The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (43 page)

With a signal from the general, archers atop the Bastion began targeting anyone that approached the outside of his guard circle, friend and foe alike. The enemy commander would risk no further rushes on his position, Torin realized. Trapped in that protective pocket, Torin could do nothing but scowl as the giant delivered the Sword to its general, trading the weapon for Dyanne. As soon as she was handed over, the Nymph elbowed the creature in its stomach, but the giant didn’t flinch, and the surrounding soldiers merely laughed.

For a moment, the general stood frozen, staring at the Sword, no doubt awed by the power pulsing at his fingertips.

“Offer them quarter,” he commanded finally.

As criers and standard-bearers began to relay the order across the battlefield, the general surprised Torin by removing his helmet. A murmur of respect passed through the attending troops, several of whom dropped to one knee. Torin himself was further taken aback by the man’s appearance—by chiseled, age-worn features; by white hair that clung with receding interest to a weathered brow; and, as the general came before him, by a pair of empty eyes the color of dull steel.

The general hefted the Sword, bathing Torin in its glow. “Your name.”

Torin glared. The flanking giants pricked him deeper with their blades. “Torin,” he grimaced.

The general’s rugged face was an inscrutable mask. Amid the clangor of waning battle, the ocean roared.

“Mine is Lorre,” the general replied finally. “And you,
Torin
, should have killed me when you had the chance.”

A
LLION PEERED AHEAD
through the tangled growth and saw only endless stretches of the same. Insects hummed, surrounding him in stinging swarms. The jungle was dark and sweaty, rife with foul scents and threatening shadows.

Just as he remembered it.

Even now, in the dead of winter, Vosges was a muggy place best left to the flies and spiders, serpents and bats, toads and leeches, and whatever other loathsome creatures made it their home. More than two hundred years ago, it had been recognized formally as one of the five realms of Pentania, set aside along with its native population as a kind of historical preserve by the now-defunct League of Man. Informally, the peoples of Pentania—then and now—had no use for either the savages or their uninhabitable lands.

That included Allion, who’d had more than his fill of the stinking marshlands when he had journeyed south previously with Torin and Kylac, in search of a Mookla’ayan guide who might lead them to the ruins of Thrak-Symbos—the fabled resting place of the last known Sword of Asahiel. He remembered having hoped to never again set foot within its borders. Alas,
never
had come far too soon.

It had taken them two days to reach the Kalmira Forest, which bordered the marshlands on their northern front, and another two and a half to slink their way through. Thus far, it had been a somber journey—for a variety of reasons. Some had to do with painful reminders: of Kylac, whose continued absence left a void not easily filled; of the dragonspawn, a scourge from which these lands had only scarcely begun to heal; and of the annihilation of Feverroot, the Lewellyn community that had for so long been Marisha’s home. Others were a continuation of present concerns: the mysterious disappearance of the Parthan Legion’s Second Division, for which they had come in search; the brooding presence of Darinor, who continued to exhibit signs of disapproval toward the slightest interactions between Allion and Marisha; and, of course, the constant threat of Illychar.

They had been lucky on the last count, at least. Though they had spied parties of Illysp-possessed creatures on more than one occasion, they had thus far been able to avoid attack. Most of those spotted had been elves—which stood to reason, since the Finlorians had been the prominent race upon these
shores at the time of the Illysp’s initial emergence. Once, however, Darinor had pointed out that of an ogre, a lumbering, misshapen monstrosity that looked more like a wandering hillock, lumpish and ragged and standing—even stooped—at over twelve feet. That sighting alone had been enough to remind Allion to keep his feet quiet and his head low.

If there was any good news, it was that the trail of the Second Division had been an easy one to follow. Never had a force this size traveled this far south into Mookla’ayan territory. While Partha had been trying for centuries to eradicate the cannibalistic natives, war to the north against the secessionist Menzoes had long prevented them from launching a full-scale onslaught. But that distraction no longer existed, and with most of the Illychar attacks having come from the Kalmira, Partha had been lured southward in full force. That much, King Galdric had admitted. What he hadn’t told them was what Allion could now see for himself, that the Parthans’ goal seemed to be to lay waste the entire region, if necessary, in order to drive forth their unwanted neighbors—the Mookla’ayans, along with the Illysp—once and for all.

Still, the terrain itself favored the smaller, scattered, more mobile parties in which the Mookla’ayans preferred to hunt and fight. The same held true for the Illychar. From what Allion could see, the grinding path of nearly ten thousand men had indeed cut a crude swath through the forest and beyond, but had come no closer to accomplishing that which hundreds of smaller incursions had failed to achieve in the past.

Fortunately, he and his companions had not come for conquest, only to find Chief General Corathel and persuade him to turn around and go home.

Then again, Corathel’s position, at last report, had been leagues to the north of where Allion marched now, still within the confines of the Kalmira. He had hoped they would find the general and his troops in that vicinity and
not
have to set foot within the southern jungles. That hope, like so many others, had proven futile.

And so he carried on alongside the lovely Marisha and her overbearing father. Though focused on the land and its foreign signs, the hunter had lost count of the many stolen glances he and Marisha had shared. Each time she had caught his lingering gaze, he had felt a tiny shock, followed by a warm flush through his veins. He had tried to stop, but found that he was addicted to the feeling.

He was more impressed with her now than ever. He had always admired her grit and compassion—and having learned of her longtime possession of the Pendant of Asahiel, he understood better now how she had persevered, surviving the horrors of enslavement at the hands of the dragonspawn when no other members of her village had. Yet here she was, no longer blessed with the talisman’s strength, pressing on as if she were. It seemed to Allion that once accustomed to such power, a person might be unable to function without it. But not Marisha. Though he could only imagine what it must have been like—losing her lungs, perhaps, or her still-beating heart—he was humbled by her fortitude.

A forbidding presence loomed suddenly over him—Darinor, come to interrupt his wayward thoughts, as if triggered to do so where Marisha was concerned. Too late, the hunter withdrew his furtive gaze from the woman beside him and braced for the inevitable reprimand.

“Keep moving,” the Entient whispered instead. “But stay close. We’ve eyes upon us.”

An inner chill washed away all feelings of warmth. In a heartbeat, Allion flashed back to that moment months ago, during his prior expedition, when Kylac had admitted to them that the A’awari, the more barbaric of the Mookla’ayan clans, were shadowing them. If he lived for a hundred years, the hunter would never forget how that encounter had ended. And he had no desire to relive it.

A cold sweat broke along his forehead. He pricked his ears, but could hear little over the snap and rustle of their movements through the brush—just the patter of afternoon rain streaming through the mesh of vines and branches and leaves. Before he even realized it, he was nervously thumbing the bowstring slung tight against his chest. His eyes swept back and forth, seeing nothing but the glistening greenery.

Somehow, he managed to edge forward despite his fears. If the danger was that great, he assured himself, Darinor would let them know.

Then, through the tapered edges of his vision, he detected movement, a subtle shifting of shadows that confirmed they were not alone. His stomach knotted. He had no way of knowing who tracked them, be it Illychar or Mookla’ayans—or both. But he feared that the longer they waited, the tighter the noose would become.

He hefted his quiver of arrows, hoping the simple movement might give his enemies pause. While it would be foolish to suggest an outright threat, he did not want to appear helpless. All of a sudden, Galdric’s plan of sending the entire Third Division to rescue the Second seemed not such a bad idea.

He wished again that Kylac were here—he who knew the ways of the Mookla’ayans, and could speak with them if necessary. That the youth had not heard tell of the land’s most recent plague and returned to his friends in their time of need troubled Allion more than he cared to admit. It caused him to wonder just where Kylac had gone, and what the lad might have gotten himself into.

“Halt and declare!”

Marisha gasped, while Allion did well not to jump from his skin. His hand was on the hilt of his hunting knife when he spied the speaker, camouflaged in a wrap of vines and leaves that made him all but invisible against the jungle backdrop. From there, the hunter’s eyes narrowed upon the loaded crossbow the stranger carried, cranked and ready to fire.

A sharp rustle announced the emergence of a team of archers from the screen of foliage to either side, stepping forth with longbows drawn.

“Allion,” the hunter managed before his voice croaked. “Of Alson. You are Parthan, are you not?”

“What business have you in these lands?” the leader demanded.

“We come from Atharvan, at the bidding of King Galdric himself.”

“I see no messenger’s sash.”

Allion reached for a scroll tube hanging from his shoulder, then thought better of it as the surrounding bows flexed and tightened. “I carry a signed order,” he said, his irritation lending him strength, “granting an audience with Chief General Corathel, legion commander. If you know where he is, we are to be taken to him, by writ of your king.”

The leader seemed to consider, then snapped his fingers. One of the flanking bowmen came forward, and, though camouflaged like the rest of his team, was immediately recognizable as a Parthan soldier. Rear guardsmen, Allion realized, and relaxed considerably.

Still, he scowled as the other broke the leather thong by which the scroll tube was fastened and carried it to the squad commander. The corporal put away his crossbow in order to read the message. When he had finished, however, the man’s frown only deepened. Again he signaled. The members of his unit put away their bows, only to draw their swords, filing down out of the brush to assume the stance and formation of a prisoner escort.

The corporal tucked away Galdric’s note and produced again his crossbow. “If you are who you claim,” he said, gesturing with the loaded weapon, “come with me.”

B
Y THE TIME THEY REACHED
the main encampment an hour later, Allion was furious. Furious at being herded south under armed guard like a common criminal. Furious at the corporal’s refusal to permit them either questions or answers. When the hunter had tried, the corporal had threatened to have him bound and gagged. Ordinarily understanding of another’s fears and suspicions, Allion was growing weary of such undeserved treatment—more for Marisha’s sake than his own. He kept wondering why Darinor was tolerating it, almost wishing that the renegade Entient would summon one of his lightning streams and spare them this insult.

His best guess was that the petulant mystic was taking some form of grim pleasure in the hunter’s frustrations.

The division was just now making camp at the edge of a bog, upon ground wet and spongy and alive with crawling things. The soldiers were everywhere—thousands of them—stowing their equipment carts, building fires, clearing the area of deadwood and brush in order to erect their tents and canvases for the night. To Allion, it didn’t make sense. The men he passed, though wearing stern faces caked with mud, did not appear to be under duress. The division was well, it seemed. So why hadn’t at least some of Galdric’s messengers gotten through?

Their party continued on, drawing only minor attention from those it passed. They stopped occasionally to allow the corporal to confer with a sentry, then moved on. Their path skirted the slurping ground of the bog’s rim. Beyond that, shrouded in mist, was a lake that reminded Allion of the one Torin had swum across, back when his friend went by the name of Jarom—just one in a series of challenges that seemed now a lifetime removed.

Eventually, they came upon the tent the corporal had been seeking—that of a high-ranking officer, judging by the number of guardsmen posted out front. The corporal moved ahead to deliver his hushed report, handing over Allion’s message and gesturing back at the hunter and his companions. Leaving them to the guardsmen, the corporal and his soldiers marched away without a word of apology.

Allion, meanwhile, was ushered along with Marisha and Darinor inside the tent, where they were allowed to seat themselves under the watchful eye of a pair of sentinels. Before leaving, the commander of the guard unit encouraged them to relax. The general, he said, would be with them presently.

Though the hunter tried, he could coax not a word from the stone-faced sentinels. When he looked to Darinor for help, he found the Entient resting comfortably, eyes closed.

Another hour had passed before they next received visitors. Even then, it was not quite whom Allion had expected. For the trio who entered was led not by the legion commander, Chief General Corathel, but by the division commander, Lieutenant General Jasyn.

Allion was on his feet the moment they passed through the tent flap, and though this caused the sentinels to raise their crossbows, Jasyn motioned quickly for them to be put away.

“Allion, Marisha,” the general said, turning back to his guests. “What a pleasant surprise.”

He was clutching the note from Galdric, Allion noticed, shifting it to his left hand in order to extend the other in proper greeting.

Allion returned the gesture, and his frustration melted away. The Second General was not a large man, but his grip was fierce and strong. More than that, he exuded the most welcoming demeanor one could imagine. With but an armclasp and his crooked smile, he made it seem as though he were greeting his dearest friend in all the world. He might have been a jester as easily as a soldier, so filled was he with an irrepressible love of life.

When finished with Allion, he moved to accept Marisha’s embrace.

“Now that’s what I call a welcome,” he said suggestively.

Marisha laughed and released his armored, mud-spattered frame. “You look well.”

“As do you,” Jasyn said, eyeing them over again. His dark hair was tousled, his cheeks lightly freckled, lending him a boyish charm. That look faded somewhat when he regarded the rising Darinor.

“You are General Corathel?” the Entient asked in his resonating voice.

“Jasyn,” the other corrected, “lieutenant general, Second Division.” He glanced down at the parchment rolled up in his left fist. “You must be Darinor.”

“Where is Corathel?” the Entient asked, looking past the aides and sentinels and toward the tent flap.

Jasyn’s features tightened—a little too quickly, Allion thought. “The chief general is not with us, at the moment. But if you will allow me, I’m certain I can be of some assistance to you in his stead.”