Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (97 page)

Rhywder glanced behind him. It was impossible—the Unchurians had broken through the trees of the East of the Land—already. However they had managed to cross the isthmus, they had also crossed the open ground between here and the scar of earth below Terith-Aire, the Dove Cara, in a wink, in a blur, faster than horses could move, faster than armed men could possibly have traveled. She should have had a day or more at least, but then, they faced no ordinary army; in truth they faced but one being. The demon. If any of the angels had fallen to the dark star, it was this one, Azazel, and he had fallen so far, so quickly, that the dark was his light; the dark was his teacher, and he had become more powerful perhaps than any of the others who struggled to hold to their fading star knowledge. He had given over his soul without question. Perhaps that is why he had shed his own holy flesh for a spirit able to take any flesh he wished, the strongest, the quickest. No human nor breed could possibly resist him. In the back of his mind, the thought had troubled Rhywder since the Vale of Tears where he watched the muscles and veins of a man's head form from the demon's barren shoulders.

They had struck already. If the Daath had managed to reach their city, with ports to the sea, even unnumbered Unchurians would have been hard-pressed to breach the walls. They were holy walls, build seven hundred years ago, and the breath of an archangel had sealed them. Even a demon's blade could not burn through them once the gate was closed and the signet of Uriel dropped as the crossbar lock that would seal up the city in spellbound light.

He had hoped that would be their chance; he had thought that was the opening Elyon would grant them, to reach the ancient spired city, built not as cities of Earth, but of a home far across the skies. Terith-Aire was and always had been a city of the Blue Stars of the Seven Sisters. There would be refuge here. But only the civilians had crossed, and the second legion was still shepherding in the rest. The chosen, Rhywder knew, were centered, hidden by the shields of the second, and he doubted the remains of the First Century could hold the line at the edge of the forest for that long.

He was tempted to turn about, make sure the chosen struck instead for the shoreline south of Terith-Aire. But Rainus would have reached the same conclusion, at least that was Rhywder's prayer, for even if he turned this fine Galaglean steed about and raced for the center, he would never reach them in time. The demon would use magick now. He would unleash all he had. Time had become as narrow as a needle. It could be possible. Azazel could do it, destroy the seed of the Daath long before the Earth passed through the gates of Aeon's End. If he did that, the dark of his heart alone would drag them to the blackest hole that existed anywhere in the universe, the very eye of Daath. It was necessary to pass the Earth through the abyss that was the eye of Daath, but without the light in the hearts of men to keep the planet riding the crest of its outer wave, nothing could save them.

Rhywder had always been a Follower, a believer of the Enochian books—even that there was an island in the Western Sea where the city of Enoch harbored its prophet. He believed, but he also had never trusted in Faith's Light alone. It was not Elyon's way. Prayer. Instead, it would ever be the deeds of men, the light of their own inner hearts, the works and actions of the elect of men and breeds that would turn the final hour. Nothing more, not hope, not faith. But for once, just this once, he had no choice, and he left a whispered prayer:
Protect the chosen; protect the seed and the scion; and Elyon, Lord of all, Elohim, Master of all gods, protect Satrina.
A selfish prayer—his love he prayed for, but it was the only damned prayer Rhywder had ever sent of his own heart, the only time he had appealed openly to heaven, and that must count for something.

He paused near the gates before moving on. Panic was everywhere. The civilians and refugees were dropping all they had and fleeing for the gate, the second legion had tightened about them to protect them as they were herded in, but then Rhywder noticed, with relief in his heart, that a core of riders, those he recognized as the First Century and the King's Guard, had turned. His choice in placing Rainus as their captain was sound—he was leading them for the shoreline, ignoring the promise held by the gates of the city.

Briefly, only briefly, Rhywder glanced at the line of warriors holding back the Unchurians at the forest. The fighting was savage, unlike anything he had ever seen, both sides boring into each other with equal insanity. But it would not last much longer. The weary First Century of Argolis, once the proudest and most capable army on Earth, was breaking; the frontal shields were being shattered by heavy horsemen and open fighting was breaking out within the ranks.

No more time now, Rhywder had come this far, and he believed in the purpose of his coming. He turned the reins and rode at a hard gallop through the gates of Terith-Aire for the northern edge where Eryian had chosen to build a simple cabin and dock and surround it with a common fence, as if he ever could pretend to be a plodder. The boy would be there, heavily guarded, and most probably being searched for by Unchurian scouts as earnestly as himself.

It was midday and the sun had shone moments before, but now the sky darkened with a storm, no simple storm, but angel's eyes, the whirlers with their thousand eyes. The killer angel men called the Reaper was about to play his most desperate gambit.

Once Rhywder had passed beneath the gate, sweeping about a line of refugees now fleeing in all direction, panic ruling like a fever spreading, Rhywder chose a thin cobblestone street that veered north between shops and stacked apartments, his horse's hooves echoing. Where other horses might have stumbled on the cobblestone, this one was able to gallop full-out—it was everything Lucian had promised. It even held ground when the Earth itself rippled in a shock wave sent slithering beneath the city. Rhywder had to twist the reins hard to avoid a sudden crack that split open in the street like wood cracking from beneath. It was at first a split, but then it became a full-fledged chasm opening to the ancient rock of Terith-Aire's foundation. From afar the angel was spell-binding Earth shakers, and they would swallow many before the day was finished.

Rhywder sank his heels hard into the flanks, gripping the flanks with his knees as the well-bred charger veered from the chasm's path and quickly broke into a gallop still northwest, for the docking that would lead to Eryian's simple cabin.

Behind Rhywder, the sundering cracks continued splitting open the Earth. The walls of Terith-Aire were only spellbound once the gates had been closed and sealed with the archangel's signet. Azazel had decided that was not going to happen. He was going to shatter the wall now, while they were still unprotected—he was madly searching for the chosen, that was Rhywder's guess, and he was going to leave nothing to chance. One chasm split open the Earth like a mouth gaping and struck the side of the Daathan's spired eastern wall with a crack that shook the whole city and sundered a huge section of quarter granite mined from Dove Cara itself centuries ago. The ancient rock was swallowed into the Earth.

The refugees and the civilians who had managed to reach the city now were wailing, screaming in sheer panic. If the walls of Terith-Aire were falling, what could possibly stop the unnumbered armies pressing against the far line of the first legion? The city was going to be no protection whatsoever.

Suddenly, almost directly before Rhywder, a huge section of limestone ripped upward, shattering, then slipping sideways to vanish into a chasm. Amidst the screaming and panic, there now was a smell of sulfur and fire that savagely licked out of the wounds in the Earth.

A big plodder, his eyes overwhelmed with panic, suddenly tried to grab Rhywder's reins in an attempt to steal the horse. Rhywder sneered and kicked him back so hard, he vanished into the chasm that had brought on his panic.

The Little Fox gripped tight as the fearless charger soared over a handcart, its owner ducking to cover his head. The horse almost seemed to know the correct direction before Rhywder turned the reins. If only he'd had a horse like this before instead of now, when his life was once more about to end. He reached the dock and veered sharply north, straight along the line of the wharfing. Ships out there, he saw briefly. The tall masts of Etlantians, just as Loch had said. He hoped Rainus knew to signal them away from the city. If the seven Etlantian ships were to sail for Terith-Aire, by the time they reached the docks, the city would be aflame.

Rainus reared his horse, but too late. With an entire front section of his men, he dropped away into a chasm mouth that tore through the Earth to swallow half the Daathan shieldbearers of the second legion surrounding the chosen. The ground had simply ripped open—there was no time to react.

The Earth's crust was peeled back at the edges as the chasm continued to ripple outward, wedging its way nearly to the sea. The city was now cut off from the chosen and what was left of their surrounding shell of warriors. A quake heaved beneath them, and men and horses went down. Fire roared from the crevice, licking the sky.

Hyacinth screamed and hit the ground on her side, barely throwing herself clear of a horse-warrior that rolled past, caught beneath his mount. She scrambled to her knees, then watched, stunned, as another crack in the Earth slithered past her leg like a serpent searching. The ground beside her then heaved upward. Hyacinth was thrown. She saw the woman and child—the special ones—hauled from their horse and protected by a tight gathering of warriors in smoked armor and silver-gray tunics who seemed impervious even to earthquake. When she was on her feet, she watched fire rip upward, furious. She stared, amazed.

Fire began to slither over the edge of the cleft, and Hyacinth watched as even the green meadow grass began to burn, melting. The fire crept toward them slowly, white-hot, liquid—almost as though it were alive.

“Move for the sea!” one of the men left standing shouted. He pointed his sword. “All of you! Grab these children and move for the sea!”

She mounted a horse and paused, waiting. The Shadow Warriors were gathering up the children, mounting their horses. She could see that if they bore due west, they could reach the shore. The sea waited, blue and rippled, and she saw the ships—with the triangular sails of Etlantians—six maybe seven. She took up the reins, then lifted her hand to a young girl with dark braids, pulling her into her saddle. Even with the ships within sight, as the Earth shivered and fire warmed her backside, although close, in such chaos they still looked a long ways off. The demon, the second of the three, came for the Daath. This day came with the fury of the sky, and she wondered, briefly, how it was Loch was going to stop such power.

The skies were dark over the painted ships. Cintex, the captain of the Etlantian flagship, stood upon the forecastle of the lead galley. The other six were in phalanx formation to either flank. They were moving for the ports of Terith-Aire, but Cintex could not believe what had turned in the past few moments. He was now staring to the west, dizzy, amazed. Behind them, the sky seemed to have boiled up out of the sea and risen into dark-black clouds, massed like a beast. It was stealing the light of day. Patches of dull, quick lightning ignited here and there among them. The clouds came so fast, they seemed to literally be swallowing the sky. Cintex turned away from it, then stared with equal amazement at the city. Terith-Aire was in flames. It looked as though she had been hit by the siege fire of the gods. An entire corner had dropped away, castle and all. There was but agony beyond. Most of the docking was already aflame. People were leaping from the stoneworks, beginning to swim for Cintex and his ships.