The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (11 page)

One of them, a male, barked and grunted. The larger, a female, threw an arm against her companion’s burly chest as if to silence him.

“Kethra Dane,” Torin greeted her, ignoring the other. “Kael-Magus spoke of you.”

“Where is he?” she demanded, responding in the Entian tongue.

“Destroyed, by the one I now possess. I am his successor. I am Itz lar Thrakkon.”

The male giant snarled some form of challenge. He started forward, but again the giantess held him back.

“A bold name, and a bolder claim. What do you bring us?”

The words, low and guttural as they sounded, did not seem to constitute an open threat. And yet, Torin realized that her ring of guards was closing now around him, cutting him off from any potential help.

“I bring orders.” Though raspy with thirst, his voice was strong, confident. “Your vigil here is no longer necessary. I bid you to battle.”

A few huffed or grunted eagerly at the prospect. But the one called Dane did not appear to share their enthusiasm.

“And where would you send us, exactly? Our scouts tell us that the western target is already lost. Kael-Magus has failed us.”

“In part,” Torin conceded. “The flesh-wearers have indeed foiled us at Krynwall. But there are other cities, here in the east, that are ripe for the taking, provided we act quickly.”

The giantess’s eyes gleamed with a feral hunger, but she looked far from mollified. “The plan was to topple the northern capitals, not rattle the bulwarks of some minor outpost. Had we not been left here to relay commands, and been allowed instead to participate—”

“You were ordered to remain here for precisely this reason, to respond to the unexpected. Too much was uncertain—much that has now been made clear.”

Astride his horse, Torin was at just about the right height to have his head ripped from its shoulders. Dane’s male counterpart looked ready to do precisely that. Yet even
his
gaze now narrowed with interest.

“The Vandari?”

“Why else would Kael-Magus have signaled the attack on Krynwall? Why else would that command have been sent through this camp and on to those awaiting word to assault Atharvan?”

The giants surrounding him glanced at one another. One or two even offered a thoughtful murmur. Farther on, the hordes of suppressed Illychar churned restlessly, itching to know what was being decided.

“You are disenchanted that you were not called upon to join the fight then and there,” Torin added. “You had expected to be sent east or west as battle dictated, not left to wither while at least one of those battles was lost.”

“We could have ransacked Krynwall,” the male brute snorted in agreement. “Kael-Magus was too cautious.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I would now be seeking to gather you up as I am the others who were scattered. Either way, it bears little consequence now, given my favorable tidings.”

Another string of grunts and murmurs. This time, even Dane’s lip curled back in a snarl.

“Favorable? We were to take only two cities, and one of those is lost. Now you tell us Kael-Magus is destroyed. You bring us a handful of strays, insult our strength, and claim to be our new leader. You speak as only a human can,” she added, “wearing arrogance as some kind of shield. How well will it protect you, I wonder, when I ask Rek Gerra here to grind that feeble coil of yours into splinters?”

Gerra smiled menacingly.

“That will prove difficult,” Torin replied, “when I have relieved him of his shaggy limbs.”

The smile vanished. Gerra lunged, unrestrained this time by Kethra Dane. One long stride brought him into striking distance. He did not even draw a blade, merely slapped his fist in anticipation. Then a great arm reached out, as if to seize Torin by the throat.

Torin’s horse shied instinctively. As it did, his will and that of his controlling self seemed as one. Reaching into his cloak, he grasped the concealed Sword hilt with a stabbing motion, and sliced upward through the scabbard’s side, so that in one swift movement, he had the blade’s tip pointed against Gerra’s chest.

Rek Gerra froze as the Sword punched through a round armor plate and penetrated his breastbone. A shallow nick, but one that held everyone’s rapt attention—Gerra’s most of all.

“I would rather he keep them, of course, at least until this war is won. But I’ll leave that to him.”

Gerra seethed, his arm still cocked. The rest stared with awe at the crimson flames that writhed around that small portion of the blade embedded in the commander’s chest.

“You see? Krynwall matters not. I
am
Krynwall, and more. As feeble as you may find my coil to be, it is that which freed us from limbo, and that which wields the fires of Asahiel. It is my hand that shall lead us to victory.”

Torin saw hatred in Kethra Dane’s eyes, fueled by pride and jealousy. But he saw also an undeniable reverence for the power he held, and a grudging respect where only disdain had lived before.

“Then the games are truly ended?” she asked him.

“To the Maelstrom with Kael-Magus and lurking in shadow. His ruse is no longer necessary. The time has come to battle for our survival.” He turned his gaze to Gerra. “For those who wish to do so.”

The giant lowered his arm and clenched his jaw in bridled fury, begging to be turned loose, desperate for the chance to kill.

“Will our brethren follow such a command?” Torin asked archly.

“To the sea itself,” Gerra snarled, then bowed his head, “Itz lar Thrakkon.”

Torin smiled. “That won’t be necessary. Not yet, anyway. We shall start here, I believe, to the south. The twin cities of Laulk and Leaven.”

“Outposts,” Kethra Dane grumbled again.

“Then you will storm them quickly,” Torin snapped. “And after doing so, will continue south toward Kuuria.”

“What of Atharvan? If the humans have surprised us there as they did at Krynwall—”

“They have not,” Torin assured her. “Their armies were rerouted as Kael-Magus planned. If our forces there need aid, I will see to it personally, along with the select few I have come to gather from your ranks.”

“You do not join us?” Gerra asked.

Torin looked to the giant and withdrew the Sword from his chest. “Your command, Rek Gerra, Kethra Dane, is more than sufficient. I have a greater mission to undertake,” he revealed, and once again his gaze drifted skyward to the stain of the Skullmars far to the east. “One that will not only seal our triumph upon these shores, but may even allow me to sow our seeds beyond.”

The giants stared at him, then glanced at one another in surprise. As they did so, Torin hefted the Crimson Sword high for all to see. There was a murmur, and then a roar, like the approach of a tidal wave, as thousands upon thousands of Illychar recognized his sign. Within moments, the entire valley shook.

“You have waited eons,” he said to his commanders, shouting to be heard above the tumult beyond. “You need wait no longer.”

Rek Gerra spun toward his hordes with a ferocious grin. A moment later, Kethra Dane went with him. One by one, those who formed her guard ring offered nod or salute to Itz lar Thrakkon before setting after.

While inside the Illysp lord’s body, Torin’s soul trembled.

For he had come to suspect what lay to the east, amid the Skullmars.

Mount Krakken.

And the final resting place of Killangrathor.

“H
TOMAH HAS GONE.”

Maventhrowe did not seem to have heard him. Hunched over his work-table, the head Entient continued to sketch upon a piece of goatskin parchment with his inkless quill, its movements unslowed. When finally he spoke, he did so without looking up from his work. “Has he now? Gone where, would you say?”

If he was concerned, or even surprised, his steady tone did not betray it.

“I know not, exactly,” Quinlan admitted.

“Have you attempted to scry him?” Maventhrowe asked, over the scratching of his quill.

“He clouds himself from view.”

“Because he fears we will try to stop him.”

Quinlan watched the head Entient work, waiting for him to say something more. He may as well have waited for the winds to grind the mountain around him into sand.

“Forgive me, my esteemed brother, but it seems—”

“Htomah was made aware of the consequences of such action. If this is the fate he would choose for himself, so be it.”

Quinlan took a deep breath. “I do not accept that.”

At long last, Maventhrowe set down his quill and looked up from his drawing, crystalline blue eyes piercing from beneath a brow of busy white. An expression of vague amusement tugged at the corner of his lips. “And pray tell, how might you intend to rectify matters?”

“If it would please you, I seek permission to depart Whitlock long enough to see our wayward brother safely returned.” Remembering his courtesies, he gave a slight bow.

“And how would that please me, should I lose two brothers instead of one?”

“Should I succeed, you will have lost no brothers, honored one. Nor will our kind have interfered where so many upon the council have agreed we should not.”

“And you feel Htomah intends such interference?”

Was that not obvious? “I can fathom no other reason for his unauthorized departure.”

Maventhrowe leaned upon his elbows and pressed his fingers together as if in thought. “Tell me this. Would you, too, risk expulsion, should you fail?”

Quinlan felt his stomach muscles tighten. “I would.”

“I see. And yet, you are not up to the challenge.”

“You say?”

“You are powerful, Quinlan, but scarcely Htomah’s equal. If he felt strongly enough to have selected this course, he will not easily be persuaded to abandon it. Nor will you be able to force him. You will have failed, and our order will thus have been doubly weakened. You know this to be true.”

He knew it—had known it before summoning the courage to make his request. Their order did not tolerate rogue behavior. To defy the will of the ruling council meant exile. As it had for Algorath, so long ago. As it did now for Htomah. The whole had always been greater than the one. There could be no exceptions.

And yet, Maventhrowe was far and away their most senior brother, with a will and a voice that had proven strong enough in the past to steer the others in almost any direction. If he could persuade Maventhrowe, he might just stand a chance of persuading the rest.

“What if I were not alone?” he asked.

Maventhrowe had been reaching for his quill as if the matter had been decided. He now paused. “Others?”

“Suppose I can convince another to accompany me,” Quinlan rushed to explain, before the idea had fully formed. “The pair of us would stand a better chance of success, and three would not be so easy to expel. The council would have to at least consider permitting our return.”

The head Entient regarded him silently. “Two.”

“Two?”

“In addition to yourself. It will take at least three of you to subdue Htomah. Of this I am certain.”

Quinlan drew another deep breath. “Two it is, then.”

“Senior members,” Maventhrowe clarified. “Those upon the council. It will do you little good to drag along a pair of acolytes.”

He felt his glimmer of hope fading. “Any further stipulations?”

“They will, of course, have to agree to the same terms: All come back, or none. And it must be before any of you, Htomah included, makes forbidden contact.”

Impossible. He would never find two of his senior brothers willing to accept that risk for Htomah’s sake. “And when I have them?”

“Then we shall speak again, in full council, and I will see to it that you are afforded the opportunity you seek. Consider carefully, my brother, for there will be no second chance.”

Quinlan nodded, his heart heavy, but his determination intact. “That is all I ask.”

A
MID A PELTING RAIN OF
stones and arrows cast by the enemy below, King Galdric stalked the outer wall of his capital city. His ministers and advisors had asked him not to, of course. But after four days of having such pleas ignored, their protests had become little more than grunts of resignation.

Four days. In some ways, it seemed impossible that they had held out even that long. The Illychar that swarmed the broken slopes upon which Atharvan was built numbered in the tens of thousands. How and why so many had massed together to descend upon his people all at once was not something to which he had an answer. Yet there they were.

He had his suspicions, of course, and they began with Darinor—the mystic who had lured his legion away, leaving this city and others with nothing more than a skeletal garrison. Do so, Darinor had promised, and the Illychar would ignore them, giving chase instead to the soldier coils that could most satisfy them. In this way, and this way alone, could they hope to protect their citizens while directly engaging what
had
been a strike-and-disperse enemy.

Either Darinor had been wrong, or he had deliberately misled them. If any knew the truth, Galdric had not yet learned it. Thus far, none of the messengers he had sent forth through the escape tunnels had managed to return. And if any news had been sent from lands beyond, then it had not yet found a way past the hordes outside to reach him.

There was a chance, he knew, that the other cities were as hard-pressed as his.

An arrow from below whizzed past his naked ear. His royal guardsmen were upon him in an instant, shields raised, cocooning him with their own iron-shelled bodies. Shouts rang out, and defenses upon the wall were redirected to deal with the threat. Only after it had been addressed—that particular fire snuffed—was he freely permitted to continue on his way.

It was like that all along the battlement, soldiers scurrying from one point to the next, as if plugging holes in a collapsing dike. Less than three thousand, set to guard a city whose population had more than doubled in recent weeks—swelling to more than half a million. Many of those had been put to task in one fashion or another, but not nearly enough, and not in the capacity truly needed. Indeed, the king feared that children and grandmothers would be asked to wield blades before it was over, and even that might not be enough to alter the inevitable outcome.

“Sire? Sire, are you hurt?”

He shook his head and waved his commander aside, then resumed his march upon the battlement. Bad enough that he should
feel
like an invalid. He certainly didn’t need to be fawned over like one.

And yet, he understood his people’s need for a figurehead, and so stopped short of dismissing his guard unit altogether. That was why he made these rounds, after all—not only to see for himself how the defenses fared, but to lend encouragement to those whose strength of heart could not be allowed to wane.

In truth, he took from them as much as he gave. He had been a fighter since he could remember, a man who never felt so alive as he did when pitted against a challenge—man or beast—that might take it from him. But he also knew when he was outmatched. Had these Illychar taken the time to construct even the most rudimentary ram or tower or catapult, Atharvan might have already fallen. Instead, they battled as if only vaguely interested in the city or its inhabitants. And perhaps that was the case. Perhaps they were only biding their time, waiting for the true spoils—the soldiers of Partha’s legion—to return.

After all, what need was there to actually conquer the city? Time favored the attacker—particularly one that required neither food nor shelter. And as long as the Illychar held the city in their noose, any soldiers who
did
come would face a frightful dilemma: engage the undead creatures on open ground, or else abandon their loved ones—the young, the elderly, the infirm—to a fate worse than death.

Yet, for three days now, the entire city had been praying for just that: the return of Corathel and the Parthan Legion. Without that or other military aid, they would eventually be overrun—or else starve and
then
be overrun.

He came upon a pair of garrison soldiers carrying a wounded man between them. All—even the brave soul with an arrow in his gut—paused to salute their king’s courage in striding so brazenly upon the battlement’s front line.

Galdric shook his head. “Don’t stop here, you fools. Get that man aid.”

Before they could carry on, however, the king laid a hand upon the wounded lad’s shoulder. “You’ll have a scar to match one of mine.”

The wounded man brightened. Galdric pressed on.

At last he reached the corner of the northernmost parapet. There he stopped, in the evening shadow cast by a pocked and weathered merlon. To one side, a pack of long-dead elves fell screaming as their scaling ropes were sliced away, into a surging crush of their companions below. Creatures from another age, he thought, before wondering how long it might be before the same would be said of man.

He shifted focus then, turning eye to the vast array of cliffs and canyons that split the northern landscape for as far as he could see—a scene of rugged, breathtaking majesty. His people might yet make use of those canyons, of course. The slopes and plateaus that served as Atharvan’s foundation were riddled with caves and tunnels—some of which constituted large, well-tended bolt-holes through which the city could empty at a rate of thousands per hour.
Most poured into the bottom of those northern canyons, where ancient trails and fast-flowing rivers might lead to safety.

And yet, he remained hesitant to use them. Outnumbered as they were, his people stood a better chance behind their walls than out on the naked, unknown plain. Thus far, his ministers and advisors had agreed. Until they saw clearly what they were running
into
, far better that they entrench themselves here.

But there was another reason the idea of an exodus troubled him—one that had not yet been openly discussed. Put simply, this was his home. He had gazed north upon these same lands his entire life, lands that belonged to Partha but had been lost to the seceding Menzoes. For nearly three hundred years, his forefathers had been fighting to reclaim those lands. Even during the years of truce, the longest of which had lasted more than a century, the Parthans had never stopped seething over what had been taken from them.

And now it was his. All of it. From the canyons that used to form his northern border, clear to the Oloron Sea. It was not his armies that had ended the age-old stalemate. Nor had Menzos’s demise been formally recognized, or her lands given over to Parthan rule. But more than half of the refugees now cowering within his walls were of Menzo descent. They were his to do with as he pleased. And while he felt no great sense of fulfillment in how it had happened, he could not help but think that he stood here today at the height of his nation’s power, the pinnacle of his life’s achievements.

Compelled already to consider leaving it all behind.

“My lord! My lord!”

Galdric turned to find a red-faced messenger racing toward him, dodging and twisting to slip past any who got in his way. Immediately, the king’s personal guard formed up to intercept.

“My lord,” the messenger gasped as he came to a choking stop against that armored wall. “I bear word…from the watch…upon the south tower.”

Galdric studied the sweat-streaked face, the frantic eyes, steeling himself for the report.

“My lord, they’re here!”

C
ORATHEL TWISTED THE SHAFT OF
his spyglass, bringing the image beyond into sharper focus. Prepared though he was, his intestines knotted at the sight. The Illychar were packed against the base of his home city like a swarm of ants, crawling and writhing against her walls as if to chew through her very foundation. The chief general was reminded at once of the battles he had fought not so long ago against the dragonspawn. Through risky baiting maneuvers and sheer fortune, he had managed to spare Atharvan the destruction that so much of the rest of his land had faced as a result of that former threat. This time, the fight had begun at her very gates.

“Are the reports accurate?” asked Lar, a soft-spoken rumble at his side.

Corathel handed his lieutenant general the spyglass. “See for yourself.”

To his credit, the giant of a man did not flinch or gasp as he scanned the
dusk-shrouded vista that stretched away to the north and east of their position—looking at a wall of enemies that would not be breached.

“Difficult to gauge numbers in this light,” he offered at last, lowering the spyglass. “Nor do they arrange themselves in measurable formations.”

“They fight as one,” Corathel agreed.

“Like the ’spawn.”

A grim silence overcame them. The chief general almost wished that he had brought Jasyn along instead, for the always eager commander would have had something to say to paint things in a more favorable light. But he had left Jasyn, Maltyk, and the rest of the legion behind for precisely that reason. He had wanted his first look at what they were up against to be unclouded by fervor of any kind. He needed facts before opinions. Lar, always the last to become unsettled, had seemed the best choice from among his chief lieutenants.

“They don’t seem to share the dragonspawn’s capabilities,” the Fourth General observed after another long look.

“We can thank the good graces for that. Were it otherwise, I fear we would already be too late.”

Lar grunted. “Even so, their numbers are more than sufficient to have breached the walls by now.”

Corathel took back the spyglass and had another look for himself. Those in front continued their attempts to scale the city’s walls and bulwarks, seeking to reach the defenders above. But the vast majority farther back seemed almost calm, listless. Many were not even focused upon the city, he realized, but out prowling the hills beyond, as if lacking interest in the prize before them.

After another moment, the chief general turned his back to the distant scene, dropping down behind the shelter of their ridge.

“Perhaps at least some of what Darinor led us to believe was true,” Lar remarked.

Corathel nodded absently. He had been considering the mystic’s treachery for days now, ever since Allion’s message from Krynwall. The new assumption, of course, was that Darinor had manipulated their forces away from the major cities so that those unguarded cities might fall to the enemy with scarcely a fight. But what if the Illychar were interested in the cities and their inhabitants only as bait? What if the true goal was to harvest the bodies of soldiers for their Illysp brethren, as Darinor had claimed?

“If we attack them here and now…” Lar ventured.

Corathel looked at the lieutenant general and finished the thought. “We give them exactly what they want: a fight in the open, and the opportunity to swell their ranks with our dead.”

“Yet if we leave…”

“We risk giving to them those who cannot fight for themselves.”

Another heavy silence.

“Perhaps Jasyn had the right idea,” Lar suggested. “Perhaps we might use a mounted force to lure them away.”

“And how long before they return? Besides, we’ve both encountered enough of these creatures in weeks past to know how swift they are. If they flee, we lose our chance to engage them. If they give chase, we’ll never get away.”

“You mean to grant them their battle, then?”

“It’s what we ourselves have been striving for, is it not? A direct confrontation? They are not dragonspawn, as you’ve pointed out. I suspect it won’t be all that different from slaughtering Menzoes on the Fields of Ravacost.”

“A struggle we never actually won,” Lar reminded him.

“True. But we cannot simply stand here and watch while the city is overrun.” He gave his lieutenant a moment to argue, then pressed ahead. “We’ll confer with the others first. In the meantime, I want a signal relay set up that will allow us to trade messages with those atop our city’s watchtowers. Mobile units, of course. Let us tell them what we intend, and hope that our king has a better idea.”