The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (68 page)

“For all your cunning, your traps have failed,” Torin said. “The city is not yet yours, and never will you have the Sword.”

Even as he extended this challenge, he felt a scalding heat beneath his foot. Glancing down in pain and shock, he saw that the toes of his boot had come in contact with a stream of molten rock, left in the wake of one of the Entient’s fire blasts. He moved away quickly, looking up in time to drive his approaching adversary back a step.

Darinor gritted his teeth—a menacing smile.

To his sudden horror, Torin recognized what the Entient intended in prolonging this confrontation. While the fires themselves were shaped by a magic the Sword could dispel, the resulting damage—while difficult to fathom—was natural enough. All around, holes in the walls and floor sizzled, stone and minerals dripping to form rivers and pools. Farther back, the flaming mine cart had melted and crumbled into a molten slag like that he’d used against Evhan. Smoke and fumes and searing heat permeated the tunnel air.

“It can still end well for you,” Darinor offered. “Surrender the Sword, and I will grant you a painless death and long life as an Illychar. Together, you and your friends can be reborn. Otherwise, I will burn your corpses, and let that be the end of you.”

Torin growled and pressed the attack, desperate now to find an opening. But the Entient continued to stall, moving about, quick-shifting every now and then and throwing those fireballs to keep him off balance. Worse, Torin was forced to monitor the ground almost as closely as he did his enemy, in order to avoid contact with any of the melted areas laid as traps beneath his feet. There were holes in the ceiling now, as well, raining drops upon the floor. Little by little, he was being hemmed in, while Darinor, with his ability to flash from one spot of clear ground to the next, seemed able to avoid the flaming pitfalls with relative ease.

As despair closed round, Torin checked on his friends. Neither was yet threatened by the ring of fire, but both
would
be soon. Allion remained mo
tionless, eyes wide, mouth agape, his color already fading. Marisha, on the other hand, was now stirring, moaning softly as she struggled for consciousness.

Torin looked away from her in a hurry, hoping that Darinor hadn’t noticed. But the Entient had. No doubt sensing the young king’s concern, he hefted one of his fireballs as if to take aim at the near-helpless woman.

“Burn them,” Torin bluffed. “Burn them both. I’d rather say good-bye now than see them become agents in your service.”

The Entient hesitated, his expression of savage delight slipping.

“Go on,” Torin urged, stepping back deeper into the tunnel. “Destroy them now, and save me the trouble later. I can do nothing more to save them, as you say. But the path to my freedom lies open, and I mean to take it. Only, know that I’ll be coming for you, Darinor, when and where you least expect it.”

The Entient scoffed, though his eyes narrowed as Torin continued to retreat. Withdrawing step by step through the curtains of smoke and waves of heat, striding carefully around the puddles and rivulets of molten rock, the young king was steadily drawing the Illychar’s attention away from Marisha. Whether or not he could actually make himself flee with the Sword to fight another day, he meant to buy the healer time to make her own escape.

“Until then,” he added, jumping back over the last of the lava streams, “know that I’ll be thinking of nothing more than how I shall take vengeance against you.”

Darinor glanced back at Marisha, who was shaking her head, having risen to her knees. Torin gambled, at that point, by spinning suddenly and bolting for the exit, praying that his sudden movement would force the Entient to follow.

It did.

With a rabid growl, Darinor sprang after. Torin raced on without turning, trusting the Sword to mark for him the other’s approach. But in this instance, it was difficult to do so. The Entient came forward in zigzag flashes of quicksilver movement. To his right, to his left, and suddenly, on top of him. Torin whirled in time to catch the enraged Illychar, but not before the other had dispelled his now-useless fireballs and seized the king’s wrists in a ferocious grip.

From side to side they wrestled, with Torin twisting and grunting, struggling to free himself for a strike. The mystic’s hands, however, were like iron cuffs, and would not be made to release. Though Torin battled with all the strength he could summon, Darinor was by far the taller and stronger, and in a matter of heartbeats, it was his own grip that weakened.

He continued to strain, gritting his teeth, refusing to let go. The Illychar bore down on him, reeking of decay and torment. From behind, Torin could feel the growing rush of heat as their bitter scuffle carried them along the railway toward the melted mine cart. In desperation, he tried to redirect their course, to drag his foe aside or to turn him the other way. But the Entient had found his target, and was pressing relentlessly toward that goal.

Torin let loose a howl and dropped to the ground, seeking to use the Entient’s own momentum against him. But Darinor only bent over, a smothering shroud. Torin knew in that moment that he was finished, that there was no more denying his own end.

Then came the sound of a bowstring, and the thwack as an arrow struck flesh. A bloody tip popped free through Darinor’s stomach. The Entient snarled, but otherwise ignored it. He then doubled his efforts, pinching at the nerves in Torin’s wrists, trying to force the king’s hands to open.

His frail hope renewed, Torin cried out and held on.

Another arrow went flying, but missed, skittering off a nearby wall. Torin felt his hopes sag, and his grip upon the Sword failed.

A third arrow sang, and this one struck home. Darinor stiffened, spitting blood from a punctured lung, yet still made a lunge for the Sword. As soon as the other’s hands let go his wrists, Torin reached up to snatch the Entient by his collar. At the same time, he tucked his knees in close. When the weight of Darinor’s body shifted forward, Torin yanked down and kicked out, forcing his opponent into an overhead roll.

The Entient’s hand brushed the gem-studded hilt a moment before he splashed down in the molten slag of the melted mine cart. His back arched sharply, but it was too late. He only barely had a chance to scream before the heat worked its course, engulfing his robes and then his body in metallic flame.

T
ORIN LOOKED ON UNTIL IT WAS FINISHED,
mesmerized by the horrific display. After a moment, the bulk of Darinor’s body had been reduced to nothing more than a black stain in the center of the slag pool, with flaming limbs sprawled out upon the edges. The renegade Entient—and his Illysp parasite—were gone.

Nevertheless, Torin had to force himself to look away, to turn his head and redirect his gaze back toward the mouth of the tunnel. Through smoke-filled air and veils of shimmering heat, he spied Marisha, standing over Allion, the hunter’s bow in her hand. She stared back at him—past him really—as if peering down the tunnel’s throat at something only she could see. Her weapon lowered, and her body sagged, as though it were about to fall.

Torin barely remembered to retrieve the Sword in his haste to reach her. Regardless, she dropped before he could catch her, settling to her knees beside the fallen Allion, dangerously close to a puddle of molten rock. Though the puddle simmered and steamed, she hung her head, and did not seem to notice.

The young king slowed as he came upon her, fearful of doing anything to interrupt her grieving. He was not yet certain of his own feelings. The fire of battle still pumped through his veins, allowing little room for reflection. There was still so much to be done. They were not yet safe.

He reached out slowly, but hesitated and withdrew as she began to sob. She bent low, closing Allion’s eyes and kissing him once more. If there was cause to be angry, Torin did not feel it. On the contrary, recognizing that she had found with his friend something that he himself had been unable to give her filled him with a prevailing sense of peace. Aside from that, who was he to denounce either when, deep down, he had already given
his
heart to another?

She stopped to look up at him, tears of anguish streaming down her face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You should know that it was I who…He never meant—”

“Shh,” Torin quieted, crouching beside her. His hand found her shoulder, and beneath his touch, she shook and sobbed anew. As he tried to think of what else to say, his eyes went again to the slow-moving rivulets of lava closing round. “Can you help me carry him?”

Marisha let loose a little wail.

“Marisha, we must move. Will you help me?”

With a noticeable effort, the woman toughened. “Where?”

Torin cast about. There was no way they’d be able to carry the hunter with them up through the exit shaft. But he wasn’t going to simply leave his friend’s body here, nor dispose of it without the proper rites.

“Back through the tunnel,” he decided.

He sheathed the Sword and, with some gentle promptings, helped Marisha to gather her legs beneath her. Together, they hoisted the body of their friend up onto their shoulders, with an arm around the neck of each. Leaning forward so that the hunter’s feet didn’t drag, and with Torin supporting most of the weight, the pair began a return journey toward the tunnel mouth.

Between the two of them, they were able to maintain balance as they stepped over and around the various flaming pitfalls, few of which showed any sign yet of beginning to cool. They coughed and grunted, choking on the poisoned air and struggling with the weight of their burden. Marisha continued to cry, and Torin wished that
he
would, that he might wash away some of the ash and grit clawing at his eyes.

Back through the smelter they bore their friend, assailed by smoke and heat, sweat dripping from their limbs and faces. Marisha, Torin noticed, was having particular difficulty, slowing and staggering with every step, and his concern for her grew. As they neared the iron door through which they had first entered the cavern, she finally collapsed. Lowering Allion to the ground, he bent to check on her. Her breathing was ragged and shallow, her skin blistering to the touch.

He moved quickly to open the door. Smoke from the cavern spilled into the corridor beyond. There was no help for it. As swiftly as he could manage, he hoisted Marisha and then Allion through, then shut the door behind him.

He drew the Sword again for light, then leaned back against the stone wall, sucking breath and closing his eyes against his dizziness. He couldn’t risk just waiting here to be found, for it might be their enemies that did so first. He had to keep going, had to get help.

But as his eyes opened upon the limp forms laid out before him, his resolve crumbled. What did he hope to accomplish with all this struggle? As Darinor had said, he was too late. The battle was over. No matter how hard he fought, his best friend was dead.

Reality fell like a crushing wave upon his chest, and Torin felt himself slumping, then sliding to his seat. His eyes seemed to swell as they fixed upon the hunter’s face, filling with sorrow and desolation—emotions that even now could find no release. Their sweeping torrents assailed him from within, and Torin succumbed to the assault.

The games were ended. Darinor was slain, the truth known. At long last, there would be no more lies. But none of that made a difference. None of that could fill the terrible void that had opened within him. Split wide like a fissure in the earth, he would never find meaning enough to make him whole.

He tried to deny it. That’s what he’d been doing before, was it not?
Throughout his confrontation with Darinor, he’d believed that somehow he could win this struggle as he had so many others. Dispose of his enemy, then see to his friend. Now he had, only to discover that all the denial in the world could not reroute this flood of truth. Its waters continued to pummel him, driving the breath from his lungs, the blood from his veins, the very life from his being. He could not blink. He could not cry. He could only sit there, waiting to be swept away.

Why him?
It was not Allion who had unleashed this scourge. Nor was it Allion who had so readily run off to carry out Darinor’s deception. How much better would everything be had Torin even once listened to the advice of his friend? If anyone deserved to die as a result of these failures, it was Torin, who had committed them, not he whose only crime was standing faithful to the end.

Shame wrenched Torin’s stomach and would not let go. The inevitability of this moment should have been clear from the first. Even as children, Allion had been his protector. While both had had grandiose dreams, Allion had been the steady one, the one to temper those aspirations with the reality of his limitations. Torin had always refused such boundaries, pressing on despite any warnings and consequences. And yet, no matter how foolish the venture, Allion would insist on carrying on alongside, to see that no harm came to him. He should have known that eventually, his recklessness would catch up with him, and that when it did, Allion would be there to shield him—that Allion would pay the price, not he.

In the crimson dark of that near lightless corridor, Torin cried out. He did so without words or voice, but need alone. The need to put things right. The need to free himself of this despair. He had seen too many suffer already as a result of
his
choices. Time and again, he had accepted those sufferings because there was nothing to do but soldier on. But he could not accept this. He could not accept that after all they had been through together, after all the trials they had faced as one, that Allion should be made to forfeit his life, while here sat Torin, so much less worthy.

Please,
he begged, a prayer without destination.
Please.
He would give whatever was required—the Sword, his life, every feeling of warmth and contentment he had ever known. Should it cost him all of this and more, he would see his friend’s life restored. The Ceilhigh could take it all back—every pleasant sensation, every sweet sound, every dazzling image to have touched his heart. If need be, he would forget forever his journey to Yawacor: Dyanne’s smile, Saena’s friendship, Autumn’s voice—

If ever you have need, of anything, call upon me, and I shall see it granted.

The words shot like sparks from a smith’s anvil, and for a moment, Torin knew not where they might have come from. Then came a memory, gliding forth from his past—an image of the sea, a ship, and a striking young maiden’s curious farewell.

Autumn.

Anything you wish…

Her words. Her promise.

…I am but a longing away.

Torin’s blood began to tingle—as it had before, he recalled, back in Aefengaard, when he had wondered if it might be possible to save Eolin. Like then, he had nothing more than an impossible wish. But if he were to wish hard enough…

Without quite knowing why, he narrowed his focus, sending his pleas out to one who could not possibly hear them, to that captivating woman, Autumn of the Rain. Never mind that he had left her weeks ago, and an ocean away. Never mind that when first meeting her, he had wondered if she might be some kind of simpleton, incapable of understanding the world around her. He knew only what she had offered, and that he had never felt such dire need.

Help me, Autumn. Please.

It occurred to him that he might be giving way to madness, but it didn’t seem to matter. Somehow, he found the strength to crawl forward. Setting the Sword down beside him, he knelt over the body of his friend. His lungs tightened, his chest burned, and still he called forth, beseeching the woman’s aid, imploring the heavens to carry to her his silent voice.

His head grew light, and the world began to spin. He shut his eyes—not to ground himself, but to let himself be carried away. Be it a maelstrom of insanity or death, he would gladly relent if only it would strip him of his pain.

The darkness deepened, engulfing him. Around and around he went, a form without shape or mass, a consciousness caught in an endless vortex. He lost all senses—sight and smell, hearing and touch. He forgot who he was, and where he’d been. He clung to one thing only: his need for Autumn to hear him.

Then, amid the darkness, he perceived a light. A sliver of glory, it beckoned him. Strength, rapture, love—it promised all of these things, a whisper in the night to usher the passing of nightmare. He need but grasp it, catch hold of its majesty, and his horrors would be dispelled, his fears forgotten.

Torin stretched forth.

Responding to his need, the light continued to grow. A welcome warmth spread through him as its brightness intensified. It spread outward and around, chasing away the shadows, then drew near enough to coddle him, enfolding him with the softness of a cloud.

“Torin,” a voice sang. “Open your eyes.”

Though delicate in tone, never had a more compelling sound been uttered. Torin immediately obeyed, and found himself surrounded by a radiance greater than any he had ever imagined. Somehow, its brilliant intensity soothed rather than pierced his eyes, shining through to fill his heart with bliss. Gone was the chiseled stone of the corridor. Gone was the smoky air. All that remained was the light and the woman standing before him.

“Am I dead?” he asked her.

Autumn’s eyes sparkled, glinting with their hint of amethyst. “If among the dead, what would I be doing here?”

“Then I’m dreaming.”

“Oh? Am I the one you dream about now?” Her brow arched, and her mouth twisted, smiling as she had before—as if considering some private jape.

Torin wavered, not knowing what else to say. If he had found her strangely captivating before, then she was utterly enthralling now. Stunned by her mere presence, he couldn’t seem to recall what she was doing here.

Her gaze dipped, and Torin’s slipped after. He gasped then, his heart lurching. For he was not alone after all, but had been accompanied, as always, by his dearest friend—or in this case, the man’s breathless body.

His nightmare had been real.

He cast about, finding nothing and no one else. It was just the two of them, as if they had passed together to some other realm. But nothing had changed. Allion was dead.

He looked back to Autumn, whose expression of amusement seemed to soften. “Your friend fought bravely. A shame it is to see his light dim so soon.”

“It should have been me,” Torin said.

“It is not for the children to decide such things,” Autumn replied, smiling sadly.

Torin peered up at her from where he knelt amid the brightness. “Who are you?”

“If you know not who I am, what cause have you to believe that I can help you?”

He studied her face, her gaze, in search of hope. “Because there is no one else,” he said finally, and his head fell.

Autumn kept silent for a moment before responding. In the interim, Torin thought he heard the distant crashing of waves. “Over the course of my life, I have been thought a witch crawled forth from the sea. Others have deemed me a star fallen from the heavens before fully matured. Were I to describe myself, you would not understand.
You
must provide the terms that to your mind would have meaning. So tell me, who am I?”

Torin looked up, and stared into her eyes. “Ha’Rasha,” he whispered breathlessly. “An avatar—a true avatar—of the Ceilhigh.”

The woman’s hair glimmered, its colors dancing in the wash of light. “As fair a description as any. Cianellen, I am known, to those you speak of, those born of the Maelstrom to preside over all creation. Charged alongside my brothers and sisters with the care of this world and its inhabitants.”

“But that was ages ago. After all this time, how is it possible that—”

“Few of us remain,” the woman acknowledged. “Those who do have lived for countless lives of men, fortunate enough to have avoided the struggles of gods, avatars, and mortals alike—savoring life, rather than seeking to dictate it.”

Torin’s gaze fell again upon his friend. So peaceful the hunter seemed, the struggle and anguish sapped from his face. Torin, on the other hand, was beginning to feel something new, the stirrings of a bitter frustration.

“Is that not your duty?” he asked, looking upon her with a measure of
accusation. “To have a hand in shaping this world? To look after those who reside within?”

Again she offered him a sad smile, as if pitying his inability to understand. Torin’s frustration grew.