The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (34 page)

Her moment of clarity, such as it might have been, was gone. She was out
of time again, speaking of the past. But whose past? His or another’s? And had this past already taken place? Or was it but a glimpse of what might be?

He fought to clear his thoughts. “Necanicum—”

“What matters is the Immortal One found his way, as all children must. So that when next he came to a fork in life’s path, the choice was his to make.”

Torin was about to ask another question, then hesitated. It seemed the longer this went on, the more perplexed he was becoming.

“The Immortal One left then,” the witch bade in her husky voice, turning away, “and the young sisters with him.”

“What?” He blinked. “But you haven’t told us—”

“They hurried, while the way was clear, for the heavens did open up to them, and the youthful gnats had been warned to leave them be.”

The old woman looked to be storing the unused portions of his blood, pouring them from the mortar and into a wooden phial. An unused pinch of his hair followed.

“Mother Necanicum,” Dyanne interrupted, sensing Torin’s frustration. “Is there any more you can tell us? Which way should we go?”

“The sisters were right to guide him through Necanicum’s woods, though it did not change the course the Immortal One had to take.”

Dyanne turned toward him like an interpreter. “Our course is the same as it was?”

Necanicum nodded. “They left her quickly, for they did not wish to delay Necanicum in her journey. Down the tunnel,” she added, indicating with a deformed finger the corridor through which they had entered, “and into the night.”

There seemed little point in pressing for more. Necanicum had started humming again, the same tune she had used to shut them out during the hike between their camp and her abode. And even if they were to get something else out of her, it was likely to be more of the same nonsensical rubbish as before.

It certainly wasn’t worth challenging the witch’s intent that they depart—about the only thing that had been made clear. His guides seemed to agree.

“Thank you, Mother,” Dyanne said with a courteous bow.

“Thank you, Mother,” echoed Holly.

Necanicum did not respond to either woman, leaving Torin to take one last look around before rolling his eyes and heading for the exit.

They moved quickly back the way they had come, down the winding passage crawling with grubs and insects, led by the light of those that glowed and of the Sword and torches they carried with them. They could not escape that stifling place quickly enough, Torin decided. The witch’s words haunted his thoughts—those that he could remember. He wished now that he’d written them down, then realized that it probably wouldn’t have mattered. A madwoman’s ravings; that’s all they were. It would have been easy to become angry, but best just to be grateful the encounter hadn’t cost them any more than it had.

When they reached the outer threshold of the witch’s giant tree hut, he
hesitated. The land without looked different than when they had entered. The dark clouds had drifted on, setting free the light of moon and stars, which washed down through blackened limbs. The mist that had trapped them had dissipated, opening up the forest’s lanes. The air remained foul, the shapes of the trees stark and menacing, but their way appeared clear.

“Just like she said,” Holly whispered with evident wonder.

Torin wasn’t so readily convinced, as he peered about for sign of the tree-demons or anything else that might threaten. “Those creatures might still be out there. Are you sure you want to chance it?”

“She said they’d been warned,” Holly insisted.

“Either we move on while we can,” Dyanne agreed, “or we wait here. Which would you prefer?”

That settled it. With his guides slipping ahead to retake the lead, Torin was on the move once more through the witch’s domain. The Nymphs set a mean pace this time, one that Torin—practiced though he was at racing through woods—found difficult to match. He ran with the Sword in hand, drawing upon its endless reserve of strength and stamina, its pulse at rhythm with the beating of his own heart. Dyanne and Holly, he noticed, kept guard as well, each with a blade in one hand and a torch in the other, casting wary glances every which way. Torin smirked to see that even they had their doubts.

Those doubts proved well founded when, more than once, one or the other of them caught sight of Necanicum’s “gnats” leering at them from amid the trees. After a time, the things became easier to spot, and appeared more and more frequently. But the creatures threatened only from afar, swiping at the air, hissing silently, and making death’s faces at them as they passed. Nor did the company hold up, refusing the demons the opportunity to mass. They jogged on, sprinting occasionally, sometimes slowing to a walk, but always moving forward.

The night waned. When the torches burned low, new ones were found. They headed north, with the tacit understanding that for now, at least, nothing had changed. A visit with Lord Lorre remained their primary objective. While Torin placed no faith in the witch’s riddles, even these seemed to suggest that it was the overlord of Yawacor who held the key to his search. Perhaps that would change come morning, and they would recognize the need for a fresh plan.

Assuming, of course, that a new day ever arrived.

Their stumbles grew more frequent as the hours wore on. Enemies both real and imagined closed in. But the company endured, by turns hurtling or staggering through the near-dark, scanning the wooded labyrinth and using their blades and torches to keep the more sinister shadows at bay. After a time, their diligence was rewarded, as, leaf by leaf, needle by needle, life returned to the forest. Trees straightened, scars healed, mold and rot shrank and withdrew. The underbrush burgeoned about them, thick and hearty, filled with the rustling of nocturnal animals. The air smelled fresh and clean once more.

At the sound of a night owl, the guiding Fenwa slowed their pace, and Torin followed them to a lurching halt. They looked about, at their surroundings and at one another, chests heaving in welcome relief.

Dyanne was the first to speak. “I think we’re safe,” she observed.

Torin nodded, though his thoughts were not yet ready to move on. “So, can anyone tell me what we learned back there?”

Dyanne looked at Holly, and the pair of them shook their heads.

“Likely nothing you haven’t already determined for yourself,” the smaller Nymph said.

Torin stared at the flames swirling within the depths of the Sword. “So it all comes back to Lorre.”

“It was worth the effort,” Dyanne maintained. “I for one feel better about this trek than I did before.”

Holly nodded. “As do I.”

A host of antagonistic responses came to mind, as Torin returned the looks aimed his way. They viewed him differently now than before; that much was obvious. As to why—or how it might affect their journey—was much less clear.

“Simple for you to say,” he huffed finally. “I see no cuts on you that won’t easily heal.”

“We should clean that,” Dyanne suggested, glancing at the bandage wrapped about his left wrist. “Before it has a chance to sicken and fester.”

She sheathed her dagger and handed her torch to Holly. A slight chill swept through him as she approached.

“Sit down,” she said.

Torin did so, sheathing his own weapon and settling against a massive fir. While Holly built them a small campfire, Dyanne removed his blood-soaked wrap and set about washing it with a clean cloth and some of that sweetened water. She was firm and gentle at the same time, scrubbing when necessary, dabbing at the more sensitive regions. Torin winced once or twice, but withheld any complaint. Though for the most part he watched her work, he couldn’t help but sneak an occasional glance at her studious face, so smooth and focused. He kept waiting for her maple eyes to find him, but they never did.

When satisfied with the cleansing, the woman prepared a quick poultice of herbs and wrapped it in place over the jagged lacerations. Its prickling coolness sent a fresh shiver through Torin’s body.

“Keep that in place,” she instructed, “until I tell you to remove it.”

Torin nodded as the Nymph rose, still without looking at him. “Thank you,” he said, as she turned away.

Dyanne stopped in her tracks to peer back at him. For a brief moment, she frisked suddenly in place, rocking back and forth as if in tune with a frolicsome melody only she could hear. Her hair swished with the movement, and an unabashed smile lit her face. “The pleasure was mine, Immortal One,” she teased.

She stepped away from him then, to where Holly had arranged her blankets by the fire. Torin was left behind, momentarily breathless. He couldn’t shake the image, so unexpected, so revealing, a mere peek at the depthless, freedom-loving spirit this girl possessed. His eyes flew after her, hungry for
another glimpse, but Dyanne was already curled up in her bed of moss, with night’s curtain come between them.

“I’ll take first watch,” Holly offered.

Torin nodded, though he should have refused. It should have been he who had taken that watch. For despite the long hours and the many trials of that day, he found himself refreshed, invigorated, unable to close his eyes and even pretend at sleep. Whenever he did, Dyanne was there to greet him with that smile…that dance…

A vision he could not have dispelled had he wanted to.

N
ECANICUM SIGHED AS SHE FIT THE LID
to its jar and tied it in place. It had taken her some time to wipe clean each Tongue of the Teldara. So many grooves within their hard-shelled bodies. So many jointed legs. She hadn’t even needed them for the telling, for on this matter, the Teldara spoke willingly. But in order to draw his blood, she’d had to play at performing the ritual of forced communion.

Do not forget the phial,
they told her, those who lived within.

She looked at it, the tiny container she had filled with his blood. Preserved by the necessary incantation. Stoppered and secured for the journey that lay ahead. Such a little item, upon which rested the fates of so many.

Hurry,
they urged.

“Don’t rush me,” she muttered back. “There is still time.”

But none to waste. The Leviathan stirs. We must act before He does.

They were right, of course. They always were. She had learned that lesson long ago, though not a day went by that they didn’t remind her of it. Still, better to take her time, check her inventories, ensure that nothing that would be needed was forgotten.

If the Immortal One learns what he is up against, he might simply turn away.

“I should think so. But we didn’t tell him now, did we?”

That cannot happen.

“It most certainly can,” she warned, “if what you’ve told me is correct.” And she knew that it was.

That
must
not happen,
they amended.

“I suspect it won’t.”

Did you see the way he looked at her?

“I’m not blind,” she mumbled. “Sometimes I think I see these things more clearly than you.”

She couldn’t remember now how it had happened, whether they had chosen her or she had chosen them. It no longer seemed to matter. Regardless, the time they had long predicted had come, and she would not let it be for naught.

Hurry.

She gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to snap back at them. She almost wished she could leave them behind. It might have made this entire trek more palatable.

Before long, she had gathered up her things. She didn’t require much. A few horns, skins, and pouches. An extra fur. And of course the phial, tied to a string and hung around her neck, so that it lay against her breast. Where she could almost feel his heartbeat against hers.

Are we ready, then?

Necanicum nodded, more to herself than to them, and picked up her light globe. She would refill it on the way out, though even that would not last her long. Once beyond the borders of her woods, these woods to which she had given such magnificent life, she would have to find another source. She had no doubts but that they would help her do so.

When she reached the exit to her home, she stopped to peer up at the dawning sky. The sun had not yet risen, but she could taste its yearning, and smell her destiny in the wind.

You know the way, do you not?

“You’ll not let me forget, I’m sure,” she griped, her chin digging at her shoulder.

For once, they remained silent, and she did nothing to discourage them. They could sense it as well as she, the significance of what she must do. A mystical moment, setting forth, like that in which she had given birth to the first of her forest children. They would recall it as she did. And in the end, if no one else remembered, they would.

That when the Immortal One walked her woods, and this world as they knew it hung in the balance, Necanicum answered.

She hesitated a moment longer, drawing a deep breath to absorb what she could, then stepped off her gnarled stoop and took her first strides toward the mountains along the narrow path. She moved quickly, but comfortably, refusing to rush. The road before her was long indeed, and these but the initial steps. She would carry on as well as her old bones would let her, and trust that it would be enough.

Limping along, hunched and crooked, Necanicum settled in on her great journey to the north.

W
HEN TORIN FINALLY SLEPT, HE DREAMT OF
M
ARISHA.

She spun toward him out of the darkness in a pale azure gown—the one she’d been wearing when he had asked her to be his queen. He did so again now, to which the woman responded with a kind laugh. Smiling, she welcomed him into her arms, where she pursed her lips as if to grant him a kiss. When he closed his eyes to receive it, however, she laughed again—differently this time, sharp and rasping. He looked to find not her face, but Necanicum’s, mere inches from his own. He recoiled, and she danced away in a whirl of nimble grace, Marisha once more. Rather than give chase, he waited for her to stop. Only, she never did, trapped in an endless spin that carried her farther and farther away…

He awoke to a shaft of sunlight that knifed its way through the canopy of trees. For a moment, he knew not where he was. Home, it would seem, in the woods outside of Diln. A comforting revelation, to learn that all of his trials and travails were but ghosts of his imagination. He leaned up, casting about, eager to confirm his suspicions.

He found instead Holly’s slumbering form beside the coals of their fire. Farther off, on a stump overlooking the game trail that cut through their little glade, sat Dyanne, her back to her companions as she filed her dagger against an oiled whetstone. In a flood of imagery, Torin recalled where he was and why. Only, for some reason, he felt no real disappointment upon learning the truth.

Sensing his movement, Dyanne turned, greeting him with a polite smile. “Sleep well, did you?”

Her sly tone suggested she already knew the answer to that question, so he chose to ignore it, glancing again toward the brightness of the midmorning sky. “You didn’t wake me for my watch.”

Dyanne’s blade rasped down the length of the sharpening stone. “You’ve been thrashing about all night. I checked on you once or twice and decided you needed the rest.”

Torin rubbed his aching neck. No use in denying it. He felt as if he hadn’t slept at all.

“How is
anyone
supposed to rest,” Holly groused suddenly, “with all of the chattering around here?”

Torin shifted back to the smaller of his two guides.

“Why should
you
complain?” Dyanne asked her. “You’ve been awake for hours.”

“Precisely,” Holly muttered, sitting up with a groan. Her sleek, sable hair was littered with moss and leaves, which she brushed at irritably.

Dyanne, Torin noted, appeared exactly as she had the evening before, her carefree beauty undiminished by their late-night run through Necanicum’s woods, or her few hours of sleep. Her face actually seemed to shine in the unexpected light of this new day as she put away her dagger and stone and sprang to her feet. “Shall we be on our way, then?”

They prepared a quick meal, cleaned up their campsite, and exited to the north. There was little discussion, and nothing at all regarding their encounters of the previous night. Torin wondered if that was because the girls had made as little sense as he of what they had seen and heard in the witch’s burrow. He came near to asking more than once, but preferred not to relive any part of it. Whether or not the girls had learned anything that might help their status back home, he had gained nothing but nightmares from the experience. To speak of it out loud could only make them more real.

Except for the cuts and bruises that proved otherwise, it seemed as if the entire episode might never have happened. For there was no hint of a survival bond between him and his guides. Once under way, they traveled as they had when first setting out from the Nest, with Dyanne and Holly locked in persistent chatter between themselves while Torin trailed behind like a child forgotten by his parents. Despite what the three of them had been through, the Nymphs did not seem any more inclined than before to include him in their conversations. Put to it, he might never have convinced a casual observer that he had faced death with these women, and won.

Of course, that was looking at it from an outsider’s perspective. From his vantage, things were decidedly different. Most notable was the way in which he saw Dyanne. There was no denying he was smitten with her; her little jig following last night’s escape had erased any doubt of that. But that didn’t mean it was anything he intended to act upon. Left alone, such feelings were certain to wither away.

To encourage them along that path, he worked as before at keeping Marisha in the forefront of his mind. It was easy to do at first, troubled as he was by the dream from which he had awakened that morning. But it wasn’t long before that image faded, replaced by more pleasant thoughts and memories. And these, unfortunately, had a way of turning on him. For whenever his fondness caused him to lower his guard, he found his eyes and thoughts returned to the woman before him, rather than she who was an ocean away. Perhaps his response was only natural, but he wasn’t going to allow himself that excuse. For how might he feel if Marisha were to do the same to him?

Nevertheless, time and again, he had to chide himself for his wandering gaze and force himself to look away. While Dyanne and Holly enjoyed each other’s company, Torin brooded silently, welcoming an onslaught of darker contemplations, which seemed the surest way to keep all others in check. He thought of Darinor, the Illysp, and his own headstrong foolishness. He
thought of those who had perished in the War of the Demon Queen, and of how many of them might have been saved had he made better decisions. He thought of the wizard, Soric, and wondered if it would not have been better to leave the kingdom to his elder brother while seeking his own purpose elsewhere.

Most especially, he thought of Arn and Ashwin and Cordan, who had died for him already on this trek, and of what little their sacrifices would mean should he fail to accomplish his objective. It left him to wonder how many others might be asked to lay down their lives before his task was finished.

Such grim reflections made fertile ground for the return of Necanicum—and return she did. Though he tried to brush them aside, the witch’s riddles refused to go away: the mention of his fall, of finding less than what he needed, of the loss of his friends. What confused him as much as anything was how much she seemed to have known about him—or thought she did—even before her supposed divination. Either way, it was foolish to be troubled, for nothing of what she’d told him could be translated into a course of action. Short of that, he would be just as wise to dismiss the old woman’s cryptic comments as elements of her own imaginary world.

He was still trying to convince himself of this when they emerged from the northern stretches of the Widowwood and onto the highland prairie of central Yawacor. The midday sun remained dominant in the sky, though Torin had ceased some time ago to take comfort in its warmth. Somehow, the incessant rains had seemed more in keeping with his grim presence upon these shores.

They traveled no road, but over a plain of rugged boulders and windswept grasses. Wild orchards grew here and there, stripped of their summer fruit. But there were no signs of human settlement—no farms, no crops, no cattle grazing in the fields. Some of that lay farther west, his guides told him, but most of it to the north—from what they’d been taught. Having been born and raised in the Fenwood, neither Dyanne nor Holly had ever been this far out herself. It was as much an adventure for them now as for him.

A few hours later, they reached a river labeled on their maps as the Tanir. Here they spotted what looked to be a small cluster of nomadic tradesmen, although they didn’t get close enough to learn for certain. Instead, they veered eastward, upriver and closer to the edge of the mountains, searching for a shallows over which to cross.

They found it in a wide bend where the river flattened out over a distance of nearly a mile, diminishing its rush. The girls seemed to have no problem wading across the bed of slick stones, their breeches rolled to their knees and their soft leather boots in hand. Trailing behind them, Torin slipped more than once, but managed to keep his balance and stay relatively dry. He wasn’t sure why he bothered, for he desperately needed a bath, and now, while the sun was up, seemed a good time. Once across, his companions agreed, and made their way along the shore to an area pooled deep enough for that purpose. Neither seemed to care if he should want to bathe with them, but Torin didn’t feel right about doing so, and so sat ashore with his back to them, with a warning from Dyanne that he not be foolish enough to attempt to run off.

When the girls had finished, he took his turn at scrubbing away the grime and weariness from his journey, taking special care to wash the various cuts and scrapes suffered in his battles to get this far. The waters were numbingly cold, but that only served to invigorate him further. He took his time, so that when finally he emerged, he could scarcely stop his teeth from chattering.

Even so, he felt much better than before, until he climbed the secluded bank to where the girls should have been waiting, and found them missing.

He glanced around. Had they decided to abandon him after all? Not likely. Not without saying something, or attempting to take his talismans. Might some unforeseen ill have befallen them then? His stomach knotted at the thought, leading him into the tall grasses in search of signs.

He’d gone a dozen paces without seeing any indication of flight or struggle before it occurred to him that the girls might be playing some kind of game. Perhaps they were hidden somewhere nearby, observing him, waiting to see how he would react. It seemed a strange thing to do, and rather purposeless, but he knew well enough already not to put anything past them. Best that he turn around and head back to await their return.

He was about to do so when he heard a rustling in the grasses just ahead, from an area of massive boulders that must have tumbled down out of the mountains, but still seemed out of place in this grassy field. His pulse quickened, and he reached slowly for the Sword, drawing it quietly from its sheath. With a hunter’s steps, he crept toward the disturbance indirectly along a peripheral line, so that he could approach the desired spot without setting off an alarm.

He had taken just a few strides with that plan in mind when there was a sudden flurry of motion to either side of the area he’d been focused on. The two movements converged in the center of the target zone, like a pair of predators working together to take down a larger prey. There was a grunt of surprise, a clash of arms, and a sound like a sack of grain being slammed to the earth.

Torin lunged ahead, forgoing any thought of stealth as he whipped past sawing blades of grass. Whatever the struggle, he didn’t want to arrive too late to affect its outcome.

He should have known that where his guides were concerned, he would find things well in hand. Neither Dyanne nor Holly had been taken hostage; rather, it was they who had brought down the intruder. He couldn’t see the other’s face, for it was blocked by Dyanne’s back as she sat upon the unfortunate man’s chest, in an aggressive posture Torin recognized all too well. Holly, meanwhile, had kicked wide the victim’s legs, and crouched now between them with one of her throwing knives in hand, its tip digging at the man’s groin.

Holly glanced back at Torin’s approach, her fierce grin seeming to mock his concern. For a moment he stayed where he was, listening to the labored breathing and muttered oaths of the apprehended trespasser. Then the victim seemed to gather himself, and the last sound Torin expected to hear carried above that of the nearby river, borne up by the afternoon wind.

The sound of laughter.

“I don’t have me much time for this now, ladies,” the man snickered. “But if you can hold the thought, I might be able to oblige you later.”

Dyanne leaned forward. “Speak again without leave, and you’ll lose such desires forever, my friend.”

A prick from Holly’s blade further dampened the other’s amusement, cutting short his lingering chuckle. Torin, however, stepped forward curiously, coming around for a better view.

“Gavrin?”

The man was in a poor position to respond, what with Dyanne’s blade at his throat, but managed to turn his head toward the sound of Torin’s voice. When his eyes found the other, they squinted, then widened in surprise.

“Torin, was it? Shades of mercy. If that’s you, my mother was a gnome.”

Torin grunted. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

Dyanne glanced up as he strode near. “You know this smelly lout?”

Torin nodded. “He was my guide through the Cleft, before I stumbled into your forest.”

The woman eyed the rogue beneath her distastefully. “He can be trusted, then?”

“That depends. What are you doing here, Gavrin?”

“Moss,” the big man reminded him, a marveling gaze fixed upon the blade of the Sword. “You still owe me for that day of travel, by the way.”

“We’ll see about that,” Torin allowed. “Just now, I’m trying to decide whether or not to have my friend here slit your throat.”

Moss chuckled, until he realized no one else was going to do so with him. “I heard noises,” he said, “someone in the river. I’m guessing now it was you. I came to check it out.”

“Slithering about like a snake in the grass?”

“Can’t be too careful,” Moss replied, with an obvious effort to hide the strain in his voice. “Thought you might be one of Lorre’s scouts.”

“Lorre?” Dyanne echoed dubiously. “Why would his scouts be this far south?”

“Have you not heard? Neak-Thur is fallen. The Bastion is his.”

“What?” Dyanne balked, her alarm evident. “When?”

“More than a week ago, turns out. Even before I met our mutual friend here.”

Dyanne looked again to Torin, her features grim.

Torin was also frowning, but gave a slight nod to one side. “Let him up.”

“Actually, my friend,” Moss offered, “it’s grown quite comfortable down here all of a sudden.”

It wasn’t hard to imagine why. Dyanne had pinned the rogue’s arms with her knees, so that her thighs all but cradled his neck. Once again, the Nymph leaned close, shifting her weight so that it pressed down upon the dagger gripped in her left hand.