The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (46 page)

Torin forced himself to meet the man’s gaze. “I’ve come to enlist their aid, not bring them war.”

Lorre shook his head in resignation. Not even when on his back on the battlefield, pinned by the tip of the Sword, had the man exuded such a defeated air. “It has been nineteen years. It is likely too much to hope that my daughter or grandchild could be returned to me. Nor would I force it upon them. But I would know whether they are safe and content. I would know that if they live still among the elves, they do so of their own choice, and not under some faerie enchantment. That is all I ask.”

Torin failed to hide his skepticism. “You said that you would have back what they stole from you.”

“If held against their will, then yes, I would stop at nothing to set them free. Nor would you, I think, were we speaking of those most precious to you.” The warlord paused, his steel eyes glinting in the firelight, and somehow Torin knew he was speaking of Dyanne. “Either way, I will not ask that you make that determination, nor assist in any way their rescue, should it come to that. Those I send with you will be assigned that task.”

Torin snickered. “I’d wager that a brigade of trolls or giants wearing your insignia would hardly increase my chances of being welcomed into a Finlorian village.”

“You’ll need a guide, one who can lead you along their former trails, near enough for you to sniff out their current haunts. That is why you came to me, is it not?”

It was, and Torin saw no cause to deny it. “My companions go with me,” he said instead.

Lorre’s brows slanted sharply inward. “You are in a poor position to make demands.”

Maybe so,
Torin thought. Then again, he still had the Pendant. And as long as he—or Lorre—held on to it, Darinor might eventually find him. “Be that as it may, those are my terms. My companions join me, or I go nowhere.”

“You mean the girls,” Lorre said, and a cruel smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“And the rest go free, General Chamaar and his men.”

“The rest will be used to bolster my ranks, taking the place of those they killed.”

“The commanders, at least—”

“Will be treated fairly. Those who please me most will be granted their choice of rank and region.”

Torin had not finished his protest, but the warlord raised a hand to stop him.

“Two of your companions shall accompany you, and you shall take also
two of mine. A just offer. If you wish to barter further, then bring me back something more to barter with.”

Torin glowered. As much as he hated the thought of leaving behind Chamaar, Arn, Lancer, Bardik, and whichever other of his known comrades had survived, he understood well enough the precarious ground he stood upon. That Lorre would grant him both the Sword and Dyanne—which the shrewd warlord knew well to be his two most valuable bargaining chips—was already more than the young outlander had any right to hope for.

“And the peoples of Wylddeor,” Torin added finally. “What will happen to them?”

“Your assault has set those plans back a bit,” the warlord replied candidly. “I have a kingdom up north to maintain. I’ll not likely make a decision on the Southland before the spring.”

“But in the end, you will impose your rule over all, will you not?”

Lorre stared at him, slow to answer. “I will offer them my protection. I cannot help those who refuse.”

Once again, Torin considered slaying the warlord where he stood. Surely, Dyanne would want him to. For the sake of her homeland. For the future of her people. As he peered into the warlord’s hollow eyes, he wondered if the man would even care.

“Come,” Lorre suggested in that commanding way of his, “I will see you to your companions.”

Though less excited, perhaps, than he should have been, Torin turned with the man, only to spy again the bloodied club hanging above the door. The sight gave him pause.

“If your men follow you so freely,” he questioned, “what need have you for tokens such as this?”

Lorre grunted as he eyed the club. “More so than the other races, an orc’s first loyalty is to its own fear. To balance those scales, it helps to impress upon them repeatedly that my retribution will be every bit as swift and painful as an enemy’s blade.”

“I would think a creature that cowardly would make a rather ineffective soldier.”

“Even cowardice has its uses when staging troops, as you yourself recently learned.”

The warlord was mocking him, but Torin let it go as he recalled their charge through the center of Lorre’s force—a charge meant to divide and scatter those ranks. He remembered how weak the central front—comprised almost entirely of orcs—had seemed, and how quickly it had folded, luring them in. Suddenly, one of the many questions that had been haunting him for three long days rose to the fore.

“Tell me, who betrayed our assault plans to you?”

Lorre scoffed at the notion. “Young man, I’ve fought more battles than you’ve even heard tell of. I need no informants to tell me how to prepare a battlefield.”

The man might have been lying, Torin knew. Yet he decided not to press
the issue. It was the first piece of news since his capture that he truly felt good about—that Moss, a man he had befriended, had not betrayed him.

The warlord sneered. “If someone
had
sold you to me—you and the lives of your friends—would you not want revenge?”

“I might,” Torin admitted, “if I understood better what purpose that revenge would serve.”

“Perhaps one day you will,” Lorre said, then flashed him a haunting look. “May that day never come.”

“T
HROUGH HERE, SIR,”
the soldier beckoned.

Allion followed, a step behind Jasyn as their small company pursued the young guardsman through the nighttime jungle. The path they traveled wasn’t much of one, just a twisted game trail covered over by endless varieties of weeds and brush. With the sun down, the air had turned cold and clammy. The hunter barely noticed, his thoughts on what lay ahead.

He turned where indicated, ducking beneath the toppled ruin of a splintered trunk before climbing over a mesh of gnarled roots. Leaves slapped at him, some filled with nettles and thorns, and he took care not to send them flinging back at Marisha. Behind her, a scowling Darinor matched pace.

Their guide cut sharply once more, veering left of a hidden streambed. A giant tree came into view, straddling the earth atop a sprawl of massive roots, leaving its underbelly exposed. A sentry stood post at its base, beside a curtain of hairlike vines that dangled from a high, crooked arch.

After trading signals with the outer sentry, the young guide stopped and pulled aside that curtain. Both soldiers held salute as first the lieutenant general and then Allion slipped past.

Inside, another pair of guardsmen snapped to attention.

“The prisoner?” Jasyn asked.

One of the guards pointed. Even then, it took Allion a moment to find the captive elf, so well did he blend in with the night. He was sitting upright, bound with his wrists behind him and his knees to his chest. His olive skin, clothed in leathery vines and painted with curling, decorative tattoos, made him virtually invisible against the shadowed foliage that crept up against the inner wall of roots beneath the leviathan tree. Animal eyes gleamed in the darkness.

Despite the ferocious glare leveled from those eyes, Allion felt a shock of relief. The native was Powaii.

“Did you send for Kae?” Jasyn asked of the guiding soldier, who shuffled in after Marisha and Darinor.

“Yes, sir. She should be here any moment.”

Jasyn marched forward with torch in hand. Its light caused the defiant elf to recoil. “Well?” the lieutenant general asked of Allion.

The hunter nodded, his eyes on the Mookla’ayan. “We may be in luck.”

He moved a step a closer, ahead of Jasyn. The elf grimaced fiercely, freezing him where he stood.

“So far, we’ve been unable to communicate with him,” Jasyn admitted. “I’ve had a team of translators working on it, but they tell me that their speech patterns must be wrong. For the wretch does not appear to understand their words or gestures, and his own have come across as gibberish.” He glanced over at the hunter. “They’ve confessed that their study of the savage tongue comes mostly from books, and not from actual conversation.”

Seeing Allion’s misgivings, the commander advanced to within spitting distance of the bound captive. He crouched down, bringing the torch close to the other’s face.

“I suspect, however, that this is not the problem,” Jasyn added, sneering as the elf looked past him to focus on some distant point across the enclosure. “I believe he understands well enough, but is simply refusing to answer their questions.”

“Let me try,” Allion said, willing himself forward until he had crouched down beside the general. The native’s eyes came back to him. “Does he have a name?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Ask him.”

Allion hesitated, making a quick study of the other’s face. Like all Powaii, he was completely hairless, and the oil of his skin shone in the torchlight. Small, horn-shaped wood chips hung from his earlobes, and another, slightly larger, from his lower lip. Had he been standing, he would have been perhaps a head taller than Allion. Despite his brave mask, he did not look comfortable.

“Allion,” the hunter said, prodding at his own chest. “And you are?” He reached toward the Powaii native, who snarled.

Before anyone could stop him, Jasyn belted the elf across the cheek. “Answer his questions, you filthy spoor.”

Allion put a hand on the general’s arm. “It’s okay. Just, please, give me a moment.”

The commander jerked free, flashing his teeth at the native in warning.

“Sir, the translators are here.”

Jasyn turned. “Let them in.”

Allion glanced back as a trio of soldiers—who had the look of anything but—filed past the curtain of root tendrils to join them under the natural canopy. His gaze lingered as it found Marisha’s, then swung around to the cornered elf.

“Allion,” he said again, and though the native refused to look at him, he thought he saw this time a curious twitch in the other’s brow. “Cwingen U’uyen,” he pressed, trying the name of the Powaii chieftain, and knew the elf had understood him when eye contact was made. With a surge of adrenaline, he continued. “Kylac Kronus. Thrak-Symbos. Asahiel.”

The elf’s face shot forward, bulging eyes fixed on Allion. It happened so swiftly that both hunter and general rolled back on their heels. All of a sudden, the imprisoned Mookla’ayan was raving like a madman, letting fly in a language coarse and guttural. Jasyn snapped his fingers, while the scrambling
translators tripped all over one another, fumbling the scrolls and tablets and etching tools carried with them. In the shadow of the archway, the sentries drew their weapons, awaiting their general’s command.

“Wait!” Jasyn barked. “Guards, as you were. Kae, get your scribes in order. Allion, have him slow down.”

The hunter patted the air between him and the native, with no real idea of how the elf might interpret that placating gesture. Having recovered from their panic, the Parthan translators gathered round, taking their individual stations and organizing their materials.

“Unbind his hands,” one of them shouted—a woman, Allion now noticed. Off the general’s incredulous look, she explained, “We need to see his hand movements.”

Jasyn reached out with a dagger and sawed through the ropes that bound the elf’s wrists. As he withdrew, he kept the weapon between them. But the native did not even glance at him. Still tied at the ankles, and with ropes securing his legs to his chest, the Mookla’ayan was not going anywhere. He continued to focus his rant on Allion, chirping and grunting, hands weaving before him.

The team of translators could barely keep up. Their leader—the woman—listened intently to every utterance, while watching closely a flurry of gesticulations quick and harsh. Every now and then, she would say something to one or the other of her companions, who scribbled frantically in an effort to mark it all down.

Caught in the middle, Allion could only gape at the wild Mookla’ayan in helpless bewilderment. Though he wanted to step aside and let those who might make sense of this take over, he didn’t dare, afraid that doing so might break the narration. He did not move—and only barely breathed—while for several moments, the elf stared at him, neck craning, the horn on his lip bobbing up and down as he spoke.

When at last it ended, the native slumped back, an accusing look marring his face. In the sudden silence, Allion could hear sounds from the division encampment filtering through the forest tangle.

It was Darinor’s voice that broke the stillness. “What did he say?”

Allion blinked. The translators were already in a huddle, poring over their notes and referring every so often to a sheaf of pages that seemed to contain some sort of word key.

“Little of this makes sense,” the woman replied, shaking her head. “He speaks of evil in their jungles, of the walking dead. We think he means the Illychar. After that, it seems to be no more than superstitious ravings.”

“Concerning what, exactly?” Allion prodded.

The woman, Kae, was having a whispered argument with one of her partners, who kept pointing insistently to something on his tablet. Finally, she slapped his hand away.

“He mentions repeatedly the name ‘Jarom.’ It has been said that Jarom unleashed this evil, but that he would return to cleanse it. A veil of darkness, he speaks of, followed by some sort of light. His sense of time is muddled.
Past, present, future—it’s all intertwined. But I think he’s telling of a prophecy, long held by their people—a prophecy that he believes has or will soon come to pass.”

Allion matched stares with Marisha and then Darinor. To them, he could tell, it all made sense enough.

“What’s his name?” the hunter asked, turning back to their captive.

Kae turned with him. She cleared her throat before hacking up a sharp clucking sound, accompanied by a quick hand gesture.

The native remained silent for a moment before glancing in her direction and giving a reply. Though Allion could not begin to match the elf’s pronunciation, it sounded something like “Wyvern Seas.” Kae consulted briefly with her companions.

“Wyevesces,” she said. “Jaquith Wyevesces.”

Allion frowned. “Wivva…?”

“We’ll call him Weave,” Jasyn declared impatiently. “What about Corathel?”

Kae wet her lips and once again cleared her throat. Her speech this time was longer and more animated, and to Allion’s ears, only vaguely resembled the Mookla’ayan tongue. To make up for it, she spoke slowly, carefully. In contrast, Weave’s blistering response seemed to express twice as much in half the time.

“He says mostly the same thing,” Kae translated, after yet another hurried conference with her fellow interpreters. “More about swarms of the walking dead that must be made to lie down again. And he calls them something else—intruders, I think—that must be turned away.”

“I want to know about the chief general,” Jasyn growled, brandishing his dagger. “Tell him that if he doesn’t start making sense, I’m going to feed his eyeballs to a swamp worm.”

“Hold on,” Allion begged, reaching out again to restrain the agitated commander. “Try this first. Tell him that I’ve come to lead both the Parthan armies and the Illysp far away from Mookla’ayan lands, but in order to do so, we must first have our men and our leader returned to us. Tell him that.”

Kae looked to Jasyn, who scowled.

“Please, just try it,” Allion urged.

Jasyn nodded, and the woman did as she was asked. Another lengthy and challenging dialogue ensued. Allion glanced back and forth between the speakers, trying in vain to follow along, to gain a sense from pitch or body language as to the elf’s mood and tone. In the midst of it all, a single word jumped out at him, chilling his blood:
A’awari
.

He forced himself to wait until the round of conversation had ended before leaping to any conclusions.

“All right,” Kae said slowly. “If I understand correctly, our friend here says that he does not belong with those who took the chief general’s unit hostage.”

“Of course not.” Jasyn snorted.

“He claims to belong to a separate clan, the Powaii. Those who took the
general were A’awari, a clan with which his own is at war. He says he is a scout and nothing more, that he was tracking the enemy’s movements through Powaii territory when he was set upon and taken captive by our soldiers.”

Allion closed his eyes as his hopes fell. It seemed this rescue would not be so easy after all.

Jasyn leaned into him. “We’re no longer in luck, are we?”

The hunter shook his head, blowing a long, weary breath. “Ask him if Cwingen U’uyen can help us.”

“Who?” Kae asked.

“The chieftain of his clan. Ask him if Cwingen U’uyen might help us assemble a rescue party.”

After a few jumbled attempts, the question was delivered and an answer received. This time, Allion did not have to wait for the translation to know that it was not good.

“This U’uyen is far away to the southeast, leading their people and directing forays against the Illychar. Wyevesces says that he is too far removed to help us.”

“Then we go it alone,” Jasyn determined swiftly. “Ask him if he will agree to lead a unit of my men in pursuit. Tell him that when the chief general and his soldiers are returned to us, he goes free.”

When the question had been asked, the elf looked to Allion. The hunter met that feral gaze, and nodded.

“He is not concerned for his own safety,” Kae said a moment later, interpreting the native’s response. “But for the sake of his people, and in tribute to he who fought alongside Cwingen U’uyen in the basilisk’s lair, he will do his best to guide us in the pursuit of our captured chieftain.”

Allion was surprised by the reference to his own heroism within the ruins of Thrak-Symbos, and was further moved by the respectful manner in which the elf stared at him while the words were being relayed. That his name had found a place of such honor in Mookla’ayan lore was humbling.

As might have been expected, Darinor was quick to spoil the moment. “This could be an Illysp trap.”

“How so?” the hunter asked.

“How do we know the Mookla’ayans holding your precious general are not Illychar themselves?” the Entient asked, fixing him with a hawkish gaze. “To catch up to them, even with a guide, you will have to split off as a much smaller group. It might be that they are goading you into doing just that.”

Jasyn shrugged. “A chance I have to take.”

“And when
your
lieutenants come after
you
? They, too, will be picked off, one by one.”

“It’s the only option we have.”

“It is foolishness,” Darinor snapped. “Corathel’s to begin with, now yours to follow.”

Allion’s own gaze narrowed. “Or perhaps there
is
another option, one you’ve not shared with us.”

The Entient turned to him. “Such as?”

“Legends say the Entients can view men and their dealings from afar. Can you not do so here?”

“If I possessed such a skill, do you not think I would have made use of it before now?”

Allion’s frown betrayed his doubts.

“That power belonged only to the original Ha’Rasha,” the mystic explained, shaking his head gruffly. “The fools inside Whitlock have managed to approximate it to some extent, but only with a complex array of magical devices.”

“And there’s truly no way to exercise the ability without this equipment?”

Darinor scoffed. “If I were to strip you of your weapons, could you fell a wild boar with your will alone?”

Catching Marisha’s look, the hunter decided to let the matter go.