Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (64 page)

Darke came to his knees, searching for his horse.

Storan guessed Danwyar already dead—he was a torso now. It brought tears of pure fury to the big helmsman's eyes. He would, in Elyon's blessed name, take out a few of these bastards, so help him, but then one of them turned. Time seemed to slow, everything slowed, and Storan clearly saw the eyes of this one—as if they drew him in. All the eyes of the Nephilim had a kind of light to them, but this one was different. He wore no helmet, his hair was white and ashen, and his eyes were black, as if they were holes in his head, but the thing about them was the feeling stars were about to spill through, as if these eyes opened through to heaven. It was not a highborn. This was the angel, and those eyes caused even Storan's to give a moment's pause, a second's flicker, and then he continued to charge forward with a battle cry, coming straight for the Watcher, straight for the bastard fallen from the stars as if this were going to be no different than any other kill.

Darke saw it; he was too far to do anything to help, though it would not have mattered.

The angel first drove Storan's horse mad. It reared, twisting, and Storan was thrown, though the big axeman did not seem to even care. He managed to land on his feet and kept coming, unfazed, at full run, axe ready, his war cry echoing into the early dawn, promising fury.

The angel seemed only amused, he watched Storan with interest before he calmly drew what looked to be a pure crystal sword from its sheath and leveled the tip. It was like the Daath's blade, a sunblade.

But it fired nothing more than a small pulse, like a stone of tight, fixed light. It unceremoniously pierced Storan's heart, blowing through the armor of the backplate. Storan was thrown back. He slid in the dirt until he lay still, eyes open face twisted to the side.

Darke lowered his head and curled his hand to a fist on his knee. He let the cold tear that fell across his cheek turn deep in his gut as he focused but contained his rage. When he looked up, he saw the angel and three of his sons turn and ride slowly north. They hadn't noticed him—maybe they didn't care, Darke never having been their target. They were going for the knoll, for Taran's villa, as if no one needed to explain how to find the Daath.

Darke held back a moment, then vaulted onto his horse. No more of them around. Killing mostly done now. Few screams—battle cries still from below, but it was over. Finished. All the years of struggle against the Etlantians, seven hundred years of it, and the last fight ended so quickly, it almost seemed without climax.

Darke turned the reins and started following the angel and his sons, but not at a gallop. He paced them, keeping to the shadows.

He passed Storan's body and did not look down. But when he reached Danwyar he paused, circling the horse. Danwyar's eyes were still open. They blinked. He was still alive. Tough little bastard, he was. Always had been. Danwyar looked up to his captain once more.

“Guess I lost that last one,” Danwyar whispered, weakly. “But you keep going—find the Daath—make certain that unholy bastard angel gets taken out, you do that, Captain, you do that.”

“My word on it,” Darke answered as he unsheathed a dagger from his the belt over his back.

“A good fight,” Danwyar said, blood drooling from the corner of his mouth. “Ending was written, but damned good fight, you think?”

“That it was. See you in the otherland, my brother.” Darke planted the dagger into Danwyar's heart and watched the eyes quickly fade lifeless.

Darke turned the mount and continued pacing the angel, keeping his thoughts inward, keeping everything hidden now.

Hyacinth ran. The five horsemen had reached the plateau, and now they were easily going to catch her before she could reach the cover of the trees. Then, quite suddenly, there was a star-fire crack and one of them went down, violently flung off his horse, hitting the ground so hard she heard bones cracking. She saw him—Loch, standing near the trees. His face was cold, expressionless. He killed them, one by one, though she could see each bolt he fired from the sword rocked his body. It sucked blood and pain; she knew that from feeling it when she was inside him.

The last of the Etlantians tried to reach him, galloping hard, axe raised. Loch calmly let him get close, welcoming him. There was a dead coldness in Loch's eyes, no hint of the calm brown eyes she had seen the night before—they were now black as night and no longer human, but almost the eyes of a cat. Just as the Etlantian let out his war cry, close enough for the strike, Loch's blade fired a blast that tore off the Nephilim's head. The giant road past, axe still poised, and it was some moments before the body even fell from its mount.

She noticed Loch was bleeding. He hadn't been touched—none of them had reached him, but a line of blood streamed down his cheek from a split vessel near his right eye. The sword was going to suck out his life; he had measured the strikes—he had to pace himself—and she wanted to tell him, warn him, but he merely looked at her a moment.

“Stay back, Hyacinth,” he said. “It will be over soon.”

He then turned and started down the granite stairway that led to the city. There was a plaza just below Taran's villa, surrounded by conifers. She saw four riders slowly moving for it from the south, and one of the riders, the one in the center—though he wore similar armor and the same dull red cloak as the others—bore himself different. He wore no helmet and she realized, seeing the white hair, sensing him, that he was the angel. This time there was no fear in Satariel. She sensed he had come to merely get it done with, finish it.

Fire Rat sprinted hard through the shadow of the trees toward the last he had seen of his captain. Behind him, the body of a Nephilim was twisting in circles, burning. As powerful as they were, these firstborn, they really seemed to hate burning; it seemed to throw them into utter rage. Even if they lived, they would have no skin or eyes or hair. But Fire Rat had no more bags—no more bags of naphtha, no more hollowed knives with their flint and sulfur detonators. He had nothing left but his frail, ragged body and his thin legs as he ran full-out after his king, panting in measured breaths.

On the smooth, round stonework of the plaza, Satariel brought his horse to a halt. It danced a moment on the stone. The three firstborn with him drew up on either flank. There they waited for the Daath as he walked down a pathway, then about the edge of a granite wall. It was an overlook, with a view of the city below that was now a view of bodies and fire. When Loch reached the plaza, he stepped into the light, then stopped near the edge of the back wall, finished in limestone, and calmly met the angel's eyes. He showed no emotion, no clue to what was inside. If Eryian had taught him anything, he had taught him to keep his thoughts, his intent, always hidden.

Hyacinth reached him, slightly out of breath.

“You do not mind well, do you, Hyacinth?” Loch said.

“Not this time,” she answered.

“Hyacinth,” said the angel. “I have always liked them—the way the bulbs can wait decades and still grow to full bloom.”

She said nothing, her eyes narrowed, her crossbow angled to the side, loaded with her most potent poison.

Satariel studied her a moment longer, then said quietly, “Kill her, Aragel.” One of the firstborn started forward, slowly.

As Loch began to lift the sword, Hyacinth laid her hand over his. “No,” she whispered. “Save your blood. I can take him, Loch. Just let him a bit closer.”

She waited, keeping the small crossbow with its six loads loose and ready. But when the firstborn named Aragel was halfway across the plaza, he paused, turning at a sound from the forest. It was Darke, coming at a full gallop. The firstborn seemed almost curious, watching from beneath his smoked helm with bright, ice-blue eyes as the Tarshian burst from the trees, hooves clattering on the stone of the plaza. Aragel did not even bother to draw his sword until Darke was almost on him. In the final second, Aragel's sword cleared the scabbard in a song, a dark, burnished oraculum blade, well used, moving in a blur—as did Darke's. Their blades rang out, slamming into each other as the horses collided, rearing, circling. As others, Darke saw the surprise in the Etlantian's eyes—that a mortal could move this quick, this deadly. He ducked, letting the firstborn's blade slice over his shoulder and used his side thrust, through the leather ties of the oraculum armor. In and out, with a serpent's flicker, Darke's long sword pierced the heart. For a moment it had little effect; Aragel was lifting his sword for another strike, but then he paused, drew a startled breath, then fell over the side of his horse, his armor clanking as it hit the stone.

Darke turned toward the angel. Satariel stared at his son's body a moment with a look of disgust before lifting his gaze to Darke.

“Still alive,” he mused. “You truly vex me, Tarshian. But the girl dies now.”

Moving swiftly, with a flick of his wrist, the angel flung something from his side, a small spinning disk of silvery light.

“No!” screamed Darke.