The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (68 page)

“I’d be shocked if he wasn’t,” Annleia said, without turning to check.

“We should head back.”

She did not respond right away, continuing her silent scrutiny of him while he pretended not to notice. What was she searching for? he wondered. What did she expect to see in him that could possibly make a difference at this late juncture?

The same held true of
his
feelings for
her
. He considered sharing them, but wasn’t entirely sure what they were right now. Neither did he think it worth her time or his to figure them out. Even if he could, what would that achieve?

“Ravar
did
claim that the answer to the Sword lies within,” she offered finally. “Perhaps something down there will trigger your understanding.”

“Perhaps.”

“I’m still here for you,” she stressed again. “Together, we’ll find the answer.”

More likely
,
we’ll find ourselves Illychar
, he thought, and wondered how much easier it might be to burn their bodies now.

But that obviously wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

“I suppose I should thank you for telling me,” he said, recalling her words to him the morning after he had confessed to Laressa’s murder. “Come now, before Crag breaks his neck stumbling about in the dark.”

I
T WAS MIDNIGHT BEFORE
C
RAG’S
snores filled Torin’s ears, letting him know that the time had come.

He rolled over to double-check Annleia’s breathing. Soft. Deep. Rhythmic. He watched her for a moment with an ache in his chest, then shoved that feeling deep and crawled from his bedroll.

He moved slowly, quietly, careful not to disturb his slumbering companions or to alert the dwarven sentries Vashen had set in place. There were three in all, one from each cluster of surviving Hrothgari. Torin had made sure to note their scattered positions upon returning with Annleia earlier, knowing even then what he had to do.

For one to press forward
,
the rest must be consumed.
Well, the burden he had thought to avoid was his once more—and his alone. There was no longer any reason for the others to accompany him. Granted, Ravar’s warnings might have pertained only to Annleia’s quest and not his own. But he couldn’t make himself believe that, and saw no need to let his comrades take the risk.

The more he had considered it, the more his resolve had grown. While
feigning sleep, he had thought back upon Ravar’s charge to Annleia, trying to determine if the Dragon God had lied outright, or merely allowed him to mislead himself with false assumptions. He was fairly certain it was the latter. Ravar had never claimed Annleia could execute the magic needed to restore the seal, only that
none other
could. He hadn’t told Torin what
would
happen with the Orb, only what
had
happened in the past. Torin had simply accepted the possibility because he was so anxious to deny all others, making the actual deception as much his own as anyone else’s.

Either way, he had made himself sick already with guesses over Annleia’s feelings, Ravar’s true intent, and more. He had even puzzled briefly over the timing of Annleia’s revelation. Was she scared of entering the ruins? Had she told him the truth so as to encourage the course he was now taking? He had ended their conversation before she could explain any other reason she might have had, and had elected later on to keep the issue to himself. The best way to answer this and all other questions—indeed, to put an end to everything, one way or the other—was to accept the truth and fulfill his task.

Even though he still had no idea how he might do so.

His pace quickened as the distance between himself and the camp grew. He still crept carefully, crouched low, mindful of his footing upon the treacherous terrain. He had only the light of moon and stars to go by. He would not yet risk the glow of the Sword serving as a beacon. He had brought with him a length of rope and a skin of water, leaving all else behind. He suspected that he would not even need these. His only concern was how to navigate the maze of corridors without U’uyen to lead him, but he intended to give it his best effort. Easier that, he imagined, than solving the Sword’s riddle—if it should truly end up that he needed to. Part of him held out hope that the weapon’s fires would respond unbidden, unleashing themselves against whatever foul force awaited. The weapon had surprised him numerous times in the past. Perhaps it might do so again.

When he neared the now-gaping hole in the earth, he paused to collect himself. A rust-colored stain encircled the moon, casting all in a grim light. Looking back, he saw no one following. Ahead, to the west, a bloody ocean churned against the grating shore, its distant horizon as bleak and mysterious as his own. He watched the surf roll in, recede, then roll in again. The tide was rising, steady and inexorable, as if to signify the coming end.

At last he rose from his crouch and slipped down between a pair of boulders. He cast glances left and right, his neck skin crawling.
A spider’s web does not forbid entry
,
but escape.
He hoped at least half of that was true.

He circled wide, coming around to the massive ramp of loose stones laid down against the lower rim. There, he paused again, but could see nothing of what lay within. All he heard was the wind and the sea.

After hesitating for as long as he dared, he drew the Sword and slid forward.

He had only barely set foot upon the ramp when he sensed movement to one side. He froze, the Sword’s light flaring with his alarm. In its light, he
saw the shadows of three figures striding forward from amid the surrounding rocks, unafraid.

U’uyen and his Mookla’ayans.

Torin lowered his blade, breathing a sigh of relief. At the same time, he wanted to throttle the Powaii chieftain, knowing full well why they were here.

For one to press forward
,
the rest must be consumed.

“Go back,” he said.

U’uyen stared.

“Go back,” Torin repeated, pointing a finger up the slope.

Neither the chieftain nor either of his kin said a word. They simply padded down amid the rocks until they stood beside Torin at the lip of the entrance. Before Torin could try again to express his desire to proceed by himself, the natives started down the ramp.

Torin shook his head. There was obviously no way to escape them at this point. And, in truth, he still needed them. As fearful as he was of the sacrifice they seemed intent on making, it might mean the death of all should he try to navigate the ruined labyrinth on his own.

Still he waited, hoping they might stop to turn around—or at least look back. He waited until he could no longer see them in that engulfing darkness.

With a deep breath and a final look at the moonlit heavens, Torin hefted the Sword and followed.

B
EYOND HIS GLOBE OF CRIMSON
light, the blackness remained impenetrable. Ahead and to either side, Torin could scarcely make out the shadowy forms of his Mookla’ayan guides, who paced along at the farthest edges of the Sword’s glow.
Like swimming the ocean floor
, he thought,
cold and blind
,
not knowing what hunts us…

He fought to remain alert, to keep his senses attuned to his uncertain surroundings. Even with the Sword, he found it difficult. A numbing exhaustion had set in, both physical and emotional, in the hours since he had entered the ruins. His head and heart were still reeling. Annleia cared for him. She had said as much—even if he wasn’t certain he could trust the words. At the same time, she could not bear to be with him. Not before she had discovered what remained of her people. Not until the both of them took some time apart from each other to consider their true feelings.

In the meantime, it was up to him to vanquish this bane.
Close the rift between these worlds and destroy the Illysp utterly.
That had been Ravar’s command to him. In His own spiteful manner, the Dragon God had even offered reassurance concerning the Sword.
Its power could consume a form even such as mine.
But how was he to unlock it?
The answer to that lies within…The key to the Sword is something the wielder must divine for himself.

He had been thinking of that more than anything else. For if he failed here, whatever future he might salvage would be short-lived. Despite his anguish and confusion, despite his fear of ambush, he studied the Sword as he marched, watching the play of its inner flames and reviewing the times in which he had seen them unleashed, seeking vainly for a clue as to how he might will them forth.

The first had been against the jailor at Leaven, who had attempted to pry a heartstone from the Sword’s hilt. Torin might trigger the talisman’s defenses in a similar fashion, he supposed, but would likely destroy only himself in the process. After all, he and his companions had watched the unfortunate thief be consumed before their eyes—bones, dagger, and all—while they and their surroundings had gone virtually unscathed.

The presence of magic offered better hope. Spithaera’s attack upon the ramparts of Morethil had shown him that the Sword would not allow itself or its wielder to be touched by preternatural assault. Torin had used that lesson to save Marisha’s life—and his own—in the Demon Queen’s lair. Even before that, he had used it to cut through and burn away the illusory door
with which Spithaera had warded the entrance to her cave. If it could destroy one door…

Yet Ravar had described the portal as a rift. He was to somehow
create
a seal, not burn one away. Even if this doorway was of a magical nature, how could a weapon meant to
open
wounds be used to
close
one?

It couldn’t. Not without the Sword’s full power, anyway. Were the weapon’s basic properties enough, Algorath would have put them to use before.

Which inevitably brought him back to the primary question: how to unleash those inner flames. A maddening cycle—particularly since he had examined these matters in his mind countless times already. But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t let go. As ill suited as he was to solving this riddle, there was no one else.

His only solace came from his silent comrades, who continued to lead him bravely along his prior path. Or so he assumed. Sections of it were completely unfamiliar to him. During his first trek through this labyrinth, his small company had wasted hours traveling one way, then another, doubling back, turning around, and doubling back again. Not so this time. U’uyen had evidently memorized the most direct path to the catacombs through the city’s warren of halls and corridors and interconnecting passages. More than once already, Torin had given silent thanks to the steady elf for his unerring guidance. For, as he had feared, all traces of his former steps had been scoured away by the legions of Illychar who had no doubt combed the ruins for days, even weeks, before finding their way to the surface.

In a way, the fiends had made it easier for him. In places where he and his friends had originally relied upon ropes and stairs, the Illychar had built crude ramps or even punched through walls, eliminating the need to climb and descend as often as he had before. There was a great deal more rubble and dust to wade through, but the sure-footed Mookla’ayans were doing well in finding the safest, most efficient path, allowing Torin to concentrate less on their march, and more on what lay at its end.

Now and then, however, he would come across a chamber he remembered clearly—such as the feast hall in which they had entered or the dance hall in which one of the marble staircases had crumbled beneath him. At such times, he couldn’t help but marvel at the way his memories would come billowing forth like a cloud of dust. It seemed a lifetime and longer since he had last made this journey, and yet there were parts of it that might have happened only yesterday. It caused him to think of his other adventures, and the memories he had already begun to leave behind. To Dyanne and others, he wanted so badly to hold on. But would he be able to cling to their fast-fading images without similar reminder?

The question arose anew as they entered a small chapel, marked by its rotted benches, a crumbling altar, and broken statuary. Its fragmented remains, miraculously preserved, had been further smashed and splintered by the Illychar hordes, but Torin felt certain that this was the same prayer room that adjoined the royal cathedral.

He was getting close.

The thought sent a tingle up his spine, and the Sword’s aura brightened. U’uyen glanced back at him, then proceeded forward.

Sure enough, their path led them through a priest’s private quarters and down a long, narrow corridor that bypassed a series of empty chambers. A ruined cathedral awaited them at its end, and beyond that, a foyer, with new passages branching off in three different directions. The one U’uyen selected led down a battle-scarred hall, capped by a large archway. Torin recalled having wondered before at the damage sustained in this section. Looking again at the mangled gates that lay strewn about this opening to the royal catacombs, and thinking of the thousands upon thousands of vacant grave beds below, he suddenly had a clear picture of the truth.

Like the assault that had convinced King Thelin to abandon Souaris, Thrak-Symbos had fallen from within.

Through the arch and down the stair they went, the four of them now pressed close. An earthen floor lay at the base of the rough-hewn well. U’uyen hesitated, as if stung by the memory of the “devil’s bite” that had once warded the curving hall beyond. But the removal of the Sword had eliminated that and all other magical snares set in place below to thwart would-be treasure hunters and keep the Illysp seal intact. The portal was clear.

Torin tried to take the lead, convinced that he knew the way from this point on, but U’uyen and the others held him back. All three elves tightened their grip upon the hafts of their weapons, giving Torin pause. U’uyen’s eyes seemed to gleam with solemn warning.

Then they were through and into the cavernous, dome-shaped crypt serving as the entrance hall to the catacombs. Here, a central slab lay covered with rags, with earthen debris piled at its base. Toppled suits of armor kept watch from the encircling walls, alongside the skeletal remains of past adventurers too far gone to be raised as Illychar. Torin glanced at the floor to his left and found the shattered pieces of an ancient iron blade that had once masqueraded as the Sword of Asahiel. A cruel illusion—and not the last his life had offered.

A number of tunnels led from the crypt, branching off into an almost limitless web of intersecting grave-rings and burial chambers. Fortunately, they did not have far to travel before reaching the shallow alcove that Torin had believed to be an ornamental inlay, but that had actually covered an access tunnel to an even deeper level of the complex. The portal had been widened considerably. By the looks of it, an ogre might be able to pass through while barely stooping its ugly head.

One of the Powaii sniffed and said something to U’uyen. The chieftain’s reply was short and quick. All three looked at Torin before entering the sloped passageway, delving deeper into the darkness.

The lower burial corridor stretched away to either side. They turned left, ignoring the empty niches that had once served as deathbeds, and soon passing the first of many large, wormlike holes in the rock walls. Torin wondered
what had become of the pack of serpentine lizards that had previously infested these tunnels. Basilisks, Annleia had called them, upon hearing that portion of his tale. Most likely, the emerging Illychar had slaughtered them, else chased them all away.

Even so, he held the Sword tighter, his flesh clammy as he ventured past ring after ring of grave-lined passages and through one central crypt after another. On this occasion, there was no telltale light to illuminate the one he needed. The blue-glowing slab of granite that had blockaded the antechamber in which the Sword and seal had rested had been dispelled. Still, he knew the crypt before he came upon it—knew it by the chill in his blood, the rank smell in the air. He saw its gaping maw just ahead now, and felt it beckoning to him as if in challenge.

His Powaii warders slowed, but did not halt. They could feel it, too. Like him, they were wary, but understood the senselessness in hesitating now.

They crossed the threshold, leaving the corridor behind. The cavern opened up around them. Torin could no longer see the walls, only the insistent blackness that enveloped the Sword’s aura of light. He willed it outward, straining to see more. The Sword responded. A mound of rubble filled the floor, broken from the ceiling during Kylac’s fight with the basilisk. Buried emotions were stirred. He remembered his fear, his fury, as he had battled beside the warrior youth, thinking it to be his last act upon this earth. He saw again the struggle as it had played out: Kylac’s whirring blades, the creature’s whiplike movements, the blasts of lightning launched from its mouth. As real now as it had been then. And yet, something felt out of place…

U’uyen circled left, and Torin followed. His stomach clenched when he saw it: the vacant doorway to the crypt’s antechamber. In the darkness beyond lay the shattered Illysp seal. One way or the other, his journey was set soon to end.

He continued forward bravely, defiantly, feet crunching upon the scattered bits of debris at his feet, while his senses continued to scream in unheeded warning.

The final doorway loomed nearer, grew larger, a demon’s throat opening wide. Instead of entering, U’uyen stepped past, and took a defensive stance against possible pursuit. Torin glanced back into the main chamber, but sensed nothing.

He waited for the others, but they joined their chieftain in blocking off the doorway. Torin frowned, yet decided at last to have a look within.

The chamber of the Sword was much as he remembered it. Smaller than the parent crypt, yet spacious enough that he could only scarcely see the walls, still riddled with basilisk holes. He remembered how the beasts had fled when the seal had been destroyed—the foul gust that had chased them away and simultaneously signaled the Illysp rebirth. Shivering at the recollection, he looked to the center of the room, to the pit that now lay where an altar had stood—crowned by the Dragon Orb and the Sword of Asahiel. This pit, like so many others, had been gashed wide, and a pile of stones stacked against
its inner lip. A ramp by which the denizens of a prior age had climbed into man’s own.

For him, a descent into the Abyss.

He took his first step toward the gaping floor-cleft when he heard the scraping, skittering, of metal against stone. His heart spiked with recognition, then froze with fear. He looked to the holes in the surrounding walls, but the sound did not come from there. It came from farther out—the crypt itself.

He scampered toward the doorway blocked by his Powaii comrades. The rasping had grown louder, echoing from every niche and corner. He suddenly realized what was missing from the scene of his prior battle.

The carcass of the slain basilisk.

U’uyen nudged him with an elbow, a clear indication to go back. Torin ignored it, gazing with cold dread at the first of the basilisks that emerged writhing from their holes. They did not approach right away, but rather waited for others to appear. The chamber was quickly flooded with them, hissing and snarling, silver skins reflecting the Sword’s bloody light.

Torin recognized the dragonoid intelligence in their eyes—along with the madness that now gripped them. Illychar. By their patient positioning, he could see that they were sniffing for additional intruders, as well as sealing off any escape for those already pinned.

U’uyen pressed a hand against his chest, shoving him back toward the antechamber, more insistent than before. Torin understood what was being asked of him, but knew as well that three Powaii could not possibly repel this swarm of creatures for long.

“You need me,” he said.

A scintillating energy blast rocked the chiseled doorframe in response. Rock fragments rained down upon his head. The forward basilisks came in a frenzied rush. Torin acted almost without thought, hacking into the stone above, bringing it down in chunks. Thankfully, the elves understood his intent, and backed away from the sudden shower, into the antechamber. More lightning struck the growing mound and the wall around it, but that only further weakened the wall and ceiling, causing it to crumble faster.

He, too, had to back up, as blocks and boulders tumbled. Grit filled his mouth and clawed at his eyes. A stone bit his ankle, which flared with pain. He slipped and staggered and would have fallen backward directly into the room’s pit, except that U’uyen caught his arm and held him aloft.

While he perched there, suspended, the Powaii chieftain peered into his eyes and pointed down into the opening. Torin glanced at it, then looked back to the barrier he had just helped to create. Little more than a curtain, probably, to creatures accustomed to coring through solid rock. Already, he could hear them on the other side, scrabbling to get through.