Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (94 page)

He was about to open the door when Satrina laid her hand on his wrist. She waited until he met her eyes. “I have been wondering, Rhywder, and I wish to ask you—what is going to happen to all of us? The Unchurians are just going to keep coming. Nothing can stop them, not even the walls of Terith-Aire or even the ships of Etlantis.”

Rhywder stared at her a moment. “One thing I have learned. You live the battle when it comes, you take what is given you, and you fight for what you believe. You leave the rest to Elyon. In the end, the battle is always His. Let Him work out the details of how the sun shall rise in the morning.” Rhywder lifted the latch, then drew open the door. He paused, a bit startled.

The street was filled with Shadow Warriors—the best, the finest. These were the first blood of the King's Guard; they had been well hardened of war, and even this last carnage had not shaken them. Bloodstained armor glittered stark in the sunlight; horses shifted. The first captain, broad-shouldered and weighted in age, Rhywder knew to be Tillantus. His eyes were stern. Rhywder knew the loss of Eryian was hard on him, but no pain would dull his resolve. More than the warriors, what surprised Rhywder were the children. Gathered in the street, surrounded by the Daathan guard, were children—some young, some older. There were girls in the flower of youth, young warriors barely fitted for their armor. Rhywder stared at them, amazed. They all seemed so beautiful, so beyond the terrors of the last days that they seemed misplaced, out of time here among the smell of blood and sulfur. There were precisely seventy and six of them. Seraphon would make them seventy and seven, make them scripture. Rhywder swore he had never seen so many tender, innocent eyes gathered in one place.

Tillantus urged his mount forward, drawing up beside Rhywder. “Little Fox,” he said. “We meet again.”

“How did you acquire so many children?” Rhywder asked.

Tillantus only smiled. It faded quickly. “All I know is that these little ones the Unchurian will never see, so help my sword, my lifeblood, and Elyon's grace. There is more of heaven's light in this plaza than is gathered in all the world, and these men will deliver them safely.”

Rhywder shivered—not from the children, but because he knew this was the last move, the last spoken tactic of the final battle. The children would be taken from Terith-Aire and hidden for another day, another future, a generation where the true final battle of Earth and the crossing of Aeon's End would come. Just as written, all had unfolded. What was left gave even Rhywder a dark feeling that clawed at his chest, but he blunted it. Some things Rhywder chose to put aside, and prophecy was one of them. It spilled all over this gathering of the chosen, but he turned it aside. Knowing prophecy was a weakness when your job was the sword or the axe or the bow. It was not a warrior's place to read the future.

He turned. Directly before the door, mounted, holding two horses in rein was Marcian's boy. He knew the name now; this was Lucian, son of Marcian Antiope and grandson of the fabled Moloch of Galaglea—carrying, in fact, the axe of that legendary figure. Rhywder briefly wondered if this one, Lucian, might be the only Galaglean warrior left alive. Their entire legion had fallen, the city burned, though there had been a few refugees. The fight and fires of the days before had left their scars on the boy, had lifted all youth from him. He might just as well be a full-blooded warrior now, and he was named, of his own request, in fact, his demand—Lucian was the guardian of the child Seraphon. Nothing would deter him, so Rhywder had blessed the calling, as well, telling the boy it was now ordained, and telling any others that should know.

“Your horses, Captain Rhywder,” the boy said. He had two horses in rein; one for him, one for Satrina.

“Still alive, I see.”

“Yes, I am still alive. My bruises are healing, my burns still sting, but I am as able as ever I have been.”

Rhywder smiled. “Well, boy, you are a damned impressive fighter, I give you that—and here is your liege, Seraphon, and this is his Ringbearer, whose name is Satrina.”

“Satrina, yes, I know of you. They told me of you. Know that I am here to guard my brother's life, and by extension yours, as well. I will not fall, I will not drop of axe or sword or spear, and I will keep him alive from this day until some later year when my body fails me. But my faith is firm—those who pursue us, they will not take my brother. Not this hour, not this day—not this fight. He will survive.” Lucian lifted his hand in a fist, then slammed it against his chest in promise. He now bore full Daathan armor, and when he pulled on the helm, there was no longer any boy; there was a blood warrior waiting with strong, broad shoulders and a dark, sure-hafted killing axe at his side.

“I have no doubt,” said Rhywder in answer, “that should any Unchurian make it through the second legion and breach the King's Guard surrounding these, the chosen, that you will be there to make them tremble.”

“What is your name?” Satrina asked from where she was watching on the porch.

“I am called Lucian. I have two mounts, good mounts.” Lucian turned to the captain. “This one—this one is yours, Rhywder of the Lake,” the boy said, leading a dark stallion forward.

Rhywder marveled, noting the smooth muscular flanks. “That is quite a horse.”

“Much of my father's stock was in Lucania. This one my father was very proud of—the breed line of this horse stretches back to my grandfather and beyond. This mount will serve you well. You have my word that he will take you where you need to go.”

Rhywder took the reins and pulled himself into the saddle. The horse snorted, as though it were ready to run a race. Rhywder patted its neck. He noticed Lucian watching with a slight grin of satisfaction. It was his father's craft, horses such as these, and this was obviously one of the finest.

A Shadow Warrior was helping Satrina and the child into the saddle of a light, roan mare, obviously swift and able.

“Lucian,” she said, “I am grateful you will be with us. The strength of your spirit offers comfort.”

Lucian nodded. “Thank you, good lady.”

Rhywder leaned forward to kiss Satrina's cheek, then turned the reins of his horse. “Watch the sky, Tillantus,” he shouted. “Move at hard pace for Terith-Aire, but watch the shadows and the sky. The fliers have thick wings; you can hear them. They are capable of a dive that could take out one of these chosen even from the center, so keep your bowmen alert.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Tillantus watched, somber, as Rhywder left them, riding slowly back toward the city.

“Satrina, I shall see you when next I do!” the Little Fox shouted last before he was out of sight.

At a harsh cry from Tillantus, the horsemen of the second legion started forward. Lucian led Satrina's mount as she held the child. Satrina stared at the children following all about them. They were young, their skin sometimes tinted with the blue ice of a Daath, sometimes porcelain as a Galaglean, sometimes with the golden hair of a Lochlain, but all seemed so beautiful, so perfect, some clutched against the darkened silver breastplates, others riding their own mounts. The group was about half boys and half girls, and it was strange—there was a smell of youth to them, literally a smell of fresh rain, as well as light. Light was all about them, not light one could see or read by, but more like a part of the air they breathed. The chosen, she thought: the seventy and seven. As they moved through the outer streets of Ishmia, they were ringed in a wall of powerful, armored horsemen. Surely no harm could reach them.

H
yacinth pulled up on the reins and searched ahead. She had heard mention of the Ithen, but this was nothing like she imagined. There were yellowwood and oak as old as the Earth, vines and creepers, and shadows—many shadows. This was a sacred forest; she could feel the knowing of the trees. Clustered about her were prime Daathan warriors, among them the gray-haired Daathan captain whom Loch had called Tillantus. “Could you stop here a moment?” she said aside to the captain. “Certainly, my lady.” He motioned the others, and they drew to a halt. Below, beyond the ancient forest, there was a narrow valley of sea grass, weaving in the soft wind. Cutting through its center was a well-used, paved road that led to the walls of Terith-Aire, and from here, as well, a view of the high-walled, spired city. The road was thick with people, and to either side of them, warriors. All were filing toward the city's its alabaster battlements. The thought left Hyacinth panicked.

“My lady,” the captain said. “Is there a problem?” “Before I go any farther, I must see Loch.”

“That cannot be done, my lady. I do not know the whereabouts of your king, but we have orders to deliver you to the city. The Second Century is just below us, and you are to ride with the chosen.”

Hyacinth pulled her horse about, twisting the reins. “I can sense him; I will find him myself.”

As she turned her horse, her way was instantly blocked.

“I cannot let you do that,” the captain said. He reached forward to take her reins, and Hyacinth quickly wrenched open the cheek guard of his helm. The sharp nail of her little finger left a scratch across his skin before he could react. He snarled and reached to catch her arm, but before he could move, Hyacinth's dagger tip was against a vein in his neck.

“We should come to an understanding, Captain. I am not one of your milk women!”

The captain narrowed his brow, then paused, looking past her. Hyacinth turned. It was Loch. It seemed he had appeared from nowhere.

Loch nodded to Tillantus. “Have the men circle wide, Tillantus, and leave several to wait for her beyond the clearing.”

“Aye, my lord,” Tillantus said, snapping his cheek guard into place. “And to you, my lady,” he added, bowing from the saddle.

He turned and motioned to the others, and his men began moving through the trees. She dropped her knife into its sheath.

“Do you really think the walls of Terith-Aire are going to protect them?” she asked.

“No, but it is their best chance.”

“Well, I am staying with you.”

“That is not meant to be.”

“Do not give me any more of your futures, Loch! I am not one of them, these Daath, all cold to me, like they have ice in their blood. The Tarshians were hard enough to endure; I cannot live with these, not without you, and I will not be shut behind their walls. You're the reason I'm still here. I'm not leaving you.”

He rode forward, pulling up beside her. He had become hard to read, but as he watched, his eyes seemed to change, as though he had stepped into them for her—they softened. The warrior had receded for the moment; this was the Lochlain to whom she had first been attracted.

“Are they taking care of you?”

“Where have you been?”

“There are things I needed to finish.”

“And are they finished?”

He nodded.

“Why are you not with the others—leading these legions?” she asked. “Are these not your armies? And you their king?” “I am not here to command armies.”

“Then what?” The quick eyes were demanding. “What are you here for?” “To stop him.”

“Him?”

“You know his name; you sensed him as well as I. We can speak it here; he is close enough it no longer matters. I must stop Azazel.” She could only gasp at first, speechless. “Alone?” “How else? You believe armies are going to help?”

“How can you possibly stop an angel that has prepared for this moment, the taking of the Daath, for seven hundred years? How, Loch?”

“It is much as with Satariel, I do not know precisely how, but I sense it; I feel something drawing me. I believe I can find a way.”

“Here? In these trees?”

“This forest is as ancient as life on Earth. It is the East of the Land; there is much magick here, much power, and none of it belongs to him. If I am to make a stand against this creature, this is my place of choosing.”

She scanned the trees, realizing what he meant. “The East of the Land, the forest that borders the place where Elyon first touched His finger.”

“Yes. These trees were witness. There is also an ancient structure here, a ring of stone, and something else; I believe it to have been a temple. One the first ever formed on Earth.”

Her eyes then locked on his. “You knew even when you brought me back, you knew then you would come here—did you not?”

“No, I had a sense of the future, but until now I did not know.”

“And so now you know and now you are planning to die here. Tell me that is not true.”

He didn't answer.

“And you think I am going with them? I have no place with these Daath, Lochlain! I cannot stay with them. If you choose to die here, then in the name of your god, let me choose the same, with you, as I said I would be. What else have I to live for? What reason should I follow these horsemen and these warriors who mean nothing to me?” “You have forgotten so soon?”

“What?”

“Your child.”

“My …”

“You already carry him, Hyacinth. From the night on the island.”

She paused, startled. She shook her head. “If I were with child, I would know! That was merely a signet of love; that was not taking your seed for a child. I could not have been fooled in that!”

He studied her, waiting, and suddenly Hyacinth realized that somewhere, inside, she did know. She had chosen, the light rain that night, the touch of him, somehow, far and away, she had chosen. “No,” she whispered, “no. This was not supposed to be. I died—with them, on Ophur, and you should have left me. Loch, you should never have done this! I am not a bearer of children! I am not supposed to be here. I was never part of your prophecy! Enochian, all of them, their scriptures, their high words—I am no part of that!”

“I am sorry, Hyacinth, but you are. More than you know. You bear inside you a child, and you no longer have a choice of dying with me. Your place is in the center of the Second Century, with the chosen, for your child, as much as you might deny it, is one of their protectors. He must survive.”