The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (38 page)

“Have we finished with the pleasantries?” Darinor snapped.

“Darinor,” the king acknowledged, though his voice seemed to tighten. “The prophet come to us in our hour of need. What brings you to Atharvan?”

The Entient scoffed. “A wiser man would not have to ask.”

Allion cringed. He had dared hope the mystic might show a little more tact in dealing with Galdric than he had toward others. Apparently, that would not be the case.

But if the king felt slighted, he did nothing to show it, offering instead a nod and a smile. “Quite right. Clumsy of me to ask. You’ve come in response to my message, have you not?”

Darinor grunted.

“I can assume, then, that you do not care for my decision, and have come to persuade me to alter course.”

“If you would save your people,” the Entient agreed, “you will do as instructed. I believe our initial message made that clear.”

Again the king showed remarkable restraint. “Have you had yourself a drink?” he asked.

The Entient declined with a shake of his head. Allion and Marisha nodded politely, showing the man their goblets. Galdric drifted toward the serving table, guardsmen darting out of his way, where he hefted and then drained a small flagon.

“A fine vintage,” Galdric proclaimed, “although better when it has been decanted.”

“As long as your soldiers engage the enemy in scattered groups, the Illychar will continue to fight that way,” Darinor pressed while the other wiped his mouth. “Assemble, and they will have little choice but to come after the main army in search of the warrior coils their Illysp brethren crave.”

“Your strategy is clear,” the king assured him. “Curious, but then these are curious times. Do not mistake my hesitation for a misunderstanding of the circumstances.”

The man’s tone was steady, his conviction unmistakable. Allion’s early sense was that Galdric was every bit a match for Darinor. Despite having come, in part, to lend his voice in support of their common cause, the hunter found himself wanting to hear out the dissenting king’s arguments.

“What other reason could you have for being foolish enough to stand alone in this?” Darinor demanded.

The king settled into a chair across the room, taking with him another flagon. “As I’m sure you’re aware, we lost more than two-thirds of our West Legion in this war against the so-called dragonspawn—a third of my forces overall. My people are starving, and driven to terror by the bands of savage races now ravaging our lands. On top of that, I’ve got Menzoes—whom I’m doing my best to help and not grind beneath my boot—accusing me of cavorting with demons. In short, my plate is full.”

Allion had heard the whispers on his way in, how it was strange that Atharvan should be one of but a handful of eastern cities that had managed to escape the wrath of the Demon Queen, making its rulers the target of unfair rumor as to what sort of foul pact they had signed in order to be spared.

“I’ve been listening to the same arguments, in one form or another, ever since my arrival,” Darinor countered, glaring at Allion.

“I’m sure you have,” Galdric granted. “And to you, I must sound an old fool making excuses. But as I attempted to explain in my response, it is too late for us. The struggle you hope to avoid in the west has already begun here in the east. For every murderous elf or goblin your citizens have seen, my people have encountered tenfold. Can you imagine the outcry were I to send away the only protection they have?”

“Small indeed,” Darinor argued, “compared to what you shall hear when all have been made into Illychar themselves.”

The king shook his head dismissively. “We have long lived beneath a cloud of such threats. Our enemies may defeat us, but they will never intimidate us. Were it otherwise, we would have surrendered to Killangrathor’s unholy spawn, I’m sure.”

He took a deep drink, stopping short of draining the flagon as he had before. Allion looked to his own cup and managed another sip.

“Understand,” Galdric continued, as Darinor stewed silently across from him, “that this has not been a unilateral decision. I’ve consulted heavily with my generals. As a matter of self-defense, we cannot give ourselves over to your proposed course.”

Allion glanced at Maltyk, standing over his king’s shoulder, then back to Galdric. It wasn’t hard to appreciate their position. After all, his own people—himself included—had not been easily convinced, and they had yet to face anything approaching an open assault. Calm as he appeared, the king of Partha had to still be reeling from his war of survival against the Demon Queen. He was down to a single legion, units of the East having been fed into the decimated West, so that what had once been an army of twin halves was now a unified whole. Despite being short-manned, it had taken an act of great faith and mercy to let fall the northern front against those with whom his people had been waging a civil war off and on for centuries. Galdric had done so even before this new threat had emerged, giving ear to the entreaties of fellow rulers like Torin who had urged forbearance, when he might as easily have put a swift end to the Menzo rebellion once and for all. Clearly, the man was not unreasonable. Was it fair to ask more of these people than they already had?

But they had to, Allion knew. The course they had elected did not allow for exceptions. If Darinor was to be believed—and it still seemed they had little choice—then the hunter was going to have to help find a way to make these others agree.

“Is that General Corathel’s position, then?” he asked.

A faint sparkle lit the corners of the king’s eyes, while his lips compressed as if holding back a congratulatory smile. Only then did it occur to Allion that
Galdric might be taking their measure, given the calculated manner in which this interview was unfolding.

“Therein lies much of the problem,” the king confessed. “You say we must gather the entire legion, is that not so?” He glanced at Darinor, who looked ready to explode. “But we cannot do so, even if we wished it. One of my divisions is missing.”

Allion blinked. “Missing?”

“The Second Division, led by Lieutenant General Jasyn and Chief General Corathel himself. Upon last report, they were driving south into Vosges, hunting a sizable pack of these—what do you call them?—Illychar. A week ago, the reports stopped coming in. All attempts to reestablish lines of communication have failed.”

Allion could not make himself believe what he was hearing. The Second Division, foremost among those of the newly unified Parthan Legion. The First no longer existed, except in memorial to those who had fought and given their lives, to a man, in the battle against the dragonspawn at Bane Draw and Kraagen Keep. Of the five active divisions, the Second was the head, comprised of the best and the brightest among Partha’s soldiers. A fifth of the army in terms of raw numbers, but of even greater value as the unit that set the example and paved the course the others followed.

Galdric swished the wine remaining in his flagon. “I have already ordered their withdrawal, but that order goes unheeded. Since your plan requires that all our forces unite—and because I cannot afford to sacrifice an entire combat division—the Third is even now being prepped to go after the Second. If successful, perhaps we shall reconsider committing our armies to yours.”

He hefted the flagon to his lips and chugged down the remainder of its contents. While he did so, Allion looked to Maltyk, searching for some sign of what the other might be feeling. From Corathel on down, the surviving commanders of the former West Legion had been rewarded for their efforts against the Demon Queen by retaining their positions—granted preference over their counterparts from the East—when the two legions were rolled together. Thus, Maltyk, as lieutenant general of the Third Division, would be the one to carry out the task the king had just described. Knowing this caused Allion to wonder what choice, if any, his friends had really been given in accepting their new appointments.

But that thought was swiftly eclipsed by the more ominous issue at hand. The entire Second Division. Some ten thousand soldiers. Guided by a pair of generals who had survived no fewer than four major battles against Spithaera’s dragonspawn. How might they have simply disappeared? Even if they had been wiped out, signs would have remained, and word sent home. The matter as it stood suggested any number of foul possibilities that Allion didn’t dare consider.

He felt Marisha take his hand, then looked past her to where her father brooded like a thunderhead.

“I don’t like it,” the Entient rumbled, as Galdric passed the empty flagon off to one of his guardsmen and signaled for another. “This is exactly what the
Illysp want, to suck our forces into combat in an area where superior numbers are all but meaningless.”

“That may be,” the king admitted, twisting at the braids of a yellow beard flecked with gray. “But if so, then they already have what they want.”

“Sending in another division is not the answer. You would only feed their ranks.”

“Easy it is to find flaw in another’s thinking,” Galdric conceded. “Harder by far to conceive a plan of one’s own.”

Darinor grunted, grinding his jaw as if testing a sore tooth. “Let me go,” he said finally.

The king nearly dropped the flagon delivered by his guardsman. “Go where?”

“Into Vosges, in search of your wayward division.”

Marisha gaped at her father in horrified fashion.

“Alone?” Galdric asked.

“If might were the answer, I should think that ten thousand Parthan soldiers, with a legion commander at the helm, would have matters well in hand.”

The king was squinting now, as if trying to see in Darinor something he had overlooked before. “It may just be that our enemy is picking off my messengers, and that the battalions themselves are fine. If that’s the case, a sizable regiment would be much better suited to the task.”

“A force of any size would only slow me down. Besides, I have experience in dealing with these creatures,” the Entient maintained, with a brief turn toward Allion and Marisha. “How to avoid them, or do battle if I must.”

“And what of our natural enemies? The jungle itself and the savages who live there?”

The Mookla’ayans,
Allion thought, and shuddered.

“The least of our concerns,” Darinor assured them all. “What I must know is this: If I am able to find and return your division to you, will you agree to my plan to add your army to those assembled just south of the Gaperon?”

The king took another long drink, then climbed from his chair and to his feet. Given the quantity of wine the man had consumed, Allion half expected him to keel over then and there. But if the drink were to hold any influence, it had yet to take effect.

“I’ll grant you this,” Galdric countered. “Should you manage to locate General Corathel and convince him that yours is the course we must follow, I’ll issue no order to the contrary.”

Darinor considered the king’s terms, then dipped his head in acknowledgment. “So be it.”

A
RED SUNSET LIT THE WESTERNMOST ROOM
among those in which Allion had been left to wait while Darinor discussed with King Galdric the route he would be taking on the morrow. Though no one had said so, the hunter supposed this suite of chambers would belong to him and Marisha for some time—at least until the Entient returned from his foray into Vosges in order to guide
his daughter safely home to Krynwall. It went without saying that he did not trust Allion to do so. And while the other was away, this was likely the safest place they could be.

None of which was of any consolation to Marisha. As soon as the assigned chamberlain had shown them their quarters and closed the outer door behind him, she had begun fuming at the unfairness of it all—that her father should run off alone, once again, while leaving her behind. He wouldn’t be happy, it seemed, until he got himself killed, while she lay tucked away like some doll in a cupboard.

To make matters worse, there was no one to whom she could think to carry her appeal, no one who might understand her predicament and prevail upon Galdric—and in turn, her father—that they were mistaken to keep her stored away. For that, she needed someone with both clout and a woman’s sensibility. But the king was unmarried—had been ever since his wife had died years earlier. And she had borne him only sons, which meant the only women to be found in the royal household were those she saw carrying scrub rags and feather dusters, food trays and watering spouts, fresh candles and soiled linens—none of whom looked likely to have the king’s ear.

Allion had been quick to point out that he was not any happier about the situation than she. He had come, he reminded her, in part because he was tired of being shackled to a palace’s grounds. Though the rooms Galdric had accorded them were nicer than his own back home, it didn’t mean he would be comfortable occupying them.

When finished venting helplessly, they had gone their separate ways, Marisha to her quarters in the east, Allion to his in the west. If nothing else, the hunter was grateful for the ensuing silence, as he stood near the bank of open windows and watched the sun make its first appearance of the day—just in time to bleed away in a crimson streak across the evening sky. It had been too long, he thought, since he had experienced a moment of such simple peace.

Then the outer door to their suite opened. Allion turned to face his doorway, and spotted Marisha across the way in hers, as muffled steps dragged across the common room located between the two. By the frown on the woman’s face, Allion knew who had come even before the lean shadow fell into view.

Darinor glanced at each of them before entering the hunter’s room. Marisha followed hard upon his heels, her determined features set. Allion steeled himself, preparing for a repeat of all the arguments he’d so recently finished listening to.

Instead, a moment passed in which the three of them simply stared at one another—Darinor at Allion, Marisha at Darinor, and Allion alternating between the two.

“I’ve asked Galdric to provide mounts and supplies for the three of us,” the Entient announced finally. “We journey south at first light.”