The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (55 page)

“You might find that difficult to explain to your precious Lordship.”

Warrlun took aim. Traver’s eyes widened.

“No!” Dyanne yelled, pushing aside the commander’s weapon.

The old soldier looked like he might just swing around to put the bolt through Dyanne’s face instead, until the tip of the Nymph’s rapier snapped up between them to prick his chin.

Traver laughed, his smug smile making a triumphant return. “Well, then, it seems we have a dispute as to how we’re to handle this.”

“He’s right,” Torin said. “You can’t escape us, Traver.”

“I can if you wish to preserve the life of this young lady,” the ruffian argued, teasing his knife against Saena’s throat. His cheek was all but flush against hers, but he managed to press closer as he sniffed the veil of her hair.

“And where will you run?” Warrlun demanded, his finger still on the trigger of the lowered crossbow.

Traver shrugged. “The Southland is yet filled with men of opportunity.” One of his fallen comrades gave a dying moan. “Might be some time before His Lordship lays claim to it all.”

The commander shook his head. “A cutthroat like you would find a knife in his back ere seeing his first dawn. So why not save us both the trouble? Should you beg, I might even make it quick.”

Torin looked to Saena, taking measure of the courage and fear that warred within her eyes, seeking some sign as to what she would have him do.

“Or perhaps instead I shall ransom this pretty thing back to Lord Lorre. Hmm?”

The rogue was desperate, Torin could tell. Despite his bluster, he had never imagined the odds could turn against him so quickly. And yet, desperate men were the hardest to bargain with, for a man with nothing more to lose could not be relied upon to make rational decisions.

“What about a trade?” Torin asked.

Traver snaked a glance in his direction. “A trade?”

“You know what this is, don’t you?” Torin replied, shaking the Sword in emphasis. “I’ll wager you asked your friends working the city gate if I carried it, and they gave you a good description. It’s what you and your men came for, is it not?”

Traver’s greedy eyes turned back to Warrlun, too late to hide the truth.

“You’ll have it,” Torin assured him, “if you agree to turn her loose.”

Traver snorted. “So that our commander there can put an arrow through my back the moment I turn around?”

“You can take me instead,” Torin offered. “My companions will make certain he doesn’t harm you.”

He wasn’t sure the plan made sense. All he was looking for was a way to break the present stalemate, to remove Saena from harm’s way—even though it required every ounce of willpower he could summon not to rush the brigand here and now. Which was more important: his quest, or the life of this lone woman?

Then again, his quest seemed hopeless. Without Traver to steer them, they’d be lucky to escape this maze their guide had led them down. His mission had failed, so why not salvage what he could?

His enemy, he could tell, was making his own calculations. The others awaited Traver’s response with bated breath—all but Warrlun, who continued to huff and snort like a rampaging bull.

“Toss the blade over here,” the outlaw commanded. His scowl suggested that he was not yet convinced of Torin’s plan; but evidently he had decided to play it through.

Torin recalled again his face-off in Spithaera’s lair, and that with Lorre on the battlefield of Neak-Thur. In both instances, luck had rewarded him: once for his defiance, and once for his willingness to admit defeat. He wondered suddenly how many times he would be forced to endure this scenario, and how much longer his luck could hold out.

Though it pained him to even imagine Traver’s oily hands taking hold of
the divine talisman, Torin capitulated. He did not toss the Sword, as Traver had asked, but thrust it like a battle standard into the earth. Crimson flames bubbled up like springwater as they enveloped the buried portion of the blade, melting the snow and causing the bedrock to glow.

“Step back,” Traver snarled.

Again Torin paused, wondering if this was the right course. He could assume that his friends would not honor his hasty offer of safe passage. But even if he could rely on them not to permit Traver’s escape, killing the rogue would become much more difficult once the man had taken possession of the Sword.

He took a reverse stride, comforted by the warmth of the Pendant, even as he ached at leaving the Sword behind.

Traver’s wary eyes narrowed in warning, and he tightened his grip on Saena’s throat. Her terror looked to be melting beneath the heat of a rising anger, leaving Torin to pray that she was not contemplating something foolish.

Despite all of his careful reasoning, what happened next was not something Torin could have foreseen. As Traver waited for him to continue his retreat, there came a sharp and violent crack from the mouth of the defile. The ruffian stood straight up, arched at the back, while Saena was thrown forward by a sudden momentum. Traver’s clinching arm slipped from her like a length of loose rope, while at the same time, his dagger fell from his other hand, barely nicking the woman’s throat as she pitched to her hands and knees.

Torin lunged ahead to catch her, snatching up the Sword as he went. Traver never moved. He simply stood there, eyes wide, mouth agape, as if mounted on a pole. A moment later, a stream of blood spilled over his tongue and teeth, and his body slapped down face-first at Torin’s feet.

The young king looked up from the wicked gash that appeared to have severed the dead man’s spine, and spied immediately the shadowy figure standing over him—holding an axe that dripped a line of fresh blood from its gleaming edge.

B
LOODY AXE OR NO,
there was something odd about the figure standing there now in the mouth of the narrow defile, something more than his startling appearance and inexplicable actions. He had the height of a middling child, but with his broad shoulders and heavy coat seemed almost as square. In truth, Torin could not even confirm yet that it was a
he
—or even human—as the shadows of the mountain cleft prevented him from seeing into the depths of the other’s cowl.

Torin held perfectly still, one knee upon the earth as he crouched over Saena, sword arm ready. It was too early to know if the stranger was a friend come to save them, or merely a rival come to claim Traver’s unsecured spoils.

“Get her up, ya fool,” the stranger rumbled in a husky voice. “She ain’t got the skin to be lying in the snow.”

Torin rose slowly to his feet, pulling Saena up with him. Together, they stood to one side of the defile. Her eyes went to Traver’s corpse, while his remained fixed on the new arrival.

“We’re indebted to you,” Torin offered.

The stranger gave a snort. “You be the man who belongs to that blade?”

Torin glanced at the Sword before granting a wary nod.

“Torin, I’m guessing. Of Pentania.”

The outlander’s suspicions deepened. “And what do we call you?”

The stranger shifted, as if taking stock of those farther down the trail. He had yet to lower his axe. His squat form and bold stance reminded Torin suddenly of Arn—except that he was a good head or two shorter than that, even.

At last, their mysterious savior seemed to arrive at a decision. With one hand still gripping the handle of his weapon, the other reached up over the top of his head, pushing back his concealing hood.

Saena gasped, though she moved quickly to stifle it. Torin felt his own eyes widen. Before either could react further, Dyanne made a sound of indignation as Warrlun slapped her rapier away and, ignoring the line of blood drawn on his own chin, raised his crossbow, taking aim once again at the far mouth of the defile.

“What are you doing?” Holly demanded, crouched halfway between Dyanne and Warrlun at one end, and Torin and Saena at the other.

But Warrlun wasn’t listening, his gaze squeezed in focus upon his target. “Clear aside!” he shouted to his companions.

“Wait!” Saena managed, overcoming her own surprise to step farther out into the shot’s path.

Torin wasn’t sure what to do; neither were his friends of the Fenwood. Holly was glaring at Warrlun, but Dyanne was casting back and forth between the soldier and the stranger, as if uncertain whom she should trust.

“Commander, I beg you,” Saena implored, her hand raised as a shield. She then turned her plea upon Torin. “Don’t let him shoot.”

That was enough for Torin, though it took a moment for him to find his tongue. “Dyanne.”

The Nymph was back on Warrlun in an instant. He tried to fend her off, but she ducked his swatting arm and seized hold of the crossbow quarrel buried in his side. With a twist of the shaft that made him cry out, she slid in close, positioning her blade this time below his belly.

“It’ll hurt a good deal more if you pull that trigger,” she promised.

Warrlun grimaced, but refused to drop his weapon. “Daft wenches. Can you not see he’s a dwarf?”

Dwarf.
That would explain it. The unnatural build, squarish and stout. The gravelly voice, like pebbles rolling downhill. The spiky beard, erupting outward like a tangle of roots. And the bony protuberances that covered his face and skull, like a cluster of bulbous mushroom caps seeking to sprout through his skin. Torin had never seen a dwarf before, but the descriptions he’d read as a child fit this individual like woven mittens.

“Bah, let him shoot,” the dwarf gruffed. “Them darts ain’t gonna hurt this skull.” He tapped the flat of his axe blade against his forehead for emphasis, striking one of the spurs grown up like a blister on his brow.

“Dwarf or no, he saved my life,” Saena reminded Warrlun.

“Yet hasn’t told us why,” the commander growled.

“You’ve not given him a chance,” Holly snorted.

“Then let him do so now, the filthy mole, before I take the wind from his throat.”

“You must be Warrlun,” the stranger drawled. “Lorre’s right hand, they said.”

“You seem to know all about
us,
friend,” Torin intervened. “Have
you
a name you would share?”

The dwarf seemed to grind his teeth. He looked to Torin, one eye pinched in judgment. He then lowered his axe, leaning forward upon its upended haft. “Call me Crag, if ya like.”

“And to what do we owe the fortune of your visit, Crag?”

“Looked like the lady could use some help.”

Warrlun was incensed. “Are we to stand here questioning him all afternoon? He’s stalling. Probably waiting for his pack to catch up so that they can trap us all over again.”

Torin took note of Crag’s simmering reaction, even as he fought back against his own exasperation. “And what would you propose, Commander?”

“That you quench that fiery blade of yours in his belly so we can round up the horses and make our way out of here.”

“Hardly a proper show of gratitude,” Holly observed.

“Why should we be grateful?” Warrlun huffed. “How do we know he’s not in league with Traver?”

Torin glanced down at the body of the ruffian leader, cooling upon the earth. To his own surprise, he felt little satisfaction in the other’s demise. “A strange way to treat one’s comrade.”

“Treachery is what dwarves do best,” the commander warned.

Crag bristled. But while Torin’s overall sympathies remained with Saena and this stranger who had rescued her, he knew that Warrlun raised some valid concerns.

“Your timing would indeed appear Olirian-blessed.”

The dwarf shrugged. “I might’ve shown sooner, but I saw no reason to trap myself with the rest of ya.”

“Then you knew about the ambush?” Torin scowled. “Why not warn us?”

“I told you,” Warrlun spat. “Ain’t none more treacherous than a dwarf.”

Crag’s voice became a low growl. “’Cept for them that slaughtered ’em.”

“Enough!” Torin shouted. “Dyanne, if our good commander speaks again, take his tongue.” He looked then upon Crag with a heavy sigh. “This would go faster, friend, if I didn’t have to beg your every word. So I’ll ask once more: How is it you’ve come to be here?”

Crag continued to glare at Warrlun for a moment, before turning his stony gaze back to Torin. Even then, he seemed to be keeping watch upon the other out of the corner of his eye, as if anything less would be unwise.

“These here are
my
trails,” the dwarf said finally. “Anything passes through, I know about it.”

There came a huff from Warrlun, but Dyanne’s ready response with the tip of her blade discouraged anything more.

“Go on,” Torin urged.

“Last night, a handful of your friends spent the night in one of my caves.” The dwarf gestured disdainfully at a couple of the bandits’ bodies. “Spent hours wagging their tongues, flapping ’mong their selves ’bout the trap they’d come to lay. Spoke of a king from Pentania, man named Torin, rumored to wield a sword of elven myth. Said he done teamed up with Warrlun, chief commander to the villainous Lorre—that together, they was in search of the elves what went missing decades ago. Need I go on?”

“You learned of us from Traver’s men,” Torin repeated, making sure that he understood. “Meaning, again, that you could have warned us earlier.”

Crag’s huff might have been a laugh. “And which of ya would’ve believed me?” His eyes flicked round to the others. Even Saena, Torin noticed, was uncomfortable meeting his gaze.

“Seems clear your kind is not well liked here in the north,” Torin acknowledged. “So why risk mixing in our business at all?”

“Got wax in your ears, lad? This is
my
land, and it’s all I got. Whatever takes place here ain’t just your business, but mine.”

For a gruff old fellow, he seemed to Torin particularly sensitive. “What I mean is, why take part in our struggle, knowing this would be the thanks you’d receive?”

The dwarf seemed suddenly uncertain of himself. “I figured to stay clear, just keep an eye on things—till it came evident none of the rest of ya were gonna help the lass.”

His disapproving frown softened, somewhat, as he looked to Saena. Torin, however, saw only that the dwarf had evaded the more obvious truth. As charitable as he might claim to be, Crag wanted something. It was the only reasonable explanation.

“Well, then,” Torin decided, “perhaps it would be best for all if you were to accept our gratitude and allow us to be on our way.” He took hold of Saena’s arm, pulling her back as he gave a polite bow.

“And where do ya think you’ll be headed?”

“As you heard, I came here in search of elves. Until I find them, my search continues.” He turned away, marching back toward Holly and the others.

“Is it any ol’ elf you’re looking for? Or did ya come seeking the Vandari?”

Torin spun, breathless. “What did you say?”

“Did I misspeak the name?”

“You said
Vandari
.”

“Ah, then ya
did
hear me.”

“What do you know of them?”

“I knows my history, is all. Said to be the guardians of the talisman you now bear. That not right?”

“What do you want?” Torin asked.

“We ain’t talking ’bout what
I
want. We’re talking ’bout what
you
want.”

“You know where they are.”

Crag lifted a hand from the butt of his axe, holding it up as if to slow things down. “Don’t be putting your words in another’s mouth, lad. I ain’t said any such thing. I’m only trying to draw bead on what it is you’re doing here.”

Judging by their continued silence, Torin’s companions—even Warrlun—were as stunned as he by this odd turn of events. It was difficult to think clearly, here amid the rocks and the snow and the carnage. The sickly sweet smell of blood filled his nose, an odor to which he’d not yet become inured.

“Well why else would a man wielding a Sword of Asahiel be carrying out such a desperate search?” Crag pressed. “Hoping they can tell ya how to use it, I’m guessing. Or are ya merely looking to return it to its rightful owners?”

Torin frowned at the mockery in the other’s tone. “Whatever it takes to warn them of the peril that came with it.”

This time, Crag’s laugh seemed forced. “Got a ghost story to tell, do ya, lad?”

“Let’s see how good your history
really
is,” Torin challenged. “Ever heard of the Illysp?”

The dwarf’s brow furrowed. “Can’t says I have.”

“You soon will. You and those you care about. For when they’re finished conquering my shores, I’ve no doubt they’ll come to conquer yours.”

Crag’s smirk vanished, and his squint deepened. “You humans finally chased the wrong animal up the wrong tree, did ya?”

“The Illysp are not natural creatures,” Torin continued, “but parasites from beyond this world. I won’t claim to fully understand, as I’ve never actually seen one. But I’m told it was the Finlorians who first woke them, and that if we’re to seal them away again, it won’t be without the Finlorians’ help.”

“Then this threat is to
all
of Pentania?”

Torin nodded wearily. “Without prejudice.”

The dwarf looked as if he were chewing on his thoughts—and didn’t like the taste. “If this be true, what cause have ya to be traveling with one like him?” He nodded toward Warrlun, who clenched his jaw but remained still.

“An unfortunate encounter with the armies of Lord Lorre,” Torin confessed. “But he knows this country better than I do. Without him, we’re lost.”

“And yet he’d have ya rely on one like this,” Crag noted, kicking Traver’s motionless foot. “Looks to me like you’d be better off without him.”

“You know someone else who can help us, then?”

Again, Crag’s expression soured. “Lorre and his kind chased off them Finlorians long ago. Ya know that, right?”

Torin nodded. “I’ve been told. I’ve also been told that the last of the dwarves were wiped out soon after.”

Crag spat. “Ain’t far from the truth, I’m afraid. Thanks to that one’s master.”

Torin winced and checked again on Warrlun. He wished the dwarf would stop testing the other’s patience.

“We’ve not come for bloodshed,” Saena promised. “I, too, come from His Lordship, merely to bear a message to his daughter and grandchild, whom he believes are being harbored by the same people Torin seeks.”

This time, Crag’s laugh was genuine. “I’ll shave my beard and be a web-footed orc ’fore I believe that one, lassie.”

“Either way, you can’t refuse Torin for our sake. If you can help him, you must do so.”

“Must I, now?” the dwarf asked, raising his brow. “Was it
him
saved one of
mine,
rather than the other way ’round?”

Saena pouted, but crossed her arms in defiance.

“We’ve told you what it is we want,” Torin reminded the dwarf. “So tell me now, what is it we can do for you?”

For a moment, he thought the other meant to deny any such need or desire. Were he to do so, Torin had every intention of walking away, for it would be an obvious lie.

“I can tell you this,” the dwarf offered. “It wasn’t word of this elven talisman that piqued my interest, but mention of you and your homeland, a royal outlander from far-off Pentania. Not many of those come ’round here.”

Torin nodded slowly, trying to guess where this was headed, but as of yet uncertain.

“My great-grandfather used to speak of your land—back when it was still called Tritos. Used to fill my head with the many wonders of the great dwarven nation of Hrothgar settled there. Himself lived upon one of the lesser isles, among the Tuthari dwarves, distant cousins to the proud Hrothgari.”

Risking offense, Torin snuck a glance back toward Dyanne and Warrlun, just to make sure the Nymph still had things well in hand. To his surprise, the commander had lowered his crossbow, though his fierce scowl—and Dyanne’s ready blade—remained.

“Sailed ’cross the great sea, he did,” Crag continued. “No place for a dwarf, I tell ya, out there ’mid the wind and waves, where nothing is permanent and all is motion. But he did so, him and a few hearty clansmen, to help settle this virgin land and sow the seeds of a new nation of dwarves that would not be confined by the smallness of the isle upon which his forefathers had long lived.”