The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (20 page)

The Sword. Killangrathor. Torin.

“Allion!”

The voice sounded real enough, but reality no longer held any meaning.

“Allion!”

He felt himself blink. The dragon was but a black speck amid the jagged teeth of the Skullmars. At this distance, it could have been anything. A crow, perhaps. A fly.

“Allion,” Marisha breathed in relief, skidding to her knees beside him. Her hands fell upon his jaw, the sides of his neck. He peered right through her. An apparition, like all the rest. He looked again for the dragon, but it was no longer there. Perhaps it never had been.

“Allion, look at me,” she begged, her fingers tightening. A palm pushed his cheek, turning his head, forcing their gazes to meet. Sapphire orbs burned into him.

“Torin,” he whispered. “He…I…”

“Allion, are you all right? Are you hurt?”

He couldn’t begin to answer her question. How had she found him, anyway? Was it even her?

“We don’t have time for this,” someone else grumbled. “Get him up, now.”

Allion turned. Corathel. A pair of Parthan soldiers approached, bending to take hold of his arms.

“Leave him be!” Marisha snapped. She looked him over, then cupped his cheek. “Allion, look at me. Can you stand?”

“It was him, Marisha. It was him.”

“We saw,” she replied quietly. “We all saw.”

“You were right.”

“Shh, never mind that now. Allion, we’re not safe here. We have to go.”

The clangor of arms surrounded them. Killangrathor’s assault had cleared the area, but battle yet raged, surging across the steppe in twisted knots and wriggling lines. He could see at once that there was no predicting its random flow—only that the enemy would soon claim all.

“The faster we move, the more we can save,” Corathel urged, extending the hunter a hand.

Allion understood then what was at stake. Though it seemed to him that all was already lost, the determination in the chief general’s eyes said otherwise. But there was desperation there, as well, in the faces of his soldiers—even in Marisha’s. The hunter felt a stab of shame at his own weakness, which gave him the strength to nod to Marisha before reaching up to clasp the general’s hand.

“You’ll find the bulk of my people on the southern shore of Llornel Lake,” Corathel said, after pulling him to his feet. “If the pair of you can find your way there, and help oversee the exodus, I’d be grateful.”

“What is it
you
intend?” Marisha asked with alarm.

“The same as before. To draw the enemy for as long as I can, and allow as many as I can to escape.”

“We’ll assist you,” Allion offered.

“You will indeed,” the general agreed, “by doing as I’ve asked. My task will no doubt prove the easier of the two. It is the innocents that concern me most, and tending to the safety of others is what you, my lady, do best. Look to the welfare of my people, I beg you.”

Allion could feel Marisha’s gaze upon him.
Not without you
, she seemed to be thinking, and he felt the same. Each had suffered a taste now of what it would be like to lose the other. Even a moment’s separation, it seemed, was too much to allow. However this ended, they would face it together.

He gave her hand a squeeze.

“We’ll find your people,” Marisha assured the general, “and gather those who’ve been scattered. Just be sure not to remain here any longer than necessary.”

“Jasyn has already been ordered to marshal the retreat and rendezvous at Leaven. I’ll be on his heels.” He looked away, and Allion sensed the lie.

“Corporal Gage, your squad is to escort this pair north. Follow the Gunarian Trail. Obey them as you would me.” The corporal saluted. “The rest of you, after me.”

Corathel paused to accept Marisha’s embrace, then gripped Allion’s shoulder. “There will be better days ahead.”

And worse
, the hunter thought, clasping the other’s arm for what he feared would be the last time.

“Strength to you both,” the general said, then spun away, shouting orders as he set off across the carnage-laden field.

“Form up,” Gage barked to his men, who encircled Allion and Marisha. More than one, Allion noted, cast a wary eye to the east, along the line of Killangrathor’s departure.

“My lord, my lady,” Gage said urgently. “With your leave?”

Allion felt a tug upon his arm, only then realizing that his gaze, too, was lost to the Skullmars and its monsters.

Torin.

I’m sorry.

Then he, too, was moving, traversing blood-soaked ground with an uncertain stride, the cacophony of battle in his ears, and the stench of dragon in his nose.

B
EFORE THE NEXT MARK OF
the sun, Corathel, too, was on the run.

For nearly an hour, he had done as planned, executing a desperate series of feints and counterstrikes against the enemy’s tail, allowing his troops—as individuals and small, shattered companies—to disengage and make their retreat. It was the chaos alone, on both sides, that had enabled him to do so. His own regiment wasn’t large enough to attract the enemy in any significant numbers, only to distract them momentarily before slipping away again through the maze of shallow canyons that lay like a spiderweb across the southern stretches at Atharvan’s feet.

But time and the enemy’s focus had turned irrevocably against him. As fate would have it, he had nipped finally at the wrong heels. A pack of reavers he could not possibly hope to confront directly had taken up after, and thus far would not be shaken loose. They were Parthan, fortunately, rather than elf or goblin, giving his men a chance, at least, to outrun them.
Un
fortunately, their leader, Colonel Vinn, seemed as familiar as he was with the splintered landscape through which he sought now to escape. This time, there would be no slipping through some hidden defile and waiting until the danger had passed. These pursuers were both patient and determined, knowing precisely who it was they chased, and unlikely to let them go in favor of easier prey.

“Splinter west!” he shouted, and the designated squad peeled away, down along a secondary trail. The command had already been given
not
to return to the field of battle. By now, those nearest the city had been swallowed up by the melee and could not be saved. Those upon its outskirts were on their own, just as he was.

Not only that, but these men were at the end of their strength. They had bought cover for the others for as long as they could. To seek to buy any more would only cost these men their lives—their souls.

If it hadn’t already.

Vinn shouted and snarled behind them, but seemed content to let yet another breakaway contingent go. Corathel smiled grimly at his former comrade’s narrow-minded focus. The colonel seemed quite willing to sacrifice all other spoils so long as he claimed the general himself. So be it. If necessary, Corathel would readily make that sacrifice.

But he was down to just a pair of squads—a score of men in all. And these, he knew, were unlikely to abandon him, even if commanded to do so.

So they continued on, ragged in their formation, stumbling over the uneven terrain. Several had dropped their heavier weapons. Others had even tossed aside bits of armor. Swiftness was all that mattered now, and the ability to endure—the ache of lungs, the cramp and burn of limbs, the instability of muscles driven already beyond normal capacity. Fear alone kept them one step ahead of their pursuers, and even fear had its limits.

Corathel cringed as Hadric slipped and went down. Kaleth followed, tripped up by his comrade. The others looked to the general, who gritted his teeth and ran on. The lusty cheers of Vinn’s company may as well have been a blade in his spine.

“Almost there,” the general croaked, his throat thick with dust and raked by exertion. Between gasps, he added, “Stay with me, men. Show me your strength. Show me your will. Show me!”

He saved his remaining breath, focusing on the fire in his legs, reminding himself of how much tougher they would be for having survived this ordeal. Like steel, tempered in the forge. Like bloody…burning…steel.

So intense did his focus become that he very nearly missed the final fork, the one they needed if they were to have any chance at all. Fortunately, he felt Joakim, on his left, lean that way. Corathel cut after, shouting the command to veer. As he did so, he reached for the scarlet rag upon his belt, and waved it high overhead. He would know within moments now, one way or the other.

His eyes, pinched with agony, scanned the slopes on either side of the narrow gorge. He saw no sign of those to have been stationed above, only empty boulders stacked one upon the other in wondrous formation. His heart fell.

Then he heard the whistle, and the first grating rumble. Still running, he saw now the sappers in Parthan uniform, with their wedges and their hammers and their pry levers. The trap to his right had already been sprung. The one to his left seemed as though it might resist, the boulders refusing to dislodge. But then the anchor stone slipped free, causing those above to topple.

Within heartbeats, the gorge resounded with the roar of cascading boulders, each helping to trigger a larger rockslide that bore down from either side. Though he continued to run, Corathel heard the screams of Vinn’s vanguard, reavers who were caught and crushed by the tumbling stones—chewed up and then swallowed by these broken bits of dead earth.

Only when the grinding had begun to die away and he heard the cheers of those above did Corathel dare to look back. He allowed his pace to stagger and slow. The wall of boulders was roughly forty feet high, climbing halfway to the gorge’s rim. Whether they chose to scale the mound or dig through, the reavers were sure to lose a fair amount of time in doing so.

But they would in fact continue the hunt, Corathel was certain. Already, Vinn’s furious shouts raged above the ebbing tumult. Should the chief general and his men waste any of the time given them, their frantic retreat might yet count for naught.

He offered a salute to Corporal Lagge and his sapper squad, while those around him caught their breath or patted one another in relieved encouragement. He then signaled for their rescuers to disperse, and turned his attention to those trapped alongside him in the gorge.

“We’re not out of this yet,” he reminded them, though he did so with a dogged grin. “Come. Let us find our way before our enemies find theirs.”

They set off at half stride, rejuvenated by the success of their narrow
escape. Shuddering to think of the numbers lost this day, Corathel thought instead of those whose lives he had helped salvage. Were he of a mind to do otherwise, he would have long ago gone insane.

The gorge narrowed and twisted ahead of them, empty of the waters that had once carved its basin, yet for the most part worn smooth. The echo of Vinn and his troops carried after them for a time, but was soon lost to the crunch of their own boots upon the graveled earth. A few of the men even managed to jest with one another, finding humor in the bleakest of situations, as many a battle-hardened soldier was wont to do.

That all ceased the moment they turned a bend to the south, to find that they had indeed celebrated their escape too soon. Chuckles turned to gasps, buried by the hiss of steel as Corathel and those among him drew swords and daggers—whatever remained to them. Hemmed in place by the sheer stone walls and the dam placed at their backs, they had little choice. For a pack of reavers filled the gorge ahead, dozens of them, blocking the road south—the only road left.

And not just any reavers, Corathel realized, while his stomach roiled and spat. Though backlit by a setting sun, he saw enough of their black silhouettes to recognize them as elves, savage in appearance, armed with spears and blowguns and giant longbows, clothed in little more than vines and tattoos and horn-shaped piercings—and led by one who wore a ring of sharpened stakes around the crown of his bald head.

T
HE SUN HUNKERED UPON THE
western horizon, cradled among distant peaks like a trough of molten lead. The wind grew sharp, and shadows lengthened. In the stillness of the settling dusk, amid the barren mountain heights, it seemed as though all the world was at peace.

Knowing better, Htomah took little comfort as he sat silent upon a slab of rock, waiting for the other to come. It had been a long week, trekking throughout the day and throughout the night to reach this point. Though meditations allowed his body and mind to refresh themselves without the need for sleep, his muscles and joints were not accustomed to such prolonged periods of strain. Worse, he traveled blind. His physical senses were far more acute than those of any pure mortal, but it had been years—decades—since he had gone so long without a visit to the scrying chamber. Lacking his Third Sight, he felt as lost and vulnerable as a deprived suckling.

He might have regretted his decision, yet found he did not. He would be given cause to do so before this was finished, he was certain. Thus far, however, his doubts and fears had only spurred his resolve. An Entient had little business outside their den, to be sure. Had they only remembered that in the beginning, it might be that none of this would have happened. Yet now that it had, and he had committed himself to this course, he was buoyed by his indignation toward those who had mocked his concern and scorned his efforts. Fools all, himself included. But at least he was willing to admit it, and to labor in some small way to counteract his folly. Should he fail, it would serve the rest of them just.

He heard the other nearing now, and so stowed his brooding contemplations in order to focus on the moment at hand. He was here to win the other’s aid, not give him cause to think that it was already too late.

To that end, he did his best not to appear threatening, drawing back the hood of his cloak and placing his hands upon his knees. Cold breezes scraped his flesh and raked his hair, but he forced himself to remain still.

Even so, the figure that came stumping up the narrow trail froze when it spied him. With its stout and gnarled frame, it looked not unlike a boulder wedged against those on either side. Then its axe came to hand, slid free from a sling upon its back. Its crooked limbs belied the smoothness of the movement.

“Peace, good dwarf,” Htomah offered in greeting. “I am no enemy.”

His startled visitor cast about, looking for others who might be lurking amid the boulder-strewn ridge. “And just how ya be knowin’
that
, without knowin’ who
I
am?”

“You call yourself Crag, do you not?”

The Tuthari’s features tightened, eyes pinching with increased suspicion.

“My own name ain’t no mystery to me.”

“Mine is Htomah. I am a friend to Torin.”

“Are ya now? Name don’t strike as one he ever mentioned.”

“Perhaps not. To be fair, I was not a very good friend. Though, as I recall, he did speak of the Entients.”

Crag spat. One eye squinted fiercely, giving his lumpy face an even more mangled appearance. “Might have. That be true, what would one of ’em be doing out here?”

A fair question, no matter who he had been. Humanoid or beast, few were those who traveled these desolate mountain paths. Elsewise, the dwarf need not have been so wary. “My purpose in being here is much the same as yours: to visit with those who long ago chose to dig their homes beneath this land, rather than contend with those swarming above it.”

He felt Crag hesitate, though there was no outward sign. “Claimin’ to know my business, too, then, are ya?”

Htomah bowed respectfully. “Affairs being what they are, I have had cause to observe Torin for some time. I know much of what passed between the two of you.”

The dwarf responded with a low grumble, deep in his throat. “Ain’t meet to spy on people—magical or otherwise.”

“Be that as it may, I had hoped we might help one another.”

Crag let his axe slip down to butt the earth, leaning a hand upon its head.

“Way I hear it, help such as your kind offers ain’t much help at all. And that’s allowing ya are who ya say ya are.”

“Do you require proof?”

“You’re the one what stole upon
me
, more or less. What is it
you
require?”

Htomah sighed. Already, this little parlay was growing tiresome. Crag seemed not to care about meaningless details, which worked to their advantage, given the shortage of time. But things might move faster still if he would loosen his mistrust and adopt a less combative stance.

“I suspect that the Hrothgari will want little to do with me,” the Entient admitted, “and even less with what they will undoubtedly view as man’s war against the Illysp. Thus, I would
ask
,” he added, with deferential emphasis, “that when we meet with them, you might suggest they consider elsewise.”

“Already told Torin I’d see ’bout securing any aid they might offer. Threat ain’t just to man, no?”

Htomah shook his head. “It is to your kind and mine, as well. But matters are worse than Torin—than any of us—knew. And they have only grown worse since your arrival upon these shores.”

“That so?”

The Tuthari would not know, of course, having crossed this land upon a wilderness course, veering clear of the highways and settlements where tidings and rumor were sown. He had seen Illychar for himself—that much was made clear by subtle changes in his eyes and his posture. But it was equally clear that he had yet to develop any true appreciation for the threat they posed. Once again, it was up to Htomah to convince another that his own fears were not merely phantoms.

“Torin was ambushed at Krynwall,” he stated bluntly. “He slew his enemy, but fell soon after.”

“Fell. Dead?”

And possessed
, Htomah thought, but merely nodded instead. He was not sure he wished to tread that road just yet.

Crag’s pinning gaze slipped briefly to his own hand, flexed now upon the head of his axe. “You
observed
this, did ya?”

The Entient nodded. “I am sorry to bear the word.”

“Not as sorry as I am to hear it. That one and I, we had unfinished business.”

“Unfortunately, that is not the worst of it. The talisman he carried—the Sword of Asahiel—has fallen to the enemy, its power to be wielded now against us.”

For a moment, the dwarf was silent, though Htomah could hear him grinding his teeth in thought. “And what do ya expect
I
should do about it?”

“As I said—”

“I heard what ya said. Need a few pawns, do ya? Where’s the rest of your clan?”

“My clan?”

“Seems to me, you’re the ones what wield sorcery and all. Why come to lay it all on a people not your own?”

Htomah managed a sad smile. “My
clan
thinks the matter unworthy of their current attentions. They did not send me to raise others to do battle in their stead. I have acted alone in this, become an exile like yourself. I go to the Hrothgari because they number among the few to have not yet joined this struggle in earnest, and because I think they might make a difference. I go to them because there is no one else, and I fear what may happen should we not contain this fire before it spreads any further.”

Crag reached up with his free hand to massage his growth-laden brow. “And what do I get out of it, should I throw in with you? I ain’t exactly one of ’em. I’ve come a long way just to be tossed out.”

“I can lead you to them, and shall, should you but agree to help impress upon them the need to action.”

The Tuthari snorted. “Good chance I can find ’em on my own.”

“And an equal chance that they are even now burying themselves ever deeper in response to this threat—perchance never to emerge again. Would you risk it, given the small favor that I ask?”

“You do me greater honor than I deserve,” Crag chortled wryly. “What makes you reckon I’ve the words what with to persuade ’em?”

“You are Tuthari, the last of a once-proud nation. Your very presence is a cautionary tale. If you would but share with them the fate of your people, it ought to be enough.”

“And if it ain’t? What sort of wasting disease am I to be stricken with if they turn you out?”

It was Htomah’s turn to laugh without mirth. “My good dwarf, the plague upon us now is the worst, I dare hope, that any shall ever know. Should we fail, my only reprisal would be to leave you and your kin to suffer its course.”

A vague threat, and nothing new at that. But Crag seemed to relax somewhat, trusting him better for it. A sad world they lived in, Htomah thought, where kindness was believed to hide a darker menace than one openly revealed.

“Well, seein’ as ya knew where to find me in the first place, I don’t reckon I’d have an easy time slippin’ away. Mayhap we travel together a spell. I’d know more of who ya claim to be, and how our mutual friend met his end.”

Htomah bowed his head. “As it pleases you.”

Crag gave another snort, as if to suggest that nothing about this pleased him. “And just how long is this shared journey of ours apt to take?”

“Not more than a day, I should hope. Would you prefer to spend this night
above
ground, or below?”

“Why?”

Htomah stood—slowly, so as not to trigger concern in his skittish companion. “Because an entrance to their domain lies beneath the very slab upon which I sit.”

T
HRAKKON BENT LOW AGAINST THE
shrieking winds, gaze pinned to the white-capped seas below. At this height, the ocean was naught but a frozen wasteland—an iron-gray void as vast and unchanging as the skies through which he flew. Nevertheless, he dared not remove his gaze for a moment, remaining ever watchful for that which lurked beneath the glistening swells.

Killangrathor’s mighty wings lay stretched to either side, gliding upon the currents of an invisible stream. Behind him, strapped like he to the dragon’s spines, were a pair of giants and two dozen goblins. A paltry number, it now seemed, given the way in which they hunkered breathlessly, sharing his anticipation.

Yet there had only been room for so many to accompany him, and of all the races, goblins were the most lethal, the most relentless. A waste, at first glance, strapping one winged beast to the back of another. But for all their flapping, flailing fury, goblins were not true flying creatures. Though capable of riding the winds in short bursts, none could soar as high or as far as Killangrathor—upon whose strength they now all depended.

Later, however, their hunting talents would be put to good use. A goblin
was worth ten elves or more. Thus, following the slaughter at Atharvan, Thrakkon had flown directly into the Skullmars, to a valley in which a swarm of the creatures lay in reserve. There, he had tossed aside the carcasses of the giants slain by Killangrathor’s frenzy and taken on as many goblins as would fit. He had considered sending the rest out from the mountains to join their brethren, but had decided against it. Even now, euphoric with his successes, he felt it was only prudent to maintain the rear guard Kael-Magus had established. Should his enemies be so foolish as to attempt an attack on the nest from which his kind had emerged…

Thrakkon relished the thought.

His incursion force secured, they had flown throughout the remainder of that night and all of the following day, watching league after league of earth slide by below. An exulting sensation, consuming days’ worth of travel in mere hours. Back then, the terrain had changed by the moment, grassy plains alternating with rocky highlands while sprouting forests, mountains, lakes, and more.

Unlike now, when all there was to see was the occasional island or empty atoll.

More than once, he had been tempted to bear down upon another of the cities they were leaving behind, just to make sure that none would hold out against his Illychar armies for long. But that might mean more casualties to his team and more time wasted mining replacements. His brethren could handle what was left to claim throughout these lands. And if not, he would finish it for them upon his return.

Another night had carried them to Pentania’s westernmost shoreline. By dawn, they had edged out over the cliffs and sands and seas, veering higher amid the windswept clouds. All at once, the doubts had returned, and Thrakkon had been forced to remind himself of the necessity of this course. He did this not merely for revenge, but because the Finlorians’ was the true threat—if indeed any remained. He understood the risks, pressing in this manner, but he would not suffer that even one of Finlorian ilk was left alive to challenge him. Unlike his predecessors, he would not squander his hard-earned advantage.

On the other hand, his fears whispered, the Vandari were no more. The last had perished as a result of Torin’s visit. The remaining Finlorians were but a pathetic whisper of a mighty past. They possessed magic, no doubt, but their numbers and power were no longer significant. It was not too late to turn back, to let this meaningless struggle go.

But Itz lar Thrakkon would not be shackled by his fears, nor made to settle for what had already been achieved. Where others had relented, Thrakkon would continue to prove his superiority. And when this challenge, too, had passed, he would find himself another.

In that very moment, the monster struck.

For hours they had waited, watching expectantly, knowing it would not be contained. Nevertheless, when the geyser erupted, Thrakkon’s hand flew to the Sword’s hilt, and beneath him, even the mighty Killangrathor flexed in
startled terror. Thousands of feet it climbed, without sign of slowing. From the center of that billowing column, its face appeared, hideous and ravaged as it thrust skyward into the unfamiliar sun, borne up by an eel-shaped torso of staggering immensity.

Its maw groaned wide, almost greater than Thrakkon could comprehend, leaving him to peer down into a gullet large enough to engulf mountains. Taller and larger it loomed, numbing his mind, sapping his confidence. He felt suddenly as though he rode a sparrow, rather than a dragon. Armored in reefs of coral and limestone, draped in forests of seaweed, the behemoth might have been mistaken for a divine manifestation of the very earth.