The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (49 page)

Yet his sense of guilt persisted. Annleia had suffered in this, as well. She might not know the truth concerning her mother, but she had learned just days ago that her people had been brutally attacked, slain, scattered. Hers had already suffered a calamity she was working now to help others avoid—and she was doing so without any of his self-indulgent brooding. A kinder man might be doing more to comfort and strengthen
her
.

Events at Neak-Thur had left him disoriented; he had gained and then lost
so much. But he need look no farther than his current companion to find his focus. He was alive for one reason: to atone for the pain he had unleashed upon this world. He could tie his head in knots trying to guess how, exactly. He could puzzle over Necanicum’s actions, and wonder at what else she may have known. He could bemoan Dyanne’s feelings for Jaik and imagine how their lives might have been different…

Or he could follow Annleia’s lead and seek to clear his heart and mind as much as possible, summoning his courage and putting aside all else of lesser import. If it was madness she feared, she had reason to do so. For within the shadow of the next coastal twilight, he was to confront the physical eminence of a banished god.

C
ORATHEL’S MOUNT REARED, SNORTING AND
flailing at the pack of reavers converging against him. The creatures came ahead anyway, Parthan once, but no longer. With feral shrieks and lust in their eyes, brandishing clubs and staves, mauls and axes, they bore down upon a man who for years had battled to keep them safe—as if to punish him for failing to do so.

The chief general drew his dagger. He could not yet wield his sword with any strength or skill. His wounds from Leaven were still too fresh. It hurt to ride, to breathe. He searched the dust-filled clangor around him, questioning his decision now to leave his guard regiment behind…wondering how these reavers had managed to penetrate so deep, so fast…thinking it might not be too late to turn and flee…

Then they were upon him.

Again his horse reared, its ironshod hooves connecting this time with the head of his lead assailant. Bone crunched and caved, and the human reaver crumpled. Another aimed its polearm at the horse’s heart. Without thinking, Corathel whipped his dagger end over end, impaling the reaver through its throat.

A third jabbed at him with wooden spear. Unarmed, the general leaned forward, then back, then swept his cloak around the shaft, entangling its thrust. He fought to wrestle the weapon away, but its wielder was too strong, and threatened to pull him from his mount. While he was thus occupied, a foe’s maul struck a glancing blow at his back, an axe swing just missed his thrashing steed’s neck, and the reaver with his dagger in its throat reentered the fray, sputtering blood with every hiss and grunt.

When the elves came bounding in, Corathel knew he was finished…until first one of the human Illychar fell, followed swiftly by another. All of a sudden, the spear hung lightly in his hand, weighted only by an arm—severed at the elbow—that still held fast. He worked swiftly to unwrap the twisted folds of his cloak, knock the appendage away, and bring the weapon’s fire-hardened tip to bear, but, by then, the last of his attackers lay upon the ground, swarmed over by a trio of Mookla’ayans whose knuckle-fanning blades rose and fell beneath a spray of blood.

To one side, Owl presented him his discarded dagger, the stain of its victim already wiped clean.

Corathel nodded his gratitude as he sheathed the weapon, then turned yet again as an ominous rider drew up beside him.

“I see now why you keep them around,” Rogun said through his visor. His
black, bristling bulk, there amid the shouts and screams and choking cloud of dust, gave him the appearance of some monstrous fiend of the Abyss. “Your horse bleeds,” he added.

Corathel looked. Rogun’s devil of a steed sniffed at the wound as if drawn to its smell. A long gash along its foreleg, though it did not appear terribly deep.

“Who among us doesn’t?” the chief general countered. Rogun, it seemed. The Alsonian general’s armor bore plenty of nicks and scrapes, but did not appear to have been pierced or bludgeoned in any notable fashion. When finished looking the other over, he asked, “How fares the advance?”

“Your foot has assumed the main thrust. Your cavalry and mine ward the flanks now, while leading staggered sorties to puncture any phalanx seeking to form up against us. By and large, the enemy continues to engage us in blind, headlong countercharge. Mere vermin, these ones. Thus far, the battle is a rout.”

The chief general bit his tongue at the word “vermin,” knowing that Rogun made reference to their foes’ lack of soldiering capabilities, and intended no slight against the Parthan people. At least, he
hoped
that to be the other’s meaning. When Commander Zain, riding beside his general, flashed his ever-present smirk, Corathel became much less certain.

“Catching your breath, then, are you?”

“Just plugged the breach that led to your little melee,” Rogun answered.

“Saw the straits you were in and came back to lend a sword. Your vine-skins beat us to it.”

“Sir!” a voice hailed, and Corporal Darros, commander of the squad charged with the chief general’s protection, came spurring forward at the head of his unit. The corporal bulled near with drawn blade, interposing himself between Corathel and Rogun. He gave the latter a long, stern look. “Sir, shall we return to your command position?”

The chief general had left them to secure it, while riding down to redirect a reserve company that had turned south instead of east. He might have sent a runner, but hadn’t had the time to express the order in relay, and wanted to make certain that this time, the company commander received the proper orders. As it was, the endangered flank had crumpled too soon, and much more severely than Corathel had anticipated. Thankfully, Owl had not been far behind, and Rogun had seen and responded to the danger, else matters might have grown truly ugly.

“The front is in good hands, General,” Rogun assured him. “Perhaps you should indeed return to the safety of your ridge.”

Corathel glared. There was a note of condescension in the other’s voice, he believed, but without seeing the man’s face, he could not know for sure. Either way, the worst of his aches and pains stemmed from serving an observer’s role when, in an offensive such as this, he should have been leading the charge.

But Rogun, Darros, Jasyn, Maltyk, Lar—all of them were right. It made no sense for him to be in the thick of the press when he could scarcely hold his
weapon. Nor did he wish to risk the lives of Owl and his few remaining elves unnecessarily, and he knew that where he went, they would follow.

“The legion has made steady progress,” he agreed, pointedly assigning credit to his own lieutenants and those they led. Rogun’s riders were swiftly proving invaluable, yes, but he wasn’t ready to give Commander Zain and his smug smile the satisfaction. For all the ground their troops had gained, the enemy had yet to break before them. Perhaps, when the day was won, he would grant them their due.

“But the task is not yet done,” Rogun finished for him. “Not by half. If the general and his guard would pardon us, my riders and I shall see what we can do about that.”

With that, Rogun tipped his helm in salute, then wheeled his charger about and set off for the front lines.

Corathel very nearly followed, but ground his teeth and resisted the urge.
The battle goes well
, he reminded himself. With fortune’s favor, his legion’s remnants would not stop until reaching the Kuurian troops holding the southern blockade, eradicating this enemy force. So long as final victory was theirs, he cared not who claimed glory in the end.

He turned at last in the opposite direction. His personal guard—both Mookla’ayan and Parthan—ringed him protectively. Soldiers hailed and saluted as he rode past, and he did his best to nod and grin and bellow encouragement to all. Whether leading from the front or commanding from the rear, he had their respect, which in turn fueled his own determination. The reaver swarm was thick and relentless. Hours of brutal conflict lay ahead. But he would not fail this people as he had at Atharvan. He would see their stolen bodies reclaimed, their enslaved souls laid to rest.

It was all he could hope to achieve. Half his land’s populace traveled south even now, looking to board whatever vessels they could and set sail for foreign lands. The other half marched westward with the same goal. Fortune, it seemed, had already deserted them.

This day, if this day only, would belong to them.

“A
SLAUGHTER PIT, IF YOU’RE
asking me,” Crag muttered.

That it was. Even from this distant, bird’s-eye vantage, Htomah could hear the cries, smell the blood, and taste the horror of those who struggled within the pass below. Though smoke and dust soiled the air, neither could mask the chaos and brutality of his human flock waging war against its own.

Beside him, Hreidmar nodded. “And where are the rest?” the Hrothgari king wondered aloud. “Where are the Eldrakkar, the greater Gorgathar and Sahndamar? I see only men.”

“There must be other battles, as well,” Htomah allowed, glancing at Quinlan.

“Then how do we know this is ours?” Hreidmar asked.

His people’s moment of choice had come. They had left their halls within the shadow-earth, yes. They had trekked day and night for more than a week
across a land that most could scarcely recognize. But this was the true turning point, the moment in which the Hrothgari would reveal themselves to the larger world after centuries of isolation, else shy away and seek another path. Were they to elect the former, as Htomah intended, there would be no turning back.

“The plan was to deliver your people to Kuuria,” Htomah reminded him, “to join in the human defense. Would you turn about now, while standing upon the threshold?”

“We could go around,” Crag pointed out. “We needn’t force our way through the middle of this bloodbath.”

Ungar Warder Thromb, serving as primary commander in the absence of Warder General Vashen, agreed. “The
drumguir
appear to have the advantage already,” he observed, speaking primarily to his king. His term for the non-Illychar humans had no direct translation from Gohran to Entian, but Htomah approximated it to mean
flat-skinned giantlings
. “To join them here and now would pose unnecessary risk, Your Glory.”

“Their advantage would be that much greater,” Htomah said, “with your army’s aid.”

“Perhaps we should wait,” suggested Ungar Warder Thayre, another of Hreidmar’s military advisors. “We see the battle, but do not yet know its flow.”

“Every moment you wait brings death to those you would claim as allies,” Htomah maintained. His tone was calm, yet firm. “And each fallen ally makes for another enemy you must face.”

“Allies,” Hreidmar mused. “I wonder, will they recognize us as such?” His question did not seem to be directed at any of his counselors, but toward the gusting breezes there upon the mountain ledge.

Thromb grunted. “More likely they will think us skatchykem ourselves, Your Glory, given that none of them has seen a dwarf in his lifetime.”

“Else they may recognize the truth, yet dub us cretins and savages and despise us anyway,” Crag huffed. Meeting Htomah’s frown, he added, “I’ve seen it before.”

“And knew it to be a danger before setting out,” Htomah reminded the Tuthari.

He turned from Crag to look upon the others. He could not fault them their hesitation. Dealings with humans were what had led to this people’s self-imposed exile to begin with. The fear that their appearance here might only spark a three-way war between human, Illychar, and dwarf could not be categorically dismissed. But the cost of inaction, at this juncture, was too great to ignore.

“Your Glory, loyal advisors, these perils did not sprout with the rising of the sun, but are risks you undertook in search of a greater dream. The chance you seek, it is here before you. These men are not the same barbarians who drove you and your forebears underground centuries ago. They are, as you, fighting now for their very existence. Take this opportunity to prove yourselves as friends. Demonstrate your noble intent, and you will find yourselves
welcome. I must believe that.
You
must believe that. Elsewise, there is no cause for hope.”

Those who regarded him did so with only doubt and suspicion mirrored in their eyes. Hreidmar himself never turned. Gnarled fingers combed through his striped beard, fondling the jewels nested therein. Winds whistled amid the bare, craggy stone, snapping at Htomah’s robes. A vulture screamed overhead.

“Mayhap you would be so good as to serve as envoy,” the king suggested, rounding at last. “You and yours at least look the part of friend, and are more likely to meet with kind reception. Mayhap you can explain to them our desire for common strength and fellowship, and…”

He trailed off as Htomah looked again at Quinlan and then shook his head. “This is as far as I and my kind are permitted to go. We have taken our own risks in coming this far. To step any farther would guarantee for us a dire consequence.”

Thromb scowled. “You ask the same of us, do you not?”

“A significant reward awaits you,” Htomah said, “should you overcome the intervening challenge. The choice for us is not so well balanced. Our natural place is amid the shadows. We have little to offer and less to gain by stepping fully into the light, yet stand to forfeit all that we are should we do so. We dare not make that sacrifice”—
if we have not already
, he thought—“for what small difference we might make as soldiers here.”

“You mean to leave us, then?” Crag asked, glowering.

“We mean to observe the battle,” Htomah clarified, “but will not intervene unless we must. My brothers and I will reconsider our own path once we are certain that yours is settled.” Perhaps they would seek to return home and beg apology of their order. Perhaps they would call upon its members to engage in further, more direct action. He could not know until he had witnessed the results of this initial effort.

“I begin to understand why your own people bear you such little faith and tolerance,” Hreidmar said. His tone was not unkind, but the way he turned his back on the pair of Entients left little doubt as to his frustration.

“If we
were
to strike,” Thromb hazarded, “the most effective course would be to drive a wedge straight into the enemy flank. Grind them down, as planned, and we would then find ourselves trapped between drumguir forces north and south. If the old man is wrong…”

He left the rest unsaid, giving Htomah another opportunity to interject. The Entient declined to do so. He had given his opinion. The ultimate decision had to be theirs.

Their advance company watched in silence for a time, as streaks of clouds scraped past the sun. In the valley behind them, through a long, narrow draw, the Hrothgari army awaited its orders. Among its stout warriors, the young and the elderly were left to ponder what their fate might be. Jedua and Wislome stood with them, lending what guidance and assurances they could. Htomah hoped that they were doing a better job than he.

“That charge is losing strength,” Crag noted.

So it was, and had been for some time. Whereas surprise had given the northern force momentum in its southerly attack, the Illychar clogging the floor of the pass refused to flee. Even if they had wished to do so, they had nowhere to run, save into the wall of spears and earthworks at the southern end, or up into the slopes and cliffs hemming them in on either side. They were cornered, and lashed back at their assailants as if they knew it. The longer the battle wore on, the more fatigue would play a factor against those who were subject to it. As with any fight against Illychar, this one had to end quickly if there was any hope of it ending well.