The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (42 page)

With Torin warding his back, Lancer cast aside the lucky stone and reclaimed his sword and shield. The pair then turned as one, Torin looking to repay the orcs who had gouged his flesh. He found one twitching, the other gurgling, the first with punctured eye sockets, and the second with a flayed throat.

Dyanne winked at him while using her blades as a shield so that Holly could retrieve her knives. Or perhaps she was merely clearing grit from her eye. Torin hadn’t the chance to decide before the next group of enemies was upon them.

Lancer barked and shouted, fighting to rally his men. Three giants were down, while a fourth was mortally wounded. Torin was able to spill the entrails from another as it honed in on the wedge commander. That left only two, one of which wisely backed away and sent the lesser troops around it to die in its stead. Slowly, painstakingly, the wedge began to crawl forward once more.

But the enemy crush was cutting their trailing line into segments. While the head of their force inched northward, Torin and his companions found themselves racing back now and again to help shore up the collapsing walls. They remained together for the most part, an effective quartet—Dyanne and Holly weaving and slashing, Lancer bashing and cleaving, and Torin bearing the unquenchable flame that had quickly come to inspire them all.

Time lost all meaning, save for its withering effect upon the vigor and morale of those he battled alongside. Though the power of the Sword fueled him, the same could not be said for those who followed. Its aura aided them, but to a much lesser degree. That they continued to carry on as well as they did inspired him in turn.

Then again, they had no choice. They were fighting for their lives now, their line deteriorated to the point that in some places, there was nothing more than a chaotic mingling of friend and foe. Wherever possible, allies clung to one another in desperate pockets, but did so as helpless eddies in a raging torrent, at the mercy of the current’s flow.

Or so Torin believed before a pair of familiar faces came crashing through a knot of soldiers from behind: Arn and Bardik, of the West Wedge. He did not dare question how they had made it all this way—past a Central Wedge buffer of some four thousand men. All he knew, all that truly mattered, was that they brought with them a renewal of the indomitable spirit that had begun to wane.

“To the wall!” Arn bellowed, pointing up at the looming hulk of the Bastion as if to remind Torin of their goal.

Though pressed from the east, Torin shifted focus as Arn barreled northward, hurling his hammer ahead of him and into the face of an openmouthed troll. The blow caved in its already blunt features, preempting its own strike. But its nearest comrade came stepping around without hesitation. Hefting a crude mallet of its own, it braced itself to intercept a now weaponless Arn.

That didn’t slow the former swordhand and now master of recruits. He continued forward with a growl, legs pumping, to hurl himself at his newest challenger before it could draw a proper bead. With a thunderous crack, his helmeted head struck the troll square in its mammoth chest, after which both fighters collapsed in a heap.

Torin was unable to break away to go to the fallen man’s aid. But Bardik was already there, wearing studded bucklers and wielding a pair of shortswords. He fought like a wrestler, low to the ground, virtually on all fours as he swept the earth of enemies around Arn’s body. The enemy’s thrusting assaults appeared clumsy and misdirected as the agile wedge commander scrambled and twisted, deflecting blows with his arm shields and lashing out like a serpent with his dual blades.

In a moment, a wall of rogues had helped to surround their embattled leader. Disengaging from his own front, Torin moved to check on Arn, who, after a slap from Bardik, was shaking his head. Though clearly dazed, the stout mercenary looked as if he would recover. The same could not be said of the fallen troll.

As Bardik helped Arn to his feet, Torin handed him his hammer. The mercenary considered it with a look of momentary confusion, then tightened his grip and brushed his comrades away.

“Fetch me a giant,” he sneered.

Rejuvenated, those serving in the vanguard chopped and smashed and angled forward through the resisting hordes. Emboldened by the various feats of their commanders, rogues poured through in reckless waves, mad with a lust only battle could foster. They had nearly reached the Bastion. There they could spread out, putting the wall to their backs and turning their attentions to a single front. Depending on how well Chamaar and the East Wedge had held up after all this time, the day might yet be won.

But just as it appeared they had attained their first goal, Lorre’s forces opened wide, revealing a bank of ballistae set in place before the giant wall. Bardik had to fall flat to avoid being riddled with missiles, while Torin found himself ducking behind Lancer’s shield. From high atop the battlement, enemies rained down additional stones and arrows, into the face of the attackers. It was a full-scale barrage, and completely unexpected. Torin knew that if they did not react quickly, it would be the end of them.

As dozens fell, Torin yelled and gestured, ordering the men to fan out. While it meant abandoning their precious lines and dissolving further into chaotic melee, the only way to escape this new onslaught was to take cover among the enemy. Lancer and Bardik must have agreed, for they echoed his command swiftly among those pouring in behind them.

Within moments, the hailfire from above slowed to a trickle, and then ceased altogether. Hacking almost randomly now amid a milling throng, Torin clenched his jaw in bitter determination. It would take more than a few carefully concealed armaments to stop them.

But the surprise counter hadn’t needed to stop them, only blunt their assault and shatter their formation. To that end, it had been a masterful success. Separated from his companions, alone amid a sea of thrashing bodies, he could do little more than raise his weapon in personal defense. And though scores had fallen before him, individual exploits were not going to win them this battle.

Casting about for Dyanne and Holly, he caught sight of Lancer, and began working his way toward the man. Perhaps if they could take out those who operated the ballistae, they might yet make their eastern rush along the Bastion, raising some form of cover from the archers stationed above.

Even as he considered this, another pack of giants came thundering into the fray, more than twice as many as he had encountered before. Torin blanched at the prospect, yet roared in to meet them. But before he could engage, the troop split, one half edging south of the other. Each group then planted itself
in the shape of a ravelin, pointed westward, so as to further split and divide the attacking force.

The coordination of these movements struck Torin as rather extraordinary until he caught sight of the individual directing them. A human, given his size and shape, though his body was shrouded in black plate and his face masked by a sinister visor. Torin was unable to pause long enough to make a full study, but the more he saw of this man and the movements of those around him, the more convinced he became of his role in orchestrating the defense.

Lancer must have recognized this as well, for the tenacious wedge commander, bruised and sweating, was making a concerted charge in that direction. Acknowledging the threat, the man in black immediately sent forth a giant to dispatch him.

“Torin!” Lancer yelled, grimacing as his blade and the giant’s clashed. “Lorre’s general! Take him out!”

Torin whirled, disemboweling another foe in the process. Leaving the breathless Lancer to his private struggle, the young outlander did as ordered, taking aim at the enemy commander.

Orc and troll, human and giant—all rose to impede his progress, and all were cut down. With fresh focus and a divine strength undiminished by pain or fatigue, he barely broke stride. The Sword’s power gushed through him, as if sensing that, yes, here was an undertaking that mattered, that might at last make a difference.

And yet, as he came upon his goal, a conflicting thought took root. Despite the efforts of those around him, his aim was not necessarily to eradicate this army, but to secure an audience with Lord Lorre. What better way than to hold the warlord’s chief commander hostage? They were losing this battle—if they hadn’t already. Perhaps taking the man alive would give them all something to bargain with.

These thoughts ripped through him in a flash of inspiration as his blade carved a flame-spitting arc through the general’s sword. His opponent then lunged at him with a spiked shield, but Torin was so much swifter, hacking off the spike with a ready swipe while stepping aside and reaching out a foot to trip the man to the earth. A backswing swept through the midsection of a charging bodyguard, after which Torin turned to find the enemy commander on his back, clinging helplessly to but a shattered sword and a severed shield.

In desperation, the general tossed aside his blunted blade and tore a dagger from his boot. Torin smirked in warning as he placed the tip of the Sword against the other’s chest.

In that same moment, in the corner of his eye, he saw Dyanne go down.

His reaction was instinctive. Like a whirlwind redirected by gusting winds, he abandoned the fallen general and bounded toward the woman. She had only slipped, it now appeared, and though sorely pressed, was holding her own—she and Holly—against a pair of snarling swordsmen twice their size. In a moment, the girls might have regained the upper hand. But Torin wasn’t taking the chance. He ripped through both enemies with a single swipe, turn
ing their torsos into bloody fountains before either could even turn at his approach.

He stood over them for a moment, heaving with fury, while beside him Holly pulled Dyanne to her feet.

“Our savior,” Holly quipped.

Torin turned to look at them. Despite her wry comment, Holly nodded, as close to a show of gratitude, he suspected, as she might ever come. Their limbs were starting to droop, their faces streaked with dirt and blood. Even they were near the end of their strength.

His focus shifted back to the general, who had regained his feet with a swell of bodyguards closing ranks around him. Torin understood clearly the opposing leader’s gestures, and, despite the din, could not mistake the ringing command: “Bring me that sword!”

All of a sudden, the ravelin-forming giants came at him in a stampede. Torin marked their approach, noting at the same time that Lancer had broken free and was mustering another charge at the general. The young king made a swift decision.

“Stay with Lancer,” he begged his Nymph companions, then dove back into the fray.

Fearing that he might have already squandered their best opportunity to decapitate their enemy, he headed south, away from the Bastion. The best he could do now was to run a misdirection attack. Perhaps he could draw enough of the enemy to allow Lancer the chance to finish what he could not. He only hoped the commander would capture rather than kill the general, for the more he considered it, the more he believed that to be their best chance of escaping this bloodbath.

Many saw him coming and did their best to simply clear out of his way. Even so, he could not outrun the thundering giants. Sooner than he would have liked, he was forced to turn and confront them.

An image of Kylac Kronus flashed through his mind, the boy warrior who had seen him through in his quest to reclaim the Sword of Asahiel. Wielding a broadsword instead of those slender blades carried by the youth, and lacking the years of training, Torin could not begin to match the other’s fighting style. But he did his best, lunging forward and back, ducking from side to side, letting the Sword take command. The giants quickly surrounded him, working together to bring him down. But the Sword tore through even the thickest and strongest of their weapons, leaving them with stubs and hafts. Some hurled these at him, only to strike one of their companions across the way. One opponent, overcome with frustration, dove at his back, thinking to simply tackle and smother him, and instead lost its own head. With the divine energy and awareness granted him by the Crimson Sword, Torin was as elusive as smoke, and would not be contained.

From beyond the circle of giant bodies, his situation must have appeared dire indeed. For he could hear Arn bellowing, rallying a pack of rogues to his defense. The boulder-shaped mercenary came rolling in a moment later, his war hammer crushing a giant’s hip. Through the breach poured Bardik,
slashing and skittering, and behind him, a dozen of his troops, howling as if possessed.

“Go!” Arn shouted to him, intercepting a giant’s cudgel and knocking it aside with a growl. “Lancer needs you!”

Torin almost refused, fearing that Arn and his rescue party would be crushed in his stead. But Arn knew as well as he that if they did not secure the opposing general, they were all doomed.

Snarling, Torin cut his way free, leaving the rest to his companions. He trudged north once more, dripping sweat and the blood of his enemies, eviscerating any who came near. The ring of guards around the general was twice as thick as when he’d left it, but those in his direct path fell to either side like chaff. Within moments, he had cleared their ranks and come upon the center region, where a smattering of rogues fought a losing struggle, while Lancer and a handful of others were already on their knees, yielding to those holding blades to their throats.

Torin’s blood boiled. He cast about for the general, but couldn’t seem to find him. He turned toward the group holding Lancer when a booming voice stole his attention.

“Surrender or she dies!”

The outlander’s head whipped around. There stood the general, flanked by towering giants, clenching Dyanne’s hair in a gauntleted fist, raising her chin with his dagger in the other.

Torin did not pause to consider his options. The Sword fell from his hand with a sucking splash to the slushy earth, where its internal flames sprouted forth to lick the muck from its gleaming surface.

A trio of giants came forward. Torin continued to stare at Dyanne—at the hair matted against her forehead, at the fierce defiance flashing in her eyes. When the giants reached him, one of the brutish creatures claimed the Sword, while the other two pricked his rib cage with a blade from either side.