The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (41 page)

The winds gusted, and the snowfall quickened. Torin squinted against the giant flakes that stung his eyes, focused on his assignment. Though strung out in a westerly line, the entire army was bearing northeast, where Chamaar had promised they would find the heaviest concentration of Lorre’s troops. As Torin peered ahead, he saw that there was indeed a thicker assemblage in that area—thickening by the moment as the enemy re-formed to meet their attack. A grim smile etched its way across his features, his heaving chest warmed by a secret sense of triumph.

They had covered perhaps three-quarters of the distance when Lancer gave a whoop and broke suddenly off course, veering northwest into the very throat of the enemy. A chorus of barbaric howls rent the air as the entire Central Wedge peeled off in pursuit. Torin was among the first to follow, but soon found that he could not match the commander’s sprinting pace. Lancer, his massive legs churning, was quickly outdistancing them all.

Out came the Crimson Sword from its sheath, the glow from its inner flames as bright as Torin had ever seen. The heat of their divine power flushed through him in a cascade, causing his muscles to swell with energy.

Even so, he could not match Lancer’s unlikely blend of strength and speed. Ahead, the dark forms of the enemy threatened to devour the reckless soldier, but Torin could do nothing to slow him. All he could do was give chase, watching the wedge commander thunder like a madman toward his goal—the wet leather and metal scales of his armor glistening, exposed knots of muscle flexing, his body in perfect balance with the smoothness of his stride as he raised his shield, steadied his spear and…

Crack!

With the ear-wrenching crunch of a splitting tree, Lancer launched himself into and through the enemy phalanx set to receive him. Their wall crumpled as his spear punched through two of the tightly packed bodies and drew blood from a third. By then, his broadsword was free, hacking and thrusting, while his shield swept aside the tips of the polearms aimed his way. Bodies convulsed, enemies coughed blood from beneath plate armor visors, and the screams of the wounded blared like a trumpet.

In the next moment, Torin was there, sweeping through the ranks that had begun already to close about the driving Lancer, who continued to push forward into the enemy swarm. At his back came Dyanne and Holly and a deluge of frenzied rogues. He could sense them clearly, his awareness heightened by the waves of power emanating through him. Crimson flames ripped through the darkness that sought to devour them, lighting the way.

On they poured like a gushing river, flooding the breach. An eddy amid the wash, Torin twisted and swirled with uncanny instinct, giving himself over to
the Sword’s guidance and euphoria. The invincible blade arced and jabbed, angling flawlessly and without wasted motion. His foes scattered before him, squealing their inhuman cries.

For his enemies were not in fact human. As helms worn by the forward troops went flying, and as he dug past the more heavily armored front lines, Torin found that most of those arrayed before him bore the salamanderlike features attributed to a creature said to have long since been driven from his own shores: the orc. Though these were the first he had ever encountered, he recognized from the renderings of artists and storytellers the bulging eyes, froglike mouths, and slime-coated skins. An amphibious race, it was said, shorter than the average man, and lacking in tenacity. More at home in swamps and marshlands than anywhere else, most had nevertheless been forced to retreat over the years into pool-filled caverns and subterranean grottos, else risk being hunted to extinction by man.

How many of these, Torin wondered, might gladly return there now?

He had finally caught up with Lancer, around whom enemies continued to crumple. Many, it seemed, had already lost their zeal for this battle, falling back among their own. With each swipe, the Sword cleaved armor and flesh alike, its flames burning brightly against any stain. And as Torin pressed his advantage, fighting forward with Lancer on one side and the pair of Nymph Hunters on the other, he made room for even more of his allies to funnel after.

A moment later, he had taken the lead, driving ahead at his commander’s urging. General Chamaar had been right. There would be no need for further maneuvering. He need only remember their plan. Cut north until he reached the Bastion, then turn east and carve his swath along its bulwark toward the city. He knew the goal, and by extension, so did the Sword. Nothing could oppose their singular will.

He had expected he might have to worry for Dyanne and Holly. At this point, he should have known better. The duo battled as they had in Necanicum’s wood, like a pair of dancers whose routine had been honed to perfection. Holly slashed with her knives at the seams in her opponents’ armor, severing veins and tendons, and when forced to throw one, she seldom missed her mark. Dyanne fought with a rapier in her left hand and a dagger in her right, while using various tumbling techniques to great effect. Back to back and side by side, so close that at times they seemed intertwined, it looked as if the girls were in no danger of falling behind.

So he forged ahead, tireless, a font of calculated rage. It was as if, at long last, he had found a release for all of the pain and fear and doubt he had suffered over the past weeks. That the enemies before him weren’t the cause of that pain didn’t matter. They had made themselves an easy target, and he would see them destroyed.

The cries of his company spurred him on. Glancing back, Torin was exhilarated by their success. With scarcely an effort, they had shredded the line of armor-shelled orcs set down as a blockade and sent the lighter, more mobile units behind them stumbling in retreat. His opponents were giving him a wid
ening berth, and the shadow of the Bastion was looming ever nearer. Ghastly work, but thus far, child’s play.

The thought lodged unexpectedly in Torin’s mind. Indeed, up till now it had been
too
easy, almost as if they were being encouraged along this course. But Torin dismissed the notion and its unsettling implications. It was nothing more than their strategy fulfilled. As intended, they had struck along a vein of weaker troops, where Lorre would have least expected. For once, all was going according to plan.

Except for the trolls.

They appeared suddenly, revealed by the waves of enemies that parted before Torin and his companions, exposed like boulders beneath a retreating surf. Like those of the orc, the purported features of this legendary creature were unmistakable. Their hunchbacked bodies were dominated by massive, knotted shoulders and powerful, lengthy arms. Their heads were little more than protruding bumps, their faces a tight gathering of eyes, nostrils, and mouth over a low-slung jaw.

Unlike the orc, they did not give way, but held their line as Torin charged to meet them. On average, they were of human height, but of much thicker build. Their waists were like tree trunks, their legs like gnarled logs. Their skin was mottled, and hardened beyond the need for heavy armor. They wielded blunt weapons for the most part—hammers and clubs and cudgels—which were better suited to their slow, lumbering swipes.

But what struck Torin the most was what they would be doing here, positioned within the middle of the horde. He’d been told that given their strength and their impassive nature, trolls made for an excellent bulwark. Likely, they would be found among Lorre’s most sensitive areas—east or west—and almost assuredly out front. To encounter them now, at this critical juncture, was something his commanders hadn’t anticipated.

But Torin and his allies had come too far. Should they slow their charge or attempt to withdraw, their foes would close on either side and grind them into gruel.

The first of the trolls fell with an emotionless grunt, the fires of the Sword reflecting in its beady eyes. Before its body toppled, a spiked club wielded by its companion came whipping about in roundhouse fashion. Torin ducked the blow and came up with a strike that severed the second creature’s arm. Rather than stand aside to let him pass, the remaining trolls pressed in.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he had made a mistake. But then Lancer was there, spattered in blood, using his shield to ram aside two of the beasts at a time. With the wedge commander at his back, Torin concentrated on sweeping clear the opposite flank, so that those coming behind could pour on through.

To his horror, Dyanne and Holly were the first to do so, and Torin nearly took a club to the head as he cried out for them to wait. Once again, he needn’t have worried. While Dyanne feinted high, Holly slid beneath the squat legs of their assailant, using her knives to slash at knees and ankles. When the brute leaned forward to reach after her, Dyanne dropped low, and using the troll’s
weight against it, somehow sent it into a forward roll until it ended up on its back. A thrust to its throat by one of the trailing rogues put an end to its surprise.

It was rough going, for the unit of trolls was stacked almost as deep as it was wide. But after they’d hacked through a dozen lines, the path opened up once again, troll ranks giving way to those of humans, who seemed only too happy to part formation and allow the stream of maddened rogues through.

Directly into a wall of giants.

Torin spied them through a thickening veil of mist and snow, which lent a dreamlike quality to their shadowy forms. But there was no blinking away their sudden appearance. Though proportioned like humans, these savages ranged closer to ten feet in height, making them stronger and faster than their lesser cousins. Much like the trolls, they wore only patchwork armor, revealing a coarse, fur-covered hide shaggy around the calves and forearms. Their teeth were more like tusks, and their eyes, set deep above their bearded faces, burned bright and cold with advanced intelligence.

Torin’s stomach lurched, and his mind reeled. According to Chamaar and his lieutenants, giants were the rarest and most prized of Lorre’s soldiers—used predominantly as battlefield commanders, stationed in only the most vital areas. Only if Torin were extremely unlucky would he stumble across more than one at a time. Before him stood seven.

A barbed greatsword came at Torin in a rush. Somehow, he met its strike with one of his own. Flames gushed from the Crimson Sword as it cut the monstrous blade in half. Ducking and spinning, he took the giant’s leg at the knee, dropping it with a howl that wracked the smaller man’s bones.

Even as he fought, the truth sounded like a great brass bell in his head. Chamaar had been betrayed. Sold out by one of the scouts, perhaps. Hargenfeld maybe, or—Torin’s gut tightened—Moss. It was the most likely explanation, far more feasible than the idea that Lorre had been able to guess and prepare for this strategy. To lure them into the heart of his force before clamping down like an iron trap.

Whichever, the trap was now sprung. The trolls had slowed them, but the giants had brought their progress to a sluggish, grinding halt. Lancer was doing his best to trade blows, but in this case even the mighty wedge commander was outmatched, and only his quickness and battered shield were keeping him alive. Dyanne and Holly were doing well just to keep clear, their weapons almost useless against these creatures. Meanwhile, enemy forces all around were closing from the sides—even the squalid orcs, become suddenly courageous.

Torin worked frantically to turn the rising tide. But the giants were simply too swift and too powerful, wading among them and slaughtering his troops in droves. And with its momentum stalled, their burrowing wedge had lost its only advantage.

His gaze slipped to the east, toward the foothills and the city nestled upon them. He wondered if the East Wedge fared any better. Perhaps with the defense set as it was, Commander Jaik and General Chamaar had been able to
do more than merely occupy the attentions of those warding the city gate. But the stretch of ground between them was too great for him to tell. He could see nothing beyond the curtains of snowfall and the flaring wall of his adversary—the spray of blood, the snarling visages, the glint of a descending axe…

Torin leapt to the side just in time to avoid its deadly arc. But doing so put him in line with a second giant’s charge. Instinct saved him, as he was somehow able to tuck and roll to avoid a wicked spear, then plant his free hand so that he was able to spin back with the Sword and score a deep gash along the giant’s hip.

And yet, he found himself cornered, sandwiched between a wall of enemies at his back and another giant—the axe-wielder—looming over him. He might have been finished were it not for the pair of throwing knives that careened off the side of the giant’s face. Though they did not stick, they distracted the beast long enough for Torin to regain his balance and sweep aside those converging on him from the rear. When he came back around, the giant was on one knee, Dyanne’s dagger protruding from the back of the other. As she wrenched it free, the giant looked up, eyes wide as the Crimson Sword lopped off its head.

Torin cursed the poor creature, drawing Dyanne and Holly back the other way. He cursed the sky above for its brooding indifference. He cursed the land, slick with ice and blood. Most of all, he cursed the overlord, smug in his tower far above the melee, no doubt laughing as he watched his brutish forces throttle the enemy that had so foolishly entered his trap.

There was time for one more curse, and he saved it for the giant whose jarring blow caused Lancer’s knees to buckle and sent the commander’s weapon skidding from his grasp. Torin lunged ahead, ignoring the scrapes drawn from a pair of orc blades in passing. But he knew already there was nothing anyone could do. Kicking aside the fallen man’s shield, the menacing giant arced its sword high.

Lancer, however, was not as helpless as he appeared, prying from its shallow bed a frozen stone that fit square in the palm of his hand. As the giant’s blade fell, the wedge commander gathered his great legs beneath him and, with a furious grunt, launched himself to his feet, coming up inside the blade’s arc and using the rock to deliver a crushing blow to the center of his opponent’s face. The giant toppled over backward, dead before it hit the ground.