Airel - Aaron Patterson [105]
Yamanu moved independently but kept close by, hacking and slicing at demons and evil men. He waded through them, swinging his weapon like a harvester, growling and screaming maniacally only once—at the onset of battle—from then on he was silent, concentrating, and all the more deadly.
The angels worked steadily through the advancing enemy army, simply cleaving its members in two, drenching themselves in acrid blood that stank and burned. Sparks of black and red flew from demon mouths.
Soon the angels had run through the initial wave of attackers. They stood, panting gloriously, drenched in their own sweat comingled with the rank blood of the vanquished. They awaited the second onslaught, and as they did, Kreios closed his eyes and probed the invisible realms for his opponent.
As he searched, he beheld the tree into which the Sword had been lodged. The Sword was not there, which was absolutely perfect. Kreios held his hand high, and there, manifest before him, was his weapon: the Sword of Light. He clenched his hand around it, felt its heft, spun it deftly, and the blade hummed and buzzed through the air. Now victory was assured to him.
But it did not take long to assess the outcome of battle: the Seer had fled, had sensed the coming battle when Kreios had been filled with the holy fury that fueled him. The skirmish the angels had just endured was sacrificial; a diversion away from true intent—that the Seer, coward and dog, was rallying elsewhere, gathering more and more thousands to his side.
Yamanu sensed all of this as well, yet they hedged on the side of caution, standing at the ready in the midst of Yamanu’s icy pure black fog for quite some time, awaiting some new treachery. But it did not come.
At last, on toward the dawn, the angels relaxed their vigilance. Setting fire to the remains of the enemy camp, which burned vigorously, they advanced to the lake to bathe and to clean their weapons and clothing. The Sword of Light was clean already. The acid blood had dripped from it as it was being used—it was like mixing water and oil. Nothing could cling to it.
When they were clean, they came ashore and sat under a tree in the broadening sunshine of midmorning. Yamanu lit his pipe luxuriously and puffed at it, sending strongly scented smoke curling into wreaths in his lap and spilling onto the ground, dissipating. “So,” he concluded, “that went well…” His words fell off, and Kreios could see a grin on his face.
Kreios never did have much of a sense of humor. All he had on his mind was the mission, and how they would complete it. “We must kill the Seer or all is lost.” He did not give much time to vain things, including the typical victory strut—no matter how small.
Discomfort moved in on the pair. At length, after Yamanu was finished with his pipe, Kreios gave a sigh. The enemy horde would be on guard from now on. Surprise attacks would require more… creativity. Kreios took to the air, hovering at treetop height, waiting for Yamanu to follow him.
“What now, chief?” Yamanu asked as he joined him.
Kreios was stone-faced again. “We make camp. Then we find a way to persuade our brothers in Ke’elei to help us. I believe I know how to convince them.”
Chapter IX
Eagle Idaho, Present day
Giddy, unnatural, overpowering, wonderful joy! Only the act of watching someone squirm in their bonds with a look of raw hatred on their face could bring these lovely emotions to bear.
Stan glowered back at her. He grandly produced an enormous Cuban torpedo from his coat pocket, felt its moist firmness in his fingers and sniffed it. Snipping the end, he lit it with a match. Smoke billowed up in his face. Stan looked like a ghost in the pale light of the single bulb.
Stan stood in his own garage this time. It struck him that he didn’t know how long it had been since he had been home. Home? His suit was tattered, his fingernails dirty. He couldn’t remember his last shower. He didn’t care. He had walked out of his old life—and his new one, far more exciting, meant he had to give up certain things to get what he wanted.