Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (73 page)

“As will I, Amathon,” Eryian promised. Still watching Eryian, Amathon reared his horse briefly and lifted a gauntleted fist into the air as a final salute; he did not intend to return to the center this day. He then turned the mount and began to move through his men toward the outer edge where he could command his troops. Eryian noticed that as Cassium watched Amathon pull away into the ranks, a mist crossed her eyes. She glanced at Eryian, noticing his gaze. “He was your firstborn son,” she told him, and though Eryian still held the veil against his flesh to fight this final battle, he was stirred as he watched Amathon push his way toward the front. “He has always been their leader, their teacher. He was well trained in the days of the beginning.”

As Amathon left them, the core of axemen tightened inward, surrounding their queen.

“This spawn before us,” Braemacht said, backing his horse into position beside Cassium. “They leave their course scattered before they reach you, my lady. They may number themselves like sand, but they have not guessed the cost they will bear this day.”

For a time the vale of Hericlon was quiet. In the center of the plateau, the circle of warriors with their white cloaks and silver armor shifted, making ready, their center tightening inward. The outer lines locked their massive shields into what looked a circular, impenetrable wall. The Unchurian were still, watching the movement below patiently. Many would wonder who these were, these warriors with their white armor and cloaks, their tall horses, if perhaps they had come of Etlantis, though nowhere was the red bull of the Mother City in evidence. Their shields bore a circle through which a silvered cross was emblazoned. It was a symbol they had never seen before, whose origin was a mystery to them.

For a moment, as though time had snagged, there was no sound in the vale of Hericlon. The quiet seemed an entity unto itself, as if offerings were being made from both sides. Then, a piercing cry shattered the stillness. From the north, toward the mountain, the Unchurians loosed a wall of arrows. It arched in a black shadow, curling. The shields of Righel angled to the sky. Eryian pulled his horse to the side and lifted his shield over both him and Cassium.

The arrows struck in savage rain, and though most of the bolts were warded off by iron shields and bucklers, many of the giants fell. Horses screamed, buckling. Any that dropped near the front were replaced quickly, bodies dragged back, and once more, silence danced.

Eryian glanced worriedly to Cassium. “They could do that all day; whittle us down hour by hour and never leave their hills and mountain spurs.”

“But they will not. Their king will send them in to test their mettle. Only then will they realize they clash against the firstborn of an angel, though they will never understand he was one who chose light over life.”

From all sides the Unchurians began a slow, steady beat of weapons against shields, their rhythm a heartbeat.

“Braemacht,” Eryian said, “make the center hard to find.”

“Aye,” Braemacht nodded and lifted in the saddle. “Axemen, dismount!”

They did so in unison. Eryian dropped beside Cassium. The horses were taken by warriors and led to the outer ranks, and the queen's guard closed about her. From the hills, there would have been no sight of her in the center of the circle of warriors.

The heartbeat of the Unchurians began to increase, both in pace and strength.

“I do not know about you, my lord,” Braemacht said to Eryian, “but the biggest problem for me this day shall be the wait. Our brothers will not die quickly.”

Eryian glanced to the scabbard at his thigh. He had left the sword of Righel sheathed, but he saw light spill about the lip of the scabbard, a pulse of it, in rhythm with the beating of the shields of the Unchurians. Eryian knew then the sound was in time with the heart of Azazel. He remembered years ago, even in the beginnings, many of the other angels called him the Reaper. Of all the Star Walkers who swore upon the stone of Ammon, he was the most unpredictable; his blood, even though he had walked as a lord of the choir, had always been hot.

Eryian glanced aside to Cassium. “Have you thought, my lady, that with your knowledge you should be the one to wield this sword? I have not lifted its hilt in battle in seven hundred years, and never have I wielded it as a mortal.”

“Its touch would be acid against my skin, Eryian.”

“I do not understand; you virtually spill the light of heaven from your eyes.”

“No, Eryian. I seek the light, I seek that it will once more fill my heart, but I am still bound by the oath made upon the mountain of Etlantis that day long ago. I am unforgiven.”

“I cannot understand what wrong you could possibly bear.”

She paused. “Loving you,” she replied. “And I would drink from the cup again if offered.”

She stared back at him, her eyes attesting the truth of her promise. “Eryian, there is only one person who can light the blade of Righel, and that is Righel.”

“Do you think he knows? That Azazel realizes it is not merely aganon he smells below, but that it is Righel's sword?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. You have hidden yourself too well—he is clever, but he has no reason to even dream that you have returned to the vale to face him. If I had not been summoned of the talisman, you may even have fooled me, warlord.”

“It seems by rumor that some of them have grown weaker over the centuries, that some have begun to age, their skin like mortals, like old men. But not him. They whisper he has grown even more powerful, turning all his arts to darkness and the mastery of death.”

“It is an illusion he casts. The star knowledge fails him as it does the others, but mortal seers do not realize. Since the day he broke his vows, as all of them, he has tried to hold to the light, grip it in his hand, but it spills between his fingers and seven centuries have passed. He is weaker than when last you knew him, far weaker. But for us, with you a mortal, his power is still beyond imagining. But I can promise, even Azazel is not immune, even for him the turning has begun. Your warriors, your king, have opened the eye of Daath and Aza-zel's weakness began to burn in him like fire against his skin. He feels it now like pain. To fall from the light is a terrible pain, I am told. You spared me; you did not turn me as many of the angels did their Star Walker Queens, so I will not know this pain. And yourself, you surrendered your mantel that you would find your way back as a mortal; thus it is spared, you as well. But I have heard it spoken of others that the pain comes deep from within, a burning in their soul like mortals feel a burning of the flesh. He walks proud still, but he cannot escape the passage, though he was once Bene ba Elohim, he shall die as men shall die, with a belief he has had to sustain, to believe that with the Watchers he can stand against heaven itself in the days of Aeon's End. Only a being as bright as the Light Bearer could ever have led him this far into denial.” “How long were you his?”

She turned, startled that he had asked. “You would want to know that?” “I still protect myself through the veil, remember?”

She half-smiled. “Of course. A year, perhaps more. It was not long before you came to take me. I have always wondered of it, you know. That from the heavens you saw me, and found in me something that drew you so strongly you stepped down from the stars to spare me my soul.”

“It seems not so hard to believe myself, seeing you again. Though I leave the memories fogged, I can understand why I came for you.”

Suddenly, from all sides a great roar went up, shouts and cries. Swords and axes lifted high. Eryian could barely make it out, but up high, near Hericlon's passage, the Unchurians were parting to let a single rider through.

Near the edge of the southern front, Amathon took up ranks and remained mounted even though he became a prime target in the white cloak and the silvered armor. He would remain so for his men, to let his brothers know he was there, that his voice would guide them on. The horsemen were readied not far behind. They would choose carefully their moment.

Amathon circled his horse, watching the wall of men and shields from the ridge above lift and descend, like a wave breaking over the Earth. It seemed the air itself pressed against them, and Amathon heard more coming than the sound of their feet. He heard shrieks, whispered screams that passed through the ranks with cold slaps, and he could seem them, Uttuku, the dead of the giants. He and his brothers had not been born on Earth, and throughout his life, he had dedicated himself to the mothering light of the seventh star. Though they had never sung in the choirs of heaven, they still called themselves Seraphim, after their father. Yet still he wondered, if by fault of birth, there was no forgiveness, that his soul would be one those left wandering the Earth. He understood that Eryian had made a supreme sacrifice, that he had not turned their mother, as were most queens of the angels, into the walking undead of the Winternight. But they were Nephilim. Would even the sacrifice made by Righel be able to spare their souls? He felt heaven's light and he would die this day believing, but the shrieks of the Uttuku left a sinister dread in the deep of his bones.

The wave coming against them left the Earth trembling in its quake; their weight alone could crush ramparts. The air trembled. The old one, the second of the three who was called Azazel by the men of Earth, had amassed thousands, hundreds of thousands … more. He had brought sons unnumbered and had launched them against the brotherhood of Righel at full run, a torrent. The sons were not giants as Amathon had heard all firstborn of Earth to be; they were smaller than he and his brothers, the size of men, with night-black hair and skin a reddish hue. Azazel's blood must have been pure in the beginning, almost as filled with light as the archangel, for these Unchurians were much as the Daath. Of course, it would make no difference in battle; their numbers alone would eventually overwhelm the sons of Righel. Still, he wondered why they came, these pure-blood warriors, these first blood of Azazel, as if they had all been carefully selected.

The circle of white cloaks and silver armor facing them was left no more than a pebble, and the wave that surged came from all sides.

“Archers!” Amathon shouted. The archers of Righel readied themselves, but Amathon waited; he let the wave in closer. The arrows strained against their sinews. Amathon continued to wait. He could see the battle frenzy burning in their eyes as they charged. Many had streaks of silvered hair to one side, and he knew this was not cosmetic, that it was mark, like a mutation of skin.

“Fire!” Amathon finally screamed.

It was a brief shadow that passed. The missiles slammed into the charge and for a moment, the entire circle buckled, folding into the screams of those struck and of others trampled as the wave curled, broke, and continued forward.

“Load!” Amathon said, pausing this time only a second. “Fire!”

Again, from the Unchurian front, horses screamed, men crumpled, and a second wave broke over the bodies. The Unchurians grew excited, almost reaching their mark, almost to the wall of shields held before the giants.

“Spears!” shouted Amathon.

As the archers drew back, spearmen took a slight run and launched their weighted long spears in a straight drive that tore through the Unchurians heavier and more devastating against flesh than the arrows. A final circle of warriors crumpled as the spears slammed through them.

“Shieldbearers forward, lock shields, and brace!”

Thousands of them dead already, the Unchurians finally reached the front. Their timing was careful; they struck from all sides at once, the weight of the charge hammered into the Seraphim of Righel. The shields of Righel were staggered, in places were broken, but many of them held, lifting and throwing the Unchurians back, as if they had struck a wall of white stone. “Horsemen!” Amathon cried. “Attack!”

Like gates swinging open, in places the shield parted, and cavalry, in tight groups of sevens, became like missiles, as well. They drove forward, lances lowering, and bore into the frenzied attack of the Unchurians like carving deep wounds. Many of the lances were shattered, others lodged in their victims, and while some horses fell, many turned and vanished back behind the lines as the shield parted and let them through to regroup.