The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (39 page)

Marisha’s harsh expression crumbled at her surprise. “You don’t intend to leave me behind?”

“And entrust your safety to Galdric?” Darinor huffed. “I think not. Not when it would mean leaving you here alone.”

“I could stay with her,” Allion offered hurriedly.

The Entient’s stare seemed to burn through him, even as a rare smirk reshaped the corner of his mouth. “Except that I have need of you. From what my daughter has shared with me, you have traveled this jungle before—even encountered the natives who live there. That experience may prove useful.”

Allion’s mind raced, desperate for an excuse. A trek into Vosges was not what he’d had in mind when departing Krynwall. The very thought of returning to the southern peninsula—perhaps the most dangerous territory Pentania had to offer—sent a chill ratcheting up his spine.

“In any case,” Darinor continued, “I must also persuade Corathel to reverse course, once we find him. For that, I need someone to whom he might respond favorably, since I’m told my demeanor does not necessarily agree with everyone.”

An actual jape, Allion thought. The first he had heard the man utter. Its humor was lost on him, however, buried by the truth of his helplessness.

“We’ll be ready,” Marisha assured her father.

Allion looked to the woman, at her expression grown eager and solemn. It was for the best, he supposed. As perilous as this journey promised to be, it might be safer than leaving him and Marisha here alone.

The weight of her father’s gaze caused him to break short his study. In marking the other’s scowl, it occurred to him that this might have been yet another reason for taking them along, to avoid having to trust them on their own. If so, the man wasn’t saying.

“At first light,” Darinor reminded them.

Allion nodded, then watched the others leave his room. When alone, he blew forth a long, slow breath before turning toward the fallen sun.

T
HE PROMISE OF BATTLE CHILLED THE AIR.

They were less than a day out from Neak-Thur, and if Torin had harbored any delusions as to where they were headed, there was no denying it now. The musk of the army surrounded him—of wood and leather, of grease and oils, of men and horses and the earth tilled up by their tramping feet. Amazingly, the rogues that comprised its ranks continued to laugh and jest, each with his neighbors, as if marching to a festival rather than to war. But Torin would not be fooled. He felt the truth in his bones, enveloped by a biting cold within and without that not even the Sword could fully dispel.

They were not yet ready for this. That much had seemed obvious from the start. But time was working against them. The longer they took to muster a response to Lorre’s takeover, the longer the warlord had to siphon reinforcements from the various outposts of his northern lands. This was their one chance, a counterstrike swift and sure, and, no matter the odds, General Chamaar was determined to make the most of it.

Torin had been introduced to the prime commander the night before, after a full day’s march. By that time, Arn had already recounted for the man a loose recitation of the outlander’s background. The master of recruits must have embellished quite a bit, Torin decided, for one of the first things the general had done was to ask that he assume command of one of the forward regiments—a company of some two hundred men. The young king had balked at the request, explaining that he lacked the tactical experience to maneuver a unit of that size. But Chamaar had insisted, reassuring him that what maneuvering might be required after the initial positioning would be determined and executed at the wedge and battalion levels. All he need do was charge in the direction indicated, redirect when commanded, and see to it that his men followed.

It remained a terrible responsibility in Torin’s mind. He had led men to their deaths before, and was loath to do so again. Nevertheless, as he stood there matching the general’s challenging stare, he had recognized the deep, inexplicable faith with which the other regarded him, as if seeing in him some quality of which Torin himself was unaware. A general’s special talent, perhaps, to compel a man to believe in himself and take action he normally would not consider. Whatever, Torin found himself overwhelmed with the urge to show this Chamaar exactly what he was capable of.

Once that had been decided, he was introduced to each of the general’s wedge commanders—Gilden, Jaik, and Bardik. Of the three, only Gilden made a significant first impression, wrapped in bands of muscle that put even Arn’s to shame. Jaik was taller, and leaner, greeting Torin with a squared jaw and a look that suggested an intolerance toward foolishness. Smaller than either of the others, Bardik had grinned almost sheepishly from beneath an overgrown mop of mud-colored curls.

They had shared dinner there in the command tent, Chamaar and his chief lieutenants along with Arn, Torin, and the pair of Fenwa with whom he traveled. Torin had cringed when the general acknowledged the Nymph Hunters as “the women who would do battle alongside men,” expecting Dyanne to introduce herself properly. Instead, she had surprised him by offering only a sardonic smile and a promise to stay out of the way.

Before daybreak, Torin was rousted by Commander Gilden—or “Lancer,” as he seemed better known—and presented to his unit. Soon after, the entire army was assembled and driving north once more across a rainswept plain. Torin marched at the head of his regiment as he had all that day. This placed him near the center of the overall formation, in the company of Chamaar and the three wedge commanders, which he quickly came to recognize as both a blessing and a curse. For while it meant that his troops held their lines and kept silent any murmurings against his freshly issued authority, it also made it more difficult to keep track of Dyanne and Holly, who time and again grew bored with the measured pace and ventured forth on their own, knowing where to find him upon their return. Though he understood better than to worry for their safety, the mere separation caused in him an unexpected anxiety, which he dared not confess.

Perhaps it was this and not the specter of looming battle that had so jangled his nerves. Wherever the pair went, stares followed, including his own. He felt as if he’d been made to share a treasure that should have remained his own—which was ridiculous, of course, for though he might wish otherwise, neither Dyanne nor her kinmate were his to protect.

Not that their movements or the attentions drawn should matter to him, regardless. Whatever his feelings, he could ill afford such a dangerous distraction.

But telling himself this did nothing to help, particularly as he watched Dyanne marching ahead of him, laughing and hanging on the every word of a lumbering Jaik—as she seemed far too inclined to do. While Torin received endless instruction from those around him, the commander of the East Wedge had taken it upon himself to see that Dyanne and her companion were properly entertained. An innocent courtesy, perhaps. But to Torin, there was nothing innocent about the way in which Dyanne held the other captive in her radiant gaze. The implications, subtle and unfounded as they were, left him feeling raw and irritable.

“They always take a fancy to those in uniform,” a familiar voice moaned wistfully.

Torin turned, startled to find Moss at his elbow. Just a moment before, one of the other sergeants of his wedge had been teaching him the terms given to
a series of formations and commands likely to be employed in the upcoming battle. So obsessed was he with Dyanne’s responses toward Jaik that he hadn’t even noticed the sergeant’s departure or Moss’s approach. A pointed reminder, it seemed, as to what could happen should he fail to keep his focus.

“Well,” Torin said, “if it isn’t my reliable mountain guide.”

Moss grinned through his tobacco-stained teeth. “Been meaning to apologize about that. You must admit, it wasn’t entirely my fault. Anyway, I left you in good hands, did I not?” The rogue winked, then nodded toward Dyanne.

Torin pretended not to notice, clenching his jaw as Dyanne gave another lilting laugh in response to something Jaik had said. He wondered what it was about the wedge commander she found so amusing. His awkward gait, perhaps, or his oversized head.

Moss leaned close, nudging him with an elbow. “What I wouldn’t pay to stoke her fire, eh?”

Torin’s sudden urge was to knock the brute senseless and grind his lewd smile into the earth. However he might choose to classify his own fascination, base desire wasn’t it. Dyanne seemed too special, too unique, to be considered in such a manner. That Moss of all people would suggest otherwise put a sour taste in his mouth.

“How is it you charmed these Nymphs, anyway?” the big man pressed, oblivious to his offense. “Anything you can tell me that might help me win their favor?”

Recognizing that it was misdirected, Torin forced himself to swallow his fury. Still, he wished the rogue had the sense to back off.

“Why should I help you with anything?” he grumbled finally. “You lied to me.”

“Lied?”

“About Hargenfeld.”

Moss snorted, his hot breath clouding the air before his ruddy cheeks. “That? Come now. Rags was already out here, west of the Cleft, likely for the season. You never would have agreed to await his return. I did you a favor by offering to take his place.”

“A favor that left me for dead in an avalanche,” Torin recalled dryly.

The rogue shrugged, blowing into his hands in an effort to warm them. “Couldn’t have been much colder than this.”

Torin glanced at the roiling heavens. “Aren’t you supposed to be scouting our flank?”

“We’re reporting every six hours now. Just came in to see how you and your friends were getting along.”

“How very noble of you,” Torin mumbled. “I assure you we’ll be fine.”

“So long as those clouds hold,” Moss allowed, turning eye toward the blackened skies. “Let’s just hope this blows over before tomorrow.”

With that, the rogue clapped him on the shoulder before swaggering off as suddenly as he had appeared. Torin glared after him a moment, then resumed his vigil over Jaik and Dyanne, his bitter thoughts echoing darkly Moss’s sentiment.

Indeed.

Throughout the remainder of the afternoon and evening, his routine was the same, an endless string of mobile briefings with various colonels, lieutenants, and sergeants bearing impact upon his command. Between these and during, he did his best to mark Dyanne’s whereabouts, to follow her comings and goings amid the army throng. When she was away, his gaze stole through the surrounding crowds in furtive search. When near, he fixated upon her, suffering a pang of envy for every word or smile aimed another’s way. He felt ridiculous for doing so, but could not make himself stop.

Then, about the same time the sun had surrendered its vain attempt to ward off the night and a freezing sleet had begun to fall, Hargenfeld returned from the point. Once his report had been delivered to Chamaar, a ripple passed through the ranks as the entire army ground to a halt, with orders to settle in for what was sure to be a restless night.

“N
EARLY TWO TO ONE AGAINST US,”
Chamaar shared with the rest of them some time later.

They were gathered in a loose circle in the command tent, the general and an assortment of officers. Torin wasn’t certain that he should be there, given the number of those who outranked him who were not. But Dyanne and Holly had entered at Jaik’s invitation, and Torin wasn’t about to let them do so without him. So far, none had questioned his presence.

“From what the scouts could discern, a good many of these were orcs,” the general amended, “so the disparity is not so great as it may seem.”

This drew a harsh chuckle from the collective assembly, but caused Torin’s stomach to squirm. He had never seen an orc. Except for the Mookla’ayans, the elves of Vosges, he had never encountered any of the elder races. By all accounts, they were mindless savages, the lot of them. Then again, the same had been said of Cwingen U’uyen and his Powaii people, and as Torin could attest—in their case at least—it simply wasn’t true.

But even if it were, and he were set to fighting monsters on the morrow, could any monster be more horrifying than those he had faced during the War of the Demon Queen?

“It gets better,” Chamaar assured them, kindling the anxious fire seen burning in the eyes of his listeners. “It appears he means to guard the city with his troops, rather than the other way around. Only a token garrison, maybe one in ten, hunkers within.” He looked to Hargenfeld as he said this, and received the other’s confirming nod.

A few of the rogues present began to grumble.

“So to him, men are more expendable than mortar,” said one.

“I’ll wager the warlord himself is one of those sheltering within,” hissed another.

Chamaar raised his hands to quiet them. For the first time, Torin noticed the many scars that crisscrossed the general’s meaty fingers. He looked like an old bear, hunched in the shoulders, but possessed of an intelligence and ferocity that seethed beneath the surface of his gleaming eyes. His shape and
movements suggested aches and pains too numerous to count, and a strength that had long ago been used up. But as with that trundling old bear, Torin sensed that this was a deception. If nothing else, he could tell by the way others reacted that he would not want this man barreling down on him in the heat of a battle.

“Since it’s to be a battle upon the plains, he’ll be expecting us, with our smaller force, to hit him as far to the east as possible. He’ll expect us to go straight for the city gate, where we would have the protection of the curtain wall at our backs as we seek to force his flank.”

Torin nearly scoffed at the notion of “protecting” themselves by placing their backs to an enemy wall and its accompanying siege defenses. But given his limited knowledge of this particular city, he opted to hold his tongue for now.

“Knowing this, our adversary will position his strongest troops to defend against this course. Our next best option, then, would be to force instead the western flank. It would mean fighting through his entire army to reach our ultimate goal, but it would enable us to use the sea as our rear guard.”

Several of the officers were nodding, although Torin wasn’t one of them. He was busy watching Dyanne as she observed Jaik, while the stone-faced wedge commander rubbed his beardless chin in thought.

“Thus,” Chamaar said, crouching down to point and sketch with a dagger in the dirt, “we can expect to find the second-strongest enemy contingent here, to the west. If he keeps his back to the Bastion, and we fail to flank him, we cannot win.”

Torin was still concentrating on Dyanne when, without warning, her gaze whipped about to catch his uninvited stare. Before he could think to look away, the woman grinned so that a warm flush eddied through him, then turned her attentions aside. Too late, his own eyes shifted, only to find those of Chamaar.

“So then,” the general asked, “where do we strike?”

A test, Torin realized. There was no reason to believe that it wasn’t. The old bear had surprised him, and this after he’d been blinded as though by a cresting sun.

For a moment, he froze. He could feel the eyes of those assembled burning into him. He wondered if Dyanne’s were among them, but was afraid to look.

His gaze slipped to the crude drawing in the center of their layered huddle. He could barely see it from his place amid the shadows, then recognized that he didn’t need to.

“We hit them where their ranks are weakest, and the matchup favors us. We hit them where they least expect it.”

Though he feared his voice might crack, it held strong, even under the general’s appraising stare.

“And where is that?”

Torin wasn’t entirely sure that he was on the right track, but it was too late to back down now. “In the center of their force.”

A host of murmurs followed, some agreeable, others much less so.

“Then we save Lorre the trouble of surrounding us,” someone protested.