The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (61 page)

Torin frowned. He’d heard of these mysterious
rovers
from Crag during their ride from Wingport. Some sort of mining-cart-turned-siege-engine. Expected to be a powerful weapon against the Illychar, it seemed they had become a liability instead.

“We have decisions to make that cannot wait,” Rogun added.

Troy grimaced. “The Thornspur,” he said, turning back to the table and a mound of maps spread across its surface. “You were going to suggest…?”

“Surrender it,” Rogun answered flatly.

“The bluff is secure. Why would we—”

“The
bluff
may be secure, but little else is.” An armored finger jabbed at the table. “We can hit them harder by tearing down Bannok’s Fist.”

Torin knew the name. A mighty dam near the headwaters of the Shia River as it tumbled out of the Aspandel Mountains, helping to turn that torrent on a southern course. Even
his
breath caught at the suggestion.

“But that would mean…” Troy began, then trailed off, peering closer at the sketches before him.

Allion stepped in for a closer look. Torin, though tempted to join them, thought it better to remain where he stood.

“Loose the river,” Rogun explained. “Let it do the work we cannot.”

“The Spur is our last significant toehold upon the Gaperon. Without it, we’ll be forced to displace to the southern plain, and will lose ground faster than ever.”

“So we fight upon the plain. The defenses are already in place. We might hold the Spur, but the lowline along Morgan’s Harrow is fraying, and our anchors at Hokkum Spire and Tonner’s Fang will not last the day. As those break and shear, the enemy will encircle the Thornspur like a noose.”

Despite the more obvious implications, Torin could conjure only a vague sense of the precise strategy being discussed. The terrain’s features were mostly foreign to him, and he’d received only the barest briefing from Crag on the coalition’s defenses. And much of
those
, set in place before the Tuthari’s departure south, had already been overtaken, losing all relevance.

“What about the rovers?” Troy asked, while gingerly rubbing his bruised chin. “With where they pulled up, the Shia is likely to drown them.”

Rogun shrugged. “We lose what, four-, fivescore? For which Corathel means already to risk more than six hundred. Better that we crack the dam now and force him to withdraw the attempt.”

“You would flood the pass?” Allion asked.

“As much of it as we can,” Rogun admitted. “And buy ourselves more time with that than by clinging desperately to its mouth.”

“Bannok’s Fist is five hundred years old,” Troy lamented. “It was one of our forebears’ first great achievements.”

“Might as well take it with us,” Rogun remarked, unmoved. “Let the reavers build their own dam, if they wish it.”

A heavy air settled over the tent. For several moments, the only sounds were those made by the attendants, scuffing and banging at Troy’s armor. Beyond, the din of battle roared like the restless sea.

“There is some sense to the strategy,” Troy allowed finally.

“And a good deal of need,” Rogun urged. “Dither, and we’ll pay a heavy price.”

Alson’s general had always been a man of action, Torin knew, with little tolerance for the weighing-out of possible consequences. Why guess at results when one could simply measure the truth and react accordingly? It was the man’s greatest strength, at times, but carried with it the potential for disaster.

“I’ll set a company of sappers in place,” Troy yielded reluctantly. “But it doesn’t happen without my direct command.”

“And in the meantime?” Rogun asked.

“We hold the Spur, and give Corathel what time he needs.”

C
ORATHEL PEERED CAUTIOUSLY THROUGH THE
thicket of scrub that lined the hollowed ridge. A hundred paces below, the four rovers lay in their gully at the base of the slopes, motionless drill snouts pointed outward. Forgotten, it seemed, by the sea of reavers that had choked them upon their arrival. Thousands, there had been, though all their weapons and bodies had seemed incapable of stalling the rovers’ coring, methodical advance.

Yet stalled they had, backed into a corner like sentinels pressed by an angry mob. King Hreidmar had been unable to tell him why, exactly, hazarding only that they may have misjudged their fuel supplies. Whatever, without their grinders, the Hrothgari crews had found themselves bitterly pressed by the adversary they had baited for so long. Their machines shielded them, but how long could they last?

Without being asked, Corathel had taken it upon himself to reach the iron rovers, to help the dwarves inside escape the Illysp’s wrath—just as they had done for him and the people of Leaven.

“Why are we waiting?” asked Jasyn, crouched beside him.

Corathel raised a finger to his lips. His own words were a coarse whisper.

“Unearthly quiet, wouldn’t you say?”

Jasyn shrugged. “Lar knows how to draw a foe’s attention.”

And was doing an admirable job of it now. Corathel had caught glimpses of the fighting across the pass, on the western slopes, while he and his own half battalion skulked northward along the upper reaches of the eastern wall. The reavers were so focused now on the trenches and bulwarks set in place on the valley floor that they hadn’t noticed the hundreds crawling high around each flank, navigating a series of crevasses and ravines and washout trails. That Lar’s attack had begun at the appointed spot, and at almost precisely the estimated hour, indicated that his half battalion, like Corathel’s, had progressed without undue surprise or difficulty.

“So why do I feel ants crawling along my spine?” he asked.

His lieutenant looked him over. “Come to feed upon the lice nesting in your hair,” Jasyn suggested. “When was the last time you bathed?”

“When did the rains end?” Corathel muttered, keeping his eyes on the rovers below.

Jasyn permitted him a moment of silence, then asked, “Would you have us wait until dark?”

Ideally, yes. But the decision had already been made to execute this maneuver as swiftly as possible. They had no guarantee that the enemy would not
drift back this way in greater numbers, making the escape that much harder to spring. By nightfall, it might be too late.

Besides, Lar had already engaged—a diversionary offensive used to draw the northern strays away from the rovers’ position. Though it seemed to be working almost
too
well, it was in fact working. Sitting around now might only waste that effort—especially since there was near as much danger of being spotted while waiting here as there was in slipping down below.

“We have the element of surprise,” he said, denying his misgivings with cold fact. “We’d be fools to wait and see how long it lasts.”

Jasyn nodded, though he, too, looked around now with a greater deal of caution than before, having learned some time ago to trust his commander’s instincts.

“We’ll close to that lowermost overhang,” Corathel decided. Vacant as the area appeared, putting their troops on the ground, as originally planned, would only attract unnecessary attention. “Where’s our envoy?”

“I’ll fetch him now.”

Jasyn scurried off, leaving Corathel alone beneath the ridge’s curled, scrub-grown lip. The nearest fighting was hundreds of paces off, and aimed the other way. Around the rovers, not an enemy was in sight. He could not have prayed for better circumstances. And yet, his back continued to itch with invisible warning.

He looked for Owl…and found the elf huddled with his four remaining Mookla’ayans upon a higher ridge. Perhaps
they
were the cause of his distress—with the way they kept sniffing and glancing about. He’d not seen them do that before. It made them seem nervous.

Aside from that, he scarcely noticed them anymore. Like his own shadow, he just assumed they were there, and had yet to be disappointed.

When Jasyn returned, he did so with Ulgrenshem, one of Hreidmar’s own advisors. The dwarf had an especially large knot beneath one eye, leaving only one good one with which to see.
A dwarf is beautiful in that each is unique
, Hreidmar had boasted during one of their council sessions.
You humans all look the same
,
with your bluff faces and smooth skin.
Perhaps so, but fine good that beauty would do if Shem, here, could not watch his own back.

“Take him down,” Corathel commanded his lieutenant. “The rest of us will be right behind you.”

“Not too close,” Jasyn said. “They’ll think us all Illychar, reeking the way you do.”

“I don’t imagine my kin inside smell much better,” Shem grunted, missing the jape.

Jasyn drew his sword with a rasp. That gleam Corathel had come to recognize sparked within his friend’s eye. Whatever blood must be spilled in this, he hoped the Second General did not go looking for it.

As the pair slipped past in a crouch, he turned attention to the southerly lines of Parthan soldiers strung along behind him. A relay of hand signals had
them all moving forward once more, following him down the slope. His steps were slow, deliberate, emphasizing stealth over speed. By now, the men who trailed him were well practiced at it.

Even so, their muffled scrapings sounded like trumpets in his ears. His pulse was pounding. Something wasn’t right, though it still seemed he had no choice but to press on.

By the time he reached the lowermost shelf of rock overhanging the silent rovers, Jasyn and Shem were picking their way amid the shale and scree that carpeted the gully. While Jasyn took up a watch post, the dwarf slipped up to a slatted opening in one of the steel-and-iron hulls. Corathel cast about, waiting breathlessly.

After several moments, a series of lights flashed from a knobbed protrusion near the tail of the chosen rover. One by one, the other three flashed a quick acknowledgment. Shem stumped over to Jasyn, who looked toward Corathel’s position and hefted his sword in salute.

A hatch in the side of the first rover opened with a sharp squeal. Corathel winced and scanned for foes, but again saw no sign of enemy alarm. Perhaps his nerves were simply strung too tight, after all.

Other hatches opened, and Hrothgari ventured forth. Most took careful stock of their surroundings before stepping down, weapons in hand. Gradually, they began to form up beside Shem. Some were pale-faced, others sooty. Several appeared worn and cramped, while the rest greeted their comrades from the other rovers with grins and handclasps. Even at a distance, Corathel sensed their obvious relief.

When all were freed, they began filing up the broken path that Jasyn had descended to reach them—a narrow, crooked defile filled with boulder shards and other, smaller stone fragments. The loose earth crunched beneath so many heavy feet, further testing Corathel’s fraying composure. While Jasyn led the way, Shem remained at the bottom, speaking with another—a female, given her smooth cheeks. Corathel wondered if she could be the warder general Hreidmar had hoped would be among them.

He was still wondering when a new rumble overcame that of the marching dwarves. Jasyn must have heard it, too, for the Second General turned his head sharply to the north. The line of Hrothgari hesitated alongside.

A moment later, Corathel’s fears came to life in the form of a reaver host, hundreds, perhaps thousands strong, headed south, coming apace.

He motioned to Jasyn to hurry. The nearing enemy had not yet spotted them, but
would
as soon as it rounded the next jutting crag.

He sent signal back to his men. Archers to form up. The tail end of the retreat was going to need cover fire. As the command echoed silently and his troops shifted into position, he turned back to mark the horde’s approach. Where had these ones come from? Why had they been held back?

The answer did not elude him for long. These were fresh, he realized, spying Kuurians and Parthans among them. A batch of dead from three days
ago who had escaped the torch—ushered along by the elves who must have watched over them during the incubation. Condemned to die a second death, this time at the hands of their friends.

He cursed their timing. Another hour, maybe less, and his half battalion would have been safely away, sneaking south along the same trail that had brought them. They might have been able to pull this off with no worse than blisters upon their feet.

A useless lament, as the leading reavers came around the mountain’s bend and caught sight of the rovers. The escaping dwarves were spotted immediately after. With a howling uproar, the enemy pursuit was on.

All of a sudden, Owl was at his side. Corathel gave signal, and the first wave of arrows was loosed. The reavers did not slow, but continued to close swiftly, jostling and trampling their own kind in their fevered haste. A second volley was loosed, followed by a third. By then, Shem and his female comrade were scrabbling up and out of the defile, aided by Jasyn, who then paused at the trail’s mouth to scream at the enemy in challenge.

“General!” Corathel roared.

Jasyn spun about, then stopped again to shove a boulder into the cut. It kicked off a minor rockslide, but nothing that was going to stop their pursuers for long.

“General Corathel,” Shem wheezed, “Warder General Vashen.”

“We’re indebted to you,” Vashen greeted, glancing at Owl before gripping Corathel’s hand.

“Not just yet,” Corathel said, then called again for Jasyn to join them.

The Second General came scampering up with a dusty smile. “Might be a long hike back, with them on our tail.”

“Take the van. I’ll command the rear guard. Maintain the high ground, whatever else.”

Jasyn’s eyes turned, venturing up the slope.

“General, your orders.”

“Here come your ants,” Jasyn said.

Corathel spun, and his stomach lurched. Not ants, but giants, pouring down from the heights—just as they had against Troy days ago. How creatures so large and numerous had hidden themselves upon ground that his companies had marched right over might forever remain a mystery. But there was no great riddle as to why. The enemy had known they would be coming, or, at the very least, that the stranded dwarves would eventually attempt to emerge. With no return now to the safety of the rovers, the trap had been sprung.

“Wedges!” he roared. Already, his officers had seen the new threat, and were bracing to meet it. Corathel glanced back at the reavers clawing up from below, realizing reflexively that it was not merely ill luck, but Illychar cunning, that had held them in check until this very moment.

“Watch yourself, General,” Jasyn bade, then scooted on up the trail. Not twenty paces ahead, he lunged to catch one of the barreling giants midleap
with the spiked pauldron worn over his left shoulder. Howling, he bore the creature to the earth, as blades on both sides began to clash and sing.

Like a great worm, the battalion line began writhing its way up the slope and south along the return trail. There was no help but to fight their way past the giants as quickly as they could. If they allowed themselves to be pinned down, the horde giving chase would surely annihilate them.

“Seems you were better off below,” he murmured to Vashen apologetically.

Beside him, the warder general hefted a spiked hammer. Her blue eyes seemed to sparkle. “After what we’ve been though, you don’t know how good this is going to feel.”

She hastened forward. With another glance behind him, Corathel drew his sword and gave chase, Mookla’ayan guard at his side. A giant neared. He believed he recognized it as that from which he had narrowly rescued Troy days before.

When he saw its tusked smile, he became certain of it.

T
HE OGRE SNARLED, A BULBOUS,
growth-ridden tongue licking at its own drool. Seething with an Illysp’s fury, it lumbered up the hill, hefting a bloodied club. A pack of elves filled its wake like feral-eyed scavengers, set to feast on whatever scraps were provided.

“Arrows won’t slow that thing,” Torin warned.

Zain ignored him, hand upraised as he sat atop his mount. When the ogre and its company closed to within a dozen paces of the barricade, the hand lowered. “Loose!”

Shafts flew in a piercing cloud. Most of the elves danced aside, fluid-quick. The ogre raised an arm to shield its face, but kept marching as arrowheads clattered off its bony hide. Perhaps a dozen managed to penetrate its arms, legs, and chest, but the brute pressed forward, heedless. As the shower ceased, it lowered its arm and thrust forth its gnarled face, unleashing a stone-rattling roar.

“Enough,” Torin spat, and shoved through an angled gap between schilltrons. Sharpened tips scraped at him, but he ignored them as he did Zain’s shout. The Crimson Sword flared in his hand as he scampered down the slope, gritting his teeth in answer to the ogre’s challenge.

The creature chose a roundhouse swing, low to the earth as if scything wheat. Without slowing, Torin sprang sideways onto a rock and used the added height to leap the blow. The ogre’s eyes met his as its head rolled from its shoulders.

As he touched down again, the elves surrounded him. In their eagerness, they pressed too close. With just a few spinning swipes, he left half a dozen of them on the slope in pieces, either dead or hissing in helpless contempt. Another pair lunged at him, but he cut one in half at the waist and the other deep across the chest. A spear then came at his back. In a single whirling motion, he swatted the shaft aside with the flat of his blade, then buried its flaming tip in the elf’s stomach.

The ogre’s headless body toppled. Three elves remained, but they skittered back down the slope, seeking easier prey.

Torin glared at them, chest heaving with feral ecstasy. He tasted blood on his lips, but not nearly enough to satisfy him.

“Soldier!” Zain shouted. “Return to line!”