The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (42 page)

He peered down upon her face, where a monster’s mouth sucked madly in and out against the rough layers of shroud. He tried to envision the woman he had known: her gleaming eyes, her contented smile. He fought to remember the dreams he had once had, a longing for things that could never be. He leaned close, placing his left hand gently upon her brow.

And drove the dagger through her heart.

The woman bucked and writhed, screaming out against the coarse, suffocating wrap. Other Illychar within the cell took up the muffled cry. Torin closed his eyes and held her tight, twisting the blade like a key in a lock. Horror…pain…denial…they flapped and tore at him like a flock of angry scavengers, each claiming a piece in the race to devour his soul.

He laid her back when at last it was finished, opening his eyes to the stain of blood welling up around his dagger’s thrust. A choking rage assailed him. The blame was his to bear, yes, but Lorre’s as well. Had the overlord not kept her here, she would surely have returned to the Nest—she and Holly both—to their sisters of the Fenwood, far from the havoc he had wreaked upon this city. The debt for their lives had yet to be fully paid.

He whirled, caring not for those around him, caring not for the consequences that might befall this vicious, unjust world. Dyanne’s blood was upon Lorre’s blade, and only the warlord’s life could wipe that steel clean.

But as he came about, fully prepared to drive the dagger home, he found his own throat perched against the tip of the Crimson Sword, held firm in Lorre’s ready hand.

He heard someone gasp—Saena, he thought. He did not turn to see. His eyes locked with those of the warlord, muscles rigid with grief and fury. Through a glaze of unshed tears, he peered deep into those soulless orbs. It was like staring down a long, dark well to the shadowy reflection awaiting him at its bottom. Only now did he truly comprehend the emptiness within the man, the waging of war against a guilt and pain from which he would never be absolved. The drawn, tense moment gave Torin a studied glimpse of his own future.

Should he live to see it.

Lorre was the first to blink. He then lowered the Sword, laying it back along the length of his arm to present it by its hilt. “Your Dyanne lives.”

“What?” Torin rasped. He refused the proffered blade, not daring to believe.

“I had to make certain that all you’ve told me is true,” Lorre said, “that this quest to vanquish the Illysp is indeed the only hope for all.” When Torin still did not respond, he shook his arm and the Sword impatiently. “I had to know that you possess the resolve to carry out this mission—whatever that may entail—to its bitter end.”

Torin let his gaze slip, first to the blood-smeared dagger in his palm, then to the body on which it had been used. “This…this woman I killed—”

“Served me faithfully, and died too soon. These others, as well,” Lorre added, gesturing with his torch at those still struggling against their bonds.

“Were your death sufficient to buy back their lives, I would make the exchange and call it a bargain. Alas, I am no sorcerer, and must suffer the blind whims of fate.”

Torin let his eyes drift about the cell, embarrassed by a growing sense of relief. “Then Dyanne…and Holly…”

“Are among the celebrants outside, I’m sure. Saena should be able to help you find them.”

Once more, Torin shifted his attention to Lorre’s servant. Her pained look remained. Shame, he now supposed, at being a part of the warlord’s deception. And something more, some underlying sullenness, that he did not immediately recognize.

He did not have time to puzzle it through. His head was spinning, his heart beating too fast. A hot anger still burned within, deep beneath the cold shock of reprieve. As bitter as he felt toward Lorre, he was also grateful. He wasn’t sure if he should embrace the man, or take the Sword and use it to lop off the warlord’s head.

At last, his focus turned to the talisman itself. The Sword seemed to beckon him, drawing his beleaguered spirit into its comforting depths. He followed freely at first, but recalled all too quickly the pain he had inflicted, the sorrow he had harvested, when last he had held the blade in his fiendish hands.

“A weapon like this should belong to a warrior,” he uttered in due warning, “something I’ve never proven to be.”

“Until now, perhaps.” Lorre gritted his teeth in obvious frustration. “There are things I don’t understand, and others I’m no longer sure of. But I still trust my instincts. If the stories I’ve heard are any indication, you’ve achieved much already that others decry as impossible. Whatever your destiny,” he added, looking now at Annleia, “I am reluctant to stand in its way.”

Torin took a moment to gauge the Finlorian’s reaction, but found it impossible to interpret. With her grandfather similarly distracted, he reached for his blade, only to have Lorre draw it suddenly away.

“But know this,” the overlord concluded. “I’ll not spare you a third time.
Should you take up this weapon against me once more, of your or another’s accord, I will show you what hell is before ever you find the Abyss.”

Too late
, Torin thought, but settled for grasping the Sword as Lorre returned it to his reach. All at once, its familiar warmth shivered through his veins. The invigorating power could not allay his guilt, and yet he had come to depend upon it in so many other ways. By now, he knew well enough that he would never again feel truly alive without it.

Remembering Lorre’s dagger, he wiped its blade across his own tunic, then flipped it around and handed it back in the Sword’s place. “I’m sorry for your losses,” he said, and thought again of Laressa. “If I find a way for my life to buy back theirs, I’ll pay it gladly, and consider it a bargain.”

Useless words, poorly mimicked, yet Lorre grunted as if appreciative of the sentiment. “Good fortune, then, to the both of you.” He sheathed his dagger. “See to their provisions, Saena, if you would. I expect they’ll want to be on their way before I have the good sense to change my mind.”

He made it sound like farewell, brusque and hurried as it was. So be it. Torin was in no mood to consult the man further—to learn of his army’s status, inquire as to his plans, or even to advise him of the looming threat he surely faced from an army of Finlorian Illychar. For Torin, the most pressing concern was as it had been at this meeting’s inception. The rest of this madness could wait.

“My friends first,” he reminded Saena, as if any in the cell might have forgotten.

He shuffled toward her as Lorre turned away.

“What about you?” Annleia asked.

The warlord looked back, stern brow pinched in question.

“Will you not join the celebration?” his granddaughter asked him. “It is well earned.”

“
They
might disagree,” Lorre countered, gesturing at the roomful of bundled Illychar. “I have an army to rebuild, a city to repair, and a realm to defend. I have no time for trifles.”

Torin exited through the open cell door.

“I’ll remain with you, then,” Annleia blurted. She glanced back long enough to catch Torin’s look of surprise, then faced her grandfather again. “While Torin says his good-byes. If I may be of any help, that is.”

A trick of shadow perhaps, but, for the barest of moments, Lorre’s seamed face softened. “As you will,” he agreed.

Torin started down the hall then, brushing past the troll guards and leaving Saena to scurry in pursuit. Despite a wealth of assurances, he had yet to confirm the fates of Dyanne, Holly, and so many others abandoned to Lorre’s clutches. The power of the Sword dulled his pains and drove his step. He only hoped he wouldn’t have to use it to slay the proud, inscrutable warlord before this night was done.

T
HE LAST TIME HE HAD
left Lorre’s citadel to walk the roads and alleys of Neak-Thur, Torin had found it to be a ramshackle city teeming with sullen-eyed citizens and boorish soldiers. But that had been fresh off General Chamaar’s failed attempt to recapture the Wylddean capital, and within a fortnight of the overlord’s initial occupation. Now, it seemed, Southland commoners and Northland invaders were the dearest of friends, a people made one by their common victory. The tyrant had become the savior, his armies the shield that had sheltered them against the unimaginable. These inhabitants owed their lives to Lorre and his troops, and had spilled forth in droves to proclaim their gratitude.

Torin made his way among them with nervous anticipation, casting guarded glances against any who might recognize him. The chances were remote, Saena had assured him. The battle’s focus—and that of the people—was upon the dragon. Despite the occasional rumor, few knew—or had cause to believe—the various accounts of the outlander king and his Sword of Asahiel having led the attack.

They had taken a few simple precautions, just in case, stopping by an armory to pick out a scabbard for the Sword, and the heavy cloak that Torin now wore. Beneath its thick, musty folds, Torin kept his hand at all times upon his weapon’s hilt, both as a salve against his wounds, and to alert him of any danger.

Stealing about like some cutpurse was almost enough to give him pause. So anxious was he to reunite with Dyanne and others he hoped would be here that he had scarcely considered what their reactions might be. The more he thought about it, the more he fretted. What cause would they have to welcome him? What reason to be pleased by his return? Most, he had barely known. Even those he had once fought beside were not what he might call friends—particularly when he had tried more recently to send so many of them to their graves.

But those concerns did no more than put a hitch in his stride. A terrible risk, he knew, especially in regard to Dyanne. For so long now, she had been his only strength, her memory all that had kept him going. Should she reject or ignore him, should she dismiss him out of hand, he wasn’t sure what new source he might draw upon. So be it. If only he were to see her again, he would suffer any unforeseen consequences gladly.

His focus just now was on finding her at all. “Are you sure you know where we’re going?”

Saena’s pout deepened. She had scarcely opened her mouth since accompanying him from the dungeons. Granted, he had done little enough to encourage conversation, but when had that ever stopped her before?

“I was told that she’d gone to the bonfire,” the woman replied.

“
Which
bonfire? There is one in every plaza that we pass.”

And at every corner, and in the streets, surrounded by revelers of every shape and persuasion. Around them, flocks of squealing children chased one another with borrowed brands, delighting at the way the flames whipped in the wind. Other youths acted out the roles of soldiers and monsters, with one pack even come together in a knotted pyramid to play the part of the dragon. For the moment, at least, long-standing prejudices had been forgotten. Here a man bought drinks for a band of orcs; there a drunken woman planted kisses upon a disinterested troll sentry. Everywhere Torin looked, mobs had spilled forth from homes and taverns to raise cheers and share tankards and dance with one another in unbridled merriment.

“The heart of the festival is beyond the city wall, upon the field of battle,” Saena said, shouting to be heard above the thunderous press. “You’ll see.”

If we can reach it
, Torin thought, pushing through a crowd gathered tight around a puppeteer’s stage. Viewers groaned and hissed at him to clear the way, but he paid their complaints no mind. The parks and squares and roadways ahead were crammed with vendor stalls, whose owners hawked charms and trinkets and food for the masses. There were singers and tumblers and jugglers and fortune-tellers and body artists woven among them, each promising thrills no other could offer, and clogging the way for all. Torin was left to forge his path where he could.

“Dragon tooth, sir?” a cloaked codger asked him, sidling up close.

The man looked and smelled like something a rat might haul from a gutter, and Torin shied away reflexively.

“What have you got there?” Saena asked.

Torin tried to pull her along, but the peddler came between them, opening his cloak to reveal a cache of loops and pockets sewn into the lining. Tucked or slung within were a variety of blackened bone shards.

“From the beast hisself. Teeth, claws, powder of scale—”

“Ground down with what?” Torin snorted. “And those ‘teeth’ of yours are not half as thick as some of the dragon’s smallest spines.”

It was one of the few topics he
had
thought to ask his guide about, back when they were rummaging about the armory: what had become of Killangrathor’s remains. Saena had quietly explained that, despite all attempts, the dead beast had proven impervious to fire. But with Torin’s blade in hand, Lorre himself had led an effort to butcher the dragon and chop its bones up into so many artifacts and trinkets, to be sold and distributed as wards, charms, trophies, medicines, and more. A brigade of giants had helped, though they had dulled, chipped, or shattered scores of mauls, axe heads, and saw blades in the process. The task had taken more than two full days, and many of the
resulting pieces were the size of boulders and trees. Yet there was little risk of the creature ever rising again.

The peddler offered a conspiratorial smile. “Rumor has made the beast larger and more fearsome than it really was, you see. These are genuine relics, sold to me by a friend who worked the crews what handled—”

“Either your friend was a liar, or you are,” Saena snapped. “His Lordship established a special council of guildsmen to see to the allocation of all dragon artifacts.”

She made to brush past, but the peddler followed. “Guildsmen make coin where they can,” he sighed regretfully. “A few morsels on the side, you understand, to escape the overlord’s tax. A savings to you, hmm? How about it, sir? A necklace for your sweet that none other shall have. Else this here powder, for a paste that will keep her skin forever young.”

Torin glared at the other’s persistence, while, beside him, Saena flushed.

“Leave us,” she insisted, “before I have you arrested.”

At last the charlatan bowed and melted back into the throng.

Moments later, the outer gates to the city finally came into view. Torin groaned inwardly at the sight of so many crammed together in that outer courtyard and in the curving corridor beyond, penned in like sheep. Many were not even moving, but stood bleating in place, making it difficult for those who
were
trying to pass by to enjoy any progress. City watchmen were doing their best to keep the hordes in motion, but, by the looks of it, their efforts were meeting with only marginal success.

“The festivities are liable to end before we make it through this,” Torin grumbled, searching for the moon amid the high stone walls and a cloud-smothered sky.

“Must you see them tonight?” Saena asked, as if to agree. “Chances are we’ll be able to catch them on the morrow, before you set out.”

Torin kept his complaints to himself after that, and focused on carving as swift a path as he could through the swarm.

His worries proved grossly unfounded, as their escape did not take half as long as he’d feared. Once beyond the confines of the curtain wall, a sudden change swept over him. It came upon the roar of music and laughter, underscored by that of the sea. It came upon the air, moist with mist and thick with the threat of rain. It came as stifling smells gave way to strong, salty wind gusts. While Saena drew her cloak tighter about her shoulders, Torin drew a deep, invigorating breath, savoring these and other sensations that rushed to greet him. He could almost taste them in the air—Dynara and her Fenwa clan, Chamaar and his wedge commanders, Arn and Gavrin and all of the many rogues whose company he had shared. His imagination, surely, nothing more than the aroma of the vegetation, the flavor and caress of the ocean air. But to Torin, the living aura of those encountered here was a palpable entity, a magic borne upon the wind. He had dreamt of it often enough to sense it readily; infused with its strength, he reflexively quickened his pace.

He knew, without asking, where they were headed. Several hundred paces to the west, beyond the milling heads of a vast multitude, a tower of fire raked and clawed at the heavens, built upon a temple of logs. That was where the throngs had gathered. That was where Dyanne and the others might be found.

He made the mistake, then, of glancing to the north, to the ruined hulk of the Bastion. Even from a distance, he espied the clefts in that great wall, and the rubble yet to be swept away from its base. A lump came to his throat, and he turned his head in disgrace. It never should have happened. He never should have left. He should have been here to
defend
this people, not lead the assault
against
them.

But that was a child’s reasoning. He had done what was asked of him in fulfilling his task and returning to the land of his birth. His own desires had been irrelevant.

Except, if he had followed his heart rather than Darinor’s demands, would not both lands, this one and Pentania, be better off?

He looked again to the Bastion’s forbidding silhouette.
Done is done.
Should the time come to atone for his failures, this image would be among those that gave him the courage he would surely need.

“This way,” Saena urged.

Torin did not bother to question her. Though dismayed by the numbers amassed before him, he had begun to trust in the atmosphere around him. Regardless of his past, and in spite of his shadowy future, he could not deny the exhilaration spawned by this…this culmination of his fervent longing. It fostered in him the sense that anything was possible—an energy that lent strength to the power of his dreams.

The press thickened as they neared the back of a gallery erected upon a set of risers. Tumblers danced upon a stage below, performing daring aerial maneuvers that drew gasps of awe and delight from the crowds. The bonfire raged in backdrop. Torin saw now that it was built on dragon bones, cross-laid in the shape of a giant pyramid. The bones themselves did not burn, but provided a framework for the driftwood stacked high upon its ledges. One could not come within twenty paces, so intense was the heat. Beyond this no-man’s-land, however, hundreds—if not thousands—surged and writhed, wrestling for a better view of events, or else engaged in drinking, dancing, and other festive pursuits.

“His Lordship’s lieutenants will be in the gallery,” Saena shouted in his ear, while trying to worm in that direction.

Torin nodded distractedly. It was difficult to fathom the Dyanne and Holly
he
knew pledging themselves to Lorre in any fashion. Then again, Annleia
had
made mention of them wishing to keep a close eye on the warlord’s conquest strategies. What better way to do that than as members of his inner circle?

As they neared the front of the gallery, they passed an area cordoned off for entertainers preparing to take their turn onstage. Torin peeked inside a few of the tents and pavilions as he passed, seeing mummers, minstrels, per
forming animals, and more. Musk and perfumes cloyed the air; already, Torin could feel their sickly sweet taste in the back of his throat.

Before he realized it, he had lost step with Saena. He found her several paces ahead, looking up at the shadowed rows of the gallery from the lowermost tier. Searching for Dyanne, he supposed. He had begun to push past those come between them, muttering apologies, when his cloaked eye brushed against a familiar face.

He froze, turning his head at once. The woman stared back at him, bright black eyes pinched with suspicion.

“Torin?”

“Holly,” was all he could think to say, gaping in shock.

Too late, he considered that it might not be wise to reveal himself so openly. His first clue was the throwing knife that appeared in Holly’s hand.

But his gaze did not linger on the ready blade. For in the next instant, there she was, behind Holly, emerging with a pack of strangers from a curtained hollow beneath the gallery. From out of his imagination, straight from a dream, it seemed, bearing that infectious, heart-crippling grin.

The grin slipped when she turned from the others to find him standing there. A gasp of surprise escaped her lips. “Torin.”

“Dyanne,” he greeted, before his breath caught in his throat. She appeared precisely as he remembered her, as if immune to the time and distance—to the shadowy veils of death itself—that had come between them. Her tunic and breeches were of silk and leather, as smooth and supple as the flesh they covered. Her hair hung long and unbound. Wide with shock, her maple eyes gleamed.

The Nymph took note of Holly’s aggressive stance. She slid to her kinmate’s side, hand resting lightly on the pommel of her rapier. “We saw you on your deathbed,” she said.

It pleased him that she would have bothered. He showed them his empty palms, then reached up slowly to lower his hood. “Necanicum dubbed me immortal, remember?”

A poor jape. Neither woman matched his meager smile.

“It’s you, then?” Holly piped in that child’s voice of hers. Her own eyes glittered warily. “Where is your elven girl? What are you doing out here?”

“She’s with Lorre. I left them to find you.”

Holly cocked her head. “Left them. Alive, or dead?”

“Stop!” Saena cried, rushing up to stand between them.

Torin glanced around, but the outburst—and the face-off that had prompted it—had gone virtually unnoticed. He turned his eyes back to Dyanne.

“I see you’ve found one another, then,” Saena remarked.

Holly uncoiled slightly. “The elf’s witchcraft actually worked?”

Dyanne laid a hand upon her kinmate’s shoulder. Her gaze held Torin’s captive. “You might as easily have been one of
them
,” she explained in Holly’s defense.