The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (17 page)

“Htomah.”

The retreating Entient paused.

“Lest you be tempted to follow in the footsteps of Algorath and defy your brethren, know that you will share his fate.”

Htomah cocked his head. Despite his frustration, he could not help but be surprised, for never had Maventhrowe spoken so sternly to him. “Meaning what, precisely?”

“Unless those here disagree, you are hereby forbidden any unauthorized human contact. Should you choose to intervene on your own, you will be stricken from the order.”

The head Entient glanced around, seeking the concurrence of the others, and received it in their gruff nods.

“Such as it is,” Htomah groused.

Maventhrowe smiled that benevolent smile. “Such as it is.”

“I have been warned,” Htomah acknowledged, then exited the cavern, sealing the portal behind him.

As he left the sweltering air behind for the relative cool of the outer tunnel, a terrible weariness overcame him. For nigh upon three hundred years had he dedicated himself to his calling—a charge handed down to his progenitors by the Ceilhigh themselves. He had done so with faith and diligence, never once questioning what his role as servant to the gods should be. He cared not for vain glories; not for recognition or prestige. He sought only to do the work asked of him, to carry on the legacy of those who had come before, to play his part and no other in the unfathomable scheme of the great creators.

Now, as he dragged back down the stale corridor toward the upper levels of the keep, he found himself wondering which was more important: his divinely inspired studies, or the endangered welfare of his earthly flock.

W
ITH THE COLORED SANDS BURNING IN HIS NOSTRILS,
Soric inhaled deeply of the winds that blew through his tower window. The potent mixture worked swiftly, clearing his upper passages and heightening the sensory vessels within. He closed his eyes, focusing his thoughts. There, beyond the leather and stone and dust of his chambers, beyond the salted sea, he found what he was looking for: the mildew of sails, the pitch of watertight timbers, the oil and sweat of men.

“Seems our Madrach chose well,” the wizard said. He opened his eyes and turned to his captive. “Your champion draws nigh.”

She sat upon a pile of cushions, chained to a corner of the castle wall, farthest from the window before which he stood.

“And does he carry what you seek?” the woman asked.

“We shall know soon enough. Let us hope so, my flower, lest your delicate beauty be made to wilt before his eyes.”

As always, his threat had no apparent effect on her. But then, that was what drew him to her, the key to her mysterious charm—the principal reason for which he had moved her here, to his tower, from where Madrach had stashed her in the dungeons below. Autumn of the Rain, she called herself. She professed to be a common girl, the daughter of a shipwright recently slain. And yet she possessed uncommon courage, an air of unflappable confidence that did far more to attract him than did the shimmer of her hair, the color of her eyes, the softness of her skin. Soric was not easily enchanted, but this pirate’s concubine mesmerized him in strange and wondrous ways. A fortnight had she been his prisoner, yet there were moments when he wondered who the true captor was.

He banished his predatory smile and turned back to his window. Time enough for that later. For now, he had far more immediate concerns. His brother, delivered unto him at last. The very notion caused him to shiver with anticipation. Nearly four moons had come and gone since the fall of Spithaera and his withdrawal from the lands of his birth, but those months felt more like years. Like decades, even—longer than those he had spent marooned here before, alone upon this isle, following the wreck of the ship that had carried him forth into a life of slavery. For this time it was not his parents who had sent him away, but a young upstart, a whelp of a brother whose only author
ity was that of a stolen crown—
his
crown—wrested not by strength but by cruel chance, and given to another less worthy.

As before, he meant to have his revenge.

Further maddening was that he had been compelled to retreat, to leave behind all that after years of planning he had finally achieved. His adversary hid behind an army, while his own had been stripped from him by Spithaera—an obligatory barter in order to spare his life from the wrath and hunger of the demon avatar. Even so, following the rout of her dragonborn at Souaris, he might have ambushed Torin at Krynwall, waiting for his brother to stake his false claim before striking him down in that very moment. But death, Soric had decided, was not enough. Not after the agonies and indignities he had endured, both before and after he had learned of Torin’s birth. No, he meant for his brother to suffer, to experience a touch of the despair and loneliness he himself had suffered, to teach the last of his kin—those who had cheated him throughout his life—the true measure of pain.

It was for this reason he had elected the path of patience, leaving Xarius Talyzar and a private network of spies behind. Not to assassinate the lad, but to keep a close watch on his movements, to seek a window of opportunity, the chance to snatch him from his nest of pilfered comforts and to bring him to the wizard’s den—here, where Soric could exact upon him the fate he deserved.

“What will you do to this man,” Autumn asked, “should Raven deliver him to you?”

Soric grinned. The woman spoke as if he had been uttering his thoughts aloud.

“A fate most befitting,” he assured her, as he set aside the mortar and pestle in which he had mixed his scent-enhancing powder. Already, its effects were beginning to fade. “One that will ensure he will not trouble me again.”

“And will that somehow comfort your own pain?”

Her melodic voice sounded out of place within the constricting confines of his quarters, like a songbird in a rusty cage. Her words, however, brought his blood to a boil.

“What know you of my pain?” he demanded. He did not face her, but continued to stare out the open window, his hands white as they gripped the edge of his worktable.

“Only that you seek to allay it. But inflicting pain on others is no way to heal one’s own.”

Soric just barely smothered a laugh. His pain was what fueled him, his hatred what gave him strength. This was not about healing, but retribution.

“I will have what’s mine, what has been taken from me.”

“What has been taken is lost,” she said. “Yet you stand to lose even more, should you continue on this path of vengeance.”

He turned to face her. “I suppose you would have us become friends, allies, like you and he who sent your father and shipmates to a watery grave.”

“It is not too late,” she agreed. “Put aside your bitter past. Look instead to paving your future.”

Again the wizard smiled cruelly. “With every breath I take.”

He continued to stare, fascinated by her unblinking gaze, as a violent rapping caused his chamber door to shudder. With a gesture, he threw back the locking bolt from a dozen paces away.

“Come.”

The portal opened, and Madrach entered, short of breath. He stopped upon the threshold, where he quickly removed his helm and bowed low. “My lord, the
Raven’s Squall
approaches.”

“Excellent news, Captain,” Soric acknowledged, smiling still at Autumn. “Assemble the guard. We’ll greet them in the courtyard. Take our prisoner with you, but see to it that she remains unharmed. Am I understood?”

Madrach saluted. “Understood, my lord. Will you be joining us, my lord?”

“Once I have seen to their landing. Go.”

“Aye, my lord.”

The wizard moved back to his window, listening to the clank and rattle of chains as Madrach produced a key and unlocked the iron wall clasp to which Autumn had been anchored. From the woman herself, he detected not a hint of loathing or struggle.

As they left the room, however, her voice sang out once more, echoing an old refrain. “It is not too late.”

Soric ignored her, waiting for Madrach to close the door before throwing the bolt back in place. Upon its dull slap, he peered into the gray mix of cloud and sky, searching the horizon for the vessel carrying his brother. He spied it straightaway, a black speck in the afternoon gloom, like a flea on the pelt of an old hound. He imagined what Torin might be feeling—the desperation, the terror. That thought, along with Autumn’s parting words, brought a fresh smirk to his taut lips.

For you, my brother, it is.

T
ORIN CLENCHED HIS EYES AGAINST THE SUN’S HARSH GLARE.
Though it was swathed in misty cloud cover, its brightness was more than he could bear. He tried to recoil, leaning back and raising his arms—bound before him—as a shield. But his escorts shoved him forward without mercy, up the wooden stair, through the hatch, and into the light.

It had been five days since he’d felt the brush of daylight, five miserable, wet, chill-wracked days since his arrest on the high seas. For the duration of his journey aboard the
Raven’s Squall,
his jailors had kept him locked away within that dank storage hold. He hadn’t seen the captain, Red Raven, since his interrogation on the evening of his capture. The only allowances had been food and drink—though he could barely call them that—and a loosening of his bonds. That, and he had been moved to a different corner, so as to be spared the torturous drip of leaking water. All in all, the rats—some of whom had kept him company—had had it better.

That he was being brought above deck was hardly cause for relief. Not only did he have the sun to contend with, but he hadn’t moved, and had
scarcely slept, in nearly a week. His joints were stiff, his muscles seized by cramps, and he had lost the sense of balance with which to stand on his own. Moreover, being sprung meant something had happened, or was about to—and most likely
not
something to anticipate.

Half blind, he stumbled across the unfamiliar planking, dragged from the front and prodded from behind. As his eyes adjusted, he took note of his surroundings. Men in smelly rags hustled about their business. Few bothered to notice him. Those who did, did so with sullen stares, yellow-toothed sneers, or animal snarls.

“Come along,” someone growled, as his attendants passed him off to another set. Peering out of the corner of his eye, Torin recognized the man. It was the one called Keel Haul, perhaps the friendliest of those who had tended to him over the past several days. The man smelled of cheap ale and vinegar, but had been the one to accommodate Torin’s requests where possible, and had even spent some time talking with him. The others, Torin sensed, would just as soon have flogged him as fed him.

“Time to look sharp,” Keel Haul added with a grin full of dead teeth, as Torin tripped over a coil of rope.

The man’s real name was Kell. All aboard went by an assumed name, the pirate had told him, given by the captain when welcomed into service. Torin had wondered whether “Keel Haul” meant the other had survived one…or if he enjoyed performing the savage deed. He hadn’t felt comfortable enough to ask.

He
had
asked whether Kell knew the
captain’s
real name. At that, the pirate had laughed and shaken his mangy head. As he understood it, no one did.

Torin tripped again at the next stair, which led to the top of a forecastle. While Kell tried to help him keep his feet, the man on his other flank jerked him pitilessly, leaving his knee to crack against the wooden step. Torin refused to cry out, but swung his head to glare at the ruffian, another he knew. Flambard, of the flaming red hair, sightless eye, and scathing disposition. As if sensing his anger, the pirate stared back at him with his one good eye, and snarled.

When at last they reached the bow rail, they found Raven stood beside the swarthy, dark-bearded brute who had first taken the Sword upon Torin’s netting. Together, the pair stared forward into a rapidly thickening mist, pierced by the vessel’s bowsprit. Beneath the jutting spar, Torin saw the figurehead that clung to the prow: a blood-colored raven, its wings outspread as if it might catch the wind and fly from its perch.

The pirate captain glanced over as Torin lurched to a halt. “Shattercove,” he murmured.

Torin squinted through the gathering haze, which helped to smother the sun. A rocky isle loomed in the distance, on which they were closing apace. Even so, he could see little more than its silhouette, stark and jagged, bristling with stunted jungle growth. A promontory raked sharply to the east like the horn of an anvil, atop which a lone tower rose up among a walled compound
of outbuildings. He was allowed only a brief study of its rugged contours before a curtain of brume shrouded it from view.

“Grimhold, Madrach called it,” said Raven. “The wizard’s fortress.”

An unnecessary clarification, Torin thought, but a fitting name. A fresh chill rattled his bones, and not from wind or spray. Having glimpsed the wizard’s home, it was as if he could feel his brother’s baleful eyes upon him.

An eerie disquiet closed round with the fog. There were no voices, just the crash of the cutwater as it split the waves, the creak and groan of planks and fastenings, the whip and flutter of stay and sail. Torin craned his neck toward the stern of the ship, and saw pirates clinging to their ratlines, staring forward with dour faces. In the gauzy stillness, they looked like wraiths.

“We’ll not be able to navigate the shoal in this,” Raven observed.

Then the wind died. The sails went limp, and the ship’s momentum slowed. Several of the crewmen groaned or muttered, but otherwise held their ground, as if uncertain how to react.

“Drop anchor,” Raven ordered.

Torin looked to the pirate captain as the brutish companion relayed his command.

“That there’s Black Spar,” Kell whispered. “First mate.”

“Shut your hole,” Flambard snapped, wrenching Torin’s arm as if to send a shock wave through to his comrade.

“That will be all,” Raven said sternly. “Prepare three skiffs. Put four men in each. Marauders only. Flambard, I want you and Pike as my oarsmen. See to it.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Kell replied quickly. Flambard grumbled the same.

When they let him go, Torin only barely managed to keep his feet. He was alone now with Raven and Black Spar, both of whom continued to stare into the fog as if seeing something Torin couldn’t.

“Do we have a plan?” he asked.

Spar glared at him with curled lip, raising a fist as if to clout him on the ear, until Raven turned. “Keep quiet, or I’ll have you gagged.”

Torin responded with brooding silence. So much for their partnership. It would seem he was to have no knowledge of what was expected of him, no inkling of Raven’s plot for penetrating the wizard’s tower and freeing Autumn. He understood only that the pirate was not going to do anything to jeopardize his lady love. In all likelihood, Raven intended to go along with the parlay until such time as the wizard tried to back out of their deal. It was a poor bargain Torin had struck. But what choice did he have?

Moments later, Kell returned. “Shore boats are ready, Cap’n.”

Raven grunted. “You know what to do?” he asked of Black Spar.

The first mate nodded. “Aye.”

“Remind Mackerel he is to set forth at the first sign of trouble.”

“As you say, Captain.” Spar’s voice was like thunder on the wind, Torin thought, then peered up at the motionless sails. Had there been any.

“Move.”

This time, Raven’s order was directed toward him. Torin gave the brigand
a sour glance, then turned and shuffled after Kell, who led him astern. Though his movements remained slow and painful, he was pleased that he managed not to fall, even on the stairs.