The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (12 page)

If nothing else, he had to get close enough to Torin to extract the information he needed as to Kylac’s whereabouts. His city informant, Faldron, had failed him miserably on that count. According to the late armorer, none in the palace had any idea as to the youth’s destination. Xarius had to believe otherwise, had to believe that Torin, of all people, could provide him with a stronger lead.

Upon the moss-grown rooftop overlooking the alley, Xarius hissed a private oath. All of that had been within reach, but was now slipping away through the soggy brume. Perhaps he should have risked killing this Arn. It would have been a simpler matter to secure passage for himself and his prisoner aboard a slaver’s vessel than that of a wealthy and well-armed merchant. Thieves were so much easier to barter with.

A temporary setback, the assassin assured himself. The journey was young. His opportunity would come.

Keeping to the crowded rooftops, he set off in pursuit.

N
O SOONER HAD
T
ORIN
stepped aboard the
Pirate’s Folly
than he began to question his decision in doing so. Even in port, the great ship lurched and swayed, rocked gently by windswept harbor swells. Like a living creature, it tossed restlessly, heaving and then settling to an unsteady cadence.

But it was not the motions that troubled him. Rather, it was the roiling doubts, the fears and suspicions with which he’d been plagued since the night of Darinor’s coming. Why was he doing this? What had possessed him to give such credence to what could only be considered a madman’s account? Surely he’d not been told enough to merit this hazardous journey, undertaken at a moment’s notice. Were it not for Marisha, would he have believed a word of what the renegade Entient had told him? Or would he have listened to Allion and turned a deaf ear?

And Allion, faithful Allion, upon whom Torin had thrust the burden of a ruined kingdom, a land and monarchy in disarray. In all likelihood, General Rogun was already breathing down his neck. Allion, who had always supported his endeavors, both sane and otherwise. Left behind with a mountain of responsibility and scarcely a word of farewell.

His friend deserved better. So convinced was Torin of this that he very nearly spun around and headed for the gangplank. It was not too late to turn back, to relieve the man of this burden, to take Marisha in his arms and refuse to leave her, to face the consequences of his actions head-on. For in some respects, it felt as if he were running away. Should he take too long, or fail in his quest altogether, who would pay the price? His closest friends. His dearest loved ones. While he was half a world away.

“Are you all right, sir?”

Torin looked up to find fish-eyed Cordan peering back at him, wondering why he had stopped. The others marched on ahead, boots thudding on the wooden planking, oblivious to their lord’s reservations as they followed Brand, a freckled ship’s boy, to their cabins belowdecks.

“Just fine, Bearer,” Torin lied, addressing the other by his rank within the City Shield.

“Is it the ship, sir?” Cordan pressed. “I’m told not all adapt well to life at sea.”

Torin saw past the other’s concern to the nervousness haunting his young eyes.

“You’ll do well, my friend. Of that much I’m certain.”

He hefted the strap of his leather pack and forced a smile. Cordan smiled bravely in return. He was doing what he had to, Torin reminded himself. His misgivings were only natural, brought on by a sense of upheaval, of venturing into the unknown.

Only, no amount of rationalization could change the way he felt.

Together, they hurried after the others in their party, ducking aside as sailors bustled about, carrying out duties in preparation for their departure. The ship was like a nest of spiders, teeming with activity. Men scurried about the decks, clung to the rigging, even swung about the outer hull on lines and harnesses. Measurements were being taken, gear stowed, crates lashed into place. It was a good thing they’d been accepted aboard as guardsmen, because Torin wouldn’t have had the first idea as to how he might contribute any other way.

Captain Jorkin, it had turned out,
had
heard of Torin and his recent adventures. As such, he’d been thrilled to welcome the other aboard his vessel, even leaving behind half a dozen of his own men to make room. The only price was that he should get to glimpse this talisman of divine creation up close, and to hear the truth of the rumors of this so-called War of the Demon Queen. This made Torin more than a little nervous, and he could not help but wonder what Jorkin’s plans might be for him and his company once they were trapped aboard the other’s ship.

Another disadvantage was that he’d been forced to divulge to both the captain and Arn the true purpose for his voyage. He hadn’t done so in any great detail, but it was made clear up front that his was a quest to find the Finlorians, to enlist their aid in a struggle against a dark threat emerged from their time upon these shores. A threat brought about by the retrieval of the Sword.

His candor had seemed to win him favor with the ship’s captain, and the decision had been made before he’d left the other’s office that space would be made before they embarked at dawn.

Of course, dawn had come and gone hours ago. Having been delayed already an entire day, Jorkin was in a fire to get under way. An assortment of officers, from the first mate to the master deckhand, were bellowing commands with thunder in their voices. Threats of docked wages, lashings, even an occasional keel haulkept the men hopping, but with the way things looked to Torin, they’d be lucky if the ship was ready to cast off on the morrow.

Somehow dodging the worst of the commotion, he and Cordan caught up to Bull and the others just as they reached the stairs leading down to their berths. Against Torin’s protest, Jorkin had afforded them a pair of apartments among the officers’ quarters. They needed no special treatment, Torin argued, but Jorkin had insisted. Taking it as a minor victory that he was not sleeping in the captain’s own billet, Torin had been the first to relent.

Now that he saw the truth of things, he was glad that he had. Ducking
below was like crawling into an animal’s burrow. The halls were tight, the ceilings low, the air moldy and close. The cabins themselves were closets, smaller than some of those he’d seen used as wardrobes in the royal palace. If these were officers’ accommodations, he shuddered to think of those in which he would find the crew.

“Will you require anything else then, sir?” Brand asked him upon showing him his room.

“Not a thing.” As he set his bag of provisions upon a feather-thin mattress, the frame beneath creaked and a rat was sent scurrying across the floorboards. “Please give my regards to the captain.”

“The captain requests that you and your men dine with him tonight in the officers’ lounge.”

“Again your captain is most gracious. We’ll be pleased to join him.”

Brand nodded without once making eye contact, and ducked from the room.

As soon as he’d left, Silas entered. “Can you believe this?”

“Could be worse.” Ulric’s voice echoed through the thin walls from across the corridor. “It’s better than being stuffed with the rest of the crew like rats in the hold.”

“Small difference. I just heard one scampering underfoot. And I’ve yet to see a woman on board.”

“That’s why the rats,” Kallen taunted. “You won’t need a woman with them to nibble on your ear.”

“Be quiet, all of you,” said Torin. “Any man wants to leave can do so now. Otherwise, be grateful for what we have.”

“Just wondering aloud, sir. Wondering how a man’s supposed to keep his wits together while buried in a floating coffin.”

“Well, do it silently from now on. We spoke of this before. Until we know we can trust these men, it’d be best not to show any sign of weakness.”

“As you say, sir,” Silas mumbled, making his way back to his room.

When their gear had been stowed, Torin led them back on deck to see if they couldn’t help make the ship ready. But after Ashwin was nearly decapitated by a swinging boom and Silas almost crushed by an incoming cargo crate, the prevalent opinion was that they could best serve by staying out of the way. Arn led them back to their quarters, and asked that they wait patiently until he came to retrieve them—which he promised to do as soon as they were ready to shove off.

It seemed as if that might never happen. With all that was going on, and all that had yet to be done, Torin feared they might be trapped in their stale cabins for days before the voyage even began. But the estimate proved grossly unfounded as Arn reappeared within the hour. The final boxes and barrels were loaded, calls of departure were made, and their vessel set sail from the pier, headed toward the open sea.

He could only hope that time would transpire as mercifully in the days ahead.

E
VHAN, CAPTAIN OF THE
C
ITY
S
HIELD,
strode quietly down the abandoned tunnel. A thick layer of dust stirred beneath his feet, while cobwebs tickled his arms and face. He brushed these aside as best he could and moved onward, using a torch to light his way. The air was stale, unused save by the rats and insects that scurried along the gutters and walls.

It had become a nightly ritual, the last step of his daily routine, to walk this tunnel and ensure that it remained clear. In actuality, it wasn’t a single tunnel, but a long string of interconnected passages, storerooms, and workshops that together comprised an emergency egress route for the royal inhabitants of the palace—those who knew of it, anyway. Not many did. Rumor had it, this was the route Queen Ellebe had used to escape the siege of the unknown wizard who had so briefly occupied the city before throwing in with the Demon Queen and disappearing when her armies had been vanquished. It had served its purpose then, and Evhan wanted to make sure that, if necessary, it could serve its purpose again.

As the eyewitness accounts of savage races continued to tighten around the city, that grim likelihood seemed an ever greater possibility. And Evhan had taken it upon himself, as Krynwall’s chief defender, to sweep these grounds to keep them free. If the worst came to pass, he would be able to lead his king, his regent, and any number of men out through these tunnels, so that even if the city fell, they might live to fight another day.

The odds of that happening were still remote, but Evhan took his newfound responsibilities seriously, and preferred to be prepared. As of yet, only he and a select few knew these scattered bands for what they were: Illychar, mortal creatures who owed their unnatural lives to the Illysp, parasitic souls that preyed on the bodies of men. Or at least, that’s how it had been described to him. Whether or not this was true, he would not have enemy creatures skulking the streets of his city or clogging its escape routes.

He’d told Allion that it all sounded a bit far-fetched to him. But deep down, he hoped the stories would prove real. Not that he wanted any great harm to befall the citizens of this nation, but he’d not enlisted in the City Shield just to wear down with measured paces the stones fronting some nobleman’s manor house—not even the king’s. He’d enlisted to make a difference, that he might defend the lives of others, even at the cost of his own. To live his life on the edge of a blade for the sense of excitement and satisfaction it would bring.

Even when alone, he found it difficult to contain his zeal. As he marched these deserted corridors, his imagination took hold, conjuring a gang of creatures just around the bend. A family of orcs, perhaps. Maybe even an ogre. A company of intruders to fall before his sword. He would raise the alarm, and disaster would be averted. He would make himself a hero.

Alas, on this night, nothing seemed different from the previous nights in which he had made this trek. The same fetid smells filled his nose; the same gentle squeaks raked his ears. It would not be long before this duty grew stale, and he passed it on to one of his subordinates. It was the idea, he supposed, more than anything. A route of secret escape. Every city was rumored to have them, like ghosts in the bell towers. But to have learned that it was actually
there, to have been charged with keeping it secure, had provided a thrill not easily dispelled.

He arrived at what appeared to be a dead end, where the tunnel emptied of mortar and bricks and ran aground of an earthen wall. Tools and materials lay stacked about as if the workers might return at any moment to finish what they’d begun. Except of course the tools were rusted, the masonry stones blanketed in dust and webs. Whoever had begun this task had not been back in awhile.

Evhan ducked left, into one of many niches that lined the unfinished walls. There he fished around until he found what he was looking for: in a hole in one of the rough-shaped blocks, behind a collection of loose stones, a rusted chain. He tugged, coughing against a light cloud of dust. A counterweight mechanism shifted, and an area of the floor within the niche fell away, lowered like a drawbridge on creaking chains.

On hands and knees, Evhan ducked through the opening, doing his best not to dislodge the dirt caked atop the lowered board. Below, he found himself in an earthen crawl space, tucked away beneath the rotting floorboards of an ancient charnel house. He pulled another chain to raise the concealed bridge, then peered ahead through the gloomy expanse. It was the worst stretch of the entire course, wide and flat, foul and confining. He held his breath as he scurried through, scooting awkwardly along beneath the waist-high ceiling in the manner of a trundling insect. At the other end lay a trapdoor, this one set in the wall. After using a dagger to pick at the inner latch, he flung it open, then pulled his body through.

He closed the door securely behind him. From this side, it looked to be a part of the walls that surrounded him, with the keyhole hidden inside the empty knot of a pinewood board. He was able to stand now, at least, hunched over within the square confines of a wooden crate. Without hesitation, he rose up, pushing open the top of the box. Finding the footholds, he stepped up and clear, lowering the lid once more.

The cellar was stacked high with barrels and crates, which helped to disguise the false one. Evhan strode quickly down the uneven aisles, following the trail of prints in the dust. He exited not through the door, but through another empty crate and wall gate. There was another tunnel, followed by another storeroom. This time, he took the main door and cut a sharp angle down the hall to another portal, this one shaped of metal, in the rock wall.

Passing through this door was like stepping into an oven—which was not altogether inaccurate. The cavern into which he’d emerged was that of a smelter, an underground area belonging to the larger complex of an ore refinery. The smelter was still used, along with the rest of the refinery, and was awash with the superheated temperatures required to melt stone and separate the metals from within. Fires burned within towering blast furnaces, controlled blazes that were never fully extinguished, even after the workers had gone home. Their deep glow gave off a sulfurous stench and painted the cavern eerie shades of blood.