Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (95 page)

A tear ran freely along Hyacinth's cheek, and she made no move to stop it. “You tricked me.”

He lifted his hand, touched her tear, and took it. “Perhaps. I have also loved you, without restraint, as much as her, as much as the red-hair.” “Damn you.” “Good-bye, Hyacinth.” “No … no, Loch. You cannot do this! No.”

He slowly backed his horse away. “Do not try to follow. The child, Hyacinth. If you follow, it will be lost, and that cannot happen. Find the center where they keep the chosen, stay with them. If you do, your child will survive this day. Few others will, Hyacinth. So you have no choice.”

“You bastard! Loch, you cannot leave me here!”

He held his hand in the sign of the word, but she did not respond. Instead she spat to the side. “There, that is for your god!”

“My love,” he whispered finally, “farewell, little one,” and then turned the horse.

“Nooo! You cannot leave me!”

The last she saw of his face, the warrior had returned; the eyes had darkened like night closing without stars. He quickened the pace, and his horse started moving swiftly, deeper into the trees.

“Loch!” she screamed and started to follow, but then paused, drew back. Tears streamed down her face, and never before in her life had Hyacinth felt her heart shatter so completely. She paused, glancing back toward the valley where Tillantus had left the cold Daathan warriors waiting to escort her. When she turned back, he was gone. The mist of the forest had swallowed him or he had vanished into his Shadow Warrior twilight.

“Loch!”

Only the forest answered.

“Damn you!” Hyacinth screamed, tears spilling unhinged.

L
och's horse stepped through heavy mist between the ancient trees. The forest had swallowed all sound, but he could sense a steady rumble, growing closer now. The Unchurians would soon close on the forest of the East of the Land, and somewhere among them, the demon Azazel was searching with all his power for Loch, for the one that had lit the sunblade the night before. The sunblade sucked blood and life and aged him quickly, but it also gave back knowledge. Loch had cloaked himself like the dead of night. Even the angel Azazel would not sense him or the Angelslayer that hung at his hip.

He paused, searching, then turned the horse to step through the trees into a clearing. He had been here before. The standing stones. There was soft, quiet light to them. He understood it now. It focused unseen light, for though the forest was dark from the thick, overcast sky, and the light of the stones cast no shadow, these stones were still connected by a thin tendril to the moon, the mirror of the light of the mothering star, the eye of Daath.

He looked around. This was it, this was the place, and if you were to bring an army straight through to Terith-Aire, you would not veer westward and choose the King's Road, you would bring them through here, through these trees. The city had been built in line with this circle of stone. It had once, when the Daath were younger, centuries ago, drew power from this circle, fed off it like drinking from the purest lake. But centuries dim the light of flesh, even if it is mixed with that of an archangel. Men, flesh, it began to believe in its own, weave its own fantasies of faith—the illusion of this world, this earth, cloaked in its veil, was too overcoming, too complete. Few humans ever managed to hold to Elyon's Light, and few ever would. But sometimes, in some moments, a few were enough.

He swung a leg over and dropped from the horse. He lowered himself to one knee and closed his eyes, feeling the stones that surrounded him. There was a presence of aged air, the witness of time, but there was more … and suddenly he could see it, through closed eyes, as it once was—more than a temple, a city had been here. They had touched down on this spot when the ship called Daath left from the Blue Stars, when it came in answer to the cries of the Earth to its Maker, that the blood in its soil was too fouled with sorrow and suffering.

Loch's eyes flicked open. The ruins. The mound of earth he had often studied. He knew there was something beneath it; he could see in places where the earth and vine broke through a smooth, almost unblemished surface. But he had not realized quite what it was until now. Until the knowing of the sword gave his the wisdom of an old man.

Looking up, he saw a spark, a far blue light from the tip of the mound that rose from the forest foliage. It sparked into the sky. Perhaps to the Blue Stars, no, no, not perhaps, it was real, all these things, they were real. A spark of knowing had just flashed homeward. He stood, feeling his skin shiver. It had spoken like stars, and it touched with the same acid light of the Angelslayer.

He heard a far trembling and glanced back toward Lucania. Adrea's home. Once her simple home, her harsh father, her giving mother, her small kid brother that held such tender memories in her heart. A brief sadness passed through him and then he realized how close they were, that the far trembling he had just felt was the armies of Unchuria closing. They were moving slow and steady. Many of them had already entered the shadow of the forest called the East of the Land. Most would not know or understand how ancient, how sacred it was. But some would. He would.

Loch watched until he could see shapes beginning to merge from the dark of the forest. Fog had begun to curl along the ground about the stone.

Loch slipped the bridle off his horse, then slapped its flank, letting it leave at a high trot.

He moved quickly to the edge of the clearing, and then began his ascent of the ruin, using the vines and creepers that wrapped the side. The edge was steep, covered so thick in dirt and vines it seemed no more than a mound of earth. But every so often there was a glimpse of the smooth skin below. The ruin's age was almost equal to that of the trees that had swallowed it, but whenever the surface broke through, it was unblemished.

He moved quickly, and as he reached the level of the treetops, he paused to look down. The armies of the Unchurians were moving slowly through the mist below, crossing the clearing and the ring of stone in a straight line for the city. As he guessed, they had ignored the King's Highway; they would cut through the forest at its center line and break into the open field where the second legion was now crossing for Terith-Aire. What was left of the first legion, battered and thinned from the battle of Ishmia, would be forming a line against the northern edge of the forest, but the Unchurians in their numbers believed they could shatter that line, perhaps before the others could gather inside their walls.

Since the sword had begun to teach him, Loch had learned to see the light of souls beneath the skin. Some, like Hyacinth, burned so intensely they were almost white. But many of the riders below moved with a darkness that swallowed light—they had been given power through blood. They were covenant bearers and their lord, who had devoted all his knowledge and faith to the killer star that waited at the far end of the universe, seemed to not even possess souls, as though they were merely skin and bones of killing machines.

He turned and continued climbing. At times he used his dagger in crevices and vines. He soon pulled himself above the rich canopy of the East of the Land, and this high up, the air was a mist that still bore the taste of fresh rain. The surface of the temple broke through more often now, but it also became more difficult to climb. Where dirt and foliage gave way, there were no handholds, only a smooth surface that looked like finely polished silver, burnished a bit, like the armor of the Daath. He knew what this metal was; it was aganon, the same that formed the metal of the blade of the Angelslayer; only in this form it was solid and always this color, a darkened silver. It was stronger even than the famed Etlantian oraculum. But Loch was surprised that the whole of the temple was sheathed in it, an entire skin of aganon. He began to think now, as he climbed, that it was more than a temple. It was a star ship, and then he knew, he understood. This was it, the Voyager; this was Daathan, sheathed in aganon, to sail even stars and the dark matter of heaven's fury.

Using a single vine he was able to reach the base of the capstone. He was high enough that even the treetops now looked far, and he realized he had climbed far more quickly than he could have without help. Perhaps he was not entirely alone; perhaps there was some aid, some pity left for him. He spread his palm along the skin of the star ship and the comforter whispered like a tender touch.
Home
—it remembered home as if it had left only that morning. The skin of this temple ship was somehow a part of the Blue Stars of heaven, the cluster that men called the Pleiades—fashioned of it, built of it. Where his hand touched, it began to grow warm, soft, and Loch finally let go of the vines. An opening appeared, and Loch was able to kneel onto a ledge of the capstone. It faced the rising sun, and had been the source of the light he had seen below, a small niche in the side of the temple. It seemed to welcome him with a touch that was tender, spoken. He had only felt this touch once before, when he was young. It had once been Asteria's touch—his mother's. As Loch lowered to one knee in reverence, the opening closed, swallowing him into the star temple that was Daathan.

T
he alabaster of Terith-Aire's walls glittered. The survivors of Ishmia and those gathered in the retreat were reaching the gate. Beyond the clearing, the tightened second legion of the Shadow Warriors of the Daath were slowly coming out of the oaken forest that was the East of the Land, and before them, encircled by the King's Guard, the finest warriors in the world, were the seventy and seven chosen. It was believed by some that once behind the walls of Terith-Aire they would be protected, walls that were built by a race so long ago and so close to Elyon and the light of the mothering star that even the sunblade of a demon could not shatter the spired walls and gates of the city.

Rhywder pressed his way, with his men, to the center of the chosen, to the children, and among them he found Satrina and the Galaglean, Lucian. He caught up with Satrina, glanced for a moment to the child in her arms.

“Rhywder!” Satrina exclaimed. “You are back!”

“Passing through, my love. One more task north of the city—Eryian's boy, I need to ensure he makes it to safety. It seems odd, this.” “What is odd?”

“It seems too easy. The gates of Terith-Aire in sight, and from the knoll above, I have seen the masts of ships. They are the Etlantian galleys—seven by my count, just as Loch promised would come.”

“Then what is odd?”

“We have been pressed as if by the fury of a woman scorned, but if these children reach the seven ships coming for them—they will fast vanish into the deep waters of the Western Sea, to the islands of the prophet—perhaps even the city of Enoch itself. Where are the fires and the brimstone and the unnumbered Unchurians? What is it he waits for?”

“Perhaps even this demon you speak of, the one I saw myself, perhaps the burning of Loch's blade has disrupted his plans, slowed him.”

“I cannot believe that. He sees futures. The fires of Ishmia were merely more amusement for the bastard. Something is wrong here; this is too quiet. Still, I will put my skepticism aside and take comfort that you should soon be at sea under full sail. Even this one, Azazel, even he cannot follow into the Western Sea of Enoch.”

“I should be at sea? What about you, Rhywder?”

“I will be where I will be. Unlike some, I do not plan ahead that often.”

“Ah—a Rhywder answer.”

He suddenly looked about, alarmed. “Wait—something, I feel something …” He glanced down. “The Earth! Mother of frogs, you feel that?”

“What?”

“The Earth is moving! It is coming, the final blow. He has not been slowed; he comes just as he planned.” “What do you mean?”

Rhywder grabbed Satrina's arm. “If anything happens, stay with these men. Stay with the King's Guard, you understand? They will remain here, in the center with the child.”

“What is happening? What are you going to do?”

“Reach Eryian's son. I have a feeling the future will need him.”

“Wait!”

He pushed past her, drew up alongside one of the Galaglean. “Godspeed, boy,” he said, gripping Lucian's wrist, then pressed forward. He turned in the saddle just before he broke into a gallop and shouted to Satrina, “I will be back, love! Fear not!”

Satrina watched him go, worried. She noticed a group of axemen make their way through the outer warriors to leave a girl among them—or what looked like a girl. Closer up, Satrina realized she was older, just small, and oddly she was dressed as a seafarer, a pirate, in a dark tunic and cloak, and leathers. Her breasts and hips were riddled with rows of daggers. But she was beautiful for a warrior, her hair twisted in dark braids that fell over her shoulders. She did not look up; she rode quietly, her head down, and Satrina could feel the sadness in her. It made her wonder, someone so beautiful, yet a warrior, and yet so saddened Satrina could sense her broken heart. Satrina that knew somehow this woman was connected to the king that had come to her, to the Daathan king with his handsome face and dark, impenetrable eyes. His. She was his.