Many of the Daath crouched along the edge of the butte, leaning against sword and spear shafts, shields cast aside. Others were dying. Some held slain brothers. Below them, filling the valley from the butte to a south shore of high ground, waters churned, heavy. As it had been in ancient times, the river was once again wide and mighty, the icy waters of the mountain spurs. For a long time the waves were dark and rolling, until there was only purple and white froth, drifting with trees and debris.
There would be time to rest. The waters would be high and strong—impossible to breach without a bridge or crossing.
Eryian rode slowly among his men. The wounded that would live were being lifted onto litters. The dying were slain and laid upon the pyres being built. Eryian was amazed to find a weary, bloodstained Tillantus standing dazed, staring over the waters.
“Look there,” he said, pointing his bloodied axe. Across the river, in the vale, Unchurians were gathered. Fires were being lit, dotting the land like stars, glittering in forest and along far hills.
“If not for you by my side, I would believe myself mad. How many more could there be? We’ve killed a kingdom of warriors this day!”
“It is a calculation the demon has nursed for seven hundred years. He has raised and honed these firstborn—the finest of them—since the oath of Mount Ammon. They have not aged, and they have been trained for centuries.” “Why? For what purpose?” “Our extinction.”
Tillantus glanced at him.
“Those are the Follower’s words. Never guessed you for one of those Enochian tale weavers.”
“I have been one, but now I wonder.”
“Well, I will admit, this particular bastard is as powerful as anyone I have ever faced.”
“More than even I, Tillantus—possibly more cunning, as well. For aeons he has bided his time, chosen his moves, all for a single hour. This hour.”
“Then by logic our extinction is imminent. Our only possible next stand could be the forest of the East of the Land. That will slow them, give us time to reach the walls of Terith-Aire itself. If they catch us before the East of the Land, we will be sword against sword on open ground and we cannot prevail.”
“Hold to Faith’s Light, Captain.”
“Never have known you to be a man of scriptures, my lord.”
“I have not known myself to be one until these last days. Faith’s Light, Tillantus, when next they come, when next we stand sword to sword against ten times our number, find in the center of your heart that place where light still dwells. It is all we have left us.”
Eryian turned the reins and rode through the ranks west, toward the ports of Ishmia. It left Tillantus wondering. Eryian had never been wrong. If there was light of heaven, so be it. Though it was, admittedly, late in life for Tillantus, the aging high captain of the Daath, to be searching for that place in him where it dwelt. If these were the prophecies of Enoch unfolding, the world, in his view, had as little chance as a hare in an open field against a wolf pack. He turned and somberly started after the warlord. Odd, he thought, how the day had no taste left in him, that all the blood and flesh and bone that had been crushed of life held no taste, even little sorrow. No pity of the dead. Perhaps that was how prophecies unfolded. Elyon seemed to bear no sorrow of his loss, so why should those who suffered it? This god was not one for compassion; no one could argue that point. Perhaps He had heaven’s purpose, but of sorrow for the suffering of men—none.
It was night when Eryian reached the port city of Ishmia. The first legion had been hit hard, had lost perhaps a century of men, but they were still strong. The second legion had hardly seen bloodshed. Both armies were abandoning the ridge and would now form a barrier to the rear of the refugees as they fled along the King’s Road for Terith-Aire. It was open ground, no cover, no defense. Eryian thought he had never really fought a war of defense. He had slain, that was all, he had burned and crushed and overwhelmed to achieve the gathering of the tribes, but never had he been on the wrong side of a siege, never had he been in retreat. But an ancient enemy, apparently, had been watching him long, knew his every weakness.
From the second legion, Eryian peeled off two centuries to guard Ishmia. The flood had effectively cut off the south bank, but he no longer trusted logic.
There were no ships in the typically cluttered dock of the city, and the buildings and temples and courts were vacant, empty. The women, the dancers, the noise of the bustling port were all gone. By now, nearly all of the civilians had been evacuated—they held a view of the ridge and the fighting from here. Any who wished to climb to the tops of buildings or hillocks could have watched the carnage. There was little resistance when the Daathan scouting parties came through the city streets ordering the inhabitants to leave their belongings, to take but the clothes they wore, their children, and loved ones, and press hard for the high walls of Terith-Aire. And so they did; they left their taverns, their shops, villages, left even their jewels and fine wares still waiting to be sold. It was a thieves’ paradise, but even thieves had fled. The only tangible occupants left were the shadowy pockets of fear and terror. If any had doubts of what they faced, all they needed was to look upon the blood-darkened waters of the isthmus beyond the wharf, bobbing with the burnt and bloodied corpses of horses and men, like leaves scattered after a hard autumn wind.
Eryian was looking over the strange sight when a boy rode up beside him and bowed in the saddle. “I am the chemist’s assistant,” said the boy, “and you must be Eryian, the warlord.”
Eryian nodded.
From a saddle pouch the boy lifted several small packets, wrapped with thin, green leaves, and offered them. Eryian took them, grateful. “Send your chemist my thanks, boy.”
“Aye, my lord, but it is our thanks to you. If you need more, the chemist shop is opened, unlocked—we are riding north with the others.” Eryian nodded. “Godspeed.”
The boy bowed once more, then turned his horse and set off down the street, weaving between the warriors of the first and second century from the second legion.
Eryian had always ridden out pain, but this, the shattered bone in his leg, for this he gave in, stuffed a wadded leaf packet just inside either cheek, then put the rest of them in his belt pouch.
He leaned wearily on the horse, still lashed to the saddle.
“My lord,” said a commander, pulling up beside him. “I have escort for you to rest with your wife. Your injuries are severe. We will watch the wharfs, my lord.”
“I will stay for a time, Commander, satisfy myself against surprises in the night.”
“Speak of them,” said Tillantus, who reached his side. He had been riding hard, his horse sweated, and he was even a bit winded. Eryian could not believe there was more danger; at least the night should be sound—they had earned that.
“Elyon’s grace has blessed us further,” Tillantus swore, then grabbed Eryian’s arm hard, nails biting. “Look there!” He pointed across the muddled bay. “Ships! They have a legion of damned fully armed ships!”
Eryian felt a shiver, which was rare for him. He must have kept them to sea or the flood would have destroyed them, and in fact, he noticed a flotilla closing on the southern shore even now from the west. He had outguessed even the flood, Eryian’s last stab. It should have been complete, should have at least broken battle for a day or so, enough time to get civilians and what remained of his legions to the trees of the East of the Land. But now he stared across the darkened water in disbelief. The bay had risen; it had even swamped many of the wharf and docks, leaving it almost an inland sea. Here, on this side, any merchant ships, any galley still left, had been swept away, and some were even thrown up against taverns and shop faces, looking out of place lying on their sides and tops with crushed masts. Yet, on the far side, across the isthmus, untouched ships had gathered in the dark and now were fearless enough to light their stern and aft lamps for boarding. They were ships of all kinds, warships, merchantmen, heavy galleys with angled sails and tiered oars. Eryian felt a revulsion, a powerful hatred; he had been outguessed. No one outguessed the warlord of Argolis, and he imagined, none had outguessed his former flesh, the angel Righel. But this one saw futures so clearly, he had planned for each. Eryian remembered now the seamen’s rumors: that the southern seas past the Daathan coast were cursed; that despite the riches in spices, gold, and slaves to be gained beyond the western seas of the Daathan coast, ships simply vanished; good ships, hardened captains, disappearing without storm or ice or any logic. They simply went south and never came back. Now it was clear why. They had been collected. The angel had looked into the future, he had seen this as possible, his first onslaught against Eryian a failure. If these ships could form a bridge across the isthmus, it would be possible for the Unchurians to catch the remaining legions of the Daath, as well as their protected civilians, in open land, with no defenses. Even after the slaughters of two insane battles, the vale, and the ride—the number of the Unchurian armies would still be an answer to the angel’s prayers. Elyon’s grace. Elyon’s Light. He left His people like sheep before predators; He stole hope; He crushed hearts and trampled strength. Eryian spat to the side. He wanted to swear his anger to heaven. His fury simmered though him and even the words of Cassium, her warnings against hatred, held no boundary. It was not Azazel that now stirred his fury; it was Elyon. It was a God that gave His best and most pure hearts to hopeless futures. Why even fight on? Why not give the civilians a quick and painless death, then drive into this unstoppable wall of warriors, die well, and end the prophecies and all the hope of mankind. They were not human; it was never the Daathans’ fight to begin with—even according to legend the ship named Daathan had left in the day of Yered to answer the blood cries of an Earth they had no place on, and true to form, the Daath had been outcasts for all these centuries. Feared by all. Even Etlantis had been careful to offer no offense. “My lord, are you all right?”
Eryian did not answer. He curled a tight fist against his thigh, feeling his blood pump through the temples of his head as across the bay these ships scurried with their ants and insects boarding with weapons and catapult and fire.
“My lord?”
“How far the legions?”
“Two, three degrees of the moon.”
“Then they would never reach us in time to do anything but die.” Tillantus did not know how to respond; he had never seen such a look on Eryian’s face.
“Those ships,” Tillantus said, “most look Etlantian. They could aid us, possibly. If the south takes this port city, not to mention Terith-Aire, it is not good for Etlantian trade routes.”
“No, they are his, Azazel’s. That is his name—why hide it any longer? The unholy bastard is outguessing every move we make,” Eryian said, simmering in anger.
There seemed a whispered chuckle in answer, but it was indistinct; it could have been a whining timber of the dock, or a wind through the awnings of one of the taverns.
“But how?” asked Tillantus. “How so many ships? The Unchurians are not seafarers.”
“No, these ships are Etlantian, Pelegasian, fishers of Ishmia. They are ships that made the mistake of sailing too close to the islands that lie to the far south of Hericlon where he had built his kingdom.”
“It cannot be,” Tillantus muttered. “This cannot happen. We have fought the dark itself this day—we need time, at least to catch our breath. They breach this isthmus; there is no time to even mount a defense.”
“We have no choice; they are gathering their ships quickly. The campfires of armies left behind in the vale were merely to fool us. They are going to cross, and they are going to cross now, with nightfall. We will fight with what we have, give Elyon more lives, more souls, and when all is lost, perhaps then He will be satisfied.”
“Moments ago you spoke of His Light, to find it, use it as our last hope.” “That was before He gave the demon an Endgame.”
“You have any specific orders, my lord, any preparation?”
“Other than to die?”
“Yes, other than to die, my lord.”
“Naphtha. Ships burn. Do we have catapults and naphtha?”
“Catapults are still being brought down from the ridge, too far to reach us, but useless if they did. Every drop we had was used in lacing the vale and coating the river to burn. There is naphtha in Terith-Aire in abundance, but of course, that does us little good here.”
“The first and second legion have by now reached Lucania; they could never turn in time. So then, we have what we have—two century. Good men. We will make a stand here, a line along this wharf. It is crushed and mangled by the floodwaters; that will make at least a difficult landing. We can make a killing stand, even if it is in the end futile.”
“Aye, at least that.”
“Have your captains assemble shieldbearers along the line of this wharf, what archers we have, javelins, and when you have your orders given, press on, catch the legions moving north and press them at triple time, all they have. There will be weak civilians, old ones, young ones, unable to keep up, but they must be left behind. We cannot lose all our people, Tillantus. Hold first at the line of the East of the Land, using the trees to slow them—then prepare for the siege of Terith-Aire.”
“Captain, I cannot leave you.”
“It was not a discussion, Tillantus, those were your orders.”
“But your leg, your injuries …”
“Go, now, there is little enough time to prepare.”
“I will send a personal guard to aid you.”
Eryian turned to him, studied him a moment. “It may be the last I see of you, old friend—brother.”
Tillantus tightened his teeth and nodded. He lifted his hand in the sign of the word, as did Eryian.
“Despite what I said, go in Faith’s Light, Tillantus. Godspeed.”
“As you, my brother.”
Tillantus turned the reins and started through the men, shouting orders that were then being repeated by captains of centuries and leaders of cohorts. The Daath swiftly began forming a frontal line, back from the wharf, close enough to damage by missile; far enough to gauge what came against them and prepare their last stand.
Rhywder’s limbs slowly tingled with life, and pain, and when he opened his eyes, he fell. He had no reckoning of earth or sky and landed hard on his side in soft dirt. He rolled slowly onto his back, then stared upward. Night sky. He blinked. That was impossible, but indeed, there was a night above him. It was as though the torrent unleashed had even swept away the clouds and sunset. The stars were like ice shards. Rhywder felt as though he had been hammered out, worked like a sheet of bronze, and he imagined himself flat and crinkled. He sucked cold air into his lungs, and realized he was freezing, shivering, his wet clothes were icy. He leapt to his feet.
“Freezing! Elyon’s grace, I am freezing!” he shouted, dancing, slapping his hands against his sides. He glanced up, still dancing. The huge oak lay above him as though tangled in the sky. It had ridden the edge of the flood until the forest snagged it, and that had saved them. The oak had held to its brothers like a grasping hand. Rhywder now ran for the trees.
Something living had to be in the forest. He needed something living. He fell twice; both times leaping back onto his feet, for if he stopped moving he was not going to last long. When he spotted a horse, he stopped, gasped. He glanced down. Most of his tunic was torn away, but not his sword; it was still lashed to the belt—he had done that, lashed it tight. Pity if he lost his clothes, but the sword he would need if he lived, and there it was. He picked up a rock, weighted it, cast it aside, then grabbed another. Balancing it, he walked forward. When the horse jerked up, he talked to it softly—using all his horse skills and feeling pity inside for what he had to do.
“Sorry about this, my good friend, but I need your blood.”
Rhywder cracked the horse’s skull. He grabbed his sword and quickly cut into the hide, fingers numbed; his skin looked almost blue as he worked. Finally he pulled the bloodied hide over his shoulders, then wrapped it about him and knelt, shivering in its steam until warmth began to seep into his chilled skin. He looked up. Beyond, the horizon toward the sea was stained a fire glow. It was Ishmia. They had failed; everything had failed. It looked, from here, as if Ishmia was aflame.
Weary as the Daath were, and few in number, being only two century, they braced for the promise that if the Unchurians forced a crossing this night—few as they were, with little missile launchers and barely any naphtha—it would still cost to take this dock. No matter where they fought, here, in open field, behind barriers—the Daath were going to make each engagement cost the Unchurian dearly. Other empires would have fallen by now, but no matter—Eryian’s men steeled their faces against the coming onslaught as if this was just another skirmish.
Eryian watched the far southern shore. The armies of the Unchurian were moving quickly. They were going to stagger the assault, keeping the galleys and merchantmen deeper back, protected from any Daathan missiles. If it were Eryian, he would place his most savage and honed warriors in the sleeker, quicker ships, and he had no doubt that was precisely Azazel’s move. If they were good enough at their craft, it would be possible to capture a foothold using the warships and their elite, then bring in the galleys and larger craft, creating a virtual bridge that would cross the isthmus.
The chemist’s powders had numbed out his leg. They threatened, as well, to dull his thought, slow his decisions, but Eryian would fire his spirit past that. He burned with something, something he had never used as fuel before. Hatred. He no longer could say if he hated the choirs of heaven more than the demon he faced across the waters, but he could feel hatred burning in him. It was good fuel for killing. No wonder the frenzy of crazed warriors with nothing left to lose was so effective.
The ships launched. Behind Eryian a strong defensive line had formed. He noticed two bolt launchers and rows of longbows and crossbows. Shield-bearers were moving in just behind them, ready to step forward and absorb the first impact. It would take a degree of the moon, perhaps two, to make the isthmus crossing. The bodies and debris might slow the galleys some, but the sharp prows of the warships were designed to cut waves, and they would slice through the flotsam quickly, like minnows darting. He saw their oars rising and they launched. They were fast; they gained speed quickly.
Eryian turned to ride along the lines of defense. “Hold. Hold against the impossible; hold this night what cannot be held. Our brothers must reach the forest of the East of the Land before this army can close on their flanks.”
A volley of screams and swords beating against shields came in answer.
“I will be here; look to me. If your spirit fails, look to me, and if we fall, my brothers, I will fall with you this night.”
There was silence.
“But if we hold them back, then heaven is our shield. Let us pray and cling to that hope.”
Eryian turned to look across the bay. As he had guessed, from between the lumbering galleys and merchant ships, warships surged like birds crossing air current, gaining speed, their oars flashing. They were closing much faster than he would have guessed.
“When they reach the wharf, the wood and stanchions weakened of the floodwaters will be unsteady. Wait until then to launch your missiles.”
He glanced at the sky. Oddly clear; no broiling storm clouds. This had become a game of strategy; it was simple war the angel played now, as though he enjoyed it—throwing his honed slayers against the finest warriors the world had to offer. It was as much a game to him as it was his mission to destroy the Daath at all cost.
Eryian saw many of the warships had been fitted with fire throwers themselves. They began to launch now, high, arched, ready to plow deep into the city where they exploded in sulfur, naphtha, and splintering stone. The missiles soared over their heads and moments later the explosions could be heard. In little time, Ishmia would begin to burn.
“Come ahead,” Eryian whispered, seething with fury, “bring what you have got. These two hundred will bring down ten times your numbers.” Again, in answer, the whispering chuckle. As if ten times two hundred would matter, a voice played back in Eryian’s head. He was listening, Azazel; he was somewhere across that bay watching the warlord, watching his eyes, his growing fury, and his answer was a soft chuckle.
They were swift, the front runners—the warships. Their prows cut through the flotsam of the isthmus like cutting through waves. The galleys, of course, were coming slow, just in case there were Daathan launchers in range. They were going to let the elite warriors in the warships take out the front lines. Most of them would be minions. For a moment Eryian wondered of the minions Azazel had created. His strongest, his firstblood, must have lost bodies over the centuries, but instead of letting them terrorize the Earth as Uttuku, he had taught his sons the craft of growing what were, though hardened as steel, plant bodies. They were almost impregnable and yet, in truth, no more than vegetables. Without minds to fight back, vegetable matter was easy flesh to manipulate and command, and should they wither or die—more could be grown. There were probably everywhere now fields of these creatures growing their armored, winged bodies. But why had the angel shed his own body? His own flesh? The flesh of an angel was said to be invincible, impregnable by even the fiercest fire. But Azazel was now only a spirit—stealing the bodies of men and making them slaves. Eryian wondered of this, because if there was an answer to it, it was a chance; it was a flaw he could use to bring the angel down. A single, fleeting weakness. It is what Cassium had meant when she said, “If we can turn him.” If his flesh could be destroyed, for a time, as a spirit he could no longer command the elements of earth, perhaps not even these uncounted numbers of Unchurian warriors who were no more than extensions of his own mind, without wills of their own, just the driving will of the angel.
The warships came with oars flashing like wings, and Eryian could see mounted horsemen on their decks, waiting anxiously to leap the rails.
Fire rained from either direction. There were two or three bolt launchers with naphtha missiles in the Daathan ranks, dragged down from the ridge. They burst a number of the fast warships into flame, and even minions did not like flame. But then the bolt launchers were emptied; the missiles depleted. All that was left now would be the arrows of the bowmen, then the shields of the two hundred Daath. If nothing else, it should at least be quick. What crawled like fire beneath Eryian’s skin was that he would not be allowed to face the angel once more. Even with silvered sword, with mortal weapons, that is how he wanted to die, with all his skill and might thrown at the fallen angel who once was Elyon’s own chosen, the second of the three, Azazel, the lord of the choir of the Auphanim.
The clouded sky over the dark water was lit in watery streaks as the warships, hundreds of them, closed the last distance. Behind them, the few strikes the Daath were capable of had left crippled, floating pyres of orange-yellow flame.
The faster, more well built of the warships were coming in a wedge, coming like horsemen against footmen, formed in groups of threes and fives to pierce through like javelins cast, but they were not aimed for the shieldbearers. It was for the damaged wharfs they headed; the farther in they could breach the broken wood beams and planking, the more solid ground they would have for the waiting horsemen. The final surges of the oars were powerful and the rams of the prow posts lifted out of the water like sea beasts. Eryian held his horse in tight rein.
Eryian studied the warships—they had been reinforced, rebuilt; they moved faster than any Etlantians; their armor was thinner, lighter, but he was certain it was also harder to penetrate. They moved with astonishing speed, coming like a heavy wave in a spiked line toward the docks like the teeth of sharks.
“They will ram the docks almost to dry land!” Eryian shouted. “Prepare for horsemen and pikes; they are coming like cavalry!”
“My lord!” shouted one of the protectors left by Tillantus, his name, Eryian recalled, was Mammanon. “You must pull back; you are in open range of even crossbows at this distance!”
Eryian glanced at him. Death would matter little. It would end the pain, the anger, the fury. Perhaps it would not be so bad letting it come quickly. But he would lead these men to their last—he would hope for one more chance at the angel.
“Show my path, Mammanon.”
Mammanon circled his sword to his other guardsmen, twelve in all. “Pull back; pull the warlord back.”
Even as Eryian backed his horse behind the shieldbearers, surrounded by Tillantus’s protectors, he watched the warships ripping toward them in perfect formation; they were going to utterly destroy the docking—drive their armor-piercing hulls deep into the broken wood to reach stable ground.
“Brace yourselves!” Eryian screamed.
The entire wharf, all along its structure, seemed to buckle. Planks were split, cast, timber snapped like bone, the heavy rams and edged prows of the ships cut deep, plowing through the broken wood like cutting into a ship broadside. They hit so hard, the Earth shook and even Eryian’s horse staggered sideways.
He was right, minions, hundreds of them. Some leapt on horseback, not always successful, for the hooves broke through the weakened docking, but others leapt from warships that had plowed through all the way to the bedrock that met the waters of the isthmus. Still other minions did not bother with horses. They were not good at flight, but if necessary they could sail, their heavy wings bearing them up, and many were soaring over the front lines of the Daathan front to strike from the rear.
Soon. It would be over soon. Eryian’s worst regret was that he was going to die at the hand of a minion. He would take several out, but weakened, his leg smashed, his blood already thinned, his death was imminent. It was not the death he would have chosen.
The horsemen of the highborn Unchurian hardly paused in their charge—over the railing of the low-built warship onto the ground of Ishmia, quickly forming to charge in small groups, piercing groups; phalanxes with lances anchored, they would break apart even locked shields like a knife through the ribs.
Missiles of the Daath soared nearly point-blank, dropping hundreds, thinning them considerably, but into other places, the horsemen came so swift, the Daathan lines were being smashed open, thrown into disarray, and once inside, there was open slaughter. The minions were quick, deadly slayers.
Eryian’s guard forced themselves about his front, forming a shielding of their own. They would die before their warlord; it was their last duty and Eryian waited with dark eyes, his blood seething. Out across the isthmus were hundreds, perhaps more than a thousand heavy galleys and merchant ships. The Unchurians would soon be able to cross throughout the night, with nothing left to hold them back, and if they had fresh mounts and rode through the night, it was well possible they could reach the retreating Daathan legions and their civilians before the forest that was the East of the Land. If that happened, the thousands of Unchurian warriors would have open, clean, perfect killing ground.
Loch dropped over the gunwale and waded through the low tide onto the shore of Ishmia’s northern bank. You could not see the city from here—there was a hill that blocked its view—but you could hear screams and you could see fire licking from the isthmus. It meant Hericlon had fallen. It meant Galaglea had been destroyed, and it meant the unwalled and almost impossible-to-defend port city of Ishmia was surely about to be slaughtered. There was a time that would have brought a terrible shock to him, a terrible blow—enough to take his breath. But Loch felt little in thinking of the slaughter, the dead and dying. It was as if something had gutted him of all feeling—he needed now only to understand what was to be done, what was next required of him by Elyon’s grace.
Assembled on the bank were four riders. They were not Daathan or Ishmian. They might have been Etlantian, but they were not. They were giants, Nephilim, but the curse was not over them. These were sons of archangels, and their hearts, as Sandalaphon, were pure even now, even centuries from the light that spawned them. They were true Watchers. They saw what happened in this world, but as Sandalaphon, by edict they could do little.
Loch had seen these men once before. They were with Sandalaphon, and they had been there, in the shadows the day his mother died and when the others had left, when Loch was alone with her a moment, these same Nephilim gathered about the body of the fallen queen and bowed their heads, honoring her. He had heard once, of Sandalaphon, that Asteria was as pure as any queen he had ever known, that she was as white and perfect as even the mothering star.
Now the Nephilim waited, wrapped against the cold in leather and fur. They waited calmly until Loch, Sandalaphon, and Hyacinth were come ashore.
Three horses had been brought, a large one—an Etlantian mount, dark and bred strong—for Sandalaphon, and two smaller, one of them light, steady, swift—a horse for Hyacinth—and the last a warhorse—a charger for Loch, black and shiny.
They mounted. Sandalaphon took up his reins, then studied Loch a moment.
“Ishmia is besieged,” Sandalaphon said. “Your warlord, Eryian, has little time left before his life is taken. He is outnumbered and will certainly die. As always, time is thin, Angelslayer.”
“As always,” Loch answered back.
“We cannot follow, cannot help,” Sandalaphon said.
“I understand—the edict of heaven.”
Sandalaphon turned and lifted a silver cage from the hand of one of the riders. He lifted the door latch and held it high, letting the silver eagle soar into the sky.
“Why this?” asked Loch.
“We have followers, Etlantians. It is their messenger. The chosen of the Daath—the children, including the scion—must survive at all cost. The legions of your people will, of course, fight to the death, but that cannot save the chosen. Thus our brothers will come with seven ships—sailing for the docks of Terith-Aire. They will be marked of white sails and silvered armor over their hulls. They are your final hope—but should they reach the chosen in time, they will press for deep water, and the Unchurian, even the dark one, Azazel, cannot pursue in deep water.”
Sandalaphon paused a moment then. Sadness leaked through his eyes, even as somber as they always were, a mist that might even have been tears—something Loch had never seen in him before.
“My time is almost finished here—one last task, but that shall be quick. I know the weight of heaven bears down upon you, Lochlain. I know you have turned against trying to understand heaven’s path and I can hardly blame you—but that aside, what I say now is personal. Something I have never spoken in all these years.”
“And what is that?”
“I care for you. Even from your birth—across these two decades I have cared for you. Deeply. I see the pain in your eyes and I stir inside, but I know you will stay true to the course. I know who you are. More than I, perhaps, in aeons past—more than I. We may not meet again in this life, Angelslayer, so I bid you farewell. I leave you Elyon’s grace, Elyon’s Light.”
He lifted his hand in the sign of the word. After a moment, Loch did, as well. It was Sandalaphon who pressed forward to touch his palm against Loch’s. He then drew back and looked to Hyacinth.
“My lady, all blessings I give you,” he said.
“And you, Sandalaphon. I regret I could not have known you better.”
“Heaven’s grace, in time we may,” he said with a slight smile. He then glanced at the others, and took up his reins. “Godspeed, both of you,” he said and the five riders turned, heading north and east, the hooves of their horses barely brushing the earth as they galloped, swift, so swiftly they were soon out of sight.
At the top of the ridge, Loch circled his horse, staring below. The entire bay of Ishmia was flickering fire. They might have been campfires in the waters, but they were ships. Many were burning, but many more were not, and these were sailing for the port. The docks and wharfs of Ishmia had been destroyed, and what looked Etlantian warships were embedded into their ruins like a line of spears, forming new docks, new wharfs. Loch could see that when the galley reached them, hundreds of thousands of warriors waited to cross. And perhaps his heart was not entirely hardened, for a line of Daathan warriors, mostly shieldbearers, were holding against minions and skilled firstborn warriors. The bodies in the bay held testament of the battle that had raged there.
He then saw a small number, six or seven of his father’s personal guard, fighting alongside an injured, weakened Eryian. All of the Daath remaining were locked in death grips. It would be over in moments alone. The killing was swift; the outcome certain.
“Your people, Loch—they have not a chance,” Hyacinth said, watching below, “and there, from the south, even more coming!”
Loch glanced to the southern bay. It was a mass of ships, thick with triangular sails, thousands, more ships than he had ever seen gathered before.
He slowly drew the sword. As the Angelslayer came free of its sheath, it was not crystal or silvered. It was a solid, harsh light that brightened the area all around them.
“When I am done with this, Hyacinth, take me to my people,” he said, meeting her eye.
“I will,” Hyacinth whispered.
Loch curled both hands about the hilt of the sword. The muscles of his neck were stretched taut. He set his teeth tight against the coming pain, and then he screamed, leveling the sunblade.
There was a sound, an imploding whumph. Blue lightning simmered about Loch and Hyacinth, crackling. It formed a barrier between them and what the sword was becoming. Loch closed his eyes, focusing. He was shivering, he looked weak, and when Hyacinth saw him, she screamed, for blood spilled out of him everywhere, one stream from his temple, along his cheek, another from his lip, still another from his eye, and every drop formed lines that quickly wove themselves into the pommel of the blade’s hilt. Hyacinth was forced to throw her arm over her eyes when the starstream burst from the sword.
As the minions closed on him, tearing through the last of the King’s Guard, Eryian heard a thunderbolt so powerful it swallowed sound, snuffed it out, and left everything in a numbed emptiness—almost the most profound silence he had ever heard. A vacuum of silence, the very fabric of dark space, and then, like a breath, the sky sucked inward and then burst with the fire of a sun. He recognized this kind of fire. He had seen it before, felt it. It had burst from Righel’s sword when it exploded in the body of Azazel. But this light was not random. It was as if it had eyes to search. Eryian watched living tendrils of white air taking out the minions, striking down from the sky and selectively vaporizing them. And when their skeletal bodies flashed to ashes, each of their spirit shadows were sucked upward to join the rising brilliance that had become the sky. A sun storm. Creation’s fire. He stared amazed as the very air above the Isthmus caught fire and with terrible heat, broiling, destroyed everything above water. Eryian’s men had to look away, shield their eyes. He alone was able to watch as every bit of debris, every ship, every floating corpse, was vaporized and sucked into a vortex that streamed skyward, left of the horsemen in the stars—the stream of light soared for the Seven Sisters, the Pleiades. When he looked back at the isthmus, the water was boiling.
Then, with a shudder of air—as though heaven’s door had just slammed shut—it was over. The quiet that followed was a deafening cowl of numbness. Steam misted. There was nothing left of them. No ships, no highborns, no minions. It was not the end of the Unchurians—for across the far water he could still see their armies in the trees among the southern hills. But for this day, it was over. Many of Eryian’s men dropped to their knees beside him.
For a moment, Ishmia remained as light as day, and the air glowed, silvery. Then, slowly, the night sky seemed to bleed through its tissue, and darkness closed like a word of mercy. Eryian searched the hillside where the sun strike had come from. He saw two riders. One, he knew, despite the distance, was Loch, the son of Argolis, still wearing Daathan armor and cloak. The other, he did not know. Eryian felt a shiver. The blade that had just spoken was the Angelslayer. The boy had become more powerful than Eryian could ever have guessed, yet, at the same time he saw the sword fall from his hand. The rider next to him, a girl, caught it, slipped it, still glowing a fantastic white, into the sheath at Loch’s hip. She then took the reins of his horse. Loch fell forward, barely conscious, gripping the mane of his horse to stay in the saddle. The girl was leading them down the hillside, and when she was close enough, he recognized her face: the little pirate whose poison had dropped even him.