The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (31 page)

“The last Season ended months ago, and the next remains several months off. Otherwise, my sister would have been far less likely to set you free. Of course, most trespassers caught out of Season are required to pay the toll.”

“The toll?”

“Stripped of their possessions and executed straightaway.”

Torin swallowed his growing discomfort. “That doesn’t strike you as barbaric?”

Dyanne considered him with a raised eyebrow. “We’ve a long way to go to repay men for their crimes.”

Torin couldn’t argue that, and would have resisted any inclination to do so. “So the two of you aren’t Mothers?”

“Next Season, perhaps. Although neither one of us will be volunteering.”

He wasn’t certain what to make of her obvious distaste. “Are the two of you…joined?”

“
Joined?
” Holly mimicked, with another laugh.

“Sworn to each other.”

“We are,” Dyanne admitted, “but not in the manner you’re thinking of. All among our clan are matched at birth, or paired with another of near age upon arrival. An act of survival. It’s not intended as an amorous partnership, although those do develop sometimes.”

“Then why resist becoming a Mother?”

“Because Holl and I mean to impact things in a larger way. We love the freedoms provided by our way of life, but in order to keep those freedoms, we’re at some point going to have to take action to defend them. Though babes are taken from their Mothers and raised by Nurses, even just a few months is too long a time to be trapped in a birthing den.”

Torin’s first response was shoved aside by another thought, one which he was immediately afraid to ask. But he made himself do so. “What happens to the children born male?”

“That never happens. Our Mothers are given an elixir that ensures all our children are born female.”

The answer was completely unexpected, and seemed to head off any moral debate over infanticide. He wondered if it was truly possible to predetermine a child’s gender in such a fashion. He wouldn’t have thought so, but then, there was a lot he didn’t know. Some things, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

His thoughts turned. The questions he had actually meant to ask had been scattered and forgotten the moment Dyanne had spoken. He sifted now through those that remained, and latched upon that which seemed most pressing.

“This Necanicum. Who is she?”

“She’s one of us,” Dyanne replied. “Or was, I should say. One of the founding sisters of our clan. It was she, in fact, who developed the elixir I just told you about.”

“So what happened that she is no longer with you?”

“The way Holl and I heard it, the elixir was just the beginning. Necanicum was fascinated with the dark arts and their effect on nature.”

“Dark arts? You mean magic?”

“Witchcraft, as it’s known to us. The manipulation of life and its natural order. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

Torin nodded. “Go on.”

“Some say it was this that brought about the disease that overcame her, causing her to go insane. But in all honesty, no one can prove the two were related. The fact remains that she became more and more withdrawn, retreating into a world of dark practices and secret experiments. A world frowned upon by the other Fenwa. A world in which no others dared go.”

“She murdered her kinmate,” Holly interjected, turning to fix him with a glittering gaze.

Dyanne glared at the other’s impatience, though there was no real anger in the expression. “We don’t know that either,” she argued. “It is said the woman perished under mysterious circumstances. No one seems to know how, exactly. But the other Fenwa had had enough. Rather than seek another with which to pair her, as is normally the custom, they asked her to leave. They were afraid of her; they wouldn’t dare try to threaten her outright. But it was only a matter of time before their fear and mistrust would have led them to it. Some say Necanicum recognized this. Others say she left much more willingly, seeking isolation in which to continue her studies. Still others say she was already mad, if not from her disease, then from grief at the death of her kinmate, Granmarch at the time. Whichever story you choose to believe, she left the Nest, venturing north into the older, more wild regions of the forest. Few claim to have seen her since.”

Torin mulled it through. He didn’t care for tales that left so much to interpretation, for they raised as many questions as answers. “When did all of this take place?”

“Some twenty years ago, just before Holly and I were born. Necanicum was an old woman even then.” She glanced back at him briefly, her stride unbroken on the narrow forest trail, maple eyes agleam. “You’re wondering if she’s even still alive.”

Torin nodded. “You say few claim to have seen her.”

“Few are foolish enough to try. We leave her to her woods; she leaves us to ours. An unspoken agreement we dare not violate. But the rogues of this land accord no such respect. They tread where they will, and pay the price. More than once have we ensnared men gone mad with raving about the dark things come to life in the northern Widowwood. Necanicum may well be gone, but her influence remains.”

“And yet, you believe it wise to trespass now?”

Dyanne slipped him a patronizing look. “I never said it was wise. I only agreed it to be a risk worth taking—at least in comparison to visiting with Lorre. In either case, this is a challenge that every Fenwa born in the last twenty years has considered facing, and one my sister should never have dared us to undertake. If Holly and I succeed, our influence among our clan will grow stronger than ever before.”

A sense of disquiet began to form in the pit of Torin’s stomach. He didn’t
like the idea of wandering unbidden into the domain of a mad witch, especially for the reasons they were suggesting. Whatever petty struggle Dynara and Dyanne wished to wage between themselves over the direction of their people had nothing to do with him. Nor could he afford to risk his own mission over it. At the same time, he was relatively certain that with the Sword in his possession, he was well armed against any sorceries this Necanicum might possess. And if there was even a glimmer of chance she might know something of the fate of the Finlorians, he owed it to those for whom he was fighting to find out. Besides, he could take heart in knowing that all of it was most likely little more than folklore and hearsay.

“Where I come from,” he submitted hopefully, “men tell stories of all kinds of ghouls, but rarely does that make them true.”

Both Dyanne and Holly turned to regard him as one, their faces an odd mix of scorn and amusement. “We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

They did not wait for his reaction, but tossed their heads and sauntered on ahead. Like spoiled princesses, he imagined, with he a palace servant left to follow behind. If that was indeed their attitude, he saw no need to let it trouble him.

He allowed his focus to drift for a time, to be taken in by his surroundings. For all its drab color and dour weather, the land had a life to it, a vitality in the air. It was not something he could see or hear. It was not something he could quite smell, taste, or touch. But he could feel it nonetheless, like a tingling in his bones. He was better attuned to such emanations of natural energy—had been ever since he had claimed the Sword. But having been locked away for what had seemed ages within the stifling walls of Krynwall, he noted that it had been a long time since the environment itself had seemed so enchanted, so filled with hope and promise.

It was a refreshing feeling.

Up ahead, the girls began speaking to each other, though he could not quite hear their words over the rustle of his movements through the underbrush. He tried to listen for a time, before surrendering it as a useless and unnecessary venture. Unless they should invite him to participate, he would cling to his thoughts as they clung to theirs.

They proceeded in this fashion for several hours, Torin trailing while his forward guides shared plans and observations and whatever other private merriments served to pass the time, all the while matching each other stride for stride. Though he had a great deal to be troubled with, Torin pretended otherwise. It was easy to do, strolling through that captivating woodland. He marked all manner of small detail: the tenacious bloom of winter flowers, the silver sparkle of brooks and streams, the unswerving dedication of a mother fox foraging for her young. In these and other minor distractions, he was able to lose himself, allowing his burdens to drift away like puffs of smoke. There were no Illysp, no Vandari, no quest to find the latter in order to banish the former. There was only the simple serenity of this virgin realm, unspoiled by man and his concerns.

They stopped twice to rest and eat, snacking on roots and bulbs provided
by the forest as Dyanne had promised. Torin nibbled courteously if halfheartedly, wishing for some form of meat or cheese and thinking that if this was all they ate, it was of small wonder that most of the Nymphs he’d seen were so thin. At least the water was refreshing, sweetened and taken from a skin given him back at the Nest. As with his other thoughts, he kept these to himself. Even during these periods of rest, the girls made scarcely an effort to involve him in their conversations, inquiring politely as to his tastes and opinions, but expressing no real interest in his answers. What little there was worth knowing about him, he supposed, had been relayed already by Dynara. He might have taken offense, but again decided not to. This fellowship had been all but forced upon each of them, and was unlikely to last long. There seemed little point in trying to become friends.

He thought of Marisha frequently throughout the day, but was discomfited because it required an almost conscious effort to do so. Once, not long ago, he’d had to expend such effort to keep her
from
his thoughts, so that he could concentrate on matters of the crown. He still envisioned her easily enough, but each time that vision seemed farther away and less distinct, as if reluctant to answer his summons. It felt almost as if something more than time and distance had come between them, but there was no imagining what that might be. Eventually he ceased his attempts and let the feeling go, finding it too frustrating to contemplate.

His shifting mood affected his view of the woods as well. They seemed colder than before, and darker, a maze without beginning or end, the only trails those forged by his guides in front of him. He soon realized, however, that it was not just him. Dyanne and Holly spoke sparingly now, in hushed and solemn tones. The forest
had
changed, grown shadowed and crooked, like a living creature shaped by a heart full of menace.

It grew worse as the afternoon lengthened. Black trees, many of them stripped of leaves and needles, offered scant protection from rains become thick and heavy. While the thinning cover should have allowed more light to filter through as well, Torin found this was not the case. The sun, already on its downward arc, was being drug away like a mewling animal into a nest of snakes. Gusts of wind rattled the trees, flinging fallen raindrops in new directions. The Sword’s fires burned low, as if in measure of Torin’s flagging courage.

His guides, he noticed, had stopped speaking, and stood waiting for him to catch up. Torin hastened to do so, more than a little concerned by the grim look on Dyanne’s face.

“Her domain has grown,” the Nymph Hunter remarked, sounding strangely distant.

Torin stood rooted, transfixed by her gaze. It took him a moment to find his voice. “What do you mean?”

“Look around. We’re just now entering the buffer between her woods and ours. What do you see?”

She gestured. Torin did not have to follow the sweep of her arm to know what he would find. Gone were the nesting ferns and winter trilliums, with
ered into dust. Broken was the stately majesty of the ancient granitewood, as well as the bold arrogance of the juvenile alder. What grew here was a grotesque array of blackened boles, many twisted and splintered beyond recognition. Between the toes of these gnarled giants grew only mold and fungus. Not a single squirrel could be found darting upon their trunks, nor a single bird perched upon their barren limbs. The air, unnaturally silent save for the endless thrumming of rain, smelled of rot and decay.

“Stay close,” she commanded him. “Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. If you sense trouble, alert me or Holly, but do not draw weapon unless I give you leave. We mean her no harm.”

Were it not for the oppressive stillness, Torin might have laughed. For he had intended no harm to Fawn or Jess or any of their clan, and yet had somehow ended up their plaything. He was about to remind Dyanne of this, but saw in her eyes what little hope there was for any argument he might raise. Opting to save his strength, he wrapped his cloak more tightly about him and nodded.

Dyanne regarded him silently for a moment, as if sensing he had something more to say and welcoming the challenge. Torin let his gaze drift about the dripping woodland before bringing it back to her. The diminishing twinkle in her eyes seemed to betray a sense of disappointment. It caused in him such a sudden and unexpected sting of compunction that he very nearly obliged her with the struggle she was seeking. But before he could open his mouth, she shrugged him aside and started forward once more.

A bewildered Torin shook his head, and followed.

A
N ACTUAL TRIO NOW,
Torin and his companions eased their way through the gathering dark. The girls still strode ahead of him, but only by a pace, one each to a side. The earth they trod upon was soft and sodden, a mix of wet leaves and rotting deadwood that sucked at the soles of their boots as if reluctant to let go. With each step, Torin wondered if that might not be true.

The land’s sickness became ever more apparent the deeper they delved into the northern wood. He would have scoffed at the possibility were he not seeing it for himself. Whatever poison gripped these lands did so with a will that was frightening. Nothing wholesome prevailed here, and only ants and beetles and spiders made it their home. As many trees lay fallen as were standing, the latter of which leaned upon or curled round one another in support. No, not support, Torin realized, but battle. Locked in a struggle for survival, each sought to strangle or otherwise bear down upon its neighbors, as if blinded by desperation to the fate that awaited them all.

The last of the daylight succumbed to the darkness, and only the smothered gleam of moon and stars was left to light the way. Torin looked up to find skeletal branches stretching across the dome of the sky like knives, carving up the clouds and the moon’s dim radiance. So eerie was the withered landscape that, were it not for the familiar drumming of rain upon the meshed ceiling of mottled tree limbs and his own shoulders, he might have thought himself trapped in a nightmare from which he must eventually awake.

They pressed ahead with heavy hearts and wrinkled noses, subdued by the devastation wrought upon this diseased woodland. Though he didn’t say so, Torin began to worry that this blasted region might stretch on forever—or at the very least, beyond the limits of the girls’ endurance. His own was bolstered by the Sword and Pendant, and he was determined that if he must, he would march all week to get clear. He wondered what he might do should his guides elect to stop for the night: camp with them here in this forsaken wildwood, or abandon them to its ghosts?

Before he could decide, a mist began to form about them as if risen from the ground. Within moments, its dark layers had grown so dense that he could not see his own feet. Molding leaves, fallen trees, and wilting underbrush all drowned beneath its curdled depths, while islands were formed out of small
rises that dotted the landscape. Still the vapor rose, past their waists, their chests, until its veil threatened to obscure all from view.

Dyanne drew them both close.

“We can’t travel much farther without risk of wandering in circles or becoming lost,” she said, her words soft and urgent. “It may be best to camp here until dawn.”

Torin checked the pale faces of his companions, and saw that each was about as excited by the prospect as he. “The Sword might be enough to light our way,” he offered.

“No weapons,” Dyanne insisted. “Not unless they become absolutely necessary.”

“Then we could light torches—”

“I’m thinking a campfire. For warmth and protection, yes, but also to send signal to Necanicum that we’re here.”

“If she doesn’t know already,” muttered Holly.

“And what else might we be sending signal to?” Torin asked, peering about guardedly and seeing nothing but the fog.

Dyanne’s grin seemed cruel. “What, now you believe in our stories of ghouls?”

“I believe in hoping for the best, but planning for the worst.”

“Very well,” the woman agreed, “then I leave it up to you. Either we continue forward blindly, drawing whatever you fear might live out here to the torches we’ll be forced to use, or we set for ourselves a position of defense atop one of these mounds and meet whatever may find us head-on.”

Neither option was appealing, but the Nymph Hunter was right. Should they continue, they would still be drawing attention to themselves, and deep within the bowels of the fog, would be even more vulnerable to attack. Nor would they catch sign of Necanicum’s dwelling should it lie more than a pace or two to either side. The choice reminded him of that made with Moss while crossing the Cleft, and the consequences thereof. And that had not been the first time his impetuousness had cost him. With Dyanne watching him carefully, he finally relented. Better that they seek high ground and wait out this foul night than hurry forward and accomplish nothing.

They settled on a rise of Dyanne’s choosing, a mostly bare knoll walled to the east by a tangled stand of what might once have been fir or spruce. The mist swirled about its banks like an incoming tide, but stopped just below its lip and climbed no higher. Torin kept watch with one eye while helping his guides gather wood for the fire. Most of that which littered the ground was so wet and rotted that it crumbled at his touch, and he was forced instead to snap dead branches from standing trees. By that time, his imagination was running amok, for the crack of each limb sounded to him like an indignant shriek uttered by the disfigured giant from which it was broken.

Somehow, his guides coaxed a flame from that soaking pile, sending out a thick tail of smoke that bled into the unbroken fog. Their little company gathered round, shifting as needed to clear the smoke’s path, eyes darting about while they listened to the hiss and pop of rain upon their meager fire.

Despite their elevated position, they could see little of the forest beyond the crest of their own hill. Night had descended like a phial of spilled ink, forming a black backdrop beyond the flickering aura cast by the flames. Beyond that, the Widowwood had become an insidious void that sensed Torin’s fears and granted them life. He saw faces in the air and in the mist, wraiths that seemed to pass through heavens and earth as though they were one and the same. They were in the flames and in the trees, tormented spirits come to share their anguish with those settled upon this cursed ground. He wondered if his companions saw them, but felt foolish enough without asking. He closed his eyes, blinking them away, only to find that those which fled invariably returned, larger and more loathsome than before.

Perhaps he needed some rest. He was about to suggest as much, that they take turns sleeping and standing watch, when he found Dyanne squinting at him curiously from across the fire, as if seeing something she hadn’t noticed before. Then her eyes widened suddenly.

“Behind you!”

At the same time, he felt the flaming rush of Sword and Pendant, burning in warning, and the whoosh of heavy shadows dropping about him. He spun, lost his footing, and reached back to catch himself. He very nearly scrabbled into the flames to escape what he spied—a face made of bark, locked in a rictus grin.

A whirling knife struck the thing in the chest, and though it seemed unable to scream, its face stretched, as if to hiss in silent fury. Torin did not wait for Dyanne’s order, but rolled to his feet and drew his weapon. In the talisman’s glow, his attacker hesitated, and Torin saw what it was they faced.

Despite the warmth of the Sword pulsing through him, Torin froze. The creature looked more than anything like a sapling tree, humanoid in form, but horribly misshapen. It was lean and skeletal, comprised of a trunk of sinuous wetwood. Its legs and arms were branches, its fingers and claws no more than twigs. Atop its head and from its chin grew scraggly tufts of thin, branching roots. Vinelike strands kept it all sewn together, along with a barklike skin wrapped tightly about its gnarled frame. Fathomless eye sockets burned yellow with unnatural light, reflecting feral hunger and madness.

Torin brandished his blade and again the tree-demon shied away. He saw now that there were others, on the ground and in the trees, similarly assembled, yet each shape unique. Several were even now detaching themselves, tearing their emaciated bodies from the interwoven stand that had earlier served the companions as a windbreak but appeared now to be one of the demons’ nests. They dropped from their perches like falling seed cones to gather around the edge of the knoll, hiding just within the shelter of the mists. Torin could still see their faces, though, each a leering mask of death.

He glanced back at his companions and wondered if his visage was as horror-filled as theirs. Each of them was armed now, Holly with a pair of throwing knives from a brace he’d not seen before, and Dyanne with a dagger in one hand, rapier in the other. As of yet, he saw nothing beyond them to suggest they had been surrounded.

He spun forward again, sensing motion. The first of the tree-demons was advancing, Holly’s knife still stuck in its chest. Its lipless mouth stretched further, pulled open by roots that acted like tendons, revealing a tongueless maw lined top and bottom with jagged rows of toothlike stakes. Torin retreated a step in spite of himself. The thing’s movements were not stiff or awkward, but quick and graceful. The only sounds it made were the snap and scrape of its limbs and bindings, along with the wind whistling through narrow gaps in the creature’s bundled form. An eerie rustle signaled the approach of its fog-shrouded comrades below.

The demon pawed the air before him with a series of exploratory swipes. Torin wasn’t yet certain how he should respond. If this was some kind of pet in service to the witch—

It lunged then, moving twice as fast as it had before, and Torin had no choice. Up came the Sword, sheathed in flames as it cleaved the beast in two. The lopsided halves went sliding through the muck to lie twitching in the darkness.

For a moment, he thought that might drive the others away. But they came on, groping and with silent hisses as they emerged from the skirting mists. He realized then that the other did not seem to have perished, but lay there in its ruined state, flailing at the air with frantic swipes of its arms and legs, refusing death. Torin allowed himself to study it for a moment, then looked back to the scores of others. Only then did he realize the trouble they were actually in.

“We have to run!” he yelled, hoping his companions would simply agree, and not make him explain himself.

“In this murk?” Dyanne asked. “Are you mad?”

She was right, of course. For all they knew, these things could see in the dark, and give chase without need for rest. Could
he
say the same? Even if his strength held out, this was their domain, not his. He may as well attempt to outswim a shark.

But how long could they remain on this drowning crest?

They came for him then, in a concerted rush. He had only a vague sense of numbers, but feared at once they were more than he could handle. Crimson flames ripped along the Sword’s blade as it carved through two, three, four of the things, almost faster than he could count. A fifth lunged from his left, just as his stroke swept out to the right. Holly’s knives hammered at it like the beak of a woodpecker. Although they barely slowed its momentum, the blades turned it aside so that it lost its balance and went crashing through their fire pit, scattering flaming brands in every direction.

Again its brethren recoiled, swiping hatefully while their comrade steamed and burned. Dyanne was on it in a heartbeat, hacking at it with sword and dagger, then twisting her blades in such a way as to fling it forward over the edge of the knoll while tripping it with her heel. The smoking creature pitched and sailed out into darkness, illuminating for a moment the inkwell mists and the packs of angry faces hidden within. Almost instantly, the small fires that had sprouted on its limbs were extinguished, and the threat became all but invisible once more.

“They’re surrounding us!” Dyanne shouted, sounding alarmed but determined.

Torin snorted, trying to clear the burning stench from his nostrils. He kicked at a firebrand so that it lay as a barrier between him and his enemies. “Backs to the fire!” he hollered. “Use the brands to keep them at bay!”

They did so, arranging the burning pieces in a loose perimeter, brandishing torches or weapons whenever one of the demons came near. But this, too, Torin saw, was unlikely to buy them much time. Alone on the damp earth and in the incessant rain, the scattered pieces were fast smoldering and going out. And each piece taken weakened the primary flame of their signal fire. Nor did the creatures appear truly cowed, as even the scorched one reemerged, shoving forward among its brethren. It was almost as if they recognized fire as a natural enemy, but understood that what flame their quarry wielded could do little damage to them here.

Torin tightened his grip upon the Sword, watching the tree-demons draw about in a tightly knitted ring of hunched backs, twisted limbs, and gnashing stake-teeth. It was a pathetic schilltron he and Dyanne and Holly formed, gazing outward, encircled shoulder to shoulder with too much space between in order to provide for the fire in the middle. He wished for even one or two more fighters to help plug those gaps. Even better, he wished Kylac Kronus were here, and not out seeking whatever purpose the youth felt to be lacking in his life. Perhaps then he might have liked their chances.

After several moments of tentative approach, the tree-demons launched a fresh charge, leaping over or kicking aside the gap-toothed wall of firebrands. Torin stepped forward to meet them. He let the Sword take him now, no longer searching for an easy way out, but resigned to do battle until injury—and then death—lay claim. He gritted his teeth in a savage euphoria, thrusting and sweeping in precise lines and arcs. The creatures came in waves and bounds, diving at face and flanks, above and below. He could feel them scoring hits, their claws raking his flesh with furrows of blood. But it was nothing compared to the damage he inflicted, as he sent them away in bits and pieces.

And yet they came on.

He couldn’t see how his companions fared. Every now and then, while ducking or spinning, he caught sight of one or the other in the corner of his vision. His sense was that they were holding their own, coordinating their defenses and attacks as only a pair trained to complement one another all their lives could manage. Not only that, but it seemed the bulk of the demon charge was directed at him, as if the creatures understood his talisman to pose the greater threat. Bring him down, and the others would follow.