Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (49 page)

A second wave struck, the prow sending wide sprays to either side as it cut through, water spilling across the decks, but lethal danger was past, the waves were diminishing.

Darke was still on the forecastle, as if all he had faced was a harsh wind.

Beyond, where the island once lay, there was now a wall of steam rising. The blackship spun a moment as the seas calmed and the oars were still laid back. Storan eased off the rudder and lowered himself onto one knee, winded. For the moment direction did not matter; he let the ship turn. What did matter was the helmsman had lost so much blood in battle he was not only weak, but his sight was fading and he was feeling close to fainting.

The wall of steam was slowly fading. In its place was a ship. It was the lord of the choir of Melachim, the seventh of the angel prefects, Satariel.

“Elyon be our armor,” Storan whispered weakly.

Darke stepped forward, leaning over the rail near the prow post, amazed to see the angel's ship literally rising out of the sea from the steam of the sunken island.

“To the oars!” he screamed. “Hard into the oars! Helmsmen! Hard about to port! Face that bastard!”

“Damn,” Storan hissed, stepping up to lean into the loom of the tiller. “Captain, may I remind you that is a three-tiered Etlantian whore of the sea!”

“I know what she is, helmsman.”

The oars of Darke's ship lifted like wings and dug hard into the waters, first spinning them to port, then both sides lifted and pulled the sleek blackship forward with a surge. The pace beat slow at first, to gain direction, then stepped up, the oars keeping pace until they were at full attack speed. The emerald eyes of the serpent's head that was Darke's ram glittered as it rose from the waters, curling back sprays of the sea to either side.

Darke turned to Loch. “Shadow Walker—up here! I want that bastard to see who you are.”

Loch glanced to Hyacinth first. “Are you all right, able to hold on yourself?”

“I am fine, Loch, my strength returns quickly. My blood grows stronger each passing moment.”

From the forecastle a wind gathered as they pulled through the waters. Loch climbed up to stand beside the captain. He laid his hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword, but offered it no blood. He had learned to control when it took blood and when it didn't.

“Keep her sheathed,” Darke said. “It is draining you like bloodletting. Keep her sheathed.”

“Through it all, Captain?”

“Aye, what I want the coward to see is you. You have not the strength to contest him.”

“The bastard's turning about!” cried Storan.

“I can see that,” Darke shouted back.

Loch stared as the painted prow of the huge Etlantian ship turned. It may have been gray and ragged, but it looked imposing and mighty as the distance between them started to narrow.

The oars of the Etlantian lifted with a mechanical motion, three tiers of them, well oiled, moving in unison, up swift, then into the dark waters, taking hold. The Etlantian prow, sheathed in crimson oraculum, surged with the force of the oars, lifting out of the water. Loch could see the dim fire of the throwers flickering through their ports to either side of the Etlantian's bow. From the forecastle, he could see wraithlike figures of giants gathered, holding shields, javelins ready.

“She is three-tiered,” shouted Storan. “She will rain down all manner of fire from the sky if we pass her close in!”

“Keep your concerns on holding your course, helmsman.”

Darke turned. He looked to Fire Rat standing beside him, watching the approach of the angel's ship with utter awe.

“Light the throwers,” Darke said.

The Fire Rat literally gasped with zeal and leapt over the forecastle railing, scrambling through a hatchway. He was about to do the one thing he had lived his entire pitiful life to do.

“Man the catapults!” Darke cried.

“Mothering star, your light be our shield,” Storan prayed. “Let us not go alone, good lady; give us your grace and protection.” “Take up shields!” Darke screamed. “She's coming straight on, Captain!” Storan called. “I can see that, helmsman.” “Damn it all, but we cannot take her straight on!” “And she cannot take us. The angel fears his slayer! Danwyar!” “I am here, Captain!”

“Bring the catapult about! Take out the forecastle and a few of those highborn Nephilim bastards when I give word!”

Fire Rat came from the lower deck, pulling the end ropes of goat bags, black from pitch and oil. He left them beside the catapult and then ran maniacally for more.

The angel's ship was gathering speed, closing fast, peeling back the sea about the prow in frothed curls, moving twice, maybe three times as fast as Darke. She was not a warship. Rather, the angel manned a ship of the line, heavily weighted, yet the sheer muscle behind her three tiers of oars was that of highblood giants, the sons of the angel, centuries old and as skilled as their age. Though Darke's ship was faster, the angel's was heavy and powerful. The ship's bull's-head ram—the ancient symbol of Etlantis, of which the angel was once a prince—lifted from the water like a beast. If it managed to strike Darke's ship, even graze its side, the solid oraculum, with its great horns like mighty spears, would tear anything they caught asunder.

“Daathan, get yourself a shield,” Darke said.

“Call me Loch,” he answered, sliding his arm through the buckler strap of a large oval shield tossed to him by one of the crew. For a moment Darke met his eye. If their circumstance was uncertain, the bond they had formed of mutual respect had overcome it.

As the distance closed, the Etlantian ship looked huge—a mountain tearing through the sea. It was so close it blocked out the sky, a ship as big as a city closing on them, the drumbeat in its belly hammering with an eerie promise of death waiting. On the high forecastle, giants were manning the prow with spear and arrow and crossbows. Her fire throwers were lit and dripping fire like splats of orange-gold blood hitting the water.

Darke knew he had never faced giants as these. They were every one of them a chosen, everyone a firstborn, all of them a Nephilim. Two hundred sons of the angel. In battles he had faced as many as ten or twelve Nephilim hunting in packs, but here, aboard this ship, were minimally two hundred.

Loch stared at the faces near the prow. One caught his eye and held his gaze, the eyes lit an ice-blue, like stars, the face below the helm weathered and angry. At first Loch had thought this was a Nephilim staring him down as a dare, but suddenly he realized it was the angel himself, Satariel.

“Hard starboard!” Darke cried.

Storan swore and heaved all his weight into the tilling oar, the spikes of his boots digging into the deck. He growled with the effort, the muscles in his neck bulging in cords.

“Lay back and lock port oars!” Darke screamed. In the final seconds, Darke's blackship, far more maneuverable than the angel's, was set to veer sideways, barely slipping past a head on clash.

“Catapult!” Darke cried just as they closed.

Danwyar rode the catapult as his men swung it about. Danwyar aimed the arm hard back to send his weapon almost vertical. He cut the braided torsion ropes just as the two ships closed. He braced against the recoil of the heavy arm as it slammed into the crossbeam. Fire Rat's bags soared high, wobbly, straight up, spreading out. They slammed into the railing and prow post of the forecastle. The strike was dead-on, exploding in a rain of fire, along with the Rat's special mixture of spiked iron balls, spear tips, and twisted, sharpened iron scraps. It sprayed the Nephilim preparing to launch their arrows and spears against Darke's ship as it passed below; it even struck the angel himself. It was deadly and would have taken out a score of ordinary Etlantians, but these were all Nephilim, and few would have dropped. However, the strike did throw their aims into disarray and their missiles went wild, soaring over the ship, striking the sea, the railing, hitting blind and missing nearly all the crew, though one or two cried out, taking hits.

“Shields!” Darke screamed.

The shadow of the angel's ship fell over them. With a mighty roar the fire-throwers off the Etlantian's bow exploded in a blast that curled over the railing and forecastle of Darke's ship. It hit the face of Darke's shield and peeled back as he knelt behind it. Loch used a large oval shield to guard both himself and Hyacinth as they crouched behind it. The heat striking the shield's face burned against the skin of his forearm where he gripped the straps.

Parts of the deck caught flame, but all of Darke's ship was waxed against fire strikes.

Storan screamed, red-faced, heaving all his weight into the tilling oar for the tight swerve while still keeping a shield over one shoulder. The horns of the bull's-head ram were high out of the water, eager to catch his rear, so as soon as the bow cleared the ram he moved his hand to shift and pull away the stern. Darke wanted his blackship at the very edge of the Etlantian. It was a move they had perfected, but Storan was weakened and it took all he had to maneuver the rudder. Both ships were cutting through the waters at full speed, in a spray of sea.

The blackship barely slipped past the dark red horns of the angel's ram, so close the left horn screeched as it left a scar across the hull near the stern.

Arrows rained thick from the gun ports of the Etlantian ship, and Danwyar dove for the cover of the catapult base. One of his men went down with a scream.

Darke stood, lowering his shield.

As Darke's ship slipped past the bull's ram it purposefully slammed into the lower tier oars of the dragon's port side, snapping their timber, wiping them out with blow after blow of the prow post and port side of the blackship. The pirates were destroying the port oars of Satariel's ship like cutting saplings.

“Loch,” he said, “stand, lower your shield, bare yourself.”

“Captain,” cried Hyacinth, “he will be killed!”

“I think not, I do not believe the angel dares; he fears the sword—fears prophecy.”

Loch stepped forward and held his shield to one side. He did draw the Angelslayer and let it take his blood, the blade flashing white-hot.

Red-faced, the veins in his neck standing out, Darke screamed at the angel, “Here is your Slayer, you bastard! You told me to bring him—here he is, Satariel! Kill him yourself!”

From above, the angel's eyes were still following Loch. Loch wasn't sure of the captain's intent, but he did sense Darke's gamble was correct; the angel would hesitate, seeing the sword of Uriel, he was left uncertain. Even from the distance, Loch could see it. In the last second, seeing Satariel make his move, Loch touched the blade against the oval Tarshian shield, leaving its metal simmering with a covering of white fire.

Loch bore into the angel's eyes with his own. It was as if the distance between them had closed. He could clearly see the angel's dark blue eyes, and with his own black and defiant, he used Eryian's teachings and stared back fearless and defiant, body and soul. As the angel lifted his hand, Loch brought the shield about. With a sizzling crack that left an ozone smell, a midnight-blue bolt of light struck the face of the Tarshian shield, but did not pierce through—the Angelslayer's light left it strengthened. But Loch had no chance to return fire. The angel's bolt hit so hard, Loch was thrown into the air. He struck the railing of the starboard bulwark, his skin, his whole body sizzling with energy. He disappeared over the railing's edge.

“No!” Hyacinth screamed and ran for the bulwark.

Darke threw his own shield aside and lifted a javelin. As they passed below the bow of the angel's ship he flung it—not for the angel, he had no hope of slaying an angel, but he chose a firstborn standing next to the Watcher and his spear pierced the giant's throat, below the larynx and out the back of the neck. Even for a Nephilim, it was a lethal blow. The Nephilim arched his back and fell, dropping out of sight.

Hyacinth climbed nearly over the railing, clinging to its side, searching below for Loch. He was there. He hung from a swifter rope with one hand, his sword in the other, but he looked barely conscious. Darke turned to her.

“He is here, alive,” she cried. “Someone help!”

“Get the king aboard,” Darke commanded. He then screamed below to the Rat. “Fire the throwers!”

Below deck, Fire Rat crouched at the loom of the bellows. He stoked them hard back, and the siphons sucked in seawater where it curled back in against the bow, creating a suction and letting loose a stream of fire from the nozzle of the thrower. The thrower jet extended through a port at the edge of the bow and the Rat had modified it. Unlike most ships, he could swivel the jet, aim it in different directions. Using his feet against the bulwark for leverage, with both hands on the harness he had constructed, Rat angled the jet of fire directly into the hull of the Etlantian ship as they passed only a few feet from the side. The thrower was roaring, and Fire Rat screamed along with it, throwing his head back and using all his strength to keep it centered directly into the heavy strakes of the Etlantian hull. This is what the captain had saved him for, and this is what he would deliver. A flaming scar. If the wood of the angel's ship had not been proofed against fire, it would have burned the entire port side, but the oraculum plating protected the upper wales. Still, a long, deep gash ripped through the side of Satariel's ship; at times it was so focused it pierced the hull, striking rowers who screamed as the naphtha spilled over them.

The hulls of the two ships slammed together with a crack of wood as Darke's oars continued to press from the port side and Storan guided the collisions, timing them. The ships veered apart, but Rat kept the thrower trained on target. His fire cut a straight line of black, curling flame up the side of Satariel's galley.

Hyacinth had cast a rope to Loch. He caught it. He had sheathed the sword, but he was weak, and he could barely hold the line she had thrown. Fearing he might black out, he wrapped it about his waist and curled his wrist through it, as well, so he would not be left hanging as if he were a fish being reeled in.