The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (48 page)

He came to a decision in that instant—a decision born of instinct more than any rational thought. While those around him gasped or fumbled for their weapons or prepared to flee, the hunter stepped to the fore.

“Follow my lead,” he said.

Useless as it would have been, he should have had them scatter into the woods. Instead, he strode down the hollow’s embankment, reaching up to cross his wrists over his head, just as he remembered Kylac doing. The Mookla’ayans came at him in a swarming crush, but he forced himself to continue on.

A soldier ran past him, one of Jasyn’s. Sword high, the bearded man thundered toward the enemy. Before he came within a dozen strides, he hit the earth—nerveless, Allion knew, from the poison contained in the many darts sticking from his body.

Still Allion moved toward that oncoming tide, using every ounce of will he could muster not to cower or close his eyes. His body went rigid with fear as the A’awari closed round, chirping and shrieking, brandishing their blowguns and spears and half-moon knives. They leapt and circled and clicked their teeth, baring wicked piercings and flashing cruel tattoos of barbed and serrated design. But for the moment, at least, it would appear they did not intend him harm.

Their countless numbers blocked the way forward, forcing him to a stop. Allion risked a backward glance. His comrades, he was relieved to find, were mimicking
his
movements rather than those of the unfortunate soldier ahead of him. Darinor, he could see, was furious. And Jasyn, he feared, might bite back at any moment against those gnashing all around him. Neither understood yet what Allion intended. And in truth, Allion himself was not yet sure. Their surrender had bought them time, nothing more.

He looked to the center of the clearing, where the fifth of those who remained of Corathel’s company was being held up at the lip of the spur, his bearers just waiting to toss him over. Whatever the hunter was to do, he had only moments in which to do it, else that soldier—and all of the rest of them—would soon become casualties of the ongoing sacrifice.

From that forward direction, the crowds began to part. With obvious reluctance, A’awari viewers fell aside, making way for a string of ceremonial guardsmen driving toward the disturbance in arrow formation. With his attention focused along that course, Allion didn’t notice what was going on behind him until he heard the unmistakable rumble of Darinor’s voice.

“If you have some miracle to summon, you had best do so before I summon mine.”

Allion spun. His companions had been ushered forward so that all stood now within the same pocket of thrashing natives. Darinor was considering some form of attack, one that he did not appear to have much faith in. Nor did Allion, should he allow it to come to that.

But the mystic’s words gave shape to the vague idea that had been swirling in his head—and a shred of hope where none had lain before.

“Wait,” he said. “Not yet.”

The line of forward guardsmen reached them at last, their hairless flesh painted and scarred, their bodies riddled with bone piercings. Each wielded a spear much taller than himself, and wore upon his shoulders a mantle of tanned skin. Allion tried not to guess at what manner of animal such smooth skin might once have belonged to.

The warriors quickly formed a circle around the intruders, shoving aside the eager onlookers to surround the hunter and his companions three-deep. Though his arms were already growing heavy, Allion forced himself to keep them overhead, and his gaze fixed to the south, toward the fire and whoever led this grim service.

The crowds began to quiet expectantly.

“Kae,” Allion dared, “tell them I will speak with their shaman.”

The woman’s voice was a tremulous squeak. “Shaman?”

“You know what I mean. Whatever they call the leader here. Have Weave explain it to them.”

When one of the towering warriors stepped forward to glare down at Allion, Kae found her nerve, and began to relay to him—without the benefit of hand gestures—the hunter’s intent. She had only barely begun when Weave brushed past her and came to stand beside Allion, croaking some demand of his own. The hunter could only hope it was the same message he intended. He thought about asking Kae, but the guardsman before him was so close now that he couldn’t turn around.

When the Powaii finished speaking, that same guardsman, perhaps their leader, snarled before turning on a bare heel and opening his arms to the crowds that had closed behind him. His clansmen parted once more, clearing a path to the heart of the ravaged dell and that awful inferno. Prodded by the iron ring of A’awari spearmen, Allion and his companions followed.

His march was like that of a condemned man through an angry mob of those he had offended. He tried not to notice the looks of hatred and bloodlust, but it was impossible not to. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel their menacing stares, as surely as the intensifying waves of heat from the sacrificial blaze. It seemed as if their wrath alone might melt the skin from his bones.

His party was led to the base of the rise from which Corathel’s men were being tossed—even the soldier who had been paralyzed, his limp form carried by a pair of A’awari guardsmen. The chief general, Allion noticed, was indeed there, last in line, bound in ritualistic fashion. The general and the three beside him gazed with incredulous stares as they saw who it was that had come.

Allion’s attention, however, was drawn to the left of the Parthan captives, where the A’awari guard ring opened to reveal another of their clansmen, who wore an elaborate headdress made of elven skulls. He might have been a chieftain—the A’awari counterpart of Cwingen U’uyen. Or he might have been a priest of some sort, a shaman. Perhaps both. To Allion, it didn’t matter, beyond the simple fact that this was the one he needed to address.

Weave did so first, lowering his arms and prostrating himself before the skull-wearer. Allion contemplated doing the same, but decided against it.

His recalcitrance drew an angry murmur from the crowd, and an even
sterner grimace from Skull-wearer. The shaman—if that’s what he was—pointed, and the leader of the guards raised his spear, aiming it down as if to skewer Allion where he stood.

The hunter held his breath, but managed not to flinch. He glared back at the warrior as he said, “Kae, tell Weave to stand up.”

Kae stammered for a moment before collecting herself. When she had delivered the message, Weave glanced at Allion before bowing even deeper to Skull.

“I said get up!” Allion shouted, with a kick to Weave’s ribs.

At the same time, the hunter uncrossed his wrists and lowered his hands. A gasp ran through the surrounding press. Both Skull and Spear wore looks of stunned incredulity. Before that disbelief could translate into punishment for his insult, Allion rushed to explain.

“Kae, tell them that we accept their humble sacrifice.”

“What?”

Spear barked to his shaman, then drew back, preparing to throw.

“Tell them!”

Kae blurted something that might have been gibberish, but it was enough that Skull raised a hand to restrain his captain of the guard from punching a hole through the insolent hunter.

Spear protested—angrily. So, too, did a trio of lesser priests huddled beside their leader. When that huddle broke, the shaman spoke.

“He would know who we are to desecrate these proceedings,” Kae said.

Allion looked to the fifth surviving member of Corathel’s company, still held atop the ridge. The man’s heart could not possibly be beating any faster than his own. “Tell them that I am he who unleashed the evil that plagues them. Tell them that I’ve come now in answer to their summons, guided by one who has heard their prayers.”

The hunter watched carefully the expressions of his listeners as Kae translated his words to them. All around, the crowds had gone silent, straining to hear over the roar of flames. The features of those near enough to make out the woman’s claim tightened with increased suspicion.

All this time, a confused Weave had continued to kneel, halfway between the bold stance Allion suggested and the posture of submission demanded by their enemies. As Kae finished, the hunter reached down to grasp the Powaii native by the arm and haul him boldly to his feet.

Again the crowds gasped and murmured, and the lead spearman grumbled. The attending priests conferred with one another, pointing often at Weave, then passed their judgment on to the shaman. When the shaman spoke, all listened.

“We are bearers of filth,” Kae interpreted, using her hands now to gesture as needed. The others, Allion noticed, continued to hold theirs overhead. “Who among us is capable of hearing their sacred prayers?”

Without turning, the hunter addressed the only member of their group who at this point could help him. “Darinor?”

The Entient, it seemed, had been awaiting his cue. With a terrible swoosh,
the flames of the A’awari bonfire doubled in height. Great streamers spewed forth, erupting skyward to form a blazing canopy that spanned the entire hollow. Hundreds of Mookla’ayans cried out. While warriors dropped to a crouch and mothers shielded their young, these streamers became arrows of fire that drew aim upon the base of the rise where Skull and the rest of them stood. The shaman remained erect as he stared down that barrage, while those around him began to cower nervously. The missiles came on.

Just when Allion began to fear that Darinor truly meant to impale them all, the fiery bolts veered in flight, screaming overhead, shrinking and coming together, forming a giant ball that coalesced directly above their startled faces. The Entient gathered that ball before him, drawing it into his outstretched arms. He then split it in two—one for each hand—where the flames of each twisted and swirled above cupped palms like a swarm of bees.

Allion worked hard to maintain the strict, authoritative grimace marking his own features. He had hoped for a display of thunder and lightning that would rattle the very heavens. What Darinor had given him was even better.

With the sound of those ready fireballs crackling in his ears, the hunter felt his confidence swell. “As their prophecy states, he who brought this pestilence upon them shall be the one to remove it. Grant me these remaining offerings,” he said, gesturing toward Corathel, “and I will use their stink to draw the evil ones from these lands.”

In the awed hush, his voice carried clearly. So too did Kae’s translation, drowning out all but the continuing rumble of flames. Breathless, Allion awaited his enemies’ response.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure that his ruse—truthful as it was to some extent—would work. The lead guardsman lowered his spear, but snarled while the priests deliberated. Skull simply stared at him, glancing every so often toward Darinor and those still-churning fireballs. Allion dripped sweaty beads, roasting in the bonfire’s warmth, fighting to appear confident.

Then, without clear cause or warning, the forward rows of onlookers began bowing flat against the earth. The movement swept back among their clustered lines, until the whole of the lower congregation was on its knees. Their hums and whispers sent a shiver through Allion despite the intense heat.

The priests took pause, by all appearances as surprised by the reaction as he. When their conversation resumed, it seemed to Allion that its pace had quickened.

At last, their discussion concluded. Hoping for the best, Allion braced for the worst.

“The human vermin go free,” Kae translated.

The relief was evident in her voice, as it was in the grunts and sighs of Jasyn and his men. Following the Second General’s lead, the rest of them finally lowered their arms, glancing cautiously at the surrounding A’awari guardsmen.

Skull signaled, and another set of guards carried Corathel and his men over to join them—including a much relieved soldier draped from his pole
at the top of the spur. Throughout it all, Allion matched the shaman’s gaze without a hint of gratitude, to make it seem as though this result was precisely what he had expected.

At the same time, something in the shaman’s look tempered the hunter’s barely bridled elation. The Mookla’ayan was releasing them, yes, but not necessarily because he’d been convinced by Allion’s act or Darinor’s display. The elf’s eyes smoldered with mistrust, deep and feral. His granting of their request, the hunter suspected, had more to do with appeasing his superstitious followers than anything else.

With Corathel and his men cut free and leaning upon Jasyn and his comrades for support, Allion nodded to the shaman and his priests in stern acknowledgment. He turned to go when the shaman spoke again.

“One must remain,” Kae said, and Allion’s senses screamed an alarm.

He looked back to Skull, who smirked cruelly before thrusting his hands to the heavens and crying out in a voice loud and shrill.

It was a yell meant to be heard by all. And it was. Throughout the hollow, bowing natives leapt to their feet, shouting praises.

Allion turned to Kae.

“To glorify those above for answering their call.”

Skull’s smirk became a grin so savage it made Allion’s toes curl. For their freedom, the barbarian meant to exact a price.

“And what is to become of he who remains?” the hunter asked darkly.

Kae relayed the question. The shaman answered and clicked his teeth. At his response, the roar of the congregation grew tenfold. Allion looked to his translator, but the woman could only shake her head.

“
Grindaya,
” she said. “A ritual of some sort. I don’t know the word.”

Together, both she and Allion turned to Weave. The Powaii native wore a haunted look.

As the cheers of the crowd settled into a single, frenzied chant, one of several acolytes brought forth a ceremonial spear. From the tip of this spear hung beaded strings—teeth, Allion saw, strung together on leather thongs. Bidding this acolyte forward, Skull turned a wicked eye in turn to each member of the hunter’s party. When that eye found Marisha, the crooked smile slipped free, and a long, gnarled finger was leveled toward her.

“Grindaya,” he said again.

The Mookla’ayan multitudes shrieked and bellowed, voicing their savage pleasure as the acolyte dangled and then shook the strings of teeth over Marisha’s head.