The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (24 page)

And then it hit him. As suddenly as that, it became clear what he must do. An idea only, still vague around the edges, but he knew at once that it was the answer he’d been searching for, the best means by which to execute his sworn duty. Carry it out, and he might yet earn the label of traitor. But for the sake of his land and its people, that was a risk he would have to take.

“Runner!” he barked.

The obedient herald, who had been shadowing him some thirty paces off, galloped near. “Sir!” He saluted sharply, fist to chest, water dripping from his elbow in streams.

“Vanguard relay. They are to set a new course.”

“Heading, sir?”

“South. We make for Drakmar.”

The runner did not question the order, but gave another salute. “Sir!” he acknowledged, then wheeled his horse about.

“And fetch me Commander Zain!”

“Yes, sir!”

Rogun glanced once more at the fallen log and its nest of hidden beetles before gripping his reins. His headstrong mount resisted, but only until his spurs bit into its flanks. Pulling about, he started forward, gazing down again upon his troops. Despite the midday gloom, a smile lit his face, as that grim sense of pride he’d been missing began to fill him at last.

A
CHARCOAL SUNSET FILLED THE WESTERN SKIES
as Nevik fixed his gaze on the northern horizon. A chill dread continued to stir within the pit of his stomach, a sense that all was not right in the world. He tried to dismiss it, but like a nagging child, it refused to go away.

He should have been used to it by now. Things had not been right in his world for some time. Not since the wizard’s invasion and the death of his father, Baron Nohr, followed hard upon by the conquest of the Demon Queen and her hordes of dragonspawn. Even after these enemies had been vanquished and he had returned home to his father’s lands, his life had seemed a lonely and unfamiliar thing.

Only now, after months of working to repair what had been ruined, to gather what had been scattered, had he begun to feel comfortable once more. Like his king and friend, Torin, he was at last learning to accept his fate and to move on, filling his father’s boots as best he could.

The timing, then, could not have been worse. First, the marauding packs of creatures from ages past, growing bolder by the day in these, the southern lands of Alson, as reports suggested they were everywhere else. Second, the
news of Torin’s departure on a voyage of startling scope and design, coupled with the story of what it was they were fighting. According to Allion, of the many barons and liege lords and city governors throughout Pentania, only he, King Thelin, and King Galdric had been given to know the full truth of the Illysp threat. They who could be trusted to remain discreet, and who would be relied upon most heavily to combat it. But how could he be expected to wage war against a foe he wasn’t even sure he believed in, with just the sad remnants of his father’s once proud army, while still protecting that which he had been working so diligently to restore?

And now, word from his northern watchriders that General Rogun was on his way, the entire army of Krynwall in tow.

His father, he knew, had always borne a grudging admiration for the chief commander of Alson’s principal military force. But Nevik himself had spent weeks at Krynwall following the War of the Demon Queen, having accompanied Torin there to help start the rebuilding process from his nation’s capital. There, he had seen for himself the animosity Rogun bore for their king, the long-lost son of Sorl. Heard with his own ears the general’s demands that the crown be worn by someone better suited to the task. Despite his father’s opinion, Nevik wasn’t certain Rogun had the country’s best interests at heart.

At last, the vanguard of Rogun’s army crested the hills fronting his castle home. Nevik tensed, but stood his ground, his retinue at his sides. Against the protests of his advisors, the young baron had insisted on greeting Rogun himself, before the general was even welcomed into Drakmar’s halls. He wondered now if he had made a mistake, for with the force at his back, the chief commander need beg no such welcome. Should he desire, he could simply trample the keep and its occupants into the ground.

Nevertheless, the baron remained where he was, more than fifty paces out from the shadow of his gatehouse, whose portcullis he had commanded remain open. He had no cause as of yet to expect hostility from his guests—though it was possible Rogun had already overthrown Allion and the Circle and come now to demand fealty from him.

With thunder beneath their hooves, a detachment of horse came down from the main force, while the rest maintained their steady march. Thirty in all, Nevik counted quickly. More than double his own numbers. A spreading blot of ink against the rain-smeared backdrop. At their head, flanked by a pair of standard-bearers, was Rogun himself, unmistakable in full armor of blackest night. Its color matched that of his horse, a wild stallion it was said no other could ride. Together they came, huffing and snorting like something out of a youth’s nightmare.

When it seemed their pace must surely carry them through Nevik’s line, and those who formed it had begun to fidget on either side of him, the baron held his breath and watched the party skid to a grinding halt in the wet earth. Horses tossed their heads, chomped at their bits, and shook their dripping manes. At last, when all had settled, Rogun reached up and raised his visored helm.

“Greetings, young baron.”

Like his bladebreaker armor, the general’s face was full of deep clefts and sharp ridges, as rugged as mountain stone. With gloved fingers, he combed the arms of his moustache, frowning as if a smile might cause it all to crumble.

“And you, General,” Nevik replied with a dip of his head. “To Drakmar, I bid you welcome.”

Nevik himself was a stout man—bearlike, some said, though not so much as his father. He was not particularly tall, however, and felt even shorter as his guests remained on horseback. When he had finished his bow, he looked to Rogun’s right, where Commander Zain flashed him a weasel’s smile.

“To what do I owe this honor?” the baron asked.

“I am bid deploy to Kuuria,” the general replied.

“A straighter road to which lies to the east, unless I’m mistaken.”

Rogun smirked briefly. His harsh features held. “I am compelled to reject that order.”

Nevik’s stomach knotted. “On whose authority?”

“My own, as chief commander of Krynwall’s armies, and guardian of these lands.”

As he had feared. The general turned rogue at last. Nevik did well not to panic, and could only hope that his guard would obey his earlier command to stand fast no matter what. Clearly, they could ill afford to react with aggression.

“I have plans for Alson and its capital city,” Rogun admitted. “And those plans require your involvement.”

“Come inside then, and let us discuss—”

“I’ve had enough of discussion,” the general snapped. “I will have my way in this, by one means or another.”

The hands of Nevik’s soldiers went to the hafts of their weapons.

“And should I refuse?” Nevik asked, his heart hammering against its cage.

“Refusals are for requests, which this is not.”

“And yet you have rescinded, it seems, your own orders.”

Rogun regarded him silently for a moment, as if taking measure of some quality hidden within.

“How fares Palladur?” the general asked.

The abrupt shift of focus caught Nevik off guard, and those in his entourage glanced at one another uncertainly.

“As well as can be hoped, at last word,” the baron answered, while guarding his suspicions.

Before the wizard’s invasion, Palladur and Drakmar, Alson’s two major baronies to the south, had been bitter rivals. Nevik’s father, Nohr, and Satallion, baron and self-proclaimed high lord of Palladur, had long viewed each other as opponents for what had been believed to be an heirless throne. This rivalry had come to a head when Nohr led a siege against Krynwall to recapture it from the wizard, and Satallion had joined the battle on the side of the enemy, in a gesture of supplication to the invading wizard. The ensuing struggle had seen Nevik’s father slain, and Drakmar’s people driven south to beg the protection of Kuuria.

Satallion, it was rumored, had been rewarded by the wizard with a painful death.

Whatever the truth, the high lord had not been seen again. Because of this, and due to the former baron’s act of treason, Palladur’s lands had been offered to Drakmar once Torin had come to power. Nevik had declined. Lording over his father’s lands presented challenge enough. He had no desire to complicate matters by trying to govern a people trained to dislike any wearing the boar’s head sigil. As a result, the southwestern barony had fallen into the hands of one of Satallion’s cousins—with the crown keeping stern and watchful eye against any hint of fresh treason. Despite these and other pressures, Palladur’s new lord and Drakmar’s had become friends and compatriots, sharing plans and resources in a combined effort to restore their broken lands and make the enmity of their father and cousin a thing of the past.

So what was Rogun hinting at by making mention of it now?

“You’re a good man, Nevik,” the general offered at length. “You have your father’s strength, and an uncommon forbearance. I would make you my ally in this, rather than my enemy. But I must know now, before I set foot within your walls, if I am to do so as friend or conqueror.”

A gusting wind rustled the curtains of rain between them. Nevik suffered its chill within his joints and felt old beyond his years. The last traces of daylight slipped away, leaving the world muted and gray. In that drab, depthless void, he matched Rogun’s unyielding gaze, before glancing over to catch Zain’s smirk.

The baron of Drakmar suppressed a heavy sigh, responding instead with one of his father’s scowls. “Then perhaps you should tell me what it is you require.”

A
STIFF WIND FILLED THE SAILS
of the
Raven’s Squall,
pushing the vessel steadily south along the rugged shoreline. Standing amidships, Torin watched the landscape slide by, a mist-shrouded procession of cliffs, coves, and rocky beaches. The night before, there had been only the endless expanse of the sea. But upon awaking that morning, there it was, as if risen with the sun, his crossing of the great ocean come to an end.

They had been at sea only a day after setting forth from the wizard’s isle of Shattercove, with much deliberation as to their course. Given Autumn’s suggestion that he seek the one called Lord Lorre with regard to the missing Finlorians, they had considered first dropping him off in the northern port of Kasseri—the closest on the eastern coast to Lorre’s homeland. But that would mean a westward trek through the passes of Serpent Reach, said to be impenetrable this time of year. The only way across the Dragontail Mountains so late in the season was farther south, through the Dragonscale Cleft—and even that would pose a challenge. Still, it would be faster than trying to sail all the way around the treacherous horn of the Southland, a six-day voyage with favorable winds, meaning more likely ten. And the
Squall
itself was damaged and ill equipped, which would cost them another day or two at least. On the other hand, they could drop him off quickly and easily at Razorport, where with any luck he could reach Neak-Thur—the gateway city between territories north and south—in half the time by cutting across land, even if he had to do most of his traveling afoot.

Besides, Raven had assured him, he would be more likely to find a guide in Razorport than Kasseri. The latter was known primarily as a shipbuilding town. Land tradesmen to be found there seldom traveled farther west than the Splinterwood. Razorport, however, was home to all sorts of crazy rogues—maybe even someone mad enough to lead him to Lorre.

Torin was at the mercy of their word. Even after studying their maps, he knew nothing as to the nature of this land’s cities and inhabitants. Nothing more substantial than rumor, anyway, and he was reluctant to put much faith in that. After all, those same rumors held that the Finlorians had long since disappeared, thus dooming his mission from the start.

So he listened to what the pirates had to tell him, having no idea how much of it would prove useful, and wary of any preconceived notions even their judgments might impart.

“Ready?” asked Raven, his approach marked by the advance of confident footsteps upon the ship’s decking.

Torin half turned to greet the other, amazed again at how quickly blood had returned to the pirate captain’s cheeks. His gaze lingered only a moment, however, before shifting to the marauder’s companion, Autumn of the Rain. Even on this cloudy morn, her amethyst eyes shone round as radiant moons, made all the brighter by that perpetual smile of private amusement.

“Still a ways off, aren’t we?” Torin asked.

Raven shook his head. “Aren’t too many harbors where this ship is welcome. Got a place farther south, but we’d be overshooting your destination. Pike and Jib, they’re prepping a boat to take you ashore. Be a short hike, about half a league, to Razorport. If you hurry, might beat the rains.”

Torin looked back to where a ridge of dark clouds peeked over the mountains like froth bubbling over a kettle’s rim.

“Are you sure you wish to do this?” Raven asked. “Not too late to change your mind.”

“And do what?”

The pirate shrugged. “Go home to refit. Else stay with us. We’ve always room for another lad such as yourself.”

Torin surprised himself by not snorting at the offer. At the moment, staring up at those looming peaks of an unfamiliar land, with but a glimpse of the darkness awaiting him on the other side, he was more than a little inclined to accept.

“Had I a choice, I would not have come this far,” he said. Again he found Autumn’s smile, and was awed at what lay beyond its mysterious depths: a warm mix of both innocence and wisdom—the wonder of a child for whom the entire world was a toy.

“I’m sorry I cannot tell you more that might aid you in your quest,” Autumn said in that melodic voice of hers. “But if any can tell you the fate of your missing elves, it is Lorre.”

Torin nodded. In the time the pair had allowed him, he had shared a rough account of that which threatened his homeland, and learned a bit about the conflict that marred theirs. Though each claimed to have lived outside that conflict, both knew enough to understand that it was the ambitions of Lord Lorre, self-proclaimed overlord of Yawacor, that had come to divide their lands north from south.

Autumn reiterated this now.

“Approach him carefully, for many would accuse him of a vicious temperament.”

“He’s a tyrant,” Raven added, “who will accord you no more than a tyrant’s mercy. Beware.”

“I will,” Torin promised them. He took a deep breath of the cold ocean air. “What about you? Where will you go next?”

“Back to Grimhold,” Raven admitted, “to finish looting the wizard’s keep.”

“And Madrach? What will you do with him?”

“I’ve not decided. But I’m inclined to leave him there, as master of his own isle. Not until I’ve gutted the place, mind you. I’ve no desire to see him follow in your own brother’s footsteps.”

Torin winced at the notion, but held his feelings in check.

“After that,” the captain continued, “perhaps I’ll look to settle down as you suggested. Find me a life more suitable for this maiden of mine.”

“I wish you the best,” Torin said.

“And you,” Raven replied. “I owe you everything.”

“If ever you have need,” added Autumn, “of anything, call upon me, and I shall see it granted.”

Torin nearly chuckled, but given the luster of the woman’s countenance, found that he did not disbelieve her promise. His stifled laughter gave way to a bewildered smile. “I just may do that.”

Autumn winked.

“Captain,” a burly voice interrupted. All three looked up as Black Spar tromped near. The first mate’s wounds had been dressed, but bled through their bandages, as he refused to take any unscheduled rest. “Pike and Jib are ready.”

“Thank you, mate,” Raven responded, dismissing the brutish sailor. Then to Torin, “Are you sure you’ll have no escort to Razorport? I hate to send you off alone. This is a dangerous land.”

“I’ll manage,” Torin assured him.

The pirate smirked. “I’ve no doubt you will,” he said, offering his hand.

Torin looked at it, reminded of the risk in petting a strange dog. He’d not forgotten that it was Raven’s orders that had killed his comrades. Then again, the marauder might have sent all aboard the
Pirate’s Folly
to a watery grave, and had instead let them be. So too, last night, might he have taken back the Sword and Pendant and killed Torin in his sleep.

“I’ll not soon forget you,” Torin said, eyeing Autumn as he gripped the other’s outstretched hand.

The pirate clapped his shoulder. “Farewell, King Torin.”

“Farewell…” Torin hesitated, raising an eyebrow. “Red Raven?”

The captain glanced around. “Karulos,” he confessed.

Torin grinned.

“When you get into town, visit the Gilded Tankard. Ask the barkeep about a trapper named Hargenfeld. If
he
can’t guide you through the Cleft, he’ll know who can.”

“Hargenfeld,” Torin repeated, then shifted to accept Autumn’s embrace. “You’re certain this is what you want?”

The woman nodded, beaming. “Remember,” she whispered, “anything you wish. I am but a longing away.”

Once more, Torin peered into her eyes, both captivated and mystified all over again.

In the next moment, their vessel began to slow, and he was led away. En route to his skiff, he accepted parting wishes from Keel Haul, Mackerel, and a dozen others whom he didn’t really know. Even Black Spar grumbled a forced
good-bye. Torin wasn’t sure how to react to these unexpected supporters, but did the best he could to acknowledge them with due grace.

The valor of thieves,
he thought, recalling his brother’s words.

Minutes later, he found himself alone upon a narrow beach, waving back at Pike and Jib, and at those aboard the anchored
Squall
. He then double-checked his possessions, most particularly the Sword and Pendant, before turning his attention to the south, where a thin trail cut a meandering swath between black waves to the east and wild, cliffside forest to the west. A lone raindrop struck his nose, and he looked up to the dark clouds that threatened now to escape the clutching peaks that held them back.

With a determined breath, he started down the sandy path.

Gusting winds and an uneven terrain sought to knock him from his course. Gnarled roots and lunging growth, along with swirling sands and roaring spray, made an easy hike much less so. At times, he found his path completely eroded away, and was forced up into the brush or down into the shallow surf. He crept across rockslides, ducked beneath low-hanging branches, and clambered over fallen trunks wet with moss. Only once did he check to see if the
Squall
was still there, out in the deep waters. All he saw was a curtain of fog.

At last his trail cut through the forest to join an actual roadway. Torin followed. By that time, he was already soaked through by a driving rain. The woods offered moderate protection going forward, but the damage had been done. Despite the warmth of Sword and Pendant, he was shivering beneath his cloak when finally he came upon the outskirts of Razorport.

He was less than encouraged by the sight.

The forest fell away, receding up the mountain slopes to the west. What remained was a collection of buildings loosely scattered or tightly packed, each in all the wrong places. Everything had a sagging, dilapidated look to it, drained of color—even the warm, earthen hues—leaving behind a world of gray. Those he could see traveling the unpaved road ahead did so beneath hooded robes, their faceless forms made ethereal by the rain and mists, like battlefield ghosts trying to make their way home.

Burying himself deeper within the folds of his cloak, Torin lowered his head and trudged forward, into the gloom.

Upon closer inspection, his surroundings fared no better. Peeling layers of paint made a poor shield against the elements. Wherever his gaze fell, there waited another sign of disrepair—rusting metals, woods swollen and split, mortar seams grown over with lichen and moss. All, it seemed, was dusted with sea salt. A battle against nature, he decided, and nature was winning.

He paid scant attention to those he passed, except to seek directions to the Gilded Tankard. The first ignored him, while the second grunted and shook his head. A third crossed to the other side of the street. Finally, a woman smelling of ale gave the name of a crossroad. Torin thanked her and continued on his way.

The ocean’s roar was ever present. That and the hammer of rain drowned out any bustle. Torin scarcely heard the creak and rattle of a cart that drove right past him. As he neared the area the woman had indicated, he became
distracted by his search for signs. The Wounded Gull. The Black Heron. There seemed to be any number of inns and taverns, interspersed among dealers offering the anticipated array of food, clothing, and trinkets. What he hadn’t anticipated was the limited number of patrons, causing him to wonder how any of these shops managed to stay in business. By the looks of things, many didn’t.

He was peering through the cracked remains of an actual glass window, into what appeared to be an abandoned furrier shack, when he was caught off guard by a sudden grunt and a pair of hands that shoved him roughly to the muddy earth. As he reached back to halt his skid, he looked up to see the man who sneered down at him.

“Out of my way, boy,” the stranger snarled, with a face like a dented hatchet.

Torin swallowed his anger. It was a bit early, he thought, to be making enemies.

“My apologies,” he mumbled, turning to pick himself up.

A booted foot sent him down once more. “Keep them apologies. Just watch where you’re going.”

Fighting the urge to straighten the ruffian’s nose with a driving fist, Torin kept an eye on his assailant this time as he arose from the mud.

“Learned your lesson?” the man asked.

Torin glowered, but remained silent, avoiding the other’s gaze as he started past.

“Boy, I’m talking to you.”

Torin spun as a powerful hand gripped his shoulder. A knee came hard and fast toward his midsection. This time, he didn’t hesitate, but kicked out twice as fast to sweep the man from his remaining leg. The stranger buckled, falling with a splash into a deep puddle.

The young king saw the rage in his opponent’s eyes, and braced himself for the man’s charge. But rather than fling forward recklessly, the ruffian surprised him by scrambling to his feet with a sputter and putting greater distance between them.

“You’d best pray our paths don’t cross again,” the man growled, gnashing his teeth in warning. He then turned and hobbled off, down the dripping roadway.

Torin marked the coward’s flight with a shake of his head. Fine start he was off to. Would everyone he met in this land be as civil? After watching to make sure the other did not spin around to put an arrow in his back, Torin adjusted the fit of his cloak, shrugged into place the sack of provisions Raven had supplied, and found his stride.

He focused on the touch of the Pendant against his chest, and gripped the hilt of the Sword, trusting each to warn him of danger. Even so, he tried not to be so easily distracted as he moved ahead, for as he’d learned, their power could not protect him from his own inattentions. Wary and watchful, he resumed his search along the mostly empty street.

He had just about given up in favor of the nearest shelter when he came at last upon the Gilded Tankard, its weather-beaten sign all but unreadable.
Its boisterous clamor gave him pause, reminding him of the alehouse he had visited back home in Gammelost. Then again, at least this one had a promising name.

Yet the Gilded Tankard was anything but—dimly lit, poorly ventilated, reeking of smoke and drink and sweat. Less crowded than he would have guessed, though, if judging by its noise. Most seemed to come from a single table, off to the right, where more than a dozen men knotted round a pair engaged in some manner of contest. He couldn’t tell whether it was drink, dice, or strength of arms. None held any interest for him.