Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (26 page)

Loch stood, for the moment too exhausted to even move.

Adrea rushed past them to reach Aeson, but when she got to him, she saw that though he held his father in his arms, his head was limp, his eyes sagged. Aeson was barely alive. She then saw the wound in him. Whatever had cut him had pierced through to his back where fresh blood trickled down his side. He was soaked in his own blood, coated in it. He had ridden up to them already dead, with life barely in him for his one last move, a move she had seen him practice so many times in the fields, leaping from the side to the back of his horse and bragging how he would some day be a good scout, the best.

Aeson couldn't lift his head, but he was able to move his eyes. They turned in his head, looking to Adrea.

“I … I saved you,” Aeson whispered. “You and him, did I not?”

She wrapped her arms about his neck. “You did, Aeson! You saved us.”

“Scout in me … after … after all …”

“Much more, much more in you than anyone could ever ask.”

He half-smiled at her, and then he collapsed. Lamachus rolled to lay facedown beside his son. Aeson's body stilled, his face staring blankly upward at the sky.

Adrea cried out, tears streaming as she reached forward and pulled his lids closed.

Their mother reached them, crouching at her son's side. Camilla cried out and pulled Aeson's body into her lap, stroking his hair. Adrea backed away, horrified.

“Go!” Camilla said. “He has given you time with the last of his blood. What if there are more of them? Go with your man, Adrea. Run, both of you.”

Loch led Thunderbolt and helped Adrea into the saddle, then mounted the white stallion.

“My sorrow, good woman,” he said, turning the horse.

Adrea and Loch then turned and set off at a gallop, leaping the fencing. Camilla watched them until they were out of sight.

Passing through the trees of the East of the Land, Adrea and Loch drew up when they reached the center of a circle of ancient standing stones. It seemed a place he knew well, a place he felt safe enough to pause. He curled a fist against his thigh.

“We should keep riding,” she said, “keep moving, should we not?” “Yes.”

“Then why do you wait?”

He didn't answer right away. He searched the trees. “I am not certain of my path. Perhaps it is better I draw them off, leave you. This is a place of power, this circle of stone. Creatures such as the Uttuku cannot even cross into it, and here you are also hidden, eyes cannot see you. If I head west, they will follow me.”

“And then what? What do I do, wait here forever?” He glanced at her.

“I know things, Loch; I have learned quickly, the ring has taught me just as you said. They are hunting us—not just Uttuku, but others, riders, assassins. Loch, I can see the near future. What you suggest, it will fail and you will die for nothing.”

“Do you see any path that will not fail? The ship is due north and west. It is not far, your horse is easily as fast as mine—we could reach it. There are brief covers of wood, but we will have no choice but to cross at least two open fields.”

“All I see is that we die. I am sorry, my love. I see these futures like shadows, images. I see choice, but all of them end in the same way. We die. Not long from now.”

“There are many futures, and there is a path! This cannot end here! It will not.”

“Can you command time? All I see, all the ring tells me, is that they will kill us and they will kill the child in me. I see nothing else, Loch.”

“I do. I see light. We will follow it, take my path.” He met her eyes. “I do not believe it is over, Adrea. I will find a way through. Now, we ride forward and when we reach the edge of the sacred trees, we must cross the field just beyond it. There is a patchwork of woods and farms. Just beyond them, an inland river is where the ship waits. In the open field, you stay close. I will ride hard and unpredictable—just stay with me.”

He touched her hand, her cheek, and then she watched his eyes darken, and the Shadow Walker came into him like someone stepping into his skin. It was the other she loved, the soft brown eyes. She wondered, briefly, if she would see them again.

He looked skyward. “They may be close; they may not. It comes time to run the gauntlet.”

“I am with you, Loch!”

“Elyon's Light guide us.”

He started off at a good clip, breaking into a gallop. As she followed at his side, Adrea searched through the shadows of the forest. Nothing in them, she could tell. She was learning quickly, more and more, but somehow she felt them running out of time in this world, and she knew that if that happened, it could mean the end of all worlds.

“Hard and fast,” Loch said, emerging from the trees at full gallop. He shouted, urging the horse even more speed. His stallion was fast. It was good she had chosen Thunderbolt; nothing in Lamachus's stables could have kept up with the white charger, but Marcian's stallion kept at his side easily. They streamed through tall wheat, moving faster than ever she had before. They would be hard to catch, she knew that much, but still the fear remained,
the knowing
in her that all paths led to an ending from which there was no escape. She trusted Loch. Perhaps he knew more; perhaps he knew something she didn't.

She glanced back. She was shocked to find there were riders coming for them, that they had already been found. There were at least six, moving in a swift line obliquely from the west.

Loch and Adrea would easily outrun them. These were perhaps two of the finest horses anywhere. Before the riders could close on them enough to draw their bows, Loch and Adrea had crossed the open field and reached the woods beyond it. They tore into them, into their shadows and cover. She noticed, glancing behind, that oddly, the riders in pursuit slowed up. They did not even enter the woods. It could only mean something else waited on the other side.

In the trees, Loch's path wove tightly; he rode low on the horse, hugging the neck. “They have nothing that can touch us in deep water,” he shouted. “If we reach the warship, there are bowmen and catapults to protect us. We will be safe! Just one more field to cross. Only one more open field and we have made it!”

But tears streamed across Adrea's cheek. She did not know if the tears were for Aeson and her father, or if they were for her and Loch. She felt something closing now as though it was bearing down from the sky. Only one more clearing, but her new knowledge, the ring and its power, told her that whatever closed on them now was something they could not outrun.

Loch broke from the trees hugging the neck of his horse, full gallop, and they went for the river, everything they had now, every muscle and sinew into this hard, pumping run, both horses side by side, close. It was there; she could see the river beyond. They were tearing through a field of dried cornstalks, and ahead of them she noticed the top of the ship's highest mast. But then her heart sunk. Flames were curling up the mast. The ship was burning. It had already been taken. Loch saw the same thing; he reared the horse, knowing they had ridden into a trap. The white stallion whinnied, rearing as Loch circled him, searching for a direction.

“The sea!” he shouted. “We make a run west for the sea!”

They turned, breaking into a gallop, but archers rose not far from them, standing up out of the rows of corn. They had been lying in wait. Missiles flew in swift exchange, and both horses went down.

Loch's white stallion dropped hard. When it struck the ground, its chin was shattered, the neck as well, and the horse rolled. Loch had managed to throw himself aside.

Thunderbolt was stronger, quicker. For seconds, he seemed to dodge the arrows; he pressed for the end of the clearing, determined. When he dropped, he came down sideways. It seemed he was straining to protect his rider. His body slid through the cornstalks as arrows thudded into his back and shoulders. Adrea was thrown clear, landing behind him. She rolled, turned, and quickly crawled to the cover of Thunderbolt's belly. The arrows were heavy, zinging over her head, others striking Thunderbolt. He grunted with each strike and then she felt the moment his spirit finally left him. He had not wanted to die. He had fought to the last with everything he had.

Loch crouched in the grass, spotting Thunderbolt's body. He ran for them, arrows whispering about him, but he was somehow able to dodge. He spun, the cloak working its magick, and momentarily he vanished. When he reappeared, he was diving over Thunderbolt's body. He turned and crawled up beside her.

“This is not finished,” he said, defying logic. He wasn't giving up. “Loch …”

“Yes?”

“I love you. I mean, we know that we have always loved, but I am not speaking of memories. I speak of here and now. I love you. Just in case we do not make it, I wanted you to know.”

He stared at her, touched by what she said, but the Shadow Walker was in his eyes, and he watched her with an inhuman gaze. “It is not over,” the Daath insisted. “Nothing is ending here. This is not finished. They still have to come through me.”

“I pray you speak true, Loch.”

He turned, drawing his swords. “You have the gift of a seer now, and you use it well. But even the most gifted of seers have been wrong on occasion.” Horse hooves—coming for them, fast, hard.

“Sounds like five or more,” Loch said. “They are few in number, these assassins. It is how they managed to get this far north, by being few. I believe these are the archers—they will not be as well trained in close kills. I will take them down.”

He handed her a dagger. “This is not to fight with. If somehow they manage to get past me, if they kill me, put this through your heart. End it there.”

She nodded. By the sound of their hooves, the horsemen were now spreading out.

“And I have always loved you,” he said, “even if I do not remember all your names.” He took a breath. His eyes were dark as an eclipsed moon. He was waiting, his swords clutched, timing his attack. “Faith's Light, Lochlain of the Daath.” “Faith's Light, Water Bearer.”

With a scream he stood, leapt the dead husk of Thunderbolt, and ran, weapons tucked against his chest. Once he had cleared enough distance from her, he dropped into a back stance, swords whipping, poised to either side. “Here!” he shouted. “Here I am! Come welcome death!” He waited emotionless as they turned and closed on him.

He first took out the neck of a horse, leaving it to tumble, crushing its rider. He next severed a horse's leg below the knee. It went down hard. As the third rider reached him, Loch leapt high, spinning, slicing open the horse's throat, then quickly stabbing the rider through the inner thigh with his short sword.

He dropped low. The fourth horseman was fast on the other's heels. This Unchurian managed to strike Loch with a heavy morning star, knocking him aside. Loch's armor had protected him, barely dented. On his feet, Loch sheathed his swords and reached behind his back to draw two daggers. As the horseman turned to maneuver for a kill, Loch's first knife sank into his throat, the tip out the back of his neck. The rider dropped.

Loch then killed the horse, a knife to its throat, as well.

No more, not for the moment—there were no riders, no archers, all was quiet.

“You do not think we might have used that horse?” Adrea asked, still crouched behind Thunderbolt.

“No. On horseback we merely make better targets at this point. The tall corn is our cover for now.”

He searched, crouched and waiting. She carefully stepped around Thunderbolt and came to his side.

Everything was still for a moment and then, from the tangled wood near the shore, there came a single rider. Unlike the others, he came slow and easy, as if time did not matter. He did not wear armor; rather he had an outer skeleton of hard, darkened wood. It covered his face, his legs, arms, even fingers. He wore a blue cloak, cut in strips to drop between dark, leathery wings. This was the firstborn of a prefect—a Nephilim that had abandoned his own body to house himself in one grown from the thorn wood ancient spell binders had created. Loch had heard of these creatures, but never had he seen one. The polished wood looked hard as stone. “Run,” Loch said.

“What?”

“Get out of here! Run! Now!”

Loch growled and charged the rider, building speed as he ran, head down, nothing in his mind but to attack. He leapt when he reached the horse, swinging up and behind the rider to bury his short sword into the chest at an angle, piercing an opening through the bone armor. He rode the Nephilim to the ground as they both went over the side of the horse. When they hit the ground, Loch was on top and continued to plunge his short sword deeper. Loch then stood, drawing his long sword, and as the giant started to rise, he slammed the pommel into the eye socket.

The Nephilim did not even seem to care of the wounds. He knocked the sword aside, took Loch by one shoulder, and threw him as though he were weightless. Loch hit the ground hard, sliding on his back. The Nephilim flung a dagger sideways, not bothering to even check his aim. It pierced Loch's breastplate in the shoulder and for the moment, he went down.