The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (23 page)

“What of the savages?” Jasyn asked in afterthought. “Are they to play a role in this?”

“That will be up to them,” Corathel answered, with a glance toward Owl.

“I’ve not the time to try to make them understand our intent, or to glean theirs.”

“A shame Allion isn’t here. He might be able to tell us more about them, and what they may want.”

Corathel nodded. “He may yet, should our paths cross again. Until then, if they’re willing to risk their lives to protect ours, they’re welcome to it.”

“Are you certain you can trust them?” Maltyk asked warily.

The chief general barked a laugh. “No more certain than I am that Torin and his dragon won’t drop upon us from the sky. But at this point, no risk we take could be worse than sitting still, awaiting further betrayal.”

That cruel reminder of the larger battles yet to be waged served to tie his lieutenants’ tongues. But it also fostered in them a rising anger, and a determination to fight this night’s battle as though it were their last. He saw it in their faces, and felt it in his own.

“Are we in full understanding, then, of what must occur?”

“The plan is sound,” Maltyk said.

“We’ll make it work,” assured Jasyn with an eager smile.

Lar gave a slow and steady nod.

“Good. You have until the Woodcock’s Hour to make your soldiers comprehend it. After that, we move.”

“T
HIS IS WHAT YOU WISHED
to see, is it not?” King Hreidmar asked him.

“It is,” Htomah replied, running his hand along the mole’s iron-shelled body. He ducked inside the open rider bay, to examine the pump-lever mechanism used to propel the carriage, as well as the various cranks and gears that operated its grinding face. “You have some that are larger, yes?”

“We might,” Hreidmar allowed guardedly, stroking his beard. “Care to tell us what you’re thinking?”

“I am thinking that these vessels of yours might be put to better use than boring tunnels beneath the earth.”

“How so?” Warder General Vashen inquired.

“They help you to dig through rock. What might they do to a wall of enemies, I wonder?”

The king and general glanced at one another.

“Perhaps the thought never occurred to you,” Htomah said, though he knew that it had. “I make no judgments, one way or the other. I only say, I should like to see what these creatures look like in the light of day.”

Down here, in the blue-lit dark, the creature looked like a giant beetle, with a conical nose built of diamond-edged teeth and a thousand metal pincers on rotating rings of steel. A tool—a weapon—that even now its creators had been reluctant to reveal. This was one of their earlier designs, seldom used. Some of the newer ones were ten times its size, and could be driven twice as fast, with better wheels, thicker walls, and larger bays that were fully enclosed, capable of bearing a score of dwarves or more.

“It is a tunneling device, not a siege engine,” Hreidmar maintained.

“Some modifications would be required, to be sure. But even the smallest boat can be rigged to cross the largest ocean.”

He had not revealed to them, of course, just how much he knew about their drilling machines, or how he knew it. They were mistrustful enough already. Instead, he had chosen to plant theories and suggestions as to the types of tools and engines that might prove useful, and to make inquiries based on what he claimed was physical evidence encountered during his trek through their halls.

“We’re not crossing any oceans,” Vashen pointed out. “And no wind would push these monsters. It requires teams of our strongest dwarves, working in shifts, to propel even the lighter moles the length of a mile through open space. Through stone, we may burrow but paces in a day.”

Htomah pretended to consider. “What might you say if I told you that I could ease the burden of your drivers, using steam to help push the rods and turn the wheels?”

“Steam?” Hreidmar snorted. “And sorcery, I suppose.”

“A mechanical process,” the Entient assured him, “no more complex than the crank and pulley and bellows used already by your people in myriad ways. If I were to show your engineers the design, I am certain that they could construct the parts and fit them to your existing moles in the time it might take the rest of your people to make ready to depart.”

Again the king and general shared a frown, while Crag and the attending warders remained silent in that earthen tunnel.

“Why would you show us such workings, when they might only be turned against your own kind?” Hreidmar finally asked.

“Because our fates are linked in this, as I have already explained. Because you are the only ones who can make use of my knowledge before it is too
late. Because I trust you to use it to the betterment of all. Are these not reason enough?”

Another silence, as the Hrothgari king searched deep within his eyes for any hint of deception. “We haven’t the capacity in our existing moles to carry a tenth of our populace.”

“Nor have we the time to properly refit more than a few of these creatures,” Htomah agreed, laying his hand upon a steel-rimmed panel. The rivets along its seam protruded like bony knobs. “It matters not. What we can do, we shall do, and let that suffice.”

The dwarves stared back at him, unconvinced.

“Will your engineers have a look at what I would show them?”

Hreidmar combed his beard with gnarled fingers. “We shall
all
have a look.”

They set out then, back the way they had come. All in all, Htomah had to be pleased with his progress. Thus far, Hreidmar and his people had committed themselves to nothing, but they were obviously intrigued. Intrigued and fearful. Not so much so that they would do anything irrational, but enough that they were willing to take a risk or two to avoid the sort of fate Htomah and Crag had promised them was on its way. Taken individually, nothing in his words or Crag’s—or in their minor skirmishes with Illychar—would have convinced them such risk was necessary. But taken together, these events had painted an image Hreidmar and the others were too wise to ignore.

Things would go faster, of course, if they would accept the Entient’s wisdom in the spirit with which it was offered, rather than second-guessing the motive behind his every word. The plan with which he had come had been fully formulated long before the Hrothgari ruler had deigned speak with him. But this was a proud and cunning people that refused to be manipulated. His stratagem would seem much more palatable should they devise it for themselves, with his own involvement limited to promptings, rather than directives.

Still, it frustrated him to feign ignorance when time was so critical. If their enthusiasm did not ignite soon, he might have to find another way to fan its flames.

At the mouth of the tunnel, they were met by a trio of warders—the same trio, Htomah noticed, that he and Crag had first encountered when making their way from the surface. General Vashen, marching with another pair a step ahead of Crag and Htomah, did not seem pleased to see them.

“Thaggon,” she said, addressing the previously unidentified toifeam, “what is it now? You were ordered to resume patrol of the Hunarrian Loop.”

Thaggon ignored her. The Hrothgari warder, along with his companions Yellowbeard and Redbeard, turned their gazes instead upon Htomah. As soon as he saw their eyes, the Entient froze. For while their orbs might look the same to anyone else, he saw clearly the telltale sapphire glow marking a transposition.

“Well met, my brother,” Thaggon said to him.

“Quinlan, is it?” Htomah replied.

“And Jedua and Wislome,” the other answered in his dwarven guise.

It might have been worse. At least it was not Maventhrowe himself who had come for him. Still, he had no right to believe he could escape the three of them.

Vashen and her forward escorts wore stern masks over their evident confusion. King Hreidmar, who trailed amid his ringing entourage, came to a stop now with all the rest. “What goes on here?” the king asked.

Even Crag, Htomah noted, was regarding him with suspicion. He had no more allies. The trust he had worked so hard to earn was gone, as quick as that.

“You shame yourselves, my friends,” he said, “to use these noble vessels so.”

“A sordid act,” Quinlan agreed, “but one you compelled us to undertake. You move quickly, dear brother.”

“Not quickly enough, it seems.”

“General,” Hreidmar snapped, “who are these dwarves?”

Vashen was no longer sure. “Thaggon. Look at me.”

“Forgive me, Warder General, Your Glory,” Htomah offered, with a nod to both Vashen and her king, “but your brave warders are under a mystical influence.”

Hammers and axes and polearms slipped from their slings. The three Entient-dwarves raised their hands.

“No!” Htomah threw his own arms wide to hold all in check. “No harm need come to them. My brothers mean to release them at once.”

“Just as soon as we have escorted you from the city, and into our own hands,” Quinlan said.

“Is this how your kind works?” Hreidmar asked, with venom in his tone.

“Should we fail to do your bidding, do you mean to force it upon us?”

Htomah fought to remain calm, though he felt a fury rising. “You know better than this, Quinlan.”

“We have come to save you, my brother, from your own impetuousness. Maventhrowe has allowed that you may return, but you must do so now.”

“Whatever happened to allowing a brother to choose his own path?”

“This path you have chosen bears too many consequences that cannot be predetermined. Consider the risks—”

“Spare me your counsel, my brother. I have heard the arguments, and you have heard mine. At one time, I thought you sympathetic to my plight.”

“Your frustrations are shared,” Quinlan said. Despite the gruff Gohran tongue, Htomah could almost hear the compassion in the other’s voice. “But you have violated—”

“What? What have I violated? I seek to finish a task that we all began and left unfinished. What vows have I broken?”

Thaggon’s mouth twisted, while his lumpy brow wrung with uncertainty. The rest of the dwarves in the tunnel remained still, gripping their weapons while they glared at their stricken comrades.

“You were forbidden human contact,” Quinlan said finally. “You agreed—”

“As you can plainly see, I have made no human contact. Or would you further insult this people with such base disparagements?”

Behind him, King Hreidmar actually snorted with laughter.

Thaggon’s eyes shifted to meet those of Yellowbeard and Redbeard—Jedua and Wislome. Neither had anything to offer. “My brother, I beg you. We have staked our own futures upon yours. If you do not return with us now, it may be that none of us ever will.”

Htomah refused to weaken, to show just how deeply saddened he was to bear their fates along with his. Would that he could send them on their way and face the consequences of his actions alone. But that was not his choice. His was to carry on as he felt he must, or surrender all and let the plague he had helped loose run its course. Though it might mean permanent exile—his
and
theirs, he had heard nothing yet that could persuade him to let that happen.

“I swear to you, my brothers: I have every intention of doing what I must within the parameters set forth by our guiding council. When finished, I shall return with you willingly, to face whatever punishment befits my crime. But do not ask me to do so before I have accomplished the task I have undertaken. I would sooner waste away my remaining years in utter solitude than abandon our flock and all others for the sake of my own vanity. Should you doubt my resolve, now is your chance to test it.”

“And ours,” Hreidmar grunted unexpectedly. Htomah glanced back as the king strode forward, a bejeweled war hammer in hand. “Bunch of cravens,” he spat at Quinlan and the others. “Afraid to face us in your own skins? What are you, skatchykem? Tells me this one has more mettle than the lot of you. Take him, if you will, but you’ll do so through us.”

Though careful not to show it, Htomah felt invigorated at the other’s sudden fervor. Perhaps Quinlan’s coming had done him good after all.

The Entient controlling Thaggon’s body took a long look at the Hrothgari king. His gaze remained cool and steady. Such threats, Htomah knew, would have little effect on the outcome of this contest. When the eyes of Quinlan, Jedua, and Wislome found him again, the elder Entient found himself holding his breath.

“Then let us have a look,” Quinlan suggested finally, “at what precisely you intend.”

B
LACK CLOUDS HID A SOILED
moon. The stars were out, but their light shone faintly, like candles behind a silk curtain. Leaves and limbs swayed softly overhead, sifting the dim radiance.

Beneath this screen of mottled darkness, Corathel trod carefully, leading his horse by its halter along the ravine floor. A column of the best riders remaining to him trailed after, fourscore in all. Their faces were grim, painted dark with mud and coal. Their eyes were gleaming pools of captured twilight, shifting furtively in their sockets. If anything like their chief general, their entrails were wound tight around hollow stomachs, their lungs squeezed with apprehension.

Some had witnessed already their last sunrise. It was left only to learn which ones—if not all. Until then, the gnawing anxiety seemed a torment from which even death might be welcome.

Corathel pushed aside a low-hanging tree limb and continued along the overgrown path. A veteran of more battles than he could remember, it bothered him that he should be beset by the doubts and fears of a wet-nosed greenhorn. He had long ago become inured to the harsh realities of warfare—of death and dismemberment and scars both mental and physical. And yet he could not recall having ever been more afraid.

Perhaps because he understood now that death could not save him. Death could be romanticized, celebrated even. But he could think of no solace to be taken in becoming an Illychar, a slave in one’s own mortal shell. Though he hadn’t spoken of it, he had seen the looks in the eyes of his men risen as reavers—the helpless horror, the begging for release. A fate that might endure centuries, an eternity. The mere thought was enough to drive even the bravest, the most callous, mad.

The ravings of a weary mind, he assured himself. Were he to see rainbow-colored squirrels frolicking amid the trees, he might not give the matter another thought. Best that he do the same here.

The track they followed twisted and wound roughly eastward through the foothills south of Leaven. They were more than a mile off, but dared not move closer until ready to spring their attack. Even at this distance, they could hear the muted sounds of battle, as the reavers maintained their siege throughout the night. As at Atharvan, the undead savages had as yet constructed no engines with which to force the gates or bring down the walls, seeking instead to scale the heights with ladders and grapnels. Were it not for a dozen less
favorable factors, he might have taken that as cause for hope. As it was, he saw it only as a way for the Ceilhigh to prolong their little mummers’ show of monsters and men.

He cast his gaze to either flank, where the lithe forms of Owl and his Mookla’ayans slipped nimbly, almost invisibly, through the brush-choked trees. Every time he glimpsed them, he had to remind himself that these were not his enemy, but serving him as wards and scouts. He wasn’t certain what they meant to accomplish once the fighting began. On the open roads of the foothills above, they would be unable to match his horse’s pace. Despite his earlier words, he had tried again to rid himself of them, for
their
sake if not his own. He had even gone so far as to attempt a diagram of his strategy, to convince them to depart or else remain with Jasyn and the bulk of the legion. Alas, they continued to dog him like the stink of his own garb, refusing to leave him be.

But he had too many concerns to dwell on that one, so he ignored it as best he could. Just one more potential reason for the sickness in his gut.

The ravine forked again, crosscut by the rise of another hill. This time, he turned north through the crease. Stones and deadwood and skittering rodents filled his path. Sage and bramble scratched at him with their thorny claws. Corathel pressed forward as quietly as possible, edging, rather than hacking, through the unruly tangle. Were it only the armies above he had to worry about, such caution was likely unneeded. But if those armies were to employ scouts of their own, or if some stray reaver should happen across his position while seeking to join its bloody kin, his troops were as likely as not to be crushed where they stood.

That it might not matter was yet one more possibility he pretended not to consider. After all, they only had so long before the thousands who had sacked Atharvan finished claiming their dead spoils and joined their comrades, here or elsewhere. The odds promised to grow longer before they evened. Worse, he yet had no news of affairs in Alson, to the west, or Kuuria, to the south. It was quite possible that the miracle he assumed one or the other must eventually send might never come.

The Shrike’s Hour came and went, making way for that of the Vulture. Corathel spent it as he had those preceding it, in slow, stubborn trek and persistent denial of the many questions and perils over which he had no control. The Sparrow, marking the spring turn between midnight and dawn, was almost upon them when at last they reached the edge of their cover and saw the truth of what they had come to face.

In the sudden breeze, his sweat became like a cool, damp cloth applied to his fevered brow. Looking up from the gutter of that scrub-strewn slope, still half a mile off, he had a clear view of his enemies’ backs as they writhed and surged against the black bulk of Leaven’s curtain wall. Between fifteen and twenty thousand, by his scouts’ reports, though from this vantage it appeared as if it might be twice that—like an overhanging snowbank that could
crumble at any moment, burying his cavalry command beyond any trace.

A chill wracked his spine. To his left, he heard the sound of soldiers retching. When he looked, he saw only Owl and his flock, gathered now at his heels. The sight made him want to retch himself. He might have let himself do so, had he believed it would do anything to dispel his nervousness.

He waited a few moments longer, then gave the signal to mount. Leather creaked, traces rattled, and horses tamped and whinnied, as the silent order was relayed. Courageous men, the chief general thought, to follow him so, trusting in he who had delivered them from hopeless straits before to do so again.

If only he shared their faith.

But he showed no hesitation as he made his final checks and awaited the readiness signal from his squad commanders. When given, he buried his doubts and put heel to flank, leading his column from its place of concealment—slowly at first—to begin the long climb up the hill. A rabbit on the wolf’s trail, to be sure, but he had its scent, and there was no turning back.

Halfway up, they passed the Wormroad, cutting its arc around the city’s southern face. By now, the enemy had begun to turn and mark their approach. Owl and his Mookla’ayans had spread out before him, and their presence no doubt confused matters. Or perhaps the reavers simply didn’t believe that those they preyed upon could be so bold.

It took them only a moment to realize the truth. And when they did, the nearest sheared off from the main horde like river waters through an opened irrigation trench. All of a sudden, the battle had commenced.

Chief General Corathel unsheathed his sword, pressed his steed into a gallop, and charged headlong to meet them.

“W
E MOVE,”
J
ASYN SAID, THEN
launched himself from cover.

He dashed ahead in a crouch, scrambling over scrub and stone like an un-caged lizard. Wound tight as he was with anticipation, it was all he could do not to fly up that barren slope and leave his squad behind. As it was, he did not pause to ensure they followed him, but merely trusted them to obey.

The path ahead had not yet completely cleared. A handful of reavers were still rushing around from the west, in pursuit of those who had already set off to the east. But he didn’t have all morn. Those who would make it inside Leaven’s walls would do so before dawn. Those upon whom the sun arose would find themselves in desperate search of some other shelter, else rotting where they lay.

Over the last few hours, the legion had been stealing carefully northward, slinking from shadow to shadow, moving into ready position for when Corathel sprang his surprise. Judging by the enemy activity, all was going to plan. Before any could enter the city, however, the way first had to be made clear. The Second General had taken it upon himself—he and his small team—to open the door through which the rest would follow.

Despite his eagerness, he was forced to wait a few moments longer, hunkered in shadow, before entering the final stretch, a dead man’s land reaching out from the south gate. He grinned at his soldiers, sword in hand, while a trailing ogre lumbered by along the Wormroad to join the far-off commotion. With a nod and a raised eyebrow, he silently suggested taking the beast down, then feigned disappointment when they shook their heads.

Cravens
, he mouthed in mock reprimand.

When that danger had passed, he cast left and right and skittered into the open, making straight for the gatehouse. To do so, he first had to cross the rutted Wormroad, then clamber down and across a dry moat filled with stakes. A few bodies lay across it, amid a debris of severed ropes, broken climbing poles, and the splintered shafts of arrow and spear. Many were oiled and charred, along with their onetime bearers. Merely a glimpse, he knew, of the carnage that lay elsewhere, beneath the areas of principal assault.

He did not waste time in search, but supposed that every arrow slit and crenel contained eyes and worse trained upon him. The reavers may have missed his approach, but the watchmen atop the wall would not have. He could only pray they would treat with him before some itchy greenhorn feathered his partial plate or the padded leathers beneath.

His foot hit an oil slick as he crested the far bank, which nearly sent him tumbling back into the nest of jagged stones and sharpened stakes below. Fortunately, one of his soldiers was able to offer brace and spare him a nasty fall. By the time he righted himself and turned forward once more, a viewing slat in the iron postern had slid wide. Torchlight and a husky voice greeted him from within.

“Who approaches?”

“Jasyn,” he wheezed, “lieutenant general of the Parthan Legion, Second Division, come to reinforce Leaven. Who commands the gate?”

“Colonel Ragenon, garrison commander.”

Jasyn glanced skyward, straining for a glimpse of those looking down on him from atop the barbican. “Is the colonel himself present?”

“We can bear him word—”

“No time. Look alive, lad, and tell your gatekeepers to lower the bridge.”

“How many have you brought?” a second guardsman asked suspiciously.

“Some eight thousand in all,” Jasyn replied. His head swiveled, searching for any reavers who might happen upon their position. “Minus a patrol for every moment you keep us locked without.”

“We received no signal,” the first guardsman protested.

“Will you submit for examination?” the other added.

“Come, man. Does my arm look slender enough to fit through that peek-hole? Should I shove it through, your comrades will be checking my pulse while I squeeze your throat. Else we can skip such courtesies while you open the gate.”

The pair shared a whispered word, then glared back at him a moment
before the slat slammed shut. Jasyn looked around for a usable rope and grapnel, wondering if they would dare shoot down one of their own lieutenant generals should he attempt to scale their wall.

When he didn’t see one, he took to banging on the iron postern with the pommel of his sword, letting that serve as his voice. He continued until he heard a screech from the main portal behind him, and one of his men tapped his shoulder.

“Sir.”

With a rattle and groan, the immense granitewood drawbridge began to lower from the gatehouse maw. Jasyn’s patrolmen stepped aside, clearing its path. As it neared the bottom of its descent, the general found himself looking through the portcullis bars at a full platoon of garrison soldiers. In searching their grim faces, he found hope and wariness in equal measure.

Before the great bridge had fully settled, he squeezed through the gap and pressed the side of his neck against the bars. Quicker, that, than unbuckling the bracers upon his wrists.

“Step forward, then,” he urged, “and verify my claim.”

The gate captain, perched at the head of his assembled regiment, nodded toward a pair of guardsmen. The same he had met with a moment earlier, Jasyn realized. The two glanced at each other before the fat one stepped forward, removing a glove. As his fingers reached for Jasyn’s pulse, the lieutenant general snapped at him like a rabid dog. The guardsman withdrew with a start.

Jasyn laughed at the other’s twisted nerves. “Quick now. We haven’t got all night.” Again he presented his neck, and this time allowed the cowardly sod to press his clammy fingers against its flesh, just below his jaw.

“Begging your pardon, sir. You must understand—”

“Give me torches,” Jasyn commanded.

“Eh?”

“A pair of torches, now!”

The fop managed to signal for those nearby to grant his request. With a torch in either hand, Jasyn faced southward, peering down the slope into the dark tangle in which the legion waited. Stood atop the lowered bridge, he waved the flaming beacons back and forth, crossing them overhead. Almost at once, the distant treeline seemed to come alive, as soldiers began to emerge.

He turned back to the gate. “The portcullis now, if you please.”

By the time it was raised, the first wave of soldiers was scampering across the bridge, boots thudding upon the thick, ironbound planking. Once that initial detachment had shown the way to still be clear, Jasyn gave the signal for the main body to approach. It did so in a continuous, unbroken stretch, Third General Maltyk at its head.

“They offer you any trouble?” Maltyk asked.

“Watchmen,” Jasyn snorted, handing his comrade one of the torches.

“Useful as a legless mule. All they do is bray.” He then focused his attention on the trailing lines, and bellowed, “Form the wedge!”

C
ORATHEL’S BLADE FELL IN A
flash, cleaving his opponent’s naked skull. The wound erupted, blood spraying. The man hung there for a moment, wriggling like a stringed puppet, his mouth clenched in fury. No savage, this, but some nameless rancher of these very highlands—one of countless common folk of Partha the chief general had spent his life protecting. Dying now, on the edge of his sword. Beneath a beetle brow rigid with denial, the rancher’s eyes seemed to glisten with gratitude.