Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (88 page)

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.