The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (54 page)

“Good of you to join us, General,” Allion replied. “How fares Nevik?”

Rogun stepped near, a bristling hulk in his suit of spiked steel. His face was streaked with sweat, his armor spattered with blood and grime. Ribbons of flesh, clumps of hair—even a smashed and severed finger—had been trapped in its bladed ridges.

“The baron’s message was received, if General Corathel has not yet told you. He leads Alson’s remaining populace westward to Gammelost and any other port they may find.” The Alsonian general seated himself beside a pair of dwarves, who quickly made room. “What
have
I missed?”

“Rogun, is it?” Troy interjected. “A man of reputation.”

“And every word of it true, I suspect.” The general snorted. “Yours are the colors of Souaris. Commander Troy, could it be?”

Troy nodded, then offered his hand. “It appears I must thank you for coming to our aid.”

“A small part, my contingent played,” Rogun said. Braces scraped as he grasped and then quickly released Troy’s forearm. “Save your thanks for the brave fools of Partha. And you, fair liege,” he added, turning to salute Hreidmar. “I would call your arrival blessed, were it not known that whatever gods may be have long since forsaken us.”

“Scant difference our coming has made,” Hreidmar remarked, nodding stiffly. “We venture forth to defend this roach nest, only to learn that the roaches have already fled.”

“It’s what men do best,” Rogun granted, “scurry from place to place, seeking shelter and comfort to be won with the least amount of struggle. Water?” he asked, eyeing a nearby skin.

Hreidmar nodded, and the skin was passed. Rogun unstoppered it, sniffed twice, then took a deep swig.

“Would you stay and fight?” the Hrothgari king asked.

The general wiped his mouth. “For what spoils these lands can offer? No.”

“But they are yours.”

“And were another’s before my forebears took them. Is that not so?” He quaffed another mouthful. “Field and river and forest mean little enough to me. It is the
people
I’m sworn to defend, and my people have decided to flee. I’ll not force any to remain against their will.”

“If they were to reconsider,” Hreidmar pressed, “if they were to stand strong, might they win? Your counterparts tell me no. They would urge my kind to desert alongside yours.”

Allion stiffened as Rogun looked upon him with a sneer. The general
would make them out to be cowards, all three. His own fear, Allion would not deny, but Corathel and Troy had earned better.

“I say only that I have fought two battles against these creatures, and won them both,” the general said finally. “I know not what greater strength they have in store, but these are proud men seated before you, whose courage I’ll not question. They’d not allow their people to seek peace and prosperity elsewhere, I think, if they held any reasonable chance of providing it.”

Allion could only look on in wonder as Rogun finished draining the waterskin. The general had not exactly supported their assessment, only claimed them qualified enough to make it. Yet even that small concession was more than the hunter would have anticipated.

“And what do
you
seek, General,” Hreidmar questioned, “if not peace and prosperity?”

Rogun tossed the empty skin back to its dwarven owner. “Most fight for what they may find when the warring is done.” His countenance hardened. “For the rest of us, battle is its own reward.”

A prolonged quiet ensued, while Rogun and Hreidmar faced one another and the commotion of the battlefield cleansing continued.

“General Corathel,” the Hrothgari king grumbled at last, “how long before this dire host is upon us?”

“They’ve fallen behind range of my outriders,” Corathel admitted. “I do not yet understand what has captured their attention. It may be that—”

“A diversion, sent by my people. If all goes to plan, they will reach this ground in four, five days. Your suggestion?”

“To finish burning our dead, refortify our position, and make sure that any who would find peace fly south as swiftly as possible.”

“Commander Troy?”

“Those are the orders I’ve been given. If possible, we are to initiate a gradual fallback to join the exodus, once word is received that the majority are away. I confess, I do not expect to set eyes upon the sea.”

“Allion?”

The hunter was somewhat startled at his inclusion, more so given Troy’s blunt appraisal. “I…What of your kin? Back home, I mean. Wherever that is. Can they evacuate in time?”

“It seems we must soon find out. General Rogun?”

“And what of U’uyen?” Allion barreled on. “And
his
kin? Are they to fend for themselves?” He glanced back at where his Powaii friend stood, a silent sentinel amid the mountain’s shadows. The sounds from the battlefield were his only answer.

“I’ve made my position clear,” Rogun replied. “The choice to fight or flee is an individual one. Might just be that those of us who stay will prove victorious, and will then have these lands to ourselves—to share with the cannibals, it seems.”

If intended as a jape, no one—not even Rogun himself—laughed.

One of the dwarves sitting nearest Hreidmar mumbled something at his king.

“Ah, yes,” Hreidmar replied, “can any of you tell me, is the enemy still in possession of a Sword of Asahiel?”

Allion looked to Corathel, then to Rogun, both of whom seemed to be pinning this one on
him
.

“I was warned we may have to face one of these legendary blades,” Hreidmar continued. “Was that a lie?”

Allion found his tongue, though the forming words unleashed a foul taste. “Its bearer flew off upon a dragon. To my knowledge, neither weapon nor monster has been sighted since.”

The king’s eyes widened. “A dragon? Killangrathor?” His dwarven pack murmured, while Hreidmar himself glanced up at the mountain pass from which his army had poured. “No mention was made to us of
that
.”

“With any luck,” Allion added bitterly, “they’ve been lost or destroyed.”

“Luck?” Rogun echoed. “In that case, it is too much to hope.”

“The prevailing opinion, it seems.” Hreidmar shook his head. “I have heard enough for now. I thank you for your counsel, but must ask for time to confer with my own.” Again, he glanced at the pass above, causing Allion to wonder what might be up there. “Are there any of you we missed?”

The generals glanced at one another. “We represent the surviving nations of these shores,” Corathel answered. “Unless there are others like yourself we’re unaware of.”

The Hrothgari king grunted. “None that can redirect this tide, it seems.” His sour gaze drifted once more to the eastern heights. “But let us speak again later.”

“I
HAVE THEM,”
R
ANUNCULUS ANNOUNCED.

Maventhrowe cocked his head, but did not turn. He sat at the edge of the natural stone bridge that spanned his favorite subterranean grotto. A school of silverthorn had gathered, groping blindly for the bits of food the white-haired Entient was feeding them in that lightless cavern. “They are close, are they not?”

“Here, within the mountains. Not two days hence.”

“Returning, perhaps?”

Ranunculus snorted, stepping forward to the edge of the bridge. “Hardly. They created an earthshield, to conceal a portion of the Hrothgari.”

“Ah, is that what I felt.” It sounded like a statement. “Have the Hrothgari placed themselves in danger, then?”

“Their army joined the humans in battle in the Gaperon.”

Maventhrowe sighed. “While Htomah and his followers shielded the gentler folk from scouting eyes.”

“Yes.”

Had they not done so, Ranunculus might still be searching. An Entient
might hide himself from scrying, but could still be viewed while in the presence of another. Ranunculus had first caught up with the renegade Htomah in the halls of Ungarveld. Once his former brother had convinced Quinlan, Jedua, and Wislome to join him, however, the four had fashioned a web thick enough to hide not only themselves, but any with whom they might come in contact.

For a time, he had traced the signature of their expended power westward across the Parthan plains. Yet he had sensed all along that something was not right. Eventually, he had been able to bring the truth into focus. The use of power there was residual only, fueled not by their continued efforts, but by the labor of a team of Hrothgari. And while Ranunculus had been chasing that rabbit, Htomah’s renegade faction—and the rest of the Hrothgari nation, it seemed—had slipped away beneath their impenetrable shroud.

That shroud, however, had been ripped to shreds with the expense of power required to build and maintain the earthshield. In sheltering the Hrothgari so, the fools had lit a beacon so bright that Ranunculus had scarcely needed the scrying chamber to pinpoint their exact location.

A pair of silverthorn reached a singular piece of food at the same time. Each slapped furiously at the other to claim it, sending ripples throughout the slow-moving stream.

“The Hrothgari will follow the humans south,” Ranunculus predicted, as the struggle broke off and Maventhrowe’s silence persisted. “It has become their only choice.”

“An unfortunate one,” Maventhrowe declared. “Thelin is about to reach a dead end. Those who join him will find the enemy at their backs, with nowhere to run.”

Ranunculus clenched his jaw. One folly after another—on their part, as well as those they watched over. Perhaps they deserved to lose these lands to the Illysp.

“Summon our brethren,” Maventhrowe said. “Those who remain to us on the council. We must prepare to set forth. The time has come to settle this rift in our order once and for all.”

“Let them go,” Ranunculus argued, speaking of Htomah and his faction.

“We have wasted too much focus on them already.” He was not even sure why Maventhrowe had charged him with keeping eye on their movements in the first place. They had been forewarned. Let them pay the agreed-upon price.

But Maventhrowe shook his head. “They have gone too far.” He turned his head at last, sapphire gaze aglow. “I believe I understand now what Ravar intends.”

Ranunculus failed to mask his surprise. “And?”

“And we cannot deal with Him until we have dealt first with our own. Htomah’s games must end. You and I and the others, we must attend to this personally.”

Ranunculus did not care for the feeling that settled in his stomach. It
seemed impossible, what the other was suggesting. They might be renegades, but Htomah, Quinlan, Jedua, Wislome—they were still his brothers.

Yet Maventhrowe was his trusted leader, the most aged, the most wise. Given that, Ranunculus was ill prepared to protest such a weighty decision.

The white-haired Entient rose, brushing his hands clean of the remaining food particles, watching the silverthorn splash one another in a sudden frenzy. “Come, they may seek to evade us. We have little time to spare.”

Ranunculus felt the other’s hand upon his shoulder, but did not immediately turn to follow. All of a sudden, he could not take his eyes from that thrashing school of fish, its members beating viciously against their own.

A
LLION TIED OFF ANOTHER FLETCHING,
wincing as the slender thread bit into his bandaged fingers.

“You should let me do that,” Tevarian suggested.

The hunter just shook his head as he examined his work. An arrow’s vanes were its most critical feature. He could make adjustments for a shaft with too much spine or bend, a short length, a faulty notch, or an improperly weighted head. But a fault in the fletching could produce an unpredictable pitch or yaw that would not be revealed to the shooter until the missile was already in flight.

Satisfied, he traded the completed arrow for another of the naked quarrels Tevarian had prepared. With that came a set of goose feathers—split down the middle—for him to choose from. Allion looked at the shaft from all angles, and weighed its balance across his fingers.

“Thumb and a half,” he said, assigning the desired feather length. “No,” he added, seeing those his companion reached for. “The darker ones. There.”

“Beats fire duty in any case, no?”

Allion grunted, taking a closer look at the feathers once he had them in hand. He’d never heard it said that arrow-making was not tedious work. Thankfully, however, they as archers were much better suited to that than to digging pits, dragging bodies about the battlefield, or tending to the fires that filled the one while consuming the other. After two days and nights, those assigned to do so were still cremating the remains of the fallen—more than forty thousand in all. On this, the dawn of the third day, that effort had taken on an increased sense of urgency. Whether notching shafts and splitting feathers as Tevarian was doing, or matching components and lashing them all together, Allion felt blessed not to be a part of it.

Only, he was, of course. For if any dead remained come afternoon or nightfall, he might have to start putting these fresh-made arrows to use before he had intended.

“Seems they must be making strides,” his companion added cheerfully.

“Smells better of late. Either that, or I’m becoming accustomed to it.”

It helped that Allion had picked a spot upwind of those communal pyres—albeit for reasons that had little to do with scents and breezes. His gaze lifted momentarily, reaching toward the primary healers’ pavilion, erected some thirty paces downslope to the east. Among the many nurses and aides scurrying about in attendance, he caught sight of Marisha—tunic soiled and bloody, hair tied back, working feverishly to address the needs of hundreds of
wounded whose only real reason to go on living was to rejoin their hopeless struggle.

“Or,” Tevarian continued, “it might just be the air is less foul without all them dwarves about.”

Allion ignored that one, while notching another feather to the tail of the shaft. He’d been as unsettled as anyone by the sight of so many gnarled little bodies—most especially those of the women and children. A human born with such deformities was often deemed a misfortune, a malady, or worse. That such a people should exist and continue to propagate seemed almost cruel. But he understood as well the narrow-sighted arrogance of such an opinion. Judgments such as Tevarian’s were the true cruelty. By any indication, the Hrothgari were neither troubled by, nor ashamed of, their appearance. And it was widely accepted that dwarves had been around longer than any human could recall. What gave man any greater right to life and freedom than they?

Mostly, he was amazed that an entire nation of such people had shared these shores with his own kind all this time, without anyone knowing it. It led him to wonder who or what else might be out there in a land and a world over which he’d been taught that mankind had long since gained dominion.

“What do you suppose the chances are His Majesty will actually make room for them to set sail?” Tevarian asked.

Having never met the Souari king, Allion had no way of knowing. But Troy had pledged his assurances that Thelin would welcome Hreidmar’s refugees as he had all others, and sent a quarter of his remaining force in escort. It seemed only fair, given that Hreidmar had pledged the vast majority of
his
warriors to the continued defense of the Gaperon, thereby covering the retreat of all headed south.

“I would hope that Thelin treats them as well as they’ve treated us,” Allion replied.

He still remembered how his jaw had dropped to see those dwarf families streaming forth from the mountain pass. He had worried there would be no time to send for them; yet, as it had turned out, they had been there all along, tucked away somewhere in those higher elevations. Perhaps their home lay somewhere within. Regardless, the Hrothgari consensus, after less than half a day’s discussion, had been that, if room could be afforded, they should set sail from Pentania alongside the beleaguered nations of men. With Troy’s concurrence, Hreidmar had quickly sent for the remainder of his people, some twenty thousand or more—young and old, male and female, nonwarriors all—who had passed through the human encampment to the collective astonishment of those who had lived all their lives without seeing a single dwarf of any nature.

Tevarian snorted. “They make for good workers; I’ll give them that.”

That went without saying. The warriors Hreidmar had kept here with him numbered roughly ten thousand—less than the initial number of Kuurians Troy had brought from Souaris. Yet they had already dug more trenches and erected more bulwarks in two days than Troy’s army could have in a week.
Whatever else anyone might think or say about these Hrothgari, the chances for survival in the next battle had increased tenfold due to their ingenuity and labors.

“And will be holding the front lines,” Allion reminded his comrade. He gritted his teeth as he finished wrapping another set of vanes and secured the thread with a double clove hitch. “Seems we should be focusing on
our
task, so that they have the support needed to carry out theirs, no?”

“Yes, sir,” Tevarian agreed, somewhat sourly. “I meant no disrespect, sir.”

Allion shook his head, stealing another glance at the nearby healers’ tent as he handed back the arrow. In doing so, he dropped the next shaft handed to him.

Tevarian snickered. “Who’s losing focus now?”

Allion scooped the unfinished quarrel from the dirt and examined it. The head on this one was heavier than the last. “Two thumbs,” he decided.

Tevarian selected a trio of half feathers, but held them back at the last moment. “Something happen between you two?”

The hunter scowled. “What do you mean?”

“The lady, Marisha. The pair of you were inseparable. Now, you steal glances, yet look away whenever she turns in your direction.”

Allion snatched the feathers from Tevarian’s hand. He could feel his face reddening, and lowered it quickly to his work. “She has duties to attend to, as do I. And you’re falling behind,” he added, with a quick nod at the other’s pile.

Tevarian chuckled. “Just thinking I might help, whatever it is.”

The hunter chose not to respond. He had hoped Marisha would come to him following the last battle. She hadn’t. The longer she took to do so, the more bitter he became. Each day, he had placed himself nearer her vicinity, thinking that if she would only step out partway to meet him, he might offer apology for the rift come between them. But her continued, willful avoidance had made that much less certain. Were she to come to him now, he no longer knew
what
he would say.

Regardless, his issues with Marisha were of little import at this juncture, and certainly none of this lad’s affair.

They worked without speaking for a time, listening to the all-too-familiar roar of the distant blazes, whose ashen plumes drifted northward like a veil against the horror yet to come. Picks and shovels dug at the earth, men and dwarves shouted, wounded within the pavilion groaned. Now and then, the din was punctuated by the shriek of a crow or vulture. It was a sign of progress that most of the winged carrion-eaters had since moved on—though many still hovered in clouds about the peaks of the pass, as if waiting for the true feast yet to come.

On a shallow plateau, east toward Marisha’s pavilion and a bit farther north, a command area had been established for the coalition leaders. Allion
saw most of them conferring now. Troy, Corathel, and the unmistakable Hreidmar had gathered at sunup, along with a smattering of aides and lieutenants and advisors. Of the major generals, only Rogun was absent, having led a mounted contingent northward with the intent to harry the enemy swarm once it reached the mouth of the pass, and to direct the relay of scouts sent to mark its progress beforehand. To Allion’s knowledge, there had been no reports yet on how any of that company fared.

The thought was interrupted by a pounding of hooves. He and Tevarian both turned to see who was coming at such a frantic pace. A courier, Allion realized, arriving from the south. Though the road was clogged with workers and carts, the rider galloped and swerved ahead, shouting for the rest to make way. Even after nearly impaling himself on a sharpened log shouldered by a pair of dwarves, the fool did not slow. Allion frowned, then stood, recognizing the color and gilded edge of the messenger’s sash.

This word came from King Thelin.

“Wait here,” he told Tevarian.

Without looking back, he hastened toward the command area. He glanced aside only once, to see if Marisha would take note. She had heard the courier, all right, pausing to watch as it thundered past. In its wake, there was a moment in which hunter and healer were left peering at one another—though the distance was too great for Allion to know if her eyes were fixed upon him the way his were on her. Whichever, she quickly turned away, to refocus on her work.

Allion began to jog. Already, the messenger had dismounted at the base of the command plateau and was presenting himself to its sentries. The guardsmen allowed him to pass without delay.

They did the same for Allion, once he reached them. For whatever reason, he continued to receive the respect and privileges accorded to the coalition’s most senior officers. With barely a nod, he scampered on up the slope toward the meeting already in progress.

He arrived breathless and disheveled, sweat beading upon his brow. The others paused, their faces an array of worried confusion, angry denial, and grave disbelief. One or two nodded at him. The rest were yet overcome with shock.

“Proceed, Sergeant,” Troy commanded, wearing no hint of his customary smile. “How did this come about?”

The messenger eyed Allion a moment longer—a woman, he was surprised to realize, though her head was shorn. She turned back to Troy. “His Majesty had every assurance from Governor Kardan that all was being prepared in accordance with the council’s decree.” Like many a courier, she spoke in steady tones, her emotionless words clipped and precise. “By the time we reached Stralk, those assurances had ceased, along with all other communications. Forward scouts soon returned with news of the city’s desertion.”

Desertion
. The word struck Allion like a blow to the stomach.

“Not a ship is left?” Troy asked.

“Barges, ferries, skiffs—nothing that will serve to bear a man across the sea. Of that variety, Wingport is bereft.”

A dwarf with salted beard, whom Allion did not recognize, spat. “Ours is already off to join yours. You telling us now they got no place to go?”

“At present, His Majesty’s intended escape is cut off. I spoke with your flock,” she said to the unknown dwarf, “after encountering one of their Kuurian outriders. They have been warned. By now they have either pressed on, or are awaiting your command. I did not linger long enough for them to decide.”

“The ships,” Troy pressed. “Where are they? Where did they go? I want every detail.”

“Our sweep at Wingport revealed hundreds of stranded citizens. To a man, the tale is roughly the same. The exodus was not to begin until His Majesty’s arrival. But word leaked, and the people panicked. Merchants began packing their ships with possessions and setting sail in the dead of night, overwhelming the few city guardsmen who warded the docks. Governor Kardan sent ships to bring them to heel and close off the harbor, but half of those deserted. People soon feared that with the horde of refugees en route, there would not be room enough for all. The governor himself took to sea when it became clear the runaway tide could not be stemmed.”

The images spawned a hollow coring that worked its way up into Allion’s chest. Wingport emptied, fled, in advance of Thelin’s arrival. Women and children left ashore in favor of wealth and provisions. Other vessels sailing away half empty, rather than risk being overrun. A cowardly governor who had taken flight rather than face the cost of his ineptitude.

A nation of trusting refugees—numbering in the hundreds of thousands—abandoned.

“Can the king’s people turn back?” Allion asked. But he knew the answer as soon as the words had left his mouth.
No.
Not with the Illychar force nearly upon them. A multitude that size could not reroute with the necessary swiftness. And where would they go? Alson was too far, and Gammelost had not half the ships to ferry so many. The very attempt might give rise to another panic. It might well be that Nevik was dealing with one already.

“His Majesty considered returning to Souaris,” the courier replied, “but decided it too late when he received word relayed from here, the battlefront. Instead, every civilian who can serve as laborer, along with every soldier that can be spared, has followed His Majesty on to Wingport, to begin work already on a new fleet.”

Even Allion, who knew nothing of shipbuilding, understood that it could take weeks, months, to gather the raw materials, draw up designs, assemble these ships, and rig and supply them for a prolonged sea voyage. It might go swifter, with so many dedicated to the cause. Then again, many of these workers would be raw, unskilled, and might only end up in one another’s way. Anxiety would run high, and tempers short. A monumental undertaking under the best of circumstances, it seemed nigh impossible here.

“In the meantime,” the courier continued, “those who cannot lend aid in some capacity will take shelter at Stralk.”