The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (23 page)

“Keep your wrists down.”

Pale-faced, she nodded. It would be amazing, he thought, if she still had the strength to raise them. He stared at the line between the altar’s lid and base, visualizing his stroke. He then struck with the Sword, ripping a path of fire along that line, just above her wrists. Cut from its tusklike prongs, the sculpted slab of granite offered little resistance as he shoved it aside, which enabled him then to assist the woman in wriggling her hands from the cups.

He knew they would be unscathed by the blade, even before he inspected them. What he did not anticipate was seeing that, somehow, the blood spilling from her wrists had already begun to clot.

“Raven,” she said.

Torin gave her hands a squeeze, to be sure she was all right, before rushing to the pirate captain, who lay upon his altar like crumpled linen. With a deep breath, Torin freed him as he had Autumn, then helped the woman to lay him gently upon the ground.

“He’s alive,” Torin noted, though the other’s breathing was shallow. Nor had his blood congealed nearly as well as Autumn’s. Torin gave her a concerned look.

“Let me tend to him,” she said.

“You’re hurt too,” he reminded her. “Lie down. Let me help.”

She refused the first part of his request, but made no attempt to interfere as he cut strips from his shirt and used them to stanch Raven’s bleeding. Before he could complete his work, however, his attention was stolen by the sound of booted feet stamping near.

“Stay here,” he said, snatching up the Sword and running to guard the chamber entry.

He nearly cut the first newcomer in half before he realized who it was. Looking like a drowned rat, with a crazed gleam in his eyes and a crossbow bolt sticking from his shoulder, was the pirate Kell.

The man’s eyes went wide as he caught sight of Torin, and he skidded to such a sudden halt that he fell flat on his back to avoid the glowing blade.

“Keel Haul!”

He reached quickly to help the other up, careful of the rogue’s shoulder.

“The captain?”

Torin nodded toward the chamber. “In there, with Autumn. They’re safe now, but badly hurt.”

“Here! Over here!” Kell shouted back down the corridor.

Torin ducked back inside. Within a few moments, Black Spar, Pike, and others Torin didn’t recognize had piled into the room. Spar, he noticed, had
taken two bolts in the chest, and suffered a gash that bled freely down one arm. The first mate pushed past his comrades and glared down at Torin, who warded Autumn as she tended to the unconscious Raven.

“The wizard?” the big man asked.

Torin shook his head. “Gone. As is the assassin. What of Madrach? Is the keep secured?”

“It will be soon,” Spar growled. “Just rooting the last of the buggers out. Haul here brought in the
Squall
just in time.”

Torin glanced at Kell, then back to Autumn and Raven. They had both lost so much blood. Too much, perhaps. “Can we get them to the ship?”

“Pike, Sloop, see to the captain. Conger, Jib, the lady. Everyone else, grab your blades and follow me.”

Torin was the last to leave, pausing in the doorway to look back on the scene of his brother’s demise. He didn’t believe for a moment that Talyzar had intended to rescue him—any more than
he
had meant to help arm the assassin with the killing blade. But whatever the villain’s true motives, Talyzar had saved his life. He might even have felt grateful, were it not for his horror at the overall result.

Only after stepping away did he remember the Pendant. With a lurch in his stomach, he spun back, searching for the box, fearing that it had been swallowed by the mystical maelstrom.

But no, there it lay, overturned upon the stone floor. Torin rushed up to it and flipped it over. Concealed beneath its edges was the flaming heartstone, aglow at the end of its silver chain.

He picked it up and dropped it over his neck, breathing a sigh of relief. He then tucked the Stone beneath his shirt so that its warmth touched his skin, and raced after the departing pack of pirates.

This time, he did not look back.

W
ITHIN THE HOUR,
he was back aboard the
Raven’s Squall
—moored in an underground harbor next to the crippled, half-sunk remains of a giant carrack. Given the condition of their own ship, it would be some time before they were able to set sail. The wizard’s mercenaries had all been rounded up—the dead, the wounded, and those who had surrendered—along with the members of his servant staff. The pirates not engaged in this were licking their own wounds, or looting the keep. Torin wasn’t certain that was wise, prying through the vaults and cupboards of a wizard—even a slain one. But he kept his reservations to himself.

He was helping Pike to bring down a tattered sail when a hulking shadow fell over them. Torin looked up to find a moonlit Spar glaring down at him.

“Captain wants to see you.”

The first mate was bandaged but still bloody, his face sweaty and drawn.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Torin asked.

Spar grunted. “This way.”

Torin trailed the other amidships, marching past the hold in which he’d been locked away on his journey to this isle. A sinking feeling accompanied
him. Should Raven die now, it was Spar’s mercy he would be forced to rely upon.

The brutish first mate led him belowdecks to rap at a cabin door. A husky voice bade them enter.

Spar held the door as Torin stepped inside. Raven lay abed within, slurping at a flask that Autumn held to his lips.

“Torin!” Autumn squealed, and set the flask aside. With a burst of energy, she flew across the cabin and gripped him in a tight embrace. “Let us wed and have a thousand children!”

Torin stood rooted in place, his arms at his sides, a flush of embarrassment warming his cheeks. He peered over the woman’s shoulder at Raven, who drew himself to a sitting position.

“Forgive my love’s exuberance,” the pirate laughed. His blindness, it would seem, had passed. “What she means to say is, thank you.”

Autumn withdrew a step, her smile radiant. Amazingly, her color had all but returned.

“I can’t say as I did very much,” Torin admitted.

The woman arched a single delicate eyebrow. “You came for me, didn’t you?”

Torin grimaced. “Your man didn’t give me a great deal of choice in the matter.”

“No, but you might have left us there,” Raven said. The skin of his face was ashen, with a waxlike sheen in the light of an oil lamp hung from the ceiling.

“I suppose. But then, it would be a long swim to get to where I need to go.”

Autumn beamed. Raven snorted with laughter.

“We’ve been discussing that,” said the captain. “Autumn says that if it’s the Finlorians you’re looking for, your best bet is to find and question Lord Lorre.”

“Lord Lorre?” Torin asked, then stopped abruptly. “Wait. How did you learn of—”

“Autumn heard it from the wizard.”

Torin nodded slowly, peeking at the woman with quiet suspicion. Autumn winked at him.

“Is this not so?” Raven asked.

Before Torin could answer, there was a commotion in the hall. Spar, who still blocked the doorway, glanced out, then back to his captain.

“Madrach, sir.”

“Ah,” Raven said. “Show him in.”

Spar stepped aside and allowed a pair of captors to drag a bound Madrach into the room. The mutineer-turned-mercenary was bleeding at the mouth—where he was missing a front tooth—and from the stumps of three severed fingers on his left hand.

“Well, well,” Raven said, once he had looked his brother over. “It would appear Brack got to him first.”

“Not first, sir,” Spar confessed. “But he had his go.”

The sagging mercenary drooled blood upon the floor.

Raven turned to Torin. “I wonder if we might continue this later. I summoned both of you, but now that I’ve seen him, I’d like to have a few words with my brother in private.”

Torin nodded, and with a lingering glance at Autumn, headed for the exit.

“Torin,” Raven called.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Autumn filled me in on what happened in there. If you’re upset about your brother, I’m sorry.”

Torin considered. He still had a lot of questions, many of which, it now seemed, would never be answered. Aside from that, he wasn’t sure what to feel. “He fashioned his own noose.”

“As do we all,” Raven replied. He took another drink and stared at Madrach. “As do we all.”

Torin bowed and took his leave, heading above deck to see where he might be needed.

Spar closed the door behind him.

“W
ELL?”

Allion’s eyes lifted from the freshly delivered parchment long enough to take in the stern angle of Rogun’s brow. He would have preferred to have read the message first in private, without the weight of the other’s demanding gaze. But Rogun’s right hand, Commander Zain, had intercepted King Thelin’s emissary on the way in, and had seen to it that his general found Allion at the same time as the Souari courier. At Rogun’s urging, Alson’s regent hadn’t even exited the hallway before unstoppering the scroll tube.

“It appears that Thelin has agreed to Darinor’s proposal for combating the Illysp,” Allion replied, his eyes still scanning the page.

“Impossible,” Rogun said, looming closer.

For a moment, Allion thought the other meant to snatch the scroll away and read it for himself. Had the regent any place to retreat, he might have done so. As it was, he was backed against the wall of the stone corridor, with a sudden understanding of how Torin must have felt all those times the general had cornered him for one of these forced meetings.

“It remains for the Imperial Council to ratify the decision,” Allion continued, hiding his nervousness. “But nowhere do I see objection from the king himself.”

“Thelin would not be so foolish. Let me see.”

Allion whipped the paper aside, out of reach of the general’s grasping fist. “His list of concerns is as long as yours. But it reads here that he has trust enough to follow Torin’s lead.”

“Torin is not here,” growled Rogun.

“He acknowledges that,” Allion went on, pointing to a specific passage as he continued his hasty scan. In earlier correspondence, he’d done the best he could to explain to the Souari king—as well as to King Galdric of Atharvan and Nevik, baron of Drakmar—Torin’s absence. Nevik had already sent return word, expressing no small measure of dismay. If Allion was reading correctly, Thelin’s response was more muted, but no less heartfelt in its expression of both faith and concern. “He says that if Torin chose to submit to Darinor’s judgment in this, and that our governing council has done the same, then he sees no reason as yet to suggest his countrymen do otherwise.”

“Madness!” Rogun roared. “Is that not reason enough? Who is this man—this Darinor—that we should risk everything on his word alone?”

Allion had no answer. Not a night had passed in which he hadn’t wondered the very same thing. He had half hoped that Thelin would in fact devise an alternative to the renegade Entient’s radical proposal. Alas, with Thelin’s acceptance, it seemed too late now to stem the other’s tide of reasoning.

“I am the only one who understands the enemy you face,” came the startling response.

Both Allion and Rogun looked up as the grim cloud that was Darinor scudded toward them on the corridor’s stale wind.

“You may heed my counsel and live,” the mystic said, his smoldering eyes boring holes in the rigid general, “or ignore it and meet a fate worse than death. The more I hear of this ignorance, the less I care.”

Rogun’s hand gripped the hilt of his sword. A reflex, it seemed, more than anything else. Still, Allion did not want to risk being caught between the two men in these tight quarters.

“Are you not the one, General, who has been urging action in this matter?” he asked.

Rogun continued to glare at Darinor until the other came to a stop—much too close for Allion’s liking.

“As I’ve plainly stated,” Rogun spat, “the action this one suggests flies in the face of any military tactics I’ve known. Leave our homes defenseless and trust the enemy to follow? I’d as soon march into combat naked and trust my foe to strike only my shield and not my exposed flesh.”

“Then imagine you bear not a shield,” Darinor countered, “but a haunch of beef, and that your enemy is a starving predator. Imagine further that your cities are filled with but scraps of leaf and root. As the enemy, which would you go after first?”

“As a mindless predator, I would go after whichever I came across.”

A corner of Darinor’s mouth turned up in a cruel smirk. “Then you have yet to understand the nature of your enemy. These are rational creatures. To believe otherwise is to seal your fate.”

“This is madness,” Rogun repeated.

Once again, Allion tried to intervene. “General—”

“Are you hearing this?” the chief commander ripped into him. “I speak of shielding lives. He speaks of satisfying hunger. Are we discussing war, or famine?”

“Both,” Allion snapped, “if I understand correctly.” He met the gaze of each of his listeners in turn, the pair of whom were caught off guard by his commanding tone.

It was Darinor who recovered first. “Is that a response to one of your emissaries?” he asked, looking to the parchment clutched in Allion’s hands.

“It is,” the regent acknowledged. “King Thelin has agreed to your course, and proposes we assemble our singular force south of the Gaperon.”

“Naturally,” Rogun scoffed. “Where it will shield his lands entire, and ours not at all.”

“He also indicates,” Allion added with a stern glare of his own, “that any and all refugees from our lands are welcome at Souaris, and that if necessary, room will be made within other Kuurian cities as well.”

That seemed to disrupt Rogun’s forthcoming outburst, giving Allion a surge of confidence until Darinor assailed him from the other side.

“There is no need to send civilians south,” he argued, his tone dismissive. “Doing so would waste time we do not have, and expose many to unnecessary risk.”

“You’ve assured us repeatedly that there’s no such danger to our civilian populace,” Allion replied hastily, before Rogun could formulate what he was sure would be a far less civil response.

“In their homes, beyond thought and sight, yes,” Darinor explained. “But to march them across the countryside…” He shook his head. “You may as well herd a flock of sheep through a pack of wolves.”

“That’s not what you would have had us believe up until now,” Rogun snarled.

Allion raised a hand to bid silence from the general, but made no effort to mask his own frown.

“Never before has that suggestion been raised,” Darinor replied with ease. “Thus far, we have discussed troop movement only, not that of those we must protect.”

“It’s a fair suggestion,” Allion maintained, not quite satisfied. “A reasonable option for those who wish it.”

Again, Darinor shook his head. “Ordinarily, perhaps. But in this instance, it is a fool’s course.”

Allion glanced at Rogun, who continued to glower.

“Is that not why I am here?” the Entient demanded tersely. “To guide your actions against this enemy of which you know so little? To warn of mistakes that could cost innocent lives? Either way, I am through explaining myself to those who can scarcely comprehend the most basic tasks assigned to them.”

Allion pressed his ground. “I think we are owed—”

“You forget yourself, young mortal,” Darinor interrupted, hissing through clenched teeth. Allion froze as the towering man leaned over him. “My ancestors were beholden to an authority higher than any you can understand. Do not presume to know what I owe, or to whom. Nor should you mistake my charity for anything other than what it is.”

Allion gulped. Even Rogun, he noticed, had eased down a bit.

“I’m telling you now, and for the last time, if you wish to buy Torin the time he needs to repair the damage he has caused, you must deploy now—to whatever location you desire. Your choice is not
whether
you will face the Illychar, but
where
. Stall much longer, and you will find yourself battling within the streets of this very city, among your homes and your families. Is that what you desire?”

“What of Galdric?” Rogun asked. The fire had gone out of him, leaving him to pout like a scolded child. “You claim that for your plan to work, all must participate. Yet we’ve no word from he who commands Pentania’s second-largest army. Should we not wait a few days longer?”

“The sooner we light our beacon, the sooner we can draw our enemy—and allies to our cause.”

For the first time since Allion had known the man, Rogun seemed at a loss. It was clear he was not yet convinced. But it seemed equally clear that this was not a debate they could win.

“I must still bring the matter before Thaddreus and the Circle,” Allion cautioned, seeking to salvage a measure of pride for him and his general.

But Rogun, he realized, put no more stock in the Circle than he did in this renegade Entient. Maybe less.

“The fools will do as you tell them,” the general muttered in disgust. His imperious gaze never left that of Darinor. “If this is truly the course you would set for us, we may as well carry it out.”

“The army is ready then?” the Entient asked.

It was, Allion knew. Despite his opposing stance, Rogun had been preparing his troops for several days, ever since the council session during which Darinor’s proposal had first come to light.

“Unless by miracle our regent here can talk sense into our so-called Elders,” the general rumbled, “we march at dawn.” He turned to Allion. “I’ll not be holding my breath.”

With that, he spun on a booted heel and spurred himself down the corridor.

“I’m not sure he trusts you,” Allion dared a moment later, if only to break the uncomfortable silence left in the general’s wake.

Darinor snorted. “I don’t need him to trust me. Only to do as he’s told.”

“I’m not sure that
I
trust you.”

The mystic regarded him without insult. “We’ll learn in the end, won’t we?” He leaned forward, eyes glinting with captured torchlight. “Until then, you defy me at your own peril.”

Then he, too, headed down the hall, opposite the direction Rogun had taken, and Allion was able to breathe once more.

“Inform your precious Circle,” the Entient called back without slowing. “By tomorrow, your city shall be empty of soldiers. Your citizens will want to know why.”

So will I,
thought Allion. As Darinor turned a corner, the regent looked back to the parchment in his hands, rolling it shut with a heavy sigh.
So will I.

T
HE VERY NEXT DAY
, R
OGUN SAT ASTRIDE HIS FAVORITE STEED,
watching the road being churned to mud by the hooves and feet and wagon wheels of his passing army. Ordinarily, it filled him with a grim sense of pride to be on the march, to see those under his training and command venture forth on campaign. To test his will and savvy against that of an enemy. It had been a long time since he had done so beyond the walls of his city, and never with his entire force arrayed before him.

He was anything but pleased.

How could he be? He had been all but stripped of his command, made puppet to another’s will. It was one thing to ask a man to risk his life in a maneuver the general believed in so strongly that he would wager his own
on its success. But to ask them to take that same risk on a course of utter folly…

It went against his every instinct, every bit of learning to which he had dedicated his life. Yet here he was, on the road south to assemble at the gateway of another’s lands, while his own were under siege. Trusting blindly that the enemy would not ransack what he’d left behind, but would instead give chase—eschewing unguarded spoils for the fight itself.

He looked up as a company of pikemen trooped by in loose formation. Each man saluted as he passed, and Rogun did so in turn. Stout lads, these. Most were new recruits, pressed into service following the slaughter that had befallen the regular army at the hands of the usurping wizard. How long ago it all seemed, the general thought, as a windswept rain beat upon his helm. A period that felt like years, but had in fact been a matter of months. Scarcely enough time to rally a new defense force, let alone offer its members proper training. What they lacked in skill, they accounted for with pride, courage, and faith in he who led them.

Their trusting smiles cut Rogun to the bone.

To say nothing of those back home, many of whom would be incapable of defending themselves at all should the attack he feared come. The only word they’d been given was that the army was venturing forth to flush the recent scourge from their lands. Unsuspecting fools, they had bidden their men-at-arms farewell with roses and banners and sweetmeats for the road. Rogun had wanted to scream at them the truth.

They had not, of course, been left entirely unprotected. Even the doe-eyed Allion and lackwit City Elders had insisted on that. But the City Shield alone remained to them, less than a thousand in number, barely enough to control their own populace should it choose to rise against its rulers. A more fitting end to this mess, Rogun could not imagine, though it would remain to him to go through and sweep up afterward.

There had to be another way, the general told himself through gritted teeth, as he continued to survey and acknowledge those who marched past in their various regiments. He had half a mind to impose his own will, to ignore Darinor and use this force instead to march through and cleanse his lands of these so-called Illychar. But doing so would make him an outlaw in the eyes of Alson’s rulers—pretenders though they might be. Thereafter, the only way to escape a charge of treason would be to take the crown by force. He was not yet prepared to do so. Not while Torin remained in such favor with King Thelin, who, despite his losses in the War of the Demon Queen, was capable of marshaling a force no less than twice—and up to six times greater than—Rogun’s own. And comprised of seasoned warriors, at that.

He felt his stallion fidget restlessly beneath him, and gave it rein. The animal began working its way north, opposite the flow of soldiers and supply carts, brushing aside the tall grasses atop the embankment on which it strode. Krynwall’s army carried on like a river, hemmed in by the near slope and a forested ridge on the other side. Rogun continued to monitor its rush, absently searching for the answer to his ongoing riddle.

When at last his horse stopped, tugging against its reins in order to sniff at a patch of wet clover, the general’s gaze fell upon a rotted trunk that lay to one flank. Its sodden skin was in an advanced stage of decay. An army of beetles swarmed its flesh, scuttling over and under the softened edges. At least a score within, Rogun guessed, for every one without, working their devastation from the inside, unseen by the birds and rodents that might otherwise feast upon them.