The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (18 page)

When he reached the skiffs, suspended in their rigging over the starboard side, he was shoved aboard by Flambard and caught by a lanky pirate whose skin was chafed and mottled as if ridden with fever. He ignored this as best he could, just as he did the size of the man’s nose—a hooked wedge on a face so angled it might have been shaped with a carpenter’s plane. Pike, Torin supposed.

Flambard climbed in, then Raven after him. Pulleys on either side screeched as the tiny boat was lowered to touch down upon the dark waters. All of a sudden, swells that had seemed mere wavelets from above loomed large, lifting and lowering like the chest of a slumbering giant, tossing them like cork. Were the wind to return, Torin thought the waves might swallow them whole.

Nevertheless, cables were unhooked and oars set to motion, grinding within their locks. Raven crouched in the bow, peering into the drizzly, low-hanging cloud cover. Pike and Flambard sat center with their backs to the captain, each bent over an oar, while Torin lay in the stern like a sack of provisions. Behind them, barely visible across a foggy stretch of maybe twelve oar-strokes, trailed the other two skiffs, filled like theirs with glum, shadowy forms.

They had not gone far before the waves turned to surf, breaking against a jagged reef. A few strong pulls left them in the calmer waters of a coral shallows. Every now and then, Torin thought he saw fish darting through the inky depths, though the only ones he glimpsed for certain were those scooped up by hunting cranes and diving herons. Even these were but a flash of pale color and a glitter of scale.

Perhaps it was because he was watching the waters so closely that he was the first to spy the unexpected disturbance.

At the edge of the reef, just before the break line, there was a guttering light, as though a torch had been set to burning beneath the sea. It lasted only a moment. When it passed, the ripples began, swirling outward in widening circles. Over a slow series of heartbeats, the rate of their spiral quickened, until the waters in the middle started to drop, as if being sucked down through a submerged funnel.

“Look!” Torin shouted, pointing with his bound hands.

Flambard reached over and cuffed his ear with a studded bracer. Glowering, Torin peered past the ruffian to Raven, who had turned to check on the alarm. The pirate captain’s face was a mask of irritation until his gaze slipped from the mist to the ocean’s suddenly churning surface.

“Whirlpool!” he cried out.

By now, the lookouts on the other boats had seen it for themselves, and were barking frantically at their oarsmen. But their warning came too late. The vortex had grown so far and so fast that already both skiffs were upon its outer edge, with no chance to swing about. Oars became useless as the pair of skiffs were pulled round and round, steadily toward the roiling center. The crewmen in each dove and clambered, tripping over themselves and one
another in a mad panic. Their helpless pleas sounded to Torin like the shrieking of gulls.

The waters around his own vessel were darkened further by billowing clouds of silt. Pike and Flambard continued to row, turning their paddles at an urgent pace. From this position of relative safety, Torin gaped as the first of the trapped skiffs reached the mouth of the maelstrom. The small craft lurched suddenly, torn from beneath its occupants by the incredible pull. He felt their horror as both skiff and men were ripped to splinters by an unnatural force, then sucked into the abyss. By the time the second craft overcame the first, he closed his eyes, unable to watch.

When the screams had died, and only their echo remained in his ears, Torin looked back to see that the whirlpool’s spin was already slowing, its fury dissipating. Scraps of wood floated to the surface, along with other bits he tried not to recognize. When the last of the ripples had drifted away, a gathering flock of birds swooped down to make their own inspection.

For several moments, the only sound was the violent chorus of these birds, pecking and flapping at one another over the remains. Torin was the first to pry his gaze from the grisly sight in order to study his boatmates. Pike and Flambard gripped their oars above the waterline, as if preparing to wield them against an unseen attacker. Raven sat stock-still in the bow, his own hands clenching the gunwale. All aboard the lone skiff stared in stunned silence, unwilling to believe what they had just witnessed.

Finally, Raven swallowed as if choking down a lump of meat. “Carry on, mates.”

Torin looked at Pike, who blinked.

“Carry on!”

“But sir—”

“If the dog had wanted us among them, we’d have been so. Carry on, I say!”

Pike continued to hesitate, while Flambard scowled so that his red eyebrows curled up like flames. With Pike beside him, he began working his oar, squeezing its haft and looking for all the world like he wished it to be his captain’s throat. In this case, Torin could not bring himself to fault the man. The more he saw of this Red Raven, the more he questioned the pirate’s sanity. Well and good that he should risk his life for that of his woman, but did he have to take the rest of them with him?

Still, Torin could not help but admire the glimmer he saw in the other’s eye as Raven turned to face the hidden isle once more. Such focus and determination was infectious, even when misplaced. The captain was entrusting his life to them as surely as he was demanding theirs be entrusted to him. Like it or not, the four of them were now in this together.

Pike’s eyes roamed anxiously now, Torin saw, across both misty sky and murky water. Flambard, he noted, had refocused his glare upon his hated prisoner, leaving Torin to wonder whose throat it was the rogue truly meant to strangle. With nothing to win in a contest of stares, Torin looked away.

After several nervous moments, their craft slid aground on a glistening
shore. Raven leapt out and helped to pull the skiff up onto the rocks, then dragged a rope and anchor out after.

“Bring him.”

The pair of marauders stowed their oars and moved to join their captain, yanking Torin along. He twisted his ankle as he exited the boat, slipping with a splash into the small waves that lapped at his feet and flooded his boots. But his captors simply dragged him forward, across the sharp, weed-slicked stones.

They stopped when they had caught up with Raven, who held a loaded crossbow.

“From this point hence,” the captain said gravely, “I need each of you to keep your wits about you. Take no action without my signal. If I detect so much as a whimper, I will personally bury this bolt in the back of your skull, then leave you to the wizard. Is that understood?”

He waited for their reluctant nods.

“Trust in my lead, and I’ll do what I can to see us all through this.” Raven then dropped a purposeful gaze upon Torin, though what reassurance he was to take from this, Torin wasn’t certain. “On your feet.”

Torin obeyed, wrenching free of the clutching hands of Pike and Flambard and drawing himself to full height. Freezing saltwater scratched at his wounds, but he hid his discomfort behind a glare of defiance. He had survived worse, he reminded himself silently. If only he knew how that might help him here.

Raven smirked as if reading his thoughts. “We make for the wizard’s tower,” he said, gesturing with the crossbow for Torin to take the lead. He then added, “Your Majesty.”

Again Torin did as he was bid, turning his back to the pirate and allowing Raven to nudge him with the crossbow toward a distant, fog-shrouded scrub line. Already, the haze was beginning to diminish, making clear the desired path at the base of a cleft leading up through the isle’s deadwood forest. Raven pointed him toward it, and without complaint, Torin started their trek across the rocky beach.

T
HE CLIMB TO THE WIZARD’S STRONGHOLD
took longer than expected, so that darkness was virtually upon them by the time they reached its face. The curtain wall was a sad, crumbling thing, its black stone pitted and ravaged by untold centuries of coastal storms. The merlons atop the gatehouse had eroded into nubs, filed by wind and rain—such as that which had picked up during their trek. A haunting glow hovered beyond, seeping through crenellations, arrow slits, and the crack of its iron gates.

They had not quite come to a stop when the great doors, emblazoned with mysterious glyphs, began to open, yawning wide on groaning pins. Chains squealed in the background; through the widening breach, Torin could see the rusted links being taken in.

It took forever. When at last the portal was clear, the eyes of the company flicked about uneasily, looking through the opening and at one another. Save for a roiling black mist and a ring of torches ensconced in iron wall brackets, the courtyard appeared deserted. At last, Raven nudged Torin with the tip of his loaded crossbow. The point pricked Torin’s neck, but still he did not step forward. It was not a conscious decision, but instinctive, as if he knew that should he set foot within this Grimhold, he would not step out again.

The immediacy of Raven’s threat won out, however, causing him to stagger onward. Glancing back, he could see that Pike and Flambard were just as tentative; despite the blades they carried, their legs quivered like those of a foal taking its first steps. He could not see whether Raven was as frightened as the rest of them, but supposed it wouldn’t matter if he was.

The empty yard was filled with broken paving stones that had been shoved aside by weeds and grasses grown up beneath. Torin strode as bravely as he could across this cobbled terrain of rock and sand and vegetation, while raindrops struck like icicles upon his neck. The haunting scene reminded him of the graveyard from which he had bidden his friends farewell, and the chill he felt deepened within.

They had gone no more than twenty paces when the black mist drew aside like a curtain. As suddenly as that, his elder brother, erstwhile crown prince and king of Alson, was revealed.

The man wore neither the supplicant’s robes in which Torin had first met him, nor his studded battle leathers, but a belted tunic not unlike Torin’s own.
Black in color, only with longer sleeves and a stitched pattern of scales. In one hand he gripped his ebony staff, carved to resemble a hooded serpent, while from his neck hung the iron skull pendant with its rictus grin. Yellow eyes beamed like lanterns in the near darkness, matching well the sickly pallor of torchlight upon his ghostly skin.

Torin’s breath lodged in his throat. He had forgotten what it felt like to gaze upon his brother, a creature poisoned by the use of powers mankind wasn’t meant to harness. Without the Sword, he was utterly helpless beneath that gaze, a mouse at the mercy of a hawk.

The wizard’s lips compressed in a tight smile. “Welcome, brother.”

The words hissed like steam from a kettle, raking Torin’s already over-wracked spine.

“What do you think of my home?” Soric asked, gesturing with his staff. Torin glanced around as a ring of soldiers armed with crossbows were exposed by the retreating mist, perched atop the bailey. “An uncharted isle. Well off the regular sea lanes. Only a rare southeasterly wind, coupled with an even rarer tide flow, will deliver the uninitiated to its shores.” His smile widened with gleeful menace. “I’m so pleased you were able to come.”

“Where’s Autumn?” Raven croaked, jabbing Torin with his crossbow.

The wizard’s glee seemed to dissipate as he inspected Torin from head to toe with an unblinking gaze. His eyes shifted then to the pirate, whom he addressed rather sternly. “He was to be delivered unharmed.”

“Unkilled, you said.”

The wizard’s smile returned, seeping slowly to the corners of his mouth. “So I did.” He paused. “You made good time, given the damage you sustained.”

Torin could feel Pike and Flambard shifting to glance at one another, wondering like he how the wizard could know this. Or perhaps Soric was only guessing, seeking to put them off guard. The cold sneer told them nothing. “Come inside then. Let us see to the condition of your flower.”

“If it’s all the same,” Raven said through clenched teeth, “I think we’ll make our exchange right here.”

Soric inclined his head, then tamped the butt of his staff against the ground. From a stone-framed doorway behind him, a soldier stepped forward, bearing at knife-point a woman draped in heavy manacles. Again, Raven’s bolt dug into the back of Torin’s neck, betraying the pirate’s sudden fervor. Other than that, the ruffian held himself in check.

As the pair continued forward, beyond the wizard to within a few paces of where the visitors stood, Torin found himself breathless once more. Autumn, he decided, should have been named for the spring. She was a modest beauty, the kind whose fair looks would draw eye in a seedy tavern, but might go unnoticed among the fancy maidens at a town festival. Her smooth skin was lightly freckled, her shoulder-length hair thick and lustrous. But it was her bearing that captivated him, some quality he could sense but not quite see. Her eyes, perhaps, which glimmered with a hint of amethyst as they seemed to stare at him alone. Or perhaps the way in which she smiled, as if considering
some private, warmhearted jape at his expense. Whatever it was, she caused him to feel detached in a soothing, comfortable way, as if his cares should belong to someone else, and nothing should matter beyond the connection they now shared.

“As you can see,” Soric said, “she has been well tended.”

“Then let us be finished here,” Raven snapped. “Tell your dog to release her.”

Torin continued to match Autumn’s stare, which he found both curious and enticing. Her hair, he now noted, was neither light nor dark, but a blend of shifting hues in the uncertain light. At last he grew self-conscious and looked away—though not far—to the soldier beside her, who hadn’t moved.

“Release her, Madrach,” Raven demanded again, “else I drain this man’s skull here and now and let your master do what he will with the corpse.”

The soldier, Madrach, was almost as striking as his prisoner, given the resemblance he bore to the ill-tempered pirate captain. He was clad in tight-fitting armor, leather mostly, but with greaves and bracers and cuirass of hammered plate. His helm fit close against what appeared to be a shorn head. He was a stretch larger than Raven, in height and in girth, but the features—the flat nose, the beady eyes, the crooked mouth and cleft chin—might have been etched from the same mold.

“Careful, Captain,” the other teased, pressing a stubbled cheek close to Autumn’s, “lest I start and cause her pale throat to sprout a pretty red smile.”

“Madrach!” The wizard’s voice cracked like the bite of a whip, a clear reminder as to who was truly in charge. “Turn her loose.”

The mercenary stiffened, but did as he was bid, sheathing his dagger and producing a key that he used to remove Autumn’s shackles. He let them drop to the earth, then shoved her forward.

Somehow, despite the rough treatment, Autumn lost not a trace of dignity. She stepped forward, eyes gleaming in Torin’s direction, as she came to stand next to Raven. Quickly she gave the pirate a kiss upon the cheek, before slipping her arm around his waist.

Raven leaned into her, but kept his attentions focused on the wizard, on Madrach, on the circle of crossbows above. One last time he prodded Torin with the crossbow, and only then did the young king realize he had turned his head almost fully around in order to watch the reunion. With a wink from Autumn, he faced ahead once more, and, at Raven’s urging, took a pair of uncertain strides.

Madrach stepped forward to meet him. Before the image of Autumn’s wink had faded from his mind, Torin, still bound, found himself given over to the enemy.

“The Sword,” Soric prompted. “Where is it?”

“The Sword remains aboard my ship,” Raven announced. Wood and leather creaked as the soldiers upon the bailey leaned in and tightened pressure upon their triggers. “There it remains until my men and I are returned safely, else cast into the sea.”

Torin’s gaze flitted from Raven, to the wizard, to the soldiers looming above. He glanced at Autumn, then back to his brother, whose response he awaited.

“You play games with your men’s lives,” Soric said. He appeared bemused, but his words bore an unmistakable chill. “Theirs I can see, but Autumn’s—”

“Do you want your trinket or not?” Raven squawked.

The wizard grinned, no doubt to hide his calculating thoughts. Everyone but Raven himself—and Autumn, of course—seemed surprised by the pirate’s boldness.

“Very well,” Soric agreed. “Madrach, take a score of men and accompany our good captain to the beach. Deliver them to their ship, and procure the Sword. From there, each will allow the other to be on his way.”

“Yes, my lord,” Madrach said, scowling at Raven.

Raven smirked in return. Upon seeing this, Soric’s own smile slipped like a spider into its hole. “If you cross me,” he warned, “I shall command the winds and waves to shatter your vessel upon my reef, where gulls will pick clean your remains. Are we agreed, Captain?”

Raven matched the other’s glare. “Let’s get moving.”

At a snap of Madrach’s fingers, the soldiers standing watch atop the bailey shuffled down the steps on either side, filing to order within the murky courtyard. Their numbers appeared to ease the mercenary’s malcontent. “After you,” he sneered.

Raven wheeled about, signaling Pike and Flambard to keep eye on those who followed.

“Take the prisoner,” Soric added, when Madrach had stepped past Torin as though to leave him behind. “Have him identify the talisman our friend hands over. I leave his life in your hands, Madrach.”

The mercenary nodded, refusing to be cowed by the implied threat. He seized Torin by the arm and propelled him forward.

Torin’s thoughts raced as though he were a badger caught in an iron trap. Clearly, he had no allies here. He had only himself to turn to if he wished to survive—or at the very least, to prevent the Sword from falling into his brother’s hands, where doubtless it would be used in future conquests against his land and others. Better that it should remain in the possession of pirates.

Or was it? With the Sword might go the Pendant. Either way, there would come a time during which Darinor would have no choice but to come in search. Had that not been the reason for taking the Pendant in the first place? It might make sense to see that Raven surrendered both, to make sure the two artifacts remained together, and close at hand.

But that was foolishness. What reason had he to believe the wizard would keep him alive long enough for Darinor to attempt a rescue? Likely, he would be long gone, and would have only made it harder for the renegade Entient to retrieve the divine talismans, in that he would have to pry them from the wizard rather than a mere pirate—or whomever Raven sold them to.

He was still wrestling with these choices when he reached the gates to the courtyard, where everyone came to a startled halt.

A trio of men filled the narrow path fronting the keep, on the last leg of their winding journey from the rainswept beach. In the lead was Kell, his hands lashed to an oar that he wore across his back, his bloody face smeared with mud and leaves from multiple falls. Behind him was Raven’s first mate, Black Spar, unbound, and carrying a long, wooden box. A handheld crossbow tickled his jeweled ear, wielded, it seemed at first, by the man’s own shadow.

Then the shadow came into focus, taking on a form of its own. Torin blanched.

Xarius Talyzar.

The assassin halted at the head of the trail, in the shadow of the open gates. Kell’s eyes flicked back and forth like those of a deer surrounded by hunters. Black Spar’s gaze found Raven, and the two shared an unreadable look. But it was Talyzar Torin focused on, the man who had come nearer than any other to ending his life, months ago, during his quest for the Sword. He hadn’t seen the man since the other had plunged a dagger in his back. To face his would-be executioner now, so unexpectedly, filled him with shock and residual dread.

“Have we missed the festivities?” Talyzar hissed, his voice masked in whisper.

Soric came forward, parting the sea of soldiers that stood between him and the new arrivals, breezing past Torin like an icy gust. “What have we now?” he asked, in a manner that suggested both amusement and irritation at the surprise.

Talyzar gave a slight bow. “You bade me leave delivery of the whelp to these pirates,” he observed, with a clear measure of distaste. “But I thought you might like to take possession of his blade.”

Torin’s reeling thoughts came sharply into focus. The assassin’s presence explained much. It was Talyzar who had followed him to Gammelost, supplying the information ultimately used by Raven to locate him. Talyzar who had stowed aboard first the
Pirate’s Folly
and then the
Raven’s Squall,
sending messages as to Torin’s progress, and the results of the sea battle between the two. It all made sense—save for the means by which the man was able to go undetected and relay messages to his master over so great a distance. But those were details, trade secrets of assassins and wizards and perhaps beyond his understanding. What pained him was to learn that he’d been so blind as to carry along his own doom, right from the beginning.

“You’ve brought me the Sword?” Soric asked, delight gaining sway over displeasure.

The assassin nudged Black Spar with his weapon. “Show him.”

The pirate grunted.

A knife appeared in Talyzar’s free hand, so quickly that it might have been there all along. Its edge fell upon the seam between the gruff pirate’s head and ear. “With or without your ability to hear.”

Spar looked to Raven, who nodded.

With a bolt at one ear and a dagger on the other, the first mate hefted the wooden box he carried and flicked free the latch. He turned its facing
outward, so that those before him could see, before flipping back the lid. In a shallow tray, pillowed among velvet folds, lay the Sword, its crimson radiance muted but still drawing gasps of astonishment. Its silver hilt gleamed in the twilight; its blade and heartstones swirled with inner flame.