The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (13 page)

His pack of giant Illychar huffed along behind him. He marked their progress at all times, with senses heightened by the Sword. He wasn’t about to disregard
them
the way Vorric Haze had so carelessly disregarded
him
.

He passed a number of broken ledges and crumbled landings, any number of which could have been the one from which Allion, the archer, had staged his initial assault—before being brought to earth amid a heap of stone by a single switch of the dragon’s tail. How laughable it seemed, then and now, that those two young men had ventured here intending to slay the beast—as if their need alone would somehow grant them the power to do so. A testament to mortal foolishness. And yet, a fine example of what might be accomplished, Thrakkon thought, by those who cowed not to the threat of failure.

By one like him.

He did not see what he was searching for, but kept on, certain from the descriptions given him that the trail he sought lay somewhere ahead. Though it felt as if he had gone too far already, better to keep to his chosen path than hazard blindly into that devouring gloom.

His patience was rewarded when, without sign or warning, his course intersected a depression in the earth. It cut across the ground like a river frozen within its banks. In essence, he had found precisely that: a stream of once-molten lava chilled into solid form with the death of the creature that had stoked the mountain’s flames.

He stepped out onto the hardened flow, following it east. His pace quickened after that, for the level surface was relatively smooth and rubble-free. Clearly, whatever debris had fallen here had swiftly melted and joined the sluggish current. And by the time that current had ceased altogether, the mountain had long since grown still.

His anticipation mounted with each successive step. The cavern’s chill wracked his body, sapping warmth from flesh and bones. His breath clouded. The stench was atrocious, thicker and more pungent than it had been in the tunnel. But none of that would slow his progress along the broad, curving track.

Hardened tributaries branched off at various angles—the petrified remains of those smaller streams on which the river had fed spilled from clefts in the cavern walls. Thrakkon ignored these, following only the slight bends of his primary course as it channeled onward, cutting a clear and certain swath.

And then it ended. Like the tunneling passage that had emptied into this cavern, so too did the river widen suddenly, stretching away to either side in a vast pool of solid magma. To the right, beyond the limits of his sight, he would find the cavern wall serving as its rear bank.

He turned to the left, seeking its forward shore.

His steps had slowed again, though the pool’s surface was as clear of obstacles as the river had been. Yet a wariness had overtaken him, a trepidation over what he might find. He had traveled a long way for this, trekking for
days and nights over barren and treacherous landscapes—when he could have soaked himself by now in the blood of his enemies. He did not want to believe that it might all come to naught.

In the glow of the Sword, the pool’s surface gleamed red, seeming almost livid once more. Its shore stretched along to his left, intruding now and then with spits of earth blanketed by loose fragments of stone. Most of these were but shallow humps that he simply stepped or climbed over. Only a few were tall or broad or sharp enough to cause him to pass around.

Another of these loomed before him—the strangest formation yet. Two steps later, he froze. This was no jutting finger of boulder-strewn shoreline.

He had found the dragon’s head.

For a long spell, he forgot to breathe, awestruck by the sight. A feeling like knives traced his spine. Every image his mind had conjured of this moment had proven woefully inadequate. Even in his fallen state, even with just this small portion of him exposed, Killangrathor was everything Thrakkon had dreamed, yet more than he could have ever envisioned.

The head lay cradled upon the black stone of the cavern floor, snout upturned by the rugged slope. A stretch of neck was visible, arcing downward into the magma pool. Though locked in his final position of evident agony, Killangrathor yet wore a hateful grimace, an eternal expression of unbridled contempt.

Thrakkon smiled.

He started forward again slowly, respectfully, only vaguely aware of those behind him—those whose awe exceeded even his own. The globe of light cast by the Sword strengthened and spread, feeding upon his exhilaration. He saw it all now as it must have been. A tumultuous mountain wracked by Killangrathor’s throes. Cavern walls shifting and grating, moist with intense heat. At the feet of the monster, the young Kylac Kronus, his unique blades unsheathed at last. The stone-rending thunder of the dragon’s denial. Its dreadful wails as it sank slowly, ever so slowly, into the molten pool. Magma churning harmlessly against dragonflesh. And yet, settled upon the pool’s surface like oil upon water, the liquid waste of the creature’s own magic. Its hissing and steaming as it devoured Killangrathor’s body like acid, before finally stopping his mighty heart. The continuing rain of boulders…Krakken’s final rumble…the almost feathery descent of the dead dragon’s outstretched wings as they settled down over what would become the creature’s grave.

Thrakkon knew well the story, for Torin had had his friends share it a dozen times over in agonizing detail, searching for some clue that would help them to comprehend Killangrathor’s unfathomable frenzy. Unfathomable to
them
, at least. With his Illysp knowledge, Thrakkon believed he understood the dragon’s suicide. Nor did he much care if he was mistaken. His concern lay not in how the creature had perished, but in how it might be reborn.

He stood directly beside it now, close enough to see the individual, plate-like ridges of its stone-skin flesh. Hooks and spines and tufts of hair riddled the black hide, which appeared to have suffered little rot in this cold environ
ment, despite the passing of nearly two full seasons. Then again, for all he knew, it might take centuries for a dragon’s flesh to decay, even if left to blister beneath a sweltering sun.

He
hoped
for this, in fact. He had placed a great deal of faith, when deciding to undertake this mission, on the resiliency of Killangrathor’s coil. Were that faith to prove unfounded—were he to find that the acids had eaten away not just skin but the muscles and ligaments and tendons beneath—then this entire venture might prove to be a colossal disappointment.

Though he could see no farther than a few paces, his gaze swept out across the expanse of the dragon’s burial plot—trying to fathom the entirety of what lay entombed beneath. He could not. The head alone was taller than him. Turning back, he judged that the crown of his own head came no higher than the monster’s clenched eyelid. Standing there, he felt a twinge of admiration for Kylac, who had dared come this close to the foul-smelling beast while it yet lived, wading through the crushed bones of past dragon-hunters to do so. Thrakkon wondered if—had he lacked the Sword—even he would have been so audacious.

He shook the thought aside. There were only two questions that mattered now. The first was likely being tested already. Though it was ever difficult to be certain, he no longer felt the Illysp swarming over and around his own mind. His impressions and impulses and inner voices were his own, not prompted by another. Each of his bodiless brethren, he felt sure, had long since begun attacking the dragon’s lifeless coil, seeking to imbue its essence within. But could any of them succeed in doing so? Could an Illysp’s capacity for reason even begin to match and overwhelm the depthless awareness of the dragon’s former spirit?

Either way, it wouldn’t matter, if what lay beneath this pool had been stripped of its capacity for muscular function. So the final question was, did enough of the creature remain to be put to use?

Thrakkon knew of only one way to find out.

He marched back out onto the frozen magma, determination overcoming awe at last. He traced the line of the neck, using that to guide him toward the area in which the main body might lie. After a dozen paces, he found the scapular arch of the beast’s wings. The wings themselves lay spread upon the pool’s surface where they had come to rest. Though it took quite some time, Thrakkon strode a full circuit around each, inspecting them closely for damage. The membranes were riddled with holes where acids had eaten through. Were they the sails of a ship, they would have needed patching to prevent them from tearing further in the wind. But no woven cloth, he suspected, could match the strength of Killangrathor’s skin, even at its thinnest. And overall, the wings appeared free of structural damage or advanced decay.

As he had hoped.

Only one task remained to him then, and he had wasted too much time already. He moved back to stand beside the neck, his giants on his heels. Down flew the Sword—an overhead chopping motion—into the bed of lava
rock. The blade, sheathed in the fires sprouted from within, slipped easily through the hardened stone. A second blow, at an angle to the first, created a loose wedge that he motioned for one of his Illychar to pry free. By the time the giant had heaved it aside, Thrakkon had chopped free another wedge, and another, hacking into the petrified magma as he might the wood of a tree.

After several moments, he paused to survey his work—to make sure that in all his hacking, he hadn’t cut or damaged the dragon itself. His examination confirmed his suspicions. So long as he maintained focus on his intended target—the surrounding rock, and
not
the dragon—the Sword would obey his will and guide his hand.

Still, he needn’t take any unnecessary chances. He waved a pair of his giants forward. With pick and hammer, they chipped away at the chunks of lava rock still clinging to a previously buried stretch of the dragon’s neck that Thrakkon had uncovered. When one of the brutes struck too deep, Thrakkon simply smiled at how Killangrathor’s natural armor deflected the blow.

The Boundless One looked around at those he had brought with him. Ten giants in all, armed with pick-axes and hammers and hearty limbs with which to haul loose stone. It would seem now to be more than enough.

“To work, all of you,” he commanded. “We’ve a dragon to unearth.”

The remaining Illychar grunted and snarled, drawing their weapons and tools. Thrakkon found a new spot in which to safely dig. Within moments, all had been put to task.

In the red-tinged darkness, the heart of Mount Krakken thrummed with life, walls ringing with the echo of their labors.

A
LLION FROWNED, BUT HELD FORTH
his wrist, allowing the sentry to check for his pulse. “How many times must we be examined?”

The sentry released his arm without a word and took hold of Marisha’s. Allion felt a twinge of indignation on her behalf.

“Heartbeats both,” the soldier announced, as if they did not already know themselves to be free of Illysp possession.

Allion glared sourly, then looked to the page—dispatched upon their arrival—who was racing back to them.

“The chief general will see them,” the lanky youth huffed, “provided they have been cleared.”

The sentry, a scarred veteran who appeared better suited for the front lines, glared at the lad as if begrudging him his youthful mobility. Only then did it occur to Allion that the gruff soldier might be even less happy about his present duty than they. He looked back to the new arrivals and nodded them on. “Good to have you with us, sir,” he grunted as Allion marched past.

The hunter turned his head at the comment, but the sentry was focused now on returning the salute of the outrider who had accompanied them. The rider barely glanced at his former charges before continuing on his own way.

Allion faced forward again as Marisha took his hand to pull him along in pursuit of the page boy, whose lengthy strides were leaving them behind. They had been relieved of their horses and supplies upon arrival, at about the same time word had been sent to Corathel of their request to see him. So they had nothing but themselves to worry about, and no excuse for lagging.

The legion’s base camp buzzed with activity. The deeper they proceeded, the fuller and faster that activity became. Those whose faces Allion could see wore looks of dour and focused intensity. Not a laugh or smile was to be found.

Despite the noisome bustle, Allion thought at times that he heard the distant clangor of combat. His imagination, surely. According to the outrider who had brought them in, the camp was kept leagues away from the fighting—and on the move to ensure that it remained so. Allion saw plenty of evidence now to support the claim. Everything from racks to tables to awnings was mounted to or stretched from wagon frames. There were no tents, no barracks, only open-air pavilions to protect against the sun. A war
caravan
, really, rather than a camp.

Their guide swerved and dodged almost artfully ahead of them, maintaining stride despite the many whose labors crossed his path. Allion and Marisha
did their best to keep pace. More than once, as they slipped past any number of makeshift infirmaries, the Lewellyn healer was drawn by the moan or cry of a wounded man begging or receiving treatment. In each case, Allion was forced to give
her
a gentle tug in order to continue on.

At last, the page brought them to the side of a wagon loosely warded by sentries, where Allion spied a pair of figures he identified immediately. Both Chief General Corathel and Second General Jasyn had their backs turned, bent over a folding tabletop hung down from the wagon’s wall on a set of chains and hinges. Neither man was wearing his full armor, but both appeared sweaty and filthy enough that they must have shed it only recently. Together, they were pointing and gesturing at a sheaf of parchment unfurled and weighted at the edges. While they did so, the chief general was having a gash in his forearm sewn shut by an attendant.

The guards came together to slow their approach.

“The new arrivals I spoke of,” the page reported, “welcomed by the chief general.”

“So they were,” Corathel said. Allion looked up the small rise to find both generals peering down at them. “You may permit them, Sergeant.”

The guardsmen looked Allion and Marisha over briefly before stepping aside.

As the pair from Alson stepped forward, Jasyn, layered in a sooty grime, greeted them with a bold grin. “Allion, Marisha, welcome to our festival of fools.” He bowed low before clasping the hunter’s forearm and accepting the healer’s embrace.

“Good of you to come,” Corathel added, pulling away from his attendant’s ministrations long enough to grip the hunter’s hand. “Though you must be mad to have ridden this far without an escort.”

“We rode much of the way with Baron Nevik of Drakmar,” Marisha reassured him. “He offered a detachment when we separated, but Allion and I thought we’d be safer without drawing the extra notice.”

“Tell that to my shrinking stable of messengers,” Corathel replied. “In any case, you’re here and, mad as you be, exactly the kind of men we need.”

“Sir, your wound,” the attendant reminded him.

“Please, let me,” Marisha requested, frowning at the angry folds of skin and ugly line of stitches. “It has not even been properly cleaned.”

“He tried,” Corathel admitted. “I’ve little enough time as is.”

“A decision you’ll regret when it rots off from the inside, and you are forced to fight left-handed.” Her scowl deepened. “I’m afraid I must insist, Commander.”

The general matched her stare for a moment, then shook his head in defeat. “Fetch her what she needs,” he ordered his attendant, who offered a quick salute, then scampered off to comply. “Anything else, my lady?”

“Whatever we can do to help,” Allion interjected. “How goes the battle?”

Corathel snorted, glancing back at the parchment atop his hinge-board
table. The paper was covered with arcs and lines and other symbols—a crude map of the ever-shifting battlefield.

“I’m afraid we can scarcely call it that,” he admitted. “The reavers have proven stronger, more stubborn, than even I had imagined. The scattered packs I fought before this showed none of the cunning and organization we face now. If they relinquish ground—as they so often did as smaller units—they do so only to bait us into a trap. And their overall strength as a group this large is much greater than I had anticipated, magnified in ways few could have guessed.” He eyed the hunter squarely. “Thus far, our strategies have proven worthless.”

Allion glanced at Jasyn. Even
his
smile was gone.

“We’ve had moderate success with our cavalry units,” Corathel continued, “and shielded ourselves well enough with trenches and breastworks, where our sappers have been given a chance to build them. But we’ve done little overall to scatter or divide this horde, and, worst of all, we’ve been utterly unable to secure the dead—theirs or ours.”

The widening rift in Allion’s stomach split suddenly to become a chasm. “General, if you don’t—”

“We’re aware of the consequences, my friend. I’ve seen it often enough over the past weeks on a smaller scale. Believe me, it has become our first priority. But when it comes to the fallen, the enemy are worse than rabid dogs, defending each kill like a mother wolf, and dragging them off to where we cannot reach them. As a last resort, our oil and fire regiments have been tripled in number, and are working double time. The field itself is a bloody furnace.”

Corathel coughed and spat. Allion had seen the smoke that had blackened the skies, but had presumed it to be from controlled pyres of burning Illychar, not fruitless efforts at destroying their own men. Either way, he understood the infernal toll such conditions took upon men who needed air to breathe—and the lack of effect upon those who didn’t.

“A corpse can be more difficult to light than you might expect,” the chief general resumed when his fit had passed. “And the reavers are not afraid to use their own bodies, if necessary, to help put out flames. Indeed, each of them fights as if impervious to pain or injury of any sort until struck with the blow that finally lays them low.”

It was a dire assessment, made more so by the grave bearing of the typically stouthearted commanders standing before him. They did not appear ready to surrender, but neither did they seem at all confident of their chances.

The hunter took a deep breath. “Our services are yours,” he repeated. “What can we do to help?”

“Conjure an army,” Corathel answered quickly—and with too much seriousness.

“We’ve tried. At the time of our departure, Rogun remained unwilling to budge.”

“Nevik, however, is on his way to Kuuria,” Marisha added. “He has
promised to prevail upon the Kuurian army—as well as General Rogun—to lend aid where it is most needed.”

Once again, the chief general simply shook his head. “I don’t blame Rogun or anyone else for keeping their troops close to home. Who’s to say this enemy won’t flock to their cities the moment they rush out to save ours?”

At that moment, the attendant returned with a small satchel slung over his shoulder. Marisha went to him right away, and the two began a quiet conference of their own in search of the proper medicines and materials. Allion watched her until the chief general’s voice forced his attention.

“In any case, the pair of you know your individual skills better than I. You are more than welcome to lend a hand however you see fit.”

Allion nodded absently, realizing only now how little he had to offer. At the time of his departure, anything had seemed better than sitting around Krynwall under Rogun’s thumb. But what difference had his arrival made?

“Runner,” Jasyn barked suddenly, causing all to turn. “Why are you still standing there?”

The lieutenant general’s gaze, Allion found, was fixed upon the page, forgotten by all, though he stood with rapt attention just paces away. Stranger still, that attention seemed to be focused on none other than the hunter himself.

“I—I’m sorry, sir,” the page stammered. “But is it really him?”

“Him, who?”

“The dragon-slayer, sir.”

Jasyn’s broad grin returned, and he cast Allion a wink. “He means you.”

“I fear I did little more than serve witness to the deed.”

“Bah!” Jasyn exclaimed. “No need for modesty at a time like this. Go now, lad. Spread word that the dragon-slayer fights among us.”

The page saluted Allion sharply, holding it in place while beaming with unconcealed admiration. “Yes, sir!” he said. To the hunter, he added, “It is an honor, sir.”

Allion dipped his head in acknowledgment, not sure whether he should attempt a Parthan salute, and feeling too awkward to say anything else.

Remembering belatedly to salute his superior officer as well, the page set off down the rise, past the sentries, and out into the camp.

“You should hear the reverence with which they speak of you,” Corathel remarked. “Jasyn’s right. If nothing else, your presence should do wonders for morale.”

“I should have killed me a dragon a long time ago,” the Second General posed ruefully. “I’d not be able to keep the maidens at bay.”

“Oh?” Marisha said as she returned to them with a cleaning cloth and some sort of unguent in hand. “From the tales I’ve heard, you already have that affliction.”

Jasyn bowed low. “My dear lady, you cannot believe every piece of gossip that blows through a military encampment.”

“Even when that gossip comes from the Second General’s own lips?”

“Especially then,” Corathel grunted, then winced as the healer began to scrub his wound.

Jasyn’s smile was of mock innocence. “Well, as much as I’d like to hang around to defend my reputation, some of us have a war to tend to. With my lady’s leave?”

“See to it you take better care than your commander here,” Marisha admonished him.

“The general spends too much time watching the backs of others, rather than his own,” Jasyn replied. “I am much less prone to that particular ailment.”

“If you say so,” Marisha said, trying to match the other’s facetiousness.

“I want that sling battalion moved to the northwestern rim,” Corathel ordered his lieutenant, “and the arrow battalions brought up from the south. Also, I want a fresh report from Maltyk. I’ll catch up with you atop Gaermont Ridge.”

“As you request, sir. Come, Allion, let us show you a better view of the little hornet’s nest we’ve stirred up, shall we?”

Allion looked to Marisha. He had sworn not to leave her again, and he had meant it.

“Go,” she said. “I’ll accompany the chief general when we’re finished here. I’ve no doubt we’ll find men who could use my attention on the front lines.”

Still he hesitated.

“She’ll be in better hands than you,” Corathel assured him, though it seemed all playfulness had ended. “Don’t allow him to convince you to do anything as foolish as he did the last time.”

The chief general, Allion decided, was only partly serious. As much as he had disagreed with their decision to come after him when he’d been captured by the A’awari, Corathel remained deeply thankful for what they had done, and would not go so far as to ridicule them for it.

“We’ll be waiting for you both,” Allion replied earnestly, then turned to follow a smirking Jasyn.

His chest ached as he did so. Perhaps it was the fear of abandoning Marisha. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that he would soon catch his first glimpse of what the Illychar were truly capable of. For if they could cause one such as Corathel to render such grim appraisal after just a day and a half of fighting, what hope did his people have?

Gritting his teeth against the thought, he hurried on to find out.

N
EVIK’S NERVES DREW TAUT AS
he crested the rampway of the fifth and final gate, passing at last into the highest level of the mountain city of Souaris. Up until now, he had done a reasonable job of containing his anxiety. Now that only the Palace of Kings lay before him, seated atop its jutting plateau, all of the concerns he had so assiduously managed to avoid seemed to descend upon him at once.

Odd, feeling like a criminal as he made his return. When last he had left
these famed battlements, he had done so as one of the city’s heroes. Battling alongside High Commander Troy, he had stood proud in the defense of a city not his own, the legendary City of Man, against the greatest scourge their kind had ever known. Never mind that he had fought for himself and his own people—tucked away within her walls—as much as the Souari who called the city home. Never mind that had it not been for the unlikely triumphs of Torin, Kylac, and Allion, the city and all of its inhabitants would have suffered a calamitous defeat. No, despite any of that, all the grateful citizens of Souaris seemed to remember was that Baron Nevik of Alson was an outsider who had nearly given his life to help shield theirs.