The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (9 page)

The chain links of his gorget prevented the wood from stabbing through. Nevertheless, the soldier choked and dropped his blade to clutch his wounded neck with both hands. A poor shield, as the Nameless One took aim and buried the tip of his spade just a bit higher, in the soft flesh below his enemy’s chin.

The nearly decapitated soldier was still thrashing as a comrade rushed to his aid. The Nameless One snatched up the fallen sword in time to parry the first blow, then rang back a pair of his own. He battered his opponent relentlessly, reveling in the vibrations of steel on steel, snarling with bestial delight. Fear crept into his assailant’s eyes, which widened when his blade tore through the man’s heart.

He ripped free, the taste of blood in his mouth, desperate for more. When no adversary approached, his gaze swept out in search. Bodies lay throughout the grove. One of the Fasor was down. The other had happened upon a crossbow and was trading volleys with the marksmen across the stream—just two of them, now. Despite being outnumbered by the pair, and though riddled with bolts, his Illychar brother seemed to have that battle well in hand.

Vorric Haze, however, appeared hard-pressed. Half a dozen swordsmen encircled him, with a set of crossbowmen lending cover from afar. The Sword had kept him alive, and yet he had done little real harm. Too much offense, and not enough defense against his opponents’ carefully coordinated attacks. Where he should have held fast and let them close round, he instead wasted time chasing after one or another, thirsting for blood. Invariably, his target would dance away, refusing to engage the Sword, and while Haze’s attention was focused in pursuit, the others would close from the sides, scoring nicks and stings. He who scored most deeply would then draw the Illychar’s ire; rather than finish the man he’d been after, Haze would start a fresh pursuit, and the process would begin anew.

It would take quite a while to bring Haze down in such a fashion, but if they could bait him long enough into chasing after their shifting feints, that combination of blades and quarrels might actually succeed in finishing him.

The Nameless One gritted his teeth at a fresh stab of pain, and looked
down to find a bolt in the fleshy part of his leg. A bolt intended for Haze, he was sure, but that didn’t matter to him.

With surging bloodlust, he dashed across the tiny clearing, leaping the open grave from which he’d been dug and roaring past a swordsman who turned to meet his attack. Weapons clanged, but he charged on by, unslowed by injury, undeterred by pain. It only reminded him that after millennia of longing, physical life was now his.

He dove into the trees, howling with rage, caring not for the bolts that whizzed past as others turned aim to their comrade’s defense. The doomed crossbowman looked up while cranking his own bolt into place. He should have dropped the weapon and gone for his dagger. Before he could raise it to fire, a meaty hack took his head.

Less than five paces away, another was prepping his next bolt, features tight with concentration. But the Nameless One had only to retrieve the fully loaded crossbow from his latest victim, take aim, and squeeze the trigger. The soldier’s focus gave way to shock as the quarrel punched a hole in his brain.

He turned, then, charging the remaining marksman with sword in hand. A hastily fired bolt missed his heart, striking his shoulder instead. His yelp became a growl. He clenched his jaw and bore down. The marksman drew a blade, a shortsword. The Nameless One feigned a cleaving stroke that his opponent raised his guard to meet. Only as their bodies were about to collide did he lower his own weapon, while reaching up with one hand to seize the man’s wrist. The borrowed longsword bit deep, ripping a strangled cry from the impaled soldier’s lungs.

He swept the bloody ground like a rabid animal, foaming at the mouth, vision glazed with mind-numbing fury. He happened upon the other’s crossbow and a belt full of unused quarrels. He fitted one to the string, stomping on his adversary’s throat when the dying man tried to rise. As the man gurgled and squirmed beneath him, he searched for a target.

The marksmen on this side of the stream were gone. Within the grove, Haze had brought the number of swordsmen down to five, but the rest still had him fighting according to their strategy. Lunging and retreating, they continued to work the Illychar into a hapless frenzy. Had the old man known anything about group tactics, he would have recognized what was being done to him. Instead of trusting the Sword, he was fighting to bend it to his own will. The Nameless One seethed. Put
him
in the same position, and this battle would already be over.

And then they had him. Two in back and one in front had positioned Haze between the pair on either flank, setting up a killing combination. The Sword arced out to the right, chopping through a descending broadsword, but instead of spinning back to thwart the other, Haze drove on in search of blood.

The Nameless One had seen it coming, and his crossbow was already leveled at the soldier’s neck. It was a quick shot, off the mark. His quarrel struck
the other in the side—not enough to slay him, but enough to thwart the lethal blow on Haze’s exposed back.

Haze seemed to realize this as he turned at the other’s cry and took advantage of the soldier’s temporary paralysis to cut him clean in half just below the chest. The Elder actually nodded at the Nameless One and his empty crossbow before being pressed back into battle.

The outcome had been decided. The four remaining soldiers, including one who relied now on ancillary blades, could not stop Haze on their own. But the Nameless One was not nearly sated by the blood he had already spilt. Tearing the bolt from his shoulder and his sword from the corpse at his feet, he bounded forward to join the melee.

Madness gripped him as he crashed his way into the center of the soldier ring. Back to back, he and Haze hacked and stabbed, stepping over the bodies of their victims, circling within the midst of those weaving blades. When first one and then another fell beneath fiery strokes of the Crimson Sword, he expected the remaining pair to flee. They did not. And when both focused on Haze, the Nameless One drove his sword tip through the back of one’s skull, so that the blade emerged somewhere on the other side of the fool’s face.

By the time he had gained the leverage to tug his weapon free, his brother was tearing the Sword across the final man’s stomach. The soldier stood there stupidly for a moment, then slumped to his knees, cradling his intestines.

Haze stared at the man, his chest heaving with triumph. The Nameless One joined him.

“What say you, brother?” Haze wheezed, though he could not have been winded with the Sword’s power coursing through him. Nor would his Illychar body have suffered in any case. “An arm for each of us?”

The Nameless One was surprised by the invitation, but happy to accept it. With a vicious grin, he hefted his sword overhead.

Not to be outdone, Haze rushed to land his strike first. Both blades descended at almost the same moment, racing toward the helpless man’s shoulders.

A sheath of flames enveloped the Crimson Sword as it dove effortlessly through armor and clavicle. The Nameless One had to work a bit harder, even as he shifted his angle at the last moment in order to strike at Haze’s wrists.

As hands and Sword hit the ground, Vorric Haze fell back, gaping at his bloody stumps. The Nameless One did not wait, but lowered a shoulder and drove his brother sideways, knocking the stunned Illychar into the open grave pit.

While the other fell, he bent and took up the Sword, prying Haze’s fingers from the hilt. The waves of power, both fresh and familiar, billowed through him, awakening his senses as they should have been all along, and causing him to close his eyes in sweet rapture.

He kept them closed as Haze’s howl tore through the woods, exulting in its anguish, before opening them as the cry expired.

“You should not have forgotten your suspicions against me, brother. The Sword can do little to aid the unwary, or fully defend a wielder who is too narrowed in his focus. You would have learned this in time, I’m sure.”

Again Haze howled, though the Nameless One ignored him in order to face the Illychar guardsman who limped near. His hair and clothes were dripping wet—evidence of a swim, perhaps. A dozen bolts protruded from his flesh like spines.

The guardsman seemed to realize this after taking in the scene. Showing no concern over what had happened to Haze, he reached down and tore one of the bolts free.

“All clear,” he snarled, and flung the quarrel aside.

Only then did the Nameless One recall the bolt still buried in his own thigh. He removed it with a twist and a yank, grunting as the barbed head took with it a small chunk of meaty flesh.

“Then the time has come to be on our way.”

Haze roared again and tried to scramble from the pit along its access slope, only to fall when he tried to use hands that were no longer there.

“Here, brother,” the Nameless One offered, crouching to retrieve the severed hands and fling them into the pit. “Take these.”

Spit flew from Haze’s lips. “I’ll gnaw on your bones before this is done!”

The guardsman approached. The Nameless One brandished the Sword in warning, though his eyes remained fixed on Haze.

“What do you mean to do with him?” the other asked.

“He tried to take what was mine. So let him have it,” he decided, kicking a handful of dirt into Haze’s face.

The guardsman grinned, moving to fetch the broken spade still lodged in the neck of the Nameless One’s first victim. Haze did not need to see this to know what was intended, and reacted frantically.

“I suggest you hold still, brother, lest you find yourself lying there in carefully dismembered pieces.”

“I am not your enemy!”

“So prove it now. Accept your punishment, and perhaps I shall return someday to set you free. The alternative will be much less pleasant, I promise you.”

The guardsman snickered as he returned with the broken spade and began shoveling loose earth upon his former leader. Electing a glimmer of hope over none at all, Haze seemed to ignore the task itself, fixating on he who had ordered it.

His stare might have melted iron from ore, but the Nameless One only basked in the heat of its glow. With the Sword in hand, he gave feel to the carnage around him and wished there were more to kill. No matter. He knew well enough where his allies and enemies could be found—and battle joined. With power such as this—

The thought terminated abruptly, forced aside by a blinding revelation. Power such as this was only the beginning. For as he watched Haze’s entomb
ment, he was reminded of another weapon, one equal in measure, perhaps, to the Sword itself. Should he be able to unearth that weapon and bend it to his will, he might transcend the designs of gods and avatars alike. There would be no limits to the horror he would inflict, no bounds to his savagery.

His visions carried off with him, until he became convinced they represented no mere fantasy, but an attainable goal. Haze was immobilized, buried to the chest in freshly packed earth, when the Nameless One finally came to with the need for action.

“Your name, brother?”

The guardsman paused. “Dral Morga.”

“Dral Morga. I go to fetch a horse,” he said, expecting that the mounts this squad had ridden would be found nearby. “When you have finished, depart this area at once. Seek those of our kind driven into these woods. Summon all you can, all our scattered forces, and bid them rally to join those awaiting us to the east.”

Morga nodded. “And who shall I say commands us?”

Again he searched for a name to properly describe himself. This time, he found it easily.

“Itz lar Thrakkon,” he replied.

The Boundless One.

“T
HEN YOU ARE NOT
R
OGUN’S
man?” Allion asked, looking Nevik directly in the eye.

The baron of Drakmar sighed. He had just finished explaining to Allion his role in Rogun’s secret defense campaign, and the reasons for it. With the lines of communication running through his lands in southern Alson, it hadn’t been difficult to see false word concerning the general’s whereabouts ferried back and forth between Krynwall and the Gaperon—leading each group to believe that Alson’s legions were with the other. In so doing, he had provided Rogun the cover needed to smuggle their troops back into the capital city, where they had lain in wait for just the sort of ambush the Illychar had eventually executed—a trap that could have been launched
against
the crown as easily as for it.

“I am my own man, Allion. I did as I believed I must. If I erred in doing so, then the best apology I can make is to take action now to undo my mistake.”

In truth, he hadn’t been given a great deal of choice. Rogun might have easily overpowered the beleaguered barony had he so chosen—which, in fact, had been Allion’s initial fear. But Nevik claimed that he had not sided with Rogun for that reason alone. He had done so because he, like everyone else, was suspicious of Darinor, about whom they knew so little, and of the renegade Entient’s unconventional strategy. To his ears, Rogun’s reasoning was much more sound. Should the Illychar mass elsewhere, the troops secreted away at Krynwall could always redeploy. Better to placate the general in this, a logical course, he had decided, than to denounce him and risk spurring him into even more forceful action against the crown.

“I wouldn’t say you erred,” Allion replied with a sigh of his own. How could he? Were it not for Rogun’s actions—and Nevik’s support—the city would already belong to the Illysp. It was the idea of betrayal, more than the actions themselves, that had troubled him. “I fear for our future, is all.”

“As do I. Rogun is an uncompromising leader. But my father always respected him, despite their many disagreements. While I cannot say I favor all of his views, at this point, there is no one I would sooner charge with Alson’s defense.”

“You agree that something must be done to help the others, then?”

“I do,” Nevik admitted, “though I see not how. You’ll not get Rogun to budge on the topic of troop deployment. I tried to convince him to leave a
battalion behind in the south to help reinforce our own citadels as he meant to reinforce Krynwall. He refused. Having heard of what happened here, you can see why I leapt at Troy’s offer.”

The baron had explained that, as well. Like most, he had found himself in recent weeks at a crossroads. Half his people had already fled north to Krynwall or south to Souaris, having recognized, as did he, the slim chances of defending themselves against this new scourge—especially given the chaos so recently endured. Drakmar’s garrison was small and sapped of strength, with many of its soldiers desiring to leave as well, rather than remain to protect stubborn stragglers. In short, the baron had claimed, Drakmar was a barren atoll, and the tide was rising.

When Commander Troy had come to him with a mounted division in tow and demanded accountability for Nevik’s false courier reports, the baron had resigned himself to traveling south to explain himself to King Thelin. Before they could set forth, however, word had arrived from Krynwall of an Illychar uprising that had been crushed and scattered—redirected south, in great part—and Torin slain. At that, Troy had pointed out the obvious: Drakmar could no longer risk defending itself. The commander had offered to guide the remainder of its citizenry south to Souaris. Nevik himself could join their coalition, else add his troops to Krynwall’s. Whichever he chose, he could not be expected to remain.

Nevik had been only too happy to accept. Their people had fled south before, during the wizard’s invasion, and in truth had never really settled back in. His father had always taught him that lands were less important than those who tended them. Still, he would not abandon Palladur, their fellow barony to the west. Troy had agreed to wait, should her people come without delay. Word had been sent; Palladur had concurred. By dawn, Nevik imagined, the united peoples of southern Alson would be en route to Kuuria under military escort. Trusting Troy to make it so, the baron himself had ridden north, with a regiment of personal guard, to witness the fate of Krynwall firsthand, and to lend what guidance he could in the absence of the king.

And yet, as quickly as he had come, it would seem too late. Given Thaddreus’s treachery, Rogun had quickly torn through what remained of the Circle’s resistance. Clearly, they were not yet safe—within or without. Preying on their collective fears, the general had convinced them to let him rectify that, by whatever means he saw fit.

“You have served your people well,” Allion agreed finally, “and in a time of great crisis. Though it may not be fair to ask this of you, you are Alson’s rightful king—”

“Am I?” Nevik asked hollowly.

The baron’s gaze slipped to the fire that warmed his sitting chambers, contained in the hearth before which the pair of them stood. As brightly as it burned, the flickering light failed to penetrate the many dark furrows creasing the young man’s brow. Nor could it dispel the inky pools gathered beneath his
bloodshot eyes. Allion might have urged the other to rest, had he not known himself to look about the same.

“Not even Rogun can deny it,” he assured the baron with more confidence than he felt. “If you were to formally stake your claim, the people would welcome it. Rogun would have no choice but to…”

His words slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether as Nevik shook his head.

“You presume too much, my friend. That the people would offer me the crown, or that I even wish to wear it.” The baron eyed him pointedly, then moved to cut short his forthcoming protest. “I would accept the burden, of course, if I truly thought it would help. But who is to say that Rogun would then offer his support? Should he refuse, where would the army’s allegiance lie? I might be able to jail him, but is that what this land needs? Which commander would replace him?”

Allion closed his mouth, which he realized was still hanging open.

“No, my friend, a challenge such as you suggest might only lead to greater internal strife, with little to be gained in return. As I said before, while I do not agree with all of Rogun’s decisions, Krynwall is safer with him in charge. This ‘cleansing’ of his is necessary, I believe, after what happened with Darinor and now Thaddreus—though we will have to wait and see how the people react. And his refusal to divide the legions at this point makes sense from a military standpoint. Hard acts, yes, but
were
I king, I’m not sure I would undo them.”

It was Allion now who averted his gaze, though only for a moment. “Then what
will
you do?” he demanded softly.

Nevik reached up to lean forward upon the mantel. “For now, I shall offer to do as General Rogun asks of me. Perhaps in doing so I can further gain his trust, and use that to the eventual advantage of our people.”

“And if he has no use for you?”

“Then I will journey south to verify that my people find safety in Kuuria. If I hurry, I might catch them before they reach Souaris.” He paused. “And you?”

“I cannot sit here and do nothing when I know others are threatened,” Allion responded. He tried not to make it sound like an accusation. “I shall head east, I think, in pursuit of Corathel, to lend what aid I can.”

Nevik frowned. “Alone?”

“If I had troops of my own to command, they would already be en route. Perhaps I can find a volunteer or two among the City Shield, should Rogun permit it.”

“I would feel better if you did. Either way, we’ll ride together, among my personal regiment, until our roads diverge.” Before Allion could decide if thanks were in order, the baron fixed him with a solemn stare. “Whatever doubts you may harbor, do not forget that Torin was my friend, and you like his brother. I am your ally in this, to whatever end.”

Allion watched the firelight play across Nevik’s bearded cheeks, and found
no crack in the baron’s expression. Unable to fashion a proper response, he merely nodded. For a moment after, both men peered into the flames, as if they might find their flagging strength within.

It was Nevik who broke the silence. “What of the Sword?”

Allion winced. All of a sudden, he regretted the demanding stance he had taken with the baron when he had first invaded the man’s chambers—as if to insist upon an apology for the choices the other had made. If anything,
he
should have been the one to beg forgiveness, for
his
choices were the ones that had already had a profoundly negative impact upon their struggle.

There was no sign of reproach in Nevik’s tone or bearing, only a workmanlike resignation, which made the hunter feel all the worse.

“As much as I’d like to personally repay Thaddreus for what he did to Pagus and Marisha, I think the matter is best left to those Rogun has already sent.”

Nevik’s brow lifted in obvious surprise. “You are certain of this?”

“As certain as I can be,” Allion replied, surprised himself at the ease of his decision. “I feel an utter fool for having let it slip away, but the Sword was never meant for me. If Rogun desires it, then let him be the one to worry about it.”

There was more to it than that, of course. Truthfully, he had grown tired of chasing after that single talisman to the detriment of all else. Up until now, what had it truly won them? He saw it as a standard and little more—a distraction when there were already lives at stake. He had felt that way from the very beginning, when Torin—Jarom—had insisted upon hunting for the legendary weapon. After nearly losing Marisha because of it, he would be just as happy if he never saw the damn thing again.

The look Nevik gave him suggested that the baron suspected at least some of the angst behind his reasoning.

“Should I be given the chance, I would of course do what I could to retrieve the weapon,” Allion added, “but for now, I’d rather focus on the more immediate needs of those in peril.”

Nevik searched his face a moment longer, then nodded slowly. “I suppose we should have our talk with the general, then—unless you’d rather rest and wait until morning.”

Allion laughed mirthlessly. “I do believe the midnight hour has come and gone. The sooner we speak with him, the sooner we can make plans to be on our way.”

“Agreed.” The baron pushed himself from the hearth. Before he turned away, however, he asked abruptly, “You have family here within the city, do you not?”

The hunter nodded. “Parents and siblings, as well as other friends who survived the attack on Diln. Why?”

“On their lives, I swear to you, I’ll not abandon Krynwall. I will see to it that Rogun remains sensible in his course. If he does not, he shall wish otherwise.”

Once again, Allion could only stare at his friend in mute bewilderment.

“That is the reassurance you would have of me, is it not?”

The hunter swallowed and bowed, chastising himself for having ever doubted the young baron’s loyalty.

Even though, deep down, he knew Nevik’s vow would prove easier to make than to keep.

“Y
OU ACTUALLY MEAN TO DO
this, then?”

Htomah regarded the other innocently. “Do what?”

“Come, Htomah,” Quinlan said, closing the room’s portal with a wave of his hand, “do not presume me a fool. We both know what you are up to.” His gaze fell upon the leather satchel half filled with personal artifacts and provisions.

Htomah scowled before turning back to his work. “Then you already know the answer to your question, do you not?”

“I know what you are planning. But I do not believe you foolish enough to actually carry it out.”

“Have you brought the others, then?”

“You know they will not force you to stay. That is not our way.”

“Then why should you?” Htomah grumbled, carefully arranging another set of possessions to be left behind forever.

Quinlan stepped closer. “My friend, you are acting in anger. The council—”

“Of course I am angry!” Htomah snapped, whirling upon his comrade.

“You would have me sanction blindness and idiocy with a smile upon my face?”

“I admit, their ridicule is unnecessary.”

“Their ridicule I can tolerate. You know me too well, Quinlan, to believe me troubled by that.”

“Well then, if you would but take time to consider—”

“
Time?
I have taken all that there is and more.” He should have departed the moment Torin had perished, but had waited. He should then have left when the Sword fell into Thaddreus’s hands, but had delayed long enough to see if Rogun could recover it. Having watched that attempt fail, he had had enough. Waiting had afforded them only greater loss, so he would wait no longer.

“If matters are as dire as you fear,” Quinlan remarked, “then why act now, when it is already too late?”

“Because
something
must be done. We helped sow the seeds of this calamity. We cannot simply turn our backs to the chaos that has flowered as a result.”

“So you have urged us in council. If you’ll recall, not all have disagreed. There is a proper course to be taken here, and the action you are now contemplating is not it.”

Htomah smiled sadly upon his fellow Entient. Quinlan’s protests were born of a genuine sympathy, which he did in fact appreciate. But even his
friend did not fully understand. The time for debate and propriety had long since passed. Darinor’s treachery had put them in a hole from which mankind might not be able to recover. The others refused action now because they had refused action before; to reverse their stance would be to admit that they had been mistaken all along. Pride had made them intractable—a fault often found and criticized in their human charges, yet they did not see it in themselves.

Even now, when it could very well destroy them all.

“As you plainly note, I am well beyond mere contemplations. You, my friend, may be happy to sit and observe and hope for the best, but I will no longer stand idle after all that I have witnessed.”