The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (44 page)

“That would be wise,” Torin agreed in reflex, to which both Jaik and Dyanne regarded him questioningly. “The Illychar will come again,” he explained. He spoke mostly to Dyanne, not knowing how much she had shared with Jaik. “Elves, from the Splinterwood. Some five thousand, I’d say, at the least. Lorre would do well to reinforce his people to the north, and hold out for as long as possible.”

“Five thousand is not all that many,” Jaik mused.

“Perhaps not. Perhaps Lorre will be able to destroy them all. But it is unlikely to end there. With the Illysp, it may be that no corpse upon these shores is safe.”

He should have told Lorre as much already. He likely would have, had he not been so angry and flustered at being tricked into “killing” Dyanne. Perhaps Annleia was relaying news of the slaughter at Aefengaard even now, and what it meant to have all of those Illysp and Illychar on the loose. But Torin felt now that he had to make certain
someone
knew, just in case.

“What happened?” Holly interjected. “I thought you went home to
end
this threat. Instead, you bring it back to us?”

“I failed.” He thought to tell them more, to relay how, exactly, but ended up only shaking his head. “Annleia…she says there may still be hope. If there is any truth to her belief…” He swallowed, peering beyond the fire, out upon the black stain of the ocean, picturing this city, this land, this people, beneath its churning, icy cold embrace. He then turned to Dyanne, vowing, “I will not falter again.”

“Then let us celebrate,” Jaik proposed. He signaled to one of the passing servers, calling for wine. Coins were exchanged for a flagon and any cups on hand. Men in the row offered to share theirs for a draft, and Jaik heartily complied. “A toast,” he said, when the last had been poured. “To lessons learned, friends reclaimed, and to our common strength in the battle ahead.”

The cheers went up, and a surrounding knot of men and women who knew nothing of the horrors being privately discussed quaffed their drinks in merry salute. Torin took a polite sip from Holly’s cup, still trying to sort through the chaos of his feelings.

Not long after, the string of performances concluded and the dancing began. The gallery all but emptied, captains and commanders and others of rank and influence within Lorre’s newest city heading down to join the
common masses upon the stage and the surrounding grounds. This included Jaik, who invited Torin to join him and his fellows. With Dyanne looking on, Torin was not about to refuse.

They settled upon the crowd’s fringe, listening to the roar of the blaze that crackled amid Killangrathor’s remains, and to the uproarious shouts of those who danced within its eerie mix of shadow and light. By then, it had become painfully evident that his comrades had gotten along in their lives just fine, and needed no rescuing. For hours, it seemed, he listened to them trade comments on matters of little import and lesser consequence. They spoke of songs and drinks and dances. They spoke of places they might like to see, and old friends they might like to visit. Jaik wanted to see the so-called Nest from which Dyanne and Holly hailed. Dyanne only smiled and allowed that perhaps one day he would.

Try as he might, Torin could not bring himself to feel cheated by their relationship. He’d had his chance, after all, and had failed to take advantage of it. Having known all along that she was more than he could possibly deserve, why had he allowed himself to dream otherwise?

Besides, Jaik remained far too disarming to suffer his enmity. As envious as Torin felt, as willing in that moment to trade lives, he could not fault the man for having taken notice of Dyanne’s charms, or for having the courage to tell her so.

“Dance with me,” Holly demanded at one point. He obliged her, of course, if only to remain near Dyanne and Jaik, who had already risen to do the same. There, upon the well-trampled grounds, he silently observed the woman he loved as she swayed gracefully within Jaik’s arms. The ache in his chest deepened while watching her stare upward at her partner, devouring him with her priceless orbs, gazing upon his features with a rapture typically reserved for a god.

“Strange, isn’t it,” Holly said.

Torin glanced at his own partner, to find her looking at the pair as well. He cleared his throat. “You tell me. Is it odd having someone come between the two of you?”

“I only want her to be happy.”

“And is she?”

Holly took a moment to consider. “As content as I’ve ever seen.”

The remainder of the evening passed in a haze of music and laughter and frivolity that enveloped Torin without ever fully reaching him inside. Now and then, the couples danced, but for the most part kept to the fringe and conversed with one another while watching others come and go. Dyanne never asked for the rest of his story. Perhaps she was not as interested as she had claimed. Else perhaps she understood the inherent horror, and sensed his reluctance to relive it. When asked what his plans were, he told her only that his travels had not yet ended, that he would be forced to resume them on the morrow.

His intense disappointment continued to be tempered by the thrill of
simply sharing her company again. Each time he risked a glance in her direction, he found another image to savor. Each time she smiled, whether at him or another, he grew warm with contentment.

He was enjoying one such moment when Bardik came upon them, smelling of ale and holding a woman in each arm. The commander let go of the pair in order to hug Torin in front of all, offering a hearty smile and a welcome return.
No more drink for this one
, Torin thought, abashed by the exchange.

But there were others as well, rogues-become-soldiers whose names and faces Torin had forgotten, but who had not forgotten his. Each extended the same companionable welcome offered by Jaik and Bardik. After a while, Torin was given to marvel at this spirit of undeserved fellowship. Though some may not have known of his role in the recent battle, many others clearly did. It was naught but the glee of victory, he determined, that caused them to embrace him so. None could be so forgiving otherwise.

He grew to appreciate it nonetheless. He enjoyed the fact that to these people, he was merely
Torin
, not some title to be unduly praised or endlessly prevailed upon. Small gestures, and meaningless, but they helped him to feel more comfortable, more secure in his own skin.

More at home.

When his companions grew weary, he accompanied them back to the city. The hour was late, and many had already retired to their beds, so the return trek passed almost too swiftly. Upon reaching Lorre’s citadel, where Jaik was barracked and where Dyanne and Holly kept chambers, a guardsman informed Torin that his own chambers were waiting, with a letter of instruction from His Lordship and his granddaughter, and a small inventory awaiting his inspection.

Jaik was the first to bid him a peaceful rest and safe journey, shaking Torin’s hand and urging him to return when he could. Holly followed, offering her impish grin and a nod of farewell.

Dyanne went last. With the fullness of life shimmering in her eyes, she reached out and clasped him briefly just below the shoulder. “Don’t leave without saying good-bye.”

“I won’t,” he promised, exhilarated by her touch. She then slipped down an open hall along with her comrades, leaving him in that outer courtyard as a rain began to pour.

A
LLION’S EYES WERE CLOSED, BUT
the darkness afforded him no comfort. The tumult raged in his ears, a cacophony of screams and moans, of grating steel and whistling bowstrings. The fires, fed incessantly, spat and crackled. The stench of smoke and pitch and corpses had formed a crust in his nostrils and a putrid taste upon his tongue.

The taste of war.

“Enough,” Marisha scolded. His lids snapped open to find her standing over him, backlit by the orange glow of the forward blazes—their black breath an ugly smear against the evening sky. “You’re exhausted. Why won’t you go and rest?”

“For the same reason you won’t,” he said, his throat raw.

It seemed pointless to try. Even when he did manage to sleep, the combat raged in his dreams. Ghosts danced before his mind’s eye, twisted shadows entangled in a web of bloodshed. Dark weapons protruded from these churning silhouettes like misshapen appendages, waved about as part of some macabre display. Figures fell, but countless others joined the fray, ensuring that the dance would continue. Ceaseless, immortal, the maelstrom was without end.

“You’re of no use to anyone like this,” she pressed, then looked down and glared. “I see you’re not using the guard I gave you.”

He followed her gaze, to where a throbbing in his hand matched the pulsing in his head. His fingers were caked with blood, stuck to where they rested against his muddy breeches. The repeated use of his bowstring had long since cut through skin and callus, leaving the flesh blistered almost beyond recognition.

“My aim suffers if—”

“Your aim will suffer a great deal more when you’ve naught but knuckles to draw with.”

“We’ve had this conversation before,” he reminded her.

“Too many times,” she agreed. “So where is that guard?”

Allion motioned vaguely. “I gave it to one of the others. Tevarian, I believe his name was. His rotation is sleeping.”

“
Your
rotation,” she pointed out. “Yet here you—”

“First reserve! Form up! West flank!”

Allion leapt to his feet, propelled by instinct. Marisha, thankfully, did not try to stop him, but ducked aside behind the barricade. Amid a scramble of his fellow reserves, the hunter dashed to his left, peering over the boulder wall to the black wave of Illychar that had broken through the front lines of
infantry, charged through the fire walls, and was now bearing down upon their position.

“Alight!” the crier shouted, echoing the orders of the commander on duty.

Allion swiped a pitch-coated arrow from the nearest barrel, and nocked it to his bowstring. The Illychar were closing fast, but he waited for the torch-bearers to run down the line, igniting one arrow after another until his turn had come.

“Draw!”

He grimaced as the cord cut into the ruined flesh of his fingers. Clenching his teeth, he trained his eye upon the mass of enemies that had closed already to within thirty paces.

“Loose!”

He released his flaming missile and reached for another, listening to the chorus of shrill whispers that marked the first volley’s flight. He looked back as the flesh-piercing rain was descending. He could not see the faces of those who yelped and contorted as the bolts struck home. Perhaps that was for the best.

A few of the more gravely wounded seemed to hesitate, as if wondering whether they should press onward or return to the madness from whence they had strayed. Humans, Allion decided, men and women, part of the swarm that had descended upon them two days ago.
From Atharvan
, he recalled, and cringed at the sound of their screams.

But that did not stop him from loosing another arrow, and another, until finally the charge had been broken and the infantry had swarmed in from behind to seal the breach.

He lingered until the order was given to stand down, and he and his fellow reserves were dismissed. Even then, he was slow to depart, mesmerized by the thrashings of those he had helped to slay. Though gruesome, the sight of a dying Illychar never grew stale; even now, his stomach twisted with a kind of fascinated revulsion.

“Come,” Marisha said, appearing suddenly at his elbow.

It was worse when seeing them up close. He had done so, more than once. You had to peer deep, past the unspeakable bloodlust, but it was there, in their eyes: the torment of an enslaved soul. It was the same pain he’d seen in Darinor’s eyes on the night the renegade Entient had saved him and Marisha from the goblin Illychar…though he hadn’t recognized the truth of it at the time.

At last he lowered his bow, and allowed Marisha to lead him away by the arm. The healer never strayed far from his side, nor he from hers. She suffered with him the perils of combat, while he suffered with her the after-horrors of injury and gore. All a consequence of their continuing pact to face whatever end together.

Back along the wall they moved—one of a staggered series of bulwarks raised by the Kuurian force over the past few days. Theirs was a defensive
stand, as drawn up from the outset. With King Thelin and the bulk of the Imperial Army leading the land’s refugees south to Wingport, Allion and Marisha had joined High Commander Troy and a force of twelve thousand in marching north to blockade the Gaperon against a gathering tide of Illychar, in hopes of guarding the civilian retreat. They had arrived with barely enough time to erect their walls, dig their trenches, and establish their infantry lines and rotations, skirmishing even then with an increasing number of foes trickling south through the mountain pass. By the time those early preparations had been completed, a horde of some thirty thousand commoners slain at Atharvan had descended upon the army’s position.

And his nightmare had begun.

Day and night they battled, utilizing a system of rotation to keep the men fresh—which made the disparity in numbers even worse. They had brought mobile ballistae, though, along with wagonloads of ammunition. They had close to a thousand arrows for every bow, and fletchers labored continuously to make more. The Illychar, though relentless, were poorly shielded, and ill equipped to weather such a storm. Provisions were plentiful. With any luck, they might hold out for weeks.

Which we must
, Allion thought grimly, if Thelin’s desperate plan was to have any chance of success.

The hunter kept his head low, squinting as a coarse breeze of grit and ash and cinders raked his eyes. A river of oily black smoke followed. All about, the fires continued to writhe and belch, scorching his throat and poisoning his lungs. Soot darkened his skin and his already shadowed hopes. Difficult to control, those blazes, given the swirling of the winds here within the pass. But they were a necessary part of the defense, helping to funnel the Illychar somewhat, and to destroy those who fell. Most of the time, however, they were less a blessing and more a curse.

When the singeing cloud had passed, he let his gaze slip to the north, scanning the slopes to make sure that none of their positions had been compromised. Marisha pulled on his arm.

“No more,” she said. “We’ll go together.”

She drew him southward, away from the worst of it. She was taking him to rest, he knew, though this time he made no effort to resist. It was his regiment’s turn to do so, after all, as she had reminded him. And she was right: He badly needed it. If only true rest could be found. But the battle would follow. A man could not work himself into such a frenzy and expect to simply wind down for an evening nap. The sounds, the smells, the horrid and unforgettable images would remain, permeating his soul, turning him gradually into something less than human.

He’d found it better to remain awake, with mental wards set consciously in place. And as long as he was awake, he preferred to be of some use. Troy and his Souari lieutenants knew better than he how to stage a force for long-term, all-hours combat. Yet, from what the hunter could tell, the time never came in which additional hands were not needed.

For one task or another
, he thought, as he caught eye of a team of sappers laboring to dig yet another trench. Their position to the south was secure, but was being fortified in advance for when the battalions gave way. While Troy had no delusions about pressing forward, he meant to scratch and claw for every pace of ground his troops must surrender. The longer they stayed within the Gaperon, the better, as the mountains rising on either side made it much easier to keep the enemy bottled up. Once they were pushed back upon the plain…

He might have hoped it would never come to that. After all, they had not surrendered a single barricade since their arrival. Against a force already three times the size of their own, superior arms and superior tactics had enabled them to hold their entrenched position.

But the decision had already been made, the exodus begun. Thus, he could take no hope in any success they enjoyed here. Amid all the clangor and bloodshed and smoke and sweat and sleeplessness, the worst was knowing that theirs had already been deemed a lost cause.

“Do you suppose Nevik has had any luck in convincing Rogun to evacuate Krynwall?” Marisha asked him.

Allion could only speculate. They’d had no word from the north, and no scout or messenger was going to break through this clog of enemies. As of now, the Illychar were not so numerous as anyone had anticipated; clearly, the swarms that had sacked Atharvan had found battle elsewhere. While good news for the peoples in the south, what might this mean for their beleaguered neighbors to the north? Had they barred the gate on their own friends?

He certainly hoped that Rogun had the sense to listen, and to lead his countrymen west before the Illychar engulfed them. Allion’s family was still at Krynwall: his parents, his brothers and sisters, the friends who had survived the massacre at Diln, and those he’d made after his move to the city. He wondered constantly if they were even still alive. He supposed they must wonder the same about him.

“Either way,” he replied at last, “they won’t have a shield like ours. Their fortunes and ours seem to be on opposite ends of a pendulum’s swing.”

Marisha gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “You mustn’t lose heart.”

The suggestion rankled him. “Simple as breath for some,” he muttered. “Not so easy for the rest of us.”

“Meaning?” she asked, letting go of his arm.

“You challenge others incessantly to find their strength. Seems sometimes you forget the truth of your own.”

Marisha halted, grown suddenly cold beside him. Her hand moved reflexively toward the Pendant, hidden safely against her breast. “It’s yours to wear, if you wish. It has brought me as much grief as joy.”

“Spare me,” Allion snorted. He wasn’t certain why he was unleashing upon her like this, but it was too late to back away now. “Such grief as you may have felt, you brought upon yourself.”

“Oh? And how is that?”

“It couldn’t be some mere heirloom, could it? It had to mean something more. It had to
make
you something, something special, and you just had to know what that might be.”

“Stop this.”

“A princess, perhaps. Or a sorceress.”

“I’m telling you to stop.”

“Well, you know now, don’t you? And you were right. You’re not like the rest of us. You’re more than I or any of these others can ever be. And if we perish, you’ll find a way to endure, won’t you? Just like you always have.”

Her eyes were red. Her lip quivered. She looked as if she was about to cry.

Instead, she slapped him.

“There are things in this world we must bear,” she snapped. “But I will not bear this. Not from you.
Whatever
I am, I did not ask for it. Nor should it make any difference.” A tear
did
fall, then, and seemed to make her angrier. “Should you wish to give rein to this…this sulking weakness, well then, so be it. Make your excuses. Take the beaten road. And let me know what sort of happiness you find when you get to its end.”

With that, she stomped away from him, making not for the tent they shared, but for the infirmary grounds, to see to those in need of her care.

Allion considered going after her, but only for a moment. Though he regretted the way he had spilled them, those words had needed to be said. They were too different, no matter how badly they tried to pretend. Better for both that he stop chasing someone whose pace he would never be able to match.

Fueled by his frustration, he turned about and marched north.

It had been cruel of him to mock the dreams she must have had as a girl. He’d had dreams of his own, when he was small. Growing up, he had listened like so many others to the legends of heroes, and craved the many glories reaped of their noble wars. Were anyone to ask him now, he might claim there was no such thing.

But it was too late to matter. Right or wrong, Thelin was headed south, in search of a new destiny. Right or wrong, Allion had asked for the opportunity to guard the king’s back. A lost cause, it might seem, but
that
was his purpose here. He could not save the world, as he may have aspired to as a boy. He could not mend every hurt and soothe every suffering, as Marisha seemed determined to do even today. But if he could make even this one, small difference, he would consider it enough for his own brief, mortal legacy.

Settling in among his fellow bowmen, the hunter closed his eyes, shutting out the world while waiting for the next call to arms.

“T
OO MANY,”
C
ORATHEL DETERMINED, PEERING
through his overworked spyglass at the rear ranks of the Illychar swarm choking the mountain pass.

With moon and stars clouded over by those billowing smoke plumes, a precise count was impossible. But judging by the size of that tightly packed enemy horde, the number—whatever it might be—was greater than their own.

“For our divisions, perhaps,” Jasyn allowed. “Throw in our civilians, and we ought to run them over easily.”

“Not without heavy casualty,” the chief general argued, though he was indeed tempted by the thought. “Less than a third are even armed.”

“Let them throw rocks. We’re more than four
hundred
, all told. The enemy is…what, forty?”