The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (59 page)

Saena gasped. “Is that—”

“Clever rogue,” the dwarf snarled. He snapped the bolt in disgust.

“Does this rogue have a name?” Laressa asked, struggling for breath. Deep down, she already knew.

“Warrlun, they called him,” Crag grumbled, rising to his feet.

Laressa did not look to the girls for confirmation. She simply spun toward the trail, a sudden and certain panic chilling her to the core.

T
ORIN CLAMPED DOWN
against an impulsive flurry of brash denials. Though he could not afford to accept Eolin’s response any more than he had Laressa’s, it would do him little good to turn this into a confrontation.

Nevertheless, he had to find some means of convincing the elven king to reveal what he felt certain the other was hiding.

“And the Sword?” he asked, keeping his eyes level with those of his host.

Eolin considered the blade glowing brightly in his hands, mesmerized by the eternal dance of its inner flames.

“Take it,” the elf said finally. He turned it around, laying it along his arm and presenting it to Torin hilt first. “You are certain to need it.”

Torin continued to look only at the elf—he who claimed to be the last of the Vandari. “Is that not a violation of your oath? To entrust the last of the Swords of Asahiel to a fool human?”

“Do you not want it?” Eolin asked.

“I should think it would be better that you accompany me as its rightful wielder.”

Eolin’s stern expression relaxed finally into a cold smile. “A valiant effort. But I have sworn a greater oath. An oath of peace. A life free of hostility. I will not break that pledge in order to serve one my forefathers made ages ago—not even to a talisman as sacred as this.”

“So why not keep the blade here with you? You would then be serving both vows.”

Eolin’s smile vanished. “Because while I will not be made to serve your kind, neither will I actively condemn them. This is your doing, and I will take no hand in it, one way or another.”

Again he hefted the blade, urging Torin to take it. But Torin refused. Reaching for it now would be to admit defeat, to accept that no help was forthcoming. He couldn’t do that. For the sake of his friends, he could not allow this elf to prove more stubborn than him.

“I am asking you to leave,” Eolin said bluntly. “You may do so with or without the Sword. But do not think that you can bend my will in this. Doubtless, the Illysp grow stronger with every moment that you waste.”

“You cannot hide from them forever,” Torin agreed.

“Perhaps not. If that is the will of the Ceilhigh, so be it.”

Torin clenched his fists in helpless anger. Easy enough to talk of peace when removed from any direct threat. He wondered, momentarily, what the elf might do were he to strike out at him. Would he stay true to his vow of pacifism? Or would he obey the more natural urge and use the Sword to defend himself?

But Torin abandoned such reckless thoughts almost at once. Becoming belligerent would only reinforce Eolin’s judgments about him and his race. Nor would defeating the elf—itself a dubious proposition—guarantee the results he needed.

No, he decided, trying to coerce this people to join his fight was not the answer. For if they accompanied him under duress, how could he be assured of their loyalty when it mattered most? If they were to help him, they would have to do so willingly, eagerly even, with a strength of passion to see them through the worst—surely yet to come.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. Perhaps he would give the Finlorian time alone to think about it. Could another week or two make that much difference? Persistence, he believed, was a key to unlock almost any door.

Torin glanced down at the Sword. When he looked up again, he did so with one hand offered in parting.

“I
am
sorry,” he said, “for any distress we may have caused you or your people.”

The scowling Eolin returned his nod, but declined his outstretched hand. “May you reap a bountiful harvest of that which you have sown.”

Torin bowed, as graciously as he could manage. As he came up, he reached for the Sword. Instead of taking it, however, he caught his breath, as a thick-framed figure suddenly filled the doorway at Eolin’s back.

“Warrlun,” he stammered. “What are you—”

The commander raised one arm. Too late, Torin realized what the man intended. As Eolin turned about, that arm came whipping forward, flinging a piece of shale taken from the pond they had passed in the foyer. The elf king spun just in time to catch the sharpened piece of stone square in the face.

Eolin fell back, blood spurting. Torin caught him, and both went stumbling. The Sword fell, bouncing off the arm of a wicker chair to lie upon the moss-covered floor.

When finally Torin regained his balance, he was in a low squat, with an unconscious Eolin cradled against him. The elf king’s face was gashed deeply across the center. His nose was surely broken, his left eye a puddle of blood. The skin of his cheek was a loose flap beneath which blood pulsed in waves.

Torin didn’t know where to begin. Nor was he given the chance. In the doorway, Warrlun had snatched up his broadsword from where it lay amid the loose bundle Crag had leaned against the wall.

“What have you done?” Torin demanded.

Warrlun regarded the fallen elf with a murderous rage. “Is he dead?”

“Near enough,” Torin replied, eyeing the other’s ready blade. He noticed then that the crossbow bolts that had punctured the commander’s side and shoulder were no longer there.

Warrlun growled. “Then stand aside.”

The soldier started forward, and there was no mistaking his intent. Torin had little choice but to drop the wounded elf and launch himself forward to meet the other’s charge. He did so at the last possible moment, as Warrlun drew back that heavy blade, so that he could dive inside its arc. He heard the man grunt as he planted his shoulder in the commander’s midsection, then kept his legs driving, snarling for added strength. Together, the pair surged across the floor, until Torin was able to slip his arms around the other’s legs and trip them both to the earth.

A gloved fist cuffed him behind the ear, and his entire head started ringing. He pushed himself away, just in time to avoid the clumsy swipe of that giant broadsword. He staggered backward in a crouch, heart pumping, putting a hand to the side of his face, which felt afire.

Before he could do anything else, Warrlun was back to one knee, huffing for breath, pointing out with his free hand.

“This isn’t your fight,” the commander hissed. “Don’t make it otherwise.”

Torin looked to his own hand, but couldn’t tell whose blood it was he found there. “Why are you doing this?” was all he could think to ask.

“To punish a traitor,” Warrlun said. “To reclaim what was mine.”

Torin’s thoughts cleared with understanding—a realization that should never have eluded him. “You. You were Laressa’s husband. The father of Lorre’s grandchild.”

“He stole them both,” Warrlun spat, eyes going to the downed elf. “But after today, they’ll be his no longer.”

The soldier rose to his feet. Though not as helpless as he had made himself appear back at the valley entrance, he was still pale from hunger and blood loss. Indeed, it seemed as if his hatred alone gave him the will to stand.

“Is that why Lorre sent you?” Torin asked, disgusted with himself for not recognizing the truth much sooner.

Warrlun grimaced. “I don’t need His Lordship’s commission to settle this score. He’ll thank me readily enough when I return with his daughter and grandchild. Now stand aside.”

Torin might have mentioned the unlikelihood of any of them now being allowed to leave—let alone finding their way back through the maze of Crag’s tunnels—but was too busy casting about for a weapon. His gaze fell quickly upon the Sword, yet in order to reach it he would have to surrender his place between Eolin and the man come to slay him. By then, it would be too late.

“I won’t warn you again,” Warrlun snarled.

Torin retreated another step, staggering as if dizzied. The commander started ahead in a slow rush. Torin baited him a moment longer, then flung a wicker chair at the oncoming soldier. Warrlun reacted swiftly to swat it away, its willow frame cracking beneath the weight of his blade. But it was all the time Torin needed to scramble sideways and retrieve the Sword from where it lay upon a blood-spattered floor. As Warrlun kicked away the last of the chair’s debris, he found Torin crouched and ready.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow this, Commander. Drop your blade.”

Warrlun stopped, but made no move to obey. The soldier’s eyes narrowed, and a low growl emitted from his throat.

Torin refused to back down. He was going to have to kill this man, he realized, if he wished to save Eolin—if the elf wasn’t dead already. He might have checked, but didn’t dare take his eyes off his adversary.

As if in response, there came a moan from behind him. Any thoughts Warrlun might have been having about leaving off—or at least pretending to—vanished in an instant. Both hands gripped tighter about the hilt of his broadsword, held before him.

“You can’t defeat me,” Torin stated boldly. “Lay down your sword before I cut it from your hand.”

The man responded by sidestepping to Torin’s left. Torin shifted with him, maintaining his defensive posture. Warrlun surprised him then by backing toward the doorway. His hopes for a truce, however, vanished when the commander stooped just long enough to fish one of his long daggers from the weapons bundle.

“Of what worth is he to you?” Warrlun demanded, brandishing both sword and dagger. “From what I heard, he would refuse your request. Perhaps with his death, the others of his clan will be better motivated to serve your cause.”

To Torin, the soldier’s voice barely sounded human. “I cannot force an army across the seas,” he replied.

“Then you shall have one of mine. A legion, if that’s what it takes, under my personal command. A small price to pay for one dead elf.”

Torin shook his head. “I did not come to enlist men-at-arms, but for the secrets of Finlorian magic-users.”

“So take them. One tongue at a time, if necessary. I can show you—”

“Drop your weapons, Commander, and I’ll see to it that you are delivered back to your lordship for judgment rather than burial.”

Warrlun’s gaze narrowed dangerously. “I’ve waited too long to be denied my vengeance by a whelp like you. For the last time, stand aside!”

Torin knew that he should simply run the commander through. The longer he stood there, trading words, the more likely it was that Warrlun would get what he had come for. Eolin continued to moan, trying now to rise. Warrlun’s fingers shifted about the hilts of his weapons, adjusting grip.

The soldier’s lunge came much faster than before, his devastating broadsword sweeping down from overhead along an angled arc. Torin rushed to meet it, focusing on his opponent’s wrist. Surely the loss of a hand would temper the man’s bloodlust.

Warrlun howled as the flaming blade tore through leather and skin and bone. But he came on, spinning behind his dagger. The sword-strike, Torin realized suddenly, had been a feint. Overcommitted to thwarting it, he had opened his flank to the dagger’s bite. He recognized it in a heartbeat, and pivoted instinctively, spinning sideways to evade the slashing tip.

He came about to reengage, but Warrlun did not. Seizing his opening, the
commander dove toward Eolin, who had managed to sit up. Dagger leading, he threw himself upon the hated elf, smothering him.

Torin dashed toward the pair, and this time had no other choice. As Warrlun reared back upon his knees, bolt upright, Torin struck. The cut was so swift and clean that for an instant, nothing happened. Then blood began to spill from a ring around Warrlun’s neck, and the severed head fell free.

The body slumped forward, but Torin gripped it by the shoulder and flung it to one side, so that it would not crush the elf beneath. In a near panic, he searched Eolin for fresh wounds. The Finlorian king was hunched forward upon the ground, his one good eye wide, his blood-filled mouth groping for air. His hands clutched desperately at his clenched stomach—

Only to grasp the protruding hilt of a buried dagger.

Torin bent to him at once, setting the Sword down beside him. “Don’t touch it,” he said, pushing past the dread that he felt. “Lie still.”

Eolin coughed and sputtered, but lay back as commanded to gape at the ceiling. Torin pried the other’s hands away so that he could take a closer look. Doing so caused him to feel as if the blade were buried in his own stomach. He might have cried out for help, but doubted anyone would hear him this far beneath the earth. Nor would that do anything to reassure Eolin. And yet he knew at once that he could not treat the elf alone.

“I’m going to remove the blade,” he said in warning.

Eolin nodded, blood still pulsing from the flap of his torn cheek.

Torin took a deep breath and gripped the dagger’s handle.

He hesitated when he heard the frantic patter of running footsteps. Still holding the dagger, he turned as Laressa came racing through.

The half-elven woman froze as she took in the scene: Warrlun’s broadsword, still clutched by his dismembered hand; the headless body, seeping blood upon her chamber floor; her husband, lying amid the carnage, with Torin’s hands upon the blade thrust deep within his gut.

Torin was too relieved to worry about how things must have looked, or to attempt an explanation. “Help me,” he pleaded.

Laressa rushed forward with a wail. Torin felt certain she meant to strike him, but she skidded to a halt upon Eolin’s opposite side instead, turning her back to Warrlun’s remains as she settled in next to them. She moved at once to cradle her husband’s head, gasping again upon inspection of his face.

“Laressa?” Eolin groaned.

“
Heh va, noi mi,
” she cried, dabbing at his cheek. “
Heh va.
” She lashed suddenly at Torin. “Get away!”

Torin let go the dagger and leaned back. “The blade must come free.”

Dyanne and Holly were in the doorway then, splitting up as they entered the room.

“
You
did this!” Laressa shouted. “All of you!”

Though wracked with guilt, Torin wasn’t going to let that stop him from trying to save Eolin’s life. He leaned forward again, and before Laressa could free herself to stop him, tore the dagger from the elf’s stomach. Eolin grunted, but clenched his jaw and kept from screaming.

With that same weapon, Torin cut a strip from the elf’s tunic and folded it over the wound, trying vainly to stanch the flow of blood. Laressa watched him for a moment, then let go her husband’s head in order to shove Torin away.