Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (67 page)

“Are you all right, my lord?” asked his first captain. “I must ride north, Tillantus.” “Let me guess: alone.”

“Not this time.” Eryian pointed. “If you look, you can see their masts against the skyline.”

“Ships!” Tillantus said, spotting them. “And tall, those are tall masts, my lord. Etlantian?”

“Yes. Once of Etlantis. Long ago.”

“It is why you left the night the king was taken—to summon them. Am I right?”

“Yes, these ships have answered my call.” “And why, my lord, if I may ask?”

“I wish I knew, Tillantus. I knew to send the beacon, I knew when they would come, even where to find them when they did—but odd of it, I cannot tell you why.”

“Perhaps it is a spellbound cast of the angel; perhaps they wait as a trap.”

“I think not, but whoever they are, I will ride out to meet them.” He noted Tillantus's disapproving glance. “You will hold here, on this high ridge. These are warships; their hulls are shallow enough to make passage from here to the vale. With them I can reach the mountain much quicker than our legions. And if they find the gate of Hericlon is still ours, trust me, those who come, the three masts you see against the horizon, they can hold Hericlon. They can hold till the winter snows seal off all passage through the mountains of Par-minion, and that would grant us time.”

“But, my lord, why should the Daath not march to follow, to meet you there in any event, the gate fallen or held?”

“If the gate is lost, the vale is low ground and offers no cover for your flanks. Here you are on high ground, the deepest part of the river below you. It is good ground to hold. It will cost heavily, the taking of this ridge against the legions of the Daath. The waters beyond widen to the sea and the port of Ishmia, and the death lord comes with the armies of Du'ldu. They are desert armies; they do not come with warships or galleys. They will follow the river and seeing the Daath gathered here, he will come for you. You will be his target; why venture farther when what he comes for waits here?”

“You speak, my lord, as though you believe Hericlon may have actually fallen.”

“Perhaps it is merely a chill wind that comes down the Ithen I am feeling. They are not uncommon this time of year. Let us just say I will lead these ships upriver, not because I fear the gate is no longer ours, but in hopes to reach it quickly. Should it be that Hericlon has fallen, better it is they, those who come at my signal to this shore, meet the first wave of the Unchurians than to waste our legions trying to hold low ground with no barriers to our flanks. You would agree?”

“Aye, my lord. So then, Captain, it has come to this? That we even speak of Hericlon's fall? A gate that has held against the south for centuries uncounted. If that has happened, in Elyon's blessed name, what is it we face? What comes against us?”

“A Watcher, one who turned long ago. I choose this night not to name him, to leave him unknown, to give no honor. Prepare this ridge as I have instructed, give me three days upriver, as well as your prayers to heaven. You will see them pass, three white ships as we move upstream for the vale. They are Elyon's gift. I do not leave you without hope, Tillantus—they are our hope, our last hope against the tide. I may return, the gate secure, the winter snows locking her down, leaving her impregnable. That is why they have come, so honor them as they pass. Have our legions lift their swords in the sign that hope lives, that they come not to fall, but in Faith's Light. However, if by act of heaven, I do not return—”

“My lord, Eryian! Forgive me, but if you do not return, we are lost!”

“Until the last man falls, you have not yet lost, Tillantus. If one Daath still stands, you have not lost. And if I do not make it back, you will hold the ridge as I have instructed. Make the cost here heavy. If that fails, then pull back to the East of the Land. At its northern ridge, with the trees as your final barrier, make your last stand against them. Keep the chosen always to the rear, always protected. Nothing reaches the chosen; do you understand that?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“And if that hour should arrive, Tillantus, that you make your stand with the forest before you, then look to the sea. Ships will come from the west, from Etlantia, a fleet of them. These you can trust; they will not fly the bull of Etlantis, but their sails shall be white. Hold the line against the East of the Land and ensure against all cost that the chosen reach the Etlantians. More than this, I cannot give you. I pray such hour never comes, that the final stand I just described never sees light. Yet, have we not learned in our day that Elyon often chooses His own path despite the prayers of the valiant?”

Tillantus studied Eryian, troubled, his eyes hardened. “Never believed in prophecy. Never listened to these wandering seers of Enoch or any of the legends passed down. If I am one of the valiant, my lord, I have not offered Elyon any prayers. Myself, I always believed in the haft of my axe and the spit on my balls.”

Eryian smiled.

“You speak of legend, my lord,” said Tillantus. “You speak of the winnowing war as if it lies at our doorstep. Tell me I am wrong.” Eryian did not answer.

“Then all those years,” Tillantus said, “the gathering of the tribes—Argolis was not wrong. You were not wrong. And the hour spoken of in that long-ago day seems now to have arrived. If that be so, for myself, I do not see the silver eagle that soared into the sky just now. The bird I saw was the Raven of Aeon's End.”

“You are the best warrior and the finest commander I have even known, Tillantus. If it falls to you, save the chosen at all cost. I must leave now; I must meet the ships that sail from the deep of the Western Sea.” “Aye, my lord.”

Eryian paused a moment longer, then reached his gauntleted hand and with a slap, Tillantus gripped his wrist hard, meeting his eyes in promise. “If we do not meet again, Tillantus, Elyon's Light guide your path.” Tillantus stared hard, then nodded. “Godspeed, as well, my captain.”

After crossing the isthmus of the Ithen where it spilled to the sea, Eryian led his horse off the boat, thanked his ferrymen, and sent them back with coin. The ferrymen had noticed, curious of the ships that came down from the west, but they had not dared ask Eryian from where or why.

Eryian rode south until he reached a long stretch of white sand. There he waited. He watched the tips of the white masts against the horizon. He had known they would come, he had known their count, three ships, but the rest of what he knew he left in memory's fog. Better that way, he told himself. He would learn what he needed when time came to know it. He calmly watched now as they drew up in order, closing on the beach. Though they were built as Etlantian ships, they were also built low and sleek—warships. As he had guessed, their sails were not marked by the bull of Etlantis. That was because they had not come from the Mother Island. He knew that; he understood that well. He had never seen white ships before, the hulls and sails were bright against the blue sea and dark sky. They could have been sculpted of ice.

Eryian rode through the sea grass at the edge of the shore, then along the sand where waves crested. They had seen him; they were going to shore their keels on the beach where he waited, and as he watched it seemed almost they were not sailing, but gliding, no wind against their full, billowed sails and no oars propelling them, yet they came on steady and certain.
Sky ships,
something in him whispered. They had not sailed out of the Western Sea; they had crossed from a far place, a place in the sky marked by the Seven Sisters. When they touched the waters, silver-white oars lifted out like feathered wings to dip into the sea, slowing them and letting the keels gracefully nudge into the sand.

Close up, the lead ship's prow post was a silver-white eagle with spreading wings. He saw warriors above the railings—giants. They did not wear the oraculum red armor or cloaks of Etlantians; their armor was silvered, their cloaks white. They all watched with more than mere interest; they were watching him with something like fascination.

A rope ladder unfurled, clattering against the white-silver planking of the hull. Eryian saw a woman's leg step over the white gunwale. Not a giant, as the warriors—this was a mortal woman. The first sight of her, coming down the ladder, took his breath. She wore a robe that was crystal blue, and her hair was white-gold.

Eryian dismounted.

She stepped into the shallow, warm sea waters at the edge of the sand and walked toward him. He was surprised she was barefooted. But there was something to her, the way she moved, and her face, her eyes, they struck him like a bolt from a crossbow. He knew her. But he kept the veil in place; he did not let memory break. He lowered himself to one knee, even lowered his head, for though he chose to keep his memories silent, he knew this was a queen.

She stopped before him.

“My lady,” Eryian said quietly.

Surprisingly, she did not offer her hand. Instead, she lowered herself, dropping onto her knees in the sand before him, and there she waited for Eryian to meet her eyes at her level.

“You do not bow to me; it is I who bow before you. Have you forgotten?” She didn't wait for an answer; she found it in his eyes. “You have—you hold the veil, you do not know who I am, do you? Do you know even who you are? Do you know that?”

“I am Eryian, warlord of Argolis, king of the Daath.”

The lips parted slightly, and she gasped. “You have buried them deep, the memories. Necessary, perhaps—but how it saddens me. Yet, it is your choice, my lord, and I will honor it.”

Her eyes were ice diamonds; they burned with a light beyond human, but they were also kind, and seeing them this close, such a terrible sadness struck him, he felt his eyes sting. He knew her in a way that he wanted to hold her, but he restrained himself, just stared at her face, shaken. It was impossible to tell how old she was, for she looked pure, and her features were as fine and carefully cut as though her skin had been carved of ivory. It was a face filled with tenderness, as beautiful as any woman he had ever laid eyes on. Shivers ran through him.

“I … I know you. I understand that, but I must not yield, not now.”

She paused. He thought for a moment her lip might have trembled. She bit it softly. She nodded. “Yes. You know me.”

“Then it is why you have come—in answer to my call?”

“As you always knew we would,” she said.

Eryian looked past her a moment, to the top of the white ship lined with rows of warriors.

“Three ships?” he asked. “How many men?”

“These are the thousand, Eryian, warlord of Argolis. These are the thousand sons of Righel.”

The name startled him, and he realized that though her eyes were dimmed now, when she had spoken that name, for a second they had spilled light like the stars breaking on a clear night. The effect left him shaken. She seemed to expect more, and was studying him for a reaction. Finally, she looked down; almost as though she was hurt, but when the eyes lifted they were calm and assuring.

“I did not expect this to be hard … Eryian. Is that what you wish me to call you? Eryian?”

“It is my name here.”

There were questions flooding him, but he did not ask them; he did not even think them through because the answers were already whispering all about, memories spilling—and it was only with difficulty he was able to turn them back. They were memories that threatened to overwhelm him, and he could not afford to be weakened. Emotions were weakness, and these were strong. Yet it was hard. Turning from their whisper was like turning his face from the light.

“Whoever you are,” he said, “good lady, I thank you for coming.”

She bowed her head and her hand brushed her cheek. It had been too quick to tell for certain, but she may have brushed away a tear. Still, when she looked back up, she smiled. Then she did something unexpected. She carefully touched his cheek, and when she did it was like quick current through him, something sad and far.

“For you,” she said, “we would cross any sea—any night, any stars.”

Eryian's mouth parted, stunned. That voice. He had heard it laugh, heard it sing, heard it weep. She withdrew her hand and Eryian was almost thankful.

“Should I have them disembark?” she asked.

“What …”

“Your priests, Eryian. Should they disembark here?” “Priests?”

“Yes—these waiting on the ships, they are warrior priests. They were trained of a very powerful being. You have summoned the warriors of Righel—the thousand firstborn.”

“Firstborn … these are Nephilim?”

“Like no others. They are not fallen, and they were born of Earth, but far. Their light is of a heaven, their home an ice moon that circles a planet near the seventh star. These are the sons of an angel who had never lost the star knowledge; they are pure.”

Eryian closed his eyes a moment and forced the memories back. He would deal with it later. When he looked back up, he was sternly in control.