Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (63 page)

When the Etlantian ship reached the shore of white, glittering sand, the gleaming oraculum bull's-head ram plowed into it, spraying it outward. And then, for a moment—nothing. Just still and quiet, the warm waters of the lagoon lapping at its hull, lamplights burning from both fore and aft, as well as top lights high in the nests of the masts—but Darke was struck how they did not seem to flicker with the light of this Earth, this planet; it seemed the angel burned the light of his home star in his lamps, and like him, it was dim, shadowy.

And just as still, just as quiet and waiting, were the hundreds of Darke's warriors hidden among the foliage and buildings of Ophur. No hearth fires burned—the island looked deserted.

A drawbridge dropped open from the ship's hull, well weighted in heavy strakes of wood and brass linings. It slammed into the sand and sea, water sprayed, the ground shook, and immediately, almost before it had touched down, the Etlantians came on heavy horse, weapons drawn—Etlantians as Darke had never seen. Storan was right—Nephilim, all of them. Their armor was a dark-worked version of oraculum that was the rust-red color of dried blood. Their cloaks were red, also, but worn, dusty, as if they had never traded them for new ones. Their weapons swallowed light—it was as if the swords and morning stars and war hammers were burning, but instead of giving off a glow, they swallowed the light about them, leaving a void, a shadowy nothingness. Darke had never seen weapons like that. In other times, other fights, he would have fixed himself on the thought of taking one for his own.

The Nephilim fanned out as they hit the sand, then separated and rode in groups of three, outward in all directions, for the city. He might have expected hundreds, but there were no more than twenty or thirty raiders here, and although the emerald building looked utterly abandoned, it was as if they were not fooled in the slightest. Their horses were large chargers bred on the island of Etlantis to bear the weight of the giants. But Darke had fought mostly at sea, and he was taken with the thunderous blows of their heavy hooves. So these were the sons of the angel. There were few, but if they were as deadly as they looked, they just as well had been hundreds. Still, considering Satariel and his flair for the dramatic, perhaps it was more show than deadly. All wore helmets, but the eyes behind them glowed as though backlit, sometimes the clear blue of new stars, sometimes a shimmering white, the same burn as that given off by the lamps of the ship. He had seen Nephilim before. Their souls always shone through their eyes.

“Elyon's Light be with us, brothers,” Storan prayed—rare for the helmsman.

Darke held up his hand. It was a signal for his hidden warriors. Not over yet, all this. They were impressive, these sons of the angel, but now they would face the deadliest giant killers living—Tarshians.

Darke dropped his hand, the signal.

Below, in the tiers of the city, Darke's men attacked. They rode out from behind taverns, whorehouses, and temples. They launched their attack on sleek, swift horses, weapons readied.

The Etlantians fanned out, each group of three choosing a target. The first of Darke's men was killed by a swift, solid blow of a war hammer that caved in his chest, splintering the bone. Another fell, his face cloven, blood spilling rich. A Tarshian horse was lifted off its front hooves and thrown back as a heavy axe sheared open its chest. One Etlantian dropped, with a poisoned javelin through his breastplate. Here and there an Etlantian fell, but the pirates were being hewn down like chaff. It was more than theater—the angel's sons were as deadly as they looked.

Darke drew his sword, lifting it, and spurned his charger forward. Storan came at his flank, leaning into the gallop, teeth clenched and a low growl in his throat.

Danwyar rode to Darke's left. He gripped the flanks of his horse tight with bared knees, reins in his teeth, and leveled off his bow.

Across the clearing, from the burning city, five of the angel's sons spotted them and turned to engage. Darke noticed how their red-black breastplates curled upward, emphasizing the broad, powerful shoulders. One bore a helm of curled ram's horns of tarnished gold.

Storan lifted his axe and started it spinning with a heavy song.

Darke killed the first Etlantian with a flicker thrust of his sword, through the side armor, angled for the heart. It was a move he had practiced for years, and it never failed him. His sword was also oily with Hyacinth's poisons. He turned quickly for another kill, but an Etlantian coming at full gallop hit him in the chest with a flail, and Darke went over the flanks, swearing as he hit the ground. He had never been struck that hard.

Storan sheared off a wrist, and when the Etlantian drew back, reaching for a second weapon with his remaining hand, Storan opened his gut, a swift, heavy arc through the oraculum. Storan's axe was like no other, and gutting the famed oraculum armor was his fondest killing stroke. As the Etlantian fell, Storan wrenched the reins about hard and dug his spiked heels into the sides of his horse, pursuing another.

Danwyar's horse came off a slight hillock, leaping past an Etlantian. He did not even turn to look back as he left a darkened silver shaft buried in the Nephilim's eye, through the fine, carved helmet. The edge of the helmet had stripped off the white quill feathers. The Nephilim spun, but the poison was taking hold quickly. He slumped forward as if he were drunk.

Darke came to his feet. He ducked the hiss of a curved blade and cut through the quarter-flank of the Etlantian's horse as it passed. He vaulted into the saddle of his own horse, turning it about. The giant had landed on his feet as his charger went down, but Darke simply flung a dagger—no ceremony to it, burying its poison in the Nephilim's throat. He coughed like he was catching a cold, and just as Danwyar's bolt, the poison worked slowly at first, then hit hard. The Nephilim turned his horse for the counterattack, but then fell sideways out of the saddle. His helmet rolled as he hit the ground.

Fire Rat killed differently than the others. He rode well, a small, quick mount that the big Etlantians could hardly keep track of, and each time he passed one, he would fling a goat's bag of naphtha. They were weighted with heavy stones and rope that wrapped about the giant's necks until the bags struck and exploded in wreaths of searing white flame—the Rat's own special recipes, sometimes brilliant white, sometimes orange, other times even blue flame, but all equally deadly, wreathing heads and helmets and melting flesh to its bone. One he flung about a horse's neck, a larger bag that exploded in a roar that swam outward, enveloping both the giant and his charger. As well bred as they were, even Nephilim did not like to burn, and the warrior screamed furiously as his face melted in his helmet.

Hyacinth stared over the city below, watching in stunned silence. Some of the big Etlantians were dying, but the tide was turning fast. Not only was the fabled Emerald city of Ophur in flames, but the angel's sons were beginning to kill the legendary sea raiders like cattle being slaughtered for a feast. She felt her breath grow short, seeing warriors dying that she believed invincible, warriors she never thought she would see fall in battle.

“Loch …” she said, turning, still searching for him. Gone. He had vanished, making it impossible for her to follow. She ran to the edge of the butte. “Loch!” she cried. The sound of hooves turned riders toward her, Etlantians—they had reached even the edge of the knoll where Taran's villa was built, and seeing her, they came as a group of five, thundering up the side of the hill that led to Taran's villa, coming directly for her. Hyacinth gasped and started running for the trees.

Danwyar was riding one down when unexpectedly, the Etlantian turned and flung a killing axe from his side. There was no time to dodge. The axe head sheared through Danwyar's upper arm, through muscle and bone, then spun away into the dark. He had just lost the use of one arm, but he ignored it, galloping after the giant as if nothing had happened, reaching over his shoulder to draw his crossbow. But his cherished silver bow fell to the ground.

He put the bolt through the oraculum breastplate with a solid ponk, anchoring it through the heart. The giant arched his back, and Danwyar had to drop from his saddle. He could not use the crossbow and guide the horse at the same time. He turned, then suddenly felt his blood run cold. Four riders were closing on him. He had been killing hard and fast, dodging, outflanking—the silver arrows had taken down seven Nephilim. Perhaps that was why they were finally noticing the swift-moving archer. He used his thigh to prop the crossbow and shoved in another bolt. This was not going to last long. Hard to reload with one hand.

He remained calm, centering his crossbow and waiting. He needed closer range. He wondered if he could get two. That would be a good end to things, bring down two more with just one arm. As the first drew close enough he watched the heavy crossbow bolt sink dead center through the opening in the helmet. That went upward into the brain and even a firstborn could not ignore it—the Etlantian went over the flanks, armor breaking away from him as he hit the ground rolling.

“Goddess be kind,” Danwyar whispered, trying to get one more bolt in. One more—that would be satisfying. He lifted the crossbow, loaded, but they caught him.

A javelin struck Danwyar in the stomach. It could easily have been a death thrust, but purposely it only tore through into his guts, a slow kill. He tried to lift the crossbow, but his strength was failing too quickly and it slipped from his hand. Three of them circled him as he hit the ground on his back. One passed by at a gallop and wrenched the javelin free, ripping away flesh and blood through Danwyar's leathers.

“Giving you honor, slayer,” one said in a deep voice, pulling his horse to a stop and staring down at the Tarshian. He then lifted a chained hook, spinning it and anchored the point through Danwyar's good arm. Another Etlantian anchored his leg. The hooks burned as they ripped into his flesh, and when they were attached, the riders brought the chains taut. Now his last leg. He hissed through tight teeth. He was going to be quartered; another was approaching from the right.

“Piss on you all!” he screamed. “Piss on you and piss on your mothers, you godless sons of whores!”

“They have got Danwyar!” Storan cried, seeing four horsemen about the little archer. He wrenched hard on the reins, turning his big horse so sharply it nearly spilled him, but then launched into a heavy, muscled gallop after Danwyar. He angled his axe for the strike.

Storan heard Danwyar's cry. They ripped limbs off him. It was more than Storan could take. His eyes went red with blood.

Darke saw Storan's attack, but could not help. He had killed one highborn, but a second did something unexpected; he leapt from the horse and tackled Darke. When they hit the ground, the weight of the giant crushed the air from him, but before he was pinned, Darke managed to roll sideways, clearing enough distance to pull a dagger. Apparently the Etlantian had meant to beat him to death, no weapon drawn—just fists. Darke's dagger went upward under his chin. The giant went at it, managed to rip it out, caring nothing of the blood, but the poison then took hold and the Nephilim seemed to pause as though troubled, then fell forward on one hand, head hanging, and finally dropped completely.