Angelslayer: The Winnowing War

by K. Michael Wright

  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 t
horn 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.

  In a single beat of its wings, the Nephilim was suddenly close enough to touch Adrea. But at first he did not try. He simply stared at her, taken, as if he wished to admire her beauty. One eye socket was crushed by Loch’s blow, but both of them held a dark, distant light she could barely make out—the soul of the Nephilim.

  Over his shoulder, Adrea noticed Loch come to his knees and wrench the dagger from his shoulder where it had lodged mostly in his armor. On his feet, he soundlessly moved for his sword.

  The Nephilim touched her hair.

  Loch was running for them, his long sword against his chest, but the creature did not look back; instead he seemed to tip his head, noticing something. He looked to Adrea’s stomach.

  When Loch reached them, the beast simply snarled. He turned to knock the long sword aside with a sweep of his hand. He twisted to the side, grabbing Loch by one arm, and threw him over his shoulder, slamming him so hard into the ground that Loch did not get up or even move.

  Now the Nephilim could take his time. He stepped back toward Adrea, started to reach for her—but Adrea had laid the tip of Loch’s knife against the vein in her throat.

  “Touch me and I am dead. You will have no life to suck. I deny you.”

  “Cut your pretty throat,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper, distorted. “It will be disheartening, but I have the life I came in search of. I will kill this one, his father is already dead, and the last scion of the Daath is in you. It is over; it ends now.”

  She tried to stab at her abdomen, but this creature moved far swifter than she. He slapped the dagger from her hand. He grabbed her hair, drew a sword, and was about to behead her when suddenly there was a pulse, a burst of some kind, like nothing Adrea had seen before. It was pure and white and focused. The Nephilim simply turned into shadow, then scattered as dust in the light wind from the ocean.

  Adrea turned to see the Etlantian named Sandalaphon behind her on a huge horse. He was watching her, sheathing a sword whose blade was still pulsing with a silver-blue.

  He looked at her only a moment, then rode past toward Loch. Adrea felt something from him—she sensed it. The creature he had just slain was once his brother. He had just killed one of his own—a light bearer’s child.

  “No shame, Loch,” the giant said sternly as Loch moaned, slowly struggling to get to his feet. “You did all you could. He would have proved hard to kill for anyone.”

  Loch was able to stand, breathing with difficulty until he pried off his dented armor and threw it aside. He looked around for a corpse. “Where is he?” asked Loch. “The Nephilim?”

  “Slain,” Sandalaphon said. “He is dust. His spirit—who can say? You had no chance, Lochlain. He was a firstborn son of a prefect. He would have killed you both and taken the child.”

  “His father?” asked Loch.

  “His father was my father,” Sandalaphon answered. “They did not yet realize there was a child. This one just slain, he discovered the scion, but only when he was near enough to smell the girl. Until then he was unaware. But his senses were keen, strong; others may now know what he saw.

  “Assassins moved through this land from the south, they were few in number, but they spread out and chose their targets carefully. They meant to wipe out the bloodline of Uriel by killing both you and your father. They failed to take you, and though you will still be hunted, for now you are safe. But know something, prince of Daath; they have slain your father. Argolis is dead.”

  There was only slight emotion in Loch’s face over his father’s death. He seemed determined not to care, but his eyes were no longer black. They softened.

  “Many will soon move against the Daath,” Sandalaphon said. “It begins. Azazel comes with his armies against your people from the south of Hericlon—he comes with many. But do not fear the sea, as well. I suspect Eryian will learn enough to move his legions for the south. But if they find this girl, none of it that will matter.”

  “Then what?” asked Loch. “Hide her? Where?”

  “It is not possible to hide her in this world. They see everything in this world and shortly they are all going to realize what has occurred. You have taken a queen that opened the eye of Daath. No one expected that. Not even me.”

  “Then what are we to do?”

  “I can think of only one thing to try. I must take her and attempt to jump time. If I can, I will open but a small rift, one barely felt, and find a future so closely parallel to this that it will intercept, fuse, become one.”

  “That happens?”

  “It can be done. I know that is difficult to understand, but that is the way of the star knowledge. There are things I cannot fully explain. It will be difficult, even for me, and it is possible I will fail. But I see no other path. Even if I were to remain, try to protect her, they would get past me. The only chance we have is for me to attempt a star walk.

  “I will leave you as bait, but even you will not know my destination. I am sorry. If I fail, you may not be able to find her, even in all of time, but then if I fail, all will fail, Aeon’s End will swallow this Earth, this universe, everything you see or know.”

  “You are certain of this?” “I am certain.”

  Loch noticed tears streaming down Adrea’s cheeks.

  “I am sorry—I know you have both only now found each other. But it must be done, and it must be now; we cannot delay.” “Now?” asked Loch. “This moment?”

  “The powers that seek out the scion of Uriel are stronger than even you imagine. We cannot wait. It must be now. Which leaves you both to say good-bye.”

  Loch turned to her. His eyes were burning and if he let his emotions out, he might have found words for her, but all he could do was offer his hand in the sign. When her fingers touched his, he pulled her close; he pulled her hard against him and held her for all he was worth. No tears came. Perhaps he had no tears, but he clung to her because he would need to remember this, the feel of her, the smell of her.

  “Good-bye, my love,” she whispered in his ear.

  He stepped back. She stared at him, lines of tears down her cheeks.

  Sandalaphon bent in the saddle and lifted her, pulled her against his chest.

  “You have done well, scion of Uriel. You fought as a lion. Faith’s Light, kindred.”

  Loch swallowed past the knot in his throat and turned away. He did not want to see them vanish. He closed his eyes, head lowered. He felt something pass through him, like a cold, soft wind. The earth around him shivered slightly, and then quiet closed in. He shivered, sadness moving through him like rain as he slowly turned. They were gone. There was nothing there but the dead Unchurians and fallen horses.

  He had been alone before, but never so utterly. He could no longer feel her, not her flesh, not her soul, not her spirit. He no longer even had the ring to give him dreams of her. It was as though she had vanished utterly from his world. Perhaps forever.

  He walke
d through the field, steeling himself against the sadness, tightly drawing in his emotion and forcing it deep where it could not affect him. He began a run, keeping an easy, steady pace toward Terith-Aire. It was a far distance, but he thought of nothing as he ran; he left his mind as empty as the sky.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Runner

  It had been a far journey from the gate of Hericlon to Galaglea for Cathus. It was like nothing he had known. But after four days, he was still alive. One would not have guessed by looking at his emaciated form, but Cathus the thief was very good at staying alive.

  He had ridden as Rhywder had commanded. He had pressed down the twisting passes of Hericlon and about the edge of the Vale of Tears. Once or twice he passed through something insubstantial, a mist like it was formed of gnats, but he continued to ride. He did not look back. His fear of the night mounted until it became as fears often did, until it melted into itself, numbness, a resignation. If something was going to happen, then so be it. His father had taught him that before he was killed in a tavern bar, leaving Cathus homeless.

  Cathus was ten and five years. He had lied about his age to join the Daathan legions, but in these days, the Daath cared little of names or ages; there were garrisons in far lands that housed many youths who had simply run away. And Cathus had been running all his life. He had grown in the twisted streets of the rich port city of Ishmia. He had never known father or mother. How he had reached an age where he could steal and eat, he did not remember.

  The first night of Cathus’s ride from Hericlon passed without event. Ca-thus had circled the quarry, and though it was wide and deep and stank of swampland, still it was quiet. He kept along the trees, his shield over his shoulder, one hand always on his dagger.

  He had slept the day curled under a fallen log, his horse given heaps of pulled grass and tied to a sapling in a gully. With nightfall he rode on. It was the second night when things grew difficult. It was not long before he found he was pursued—not by demons or spirits or haunting or screaming winds, but riders. If you see a man, him you fear, the Little Fox had told him.