The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (62 page)

Torin only half turned as Crag sauntered up to join him at the aft rail. He then looked past the Tuthari, glaring back at those whose scowls followed his companion. Though given strict orders by their employer that no harm was to come to either of their passengers, neither the ship’s captain nor his crew had bothered to hide their displeasure at being accompanied on this voyage by a dwarf.

“I was, actually,” Torin replied, finding that response to be honest enough. As of yet, he saw no reason to trouble his gnarled companion—or anyone else, for that matter—with the full truth of his anguish.

“Ya should let it go,” Crag muttered. “That’s what Laressa would want.”

“Are those words meant to convince
me
, or
yourself
?”

The dwarf did not respond right away. Clearly, the treachery he had brought upon Laressa and Eolin was still eating at him. He had been friends with both for such a long time, the Tuthari had admitted during the trek to Kasseri—close enough that Laressa had shared with him years ago the story of how and why she had fled her father’s kingdom to be with Eolin and the Finlorian people. But never had she mentioned Warrlun, her former husband, by name. Nevertheless, Crag was furious with himself for not having figured it out on his own, fearing that he’d been blinded by his own selfishness, insisting that he should have known.

With Saena’s help, Torin had done everything he could to absolve the dwarf of such guilt. At the same time, he held himself every bit as responsible, and for the same reason. He, too, had been told the story—by Lorre—without names. He, too, had realized the truth only too late, when, had he stopped to think about it, he might have guessed. Had either of them done so, Warrlun would likely have perished much sooner, and Eolin’s death been averted.

While each had forgiven the other, neither could forgive himself.

“We agreed,” Crag muttered finally. “That’s behind us now. At least until we settle matters on your own shores.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be more encouraging about that,” Torin offered. During the past few days, he had finished relaying to the Tuthari everything he knew about the war that awaited them. Even if Crag’s Hrothgari cousins were to be found, it was highly likely that they, too, would be hard-pressed at this point by the Illysp-bred swarm. Given Darinor’s portrayal of the creatures, and the length of time that Torin had been away, it was quite possible that neither human nor dwarf would find much of a home to return to.

“Bah, perhaps we’ll get lucky and get ourselves killed by pirates ’fore we ever set ground. If the waves don’t swallow us, that is.”

Torin nearly smirked at the thought, wondering suddenly about Red
Raven—Karulos—and his love, the enigmatic Autumn of the Rain. An unusual pair, those two. On the surface, they had no business being together. Remembering them now, Torin would have thought that Autumn might be better suited living among a people such as the Finlorians than storming the seas with a gang of rampaging pirates. She was like a princess; Raven, a common brigand. And yet that hadn’t stopped them from forming a bond of adoration the likes of which Torin had seldom seen.

The sense of whimsy stealing over him vanished abruptly. Had he lost his own chance for such happiness by failing to tell Dyanne how he felt? Clearly, he was unworthy of her. Whenever he had seen or even thought of her, of how perfect she seemed, he’d been reminded of his own inadequacies. But could the same not have been said of Karulos? Might it be that the only thing separating him from the contentment the pirate now enjoyed was a willingness to confess his desires?

Of course not, he reminded himself quickly. Even if he’d had the other man’s courage, he still had Marisha’s feelings to consider. Given that, his decision not to say anything had been for the best.

So why was he continuing to torture himself over it?

“Either way, ain’t much use in fussing,” Crag said, looking to his taller companion.

Torin grunted, hoping that would be enough to send the other on his way. He wasn’t trying to be rude; he just wasn’t in a mood for company.

But Crag remained at his side, staring with him out upon that ocean. There weren’t too many other places he could go, Torin realized. The ship upon which they sailed was about half the size of Jorkin’s. And none of the crewmen wanted anything to do with the loathsome dwarf.

“Sailors—” Torin remarked finally, “a superstitious lot. If we do encounter any misfortune, they’re as liable as not to blame you.”

“And right they may be, the flat-faced dullards. Though they’ll keep their distance if they want to keep their limbs.”

Torin turned again to regard those who were at work nearby, whispering among themselves and casting guarded glances his way. “Doesn’t appear we’ll have much of a problem there.”

Crag snorted, and Torin forced a smile. Perhaps he should be grateful for the Tuthari’s company after all. For while it was Crag who traveled under
his
protection, having the dwarf beside him was probably the best way to maintain his privacy on what promised to be a long voyage home.

If only that was where he wished to be heading.

He closed his eyes, then, against his own wistfulness. The dwarf was right. Yawacor was behind them now, and there was nothing to do but let it go. If he wished for Crag to find peace, to begin looking forward rather than back, then perhaps
he
should do the same.

Even so, he was not yet ready. Not while he could still see those shores, faint as they might be. When they had faded, so, too, would his memories, and with them, he promised himself, the foolish reflections to which he so childishly clung.

Until then, he owed it to himself and to those whose lives he had affected, for better or worse, to remember, granting each of them the farewell they deserved.

With Crag grown silent at his side, Torin fixed his gaze upon the retreating horizon, and continued to wonder what might have been.

R
AIN FELL AND WINDS GUSTED,
prompting Allion to pull the folds of his cloak tight about him. The day had started out promising enough. Then gray skies had closed about the sun, paving the way for thunderheads and frigid temperatures, and mocking the hopes of those who had been too quick to welcome the reprieve.

Much like their march from Atharvan had begun, Allion recalled grimly. After nearly two weeks of endless preparation, some fifty thousand soldiers—almost the whole of the Parthan Legion—had set forth from that capital city with the sun on their backs and a fire in their hearts. Though many within the ranks still doubted the wisdom of their course, it hadn’t felt like that at the time. With dawn’s crimson rays unfurled across the land like a royal carpet, with oiled blades and polished armor glinting, with the cheers of those who waved kerchiefs and blew kisses, the procession had felt more like a tournament parade than a march to war.

Allion was so anxious by then to be gone from that city that it hadn’t even bothered him. Though first in line to volunteer for any task that needed doing, he’d found it hard to keep busy enough to prevent himself from spending time alone with Marisha. And even when he
had
been able to maintain proper distance, he’d been utterly helpless against the constant anguish of his thoughts. More than once, he had considered throwing decorum to the wind and surrendering to his passions. Darinor had ceased keeping an eye on them, after all. Having given his warnings, the Entient had left them to their own will. Together, hunter and healer had just barely managed to preserve the legitimate nature of their friendship.

Shortly after they had set out, however, the skies had blackened and storms had wrapped the world in a mantle of darkness. Spirits had swiftly dissolved beneath an onslaught of sleet and hail that had raged unabated for several days. More and more, men began to grumble, wondering why they had forsaken warm barracks for the open plain. Their commanding officers seldom had an answer to give.

Allion, too, had grown heartsick and weary. More than once, he had suggested to Darinor that they ride on ahead to Krynwall and leave the legion to its course. But Darinor, well aware of the soldiers’ discontent, remained hesitant to do so. The men of Partha were as loyal as any to their leaders;
that much had already been proven. But in this case, even their leaders needed constant reassurances as to the necessity of abandoning their homes in order to lure their enemy to a ground of their choosing. As it was, Corathel was keeping a closer eye on the train of scouts that followed than on the road ahead, fully prepared to turn back at the first report of trouble. The Entient was unwilling to risk that they would hold course should he who had set it be the first to stray.

Where the mystic was now was anyone’s guess. Allion lifted his head in quick survey. Before him, the army stretched out along its various lines and formations, marching rhythmically to an unbroken cadence. Most often, Darinor kept alongside Corathel, who made a point of riding back and forth among his troops. Better for morale, Allion supposed; although with the Entient in tow casting a stern pall wherever they went, the hunter could not help but think that in this case, Corathel would have been better advised to keep himself—and Darinor—out of sight.

Allion, meanwhile, marched beside Marisha near the rear of the procession, back among the loaded supply wagons that were most responsible for the legion’s sluggish pace. It would not do to run ahead, though, for provisions were stretched thin in the lands to which they traveled. Nor would it pay to leave the wagons behind with a lesser guard and trust that they would not fall under Illychar attack.

Friend or foe, the army had encountered few travelers upon the road. Most of the former had long ago taken shelter within the nearest city or holdfast. Most of the latter were keeping their distance. There had been a few skirmishes along the outer edges, but nothing of high intensity or sustained duration. Exploratory strikes, Darinor had explained. The Illysp were tempted, and were urging their brethren forth to probe for weaknesses in the legion’s iron shell—like wary scavengers come to pick at a dying body.

A positive sign that their plan was working.

None had yet struck deep enough for Allion to see. He could sense them, though, the heated stares that marked his every movement with feral hunger. Not only the Illychar, but the Illysp as well. From the corners of his mind, they would whisper to him—vague threats and wordless promises, haunting sensations without voice. Not quite there, and yet impossible to dispel.

So he endured them as best he could, just as he did the wet and the chill, keeping his imagination in check when the morning mists rose up about his feet like ghosts from the grave, or when a midnight howl struck a chord like that of the keening dead. He steeled his mind against their brush as he had so many other wayward thoughts, and focused mostly on the muddy path ahead, doing his best to trust where it might take him.

His only real solace was that this particular road was set soon to end. The northern mouth of the Gaperon yawned before them, that massive breach between the Tenstrock Mountains to the west, and the Aspandels to the east. From his vantage, it appeared as if the forward regiments were already slipping into its shadow, entering the long gateway into the lands of Kuuria. Within a day, they would reach the southern edge and unite this force with
those already waiting—including those of his own kingdom, Alson, under the command of General Rogun. Perhaps then, Darinor would permit the three of them—Allion, Marisha, and the Entient himself—to return home to check on those left behind at Krynwall.

He glanced surreptitiously at Marisha. Despite the many words they had shared over the past several days, they had carefully avoided any talk of where they stood in terms of their feelings for one another. Each knew how the other felt, yet both understood that it was not something they could pursue at the present time. Marisha had made her preference plain that day in Galdric’s bathchamber. Whether or not Darinor had spoken to her as he had Allion, she knew well enough to leave it at that. The hunter could only hope that when circumstances changed, her heart would remain the same.

With the hood of her travel cloak covering her face, she did not see him admiring her. Before she could turn and do so, Allion redirected his gaze upward along the sloping arm of the nearest mountain. Forested tufts clung to its rugged hide, sprouting amid crags and defiles and slides of loose stone. Halfway up, he spotted a lone sapling that had been all but buried by the scree tumbled down around it. While battered, it nevertheless reached forth with its broken limbs, straining for both water and sunlight, waging a stubborn war against its slow and certain death.

So intent was he on the sapling’s struggle that he did not even see the horse and rider that stood upon a jutting overlook until the animal gave a whicker and started toward him. At about the same time, Marisha grabbed at him and pointed.

Darinor.

“Something has happened,” Marisha presumed.

To Allion, her father’s face appeared as grave and intractable as ever.

“Torin returns,” the Entient declared.

Though he heard well the words, it took Allion a moment to grasp them. When he did, his eyes fell at once to the length of silver chain cupped in the Entient’s open palm. A nervous shock flashed through his veins, and he felt his eyes go wide.

“Now?” the hunter rasped. “Where?”

“To the northwest. If he has not yet reached our shores, he will soon.”

Allion looked again to Marisha. This time, her eyes found his, and she reached out to clasp his hand.

“I go now to meet him,” Darinor said.

“Of…of course,” Allion stammered. “Let us fetch some horses.”

But as the hunter began casting about, Darinor raised a hand to stop him. “I go alone.”

“What?” both Allion and Marisha echoed at once.

“No,” Marisha added. “We’re going with you.”

“Are you so eager to confess to him your new association?” her father asked, staring pointedly at their clasped hands.

Marisha let go, but would not back down. “We travel together, remember?”

Darinor shook his head. “Not this time. I need you to remain with Corathel, to make sure he stays the course.”

“We’re only a day from the main force,” Allion protested. “They won’t turn around now.”

“From there,” Darinor pressed, as if the hunter had never spoken, “I want the pair of you to continue on to Souaris, there to await our arrival.”

Marisha frowned. “You’ll bring him to us?”

The Entient nodded.

“What about Krynwall?” Allion asked. “I thought our plan was to go back and see how she fares.”

“You have the courier reports. Matters there are well in hand.”

“But—”

“It is reasonable to assume that that is where Torin will head first. And it just may be that that is where I’ll meet him. In any case, your city’s soldiers are here, to the south. The greater danger is that which will come against them—against all of us—here.”

Marisha glowered. “I won’t be left behind, Father. I believe I made that clear.”

“You also made clear an oath to obey me, should I permit you to continue on in my company. Would you put lives at risk by defying me again?”

The woman bit down on her next retort, her features both angry and sullen.

“This army we have assembled is our shield,” the Entient went on, more softly this time. “I would have you stay behind it. I can escort Torin more swiftly—and quietly—if I travel alone.”

“What if he brings with him another army?” Allion demanded. “Will that not attract attention? What if you are overmatched?”

“In that event, there is still precious little the two of you might do to favor us. The best you can do is to make sure our forces to the south are properly arrayed. Let me worry about Torin and any others that may be added to them.”

Allion didn’t like it, and it was plain that Marisha didn’t either. But neither had forgotten their fight with the goblin Illychar, nor how that conflict would have ended had Darinor not been there to rescue them. Perhaps it was indeed best that they respect the man’s wishes, and do as he said.

“Can you not tell if he bears some new power that might aid us?” the hunter asked.

Again Darinor shook his head, then drew his cowl as if warding off more than just the weather. “We will know where we stand soon enough.”

Allion stared at the Entient, who in turn stared at his daughter.

“Do I have your oath that I will find you at Souaris?” Darinor asked.

Marisha reached out again to grip Allion’s hand, then raised her head to face her father squarely. “Do not be gone long.”

The Entient locked stares once more with each of them, as if to ensure himself of their compliance. “See to Corathel, then. Remind him, if you must, that only a fool mistrusts all of that which he does not understand.”

With a slap of his reins, Darinor started north, weaving his way through the last of the supply wagons still rolling and creaking along, ignoring the many stray looks that followed.

Behind him, Allion gave Marisha’s hand a squeeze, feeling every bit her father’s fool.

“I
RECKON THIS IS IT,”
Crag grunted.

With the lead rope tight in one hand, Torin reached up to rub his mount’s forehead. “Are you sure you won’t come with me?”

They had been over this already. With more than two weeks at sea, they’d had plenty of time to plot the paths they would take once they reached Pentanian shores. Much had depended on the state of affairs upon landing, of course—namely, to what extent Alson and her neighbors had been overrun. Even so, there were only so many options available, and their respective paths seemed clear.

Still, it was only courteous to ask.

“You’ve got your road,” Crag said. “I’ve got mine.”

Aside from the occasional squall, those weeks at sea had been largely uneventful. There had been no mishaps, no pirates, no sightings of any monsters of the deep. In fact, so consumed was he with other matters that they had been nearly halfway home before Torin even remembered the terrible leviathan encountered during his voyage west. By that time, Crag had begun to recover from a nasty seasickness—enough so that he’d been able to stay with Torin above deck and, little by little, redirect the young king’s focus. As a result, Torin had finally put aside his lingering grief, and turned his eye to the future.

They had reached land just a few short hours ago. Amid shouts and furling sails and mooring ropes that sliced through the haze, they had docked along a pier very near to that from which the
Pirate’s Folly
had set sail all those weeks previous. With its wharfside bustle and brume-filled streets, the town of Gammelost appeared just as Torin remembered it, unaffected by the chaos rumored to be sweeping the lands east. Nevertheless, he had emerged cautiously, having a long word with the harbormaster before taking his leave of the red-bearded Captain Gorum. With a cloaked Crag under wing, he had slipped slowly through town, from tavern to meathouse to livery stable, gathering news and supplies along the way. While word varied as to the state of the kingdoms and the nature of the enemy all faced, given what he already knew, Torin was able to sift through much of the baseless gossip and piece together what he thought might be an accurate portrayal of events since his departure. Both surprised and relieved to learn that the lands’ armies were still positioning themselves for the greater war yet to begin, he had quickly resigned himself to what he must do.

“We don’t have to part just yet,” he maintained, standing now at the eastern edge of the seaport town. “We might share the road a while longer.”

But Crag shook his head, a rustle within the shadow of his rainswept cowl. “Ya didn’t spend the last of Braegen’s coin on that beast only to tote it ’long
foot beside ya. And I’ll be sailing as Gorum’s first mate ’fore ya have me sitting astride it.”

The dwarf left little room for argument. Riding hard along the main roads, Torin might reach Krynwall by dusk on the morrow, and that was indeed his goal. Crag, on the other hand, was in no such hurry, and in fact meant to pick his way east through the thickest, most rugged wilderness stretches he could find, in hopes of avoiding any human inhabitants along the way. In any case, he’d made it plain that as far as he was concerned, the only good use for a horse was as a meal.