The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (37 page)

“What about you?” Torin asked. “I was only delayed a few days. How did you manage to get ahead of me?”

Arn shrugged. “Favorable winds, I guess. Put in at Razorport within a week of our attack. By that time, I’d decided I’d had quite enough seafaring for awhile. Marched straight through the Cleft ahead of an advancing snowstorm. Ran into this here army in Sydwahr, and accepted an appointment as master of recruits. General Chamaar and I go back a ways.”

Torin scarcely bothered to follow the account. All he knew was that this man who had saved him back in Gammelost was alive and well. Left for dead by Red Raven and his pirate crew, Arn had yet managed to survive—as had the remainder of those who had followed the young king from Krynwall. For Torin, it was a tremendous relief—both from the guilt he’d been carrying, and to know that not all of those he might find himself fighting alongside in the coming days would be complete and untrustworthy strangers.

“Master of recruits, huh?” he registered finally. “Is it true you’re not accepting soldiers of the female variety?” He nodded over his shoulder toward Dyanne and Holly.

Arn frowned, but seemed at the same time to look past the soft skin and pretty faces to the way the pair held themselves and the weapons they carried. “A soldier must be strong enough for those around him. Would you entrust your life to them?”

“I already have,” Torin replied earnestly.

Arn considered him a moment, as if waiting for him to back down from that claim. At last his sneering grin returned. “If they’re willing and able, we’ll take them.”

Torin matched that grin, and both men looked to the girls for their approval. Holly’s eyes glittered, and Dyanne folded her arms across her chest. Neither uttered a word.

“But tell me,” Arn said, forcing Torin’s gaze back to his. “How did you escape those pirates? And what brings you to join our war against the North? As I recall, yours was a much different objective.”

“I’ve been led to believe the two go hand in hand,” Torin answered, then
looked to those around him: at Moss, Dyanne and Holly, and Hargenfeld, standing silent to one side. Finally, he came back to Arn. “Besides, it seems everyone I’ve met or heard tell of recently has found their way here. I’d hate to be the only one to miss out.”

Arn clapped him again on the shoulder. “Hah! Come then, and introduce me to your companions. Let us learn whether any among us is not merely a fool.”

With a nervous smile at that remark, Torin fell into step beside his friend. Dyanne and Holly followed. Moss remained behind to make sure the scribe made record of his referrals, while Hargenfeld gave another of his gruff nods and went on his way. Little had changed, Torin warned himself, but it was hard not to feel heartened by this string of unlikely reunions.

He could only hope that it was a sign of better fortunes to come.

B
ULLRUM, OF THE LEGION OF THE SWORD,
better known as Bull, felt his anger rise as he delivered his report. Despite the passing days and having already done everything he could, he had yet to come to terms with the loss of his king—a loss for which he held himself directly accountable. Recounting it now, and thus reliving the experience, had the sting of salt in fresh wounds.

The surviving members of his expedition team stood alongside him on the floor of Krynwall’s throne room, respectfully silent beneath the grim gazes of those before whom he testified. Strange as it was to see Thaddreus sitting the throne, and with none but Captain Evhan at his side, Bull had agreed to their request that his story be shared first with them alone. No reason to risk widespread panic with the ill tidings they had come to share.

“And you’ve no idea how our king fares now?” Thaddreus asked, when the tale of Torin’s abduction at sea had been concluded.

“None, lord regent.”

“This is fell news, soldier.”

Bull lowered his head in silent admission, eyes scraping the floor. The granite tiles, polished recently to a brilliant shine in expectation of his lord’s wedding ceremony, mirrored his shame.

“If it would please my lord regent,” he offered finally, “I request permission to organize a search party and set forth at once.”

Thaddreus’s wrinkled face twisted. Word was, it was their return that had dragged the ailing regent out of bed that morning, the first any but Captain Evhan had seen of him in three days. Judging by the sallowness of his skin, the former speaker of the Circle was yet in need of rest.

“Search how?”

“We could commission a vessel, and sail back out again. A fleet of vessels, if necessary. If we were to follow the course and heading taken by the pirates after our encounter, we might be able to—”

“A fleet of vessels? At this time of year?”

“They’re pirates. If we can offer them ransom, chances are they’ll set him free.”

“Chances are just as good they might refuse. And that’s assuming we
had the coin to offer, which we don’t. Or to purchase the fleet you would require.”

Bull scowled. “Surely you don’t mean to abandon him.”

Evhan bent to whisper in Thaddreus’s ear, but the old man brushed him off like a bothersome fly. “I’ve seen the ocean that surrounds our lands. A thousand ships might search forever and still come up empty. It’s much to risk, especially when you cannot even assure me that His Majesty still lives.”

Bull held back his response. In truth, he had known all of these arguments going in. He and his men had discussed their predicament at length before ever boarding the ship headed for home. Slim as it was, this had been their best hope, to return to Krynwall with the news, in hopes of mustering a fully equipped rescue force. The reaction he was receiving was about what he had expected.

Still, it grated at the proud soldier to have to accept the truth of his failure. He glanced at his companions, at Ulric to his left, and the brothers Silas and Kallen to his right, the latter of whom now wore a patch over one eye. The loss of that eye, along with the deaths of Ashwin and Cordan, had been for nothing. The voyage had been an utter loss.

“Perhaps we should consult the Circle,” Bull ventured in a last-ditch effort. “One of the Elders might think of another way.”

But Thaddreus was already shaking his head, his silver mane rustling. “We have no choice, I think, but to await the return of he who suggested this course. Perhaps when Darinor is with us, or Allion, they will see things differently.”

Bull shook his own head in protest. “That could take days, and he’s been gone a fortnight already.”

“You have done all you could,” the regent offered. “You men should not feel guilty for the misfortune that befell you.”

“But—”

“This kingdom is indebted to you for your loyal duty. However, the best for all concerned is that you should be returned or reassigned, each of you, to a position within the City Shield. Let us turn our eyes and efforts forward, to the defense of this city and nation, rather than looking back on those who chose to forsake it.”

Bull glared, but gritted his teeth, not wishing to say something he might later regret.

Thaddreus rose. “See to it, Captain,” he said to Evhan, then looked down again upon the others. “Dismissed.”

B
ULLRUM WAS STILL FUMING AS HE MARCHED
down the length of castle corridor, matching strides with the young captain of the City Shield. It was just the two of them now. The others already had positions within the Shield, to which Evhan had bade them return. He alone needed special attention, given that his regiment, his commanders, his entire legion were stationed some fifty leagues to the south, camped at the border of another’s lands.

Bull didn’t like it. He didn’t like that Allion, Rogun, and the army were
gone, leaving only the Shield behind. He didn’t like that old man Thaddreus sat a throne to which he didn’t belong—a throne that even Torin had eschewed until such time as he should be crowned. And while the arguments made sense, he didn’t like how quickly the regent had dismissed the notion of a rescue.

All in all, the brief meeting had left a foul taste in his mouth. Though its outcome was not unexpected, he hadn’t been prepared for the complete lack of concern exhibited by the city leaders. Perhaps he would be better off consulting one or more members of the Circle behind Thaddreus’s back.

He glanced over at Evhan. Might he find in the younger man an ally to his cause? Or would the captain betray him to Thaddreus? With so much time piling up against them, would it even matter?

The entire affair dwelled like a sickness in his stomach. There was something more going on here; of that he felt certain. And yet there were too many issues to which he was blind, too many holes sapping his judgment, for him to unravel the truth. Besides, a soldier’s task was to execute his assignments without question, and Bull had built himself a nice reputation doing just that. But never before had he been placed in a situation such as this, in which—for whatever reason—he did not feel he could trust those whose orders he was meant to follow.

“This way,” Evhan said with a gesture as they came to a forked landing. As a matter of habit, Bull had started to climb the stairs toward the offices of the legion’s staff commanders, which also housed those of the City Shield. The Fason, however, was bidding him follow to the lower wing. The soldier grunted in apology and altered his course.

Had he not been so preoccupied with his thoughts, he might have paid closer attention to where they were headed. Down past the armory and training grounds they veered, marching right on by the fitting rooms, ammunition closets, and strategy chambers. It was not until they reached and turned down a hall that led to the inner dungeons that he fell back with hesitation.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked.

Evhan stopped and cast about furtively, as if wary of being overheard. “You want to help the king, don’t you?”

Bull felt his own forehead crease with suspicion. “What are you talking about?”

“Much has happened since you left, my friend. If you wish to survive, you’ll come with me.”

Bull wasn’t sure if the words constituted a threat or a warning, but when Evhan hastened forward without him, he decided there was only one way to find out.

When they reached the dungeons, Evhan borrowed a torch from its sconce and proceeded down to the lower levels. Bull tried once more to question the secretive captain, but the younger man only signaled for silence.

At last they came upon a storeroom at the very end of the lowermost hall, well past the last of the cells, where the walls were no longer of blocks shaped square and smooth, but of packed earth and bedrock. Here, Bull accepted
Evhan’s torch while the captain fished a key from a string tied round his neck. The latch released, the door opened, and with his heart beginning to drum, the big soldier followed the Fason through.

Despite the light of the torch, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust, so thickly layered were the shadows about the room. Crates and barrels filled it, along with lengths of chain, clamps and pins, tools of iron, and various other dungeon materials. Dust and webs lay thick over much of it, revealing those contents that had gone too long without use.

“You’ve heard of the tunnels beneath the city, have you not?” Evhan whispered.

Bull nodded. “Who hasn’t?”

The captain did not answer, but moved toward the far wall, which was lined with wooden boards. Taking the torch with him, he knelt for a moment in the corner, groping along the hidden edge of an iron cask. There was a quiet click before a section of the boarded wall swung away, creaking softly on oiled hinges.

Bull approached it at once, crouching low to peer through the opening. A stale breeze, smelling faintly of mold and sulfur, blew inward against his bearded cheeks.

“This is but one of many passages throughout the palace grounds,” Evhan revealed. “Follow the correct path, and it’ll take you safely from the city.”

“What’s down this one?”

“Salvation.”

Bull heard the rasp of a blade over the flickering of the torch and spun at once. Or tried to. Coming up too fast, he caught the back of his head on the crown of the secret doorway. It slowed him only momentarily, but in that moment, he felt the explosive thrust of a dagger plunging deep into his back.

He gave a howl, arching sharply, but still managed to stand and turn around. Evhan’s expression was one of disbelief as Bull threw a punch that cracked against the traitor’s jaw and sent the young captain flying. He then reached for the dagger, but brushing against its handle with his fingers only sent waves of pain shooting out from his spine.

With a roar, he threw himself instead upon his assailant, fists pummeling. The movements set his back afire, but he overcame it with sheer fury. Beneath his onslaught, Evhan thrashed defensively.

So intent was he on smashing the other into pulp that Bull did not hear the creak of hinges until it was too late. A cord wrapped round his throat, then yanked him to his feet. Hands of iron clamped about his wrists, pinning his arms behind him. A kick to his ribs dropped him to his knees.

A face came into view, blackened and shriveled, as if stricken with rot. It was a face not quite human, but rather gaunt and angular, like something out of legend.

Evhan was rising then, spitting blood and something more as he drew his rapier.

The Fason looked as though he was about to speak, then lunged without
a word. His blade bit deep, clear into Bull’s heart. The soldier growled and gritted his teeth, refusing this time to cry out. Then Evhan’s blade yanked free, and a pulsing spray emptied out down the front of his leather vest.

Bull’s last thought was to wonder if it would not have been better to join Ashwin and Cordan in death on the high seas.

T
HE WALLS OF
A
THARVAN
were etched with scars the adorning banners could not hide, pitted and worn by wind and time, mottled in patches and along crooked seams where the stone facing had been mended or rebuilt. Sprouting from the western foothills of the inimitable Skullmar Mountains like a cluster of growths at the base of a massive tree, the great city had been rattled and reshaped more than once throughout the centuries by tremor and landslide. True to their conquering nature, however, the men of Partha simply swept up the rubble, repaired their buildings and streets, and went on with their lives.

Despite its sometimes cobbled appearance, Allion was by no means unimpressed with the largest city he had ever witnessed. By any measure, the Parthan capital was among the greatest cities in all of Pentania. Not quite as old or as battle-hardened as Souaris, nor home to as many citizens or artificial wonders as Morethil had once been. But Allion had not yet seen either of those renowned cities, and though he’d heard both Marisha and Torin speak endlessly of each, it was difficult to imagine a more awesome array of towers and courtyards and roadways than that which climbed the broken slopes before him.

And this from his distant view well west of the outer wall.

They had been working their way for hours now along the switchback road that fronted the city’s main entrance, caught in a crush of citizenry begging entry. Showing no concern for whom he might waylay or offend, Darinor had shoved forward through the grinding throng, fighting for headway like a fish climbing upriver to spawn. He had left their mount behind, knowing that at this juncture, the large animal would only slow them down. Still, the highway was hemmed in on all sides by ridges and escarpments, boulders and fault lines, fences and fortifications both natural and man-made. Even for the towering Entient, from whom the angriest and most imposing strangers fell away with scarcely a complaint, travel was slow and arduous.

Holding Marisha’s hand protectively, Allion followed as best he could, offering apologies with every step. These crowds had a moblike quality to them, rife with bitterness and resentment and fear. Most had been dispossessed, either by Spithaera’s minions or the same unnatural hosts that had been hunting Alson’s countryside these past few weeks. Deprived of the most basic human needs—food, shelter, and a sense of security—they had come to demand it of he who ruled them.

Worse, it became clear to Allion from the threats and slurs and altercations all around him that there were Menzoans—“Menzoes” as they were less affectionately known—intermingled among the Parthan masses. Although the recent war against the Demon Queen had brought a halt to the age-old dispute between eastern nations north and south by severely gashing both sides, the pity and tolerance extended by the Parthans toward their northern neighbors—who’d been much harder hit—remained tenuous at best. Forcing a path through this volatile mix felt like marching through a giant tinderbox with a dripping torch to light the way.

Nevertheless, most simply grumbled or hurled epithets after the overbearing stranger, which Darinor disregarded. Only as they neared the heavily guarded city gates did the Entient’s brusque behavior result in the hiss of drawn steel. Allion whirled instinctively, to find an old man whose cart of fruit jams had been toppled, with several of the small jars shattering upon impact.

“Where d’ya think you’re going?” the elderly vendor snapped, reaching out to grab Marisha’s wrist.

Darinor glared, and Marisha struggled, but the old man held her fast. It was likely not the first indignity the codger had suffered, but he appeared determined to make it the last.

“’Less you pay for these,” he snarled, “I’ll be taking one of her pretty fingers for each.”

Allion searched for a way to appease the man, but couldn’t hear himself think over the encouraging roar of the crowds. One woman gasped in fright, but the rest seemed incited toward reparations of their own. As his pulse quickened, the hunter looked to Darinor in desperation.

The Entient, however, was staring heatedly at the old man’s dagger. In the gray light of overcast skies, his sapphire eyes seemed to glow.

All of a sudden, the old man shrieked and dropped his blade, its handle as red as a flaming poker. He let go of Marisha as well, coiling around his scorched hand. The surging throngs fell back, repelled by the stench of burned flesh and the discarded weapon that hissed and steamed upon the roadway of crushed gravel.

No one else tried to stop them as Darinor shouldered on and Allion and Marisha hurried in pursuit. Leaving behind a string of oaths and a common murmur of protest, they came at last to a line of clerks in official city regalia who, along with a phalanx of soldiers, were sorting through those seeking entry to the city beyond.

“Next,” called a droopy-eyed youth near the center of the barricade.

Darinor breezed past the tradesman who had started forward, slipping between a pair of guardsmen who were otherwise engaged.

“Name and business,” the clerk prompted, eyes rooted to a piece of parchment weighted by stones upon his drawing table.

“The name is Darinor,” the Entient growled. “My business is with your king.”

The young clerk was not intimidated. “Have you a writ of appearance?”

“A what?”

“General hearings for persons seeking admittance to the royal court have been restricted to those bearing a writ of appearance from their local governor or liege lord. Until you obtain such a writ, you’ll have to take your petition elsewhere. Next.”

Allion glanced up at the chipped outer wall, drawn by its looming mass and the roar of activity that resonated from within. His attention snapped back as Darinor gave a disgusted snort and started forward, triggering a rush of sentries even before the spurned clerk had shouted, “Guards!”

With a hedge of halberds and spears encircling them, Darinor came to another halt.

“Who is your commander?” he snapped, considering the pack of soldiers with disdain.

“Sir,” one of them replied from beneath his studded helm, “you have not been permitted entry. If you insist upon your present course, I will be forced to take you into custody.”

“Then be quick about it,” Darinor spat. “I care not where I meet with your king, be it throne room or dungeon. But I’ve not come this far to be detained by feckless grunts such as yourself.”

The ferocity of the Entient’s retort put the guardsman on his heels. “Sir, His Majesty does not see anyone unannounced. If you wish to—”

“Then send word, confound it. Bear with you my name and that of Allion, regent of Krynwall. Assemble an armed escort, if you must. Just put an end to this delay!”

The guardsman hesitated, his face a battleground for what might have been a standoff between duty and self-preservation. “Have you a seal or signet to present?”

They didn’t. Allion had left all of that behind with Thaddreus. He’d been in such a hurry to depart that he hadn’t even considered having the Circle draw them up an official notice of their intent to meet with the Parthan king.

“I am known to Chief General Corathel,” the hunter offered instead, “and to many of his commanding officers. If you wish, they can confirm my identity.”

To Allion’s surprise, the guardsman nodded, then excused himself for a whispered word with his senior officer. After a brief council between the two, a herald was dispatched, and an escort assembled. Within moments, they were headed beneath the shadowed enclave of the gatehouse.

On the other side, avenues wide and narrow were jammed with more of those they had left behind. Allion was grateful for the army escort, for it allowed them to pass unchallenged through the agitated swarm.

After awhile, everything began to look the same to the visiting hunter: an endless procession of walls and bridges and cramped alleyways, filled with the stink of man and his endeavors. At the base of towers and buildings piled one atop the other, there was no telling which way to turn. For Allion, it was a disconcerting feeling. Were he abandoned in the middle of the darkest wood or deepest jungle, he would yet be able to read the natural signs and follow them clear. Here, he was at the complete mercy of those who led him.

By his estimate, another hour had passed before they came at last to the palace, a sprawling compound raised upon a broad, jutting plateau, and whose area looked to be at least twice that of Krynwall’s. In a region so prone to earthquake, it made sense, Allion supposed, to build out instead of up, thus mitigating the potential for a catastrophic collapse.

Once cleared by the gate guard, their company proceeded through a thick and heavily buttressed curtain wall topped with patrolling soldiers. On the other side, they attracted a second ring of guardsmen, forming now a double wall on all sides. Archers and crossbowmen tracked them from the rooftops, weapons ready.

Except for the wide, ornately sculpted grounds that fronted it, the squat building into which they were finally ushered bore little resemblance to the royal castles Allion had heard tell of. For a moment, he worried that they were indeed being led into a dungeon holding area, there to await their audience on the king’s whim. But after another whispered conference and a series of stern looks aimed their way, Allion and his companions were given over to a fresh flock of soldiers prepped for their arrival, whose uniforms bore the falcon sigil of the Parthan royal family.

Through vaulted halls they marched, with Allion and Marisha stealing glances at many of the ornamental displays that decked the polished walls. For all of its crude, patchwork exterior, Atharvan was not without its comforts after all. Of the three newcomers, only Darinor appeared unmoved by the many tapestries, engravings, relief sculptures, and other adornments that brought warmth and majesty to an otherwise stark and weathered granite bunker.

Their trek ended belowground at an arched doorway—its keystone chiseled into the shape of a now-familiar falcon. Once again, word of their coming must have preceded them, for a steward awaited them, flanked by another pair of royal guard. The steward took a long, careful look at Darinor before turning to Allion.

“You are Allion?”

The hunter nodded.

“The same Allion who helped to slay Killangrathor?”

Allion was surprised, then emboldened to be granted such acclaim. Everywhere he went, people spoke of Torin and his Crimson Sword. Far fewer seemed to appreciate or even believe the critical role he had played alongside Kylac in bringing down the father of the dragonspawn.

“Yes, yes,” Darinor grumbled impatiently. “Has your lord agreed to meet with us?”

The steward turned a slow eye back to the Entient. “I am to relieve you of your weapons and bid you take comfort within. His Majesty shall join you presently.”

Allion watched the Entient’s reaction guardedly. It was better than they might have hoped for, he wanted to say, but knew that his words would have no sway upon the other’s outlook.

“I am unarmed,” Darinor declared, then, much to Allion’s amazement, lifted his arms in the air, inviting the steward’s men to check for themselves.

When that was finished, the three of them were allowed inside what turned out to be a cozy sitting room, complete with food and drink. Half a dozen guardsmen kept watch within, while an equal measure remained posted without. The steward took his leave to notify King Galdric of their arrival.

Thankfully, they were not kept waiting long, else Darinor, Allion was sure, would have stormed the inner keep and in the process gotten them all killed. Allion was just beginning to feel the soothing effects of the strongest wine he had ever tasted when the steward reappeared with a pair of men surrounded by yet another ring of royal guard. One, he recognized.

“General Maltyk,” he greeted, rising to his feet.

The lieutenant general looked much as Allion remembered him, with a knavish gleam to his eyes and a cropped, cornsilk beard.

“Master Allion,” he said, striding forward to clasp the hunter’s hand. “I imagined you taller by now, what with the tales that accompany your name.” He turned to Marisha. “You, my lady, appear radiant as ever.”

The woman blushed as he took her fingers in hand and placed them to his lips.

“I’m happy to see you, General,” she replied. “And to see that your knee has healed properly.”

“With much thanks to you, my lady,” Maltyk said, smirking at his own forced propriety. The general turned then, giving a nod to the other who had accompanied him. “My lord, I present to you Allion and Marisha. This other,” he added with an eye toward Darinor, “I’m afraid I cannot confirm.”

“No need, General,” King Galdric replied. “If he travels with the dragon-slayer, we shall count him a friend.”

The king who had ruled Partha for more than thirty years stood proud and tall, as a monarch should. Stories held him to be a powerful man, a hunter and gamesman, said to have wrestled wild animals in his youth. By the looks of it, those days were behind him, but Allion saw plenty of evidence to suggest the rumors might be true. Although grown soft about the middle, his arms and torso remained as thick as trunks. His skin was worn and scarred in a healthy way, bearing testament to a life lived outdoors in a conquering fashion. In bearing and appearance, he had the aura of a man who had climbed every mountain, swum every river, bested every enemy that had dared rise before him—and rather than wage a senseless struggle against time, had learned in these later years to settle comfortably and be content with his past achievements.

He stepped forward, flocked by his personal guard, who mimicked his every move like a school of fish in flight. “Welcome to Atharvan,” he said. His measured tone was smooth, yet forceful. “It’s good to finally meet you in person.”

Allion was about to drop to one knee when Galdric extended a hand. The king’s warm eyes and encouraging smile convinced him to take it. “You honor me, Your Majesty.”

“You’ve earned it,” Galdric assured him. “Were it not for the deeds of you and your friends, I would not have a kingdom today.” The hunter bowed
graciously. “The same goes for you, my lady. Your reputation precedes you. As my general suggests, your very presence warms these halls.”