The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (57 page)

An unnecessary caution. Torin had not forgotten that when last he had flown from this land, he had done so after laying waste to one of its great
est cities. Had any survived that slaughter, tales of his treachery would have spread. They would think him foe until he proved otherwise. Some might not even be willing to grant him that chance.

But he had to believe otherwise. This was still his homeland, whether or not it felt as such. He still had friends here. They could not
all
have been killed.

It did worry him, though, to learn that Wingport was where his reunions would begin. What would any of his people be doing so far south? Souaris was where he would have expected to find those still battling for survival. Or had the legendary City of Man already been overrun?

He would find out soon enough, he supposed, as he fell into step alongside his companion. Whatever the truth, he could scarcely imagine it to be worse than some of those already faced.

There was no road here, only windblown sands and grasses abutting the rocky shore. They followed the ridgeline as it jagged northward, listening to the billow and crash of waves at their feet. Whenever he dared, Torin would snake a glance out to sea, still searching for some further sign as to Ravar’s course or heading. Alas, the ocean seemed to have swallowed Him whole, its depths the only bed large enough to contain Him.

Annleia remained silent, eyes forward. Torin did nothing to disturb her. He had already approached her in every way he knew how. Instead, he worked to recall and sift through all that she
had
revealed to him of her private conversations with the Dragon God. There wasn’t much. In the early going, while he had been learning of Killangrathor and the means by which the Ceilhigh kept Ravar chained, Annleia claimed to have received little more than taunts and admonitions. The Dragon God, she had told him, had kept insisting that she was too late. When she had pressed Him for what He knew, Ravar had scornfully replied that
what He knew
would shred her heart and tear her mind asunder. He had gone on to accuse her Finlorian ancestors of an excess of pride, reminding her that it was their arrogance and vanity that had unleashed the Illysp to begin with.

Upon hearing this, Torin had understood why she had been in no rush to recount it. Even so, he had hounded her to go on.

“He told me yours is the roiling heart,” she had said, almost accusingly, “the one that will decide the fate of all. He said also that you would refuse the charge He gives you.”

That had taken him aback, though it had made clearer the source of her aggravation. It also irritated him, to think that Ravar had predicted his response.

“My charge is to defend you,” Torin had replied, “to see you through to the end. I have not refused that.”

He had thought that might cheer her, but it hadn’t. They had gone some time without speaking after that, before he had returned to her and asked what she had learned later on, about restoring the seal.

“He told me how the threads of power must be woven,” she had said. “He
further warned me that magic, even to those most knowledgeable, is mysterious and unpredictable, often behaving with a will of its own.”

This, along with the Orb’s purpose, was the extent of what he had been able to draw from her. Day after day, he had made some follow-up attempt, by turns coaxing and prying. Yet, what more she knew she refused to tell. Her hesitation, he felt, betrayed a lack of confidence. He could relate to that easily enough, and so had sought to reassure her.

“You solved Necanicum’s riddles,” he had reminded her. “You’ll solve Ravar’s and those of His Orb, as well.”

Her responses, when given at all, had been delivered with little enthusiasm, only a quiet resignation. Torin tried not to judge her. Was he not the one whose attitude constantly left others doubting his ability to persevere? He had seen her strength already. He had to trust that, when it mattered most, she would find what she needed to accomplish her task.

“What was it like?” she asked him suddenly.

He looked over at her in surprise, reflections scattered upon the wind. His body was still rigid with cold, his teeth still chattering. “Wh-what was
what
like?”

Her eyes found his, bold and bright. “The possession. You still haven’t told me.”

As quick as that, Torin lost interest in her conversation. “I relayed everything that happened,” he argued.

“But not how it felt.”

This again?
Could she not guess? What bearing did any of that have now, anyway?

His scowl softened, however, when he saw the unexpected concern reflected in the elf-woman’s countenance. A game, perhaps. Else an attempt to draw from him the secret
he
still kept from
her
. Yet it didn’t feel that way. Once again, she alluded to his crimes without allegation. Once again, her tone suggested that she did not hate him for what he’d done, even though he hated himself. He was still confused by this undue compassion. He might have dismissed it as a Finlorian trait, but recalled even now what little charity her people had shown him before. Whatever its source, perhaps the time had come to show her some gratitude—or at the very least, a similar respect.

“I suppose the worst was not knowing what would happen next,” he admitted. He stared ahead, unable to meet her gaze, his hand wringing nervously upon the Sword’s hilt. “Each deed seemed more terrible than the last. And where would it end?” He shuddered. “I had come to fear that it never would.”

Annleia was quiet, reflective. “I’m sorry you had to endure that. I feel sorry for anyone who does.”

Torin bit back an incredulous retort. Sorry? For others, yes, but he had no right to pity himself. Not after what he had done. Not after what he continued to do. In tracking him down and purging him of the Illysp spirit, Annleia had rescued him from a destiny that even now remained too horrid to recount. And how did he seek to repay her? With lies. Kindly meant, but lies nonetheless.

“No one who knew me was safe,” he said, to break the uncomfortable silence. “Everyone I had ever come in contact with was at risk. The Illysp, they take special delight in the torment of their hosts; of that I’m convinced.”

Annleia reached up to rub the back of his head, a gentle, comforting gesture. Torin nearly recoiled. His intent, if anything, had been to warn her, not attract further sympathy.

“Be that as it may, you’re now my warder, and the only one I have.” She smiled. “So I guess you’re stuck with me.”

Torin only stared, uncertain what to say. She had a lovely smile, he decided. Not like Dyanne’s—so bold and bright and able to light his soul afire—but shy and soft, heartfelt and alluring. Strange that he hadn’t noticed it before.

She looked forward again, removing her hand from the back of his head. Only then did he realize that he might have been staring too long. He hoped that she hadn’t mistaken his reasons for doing so. It might complicate matters should she believe he thought of her in that way. He
didn’t
, of course. His every fiber belonged to Dyanne, and felt as if it would forever. He was indebted to Annleia, yes. And he could not truthfully deny a certain fascination at the unassuming manner with which she carried herself—this exotic maiden with power enough to help fell a dragon, yet gracious enough to pardon his unmentionable transgressions. But he had no interest in her beyond what service he could offer in setting things right—first with the seal, and later, perhaps, in finding her people.

He owed her that much and more.

“We’ll veer west once we reach that treeline,” Annleia offered, ending the uncomfortable silence. “That should help shelter us from this wind, without having to surrender the sun.”

Torin nodded, though he was not much concerned with freezing to death. Sword or no, that would be too easy—and better than he deserved. After all the ills he had committed, after the trouble of seeing him raised again, the Ceilhigh, he felt sure, had a more fiendish end in store. And as tempted as he might be to defy them by falling on his blade, his guilt demanded that he keep pressing forward, to whatever fate his own deeds had wrought.

Clenching his teeth against the cold, against the past, against the impossibility of what lay ahead, he strode along dutifully, not knowing which secrets should trouble him more: Annleia’s or his.

“R
OVER DOWN,”
T
ONRA ANNOUNCED SOMBERLY.

Vashen bit hard upon her scarred lip, holding back a string of curses that might have made Achthium blanch. He had ceased already to watch over them. No need to stoke His wrath.

She felt the eyes of her crew upon her, awaiting her response. Their dismay and fury were palpable, thickening the already sultry air.

“Tighten formation,” she decided, nearly choking on the words. “All ahead, maximum lean.”

There was a moment of tense silence from her crew members, though she
was not likely to hear any mutters over the grinding, screeching thrum. Perhaps they hadn’t heard her command.

“Courier? Relay orders.”

Tonra swallowed. “At once, General.”

Vashen turned to the others. Even those busy at their tasks were peering back at her, their sweat-streaked faces pallid and grim.

She scowled. “We knew this might happen. You have your orders.”

One by one, they shifted to obey, one or two with lingering glares. These were not all military, she had to remind herself, but conscripted laborers. She made a mental note of those whose reactions were the most bitter, the most distraught. They were the ones she would have to be wary of in the coming days.

When that was done, she turned back to the rearward viewing slat, hoping that a fresh look might alter what she had seen. They had known this
might
happen, but that didn’t mean they—herself included—had been prepared for this choice.

Especially not now, as she watched the skatchykem swarm the stranded carrier like ants upon a captured crumb, its smoke tail trailing uselessly skyward.

“Warder General?”

Brokk. Captain of her hurlers. His brother Tegg was a driver inside the rover she had just ordered abandoned.

“Yes, Captain?” It hurt to speak. Her throat was parched, her tongue leathery and swollen.

“Given time, they might be able to start it up again. If we were to go back, and circle up—”

“We would all be stranded together.”

“Even so, our strength would be greater—”

“Our mission is to push south. His Glory may yet have need of us. Our personal feelings cannot outweigh the greater good.”

Brokk’s angry features tightened. “They’re still alive in there.”

“And will have to fend for themselves for as long as they can.” She knew as well as he what that meant, but forced herself to continue. “The enemy may disperse before cracking their shell. Else, we may be able to return for them—which I’ll gladly do, given permission. For now, the rest of us press on as commanded.”

Brokk seemed unwilling to let the decision stand. His hand flexed upon the haft of his polearm, used to prod attackers from the shell of their own rover—often gutting a beast or two in the process, for all the good it did. Vashen herself was unarmed, save for a dirk sheathed in her boot. But she forced that thought aside. She would not let it come to that.

His horror and frustration were no greater than her own. It was not as if their friends had been mortally wounded in some way. Rather, the magic had failed them. They had been rolling along now for more than a fortnight, and still without a drop of rain. Dugg had made all the adjustments he could,
sharing the results of his tests and strategies with those of his fellow boiler masters. They simply didn’t have enough fluids to keep producing steam. Rations had been apportioned equally before setting out, but, due mostly to the varying use of the grinders, each engine and crew had consumed these fuels at different rates—especially in the beginning, before the potential shortage had been discovered.

The rover carrying Brokk’s brother had been the first to stall, but it would not be the last. And though they had already entered the pinch of ranges dubbed by their people as Achthium’s Tongs, it might take them days to traverse the length of the pass. Even if they were to keep full power at the wheels and shut down their grinders—which might only encourage the skatchykem to pile aboard and thus slow them further—there seemed scant chance any of them were going to complete this next leg, let alone reach the preappointed rendezvous at Souaris.

“I thank you for questioning me in private, Captain, and not within ear of the crew. But the decision is made. All who accompany us knew the risk. So long as we keep moving, we hold the enemy’s attention. Draw up short, and there’s no predicting how many scatter—or in what direction.”

That splintering, she feared, had already begun. While a significant swarm continued to assail them, the skatchykem she had worked so hard to distract had been lengthening southward for nearly a day now, leaving the slower-paced rovers behind. A blessing, perhaps, but after contending with them all this time, she knew better. If even a portion of this horde was moving on, it could only be because it had found another, likelier target farther ahead.

“I will not assume His Glory and our people are safe,” she continued. “I will buy them as much time as I can.” And if they were already under attack, then further distraction was pointless, and she had all the more reason to hurry to their aid while her grinders still worked. “Are my orders understood?”

His eyes were angry, sullen. He glanced toward the viewing slat, as if he might catch some final glimpse of his brother.

“If you must weep, Captain,” she said, “report to Master Duggarian. I’m quite certain he could make use of any tears.”

Brokk stiffened, gave her a withering look, then marched back to his post. Shoving past a pair of hurlers, he thrust his polearm through one of the murder-holes with a vengeful cry. Good. Perhaps he would return with a blade dipped in skatchykem blood.

She moved to find Duggarian, who sweated beside the boiler. “Bleed me,” she said, rolling up her sleeve.