The Wrath of Angels (Eternal Warriors Book 3)

by Vox Day

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Prologue

  Chapter 1. Justified and Ancient

  Chapter 2. Safety in Silence

  Chapter 3. Evil, Corrupted

  Chapter 4. Sing, Children, Sing

  Chapter 5. Taking Everything Away

  Chapter 6. Beauty’s Betrayal

  Chapter 7. Lord of the Forest

  Chapter 8. Stalking the Beast

  Chapter 9. A Moment’s Peace

  Chapter 10. Violently, It Changes

  Chapter 11. The Demon in Me

  Chapter 12. The Weight of Hours

  Chapter 13. Secret Assassin

  Chapter 14. Clouds of Lies and Dust

  Chapter 15. Black Wing’d Shame

  Chapter 16. Scylla and Charybdis

  Chapter 17. One, Three, Two, Three

  Chapter 18. Lying to the Mirror

  Chapter 19. The Gathering Shadow

  Chapter 20. A Dark Wind Howls

  Chapter 21. The Call

  Chapter 22. Masquerade

  Chapter 23. Gift of the Dragon

  Chapter 24. The Lion Unleashed

  Chapter 25. Misplaced Trust

  Chapter 26. Points to Ponder

  Chapter 27. A Dagger Sheathed

  Chapter 28. The Lady’s Looking Glass

  Chapter 29. Shattered Dreams

  Chapter 30. Searching for Mr. Smith

  Chapter 31. Thief of Flames

  Chapter 32. Forgotten Waters

  Chapter 33. Snow and Storm

  Chapter 34. Fell and Fey

  Chapter 35. Redemption

  Chapter 36. Restoration

  Chapter 37. Refuge

  A THRONE OF BONES

  AWAKE IN THE NIGHT LAND

  Castalia House

  New Releases

  The Wrath of Angels

  Eternal Warriors Book Three

  by Vox Day

  Published by Castalia House

  Kouvola, Finland

  www.castaliahouse.com

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by Finnish copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006, 2016 by Theodore Beale

  All rights reserved

  For Heather

  Nameless, she stepped without shroud from sea mist,

  A form to spark the Philosopher’s fire.

  Her golden hair was by Phoebus sun-kissed,

  Her smile was sweeter than Orpheus’s lyre.

  31:10-11

  Cover Image: Rowena

  Cover Design: JartStar

  Version 004

  Prologue

  The wolf panted hard as it ran through the darkness, its long red tongue lolling haphazardly from between its white teeth. It burst out of the sheltering cover of the forest into a small clearing, where it was bathed momentarily in the eerie light of the full moon. The beast, a giant of its kind, dared a quick glance over its shoulder and howled in dismay upon catching sight of a sparkling rainbow of bright colours high in the sky behind it.

  It redoubled its speed, running faster than it had ever run in pursuit of even the most delectable prey. But this time, it was not the hunter, it was the hunted, and no wolf pack had ever chased its quarry with such implacable zeal. The giant wolf was scarred on its muzzle, its sides and even its belly from a hundred vicious battles, most of which had been victorious, nevertheless, it did not think for a moment to stop and fight.

  Brambles slashed at its face and twigs snapped as it hurled itself into the underbrush, hoping that the sky-riding hunters would lose sight of it in the tangled chaos that clutched and grabbed at its furred pelt. The wolf crossed over a stream as it headed for the dark heart of the elder forest, knowing that even the quick-moving water would do no more than slow its pursuers for a heartbeat, if that.

  As the tree trunks grew thicker and the tangled brush faded into rich-smelling humus, soft beneath its pads, the wolf was able to pick up its pace somewhat. It loped on for what seemed like hours, paws beating out a rhythmic cadence as it picked out an inerrant path between the trees. On and on it ran, until at last it reached the heart of the ancient wood. Shielded by the towering canopy of broad-limbed oaks, the sky overhead was black, showing no sign of the moon, the stars or, most importantly, that deadly, arcing rainbow of furious colours. Perhaps it had not yet escaped the dread hunt altogether, but it was safe enough for the nonce.

  The wolf paused and caught its breath, its great muscular chest heaving with the overheated exertion of the last two hours. Catching scent of nearby water, it stalked wearily towards what turned out to be another stream, possibly an offshoot of the rivulet it crossed earlier. The beast twitched its ears nervously as it sniffed at the air, but the wind carried no scent of the sky hunters. Satisfied it was alone at last, the great wolf rose to its hind legs and shivered as its fur disappeared, dissolving magically into nothingness, and the night breeze quickly dried the sweat on its pale, hairless skin.

  The stream was only knee-deep, but the erstwhile wolf stooped to immerse its entire body in the ice-cold water. Still overheated, it lapped thirstily at the water, and scooped up great handfuls to splash over its human face, which bore the same wicked scars as the wolf’s battle-marked muzzle. Then, behind it, something growled low in its throat. There was a second growl, and a third. The werewolf froze, and turned around slowly, dreading what it might find.

  And when it turned, it knew despair. For there, creeping out from behind the ancient oaks, lurked a pack. They were no wolves, though, they were far worse than wolves, more dangerous, even, than the werewolf’s own unnatural kind. They were dogs, with white, spotless fur, red-lipped jaws and fiery eyes that bespoke a malicious sapience that was neither bestial nor human. As the shapechanger stared in horror, the first hound threw back its head and howled a howl that was echoed by a terrible horn that sounded deeply through the midnight sky.

  Panicked, the werewolf ran, too surprised and frightened to manage the transformation back into a more useful form. The rough whip-edge of branches slashed and scraped cruelly at his naked flesh, leaving a blood trail for his enemies to follow. But these hounds needed no sanguinary scent to track him. Strangely, the hellhounds made no move to attack, instead they seemed content to drive him forward; only when he slowed or tried to change direction did they snap at him with those deadly, slavering jaws. He sobbed with impotent rage, but there was nothing he could do except run blindly through the night, with a dozen demondogs growling at his heels.

  Light dazzled his eyes as he burst into a large clearing, and when he tried to shield his face, he stumbled, hitting the ground hard. Slowly, painfully, he rolled over and groaned when he saw the great circle of Faery knights riding through the sky above him, the many-coloured glory of their glowing splendour putting the wan light of the full Moon to shame. The knights were encased in glass, though there had never been a stone capable of shattering that eldritch armor, and each plated suit was uniquely hued, with variations marvelous and subtle.

  Some of the faces he knew on sight; certainly he knew the names. They were figures out of legend, heroes and villains of this age, the age before, and a few from the age before that. Tales of their nobility and cruelty had been passed down by his father, his grandfather and his gr
andfather’s father’s father. They did as they pleased, the royal Lords of Faerie, and there was none to gainsay them or stand against them. Save one, of course, but He would lift no finger for the lowly wolfkin.

  It was a nightmare, but it was no dream, the werewolf knew. Sweat trickled down his sides and the salt stung the bleeding scratches inflicted by the unmerciful forest. Over his head, the Faery host circled noisily under the stars, waiting for something, or someone, singing raucously all the while.

  One knight, armored in lavender and bolder or less patient than the rest, could no longer resist the sight of their defenseless quarry. He urged on his magical steed, a great white horse which, though wingless, soared through the sky as effortlessly as an eagle. But at its rider’s command it dropped from the sky like a falling star, plunging towards the ground with heedless abandon.

  But when hope is dead, pride yet remains. Still lying prone on the ground, the werewolf found within himself the wherewithal to resist, and he transformed into a horrific figure, a bestial half-man with the brutal jaws, sinewy muscle and deadly claws of the great wolf. Rolling sideways, he exploded from the ground just as the onrushing fae came upon him, and he snarled in furious satisfaction as his assailant’s eyes widened with surprise. The faery knight tried to pull up and avoid him at the last moment, but the die was cast and the wolf struck a powerful blow at his attacker even as the knight’s steed hammered into him, sending him tumbling head over heels.

  He hit the ground again, much harder than before, and for a long moment he saw nothing but red. But, as his vision cleared, he saw the object of his desire right in front of his still-lupine face, only a few paces away. Buried in earth halfway to its hilt was the knight’s glassy sword, for the wolf had struck at the fae’s hand instead of trying to smash through that impenetrable armor. Pain and fear forgotten in the moment of triumph, the wolf staggered forward to claim his trophy, then thrust it skyward with a howl of angry defiance.

  The faery host answered him with a rousing cheer, for if they sought his destruction, even more did they love a battle worthy of the name. Then, at some unseen signal, the circle abruptly parted and made way for an imposing figure who bid fair to obscure the Moon as he reined in his mount high over the wolf’s head.

  It was the Hunter, and the werewolf quailed before his strange golden eyes, as unearthly as they were merciless. His face was like that of an angel, but from his temples sprang a pair of great antlers that would have cowed the oldest buck in the forest. He wore no helm, and his glassy armor glowed with the verdant green of the springtime grasslands. His huge horn was in his left hand, but his terrible bow was still slung on his saddle as he pointed at the wolf.

  “Name thyself, child of the Twice-Fallen!”

  “I name you, Herne the Hunter,” the wolf defied the faery lord. “Better you send your dogs to bring me down, lest I run you through and drink the devils-fire from your riven throat!”

  The circling Hunt shouted with glee, and a slight smile seemed to appear on the Hunter’s bloodless lips although no trace of amusement, still less mercy, touched those eerie owlish eyes.

  “Thou art bold, Twice-fallen. Perhaps the devils-fire is still strong within thee, even lo, these many generations. If thou wilt not name thyself, then I shall name thee and songs shall be sung of thee, Sword-stealer, and thy pelt shall grace none but the Fae King himself.”

  The knights cheered, but the werewolf only snarled and braced himself to meet his doom as the Hunter spurred his mighty steed downward, drawing a peculiar sword which flickered like wildfire encased in faery glass. Down, down he came, like a furious winter’s-night wind from which there is no escape, and the werewolf almost staggered before the wave of terror that swept before the onrushing Hunter. With a snarl, he gave himself up to his fate and as the great fae swept down upon him, he made another desperate leap. Again, his timing was perfect, and the night sky resounded with the impact of the cataclysmic collision.

  Two swords struck home; one shattered against impenetrable emerald armor, the other bit through fur, muscle and bone to pierce a monster’s heart. Transfixed upon the Hunter’s blade, the werewolf died as he was borne up towards the brilliant Moon and the many-coloured splendour of the triumphant Wild Hunt.

  Chapter 1

  Justified and Ancient

  Yet all these were, when no man did them know;

  Yet haue from wisest ages hidden beene:

  And later times things more vnknowne shall show.

  —Edmund Spenser, The Fairie Queene

  On the south side of London, there is a narrow lane that comes quietly to an unobtrusive meeting with Regent Street in much the same manner that a diffident beggar importunes those upon whom Fortune has smiled more fondly for the price of his morning coffee. To the casual observer, this lane appears to be little more than an alleyway, a dim, seldom-traveled passage of the sort wherein activities unsavory, illegal and immoral are likely to take place. And the casual observer would be correct, for the most part, albeit not in the precise manner most likely envisioned; there were indeed such activities taking place in the vicinity, they were not, however, occurring at the street level.

  In fact, the lane was almost uninhabited at present, traversed only by a solitary wanderer, a slender man of less than average height, whose features were as nondescript as his clothes. Neither handsome nor ugly, there was a boyish look about him, but a faded boyishness suggesting that if Fortune had ever smiled upon him, she had ceased to do so some time past. He wore a brown leather jacket against the evening’s chill, a cheap unfashionable construction which looked as if it had probably been purchased from a remainder’s rack at least three years ago. His jeans were faded, though from long-time wear, not intent, and his shoes, with salt-white water stains lining the sides, appeared to never once to have met with that useful substance, shoe black.

  He looked very much like one of those thousands of vaguely pathetic men who populate large cities like depressed, oversized rodents, as full of unworkable schemes for improbable wealth as they are bereft of either the trappings or the prerequisites of success. And yet, to describe this wanderer in such a way would do him an injustice, for his seeming poverty was born of indifference, not failure, and perhaps more importantly, he was not a man at all.

  The two large black men standing within an alcove in the middle of the alley, whose massive physiques blocked access to an unmarked door, did not know this, of course, not even when he stopped before them and gazed up at them expectantly. He was not the right sort, not at all, and yet there was something about the wanderer which left them disinclined to deny him entrance to the hidden club that they served as a two-headed Cerberus. There was something odd about this humble visitor, whose unkempt russet hair hinted at the disarray in which his humble lodgings—surely a ground floor studio in Streatham—were likely kept.

  Something odd, and perhaps something frightening, too. For when the larger of the two giants deigned to look down and meet the little man’s eyes, preparatory to a silent, but certain dismissal in the form of a head shake, it was the big man who found himself looking away and stepping aside. Nor was his muscular companion proposed to dispute the other’s judgment, instead, he silently reached over and held the door open for their unlikely visitor.

  “Think Chelsea can do it again?” he asked the first bouncer, as he released the door and it closed upon the light steps of the newcomer echoing off the stairs inside.

  “Dunno, mate,” answered his bigger companion, whose accent held traces of a Caribbean ancestry. “Don’t much care for footie. I was two season playin’ wit Wasps, don’ ya know?”

  As the two men began to debate the unanswerable question of which human appendage is best used to guide the irregular movements of an inflated object about the earth, they were both careful to avoid any mention of the little man and his strangely intimidating presence.

  The little man who was not a man snorted disdainfully as he passed the imperious door girl a card and walked p
ast the nightclub’s second, less visible set of bouncers. Atlantis was conceived around a mythological theme, Greek, of course, and the great open space between the gold-plastered walls was populated with statues purporting to represent the various deities, who were, by the look of things, rather helpless against the seas which had already engulfed the sunken city. A golden fountain sprayed water into the air; it was occupied by an attractive dark-haired mermaid whose cigarette struck a discordant note into the classical montage.

  But it wasn’t the cigarette which offended the little man who was not a man, it was Kylie Minogue. It seemed strange to him that a club which had gone to such gaudy lengths to distinguish itself from London’s lesser lights should choose to inflict the epitome of pedestrian Europop on its clientele. Of course, most of said clientele was now conspicuous only by its absence, since it was but nine-thirty and a Thursday night at that. He shrugged. He was not here for amusement, he had a rather more important objective in mind.

  He smiled up at the solitary dancer, a curvaceous dark-haired woman of indistinct ancestry whose low riding hot pants and white halter top left little to the imagination. She swiveled her hips in a desultory fashion, though he could not tell whether she was warming up for a later performance or was only bored. She paid him no more attention than she paid the rest of the world, which was to say, none at all. She simply stood atop her neo-Doric pillar with her feet shoulder-width apart and her eyes closed, moving languidly to the merciless beat.

  But the dancer was no more a woman than was the little man a man. Without warning, her hypnotic motion stopped and her eyes snapped open. She glanced around the room uncertainly, and when her dark eyes met those of the little man, she started, almost violently. Then, as anger filled her face, she leaped down from the eight-foot pillar as easily as a cat.

  “You!” she exclaimed a hissing undertone. “You were to come last Friday! Where were you? Did you forget?”