The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (36 page)

He held her gaze for a moment, then looked away. “But my father’s fate would not be so easy to escape. Six years after your birth, he found me, having spent a decade tracking me down. He was dying, and needed to bequeath to me the Pendant of Asahiel. Though I fought against it, his visit triggered in me a sense of responsibility—not necessarily to continue the legacy of my forebears, but to at least preserve that which they had accomplished over their long lives. I now had a reason, you see, to care about the fate of this world and its inhabitants, a need to see it remain safe, so that my daughter might know the joy and peace it seemed I was destined to be denied.”

The man paused again. When he resumed, it was with a heavy sigh.

“I confessed all I had hidden of myself to your mother, who, as I’ve explained already, decided she could not bear to wither before my eyes while I should remain young and vital. After leaving the Pendant to you, I spent
another year wandering these lands, seeing all that I had not yet seen, visiting remote regions like the village Diln, where it seems I first influenced your young husband-to-be.”

The Entient turned eye to Allion as he said this—as if the hunter had forgotten even for a moment what Torin and Marisha had agreed to. He scowled, but bit his tongue, waiting for the other to move on.

“When my travels were completed, I boarded a ship that would drop me off where I had begun, a prodigal son returned home to preserve that which Algorath had started.”

“And what was that, exactly?” Allion asked. His irritation and impatience was such that he could keep still no longer.

“Learning,” the mystic snapped. “An exploration of life as you know it, and in ways you could scarcely comprehend. All in an effort to keep headstrong mortals like yourself from destroying one another. The curse of all Entients, since the inception of that order. Except that my studies have been as Algorath’s, unfettered by the collective decisions of a guiding council, answering to none save my private curiosities. Which is why I’m not accustomed to the countless questions and demands you and others seem intent on badgering me with.”

Allion shrank back on Marisha’s look, which seemed to plead with him not to start an argument now. He realized then what it was that had him so agitated. It was not Darinor at all, but the story of the mystic’s past and the unspoken implications it held for Marisha. Was she not his daughter? The child of an Entient? Entitled to a life span of centuries? Forced to bear the burden, perhaps, that Darinor himself had been cursed with?

They were matters that Marisha herself had been wrestling with for weeks, he now realized, ever since her father’s return. He understood now that her private issues went far beyond those of abandonment—first by her father, and more recently by Torin. The despair and loneliness reflected in her eyes ran deeper than that. He wished suddenly that he might do something to help her find the answers she needed, but he did not even know which questions to ask.

A sense of hopelessness overcame him then, an inner wave so terrible and unrelenting that for a moment, he thought it might crush him where he sat. He really was in over his head. All of them were. He had failed to recognize the previous night’s encounter for what it was: a foreshadowing not just of the conflict that lay ahead, but of the doom awaiting them all.

Perhaps they should simply flee now, while they could. Abandon these shores to its demons and head out across the seas, to make their home on some secluded isle as Algorath had done—and for all they knew, Torin as well.

The thought spawned another question, forcing him to regain control of his swollen tongue. “You’ve said before that many among the Finlorians wanted to flee across the oceans during the first Illysp invasion, and that the Illychar seemed content to let them go. Why is that?”

Darinor ignored him for quite some time, looking to Marisha instead. Al
lion couldn’t tell if the other was dodging that question in particular, or had simply tired of the hunter’s inquiries. Eventually, Marisha nodded, indicating that she, too, would have an answer.

“It is unknown for certain,” Darinor grumbled, withdrawing into his cloak against a sudden gust of wind, “but some believe that water contains qualities that are anathema to the Illysp, whether in spirit or physical form. It does not harm them, mind you, in any obvious sense. But on an instinctual level, they show signs of wishing to avoid it.”

Allion frowned, an internal sense of his own ringing a discordant tone. It was a feeling he got whenever one of his younger siblings attempted to lie to him. “Is that why you were so intent on reaching the lake before stopping for the evening?”

Darinor snorted. “If it were that simple, we would all of us have nothing to worry about, would we? A simple rain shower, and our trials would be ended.” He shook his head. “No, my young man, this lake will not protect us. But neither is there an Illychar out there that would mistake this pathetic body for the great sea that cradles this land. It is this our enemies seem to fear—its vastness, perhaps, or its stormy unpredictability. What is it you really wish to know?”

“Can we escape them?” Marisha asked for him. “If we had to, could we simply vanish overseas?”

Again the scarecrow figure shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied, and this time, Allion did not sense any dissembling. “Let us hope it doesn’t come to that. For even if all the peoples of these lands were able to run as you suggest, we’ve no guarantee that the Illysp lack the will—or means—to follow.”

It was a grim assessment, and suspicions aside, Allion was disheartened further. For if true, then the only hope for them was indeed to lock the Illysp away from this world as they once had been. Otherwise, they might as well be searching for a way for man to escape death itself.

“I don’t understand,” the hunter admitted dolefully, “how creatures as mindless as those that attacked us last night can possibly act with reason and intelligence, as you continue to suggest.”

“They possess more cunning than you can imagine.” A familiar refrain—one that the mystic had been exhorting from the beginning. “They have been trapped for millennia. One does not endure such a fate without learning patience and subtlety.”

“Or madness,” Allion claimed, taking in the other’s gaze as the night’s rains began to fall.

Like the man himself, Darinor’s smile was mostly wild, and a little sad. “Perhaps a bit of both.”

T
HE RAINS RETURNED DURING THE NIGHT,
blowing out of the west. Dyanne had predicted as much, and thus sought a stand of tightly packed evergreens in which to settle until morning. As Torin stirred from a fitful slumber, awakened by the patter of rainfall and Gavrin’s beastly snore, he was glad that she had succeeded.

His gaze slipped to where he had last seen the Nymph the previous evening. She lay there still, eyes closed, face calm. Her smooth hands were tucked beneath her head, as she rested sideways on a pillow of moss. An unidentifiable pang gripped him as he silently observed the rhythm of her breathing. Such fire and determination within, masked by such graceful beauty without. A rare combination. He might never forget the way she had first greeted him, her dagger to his throat. But neither could he dismiss her dazzling, carefree smile, or the tenderness she had shown in nursing his wounds. In the morning twilight, he decided there was little he wouldn’t give simply to know her thoughts, that he might share in the serenity of her dreams.

He considered his own dreams, including those of Marisha, and was warmed within by a flush of guilt. The disorientation of a new day, he assured himself. That’s all it was. Though it might seem otherwise in that waking moment, his was a harmless fascination, one that he remained convinced would pass. And yet, as he sat there in the crook of a twisting root formation, knowing that he should wake the others and be on his way, a second glance at Dyanne’s tranquil form told him that he would sooner disturb a nest of infant doves.

Moss’s continued snoring, however, knew no such restraint, eventually drawing a disgruntled Holly from her sentry position. Torin turned at her approach from the camp’s fringe, and watched her place a sharp kick in the slumbering rogue’s ribs. The big man lurched, but his scowl was no match for Holly’s glare. Muttering about the subtlety of women with a barrage of grunts and heavy sighs, the guide-turned-scout rolled himself from the damp floor of the sheltered grove and set about making ready to leave.

Torin merely smiled.

They were on the road again shortly thereafter, following a series of bumpy trails and obscure paths across the rain-drenched wilds of northern Wylddeor. They traversed rugged foothills and wooded dells, passing over barren range
lands and windswept meadows. Moss led, jovial despite his rude awakening, and garrulous even when it was clear no one was listening. Torin followed, with the girls behind keeping a close eye. From time to time, he tried to eavesdrop on what it was Dyanne and Holly kept laughing about, but spent most of the morning, as he had the previous afternoon, dodging further questions from Moss about himself and his “wizard’s” blade. He went as far as sharing with the rogue some of the ancient legends of the Swords of Asahiel, but refrained from elaborating on how he had come upon this particular talisman. The man seemed to believe little of what he was told anyway, scoffing occasionally and interrupting often. Though surprised that one so widely traveled was not already familiar with the myths of these weapons being used in the world’s creation, Torin had little patience for the other’s mockery, and lacked both the energy and the desire to overcome the rogue’s pagan beliefs.

Around midmorning, their company was intercepted by a pair of mounted sentries riding the eastern perimeter of Moss’s Southern Liberation Force. The patrolmen were stern in appearance and gruff in manner, suspicious of Moss—despite the token he carried that proclaimed his position—and mistrustful of those who accompanied him. In the end, the more senior of the two determined it best that he and his partner escort them personally along the last mile separating them from the main force.

They covered that distance swiftly, despite the winds that gusted against them and the intermittent showers that muddied the earth beneath their feet. When at last they came upon the army, they found it just then making preparations to break camp. It had marched throughout much of the night, the younger of their two escorts divulged, having wasted too much time in the west coast town of Myniah, updating the people there as to the state of affairs and fighting a mostly vain effort to rally more to their cause. A thousand or so had agreed—less than a tenth of the population. The rest had elected to wait out the storm, or else to gather their possessions and retreat farther south.

The elder patrolman interrupted his partner at that point, yet wary of revealing too much to this group of strangers.

It was not until they were delivered to the eastern checkpoint, where one of the registry clerks was able to confirm Moss’s position within the army, that the senior sentry relaxed, grunting in farewell and leading his companion out once more.

Torin marked their departure through layered curtains of swirling mist. By the time the pair had disappeared entirely, Moss had secured authorization for the four of them that remained to enter the main encampment.

They followed the rogue down artificial lanes of trampled earth, weaving their way through a sea of men and artillery stores and supply wagons. Although it appeared to possess all of the requisite ingredients, this was not an army as Torin had come to understand them. The formations between regiments were too loose, lacking structure and discipline. Armor and weaponry and uniforms—among those who possessed them—did not match. Men jostled about, bumping and shoving one against the other. Arguments echoed from every direction, a few of which even came to blows. Commanders called
for order, but fellow observers seemed as apt to encourage the combatants as wrestle them apart.

Surrounded by such chaos, Torin wondered what it was he had agreed to join. These were not soldiers, but a mass gathering of wild frontiersmen. If they could not co-exist among themselves or break camp in an orderly fashion, how in the Abyss did they expect to be able to storm a warlord’s keep?

His assessment was made even less generous by the number of whistles and stares and lewd growls aimed by these mercenaries toward the pair of Nymphs who followed him. Torin found himself clenching his jaw and keeping a hand on the Sword’s hilt, almost anxious for one of them to make a grab. Dyanne and Holly were taking it in stride, neither rejecting nor encouraging the many propositions come their way. But that didn’t stop Torin from feeling embarrassed and protective.

“Ah, here we are,” Moss said, glancing back to make sure his companions were still with him as he turned toward one of the few tents visible amid the army’s sprawl. A black pennon, little more than a rag, snapped atop its central pole, the only potential marker Torin could see. Yet Moss hastened his pace, pushing past a swarm of rogues milling about in apparent confusion.

They were turned away, however, by first one, and then a trio of guardsmen posted among others outside the tent. General Chamaar was in council within, the sentinels reported, once they had confirmed Moss’s rank and identification. Should he wish to visit with the prime commander, he would have to file a request; otherwise, he should deliver his report to the master of scouts, and his charges to the master of recruits. Moss haggled with the unit’s commander, by turns companionable and bullying, but was denied in the end. When finally Torin’s company turned away, with Dyanne and Holly declining an invitation to remain behind, Moss left the flock of guardsmen with a snide remark that turned one of them red with anger.

“I think you offended him,” Torin observed, looking back as the young officer’s commander dismissed the affront and herded the members of his group back to their stations.

Moss shrugged. “So?”

“Have you no concern about upsetting folks?” Holly asked.

“Only if they’re bigger than me,” Moss answered with a wink.

His shameless pride intact, the rogue led them to another nearby tent. Here, a lone sentry barely glanced at the token Moss wore before nodding the scout and his companions through.

Inside, amid cots and stores stacked beneath a canvas cover so riddled with leaks that Torin wondered why they had bothered to erect it, sat a folding chair and table. Towering over the latter was a balding man in leather armor, who looked to be all limbs and no torso. Lanky arms supported his spare weight as he leaned over a set of maps. In the chair to one side sat a red-haired scribe, who sketched and scribbled upon a parchment while a third man, his back to the tent opening, murmured gruffly.

All but the scribe glanced up as Moss entered, their furrowed brows smoothing with recognition. Moss, however, hesitated.

“Ah, Lieutenant Bohwens, I see you’re busy. I’ll come back.”

The balding man waved a stick-thin arm. “Come. Just verifying a report. We’re finished, are we not?”

He looked to the third man for confirmation, a rogue dressed much like Moss in layers of fur crisscrossed by leather belts and pouches. This man, too, had a retreating hairline, though his bushy eyebrows more than made up for it. As if to further compensate, he was heavily bearded, so much so that only his eyes and nose were visible amid the tangled thicket sprouted from chin and cheeks. The man glanced at Bohwens, and nodded.

The lieutenant turned his attention to the new arrivals. “What do you have for me?”

“The eastern flank is clear,” Moss reported, returning a nod of familiarity from his fellow scout before casting upon Torin what seemed a nervous eye.

“Then why have you returned before schedule?”

“Found me some friends of the Resistance. Thought Chamaar might put ’em to good use.”

The bearded stranger gave a snort, but bowed politely to the girls as he headed past them on his way out.

“If they’re recruits, why bring them to me?” the lieutenant asked.

“Just checking in, sir. I only meant—”

“Hargenfeld,” Bohwens called, stopping the other at the tent flaps. “Show Gavrin here to the master of recruits, if you would.”

Again Moss looked to Torin expectantly, though the young king knew not why. He frowned, though, suspicious of his guide’s behavior as he tried to recall where he had heard this other’s name before.

“Friends call me Rags,” the crusty old scout grunted. His gleaming eyes were fixed on Holly and Dyanne.

That triggered Torin’s memory, and his gaze snapped around to Moss, who responded with a sheepish grin.

“I’ve heard tell of you,” Torin remarked. “Rumor has it you were buried last winter.”

“Bah! Some might wish.” He, too, glared at Moss.

The big man did his best to look innocent.

“This way,” Rags grumbled in a resonant voice. “Just delivered a team there myself.”

Following a string of inquiries, Torin’s party arrived at an area marked off for battle drills. On the edge of this training field, they were introduced to yet another team of clerks, who were busy poring over a sheaf of troop registries. After waiting in line behind a half-dozen fellow candidates who looked to Torin more like outlaws, they came at last to speak with a grizzled scribe charged with recording their qualifications—to be used in determining their assignments.

“Name?” the veteran droned, without looking up from his table.

“Torin.”

“Fighter, scout, laborer, or craftsman?”

“Fighter.”

“Veteran or novice?”

“Veteran.”

“Weapon of choice?”

“Sword.”

“Have you your own blade?”

“Yes.”

“Command experience?”

“Some.”

“Any special skills? Riding, healing, blacksmithing?”

“I can ride well enough. And fire a bow, if need be.”

“Recruited by?”

Moss stepped forward. “Moss. Flank scout.”

While finishing his notes, the scribe reached into a box and handed Torin a wooden token. “Keep this until given your commission. Next.”

Torin moved aside, somewhat befuddled, making way for Dyanne.

“Name?”

“Dyanne.”

Whether drawn by the name itself, or the silky sound of her voice, the clerk looked up, revealing a face squinted sharply on one side, as if trapped in a paralyzed grimace. The good half smirked, taking measure of the woman from head to toe. “Cook or nurse?”

“Fighter.”

The scribe chuckled. “Now, miss, don’t know if you’ve heard, but this force is headed into battle.”

“And by the looks of it, needs every blade it can muster.”

The scribe looked to Moss. “These yours too?”

Moss nodded. “Badgers, they are.”

“So’s me missus, but that don’t mean she’s cut out for combat.”

“Says the man sitting behind a desk,” Dyanne observed.

The clerk’s lopsided grin vanished. “I’ve killed more men than you’ve winked at, lassie.”

“I should hope so.”

“Now, now,” Moss intervened, “let’s not get ourselves all flushed and agitated.” Though it was the scribe who had lost his composure, the big man leered at Dyanne as he said this. “Perhaps we should leave it for the commander to decide.”

As if on cue, a group of soldiers approached from the drilling field, their rain-streaked faces bathed with sweat. They were speaking to one another, and thus had not yet seen those at the scribe’s table. Torin, however, did a double take when he recognized the squat, muscled mercenary among them.

“Arn!” he shouted, overcome with disbelief.

The stubble-cheeked warrior with the pale blue eyes and neck covered in blond curls glanced around until he had found the source of the voice. When he did, he gaped before excusing himself from his comrades and hastening over with a broad grin to clasp Torin’s hand.

“Shades of mercy, but I never thought to see you again,” Arn greeted, gripping his shoulder.

“Me?” Torin replied. “I thought you dead!”

“Captain Jorkin was kind enough to fish me out of the swells. He might have gone after you, too, were the
Folly
in any condition to do so.”

“The ship survived, then?”

Arn nodded. “Took a couple of days to get moving again, and we were limping along for awhile after that. Were it any other vessel, or any other crew, I might still be out there, if alive at all.”

“What of Bull and my companions?”

“They debated for some time as to what to do. When we ran across a supply ship sailing east, they took it as a sign to hitch a ride home to tell what had transpired. If conditions were bad, they might only now be reaching Pentanian shores.”