The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (47 page)

“If that’s the case,” he said instead, “then it would seem we’re stuck. To turn this army around, we must rescue Corathel. And to rescue Corathel, we must set forth with a group small enough—and swift enough—to make up the ground we’ve already lost. If anyone can follow a Mookla’ayan trail, it’s another Mookla’ayan,” he added, gesturing toward their prisoner.

He glanced around beneath the base of that giant tree, regarding each of those in attendance—the elf and his translators, Jasyn and his soldiers, Marisha and her father. All seemed to be waiting for him, so he took a deep breath to steady himself.

“I suggest we get to it.”

T
ORIN STOOD BENEATH THE SHADOWED ARCH
of the Bastion’s solitary gatehouse, judging with suspicion the man before him. The fierce gaze and battered armor were those of a seasoned soldier, albeit one clinging desperately to a waning prime. His coal-black hair was scratched with gray, his large frame gone pudgy at its center. The pouches beneath his eyes were deep and sagging, while the orbs themselves were flat and cold. Nothing in the man’s face suggested that he had ever known mirth.

“Warrlun,” Lorre introduced. The overlord of Yawacor was standing a few paces back, ringed by giants. “Been with me from the beginning. Has even saved my life a few times.”

Torin glanced in Lorre’s direction, then back to Warrlun, who loomed over him by almost half a foot. The soldier was standing far too close, chin tucked into his chest, looking down in a manner meant to be intimidating.

“He knows everything there is to know,” the warlord added. “His strength and experience will serve you well.”

Torin swallowed his reservations and nodded. He wasn’t comfortable with this arrangement, and Warrlun’s presence did not put him any more at ease. Still, once they were out on the road, it would be easy enough to change matters. Best that he hide his true feelings for now.

He looked again to the warlord, waiting to see who else from among the man’s entourage would be given over to theirs. He was quite certain it would be one of the attending giants. Not only would the formidability of these crea
tures dissuade against the double-cross Torin was already considering, but as natural mountain dwellers, they would be the most familiar with the distant reaches into which some believed the Finlorians had fled.

Instead, upon Lorre’s gesture, it was Saena who stepped forward from amid the guard circle.

“This one, you already know,” the warlord intoned.

Torin’s grunt was more surprise than acknowledgment. His comely prison attendant—and, as he had later learned, one of Lorre’s interrogators. What was the warlord thinking?

In the next breath, he was silently congratulating the man on his clever selection. The young girl was a perfect choice—not only because of her matchless memory, but as one whom Torin would be far less likely to kill or leave stranded on the open road.

Saena bowed in greeting—first to Torin, then to Dyanne and Holly. Torin turned with her, glancing back at the pair of Nymph Hunters and finding fresh comfort in the fact that they had decided to join him. After all, he’d had no real assurance that they would. He had bought them their freedom to do with as they chose. They had undertaken this mission at its outset to guide him, yes, to determine whether he was who he claimed to be and to punish him if he was lying. But more than that, they had come to see for themselves what progress Lorre was making in his conquest of the Southland, and to do what they could to thwart his advance. With the way things had ended up, Torin would not have blamed them had they elected to race home to warn their fellow Fenwa of the gathering storm.

But Dyanne had assured him that news of Neak-Thur’s fall and of the rogues’ devastating failure to recapture the city would find its way to the Nest soon enough. Though their family and friends might think them enslaved, tortured, or dead by now, both Hunters had agreed that they had invested too much in this quest to turn away from it now. He was no longer their hostage, and they could no longer force their company upon him. But if the choice was truly theirs, then they chose to see him through.

Looking at them now caused him to wonder if they already regretted that decision. Holly barely glanced at Saena. The smaller Nymph was too busy glaring at Lorre as if calculating the odds of getting one of her throwing knives past his retinue of giants. Dyanne managed a polite nod, her emotions locked away behind a dispassionate front.

He had felt strange at first, seeing her again. Though he’d had plenty of empty hours in which to ponder, he still wasn’t certain what his hasty surrender on the battlefield said about him and his feelings for the woman—or Marisha, for that matter. For when the latter had been threatened in a similar fashion, he had refused to yield, willing to sacrifice even her life, if absolutely necessary, for the greater good. With Dyanne, he had submitted before such conflict could even manifest.

Regardless, all that mattered now was that he felt safer knowing she and Holly would still be with him.

The grooms arrived then, leading a team of horses fully outfitted. As each
animal was assigned to a member of the party, Warrlun turned to confer privately with Lorre one last time. Torin marked their conversation with a persistent wariness. Though no longer certain Lorre was the monster he’d imagined, he remained unconvinced of the warlord’s objective. Were they to find the Finlorians and meet up with the man’s wayward progeny, would learning how they fared provide satisfaction enough? Or did the old warrior have a more sinister plan for retribution in mind?

Torin turned back to his mount, bending to check straps and fittings. It was too soon to tell. And without a guide, he would be lost, his hopes of locating the elusive Finlorians all but dashed. For the time being, he would have to trust the self-proclaimed overlord, and hope that the man’s designs would not interfere with his own. Blazes, he had trusted Raven, a rampaging pirate, hadn’t he? Was this so different?

“Your first stop will be Vagarbound,” Lorre explained, while Warrlun moved away and climbed into the saddle of a sorrel gelding. “A two-day ride at most. From there, may fate cut you a favorable course.”

Torin nodded as his left foot reached for the stirrup. A moment later, he sat astride the roan mare, which tossed its head and whickered, as if sharing his misgivings.

He looked ahead, peering northward as a massive portcullis was raised. The doors beyond had already been opened, revealing another unknown horizon awash in early shades of gray. The snow had melted, exposing windswept fields of trampled sword grass on either side of a wide and rutted highway. Farther west, the ocean raged against its rocky shore.

He tried to focus on this—the road ahead—and not the battlefield behind him, which after four days still stank of death and disappointment. Crews piled and sorted, while the smoke from communal pyres stung his eyes. It would be months, Torin thought, before evidence of battle was completely hidden. It would take much longer than that for the scars to heal.

Despite his best efforts, he found his gaze drifting back toward the city and the countless comrades still imprisoned there. They deserved better, Torin knew. And given the chance, he would make sure they received it.

“Should we meet again,” Lorre offered, “may it be under better circumstances.”

Torin considered the warlord and his ring of giants, and nodded once more. Then he kicked his heels, urging his steed forward alongside those of his company. Dyanne and Holly were to his right. To his left rode Warrlun and Saena, the handpicked agents of Lord Lorre.

His latest companions, for better or worse.

With a mix of hope and apprehension inspired by each, Torin trotted past the open gate and into the rain-drenched morn.

A
LLION THUMBED THE FLETCHING
of the arrow nocked loosely to his bowstring as he peered intently through the misty gloom. He cast his gaze this way and that, but could determine little, enshrouded as he was by jungle. Ears cocked, he strained for some further sign of that which had alerted him.

Second General Jasyn gave another signal, and the soldiers accompanying them fanned to either side of the hunter in spread formation. Allion crept forward at the point, hoping the warning he had just called wasn’t merely another false alarm—before swiftly changing his mind and praying that it was.

To one side, the brush rustled. The hunter whipped about, nerves drawing as taut as his bowstring as he raised the weapon and took aim.

A swamp badger poked its masked face through the shiny foliage, eyes glittering as it took in the scene, then ducked away.

Jasyn motioned for his soldiers to stand down. “That’s two now,” he said, chuckling at Allion’s expense. “On edge, are we?”

Allion just shook his head as he relaxed his bow. Better to deal with the embarrassment than be caught with his guard down.

Jasyn glanced at the lowered weapon as he moved forward to retake the point. “You know, in Partha, only those too weak or craven for close-quarter combat become bowmen.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Perhaps you just haven’t the stomach.”

“Until you’ve stared down a dragon, Commander, you don’t know what craven is.”

The general chuckled companionably and nodded in due deference. He then gritted his teeth and signaled to the soldier he’d put in charge of handling their guide. The brutish lad came forward, prodding the Powaii native dubbed “Weave” at the end of his leash. The elf uttered no complaint. Jasyn had made it quite clear before setting out that morning that should the savage attempt to escape or seek to betray them in any way, his armies would not stop until they had exterminated the entire Powaii clan.

But Allion had sensed that it wasn’t the general’s threats or handlers that would keep the elf in line, as much as the native’s own word. He sensed it again as Weave loped past him now with those long, lean strides, eyes darting briefly in the hunter’s direction. Once more, Allion felt a stab of shame to see
the proud Mookla’ayan forced to endure such treatment, and wished there was something he could do.

He found Marisha, whose gaze was also trailing after the elf. No doubt, the kindhearted woman was having similar thoughts.

Darinor followed behind her, a long and sinister shadow, and, as always, Allion was forced to redirect quickly to avoid the Entient’s glare. With twirling fingers, he returned his arrow to its quiver before shouldering his bow. He then fell into line among those of his company, resuming the southern march.

Despite their fears and skepticism, they had commenced before the sunrise, determined to overtake Corathel’s abductors before it was too late. It was possible, Weave claimed through his team of translators. Unburdened, the Mookla’ayans they meant to catch would have long escaped them by now. But this same patrol, which according to Weave was comprised of roughly threescore A’awari, had been slowed by the unwieldy contingent of Parthan prisoners numbering an additional score—just half of those who had accompanied the chief general to begin with, Jasyn had noted bitterly. All signs suggested their enemy was not concerned with any pursuit numbering less than a hundred, and had pushed their pace accordingly.

Both good news and bad, given that Allion’s party numbered only thirteen. With such a small group, and with Weave leading, they stood a reasonable chance of finding their quarry within a day or so. But subduing or even escaping that quarry would be another challenge altogether. Even if Jasyn and his men were able to free their comrades—and even if those comrades were in any condition to fight—their force would number half that of the elven captors. Having seen these A’awari in combat before, Allion would have shuddered to face those odds on an open battlefield, let alone here amid the tangled terrain of the natives’ homeland.

But as he himself had agreed, it was their best—if not their only—chance to reunite the Parthan Legion and, ultimately, to fulfill Darinor’s envisioned defense plan against the Illysp. Were it otherwise, Allion was certain the Entient would not have agreed to come.

The hunter could only hope that having the mystic with them would offset the enemy’s advantage. It would have to, he reminded himself, for of their thirteen, only a portion were prepared to do any real fighting. Jasyn had refused to trust Weave with a weapon, and the soldier assigned to the elf as a handler would likely be too busy with that to contribute in any meaningful way. Marisha, though capable of defending herself, was no warrior, and neither, Allion suspected, was Kae. The division’s lead interpreter—the only member of her team to join this mission—was becoming more confident, more adept, with her Mookla’ayan language skills as they went along. But the fact that she carried only a dagger and shortsword—while her fellow soldiers were strapped with weapons head to toe—suggested to Allion that she’d been brought along for the sole purpose of communication. As critical as that purpose was, the hunter doubted her words would be strong enough to save her from a Mookla’ayan spear.

That left only himself and Darinor in addition to Jasyn and a half-dozen handpicked soldiers. And while it wasn’t Allion’s place to doubt the skills of these elite fighters, each would have to prove the equal of Kylac Kronus himself before the hunter would believe that six could overcome sixty.

Of course, such thoughts did little to inspire confidence in an already dubious venture. So Allion fought instead to give full focus to his eyes and ears in an ongoing effort to attune himself to the unfamiliar jungle. It may have been that all he had detected this time was a harmless badger. But he took heart in that he, at least, had sensed the creature when it seemed no one else had.

Hours slipped past at a sluggish pace, matching that of the drifting trailers of fog. Their own was much more hurried. As foolish as it seemed to go crashing and splashing with abandon through the trees and marshes, there was no other way to make up time. They paused only when necessary for Weave to double-check the signs. The farther south they went, the softer the ground became. In many areas, this made tracking easy—not so much the barefoot A’awari as the Parthans, whose heavy boots left deep prints in the mud. But in other areas, the prints were swallowed up entirely by stagnant groundwater pooled up from below. When that happened, the native relied on marks Allion could see—broken reeds, bent sedges, torn leaves—and others he could not begin to discern: scents beyond human detection, subtle currents in the listless air, and, more than anything, an innate familiarity with the Mookla’ayans and their ways.

On such occasions, when unable to trust his own eyes or those of his men, Jasyn made certain to grumble his displeasure and reiterate his threats, ever fearful that the savage might simply be leading them around by a noose. And indeed, whenever he heard the call of a bird or animal he did not recognize, Allion half expected a band of Weave’s own clansmen to come leaping out of the brush and put a swift end to this reckless pursuit.

Miles became leagues, and despite the arduous progression of time, the hours eventually formed a day. Misleading, Allion knew. For in the tightly woven jungle, dusk came early, stealing upon them with the swift assurance of a master thief. Nor was the close of their day to be marked by the theft of the sun. The members of the party simply drew in closer to avoid becoming separated in the dark. They lit no torch, but trusted once again in Weave, whose Mookla’ayan eyes functioned as well in darkness as in the light. Blinded and weary, they pressed on.

Nevertheless, at the onslaught of midnight, Allion found himself huddled among the party’s leaders, ready to call a break in their search. The trail was yet half a day old, and they were simply too tired, too wet, too bedraggled to continue. The time had come to take some rest and resume their journey on the morrow.

Then they heard the scream.

It belted suddenly through the darkness, laced with terror and powered by agony—the bloodcurdling howl of a man who knew it to be the last sound he would ever make. In the trees above, birds scattered from their nests, while Allion looked to Jasyn with an expression of sudden horror. The others froze in place, sitting or leaning upon various stumps and logs, afraid to move.

The sound itself lasted but a moment before melting away. But its aftershocks were still in Allion’s blood when the next sounded, this time shrill and quick before the issuer was able to clamp down and defy an unspeakable pain.

Crouched low beside the general and hunter, Weave gestured to Kae, whose words were but an unnecessary echo of Allion’s thoughts.

“We had best hurry.”

With their next breaths, they were tearing again through the jungle, thrashing and weaving headlong through a twisted, sucking, overgrown landscape. A continuing chain of screams ushered their progress, like whips against their backs. Though no one said it, they knew it was their men who were dying—those they had come looking for. Without regard for their own safety, forgoing any pretense at stealth, they barreled onward.

Before long, a glow arose to the south, red and angry like the morning sun. But dawn was yet hours away, and this glow smelled of smoke and burning flesh. It lit the sky ahead, growing brighter, built upon the flow of human screams.

There were other cries now, too, a sequence of yelps and squalls to which Allion soon detected an undeniable rhythm. A deep hum underscored the noise, a low rumble like that of the earth itself.

When at last Weave brought them all to a skidding halt, it became clear what had happened. Their quarry had come to a stop—hours ago, as the trail suggested. Long enough to prepare for the ceremony even now taking place. A ceremony that took the breath from Allion’s lungs and filled them with dismay.

He stood with his companions atop the forested ridge of a wide and deep depression. The muddy hollow had been cleared of its larger brush and vegetation, all of it scraped and piled into the middle to form a central rise beside an earthen spur. The mound had then been set ablaze. Its flames roared skyward into the night, illuminating the figures of not just sixty, but hundreds of A’awari—an entire village of men, women, and children—all of whom danced and circled and chanted beneath the eruptive halo of bloody light.

Near the center of it all, a Parthan soldier was brought forth from a rapidly dwindling herd, trussed to a pole. The soldier tugged and squirmed against his bindings, but, like those before him, could only wail as his captors hurled him from the top of the jutting spur and into the deadly conflagration. A’awari viewers yelped with delight as the man shrieked his torment, glowing and thrashing until he blackened and lay still.

Feeding upon his flesh, the flames drew higher.

Allion recoiled from the wash of heat emanating from those flames. In all that commotion, it appeared their arrival had gone unnoticed. Standing uninvited upon the hollow’s rim, he had a clear and unmolested view of the continuing slaughter.

Another prisoner was hauled forward, hefted by a pair of A’awari by the pole to which he was slung and carried like his companion to the top of the spur. Behind him, only seven were left. This one held bravely, clenched with anticipation. But he, too, arched and howled when his body hit the blaze.

Jasyn drew his sword. The sharp rasp woke Allion from his horrified trance. Reacting instinctively, he reached forth to restrain the maddened general.

His grip alone would not have been enough to stop the man. But others were there to help, grabbing the division commander about the arms and waist, holding him back.

“Fool!” Darinor hissed, standing aback of their gathering. “Would you give us all away?”

Jasyn whirled, reddened eyes flashing. “That’s Corathel and his men out there!”

“Which makes you the only commander these other men have—those who might still be saved.”

Jasyn growled and heaved, fighting to break free.

“Are you blind?” Darinor pressed. “You cannot kill them all.”

“Watch me!” the lieutenant general snapped.

Allion felt himself tearing inside. Darinor was right. But there had to be some other way.

“Weave,” the hunter asked, turning to their guide. “What can we do to make them stop?”

Kae forced her gaze from the terrible scene long enough to translate. As she finished, another scream ripped through the night.

Weave spoke hurriedly. Twice, Kae had to stop him and have him repeat something. When she turned to Allion, her face was sweaty and ashen.

“They are seeking to appease the Mookla’ayan deities,” she said, “in hopes that the gods will see fit to lift this scourge from their lands.”

Allion’s mind raced. “If we can convince them that those prayers have been answered, might they let the rest go?”

Kae shook her head. “I don’t—”

“Ask him!”

She did. While the two spoke, Jasyn seemed ready to explode. Another prisoner was sacrificed, leaving only five. They could not even tell, Allion realized, if Corathel was still among them.

“Either that, or they will kill us all,” Kae answered.

At that moment, they were finally spotted. A disinterested youngster standing toward the back—who was unable to view much over the heads of the elven throng—yanked on his mother’s arm, pointing them out. The woman ignored the child at first, but when at last she turned, her reaction was immediate. Allion watched it with a feeling of impending dread, as if watching a dragon draw a deep breath. Even as it occurred to him to warn the others, A’awari began to swing about, one by one, in response to the elf-woman’s cries.

The alarm spread faster than the hunter had imagined, given the frenzy in which the A’awari were engulfed. What began with a few curious stares passed quickly through the rear ranks and toward the center. Before he could even appreciate the sudden danger in which he found himself, Allion was staring down at wave upon wave of angry Mookla’ayan warriors, all rushing toward his position.