Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (101 page)

The forest below Loch, especially the sacred ring of standing stone that funneled the light of the mothering star, came alive in both the giving light of a mother and the terrible Light of Severity that was Elyon's eye. The Light of Severity struck even the trees and melted them away, stripping the plaza and bringing to life the two smaller ships that had long ago set sail from the seventh star and had moments before been hills in the surrounding oak. They, too, were coated in aganon. The entire plaza came to life. The Unchurians about Azazel screamed as they were ripped into shadows with terrible pain, and even the demon himself screamed. It was true, his spellbound flesh, designed to withstand the light of sunblades, was maintaining, but much of it was stripped away, the legs, the arms, until but a burnt and agonized torso writhed in the lighted, brilliant circle of stone, living now with the light of the mothering star, the
Light Whose Name Is Splendor.

His eyes were seared, his pain unimaginable, but Azazel still looked up, and before him stood the son of Uriel, the one named Sandalaphon.

“Even you, Azazel, so loved of Elyon that He gave you all power, even you stand now before the words of Enoch. The boy has crippled you, left you human. Now the sword of Uriel shall bind you in the Earth. Face now the prophecy of Enoch. Though once you walked as angels, yea, now you shall die; even as men shall die, so shall you. Beneath this sacred ground has been prepared your prison, the fiery columns that shall bind you for ten thousand years, until the coming of the one.”

Sandalaphon drew his sword from its ornate sheath.

Through his damaged eyes, Azazel watched as the sword lit, striking the ground all about him with the divine Light of Severity and opening in the Earth a pit that would reach deep, almost to the Earth's heart. There, where the falls of fiery columns moved continually, the prison that would be Azazel's prison was formed, and the cores he had chosen to clothe himself in tumbled to the depths. Behind him it closed, sealed over, closing in the heat of burning that would continue beyond all endurance, even for one such as Azazel, for the next ten thousand years.

At the capstone of the star ship named Daathan, Sandalaphon gently lifted Loch's body back, then withdrew the sword. His back had arched in the last moment, dislodging his back plate and splitting open the leather of his tunic. The wings had torn through and spread outward in a magnificent silver blue, full and rich. He had become, in the final moment, the lineage of his bloodline. He lifted Loch in his arms, letting a single tear fall, for in his day, Sandalaphon had loved this boy. Lochlain, the son of Asteria, had accepted his fate from the time he was only a child and he had done it with grace and dignity. Sandalaphon turned, lifting the sword and its sheath, which he would give to the Presence inside for keeping, to the Lady of the Waters who was once a Star Walker Queen. She would hold it until the time when the last Daath, the ones who would face Aeon's End, would come for it. They would know the place, and they would know the time. As Sandalaphon stepped through the smooth, unmarked doorway, he seemed to just vanish, taking with him the limp body of the Daathan king, already drained of all blood, along with the sword and sheath of the Angelslayer.

Darke searched, tingling—something had happened. The sky was cleared, the angel's storm had simply vanished in a blink, and what was a quiet dusk fell over the still chaotic coastline of the Daath. The quakes had stilled. The fires burned, but instead of moving like fingers over the land searching for prey, they now burned lifeless. The thunder and quaking had ceased in a single motion, and the only sound was of dying, above, on the ridge, at the line of forest where the Daath still held back the Unchurians. The Unchurians had sensed something, for they had suddenly been driven to complete, unabated rage—and it was not the rage of tactics or warfare, or of any purpose—they had gone utterly insane. Darke stared amazed, because the Unchurians were now not only killing the last of the Shadow Warriors—they were now killing everything in sight, even each other.

“We must get out of here,” Darke whispered to the Pelegasian captain.

“I will not argue that sentiment.”

And then it dawned on him. Darke guessed the cause. Somehow, somewhere beyond, above, Loch had just spared his people a last sliver of time. It was a thin sliver. Had he not been here at this shore, the number of purely insane, raging Unchurians would still have overwhelmed them, and would surely do so by day's end. But the sliver of time would allow the Shadow Warriors leading the children to reach him, and should Darke reach deep water, there would be no finding him. He would escape even angel's eyes should they re-emerge. But they would not; he was certain at least of that. The boy that they all had doubted so had just killed a second angel, and unlike the struggle with Satariel, this one had been snuffed quickly.

The prow post of Darke's ship hit the sand. The throwers were snuffed and oozed black pus.

Darke watched from the forecastle. Galloping toward him were a tight core of Shadow Warriors; he could tell by the look of them they were the elite, chosen for this one task, to deliver the flowers of the Daath to shelter. Within their ranks, Darke saw youth. It touched his heart, for the Daath were bringing no others, just the children, some riding, others clutched in the saddles against warriors' shadowy armor. They knew they died this day—the protectors that brought them, but they also knew this was the seed, and Darke could guess their number from the words of the Book of Angels, the Book of Enoch—these were the seventy and seven.

“Prepare to take on boarders!” Darke shouted. Rope ladders were thrown. As the Daath reached him, warriors splashed through the warm waters and surrounded the ship on either side—winded, sweaty horses; darkened, silver armor watery in firelight. Children were being lifted from the saddles and handed up. Darke stared as a young girl of perfect beauty and rich curls of red hair was lifted by a strong hand and pulled up by a dirty hand of one of the Pelegasians.

Then he paused, and a moment he felt his heart stop in his chest. He almost cried out. Below, Hyacinth was watching him. She was seated atop a roan horse, her long dark braids flayed by wind, tears in her eyes. He saw her whisper, “Captain! Oh, Captain!”

Darke gasped and leapt over the railing. He used a swifter rope to climb down the side of the hull. He dropped in the water, then turned, striding, and as Hyacinth dropped out of the saddle, he caught her, pulled her tight against him, and as he held her, his eyes stung with tears. In his life, Darke had never shed tears, but now he did. She was alive. Hyacinth was alive!

Satrina searched, beginning to panic. She looked to one of the Shadow Warriors, one of the King's Guard that would have known the Little Fox, looked through the visor of his helmet and caught his eyes. “We must find Rhywder!”

“We must get the youth aboard this ship, my lady. It is all. You and the child will go now.”

“No, we have to find Rhywder! He has to come! Do you not see, he is supposed to be here! We must find him!”

“Wrong, my lady, Rhywder must find us—and if not, he had done for king and these children all he could. And you, Ringbearer, you will sail without him. Now, board the ship. We cannot risk the child.”

Lucian pulled up beside her. His big, dark brown eyes offered an understanding gaze.

“Lucian!” gasped Satrina. “Take the child! I must find Rhywder!”

She started to hand Lucian the baby, but he seized her arm so tight it was painful. “No!” he screamed at her, furious for some reason. “No! You are his mother now! You are his mother, damn it!” Tears blurred the boy's eyes. “If he cannot believe in you, then who? Who will be his protector, his mother? Who?”

Satrina swallowed. He was right. She did not yet love this child as a mother, but she felt a bond, even now. Of course, though he was a boy, he was right—in this moment, wiser than her. Weeping, she urged the horse forward, and with Lucian guiding her hand, she took hold of the ladder and started to climb. To either side, Shadow Warriors were climbing the swifter ropes beside her—not to board, but to hold oval shields over her and the child—guarding against any possible attack, any missile, any sudden strike from the sky or elsewhere. Then she thought she heard Rhywder's voice. She turned, searching over the edge of a shield.

“Here! Over here!” screamed Rhywder. He was running up the white sand beach, holding a boy's arm, jerking him along in a stumbling, flying run.

“A horse!” Rhywder shouted. “I bring the son of Eryian!”

Several riders bolted from the ranks and sped along the sand toward Rhywder.

Rhywder threw Little Eryian to a horseman, who immediately wrenched up on the reins, rearing the horse, turning, then thundered back for the ship. Above them, on the ridge of the East of the Land, unbelievably, there was still a thin line of Shadow Warriors fighting bitterly to hold back what was utter madness, utter insanity. They were about to fall, they were being overwhelmed on their eastern flank, and it was becoming a brawl. A good captain could have smashed through the line of Daath, could have gone for this ship, but then Rhywder, stunned, realized the fighting was simply sheer insanity. He saw the skies, the land no longer splitting with chasms. The angel was dead, and the boy had done what he was born to do; he had given the children a sliver of time that was impossible, that could never have been and yet was.

Above, it was over now. The last few standing of the first legion of the Daath were now being hacked mercilessly to pieces. The Unchurians killing them were not satisfied with mere death; they were hacking the Daath into bloodied pieces of flesh.

Any second they would pour toward the ship and the shore of the Western Sea in a flood of uncontrollable rage.

Rhywder leapt into the saddle behind a Shadow Warrior, one of Argolis's protectors—a man he knew, his name was Mammanon. They galloped hard toward the ship.

“I must find a mount!” Rhywder shouted. “A spare horse!”

When they reached the ship, for a moment, Mammanon turned in the saddle, met Rhywder's eyes.