The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (14 page)

A series of impacts rocked the blasted vessel, seeming to argue this point. But as the air cleared of splinters, Torin found the enemy sidling up close. Hooked lines were thrown forth, tethers to hold her in place, while bloodthirsty shouts echoed in the morning gloom.

As the ships ground together, a swarm of arrows cut through the air in either direction. Torin ducked and closed his eyes, listening to the splashes of men pitching overboard, and to the sharp thud of those bolts that missed their mark. Then a cry welled up from the enemy horde, and the takeover began.

Torin rose up to meet it, the Sword’s radiance a beacon in the mist. He followed Arn, who rushed forward to confront the first wave. Clave was beside him, but went down almost at once, a thrown dagger sticking from his eye. He had a vague sense of those at his heels—Cordan and Bull, Ashwin and Ulric, Silas and Kallen. Somehow, they had remained with him through the initial assault. Only to rise up and join him now within a whirlwind of death.

But it was too late to consider their safety or order them back. A fever had overtaken him—the calculated frenzy wrought by possession of the Sword. As always, it seemed an extension of his own will, only with a heightened awareness of the threat, a clearer understanding of his goal. It guided his hand as much as obeyed it, though he never felt in danger of losing control. His passion fueled it, and the Sword responded in turn, filling him with limitless energy, unbridled strength, an alert fervor that was nothing short of divine.

It did not take long to make a spectacle of himself. With each stroke, the radiant blade tore through whatever it came in contact with, be it armor or wood or bone. Each time, it did so wreathed in crimson flames—a protective sheath burst forth from within. When the stroke was finished, the flames vanished, retreating back within the depths of the polished blade, leaving it as perfect and pristine as before. Its glow undimmed, its beauty unmarred, it bathed him in an aura of ruby light, an unmistakable brilliance that lent strength to his companions and filled his enemies with awe.

But they kept coming, brandishing their weapons of iron and steel, feinting and dodging and drawing him on. Torin did not hesitate. He was being baited, he knew, even as he danced across the boarding plank that lay stretched between the ships, high above the black seas below. Nevertheless, their insolence troubled him. Surely, in just a few short moments, they had seen enough of his flaming blade to tuck tail and scurry away. And yet they refused to do so. Insulted by their lack of deference, Torin lunged ahead, determined to make them regret that decision.

Before he knew it, he was aboard the enemy schooner, his onslaught gone virtually unchallenged. But then, who could challenge him? Who could withstand the Crimson Sword, this talisman of gods and avatars, whose holy might had been used to shape the very earth? Even with just this small measure of its power, who could oppose his will? Certainly not a boatload of criminals, men who knew nothing of honor, only murder and greed.

The tumult enveloped him. There were cheers now, from both sides. Pressed from every quarter, Torin was too busy to give the matter more than a passing thought. Perhaps his foes thought him cornered. Perhaps they supposed he must eventually tire. Little did they know that he could dance like this forever, with flawless aim and lethal proficiency, turning aside his enemies’ blades while gradually using their own weariness against them.

Too late, Torin realized his mistake. It had happened to him before, and he cursed his foolishness for allowing it to happen again. During the Battle of Kraagen Keep, the first time he had wielded the Sword against an enemy, he had gone too far, allowed himself to be swept up in the undulating rush of power and forged too far afield of those he was fighting beside. As a result, he’d been cut off from his company, and only the Sword—and the warrior skills of Kylac Kronus—had saved him from a quick defeat.

His first indication were the warning shouts from the
Pirate’s Folly
. As he shifted focus just enough to see what had caused this fresh alarm, he heard and spied the sawing of ropes and the tossing aside of planks. The pirates were cutting loose, shoving off from their intended target. It would appear they’d had enough, and were leaving their spoils behind.

Or perhaps they already had what they had come for.

Despite the rapture of the Sword, worry bloomed in the pit of Torin’s stomach. Already the vessels had disengaged, with the armored schooner beginning to pull away. Only a handful of fellow fighters had crossed over; most had been more concerned with holding the pirates at bay. He saw Arn and Cordan and a pair of unknown swordhands nearly buried amid the throng. Bull was at the rail of the
Folly,
bellowing and snorting, trying to draw the pirate ship back but finding little help from Jorkin’s crew. Beside the big man, Ashwin made a reckless leap, only to catch an arrow in the chest and go pinwheeling into the breach, where his body slapped down against the roiling waves.

Torin cried out and surged across the deck, scattering enemies in his haste to free Arn and Cordan and get them all back to where they belonged. If nothing else, perhaps they could sweep this vessel clean, or near enough to take control. Whichever, they needed to do so quickly, for whether as a result of her wounds or the will of her officers and crew, the
Pirate’s Folly
seemed content to let them go.

His enemies laughed at his urgency, rising against him with rattling blades and sneering faces. A few scored minor hits, as Torin sacrificed a measure of his own defense in order to rush to the aid of his comrades. Even so, he was too slow. Before he could cut the intended swath, the pair of unknown swordhands went down. Arn and Cordan followed, swarmed over by the enemy crush.

Torin roared a denial. At that same moment, the nets began to fly.

He sensed the first coming behind him, and whirled to meet it, slashing it in midair. The Sword ripped easily down its center, opening it wide. But the severed strands were weighted at the corners and coated in pitch, and thus clung to him like a spider’s webbing. He might have extricated himself, but
then a second and third blanketed him, followed by a fourth. His own thrashings tripped him up, and he succumbed in a tangled heap.

A beating followed, a pounding of clubs and staves and weapon hafts from every direction. He gritted away the worst of it, shielded by the thick strands of netting, clutching the Sword for all he was worth. But ensnared as he was, he was unable to mount a defense. A battering assault on his arm loosened his grip before burly hands pried the hilt from his fingers. He grasped after it, feeling as though someone had snatched the heart from his chest, but a barrage to the skull left his mind dazed and his vision clouded.

“Enough!”

A few last-ditch blows landed. Through a haze of grogginess, Torin recognized the whistle of arrows and the
thunk
and clatter of spears, as the ships made their parting salvos. The pirates cheered. Somehow, he pushed himself to his hands and knees, weighed down by the sticky nets. An enemy spat upon him.

“I said enough!” a cool voice reprimanded.

“Aye, Cap’n.”

Torin peered from beneath the ridge of a swollen eye to see a swarthy, dark-bearded brute lower his head and step back. The Sword was in his hands, but even with the strengthening caress of the concealed Pendant, Torin was too dizzy to reach for it.

Then the other came forward. A tarred mop of greasy black hair hung straight to his shoulders. Beady brown eyes glanced at the Sword, then locked upon Torin.

“Take him below.”

A flurry of hands reached for him, seizing hold of his hair, his limbs, and the netting of his cage. When he tried to resist, they punched or shook him, knocking him down again and dragging him across the deck.

“This one’s still alive, sir.”

Sweat and pitch stung his eyes, but Torin forced them open. Nearby, Arn was on his knees, head lolling. A straddling enemy clenched his tuft of curls and put a dagger to his throat. His blue eyes were clouded, his blond hair matted with blood.

“Feed him to the sharks,” the man with the tarred head ordered. “His mates too.”

A lump filled Torin’s throat as the semiconscious mercenary was tossed overboard. Cordan’s limp form went after, as soon as a pair of laughing pirates had plucked their bloodstained blades from his back.

Torin forced his gaze away, over the rail and beyond, to where the
Pirate’s Folly
lay crippled, abandoned in the middle of the ocean, midway between continents. He thought he could make out the somber forms of Silas and Kallen, standing now with Bull, staring after the pirate vessel as it slunk away. Kallen leaned upon his brother, one hand covering a wounded eye.

Then he was being dragged once more, like a haul of netted fish, leaving his companions to fade in the mist.

A
LLION GAPED AT THE SEVERED HEADS,
his stomach churning with revulsion. Amid the gasps and shouts of his comrades, bile rose to his throat. He willed himself to look away, but his gaze refused to be drawn from their openmouthed stares, their lolling tongues, their rolled-back eyes.

When the furor had calmed, Thaddreus spoke. “And what point do you wish to make with this display, General?”

Rogun snarled, tossing the bloody sack—from which he had dumped the three heads—onto the table beside them. “That it is time, once and for all, to address this threat in the manner that I, as chief commander of Krynwall’s forces, see fit.”

Thaddreus, speaker of the Circle of City Elders, did not appear impressed. “Which would be what? To sweep this land like a team of plow horses, raking everything underfoot?”

“Are you blind, old man? Do those look like human heads to you?”

They did not, which was part of the reason for Allion’s dismay. The skin of their faces was dark and wrinkled, sucked tight against high cheekbones, stretched to a point at the eyes and ears. Though ravaged, their features reminded him of those of Cwingen U’uyen, chieftain of the Powaii, of the Mookla’ayan elves.

“We’ve all heard the evidence to suggest the old races have returned to roam our lands,” Thaddreus persisted, refusing to be riled. “Your exhibition, while striking, tells us nothing we do not already know.”

“These were not found roaming our distant lands,” Rogun growled, “but the woods beyond our very city.”

A fresh clamor went up among those assembled, with fourteen of the sixteen Elders all fighting to be heard and Rogun, a fifteenth, trying to quiet them. Of their ranks, only Thaddreus kept his tongue, along with Allion beside him.

“The three here represent only a small portion of their band,” Rogun went on, his powerful voice drowning out those of the others. “The remainder of their party escaped into the trees. The patrol that happened upon them was not large enough to root them out.”

Again the general paused, and again the shouting ensued. Allion at last pried his eyes from the trio of heads, holding back his nausea, and found
Rogun staring at him. The general appeared both pleased and disgusted by the row he had caused. It had been some time since he had joined them in council, having no stomach for their pointless deliberations. Allion had been grateful for the respite, had even begun to hope that he’d heard the last of the man’s grumbling. He should have known the general was merely biding his time, and would intervene when certain that his presence might make the greatest impact.

Allion did his best not to flinch beneath the general’s withering gaze. He had caught them off guard was all, storming in unannounced, grisly baggage in tow. The din was rife with fear and anger, accusation and loathing—just the kinds of emotions to play when seeking to manipulate men along a desired course. Though Allion was as moved as any of them, as regent, he had a responsibility not to show it.

Thaddreus waved his arms in a slow flapping motion. At first, this only heightened the uproar. Gradually, however, his patience won out, and the furor abated.

“Please, General,” the old man bade. “Take your seat with us here in the Circle.”

Rogun refused, leaning down to plant his fists on the great marble-topped table. “I did not come to join your ceaseless debate. I came to end it. Declare martial law. Grant me charter to combat this enemy before it is too late.”

A chorus of cheers lauded the general’s plan, while a smattering of grunts opposed it. Before long, the discussion had deteriorated into a shouting match once more.

Allion rubbed his temples to ward off an encroaching headache. Less than two weeks had passed since Torin’s departure, and already he’d had enough. Each day, he considered seriously abandoning his oaths and responsibilities and chasing after Torin as he had before. Were it not for his vow to watch over Marisha, he might well have done so. The city was a crumbling pile of stone, the land around it barren and worthless. Citizens within and without waged an endless war against poverty and starvation, still working to rebuild their lives following the taxing reign of King Sorl and the invasion of the wizard. Everywhere he went, people looked to him for relief.

Small wonder that Torin had been so willing to leave it all behind, to accept even this wild charge as an avenue of escape. As Fason, Allion had been painfully aware of the challenges his friend faced, but had been a step removed from the politics of them. As regent, he had stepped squarely into their midst.

“Where is our Fason?” someone demanded, as if attuned to his thoughts. “Any word yet from our captain of the guard?”

Allion perked up. Evhan had been missing for a week now, having vanished without a trace just days after his promotion. Despite a sweep by the City Shield and Allion himself, there had been no sign of the young captain, leaving the regent deeply saddened and suspicious.

“Deserted,” Rogun replied, shaking his head. “Or slain, perhaps, by one
of the enemy. It matters not, except as another sign that we have sat on our hands too long.”

Allion narrowed his gaze at how quickly the general dismissed the issue. The prevalent opinion was in fact that Evhan had deserted them. But Allion knew better. Until this very moment, he hadn’t considered that Rogun might be behind the young captain’s disappearance. Such a move would be just the sort of inexplicable, off-balancing maneuver used to generate the chaos and confusion on which Rogun was now feeding. Even so, he felt surprise that the other could be so bold, and found himself wondering who might be next if the general did not soon get his way.

“We cannot continue to fight in this manner,” Rogun pressed, “allowing our enemies to strike and disperse as they see fit. If we are to win this war, we must force them to engage us in direct confrontation. The only way to do so is to assemble a force that will sweep across these lands and flush the cowards into the open.”

“And how will you control the widespread panic to ensue among the populace as the result of such an extreme course?” Thaddreus challenged.

“Extreme?” Rogun gestured toward the rotting heads upon the tabletop. “Perhaps I should have brought you the heads of the innocent victims, rather than those of our enemy—though it would have required a team of men to carry them.”

A blistering outcry commenced, and lasted for several moments. Still Allion remained silent, praying the storm would pass. While it scarcely seemed possible, the gathered councilors were growing ever more agitated. When Rogun spoke, most everyone listened. Other than that, it was becoming increasingly difficult to make out one argument from the next.

Although the governing council was yet in its infant stages, Allion had begun to think its creation may have been a mistake. Hoping to iron out differences through a fair and equitable discourse, Torin had given its strongest voices to members of those factions who opposed both him and one another. As such, it had settled into little more than a forum for the airing of grievances, each presented more loudly than the last. Some saw the entire Circle as a sign of weakness, an indication that the young king—and now his regent—was unable to rule. Perhaps so. Nevertheless, it grated on Allion that their bickering had become second nature, so that even when presented with a common problem, the councilors found the pursuit of deep-seated rivalries and prejudices more important than resolution.

He was about to holler a desperate appeal for silence when once again the chamber doors burst open without call or warning, and a startling figure strode in.

A deep hush fell over the room, brought on by perhaps the one man capable of silencing this brood. He was tall and gaunt, with a sallow face and the tattered robes of a scarecrow. A gust of wind accompanied his entrance, stirring the stench of decay that clung to the severed Illychar heads.

Sickened anew, Allion covered his mouth.

“Well, now, if it isn’t our guardian and protector,” Rogun muttered. “Where have you been?”

“The same as you.” Darinor glared, stepping forward with the swish of heavy fabric. “Scouting the movements of our enemy.” He paused as he eyed the heads of the elven dead. “I see you have made some progress.”

“And you?” Despite surrendering half a head to the thinner man in height, Rogun showed no signs of standing down.

“The Illychar spread more quickly than I had imagined,” Darinor confessed, his deep voice rumbling from that cavernous hollow within his craggy beard. “Their overall movements bespeak caution, as if testing our waters, but by packs and individuals, they grow bolder by the day.”

“Again, you tell us nothing we’ve not discerned ourselves,” Rogun complained. “You claim to be our leader in this. Do you have a plan?”

Darinor gave the other a scornful glance before turning his attention to Allion and the seated members of the Circle. “The plan is this, and the time to execute it is now. If you let them, the Illychar will fight like owls in the night, swift and silent before winging away. They will do so forever, or at least until their numbers are so much greater than ours that we will be overrun.”

“Go on,” Rogun said, his interest piqued.

“The key is to draw them out, and the only way to do this is to assemble a singular force around which—”

“I’ve already suggested that,” Rogun grumbled. “Time and again. It is these fools before you who cannot see the truth.”

Darinor fixed him with a stern eye. “Your plan does not go far enough, General. You speak of an army that stomps across this land, beating the tall grasses as if hunting snakes. What I am proposing is much more radical. Empty this city of soldiers. Leave only the young and the elderly, the immature and the infirm—coils that will do little to tempt the Illysp spirits come to haunt these grounds. Since each Illysp can claim only one mortal shell with which to wreak havoc and mayhem in the physical world, they crave the bodies of soldiers, not nursemaids. Put the land’s men-at-arms in one place and the Illysp—and the Illychar who support them—will gather like flies to a corpse.”

Rogun frowned. “You say they will come to us?”

“If the temptation is great enough. Which is why you cannot afford to divide your forces into wandering patrols as they are now. In fact, Krynwall’s army alone is not sufficient—I speak not only of Alson but of all Pentania. You must unite your strength with that of your neighbors, with Partha and Kuuria. Only then, when all are marshaled, will your enemy have no choice but to combat you openly.”

“Then we could at best defend a single city. You would have us leave all others defenseless?”

“To defend your cities, you must lure the Illysp away from them. Leave a token garrison if you must, but the greater their numbers, the greater the temptation will be for the Illychar to ransack those stores for the sake of their Illysp brethren and the swelling of their own ranks.”

Allion didn’t have Rogun’s sharp mind for military tactics, nor his experi
ence and training. But he, too, was uncomfortable with what Darinor seemed to be suggesting. On the surface, it made sense. At the same time, Allion’s stomach knotted in warning.

“No,” Rogun said flatly.

“What you suggest would require a terrific leap of faith on our part,” Thaddreus agreed. “Both on those sallying forth, and on those left behind.”

Darinor nodded. “Then a leap of faith it shall take.”

“No,” Rogun repeated. “What you suggest flies in the face of any convention of war known to man, and I won’t allow it.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, General, we are not fighting a conventional enemy.”

But Rogun was emphatic. “We build walls and cities for a reason. It is the same strategy by which our forefathers came to dominate these shores—and against many of the same creatures it would appear we must battle now.”

“Yes,” Darinor allowed. “But in the past, when one of your ancestors slew a troll or ogre or elf or goblin, that creature did not rise up to battle you again. And again. And again.”

With that, the bickering began anew. Once more, Allion refrained from participating, choosing to think the matter through before he offered an opinion. Unfortunately, it seemed to boil down, as before, to a matter of trust. As some were shouting, if Darinor was wrong, then the soldiers risked coming home to find their wives and children and grandparents slaughtered. But, as others argued, if he was right, what choice did they have?

Through the jumble of loud voices and flailing bodies and gesturing limbs, Allion peered across the table at the grim figure standing at its far head. Just who was this Darinor? What motives might lie behind his latest scheme? Despite Marisha’s pleas, Allion was not yet ready to trust the man. If he was as honorable as his daughter claimed, why send Torin off on such a foolhardy mission?

But try as he might, the regent could discern nothing of Darinor’s thoughts by studying the man’s visage. Only the eyes conveyed anything at all—a wealth of secrets that Allion meant to uncover.

As those eyes turned to him, Allion looked away. Without the swell of his fury, the mystic seemed less threatening than before, like an adder at rest. And yet his stripping gaze was still too terrible to face.

“And what does our regent say?” the renegade Entient asked.

The roar of voices died away, and all eyes shifted toward the reluctant Allion. He fought to meet those stares evenly, to conceal the trembling weakness he felt. Though he did not want this burden, he refused to crumble beneath its pressure.

It was Rogun, in a roundabout way, who came to his rescue.

“Who is he that we should take his advice in a matter of such critical importance?” the general challenged before Allion had opened his mouth. “This is a military issue. Since when does a woodsman know anything about war?”

Allion had heard this argument before. Only, this time he was grateful
for it. Upon coming to Krynwall, his true desire had been to become a commander in the Legion of the Arrow, the city’s legendary troop of archers. Decimated by the wizard’s invasion, the legion had to be rebuilt almost from the ground up, a task to which Allion felt eminently suited. But Rogun would not allow it, decrying his lack of military experience—never mind his unrivaled skill with a bow. Rather than force the issue, Torin had made him captain of the City Shield, over which the king was the ultimate authority. For while the same might have been said of the army, Torin and Allion had agreed as a matter of appeasement not to tell Rogun his business.