Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (98 page)

Cintex then looked beyond the city, to the high forest.

“There!” one of his men shouted.

He looked toward the shore. Single white flags that were cloaks had been mounted on pikes. The Shadow Warriors, the Daath, were holding back an impossible number of enemy warriors at the line of the trees. The fighting was savage; from the distance it looked like two incredible beasts snaking across the valley, in total deadlock, boring into each other with fury and blood. But the shoreline was still protected, and a gathering of prime warriors were moving toward it. The chosen he had heard of must be protected by them. They would ward off considerable attack, but if the weakening front along the forest broke, there would be no hope.

“Name of the Goddess and all that is holy,” Cintex swore. He gripped the forecastle rail. He glanced to his second, a tall, stone-faced captain who watched the shore without emotion. “A moment ago,” Cintex screamed above the roar of battle and quakes, “there was clear sky, calm sea. Now the valley is swallowed in flame … and the sky! In Elyon's name, something hard comes against them!”

“Whatever comes here, my lord, comes not in Elyon's name.” The first officer then pointed south.

“Hail our men and the other ships. We change bearing, move for that shore, the markers, the white markers …”

The second shouted the orders. They were echoed and, by signal, sent out to the other ships.

“Look!” shouted the second. “There on the horizon! You see it? A longship! I knew I saw something last night—trailing us! That is a blackship! A Tarshian!”

Cintex squinted his eyes. The sea was getting difficult to read with the coming storm, but his officer was right. South, far upon the horizon, the triangular sail of a pirate cut against the sky. It was full oared and moving swift. Then, slowly, as the sky darkened, the longship seemed to melt back into the sea. “Where did the bastard go? He disappeared!”

“He is a blackship, my lord—I have fought them before. They strike at night, and now, as the sky darkens, he vanishes. We will never track him through this storm, we …” The captain paused, looking to the sky. His mouth dropped open. For moment he was struck speechless.

Cintex was shocked to see fear in the eyes of his second; the man was a veteran of the fires of Hades itself. Cintex turned, looked skyward, searching, feeling his skin shiver.

“Minions,” the second whispered, stunned. “There, my lord, minions of the Salamander—hundreds of them.” He pointed.

Cintex thought at first they were birds, a huge flock of birds moving from the great forest called the East of the Land, then sweeping out to sea. The sky was soon covered with them. They were obviously coming for his ships, for the Etlantians, and as they closed, they looked more like bats, sometimes visible, sometimes swallowed in dark clouds. It was like trying to trace shadow against shadow.

“Take up arms!” Cintex shouted. He ripped his buckler from his shoulder. “It appears someone does not wish us to reach the shore.”

Cintex's second unlatched his sword hilt and drew his weapon. Its blade was hard, polished oraculum.

As they closed, the minions looked to be coming out of the sky like black comets, swift. They never slowed. They came at full flight, living missiles. One hit the forecastle decking and smashed through the timbers, then struggled where it was lodged. What could possibly be the purpose? Such a strike would break even the bones of these creatures, weaken them. But then Cintex saw the beast lifted a flint stone and realized he was coated in black pitch.

“Goddess save us, he is going to burn us!” Cintex screamed, leaping forward, lifting his sword to try to kill the thing before the flint struck a spark. But he did not make it. The spark was slight, tiny, and the creature, coated in a thick paste, exploded. Cintex gasped, reeling back, but not quick enough, for the flames engulfed him. He turned, off balance. His skin was actually peeling away, burning. Cintex sucked a blast of molten fire into his lungs, then staggered. The sky was filled with enough of these to take out every Etlantian warship that had been launched in answer to the Daathans' plea.

Off the port bow of his warship, Darke could see flames everywhere. The ports of the city of Terith-Aire were burning, and now, even the Etlantian galleys coming to rescue them had begun to burn. Something was destroying them. They were being pummeled by some kind of siege missiles, but unlike any he had ever seen before. He lifted a seeing glass from his robe and brought it to his eye. The sky was almost night-black now. Though it should have still been day, this was an angel's storm, and its whirlers and dark clouds had swallowed the sun. He scanned for the missiles. Anything that could take out an Etlantian warship might be able to take his blackship out, as well. He gasped at what he saw—creatures were hurtling through the sky, and some were setting themselves aflame just before impact. He lowered the glass. All seven ships of the Etlantians had been hit—all of them were burning, the sails were going up in streaks of fire. Apparently, someone was even better at killing Etlantians than he was.

The angel's storm had moved swiftly, but there was more, for the land itself had erupted, the sea was beginning to rage, and sprays of cold water slapped across him.

“Shields!” he screamed, seeing the horizon. A tight swarm of the same minions that had taken out the Etlantians were now coming for him. He was amazed at their speed—they were large, winged beasts, but were moving like hornets. He quickly turned and shouted to the hands amidships.

“Light your arrows!” he screamed. “Be quick! Fire your arrows!”

Pitched arrows were quickly drawn, the heads fired. Pelegasian archers lined either gunwale, all along the ports.

“Hard starboard oar!” Darke shouted. A Pelegasian helmsman echoed the call, and Darke's ship turned its prow dead into the swarm, offering them the prow of the ship, its narrowest target.

“Give way! Hard oar! Hard oar!” the Pelegasian screamed. The oars surged, and the prow began to lift from the dark waters.

“Drop the mast!” Darke cried. “And stow that sail!” The sail loosened, then fell. “Archers! Those creatures are coated in naphtha. We are going to light them like festival candles before they reach us! Take your aim and wait my command!”

Darke watched their approach, feeling them, feeling the distance close. The clouds were almost black, and against them the creatures were all but invisible, but even against the storm's rumble, he could hear the leathery beat of wings.

Finally, he pointed the tip of his sword to the horizon. “Now! Fire!”

The arrows soared, brilliant streaks against clouds, and where they struck their mark, beasts erupted in the sky and dropped like comets streaming, writhing as they burned. They started to hit the sea before Darke's ship, exploding in flame and sprays of steamed water.

“Keep firing! Keep it steady!” Darke screamed.

A second volley of fire arrows, and more of the creatures burst into flame against the black clouds. But now they were getting too close, and even though they were ignited, they were streaming inward, wings folded back, making a dive for the ship, coming like unholy rain. He would be damned if he had sailed this blackship through deep water and even hidden it from an angel, only to burn at sea.

“Lay back oars! Lift a shield cover!”

At the command, the entire decking bronzed in a carapace of oblong shields lifted to form a cover, rising to a spine along the center.

Darke dropped against the prow post. The minions came out of the sky with screams. The oars were folded back, locked beneath the brazen shields. The fiery missiles of the minions began to strike the water about the ship. The creatures were heavy, almost like catapult stones, and though many were grazed off, in places they shattered through the carapace, destroying shield and men, sometimes breaking through the planking. Those that struck the prow were destroyed by the heavy, slicing blade of the ram. Darke's warship was cutting through the fire blast like riding a storm.

From a port, Rat watched, trancelike. The skin of his face was blackened and hard, he had no hair, and his eyes were furious amidst the scar. He gasped as a flame creature streaked past his gun port, warded off and ripped open by the prow blade. It plummeted into the cold sea with a spray of steam and a sound of snuffed flame that took Rat's breath. It was one of the most beautiful sights he had ever witnessed.

As he galloped about a narrow corner, the hooves of the Galaglean warhorse Lucian had given Rhywder sparked on the stone. Suddenly Rhywder was forced to pull up. The roadway before him was broken wide. Two shelves of stone were balanced narrowly over a gorge, and fire flickered about their edges. It was wide, but there was no way around it.

Rhywder hesitated, then pulled back on the reins, backing the horse. When he had distance, he hugged tight with his knees and leaned forward. “I know you have no wings,” he whispered to the horse, “but it is has come time to fly!” He slammed his heels into the flanks. The horse bolted, galloping hard, hurtling, then soared. Rhywder felt flames lick his boots. On the other side, the horse landed on one upturned stone, stumbling, nearly going down. The stone started to slide for the crevice, and Rhywder kept his heels dug tight against the ribs. “Come on, boy! You can make it!” They barely leapt the edge to firm ground as the slab of stone dropped soundlessly into the fiery cleft behind them. Rhywder pulled up on the reins, then glanced over his shoulder. The chasm had been wider than he guessed. The slab of stone had been deceiving. This horse was one piece of flesh, that was certain.

Rhywder turned and rode at a gallop. There were bodies here; crushed beneath rubble that Rhywder steered around. If Eryian's boy was alive, it was meant to be, for the dead were everywhere. Rhywder rounded a bend, then pulled up. His horse danced. Before him were horsemen—not Daath, not Galaglean—these were minions. Seeing him, once of them let a smile curl.

Rhywder twisted the horse's reins, turning him about. He sank his heels in, galloping back toward the chasm. “You made it the last time,” he whispered into the horse's ear, “and you can do it again, trust me—I never lie to horses.”

Rhywder kept pressure with his heels, leaning as they rounded the sharp bend. They started down the roadway toward the chasm at a full, furious gallop; the horse was panting, preparing to soar.

Rhywder dropped tight against the hide of the neck.

Behind him, he could hear the minions coming, hooves heavy.

The fires of the crevice blazed even higher now, curling like tendrils. Rhywder glanced over his shoulder.

One of them was screaming through tight teeth, lifted onto its haunches.

They were almost to the crevice. Rhywder lifted the crossbow from his shoulder, pulled on his buckler, keeping the reins in his teeth. He drew a tight breath, timing the moment carefully, then wrenched back on the reins. The horse reared, spinning about, screaming. It had understood his every move so far, but this confused even this fine beast. The horse twisted about so hard, he almost went down on his side, sliding backward. Rhywder twisted in the saddle, leveled off the crossbow, and buried the blunt-ended bolt into one of the minion's chests before they passed him at a gallop. None of them had guessed the move—they had no choice but to keep galloping, and Rhywder's sudden hesitation had thrown them into confusion; none would reach the other side. He was able to turn in time to watch them drop into the fires of the crevice.

Rhywder circled the horse, patting the neck. “Sorry about that,” he said sincerely, “but if you were not going to believe we would jump that crevice, neither would they. Come, boy, we are almost there.”

Rhywder turned and pressed on at a gallop. He rounded a second narrow street. Here the villas were taller and stronger. At the end, near the harbor, Eryian's villa was still standing, though one side hung off balance, torn away. There was blood in the courtyard of the villa—and bodies, both Unchurians and Shadow Warriors, lay slaughtered. Rhywder guessed assassins had come against the house of Eryian, but on the porch, between columns, bloodied, and still clutching their swords, were four hardened King's Guard—four of Eryian's captains.