The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (56 page)

A ragged gust whistled through the slanted walls of the narrow defile. Holly shivered. They had tarried for too long, Torin thought. They needed to be on the move again, and soon, before the skies soured. Of course, they also needed to know
where
to go.

The dwarf went on, oblivious to such concerns. “They were not alone. Other races came, to join those already here. The land was plentiful, but unforgiving, and competition fierce. Still, we dwarves are tougher than most, steadfast and determined. It took centuries of struggle, but in our own way, the Tuthari flourished.”

“Until the coming of Lorre,” Torin presumed.

“Until the coming of Lorre,” Crag echoed. “His reign marked the end of ours. When my people would not stoop to his will, he sent forth his army of misfits to break our backs. Not only that, but he turned our other neighbors against us, trolls and giants. We was branded traitors and thieves and slaughtered without cause. Them Finlorians, they were the smart ones. They ran. Us Tuthari fought, and paid the price.

“Too late, we fled southward, those of us able to escape the noose Lorre had laid. Still he hunted, and so still we ran, down through northern Yawacor and into the southern wilds. His armies drove us from all but the most uninhabitable reaches, and even then, would not let us be.”

The fire in the dwarf’s eye was unmistakable. “You need not fear ambush from my friends, for I’m all there is—the last of the Tuthari of Yawacor. The last anywhere, from what I know, as it wasn’t but a generation after my great-grandfather’s voyage that our original ground south of Tritos was overrun by the endless waves of marauding humans come to claim the Finlorian Isles. Let your commander there kill me, and indeed the dwarves of this land will be no more.”

Torin still wasn’t certain what this dwarf—this Tuthari—was looking for. If it was pity, then he had found it, at least among the women, who had turned their collective glare upon an unapologetic Warrlun. But Torin didn’t think
that Crag was interested in their pity. Pity would not bring to life his loved ones. Pity would not reunite him with—

Torin caught himself. His gaze locked with that of the dwarf in sudden understanding.

“Might be that I’m able to help you,” Crag said. “Might be that in return, you can help me leave this land behind and set sail for your own, so’s I might live again with my own kind.”

But Torin was already shaking his head. “The Proclamation of Man was ratified nearly four hundred years ago. Any dwarves living upon Pentanian shores disappeared even before then.”

“Not the Hrothgari,” Crag maintained stubbornly. “From what my great-grandfather used to tell me, had man driven them out, struggle would’ve been such that the whole world would know of it.”

“Perhaps your great-grandfather was merely telling stories. For I’m advising you now, in fair warning, that there are no more dwarves living upon Pentanian shores.”

Crag scoffed. “Precisely what the Hrothgari would have you humans believe.”

Torin glanced helplessly at Saena. “So be it. If you’re so certain, why not set sail on your own? What do you need
me
for?”

The dwarf eyed him with great disgust. “What am I to do, lash together a few limbs and just float away at the mercy of the waves? Think, lad. Ain’t but a few out there what wouldn’t run screaming at the mere sight of me—fewer still what wouldn’t sell me to those who’d like to mount my head as a trophy. I’m trapped, make no mistake. Doomed to wander these trails as I begin my second century, my best hope that I can outlive the hatred what’s claimed these lands.

“But you could help me now. I heard the awe with what these others spoke your name. Seeing for myself the blade you carry, I think I understand why. And a king, no less. Man like you got influence. With your protection, just might be I’m able to cross the sea safely and find a place ’mong my cousins to the east.”

Torin was sorely tempted to laugh. If he had such sway as the dwarf suggested, would he be allowing a complete stranger to dictate to him the terms of their potential accord? Or perhaps he could relate to the other the truth of his own recent journey, so much of which had been spent at the mercy of others. He was lucky, certainly. But considering how far he had stretched that luck already, he doubted it would hold out for two.

He said nothing of that to Crag, however, biting back the threat of laughter. It would not help his cause to weaken himself in the dwarf’s eyes.

“I’d be happy to serve as your guardian escort on such a voyage,” he agreed instead, “though I’ll not be held responsible for who or what you might find when we arrive. But the fact remains, I’ll be going nowhere until I’ve accomplished what I came here to achieve.”

With that, the pressure was shifted squarely onto Crag’s knotted shoulders.
Though Torin’s promise would no doubt prove easier to give than to keep, it was the best he could offer at this time. The dwarf scowled as if realizing this, as if weighing its worth against that which he was being asked to give.

Torin found himself holding his breath. By the sour look on the other’s face, it wasn’t going to be enough. Despite whatever soul-searching and effort had brought the dwarf to them in the first place, he was clearly having second thoughts about the entire affair.

“Just yourself,” the Tuthari reasoned finally. “None of these others need go.”

Holly cleared her throat. “Where he goes, we go.”

Torin looked to the Nymph, then farther back to her kinmate. When Dyanne nodded, he found it hard not to smile.

Crag squinted sharply. “That how it is?”

“They’re Wylddean,” Torin replied. “Fenwa.
You
try telling them no.”

“Nymphs,” Crag snorted. “I heard of ’em.” His smirk—if that’s what it was—vanished as he turned eye to Saena. “And Lorre’s lackeys? Now would seem a good time to be rid of ’em.”

Saena looked at Torin plaintively.

“Rid how?” the young king asked.

“That’d be up to them. For the lass’s sake, I’d say turn ’em loose, provided they foot it out in the opposite direction. Should they insist on following, might have to tie ’em up—though with the wolves ’round here, might be kinder to give ’em the blade of my axe.”

“I told you,” Saena insisted, “I bear a message, nothing more. The only knife I carry is for cooking.”

“Shame ’bout that,” Crag replied, his gaze slipping briefly to regard Traver’s bleeding carcass. “Meat of it is, I serve them Finlorians as lookout, gate-keeper to their lands. It would be a betrayal of their trust to guide one such as him”—his eyes narrowed reflexively as they shifted toward Warrlun—“to their front doorstep.”

So that was it, Torin realized, the reason for the dwarf’s pained hesitation. The risks in all of this to his own life were easy enough to accept. Those to the safety of his friends were much harder to assume.

“I’m sworn to His Lordship to serve as guardian to the girl,” Warrlun growled, breaking his long silence. “You’ll have to kill me if you expect me to forsake my oath.”

“Wolves will be pleased to hear it,” Crag replied icily.

“What if we blindfolded him?” Torin suggested.

The Tuthari grunted—another harsh laugh. “You’ll
all
be bound and blinded,” he agreed. “Ain’t no other way of it.”

Torin swallowed against his own misgivings. “And if we can agree to that, what’s the danger?”

“The worst there is,” Crag snapped. “That which ain’t readily seen. The Finlorians, they don’t believe in fighting. Abolished all weapons years ago when they ran from Lorre. Don’t have as much as a hunting bow
among them, since they feed only on what the soil can grow. Should a fight find ’em, they have naught but cooking knives with which to defend themselves”—he looked purposefully at Saena—“and even so, would refuse to raise ’em.”

“But you’ll be there to watch over him,” Torin reminded the leery dwarf. “As will I.”

“You willing to vouch for him, then?”

Torin considered the old soldier, Warrlun, who glared back with a gaze full of fire. The man refused to be cowed, and had revealed himself already as a formidable opponent. While it was tempting indeed to leave him to the rats and the wolves, the commander had done nothing as of yet to deserve such a death sentence. So long as he was kept under close watch, and unable to mark the path by which Lorre might return with an army, what could be the harm?

“I’m willing to promise that if he threatens anyone in any way, I’ll kill him myself,” Torin answered finally, keeping his eyes locked on Warrlun’s as he made this oath.

By the gnarled look on his face, the dwarf was nowhere near agreeing. But it would seem he’d run dry of alternatives. “As close as we’ll come, I reckon, to a fair pact.”

He stepped forward then, reaching out a gloved hand riddled with spurs and growths. Torin shook it firmly, though he nearly cried out within the crush of the other’s grip. Crag stared him in the eye, then spat and shook his head, as if disgusted with himself for accepting the terms they had set.

“Fools,” Warrlun snarled. “He’ll kill us all in our sleep.”

A legitimate possibility, Torin knew. But if Crag had wanted them dead, why would he have helped them against Traver? The dwarf was too blunt-spoken to strike Torin as the liar Warrlun claimed him to be. Either way, when the truth boiled free, the young king was willing to team with this stranger—as he had Lorre’s commander—for only one reason: He didn’t feel he had much of a choice.

“Crag will have to show the same trust later on,” Torin observed, “if he is to give himself over to my protection.”

“
If
you make it that far,” Warrlun snapped.

“A concern that needn’t worry you,” Crag retorted, finally releasing Torin’s hand, “unless ya rest your tongue long enough to tend to those wounds.”

Warrlun glanced down at the array of crossbow bolts that had pierced his leather armor to become lodged in his flesh. While the damage to his shoulder appeared largely superficial, blood seeped from the one in his side.

“My wounds will keep,” he decided. “I’ll not trust any here to tend them—least of all some pox-ridden dwarf.”

Torin wasn’t going to waste time arguing. “We’ll need to round up the horses.”

“You’ll just have to turn ’em loose again,” Crag reasoned. “They ain’t gonna be able to follow where we’re going.”

“What of our food and supplies?” asked Saena.

“Got plenty ’nough for the day or so we’ll need.”

Torin looked to each of his companions before turning back to Crag. “Well, then, how do you want to do this?”

The dwarf hefted his axe so that it leaned against his shoulder. “Come,” he bade them. “We’ll fetch some rope.”

F
OR
T
ORIN, IT WAS LIKE MARCHING THROUGH A DREAM
—scuffing along that dark and twisted trail to nowhere. The air was dank and stifling and stank of minerals. Water dripped, not from leaves and tree limbs, but from dagger-tipped rock formations. These drops echoed as they fell, slapping often into invisible pools, or else atop sister formations grown up beneath. There was the skitter of insects, the flap of bat wings, and the scrape of an occasional rodent. But mostly, there was only the huff of their own breathing, the pull of the ropes that bound them, and the insufferable repetition of stepping forward with a blind and trusting stride.

While backtracking through the defile in which Traver’s company had ambushed them—leaving the bodies of the brigands as carrion for scavengers—Torin had expected Crag to lead them down some other trail. Instead, after blindfolding them as promised and tethering them together in a single line, the dwarf had guided them almost immediately down the gullet of some cave. Saena had quickly voiced Torin’s own surprise that their trek should begin underground, but Crag refused them the slightest explanation.

For hours they had carried on, with no choice but to trust in the motives and competence of their guide. Only Warrlun gave protest—muttered warnings to his companions as to the foolishness of this course. Once Crag had threatened to gag him, even the commander’s tongue grew still.

When according to their guide night had fallen outside, the Tuthari had removed their blindfolds, revealing a wondrous cavern. Its natural formations were like nothing Torin had ever seen—not even during his trek beneath the Tenstrock Mountains en route to the lair of the Demon Queen. The veins of luminous minerals embedded in its walls were so thick and so bright that Crag’s torch became almost unnecessary. Their glitter and sheen had sparked a flurry of questions and comments, many of which the dwarf was agreeable enough to answer or respond to. While doing so, he had fed them a blend of meats and berries gathered from aboveground, along with shoots and mushrooms harvested from below. Feeling famished, Torin had accepted readily that which was offered. Of his comrades, only Warrlun had refused.

They had slept in their tether line, hands bound by a length of rope to the waist of the person in front. Torin had been placed near the rear, aback
of Holly, Dyanne, and Saena, with only Warrlun behind him. If there was a method to the order Crag had chosen, Torin wasn’t sure what it was.

They had suffered through just a few hours’ rest before moving on again, their footing challenged at every step by the often jagged flooring. Though Crag served as the front of their tether, kicking aside loose stones and sending back warning of any trouble spots, they had spent a good amount of time tripping and stumbling over various humps and jags in the stone path. Oftentimes, a single member’s fall had threatened to drag down the entire company—save for Crag at the head, whose strong and stocky body seemed capable of bearing the weight of all who followed with scarcely a grunt.

It was daybreak when they had stopped for another meal—though once again, Torin had only his guide’s word to go by in this sunless underworld. During this respite, they had suggested again to Warrlun that the soldier allow them to treat his wounds—at the very least, to remove the crossbow bolts still buried in his flesh. But the commander had gritted his teeth and flatly refused any such proposals. Stubborn fool, Crag had grumbled. If that was what he wanted, so be it. It would serve the dolt right if he bled to death.

Continuing on, they had passed through a stretch of tunnels so tight that at times, the walls scraped at them from either side. Torin had felt as if he marched through a thicket of brambles, with sharp rocks tearing at him like thorns. How Warrlun was able to manage it—with his thicker body and those snagging quarrels—remained a mystery.

On occasion, Crag had removed their blindfolds, when necessary to prevent one of them from falling into a subterranean chasm, when climbing over boulder mounds, or when otherwise the terrain became simply too treacherous to navigate blindly. Though brief, these periods had afforded them continued glimpses of the territory through which they trekked, a stunning maze of channels and pockets hidden deep within the mountain core, full of sparkling deposits of minerals and gemstones seldom viewed by human eyes. That such a world could exist beyond that which he knew filled Torin with a humbling sense of awe.

A sharp pull from behind brought him back to the present, scrambling for balance as the rope cinched about his waist and threatened to haul him down. Warrlun had stumbled again. Turning sideways, Torin reached out with bound hands to help the other to his feet. They had only heartbeats in which to get moving again before the ropes tightened farther up the line and Crag became aware of the difficulty they were having. More than once, the dwarf had threatened to leave the headstrong soldier behind. For as the hours passed, weariness had aggravated the hunger and blood loss that the commander continued to suffer, making it ever more difficult for him to keep up.

Surprisingly, Warrlun found and then took his hands, struggling mightily to his feet. The length of rope between Torin and Saena drew taut, and she gasped worriedly. But the old soldier was up and moving again, and this time did not even snarl at Torin for helping him. Perhaps the man was truly waning toward death. This journey had taken its toll on all of them, but none more so than Warrlun. While much of this was indeed the warrior’s own fault, Torin
could not help but admire the man’s tenacity, and hoped now that it would not prove his undoing.

“Everything all right?” Crag asked, his gruff voice echoing amid the cavern gloom.

“Is this the easiest way to get there?” Torin called forward in response, hoping to deflect the dwarf’s attention.

Crag did not respond right away, but muttered finally, “It’s the only way.”

Not long after, the blindfolds were removed again as they passed through a wide cavern torn apart by bottomless fissures. Torin snuck a glance back at Warrlun to find the other’s face pallid and dripping with sweat. Even in the feeble light of Crag’s torch, there was no denying the commander’s ragged state.

Torin said nothing about it, however, other than to offer the man some water, which, despite a scowl, he drank readily. They kept moving, winding around the many pitfalls and keeping a wary eye on the shadows that painted the cavern walls. Though it seemed unlikely—given the lack of sizable prey to sustain it—Torin kept expecting to run across some ogre or dragon living within these caves and tunnels. Maybe even a demon from another world, such as Spithaera. For however improbable such an encounter might seem, he need only look ahead to the dwarf leading their column to be reminded that anything was possible.

When they had cleared the splintered cavern, Torin fully expected that Crag would stop them in order to replace their blindfolds. Instead, the Tuthari delved without breaking stride into a tight-fitting corridor of dank stone, leaving the rest to plunge after. Perhaps their guide realized that at this point, after a day and a half of travel, there was no conceivable way that they could have memorized this path. Or perhaps another unnavigable stretch lay just ahead. Whichever, Torin wasn’t about to offer a reminder.

As they continued down this most recent tunnel, there came a murmuring from somewhere ahead. Torin was only vaguely aware of it at first. But the sound grew, in volume and intensity, until its roar filled his ears, deep and resonant and unrelenting. By that time, he could feel it as well, beneath his feet and in his chest. The air in the tunnel became damp, and the walls slick, soaked by a thickening layer of mist. Footing became treacherous as the companions struggled onward over stones and depressions in pursuit of their guide.

The tunnel brightened, filling with natural light. Crag extinguished his torch, stuffing it into a sack along with the others he’d brought. As they rounded a bend, the light grew tenfold, forcing Torin and his friends—so accustomed to the darkness—to squint against the sudden glare.

Ahead lay the end of the tunnel, its mouth covered by a churning waterfall and the clouds of mist stirred up beneath. Despite the sting of afternoon daylight, the companions slipped anxiously forward, more than ready to leave the suffocating blindness of the inner earth behind them.

Before they could step free, however, their guide turned back, gathering them together at the edge of the cave mouth.

Over the din of the cascading waters, he shouted to them.

“This is it. The Finlorian dell lies just beyond this threshold. Aefengaard, they calls it.” His eyebrows knotted sternly. “One false step from any of ya, I’ll be carving ya up like a festival bird. Hear?”

Torin nodded solemnly, then turned toward Warrlun just in time to see the big man sway unsteadily. Before he could lend assistance, the commander crumpled, legs gone slack beneath him.

The soldier lay there for a moment, slumped against the algae-coated walls, as the others looked on.

“Go on,” he managed between breaths. “I’ll wait here.”

Torin’s gaze shifted from Warrlun to Crag.

“This some kind of game, Lorre’s man?” the dwarf asked.

But it was clear that it wasn’t. Warrlun’s face had taken on the pasty gleam of candle wax. His breathing was shallow and labored, wheezing in and out. Peering down at the crossbow shaft in his side, they found his leathers soaked in blood. Though much of it had clotted, there was no telling how things looked on the inside.

“He’s
my
guardian,” Saena said. “I’ll stay and look after him.”

“Better would be to tote him ’long and let the Finlorians tend to him,” Crag observed.

At that, Warrlun tensed, glaring up at them with bloodshot orbs. “I’ll not be pawed by some greasy elf, any sooner than a filthy dwarf.” He settled back, coughing from his exertion. “Go. Deliver His Lordship’s message. By the time you’ve returned, I’ll have regained my strength.”

The companions glanced at one another, each waiting for someone else to speak the truth.

It was Crag who finally did so. “More likely, we’ll find you dead.”

“Better here than in an elven wood,” Warrlun spat.

Harsh manner notwithstanding, Torin looked upon the soldier with a measure of compassion, wishing that such grit were not so misplaced.

“If that’s your choice,” Crag huffed, shaking his head. He bent forward, drawing a dagger with which he cut the tether line between Torin and Warrlun. Once severed, the extra length was used to truss the soldier’s feet in a manner to match his wrists. It seemed a cruel thing to do, as it was obvious the man wasn’t going anywhere. But Crag would take no chances, and Torin wasn’t willing to fault him his precautions.

When satisfied, the dwarf unstoppered Saena’s waterskin and offered the dying man a drink. Warrlun reluctantly accepted. Unfortunately, he appeared all but unable to swallow, leaving the majority of the water to wash down his chin.

Having made every effort, Crag snorted, looking upon the man with what seemed a cross between pity and disdain. He then shouldered the bundle containing the companions’ weapons, making certain not to leave a single blade behind. Turning his back upon the doomed warrior, he stepped beyond the mouth of the tunnel, guiding the rest ahead.

From where they stood, the trail snaked out to the left of the plummeting
waters, skirting the edge of the mountain bluff. The river into which the falls emptied lay far below—several hundred feet, by Torin’s estimation. Rather than stare down that dizzying height, he forced his eyes back to the narrow path upon which he trod, shuffling dutifully after his companions at the end of their rope train.

After awhile, the cross slope became less precipitous, allowing the trail to widen and draw back from the edge of the cliff. When it did, Torin’s gaze slipped out to the walls of the valley—emerald mountains striped with silver ribbons of meltwater runoff. It was a relatively small dale, not more than a couple of leagues running north and south, and perhaps half that in width. The sheer, towering peaks that surrounded it did indeed appear impassable save by flight, making somewhat more believable Crag’s claim that the valley’s only entrance was that which lay behind them.

There wasn’t much to see below. If any had settled there, then they had done so beneath the forest canopy—a dense ceiling unbroken by glade or clearing. Even the river vanished as it entered that unforgiving thicket. Torin searched in vain for signs of humanoid life. Except for the colorful flash of birds winging from treetop to treetop, alighting carefully upon the surface, it appeared nothing that entered ever came out again.

Eventually, they too were swallowed by the lush tangle. More jungle than forest, Torin now realized, overgrown with varieties of trees and plants that even he, raised in a wood, had never seen before. As wild as it all seemed, however, he began to wonder if much of it wasn’t cultivated. For it struck him that in an area so densely grown, there was precious little deadwood. Competition should have been fierce, for water and for sunlight; indeed, even the largest trunks were sheathed in smothering ivy. Yet all appeared healthy and verdant, as if woven together by a singular, guiding hand that had worked to ensure a cooperative and harmonious existence.

The more he saw, the more certain he became. There was magic at work here, a vivacity in the air. Everything around them was a perfect profusion of color and song. A watering rain trickled in glistening streams down trunks and stems to lie in pools that fed the earth. Butterflies flitted upon a gentle breeze, dancing overhead as if inviting him to play. Stranger still, Torin found himself wishing he could join them, that he and his friends might laugh away the remainder of this day while scampering through the forest in spirited delight.

At the same time, he was horrified by the thought. For his very presence seemed a blight upon this land. Marching along the narrow animal trails, they could not help but leave their mark upon this pristine wilderness. Every torn leaf was an insult; every boot print a scar upon the earth. He was ashamed to so defile this mystical region, and knew that the sooner they were away, the better.