Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (66 page)

And then, as simply and mysteriously as it had came, the light ended, the eye of Daath closed as if the light in the plaza had been snuffed with a candle douser. Dawn's light fell over them in a bright, red hue and sound thinned to a quiet with far, soft flicker of fires burning below in Ophur. The Angelslayer was just a crystal blade, no blood swirling, no silver flashing.

Loch dropped forward, so weak he could not believe he was still conscious. He was on both knees, leaning against the sword for support, head hanging down. For a moment, he felt as if he were about to pass into shadow—and yet there was such peace in him, such a gentle, soft touch somehow slowly restoring his strength. He did not understand what had happened, not fully. It had filled him with a wondrous knowing—what was called the star knowledge—but even as he tried to comprehend it, he could feel it fading, slipping away. Faith was always a light that dimmed too quickly.

He set the tip of the sword against the limestone and drew himself to one knee, then looked up.

The angel was kneeling, head down. Satariel seemed confused, staring at the hilt of his shattered sword in utter disbelief. He finally tossed it aside, angrily. Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet, steadying himself. He had changed. Most striking were his eyes. Before they had been a terrifying black—threatening to spill the stars of the gods' wrath at any moment, but now Satariel's eyes were a clear, ice-blue—they were, in fact, the eyes of a human.

“Thou art mortal,” a low, quiet voice said. “As mortal as the blood that has cried for centuries from this Earth, as mortal as the innocents you have slain all these years, Satariel.”

Satariel turned. Loch knew the voice and looked to see Sandalaphon near the edge of the shattered stone wall just behind him—as if he might have been there watching all along.

Satariel glared at Sandalaphon, then looked down at himself. He held out his hands, turned them. His skin was different somehow, softer, merely flesh. With the fingers of his right hand he ripped open his left wrist and watched, stunned as red blood flowed, spilled onto the stone. The wound did not heal as it had when Darke's bolt pierced his shoulder. He just continued to bleed. When he looked up, there was panic in his eyes, in his face. He brought his fingers stiff, forming a knife-hand, then staved it into his own chest and ripped out his own heart. For a moment, he stood there, staring at it in his hand, squeezed tight, blood spilling. He then fell to his knees, then onto the stone, facedown.

Loch turned to look at Sandalaphon. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough.”

“But you did not help? Why?”

“I am forbidden in many things. Time must unfold of its own. Heaven binds me. Not my heart, however. I bleed for you, Lochlain—but I am bound, and more than that, it is written, and so it must be, that the fallen must be made flesh by the scion of a Daath and the blood of a human. It is why Elyon sent the Arsayalalyur in answer to the cries of the Earth—that the blood of men would answer the death of their fathers; it is why the Daath have for centuries mixed their blood with their kindred, the Lochlain. But we are not quite finished. There is one thing left. Satariel must be bound. It is why I am here. Only the sword of Gabriel can bind them.”

“You carry the sword of Gabriel?”

“He is my father. Close your eyes and cover your face—the light will blind you otherwise.”

Sandalaphon drew the sword.

Loch turned away, but he heard the sounds, a thousand winds, the earth opening like a tree being split apart and then a rushing, like waters, and then something collapsing, closing with a thunderclap. When he could finally look up, there was a pale, green, glasslike circle impressed into the ground where Satariel had been lying.

“What happened?” asked Loch. “Where is he?”

“There is a prison fashioned for them. They will dwell there ten thousand years, until the coming of the lamb, until the Earth opens up its dead in the first lifting. Their prison is deep, bound on all sides by the pillars of fire that hold the form of the Earth, anchoring its heart.” Sandalaphon then studied Loch a moment with a look of concern. “You want to know, but I cannot speak of her, Lochlain. I care, I feel your pain, but there is nothing I can tell you. She is where hope still dwells—as the rest of us; she lives now by heaven's oath. The blood of the archangel is strong in you, but there is still anger, and the anger you feel is human—flesh continues to weaken you. This is not finished yet—it is only the beginning.”

“What are you saying?”

“Satariel was the first to age, the first to actually fall from the grace of
the knowing.
There were seven prefects who swore the Oath of Binding upon Mount Ammon in the time of Yered. They were the seven Watchers of heaven, and six still burn with the star knowledge, the light of Elyon. Beyond them were the three, the lords of the choir. Even now, one of them, a Named, a lord of the Seraphim—the second of the three—come against your people. You will have to stop him, as well, before it is too late, before the chosen are lost to time and the Earth is swallowed by Aeon's End.”

“Another? The weak one has left me all but dead, and you tell me there is another?”

“Another that is far more powerful than you or I can imagine.” Loch just stared at him; he had no words for this.

“I have a small ship in the lagoon,” Sandalaphon said. “It light and shallow, but it is very swift.”

“The captain—first I must help him.”

“The sons of Satariel have become but spirits now, most of them lost and panicked. They are doomed to wander the Earth and plague mankind until the opening of the Earth. Those few left alive, the Tarshian will take care of himself. We must leave—time is thin, it grows thinner each second.”

Loch just stared at him, winded, still weak. He wanted to scream at him, wanted to scream at heaven, but he was too weak, too tired to fight any longer. He turned to stare at Hyacinth, her long, curled brown hair snarled in the pool of her own blood that had formed to the side of her head and etched into the cracks of the plaza's limestone fitting. He walked to her, knelt beside her, and touching her shoulder, slowly turned her over. He stared at her face, half of it bloodied, but he took the time to smooth a lock of hair out of her eye.

“You cannot do what you are thinking,” Sandalaphon said.

“I can and I will. She is coming with us.” He lifted the Angelslayer, laying the crystal blade against the smooth surgeon's cut in Hyacinth's neck.

“Lochlain, if you do this—it will weaken you—like sin weakens a pure heart. It is against heaven.”

“Giving life is against heaven? How could I not have guessed?”

“You must try to understand. Do this and a part of you will be lost that cannot ever be regained.”

“She comes with us, Sandalaphon, and if it is of any interest to heaven, what harm it leaves me could hardly be more meaningless right now.”

He closed his eyes and began to focus on the feeling that swam in the pommel's stone. He knew how to do this. Enough of the star knowledge was still in him, the knowing grace. He understood it was going to fade like dreams fade, that he would soon wake and it would be gone. Even the faith that it had ever happened would be gone. Like the face of his mother. He had tried to remember her, tried so hard, but the years took her face, her memory, her smell. But in this moment, Loch knew, he understood, and he let his mind open, let a trickle more of his own blood, through the palms of his hands.

“Amen-Omen-Diaman,” he whispered—spell-binding words whose meaning he would soon forget. It would not matter—it was not the words, it was the understanding of them, the burning of starlight left in them. He then let a part of himself through the pommel stone into the blade, a part of his life, not his soul, more a part of his faith, of his inner light, something that would leave him weakened, perhaps forever.

The blade flashed softly—nothing like the fire of battle—and with a start, Hyacinth gasped, sucking in air as if she had just surfaced from almost drowning. When Loch lifted the sword away, her wound was healed, the skin smooth, no scars. She started to get up and he set his hand on her shoulder, helping her to sit up. She stared at him, startled.

“Loch?”

He nodded.

“Is it … is it over?”

“Yes.”

“And the others—did any of the others make it alive?” “They have been slaughtered, all but a few.” “The captain? Darke—did they kill him?” “No. He will survive.”

Her eyes searched his quickly; she then touched his neck. “Was I … did I die?”

“You are going to be weak for the next few days. Your blood loss was great; it will have to replenish before you have the strength to walk.” “You used the sword. You brought me back.” He didn't answer.

“You should not have done this, Loch. Not for one such as I—not for me.”

Loch glanced over his shoulder. “This is Sandalaphon. I must return. You can stay if you wish, or if you choose, you can come with me, Hyacinth. Which do you wish?”

“What would you want me to do?”

“Come with me.”

“It is not over, is it? All you must face—it has not ended.”

“No.”

“I have been in you, touched you—I may even love you. I will go with you, Loch. But you should have left me here, dead; you should not have weakened yourself. I am only a witch; I am no Water Bearer.”

“I know who you are. Sandalaphon will carry you; I am too weak. We must leave now.”

Hyacinth looked to the giant, but her eyes were sad, misted in tears.

E
ryian stood on a knoll and from there he could see the bustling city of Ishmia, once a fishing village, now a trading port that could only be rivaled by the Mother City herself. Almost any ship bound for Etlantis from the south stopped here. Ishmia had grown fat and rich, but Eryian could only think of how many would die if Hericlon fell, if the named one of Du'ldu crossed and came north for Terith-Aire. Ishmia would lay between them, unwalled, a sprawling city impossible to defend.

He turned east to follow the ribbon of dark water that was the river Ithen. It flowed from the mountains east, from Hericlon's vale and once was much wider until the Galagleans, upriver near the vale, built a dam that tamed it. Still, as he watched its dark waters he felt something cold from them; he felt as if something had changed and it left an ill ease he didn't want to feel. He looked to the east, troubled.

It was said the Etlantians had built the massive gate of Hericlon long ago, when first the angels had come to teach the children of men. But the second to follow the Light Bearer, Azazel, fought with him over a woman, slaying her in the end, and to escape the Light Bearer's wrath, he sailed to the south. The angels themselves bordered on war and the passage through Hericlon divided all that was the death lords between those who sided with Etlantis and her king, the bringer of heaven's light. It was then the Etlantians built the massive gate of huge cyclopean blocks of black stone cut from the mountain and the massive portcullis poured of pure oraculum, the heaviest, strongest structure on the whole of the Earth. For all the centuries of mankind, Hericlon had stood as the might of Etlantis against the rogue angel who not only broke his covenant with the choir of heaven by swearing upon Mount Ammon, but also was the first of the angels to commit murder.

Staring to the east, Eryian knew something had changed. He could not let himself believe that the mighty gate had fallen, that the passage was open and the lord of death would pass through now like the shadow of a dark star. And yet it whispered to him, a cold wind that came down the river Ithen, a dire warning that all was not right, that the balance of the Earth had changed and nothing he could do could turn it back.

It was near sunset and Eryian searched the sky. He had returned from the spire. He carried at his hip the sword that was known as the sword of Righel—a sunblade forged of aganon, the metal of a distant planet that circled the seventh star, the mothering star whose name was Dannu, whose sister was her mirror image, the queen they called the Daath. And now, reaching Tillantus and the legions above Ishmia overlooking the Ithen, he saw in the sky the answer to the call he sent to heaven from the star spire. It was the herald, the talisman. At first, against the darkened sky of the west, it was a quick, brilliant flash, a pulse of light as if something had burst through the heavens. Many of the Daathan warriors gathered on the high ground above Ishmia looked up to see the sky briefly lit. Eryian then heard the caw of an eagle and he saw the circle overhead, a silver eagle, its talons arched. He followed its path, saw where it dipped one wing downward indicating direction. Then in an arc, the sun glinting off its brilliant wings, it soared and vanished into the sky. The signet of the seventh star. Eryian's call had been answered. Something inside him understood it all, what it meant, why it came, but his flesh still held back the memories of the spire and the sword and even the meaning of the talisman, though he understand to follow its signal.

Tillantus had been near Eryian at the time, and he stared upward, amazed.

“My lord, you see that?” he asked. “Thought it was an eagle, but it soared so high, it seemed to vanish into heaven. A silver eagle, never seen the like of that. Have you?”

“No, Tillantus. But you are right. It is a signal; it comes as herald.”

“How do you mean that, my lord?”

Eryian turned his gaze north toward the coastline. He saw them. The bird had dipped its wing above the western shore, across the river from the city. It was there they would meet him, and searching he saw the tips of their masts, white masts against the darkening western sky, three ships sailing for the coast. It left a shiver across his skin. It was all real, the fog of memories that had lived hidden deep inside all these years, tangled memories, like the shadows of dream still left in daylight.
The knowing
in him whispered. If he wanted, he knew they he could finally peel back the veil, but ironically, he chose not to. The sadness that had struck him in the star spire, which had left him so overwhelmed, was not something he wanted to bring to life. These memories, whatever they were, however far back they reached, he would leave as shadows for now.