The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (31 page)

“We met here to discuss
how
it would be done—holding out hope, of course, that your tidings would show us another way.”

And they did not
, Allion fumed helplessly. Looking back, their lives here had ended the moment Torin had unleashed this bane upon them. The Illysp
could be combated, but never defeated. His own experiences forced him to acknowledge it. This course was not chosen
by
them, but
for
them. All that remained was to plan the best means for carrying it out.

Thelin’s tone softened, as if the man sensed the despair he had caused. “I know not what chance we have of freeing everyone from this land and conducting them safely overseas. Nor can I predict the trials that await us if we are to succeed. What I know is this: For a sacrifice to have meaning, there must be those who benefit in result. It is too late for that to happen here.”

A chorus of grunts and nods from those assembled murmured in support of the king.

Once more, all Allion could think of was those pyres, and of the thousands of civilians who had doubtless been among the slain—those incapable of fighting, who had come here with the faith that they would not have to. Those whose final thoughts would have been that their trust had been misplaced. Such a sentiment would spread, infecting the living as well as the dead, and would be a morale-weakening disease which, when hope was everything, could destroy them all.

A crushing thought that only added to his own sense of defeat. Yet that was not what he saw in Thelin’s eyes. In Thelin’s eyes, and in the eyes of those seated around the table, he saw again that this
was
their fight. Clearly, they had wrestled with this for some time, to be so stern in their conviction. Who was he to tell such men they were wrong?

He thought again of Corathel, of what had likely been the general’s final stand there at Atharvan. If this was truly how their war against the Illysp had to play out, then he would find no better opportunity to emulate Corathel’s courage, Corathel’s selflessness…

And, in all likelihood, to meet Corathel’s end.

“We have but days, perhaps, before the Illychar are upon us,” he reminded them all, “and this exodus will take time.” He glanced at Marisha, then faced the king of Souaris squarely. “You’ll need a diversion.”

L
ARESSA SAT ALONE UPON HER
daughter’s favorite overlook, peering up at moon and stars on a rare, cloudless night. Lush foliage glistened around her, damp with misty spray from a ribbon waterfall that cut through a nearby cleft in the black mountain wall. Insects and nightbirds chirped and twittered, adding resonant layers to the steady thrum of cascading waters. An occasional soft breeze brushed her neck, her cheek, like a lover come to whisper in her ear. When she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine Eolin was there.

But Eolin was gone, and their child as well. She was truly alone again, in a way she hadn’t been for a very long time. Not since she was ten, when she had lost her mother, had she felt so forlorn. Her father had been unable to help her, unable to understand. His resentment toward the Finlorian people had blinded him to the fact that she was still very much one of them. A half-breed, yes, who had never lived among them. But her mother’s blood ran strong in her veins, and seeking to deny that part of her heritage had been like trying to hush a squalling child. There had been no way to truly silence it, not without destroying herself in the bargain.

Then Eolin had come, opening her eyes, teaching her to see herself and the world in a way she had never dreamed. Drawn to this new awakening, she had been prepared to sacrifice all else in its pursuit—her father, her husband, her human way of life.

Before long, she had been forced to do precisely that.

Yet she had never regretted her decision. If need be, she would make the same sacrifices all over again, mistakes and misunderstandings be damned. She had found greater happiness here, in two decades of hiding among her Finlorian brothers and sisters, than she ever could have in the world at large. While some spoke wistfully of their nation’s former majesty and of a divine right to reclaim it, Laressa saw little romance in the notion, craving none of the vindication or contentment such a resurgence might bring.

And yet, she could not refute those murmurs growing among her people that change was upon them. On a night such as this, the world seemed bright and beautiful, safe and serene. A mirage. For somewhere beyond the jagged rim of this thorn-shaped valley, her enemies hunted. Beyond the rivers and streams and fertile greenery prowled those who would take it from them. No matter her reassurances to herself and others, their safety had been compromised, the location of their home discovered by outsiders who now roamed free. It might be that the armies of her father—or any number of lesser hunters eager for sport—were already on their way, to finish the job Warrlun had begun.

A pale concern compared to the Illysp. The nightmares had relaxed somewhat since her daughter had set forth. Though Annleia herself had insisted upon it, allowing the child to depart in search of Torin’s trail had been the most difficult decision Laressa had ever agreed to, far more heart-wrenching than the one made so long ago that had seemed to tear her in two. With that sacrifice, she had done
something
, at least, to address the issue, and therefore ease her sense of guilt.

But it wasn’t enough. Though dulled, the nightmares—and the guilt—persisted. The
Demwei
continued to respect and obey her, but more and more, these guiding statesmen seemed to sense the dire secret she kept from them. Though they be leaders of her people, they were not Vandari, Laressa told herself in private justification. Had Eolin wished to share his knowledge of the Illysp with them, he would have done so long ago—or else permitted them and their priests to attend when he had finally shared that knowledge with her. That much of him, she decided, belonged to her and her daughter alone.

Besides, it mattered not
who
threatened, be it Lorre or the Illysp or both. What mattered was the threat itself, the fact that it existed at all.

Many of her people agreed. Why wait for an enemy to take form? They should leave Aefengaard now, lest any among Torin’s company return. Preparations were under way to do just that, to vanish into the caves and mountains before their only true exit was blocked. Laressa had not been so foolish as to suggest that there was no need for readiness. Her only goal had been to prevent a panic, to hold her husband’s people together, to remind them that blind action might well create perils where there were none.

After all, where were they to go? It had taken years, with the aid of the Tuthari, to find and settle this location. How could they hope to discover a similar haven on their own? And even if they were to do so, how could they be assured that their movements would not be spied, their tracks discovered, by those who hunted? Would it not be better to stay put and trust to the concealment that had served them so long and well?

But it hadn’t, as she of all her kin needed no reminder. She had already lost those most precious to her. If no enemies returned, and no more given cause to suffer, she herself would find little solace. A justice, perhaps, that Warrlun had taken from her all she had taken from him. As cold and cruel as the notion held by some of the Vandari, long since dead, that the Illysp were a punishment sent by the Ceilhigh in response to the Finlorians’ arrogance. Either way, the peace she had known and loved these past twenty years was shattered, aided in part by one she had trusted to preserve it. Such scars ran too deep to ever truly heal.

Despite the dwarf’s hand in her betrayal, she wished Crag were still here. She missed his strength, his blunt and steadfast nature. He might have known better how to handle the situation, to make a decision rather than dancing with ever-changing possibilities. If nothing else, she wished for the chance to tell him that she harbored no ill will against him. He had done nothing out of malice, having taken every precaution to uphold his vows and protect their
secrecy. And loath as she was to admit it, the dwarf had done right in bringing Torin to them. The fault for Eolin’s assassination lay as much with her as with anyone. Had she ever bothered to trust the Tuthari with the name of the husband she had spurned…

She shook her head. It was pointless to entertain such regrets. Doing so was of no help to her people. She hoped Crag was well, that he had found what he was searching for in terms of home and kin. But she herself had banished him, and she knew him well enough to realize that he would never again violate her wishes. As bad as she felt at how matters had ended between them, she understood that they could do no more for one another.

Her gaze slipped from the stars to the valley below. Like her thoughts, her eyes seemed to wander of their own accord. Try as she might, she could not maintain focus. But then, that was why she climbed every night to this overlook: to escape her cares and responsibilities, to let her senses roam wild amid nature’s inimitable majesties. It never truly worked, of course. Whether she was alone or in the presence of others, her worries were relentless. On most nights, the rains poured and the winds swirled about her, making the trails slick and the trek itself hazardous. Perhaps if she were to slip and fall, her concerns would find no further purchase.

A defeatist thought, and one that aroused shame within her. She was just so tired of being hunted. Were her life alone at stake, she would run no more, but lie in wait for whatever fate her callous creators held in store. What else was there to take from her?

A shadow passed overhead, drawing her attention from the smooth sea of night-cloaked treetops and back to the depthless expanse of the heavens above. A raptor of some sort, circling the mountains on its nightly hunt. There were flocks of them ordinarily, great solitary predators wheeling and diving and shrieking at one another as they battled for prey. Even—

She stopped herself, looking about the valley rim. Odd, that there should be only one. But she saw no other flashes of movement, and heard no cries of challenge. She listened, and realized that the night itself had grown quiet. The insects still chirped, but the chorus of birdsong had faded almost to silence. It was as if they had crawled back into their nests and hollows, else taken wing when she was not paying attention.

A cold shiver began to take root, tracing the edges of her spine with caterpillar legs. She searched the skies, but the raptor was gone, a mere speck beyond the tufted slopes come together at the valley’s northernmost edge. A fast-moving bird, to have covered such terrain so quickly, though perhaps it was only her angle that made it appear so.

Then it cut back, heading south. She wondered if it had seen her, though she dismissed the irrational thought almost at once. It would take one mighty large bird of prey to consider attacking…

She lost that thought, too, as it continued its southern approach, growing larger with each beat of her heart. Her own perch was upon a western ridge. But it had definitely spied
something
that had captured its interest. Its
path was much too direct. She looked forward along its course, and saw the Veil, that great curtain waterfall covering the cave mouth that served as the gateway to Aefengaard. Given the distance, she could scarcely hear its rumble, though the thin falls at her shoulder echoed shrilly now in her ears, like a song of shattered glass.

Then came a sound such as Laressa had never heard before, pealing throughout the heavens, raking stones from the heights. The earthen slab beneath her shook with its rumble. The trees below erupted with shadows, as those birds and animals she had believed to be hiding—and others that had been sleeping—beat at one another in their haste to find new shelter. With her heart twisting in her stomach, and her throat in her chest, she managed somehow to force her gaze skyward once more—

As a black shade fell from the heavens, screeching like a missile of hell-slung death.

T
HIS IS IT
,
T
HRAKKON THOUGHT,
euphoric, as the wind of their descent shrieked in his ear.
Our vengeance is upon us.

All night they had scouted, and throughout the long hours of the following day, flying sweeping patterns over the northern Dragontails and the forked ranges of Trollslay and Wyvern Spur. Somewhere between, in the untamed forest region known as the Splinterwood, lay the Finlorians’ hidden valley of Aefengaard. Torin’s memory, though riddled with holes, told him as much. In one of these wooded pockets of stone, their quarry waited.

Yet Torin had spent so much of his trek underground, in the blinding dark, that it was difficult to gauge
where
he might have exited. And this bird’s-eye view was so unlike the path he had taken. From this height, each mountain and valley looked much like the next, with little or nothing to distinguish it from those that crowded round. Thrakkon might have urged Killangrathor lower, giving them a better chance to peer through the forest canopy, but did not wish to give wind of their presence too soon. For all he had to go on, the Finlorians may as well have been fish hiding beneath an emerald sea.

So while he and his dragon searched with their eyes from above, Thrakkon had focused his thoughts inward, sifting again through Torin’s memories and renewing his assault on those that remained hidden. The effort was like searching a grassy field peppered with gopher holes of buried knowledge. Trouble was, there was no telling how deep a particular hole went, or what he might find at the bottom. Some useless name perhaps. A jest shared, or a slight received. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to it. Often, the secret treasure was further warded, like the brilliant mineral formation inside a stone egg, and chiseling through that outer shell was like digging anew.

There had been a festival of sorts that Torin had attended on his journey to the north. The bandit who had betrayed them in the mountains was there. A woman, a serving wench, had made eyes at him…

Thrakkon turned elsewhere.

Before that, a city whose name eluded him. A battle had been waged. He
could not recall its conclusion, only the bitter taste of defeat, and days thereafter in chains…

Another battle, this one in a dark and twisted wood. Prior to the other, Thrakkon believed, for he fought alone, against a swarm of trees come to life around him. Or had there been allies at his side? He could almost sense another presence, but could bring nothing about it into focus…

So it had gone, hour after hour, until the sun had been driven back into its own hole, and moon and stars had filled the sky like the embers from its fire. Still Thrakkon had found no marker or bearing in Torin’s memories, only meaningless fragments of a life gone by. He grew dejected. The Finlorians could have already moved on. They could be anywhere. At this pace, it might take weeks or months—

Then he had spied the waterfall, and a sudden pain twisted in his gut like the blade of a spear. Hunched forward against the ropes that bound him, he had gritted his teeth in ecstasy.
The Veil
, he recalled. A memory half hidden among those he had not yet been able to crack.
The curtain over the doorway to Aefengaard.

He had ordered the dragon to swing about at once, and flown down for a closer look. That was it. It had to be. From this vantage, the valley looked almost nothing like he remembered it. But the falls…

Then, Killangrathor’s roar, a layered bellow both deep and shrill that rattled the bones of those who clung to him.

The dragon had their scent.

They descended now in a dizzying rush, to strike the forest like a bolt of lightning from the cloudless dark. Down they plunged through its shadowed layers, tearing through trunks and boughs alike. Shattered tops and broken branches raked and stabbed at the dragon’s skin, only to snap or be turned aside. Enraged, Killangrathor swiped and clawed and beat his wings in a thrashing frenzy. Pressed tight against the dragon’s back, surrounded by pelting debris and a crackling thunder, Thrakkon felt as if he rode within the heart of a tornado.

It ended as abruptly as it had begun. Killangrathor’s feet struck the ground, sharpened toes digging trenches in the earth. From its crouched landing position, the dragon reared high, its movements swift and terrifying. A lash of its tail scattered a council of firs at its rear, while its head reached high upon its serpentine neck, roaring in challenge.