryn and poor Marsyas, who had almost reached the boat when he turned to save the Rat. At least the Etlantians' sadness had ended. She sensed his whole life had been hard, the whole of it bitter. His spirit had surely found the path through heaven; he had died valiantly, despite his being a Nephilim. Of course, he was cursed to remain bound to the Earth, but she prayed the light of the mothering star he might be forgiven.

The captain was watching the shore. He slammed his fist against the prow post. “Damn,” he swore bitterly. “God's blood, they can swim.”

Hyacinth looked up. Though they had hesitated at first, uncertain, one or two of the high bloods, the stronger firstborn, had waded into the water, then leapt to a dive and began swimming. Seeing they could do this, other weaker ones followed. In moments, scores of them were coming through the water. Moments mattered because the older they got, second by second, the stronger they were growing and the harder their armor was forming. There must have been many firstborn among Euryathides's crew. Not all of them had entered the water. Some of lesser blood remained behind, looking uncertain and wobbly, confused. Their bodies would soon fail them, collapse, and swiftly decompose.

Those swimming moved slowly at first, but learned quickly until they were moving fast through the water. Hyacinth swore she saw webs forming between the clawed fingers as their hands lifted and fell with their strokes. The bodies of the creatures apparently adapted to their environment instantly. These were turning into water beasts. And this was the last of them, the strongest, the firstborn of Euryathides's crew. Euryathides had been a Nephilim born of the Light Bearer of Etlantis, and many of his crew were his sons, born first generation, six hundred years ago. They would eventually become minions, with wooden armor as hard as steel and were said to be nearly impossible to kill. The thorn-wood of their bodies, soft when the battle had begun, was being cooled and hardened by the waters. They were moving faster and faster; they were actually, unbelievably, going to catch up with the ashore boat, even though Storan and Danwyar were putting all they had into the looms.

The nightmare had still not ended. She felt a slight stab of panic and wondered why Elyon would allow them to fail. Why let this, His chosen Angelslayer, fall now, when they were so close? He lay unconscious, unable to help them. How could Elyon allow this to happen?

Though the thorn creatures were not numerous, there was a least a score, all of them quickly growing strong. They would be hard to kill now. They were nearly matured minions, the name given the pod growers, the powerful firstborn who used the thorn wood as their bodies.

“Mother of us all,” Storan swore. “Cannot we get a single edge? Has heaven no mercy? We have killed scores of these motherless bastards; we have sacrificed Gryn and even Marsyas. Young Taran lies here bleeding; surely he gave his all. Even the Daath, he did his utmost, and he the chosen of Elyon. And now, now we find they can swim as fast as we can row? There is no mercy; Elyon's Light is no more than the hearth fire of a whore's coven.”

“Watch your words, Storan,” warned Hyacinth, “even now, even here. Speak not against Him.”

“You tell us, little witch, you tell us all how His goodness will spare us yet. Some miracle to come down from the stars!”

Hyacinth looked to Taran; his head was rocking with the motion of the oars, he was still lying in the awkward position he had landed in when thrown into the boat. He was near death, so near Hyacinth could see his spirit hovering near the surface. He had been so kind to her, all the many things he had brought from far shores. All the risks he had taken just to bring her a book or a scroll. And he had hoped, in his short life, how he had hoped someday she would love him, never knowing her heart was already given to the captain. Tears were close as she crawled to him. Seeing her near, he attempted the half smile once more as though he had no idea his spirit was close to parting. She straightened out his limbs, giving him dignity where he lay. She pulled him against her where she could stroke his hair on the side where she guessed he still had feeling. “I love you, Taran,” she whispered, and her eyes stung, tears finally spilled. “Shall always love you.”

His eyes turned up to her. How long had he waited to hear those words? She had never given them, not even in jest. At least they finally gave him the strength to let go. She watched his spirit lift, slip upward into the heavens. She pulled down his eyelids and laid his head gently aside. He was one of the valiant; he would go now to the mothering star, to home.