Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (65 page)

Hyacinth had no time to react. The disk swiped soundless through her neck, cleanly shearing muscle and vein, whipping her head to the side so hard she was spun about and landed on the stone, facedown, her brown hair splayed out into the blood that quickly pooled about her head. Her small crossbow dropped from her fingers, but just before she fell a bolt had fired, aimlessly into the night.

Loch did not move. Even if he had wanted, it had happened too quickly. He remained still, his cold, dark eyes fixed on Satariel.

Darke screamed and launched his charger against the angel. He could no longer hold his rage, but it was another of the sons that rode to meet him. Rage and fury can make a warrior a terror in battle, but it also takes away focus, and this time a spinning, spiked morning star struck Darke's cuirasses in the chest before his sword could move. Darke's chest plate caved in, mangled, blood splattering. He was thrown from the saddle. He hit the limestone on his back, sliding. His sword clattered across the stone, knocked from his hand. He lay for a moment on his back, tried to turn to the side to get back up, but instead stilled.

The firstborn circled his horse back to Satariel's side. Loch watched as others joined them. The battle was finished below—this was what was left of the angel's sons. Loch did not know how many had landed on Ophur, but he guessed they had been thinned. Perhaps fifteen of them still alive, forming a semicircle to either side of the angel.

The angel studied him for emotion over Hyacinth or the captain's fall, but Loch's eyes remained cold and empty, like a wolf watching, centered only on Satariel.

“What is it about you?” the angel said, genuinely curious. “I have tried to understand, but I can only marvel that this is what Elyon sends in the final hour of turning—nothing more than a boy. I cannot fathom how you are to be the savior your frail prophets have written of for seven hundred years. Before you die, pray—can you explain it to me?”

“I never asked,” Loch said. He gripped the hilt of the Angelslayer in both hands. It was calmly pooling blood sucked through his palms, from the pommel stone into the flange where it swirled through the glow of the crystal a rich, dark red.

“The sword of Uriel,” said the angel. “Centuries since I have seen that glow. Do you even know what it is you hold in your hand?”

“Your end? Is that not what the frail prophets have told us?”

This seemed to irritate him a bit. “Yes, well, this has all been entertaining—pirates that can slay pure-blooded firstborn and a boy little more than twenty years carrying the sword of an archangel, even the sword that once guarded the East of the Land. Elyon knows I am a curious creature, but I am done with trying to understand any more of this madness. It has come time to die, boy. Let us finish it.”

The angel's blade came to life, but it was Loch who moved first. He dropped to a roll, his cloak flaring. It was the move of a Shadow Walker, and for a moment Loch vanished, though the angel seemed to track him easily. When Loch came into focus, he was crouched, the sword poised to fire a blast of blue light that struck the angel in the chest. It had been swift, and when it struck, it exploded, bathing the plaza in blinding light. But Satariel had not so much as flinched. His horse had staggered a bit, back stepping, but nothing more.

Satariel remained calm, his blade humming, no longer crystal but now a deep, severe burn of white light. “That was it? This is mockery, nothing more than mockery. Make your last offerings, boy, your time is about to end.”

To block the light of the angel's sword, Loch had to pour everything into the hilt of the Angelslayer and use its fire as a shield. The angel's strike bore down upon him like a wall of heavy stone, but the Angelslayer was able keep it from flinging him into the dawn's light. The cost in Loch's blood was heavy. A vessel blew open from the back of his hand, and the pain of keeping the Angelslayer lit surged through his head.

He then snuffed the Angelslayer's light and dropped quickly, letting the angel's blast pass over his shoulder, sundering the stonework behind with a gash that drove deep into the island's core. Loch rolled and was able to angle the sword quickly enough for a second strike, this time into Satariel's arm, which was bare flesh. It struck with such suddenness, even the angel flinched, which gave Loch time enough to slash the stream of light sideways and shear off the head of the angel's horse. As the horse's body crumpled, Loch ran—more than ran; as Eryian had taught him from youth, he flashed into a blur and then, aided by the cloak, he was able to vanish so completely, even the angel lost track of him for seconds. It was as though he had dived into a hole in the dim light of the dawn and when he appeared—he was behind Satariel.

“Father!” one of the Nephilim screamed.

With a war cry, Loch sank the Angelslayer into the flesh of the angel's neck at the edge of his armor, driving it downward, deep into the shoulder muscle—into what should have been lungs and vitals. He then fired the blade, letting it suck blood through the hilt so hard it was leaving him dizzy, his head spinning, light. A vessel burst open from his forearm, then another from his temple. Pain surged like he was burning alive, but he continued to funnel his blood and more—something of his soul—into the blade. Satariel's skin about the wound started to boil, the angel's blood spitting about the wound, a rich, lavish red.

With a snarl, the angel reached back, curled his hand about the flange of Uriel's sword, and yanked it out of his back. Loch could not hold on; the angel was too strong. Satariel threw the sword with a growl, and it hit the limestone—still alive, spinning, crackling, sending streamers of lightning that snaked across the stone until finally it came to a rest and slowly cooled.

The angel then grabbed Loch by one arm and flung him, as well, through the air to strike the shattered stone of the wall so hard he dropped to the plaza, almost unconscious and crouched on one knee, using one hand to hold himself up. He was breathing heavily; not only had the sword had taken everything from him, but the blow had nearly killed him. He felt crushed ribs, his shoulder dislodged. He was staring downward and the fine, polished limestone blurred in and out of focus. He noticed his own blood was dropping in splats. Pain was his entire world—a continual heartbeat of pain, sucking him in and out of consciousness. But somehow, he forced himself to focus past it and slowly looked up.

The angel, breathing through tight teeth, was also in pain. In fact, the skin of his face was reddened and he was sweating blood. He slowly stood up, watching Loch with black, empty eyes. Satariel's own sunblade was angled to the side, a soft white, like ivory. His sons were fanned out to either flank. One even started forward, furious.

“No!” warned Satariel. The Nephilim backed off. “Stand up, Angelslayer,” Satariel commanded.

Loch could barely even hear his voice; it was as if the pain and blood loss had left him in a void at the edge of consciousness.

“I said, stand up! Or do you wish to die on your knees like the mongrel you are?”

Loch struggled. He had to brace himself against the stone, and it took effort, but he pulled himself slowly to his feet. And though he stood like a drunk, unsteady, using a hand on the stone wall to brace himself, he turned and faced the angel with the dark, wolflike eyes of the Shadow Walker. Satariel at last seemed impressed.

“Perhaps you are the seed of Uriel, Daath. A move like that—other than the scion of an Archangel, who could have moved like that? But the sad part of all this is you are no prophecy, boy. All that remains is your death.”

Loch stared back uncaring.

There was a moan and Loch noticed from the corner of his eye that it was Darke. The captain wasn't dead. In fact, he had been watching, propped up on one elbow, holding his one hand to his crushed chest, blood spilling through his fingers. He was having trouble breathing, but his eyes were still strong.

“Should I finish the Tarshian, Father?” asked the firstborn that had brought Darke down.

“No, let him live. I want him to know your brother Arazach and five others are even now riding for the hidden cave, for the little ones and the women. I have told Arazach to kill them slowly—a slow burning over coals. For all my sons you have slain, Shadow Hawk.”

Darke reacted, stunned.

“How does it feel knowing you end here, you, your people, your entire bloodline—forever and all time? Rather something of an anticlimax, is it not?”

Darke watched back with smoldering eyes. “I think you forget something,” he said through tight teeth.

“And what would that be, Emerald King?”

“The Angelslayer is still standing.” Darke rolled, ripping a crossbow from his back, swiftly coming to a crouch, and firing. The bolt struck the angel, even pierced his left shoulder, through the weakened skin of Loch's burn and out the back, but there was no reaction from Satariel—he seemed to have barely felt it—and the wound instantly began to close. But it made no difference; it was meaningless—a distraction. Darke had even thrown the crossbow aside. He was now holding the sword of Uriel.

“What is that line from Enoch I always liked?” Darke asked. “Oh, yes, Hyacinth read it to me—I was thinking of it earlier. ‘Yea, though once you walked as sons of gods, Bene ba Elohim, you shall die as men shall die.' Darke threw the sword and Loch caught the hilt with both hands. The blade instantly flashed white-hot. The Daath looked pale and almost dead, as if he could barely stand, let alone use the sword once more, but still it came alive, simmering with a far promise.

“This time use it, Daath!” shouted Darke. “Use the damned sword, not your blood, and send this motherless bastard to creation's end!”

Darke then back stepped, leapt onto his horse, drawing up the reins and sinking his heels into the sides with a scream. The horse bolted forward into a heavy gallop—he was riding for the chosen—the last of his people, the last of his kind.

Satariel made no move to follow, nor his sons. The angel turned to Loch, watching him calmly. “Good advice, but you can hardly stand up, Angelslayer. I doubt you can even lift the sword, let alone light the blade once more. What exactly are you planning to do?”

“What the Tarshian said,” Loch answered, out of breath, still unsteady. He tightly curled both hands about the hilt and eased into a back stance. “I think … I think I finally understand.”

“And how can you possibly do more than you have? Please—I would love to know what you are thinking.”

“I am thinking that it is not me. Not my blood—is it not the blade's thirst for blood that can kill an angel. Something else kills angels. All I need to do is let go and remember the home of this blade, the star from where it was born. Am I right, Satariel, Lord of the Choir of Orphanim?”

Satariel drew his lip back in a snarl. “Enough of this! It ends here; it ends now!” The angel's sunblade came alive, moving in a furious arc. It was blinding, searing. Loch had to avert his eyes, but he spun to the side as Satariel's fire cut a deep swath through the plaza's stone, sending chips of granite spinning past his cheek. Loch crouched, bracing himself, and brought the sword of Uriel over his head to catch Satariel's light, snagging it, letting it stream into the Angelslayer's blade. It came hot, intense, with a sound like lightning crackling. The blast spilling over the plaza was so bright even the Nephilim had to shield their eyes. It continued, bearing down with more and more force, a sizzling, whirling blast, the heat of it burning Loch's face. But as furious as it was, it was being swallowed into the Angelslayer, as if the blade welcomed it. Loch was still losing blood. It was even flowing from the skin on his wrist in tiny streamers, like red strings. Loch knew he would soon black out; he felt his life draining, even his eyes were growing dim, but he lowered his head and leaned into it, continued to press into the stream of Satariel's fire.

And then—finally, he heard her voice. Her. Not Adrea, not his mother. On the beach that day, when Loch gave Adrea the ring of the Water Bearer, she had opened the eye of Daath. And it was her voice that whispered now. The mirrored image of the mothering star finally crossed the void, through a rift in time and heaven.

The light that pierced through to the small plaza in Ophur was not blinding, not like the severity of Elyon's wrath as the fire of the angel. It was merely the touch of creation; it was the
Light Whose Name Is Splendor.

Although the light that burst through like a wave breaking seemed so bright and searing it should have blinded all of them, it did not. There was no pain to it, not for Loch. It was more like a wind spilling out, and Loch felt as though he were falling, that if he let himself go, he would fall into the sky, into this light, and reach heaven.

The fire of the mothering star came against the angel Satariel and his sons. It was the very word of the angel's song, which had once been his heart and his hope, that now struck the angel. Bathed in its light, he dropped to his knees, stunned, and lowered his head as the mothering light ripped through him like a howling wind. Satariel's sword exploded. Pieces of the blade spun outward in shards as if it had been no more than a crystal goblet.

The angel held his ground, though it seemed the light that passed through him hit like a hard rain pelting, like a fierce storm off the sea, almost flinging him into the rising sun of dawn behind his back; he continued to kneel against it. His sons, the gathered Nephilim to either side, dissolved into what seemed to be teardrops of shadow, and then they were no more, though behind them the green foliage of the conifers and the grasses were left untouched, unaffected.

The angel kept his head lowered into the blast, the wind of it tearing at him furious, screaming without sound—it was the feel of sound, a sad wail of a mother over a dying son, a cry of terrible loss. Satariel's cloak was shredded but stayed intact, though pieces of his oraculum armor shattered and tore away.