The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (27 page)

He had to be careful, for he could feel the Illysp gnawing at these precious recollections as it had the rest, seeking to expose and devour Torin’s most esteemed secrets. His ongoing thoughts were clearly his own, else the demon would surely have discovered his memories of her by now. But each time he dug these treasures out of hiding, to admire them in the light of his current mind, he feared the Illysp might catch him unawares, and steal them away for itself.

He only wished they could be put to some better use. As a salve for the things he had done, there was no peer. But salves were used only to dull pain, not heal the wounds that had caused it, or to stymie further attack.

Without them, however, his thoughts were a roiling tempest that threatened to consume him. His emotions were like lightning without thunder—powerful, violent urges for which there was no physical release. Grief, guilt, horror, hatred—his constant companions as his Illysp counterpart, the one dubbed Itz lar Thrakkon, controlled his every action.

People—allies—were dying by his hand. The land of his childhood was aswarm with Illychar, and Torin, who should have perished while fighting among his kin, had instead become their greatest enemy, delivering one of their mightiest cities in one swift stroke. Like a hunter killing only for sport, he had then left the spoils to rot. A blessing, perhaps, though it felt like another curse, that he would not even be there to see the struggles of his friends played out.

Of wounds, there was no end.

Nor was it finished. The Illysp within might not know of Dyanne. It might lack the names and faces of others he had met, and of places visited while traversing this land. But it knew of his time among the people of ancient Finloria. It would have some idea of where they might be found.
I have a taste for Finlorian flesh
, he had heard himself utter, following his assault on the palace at Atharvan.

He knew well enough what he had come here to do.

Once over land, Killangrathor sharpened his descent. The line of the Dragontail Mountains grew larger. Many of the peaks were still topped with snow. All wore skirts of emerald, soggy from the incessant rains. Strapped behind him among the spines of the dragon’s back, his small army of goblins tensed with fiendish anticipation. Recruited from a swarm being used to guard the mountain pathways to Thrak-Symbos, they and the countless Illysp clinging invisibly to their minds—and his—would be all they needed to spread the spores of this plague across this land. Itz lar Thrakkon had painted a vivid picture with his words before setting out. And Torin had listened in mute denial while speaking every one of them.

For more than a week now, those words had haunted him, tearing at him like the winds of their passage. If only those winds had ripped him from his perch and cast him into the seas below—maybe into the gullet of that ocean-bound monstrosity that had surged up like a rabid dog straining against its leash. It had made only the one appearance, however, and Torin had soon surrendered any hope that it might bring an end to his travails.

After that, as he marked each day by the rise and descent of the sun at his shoulder, he had given to pray that his own relentless pace might do him in. But he had come to understand well enough the fruitlessness of that. He went without water, without food, without rest, yet felt his flesh toughening, tightening, bones and muscles and skin strengthened by their continuing ordeal—like meat dried by the sun. Raking winds and freezing temperatures
did not affect him. The harder his Illysp counterpart pressed him, the harder and more resilient he grew.

If he was to perish before he caused any further suffering, it would not be for lack of his body’s care.

Which left him as before—helpless, tormented, as reviled by himself as by any others who might curse his name. How had he allowed this to happen? Why did he allow it to persist?

For he remained convinced that the power was his to relieve himself of the bestial spirit taken root within. He had spent his entire life believing that almost anything was attainable. Given the desire, and a willingness to sacrifice, no obstacle was too great to overcome. So which did he lack? Why could he not find the way?

A man of stronger will would be able to do so. A man of stronger will would have told Dyanne how he felt about her. As insignificant as they must have been to her, it seemed he could recall every moment of their time together. Even the smallest traits and gestures had been branded upon his memory: the swish of her hair, the purity of her laughter, the soft gleam of her maple eyes.

This particular scene was his favorite—when, after their flight from Necanicum’s poisoned woods, Dyanne had dressed his wound and offered her little dance, her playful smile, and a kindhearted jape. In that moment, harmless enchantment had given way to helpless fascination. Ever since, his heart had belonged to her, and woven through all else that he meant to achieve was his yearning to catch her eye as she had caught his, and to share with her his feelings of limitless devotion.

Despite plenty of opportunities to do so, however, his courage had failed him. He had told himself that he was only being true to Marisha. He had told himself that whatever his feelings, they were of little consequence when matched against the urgency of his quest. True enough, but excuses nonetheless. It was cowardice that had ruled him, leaving his emotions painfully concealed.

Ever since, he had dreamed of this, his return. The chance to relive his past and to rectify the error of his ways. To confess his feelings, risks be damned. Could the disappointment of being spurned be any worse than the misery of wondering what might have been?

And yet, it was much too late for that. It might seem otherwise in the rapture of this moment, of seeing and tasting and feeling again whatever magic graced these shores. But the opportunity he had lost could never be reclaimed. He had no delusions as to what would happen were he to ever be reunited with Dyanne. Itz lar Thrakkon would recognize her, his feelings for her would be revealed, and the Illysp would kill her if only to revel in Torin’s suffering.

As close as he had come to realizing his dreams, he could come no closer.

So he took his comfort where he could, hiding within his memories, relishing his return to a land he had feared abandoned forever, picturing the words he would say to Dyanne should he ever see her again.

While praying, for her sake, that he never would.

T
HE GATES OF THE
B
ASTION
were opened wide, though she found few enough lined before them to make the passing. The soldiers and inspectors milling about beneath the great stone arch far outnumbered those with business in the southern lands. Given the word of those she’d encountered upon the road, most were merchants and suppliers summoned by Lorre himself to help repair and provide for his new city and the army that occupied it.

A city by the sea
, Annleia thought, the crone’s words a haunting echo amid the soft rumble of crashing waves.

She still wasn’t certain she had made the right decision. So much was based on intuition and a wild woman’s prophecy. But the phial was real enough. If she believed in one, she dare not disregard the other.

Yet nearly a week had passed since Necanicum had met her in those northern woods. And the more she rehearsed that account, the less likely it seemed—and the less capable she felt of accomplishing her task. Worse, that task all but demanded she take actions here that might jeopardize her mission going forward, should the wild woman or her prophecy prove false.

And with the fate of her people—the fate of the world—resting on her every movement.

“The gates ain’t coming to us, lass,” the old man prodded gently.

Annleia turned from where her gaze had settled upon the mist-shrouded coastline to the west. A gap had widened between her and the looming gatehouse, the last stretch of road between her and the Bastion. The tail of the preceding caravan stood now beneath its shadow, while those behind her, no doubt hoping to gain entry into Neak-Thur before sunset, were eyeing her and the open space with varying degrees of confusion and irritation.

“Your pardon,” she begged, smiling in apology at the aged scrivener whose name she had already forgotten. He had come upon her no more than ten minutes past, greeting her kindly and inquiring politely as to her business.
To visit with family
, she had replied, before turning that and other questions back on him. Though it had been difficult to concentrate on his responses, it had seemed the easiest way to dodge any further inquiries.

She stepped forward, sandaled feet scraping upon the graveled mud, keeping clear of the deeper puddles and sinkholes. Her blood itched in warning. This was her last chance to turn about. Her breathing quickened, and her legs grew heavy. Her gaze swept the battlement above, its patrolling bowmen and ready armaments. Again she heard Necanicum’s rasping voice.
Upon the wall she fought…

Then a clerk motioned, and the guardsman at the head of the line nodded her on. She felt his eyes clinging to her as she passed, but paid him no mind. Stiff and uncertain, she managed nevertheless to approach the row of small folding tables set roadside beneath a tattered gray canvas, which offered moderate protection from the evening rain. All the while, her gaze fixed upon the looming gatehouse, counting the spears beneath its arch and lingering upon the iron teeth of the raised portcullis.

The clerk to whom she’d been assigned finished scribbling in his register and blew upon the parchment.

“Name and origin,” he prompted, dipping his quill.

Annleia glanced sidelong at the others, and summoned her courage. “I seek a man by the name of Torin.”

The clerk glanced up in annoyance, though the expression melted somewhat as he studied her. He was a grizzled thing, much older than most of his fellow clerks, with a tail of gray hair and a gaze that, while not unkind, brooked no foolishness.

“That would be your business, which I ain’t asked for yet.”

“Can you tell me when last he came this way?”

The clerk snorted. “Well, let’s see,” he said, making a cursory scan of his register. “Not today, by the look of it. But then, mine ain’t the only quill at work. You like, I can call a carriage. You and I can visit the master of census, take a long, hard look at the logs. Maybe dine afterward at His Lordship’s table on truffles and fresh roast and spun sugar. That be to your liking?”

“I see no cause for mockery.”

“Nor do I have time for yours. The Southland has its fill of rogues and vagabonds, and there are plenty of good folks still waiting behind you. So why don’t we move this along, hmm? You can try your charms on the
city
clerks, and I can get on home before my missus feeds my dinner to the hounds.”

“Is there perchance a watch commander I can speak with?” she asked, looking around.

“Look, lass, my job is simple: Ask questions, and make note of your responses in this here ledger. If you don’t like it, the road travels both ways.”

“A watch commander, if you please.”

The clerk slapped down his quill in disgust. “Very well. If that’s how you wish to play it.” He raised an ink-stained hand, and a pair of laughing guardsmen approached.

“Problem?” one of them asked, while the other continued to chuckle.

“Lass can’t decide if she’s coming or going,” the clerk grumbled, gesturing irritably.

Annleia lowered her hood, shaking back her tangled tresses. “Is one of you the watch commander?”

“Denron,” the taller one said, eyes running down her body as if to strip her of her sodden cloak. “This here is Broyle.” The eyes came back to hers, and the soldier straightened. “How might we be of service?”

“I’ve come in search of a man whose name you all know. But this poor clerk cannot recall it. Perhaps you can.”

Denron grinned. “Should it please you, I’ll do my best. What’s the lucky lad’s name?”

“Torin.”

“Torin, eh? I got me a cousin by that name.”

“I’ll make it my own,” Broyle offered, “for but a moment’s favor.”

The pair snickered. Annleia smiled thinly. “My noble sirs are too kind. But this Torin wields a Crimson Sword.”

“Crimson, gold—I’ll paint it any color you’d like,” Broyle said.

Denron rapped him in the chest, full of mock chivalry while suppressing his own laugh. “That’s enough, Broyle. After all, it ain’t every day we have maidens fair come from the country hoping for a glimpse of the outlander king. Or was it more than a glimpse you be wanting?”

“Is he still here?” she asked. For a moment, she even gave herself to hope.

“There, see? That’s how they all act. Would that someone should spread rumor as to make such a legend of me,” Denron told his companion mournfully. “Especially when we know it ain’t the color, but size that makes the sword.” His hand rested proudly on the hilt of his weapon.

“And a soldier’s skill in wielding it,” Broyle added.

“So soothes your sister when you catch her look of grave disappointment.”

“Had your mother squealing readily enough.”

The clerk bristled. “You see, lass? There’s your choice. Either put yourself in the hands of these clods, or let me make note of your name, origin, and dealings—so that you can go about them unfettered.”

“Most generous offers, all around,” Annleia replied. “But I fear my name and dealings are of a private nature. I’ve come in search of Torin of Alson. In his absence, I would have a word with Lorre.”

That set the guardsmen to howling. “His Lordship, it is now?” Denron asked, while Annleia looked around at the many stares she was beginning to attract. The soldier made an act of clearing his throat, and spoke in a deep tone. “‘Beg pardon, Your Lordship, but we have this nameless waif come from the uncharted north, who seeks your company. What’s that you say? Send her in? As it please Your Lordship.’”

Broyle roared, and Denron gleamed with pride at his own foolery. Even the stolid clerk was shaking his head with a helpless grin.

“Come, lass,” Denron went on, taking note of the other guardsmen beginning to flock toward them. “You’ve gone and caused a stir. Let’s continue this elsewhere, shall we?” His gloved hand took hold of her arm.

“Unhand me, sir.” Her fist tightened upon her wellstone, giving her words the crack of a whip. Startled, Denron let go. “Should you wish to have further use of it—and it sounds as if you have myriad need—you will not touch me again.”

Another chorus of laughter, only, this time, Denron bore its brunt. “Careful,” someone shouted, “that filly’s wild.” Another added, “Give a holler if you need help breaking her in.” The soldier weathered their hoots and their taunts, though his beardless cheeks reddened, and his smile now seemed forced.

“It don’t have to get ugly, lass. Ain’t no one saying you can’t trot right back the way you came. But the Southland ain’t without law any longer. You choose to pass through these gates, you can do so quietly at my side, else kicking and shrieking, dragged through the mud by those pretty gold locks.”

“Quiet would suit me just fine, sir. But unless you mean to escort me to those I’ve come to see, then my search continues for one who shall.” Her gaze captured his, and it seemed he was rendered mute. So she turned away and started past, toward the gatehouse and the line of gathered soldiers. “Is anyone here brave enough to deliver me to your overlord?”

While the gate soldiers blinked or laughed, Denron managed finally to respond. “All right, enough play—”

“What goes on here?” a new voice demanded. She sensed Denron freezing in place, while the rest of the guardsmen split ranks to make way for a horse and rider who pushed in among them from the mouth of the Bastion.

The newcomer’s frown vanished as he caught sight of her, standing there in the rain at the edge of the clerks’ pavilion, surrounded by guardsmen and the curious stares of at least another score of onlookers. The sheepish smile that played upon his lips gave him an almost boyish quality, as did the nervous hand that reach up to brush at a tousled mop of muddy curls. His eyes, however, shone with anything but innocence.

“Just a lass what seems to have lost her way, Commander,” Denron replied. “Thought it’d be fun to make trouble for the registrars.”

“The sort of trouble that requires the attention of an entire brigade?” the commander asked, eyeing her warily. “She don’t look it from where I sit.” His horse gave a snort.

“She threatened Denron, sir,” Broyle offered. “And started making demands upon His Lordship.”

Murmurs and sniggers passed through the assembly.

“You men, to work,” the commander snapped. “Get this rabble moving.” The guardsmen were slow to obey, breaking apart only reluctantly, and keeping their eyes and ears upon the exchange. The commander did not seem to notice, his focus upon the pair still flanking her. “Denron draws threats like the honeysuckle draws bees. I see no reason for that to stop traffic through my gate. What is her complaint, exactly?”

“I seek a man named Torin,” Annleia replied, and watched the young commander stiffen in recognition. “Or one who can tell me where I might find him.”

“And who makes this inquiry?”

“A friend.”

“I see. Well,
friend
, despite what tales you may have heard, the Torin
I’ll wager you speak of does not dwell among us. Nor anywhere upon these shores, by common reckoning.”

“Then I’m afraid your good soldiers are right, and I shall have to visit with your overlord.”

The commander smirked, as amused as his underlings at the very notion. “The overlord is a busy man. And
I’m
afraid any such petition must bear with it a name.”

Annleia stared until his smirk lost its strength. Her response was soft, yet forceful. “My name would mean nothing. But send notice that the child of Laressa has come to see him. Tell him his
granddaughter
would have a word.”

“H
IS
L
ORDSHIP HAS NO FAMILY
that most are aware of,” the commander observed, as he led her along a quiet section of the battlement.

Annleia would never have guessed it, given the reaction of this Commander Bardik and his men. After a moment of stunned silence, the soldiers listening in had ducked their heads and hastened on about their work. There had been no more wanton eyes, no more bawdy jests. The commander had looked for a moment as if he might challenge her further, but decided, under the circumstances, that he would be pleased to escort her to the city himself. He’d offered her his name and rank, and ordered Denron and Broyle to return to their posts. Before going, Denron had begged her pardon for any offense he may have caused.

“Doubtless, my grandfather has many secrets that he has not entrusted to those who serve him,” she replied, eyes forward upon their stone-laid path.

Bardik accepted that without argument, step by step beside her. They passed a pair of patrolling sentries, split to look out over parapets north and south. The pair nodded at their commander, casual in their salute. Bardik responded in kind.

When those had been left behind, and it was naught but the two of them again amid the rain-and windswept battlement, the commander offered quietly, “You don’t look like an elf.”

Annleia felt herself stiffen, though she did not let it interrupt her stride. How much did this one know? She forced herself to laugh. “And why would I?”

She did not look at him, but could feel him regarding her in silent contemplation. “I’ve spoken with a pair of Torin’s companions who traveled north with him from Neak-Thur,” the commander confided. “The story they tell is…remarkable.”

“Is it?” she replied offhandedly. “Well then, I shall want to have a word with them, also.” Would that she had known earlier. She might have started there and left Lorre out of this—at least a while longer.

At the same time, she supposed that a meeting with the overlord was unavoidable. Not only for the reasons demanded of her, but for reasons personal to who and what she was. Quest aside, she wanted, needed, to face this tyrant about whom she had heard so much and yet knew so little.

“I fought alongside him, you know,” Bardik prodded after another silence.

“My grandfather?”

“Torin. Here, at Neak-Thur, in the battle
against
His Lordship’s occupation.”

“A man of uncertain loyalties, are you?”

“One might see it that way. In this world, a man does what he must to survive. But then, sometimes we resist things we don’t understand. Later, we’re left to rue our own ignorance, and wonder how much easier it might have been had we only been more accepting.”