The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (25 page)

What she knew with dread certainty were the things her own mother had warned her of, and what Necanicum’s gloomy prophecy had only confirmed. She had to find Torin—or rather be there when
he
found
her
. A city by the sea, the crone had said. Upon the road she already followed. There had been no mention that if she did turn back, she would actually be able to
save
her people, only
warn
them. A terrible, terrible risk, either way. But if she did not poison the Harvester while provided this chance, she might not get another opportunity to do so. And when the end came, as promised—by fire or by water—where would her people hide then?

She found no comfort in the decision, but she would have to be strong, as her mother and queen had bade her. Like Necanicum, she had been given
her
purpose, and could fulfill no other’s.

She looked back to the crone while gathering her own few possessions. It seemed cruel to leave her out in the open, to be pecked at and torn apart and strewn about by scavengers. But if she did not have time for both the world at large and her own kin, then she did not have time to bury one poor wild woman. Whatever affliction had claimed Necanicum in life would have to look after her in death.

With her pouches and blanket and the phial of poison secured, Annleia bid a sullen farewell and strode from the glade, leaving the crone’s fire to flicker weakly at the dead woman’s feet.

T
HE LASS IS GONE.

Necanicum opened one eye, then the other. The glade was empty, the fire before her naught but a wisp of curling smoke.

“Did you happen to note whither?” she asked them.

South. She means to do as we counseled.

She snorted. “For now. Seems to me she might change her mind easily enough.”

You did well.

“And would have done better had you kept silent,” she snapped, her chin at her shoulder.

It is crucial that nothing is left to chance.

“All is chance,” she argued. “You play your games, with me and with others, but you cannot control half so much as you would like.”

It seemed they had no response to that—or at least, not one they wished to share. She harrumphed and began patting around her person, checking to make sure all of her items were in order.

She took none of your things
, they assured her,
only what you gave her.

“Then her elders taught her respect, which is too much to be said of some.”

She continued her own inspection, if only to vex them as they vexed her.

Whither shall we go now?

“Home, should I not be able to escape you before we reach it. Elsewise, some place where you’ll never find me.”

You know you cannot leave us
,
even if you truly wished to.

Necanicum sighed heavily. She knew.

Rising was a laborious affair. Her coldsleep had chilled her within as well as without, causing bones to ache and joints to stiffen. As if the pains she dealt with already were not enough. Still, it had struck her as necessary at the time. Had she permitted the child’s questions to continue, they might have gone on forever. Or worse, the whelp might have insisted upon trying to drag her along. Necanicum had come far enough at the bidding of others. Whither she went now would be
her
choice, and at
her
pace.

Not that she lacked sympathy for the lass. In truth, she had shared more than they had asked her to, ignoring their protests as she had done so. A risk, to be sure, but she did not wish the child to be blind to the consequences. Either road offered horrors enough. At least she had attempted to spare the lass from feeling manipulated and betrayed.

For she knew well enough what that was like.

She used her staff to scatter the charred brands of her fire, then tamped the area with her feet, sprinkling the words of cleansing over that and the log upon which she had rested. Doing so helped to wake her dormant vessels and speed the flow of blood through her veins. By the time she finished, she felt almost fully restored.

Her eyes swept the glade, lingering momentarily upon the patch of moss where the child had lain. Without the phial at her breast, she felt as if she had forgotten something, and wondered if there was more that she might do—or should have done.

It is
her
turn now
, they reminded her, almost gently.
The lass has courage. We have left the matter in fair hands.

Even they were uncertain—that much she could feel. But there was little use in forcing them to admit it, or in dwelling on what could not now be changed. Whether or not the child successfully abided their counsel, they had done all they could.

For her, there was naught but the long road home, and she had best be upon it.

On the chance that her home should remain by the time she reached it.

C
LOUDS CHURNED OVERHEAD, THREATENING ANOTHER
storm. It made little difference, Allion supposed, as he was still soaked through from the last. His clothes hung heavy and sodden, his skin chafed raw where the leather and wool rubbed against his thighs. He slogged on despite the irritation, through a muddy field whose fallow rows gave it the look of a wind-chopped sea. Indeed, his weariness was such that, at times, he felt as if the earth rolled and swayed beneath him. A low-hanging fog covered it like misty spray, and its restless murmur filled his ears, a sound in which to drown.

He forced his eyes wide, to wake himself before he slipped beneath the imaginary swells. The murmur stemmed not from ocean waves, but from the sea of refugees swimming alongside in a ragged stream. Few spoke, in hopes that silence would keep them safe. But the rustle of their movements could not be helped: the swish of fabric, the scrape of litter, the creak of wheel, the rattle of traces, the huff and snort of horse and mule and ox, the squish of mud beneath the plodding footfalls of man and beast…Nor were the voices completely silent. By now, Allion had heard it all: angry mutterings, oaths of vengeance, whispered reassurances, sniffles and sobs and the occasional wail. With this many in tow, the hunter might as well have announced his crossing of this land with pipes and drums and bells a-toll.

But chiding them would do no good. Nor could he fault them their passions. Two and a half days following the slaughter at Atharvan, shock still hung thick over the heads of this tattered throng. But they had dozed and awakened enough times now to realize that this was not some nightmare to be burned away by the sun. Friends had been lost, families torn apart. Even though much of the city’s populace had fled before the dragon’s arrival, few had escaped without losing someone they knew. They were now widows and widowers and orphans, clinging to strangers and onetime rivals in search of strength and solace, seeking an understanding that would not be found.

Allion felt as hollow and lost as any of them.

He glanced at Marisha, who held the hand of a child found hiding in a wood the night before last. Five years old, perhaps, without parent or sibling. Though not from the city, the boy was but one of many among them who were similarly dispossessed. Over the past two days, a fair share of those separated had been reunited with family or neighbor. The network of city ministers had done a remarkable job, all in all, of organizing the exodus. But according to census officials, Atharvan had been home to more than three hundred thousand heads prior to the Illychar siege, swelled by as much as
a third more by refugees throughout both Partha and Menzos. With such numbers, and given the hasty manner of their departure, it would be some time before they were able to properly sort the living from the dead, and the abandoned from the lost. They had offered to place this particular child with the others unclaimed, but when they had attempted to do so, the poor young mute had clung to Marisha so feverishly, and trembled so terribly, that she had asked them to let the boy be.

As always, she tried to do too much, lending her skills when and where they were required, toiling day and night. The Pendant gave her strength, she assured Allion, whenever he voiced concern that she, too, needed rest. Be that as it may, he continued to worry what might happen should she persist in ignoring her own limitations. To that, she was fond of telling him that she was only doing what they all must.

He would grow silent afterward, having no suitable response. Truly, it seemed that limitations were all they had. Whatever their exact number, they were woefully unprotected. Outriders rode ahead, behind, and upon their flanks, while other soldiers, both mounted and afoot, patrolled the throng’s perimeter. Chief General Corathel had sent two battalions north as soon as King Galdric had signaled his intent to empty the city, and the king himself had made sure to assign a fair portion of his garrison to those exiting her tunnels. In addition, Allion’s had not been the only squad that had found its way north following the slaughter, to meet those who had floated down the rivers to the southern shore of Llornel Lake. Each day thus far, in fact, had brought more scattered regiments to them. Even so, estimates held that those trained with the use of weapons comprised less than one in thirty of their overall ranks. Hardly enough, the commanders grumbled, to see this flock delivered all the way to Kuuria.

For they had learned already that Leaven, the nearest city to which they might have fled, was closed to them, besieged by Illychar. Fewer than had assaulted Atharvan, the scouts claimed, but far too many for them to battle or circumvent. A brief council held by Atharvan’s city ministers and military commanders had raised the next best hope: to veer south and make for the Gaperon, hoping their pleas for additional protection would be answered and met along the way.

And if Kuuria
,
too
,
is overrun?
Allion had wondered. But it did them no good to wander too far down that road of thought. The scouts would continue searching for the safest path, and the host’s leaders would keep them on it. Until such time as all avenues were closed, their best hope was to keep running.

Or crawling, as it were. Given their pace, he was somewhat astonished to have made it as far as they had. According to their scouts, the bulk of the enemy swarm had not yet set out in search of those who had managed to escape. Rather, it seemed to be waiting at Atharvan until its spirit kin laid claim to the bodies of the fallen, making certain that the humans were not allowed to circle back and put those incubating coils to the torch. By making
this choice, the Illychar had given Atharvan’s refugees a few days’ lead—the best explanation as to why they hadn’t already been overrun.

Even this small piece of fortune, however, was a dagger in Allion’s gut, a stark and chilling reminder of the fate he had brought upon Torin—and the world in turn. Had he committed his friend’s body to ashes when urged to do so, Torin would have had no chance to retrieve the Sword and unearth Killangrathor. Had he destroyed that single coil, he would not now be fretting over those being claimed at Atharvan. Thousands might have been spared. General Corathel, King Galdric, and all the many others whose fate was unknown might yet be safe. This people would still have their city, their leaders, their former lives.

The horror his selfishness and arrogance had permitted was almost more than he could fathom.

So he tried not to. As best he could, he put aside the haunting doubts and accusations that tormented him at all times. It was of little use now, ruminating over mistakes made and opportunities passed. Instead, he tried to focus on their current situation, on what he might do to encourage this people and maintain his vow to Corathel to help keep them safe.

An easier task, he brooded sullenly, were he still the dragon-slayer. But the tales brought by battlefield survivors of the beast that had destroyed their city had spread quickly among those who had fled Atharvan long before Killangrathor’s arrival. Though some refused to believe, they were far and away the minority. Wherever he now went, Allion met with cold gazes, guarded whispers, or awkward reassurances—from soldiers and civilians alike. It could only be
his
dragon, after all, that had joined the reavers. The people knew of no others but the one whose death had won him their gratitude and praise not so long ago. A great victory gone sour, it now sat rancid in his belly. Where he might have paraded among them as a champion and bearer of hope, as Corathel had likely intended, he chose instead to remain silent and aloof, lest he incite their fear, their wrath, or their damnable pity.

“You’re making more of it than there is,” Marisha had told him, when he had suggested that his presence might be doing more harm than good.

“I am the salt in the wound, if not the blade itself,” he had argued.

To which she had shaken her head and replied, “It is your own guilt, unnecessary and undeserved, that eats at you. And it serves no useful purpose. For your sake and theirs, you must let it go.”

Let it go. Simply accept the fact that Killangrathor was alive and loose and possessed of an Illychar fury. Accept that the spirit of his friend, the one he had gone to such lengths to consecrate and preserve for the infinite splendors of Olirium, was chained to a shell of hatred and madness. He had condemned them both—and all others now doomed to fall beneath their onslaught of shadow and fire. How could she expect him to live with that?

A raindrop struck his brow, followed swiftly by another. He glanced up—and tensed to see a winged shadow soaring overhead. A hawk, he realized, forcing down the terror risen to his throat.
While I carry our reprisals to
the ends of this earth
, Torin had said. The man was gone, and Killangrathor with him. Or so Allion prayed. For if the dragon were to spy their flock and catch it out in the open like this…

He closed his mind to an image born of that upon the steppe outside Atharvan, when Killangrathor had mowed them down like withered stalks in a harvested field. Only, this time, it was not soldiers, but mothers and babes and other innocents whose blood painted the dragon’s claws…

Despite that danger, Allion much preferred traveling as they did now over open ground, where he could at least see the enemy coming. When surrounded by brush and woods, the rogue Illychar that yet roamed these lands as packs and individuals could drop upon them out of nowhere, as they had learned more than once already. And cover overhead often meant roots and undergrowth and broken trails underfoot, which further hampered their pace.

A source of much debate and continued discussion: the path they should take and how best to traverse it. Some had proposed separating their multitude into smaller parties that might hope to avoid attention. But dividing their civilian populace also meant dividing those who defended them. For now, the consensus was that their minimal strength was best kept marshaled. Ten could defend three hundred better than one could defend thirty.

Of course, that thinking might change on the morrow, or the hour, depending on word brought in by the scouts. It was like traveling through a tunneling dark, never knowing what might be lurking around the next bend.

He turned his head as a horse loped past, mud sucking at its hooves. Moving with purpose, Allion thought, though its rider called no warning. The hunter’s eyes followed, blinking against a thickening rain.

The outrider fell in with the small contingent accompanying the nearest platoon commander, positioned near the rear of the vanguard on the left flank. Allion watched their conference from perhaps twenty paces off, wondering if it meant trouble. Of course, he wondered the same of all communications that he saw passing up and down among the soldiers of the outer lines.

His suspicions deepened when he saw the sergeant giving orders to Corporal Gage—he who had escorted Allion and Marisha north from Atharvan—and watched Gage signal for a team to ready mounts. At that, Allion tugged at Marisha’s sleeve and hastened ahead to see what he could learn.

“Scouts sent to inspect a nearby holdfast missed their time of return,” the corporal confided to them. “I’m to take a squad in search. Would welcome your bow, if you’re willing.”

Allion looked to Marisha.

“I go with you,” she said.

“Not with that pup, you don’t,” the corporal noted sternly.

It wasn’t difficult to read Marisha’s thoughts. Allion had seen the child’s reaction to earlier attempts at separation. A harmless attachment, on the whole, given that most of Marisha’s time was spent within the mob’s interior, where those suffering physical ailments were gathered and treated. There, the
child could attend easily enough. But if Marisha remained shackled to the child, and Allion chained to her…

“We’d best stay here then,” he said, which he believed pleased the woman, though her mouth did nothing to show it. “To plug the gap you and your men leave behind.”

Gage nodded with curt understanding before swinging astride his mount. “Keep a sharp eye. Be back ’fore long.”

The squad rode off at a trot, doing its best not to raise any undue alarm. Heads turned, and a few murmurs arose, but, by and large, they slipped away without causing a stir.

The muddy field gave way to an apple orchard, its trees just now beginning to flower. Their fruit would have been much more welcome, Allion thought. Alas, the harvest season was yet months off, leaving them to settle for the delicate beauty of white petals tinged pink with fresh bloom.

“Allion, wait.”

He turned back to Marisha, and found the nameless boy who accompanied her anchored in his tracks. The child still gripped her hand tightly, but refused to be pulled forward. His wide eyes were fixed upon the nearest row of apple trees, his skin as pale as their blossoms.

“What is it?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “Is it the trees?” she asked the boy. He did not respond, though he began to shudder violently. Marisha looked upon Allion plaintively. “Perhaps we should go around.”

“Around?” The hunter scanned their surroundings. “Scouts say this is the swiftest cross to the southern road. We’re not going to reroute this flood on the fears of one small boy.”

Indeed, the river of refugees continued to flow past them as they stood there, filling the orchard’s lanes like rainwater down a boulder-strewn gulch.

“Perhaps we could find room in a litter or wagon,” she suggested. “One with a cover, so he won’t have to look upon whatever it is that frightens him.”

Allion frowned. “You know already what little room there is in those.” The wounded were being conveyed in those wagons and litters, along with the crippled and many of the elderly, who lacked the strength to keep pace otherwise. “Were it just the boy, perhaps, but he doesn’t seem willing to let you out of his sight—and I’m not willing to let you out of mine.”

“Perhaps he’ll let me carry him,” she said. She knelt and gripped the boy’s shoulders, seeking to draw his gaze.

The hunter would have offered the same, but suspected that neither Marisha nor the boy would allow it. So he waited patiently—as others strode past with nary a glance—while the healer brushed the child’s soft hair and whispered to him soothingly. After several moments, when he had seemed to calm, she hugged him close and hoisted him up into her arms.