The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (63 page)

“It’s a long hike to the Skullmars,” Torin observed.

“I’ve got strong legs.”

Indeed, misshapen as they appeared, the Tuthari’s stout limbs could likely carry him up and down the slopes of Mount Krakken without breaking stride. But for some reason, Torin remained hesitant to turn the dwarf loose on his own.

“Ya done what ya promised,” Crag reminded him, “and I ain’t meaning to forget it. Time now to tend to your own business.”

“You’re sure you can find your people?” Torin asked, his skepticism no less than it had been when they’d started out.

“I’ll find ’em. And when I do, I’ll see if we can’t do anything to help ya.”

“And the same for you,” Torin offered, as he had before. “If there’s anything your people need, and it’s within my power to grant, you need but ask.”

Crag peered up at him with that discerning look of his, one eye pinched tight. He offered his hand, and Torin took it.

“I’ve a notion to return,” Crag admitted, holding Torin fast within his crushing grip.

“To Yawacor?”

“To make things right. My people should be avenged, and a dwarven nation reestablished. And I owe it to Eolin and Laressa to see that the safety of their kind is guaranteed—forever.”

“When this is done,” Torin presumed.

“When this is done,” Crag agreed, still staring at him as if in expectation.

“Call on me before you do,” Torin said.

Crag nodded and pumped his fist, and Torin knew that that was what the dwarf had been searching for. “Until then, don’t be giving up your fire.”

Only after Torin returned the other’s nod did Crag let go. As the dwarf hefted his pack of belongings, Torin realized what it was that so troubled him about this moment. This was it, the final separation. With Crag’s departure, the last physical tie would be severed, and Yawacor would belong only to his past.

But there was no stopping it. Were it otherwise, he would have done so before saying good-bye to Dyanne. So he kept quiet as Crag considered his horse with a look of disgust, offered a grunt, and turned away, his back to the road as he headed south across the coastal plain.

For a long moment, Torin watched him go, thoughts of Dyanne coming unbidden.
We’ll look forward to your return,
she had said. Perhaps. Until then, the mere hope—along with his memories—would have to sustain him.

His horse whickered and pawed at the earth, as if it, too, were anxious to be away. Torin did not keep it waiting, giving it one more pat before climbing into the saddle. After all, before he could give honest thought to any future involving distant lands, he knew that he must first confront and lay to rest the demons he had unleashed here.

With a kick of his heels, Torin started forward along the highway. He looked to Crag, who glanced back, and offered the dwarf a final wave. He then leaned over the head of his mount, riding west toward a break in the clouds and its gentle wash of midday sun.

A
LLION’S HEAD ACHED AS HE RODE ALONGSIDE
C
ORATHEL
at the head of the Parthan Legion. While passing through the Gaperon, hemmed on both sides by mountains, the clamor of the army had grown tenfold. The creak of wheel and traces, the rattle of armor and weaponry, the thunder of booted feet—all had echoed so that now they seemed to throb from within his very skull.

Marisha, sensing his discomfort, had offered to brew him a tea that would deaden the pain, but Allion had politely refused. He would be well enough, he had assured her, once they cleared the pass and left the bulk of the army behind.

Their escort to Souaris was already being arranged. Last night, hours after Darinor had left, a pair of Kuurian heralds had ridden forth in welcome. Commander Troy himself would do so on the morrow, they had said. In the meantime, they’d been sent to inquire as to any particular needs or plans. As soon as Corathel had finished debriefing them, Allion had pulled one aside and asked about the condition of the western highway. The road to Souaris was well patrolled, the herald had assured him. But just to be safe, most were traveling by caravan, and accompanied by military escorts. If he should like, a special convoy would be prepared and awaiting their arrival.

At long last, that time was drawing near. The midmorning sun was just now cresting the eastern wall of the Aspandels, to shed light upon the highland range south of the Gaperon. The stretch they traveled was broken and boulder-strewn, the road lined by bluffs and freestanding rock formations that blocked his view. But already Allion thought he could hear the restless murmur of those who lay ahead, an allied force of close to eighty thousand, more than half again the number who trooped along behind him.

Likely, his head would hurt worse before it felt better.

He was distracted from its pounding, however, when finally the armies below came into view. Beside him, Marisha gasped, as awestruck as he to see so many assembled in one place. Their dark stain blanketed the land below like a quilt, each patch that of a different regiment. The whole of the Imperial Army, with garrisons from Souaris, Stralk, and every city in between—even the remnants of those from Morethil, the once-glorious capital that had been so ravaged during the War of the Demon Queen. And among them, some
where, the armies of Alson, siphoned from their homeland per Darinor’s instruction.

And now, Allion realized, the final piece of the Entient’s puzzle: the Parthan Legion, come to fulfill Darinor’s vision of a body united in Pentania’s defense—a body the Illysp would be unable to resist. Seeing it here, for the first time, Allion could not deny the magnitude of what Darinor had managed to accomplish, summoning perhaps the greatest alliance of forces the land had ever known. A gathering of nations that had long regarded one another with cold shoulders and suspicious eyes, come together in common cause. Having played no small role in making it happen, Allion swelled with pride.

He was pulling forward then, the mount he’d been given keeping step with Corathel’s as the chief general trotted ahead. A large welcoming contingent was riding northward to greet them, bearing a variety of standards. From behind, commands rang out for the legion to halt, allowing the parties space to confer.

As the delegations reached one another, Allion braced for another tedious session of overtures and formalities. Instead, the leader of the welcoming party, a tall man with hair so blond it might have been white, leapt from his mount and strode forward with helmet in hand. Corathel did so in turn, rushing ahead to clasp the other’s arm and accept his embrace.

“Well met, General,” the stranger greeted.

“And you, my friend,” Corathel replied. “It does me good to see you.”

“Circumstances might be better. But then, if all the world were at peace, we soldiers would find little respect, eh?”

Corathel smiled. “Never mind the respect. I just wouldn’t want my men to grow bored.” He turned back, then, to his line of lieutenant generals. “Some of them, I believe you already know.”

But before the introductions could go forward, the other’s eyes went to Marisha, whom he greeted with a deep bow. “On the front lines again, my lady?”

“To see that you bloody rapscallions keep your foolishness under control,” she said.

The Kuurian smirked. “Just be careful, please. I doubt your lord would forgive me if you disappeared a second time while under my wing.”

“Not to worry, Commander,” Marisha replied. “I travel this time with a personal protector. You may have heard of him—Allion, by name.”

The commander nodded. “The dragon-slayer. My herald made mention.” He stepped forward. “An honor it is to finally meet you. I am Troy, high commander of the Imperial Garrison at Souari, and one of the joint chiefs of our little coalition here.”

Allion, looking down from his mount, gripped the other’s hand. “Troy, of course. I should have known. Both Marisha and Torin have told me much about you.”

“And is it true that the bearer of the Crimson Sword makes his return?” the commander asked.

Transfixed by the man’s piercing eyes and shrewd smile, Allion fought
back a twinge of guilt, silently reminding himself that there was no way Troy could know of him and Marisha. “The word we gave your herald was received only yesterday. Torin is to meet us at Souaris—hopefully before the week is out.”

“Fair news to a beleaguered regent, I’m sure.”

Allion swallowed and nodded. “To all of us.”

It took some time to finish introducing everyone, and to formalize the welcome of the Parthan Legion into Kuurian lands. King Thelin of Souaris, acting head of the Imperial Council, would have liked to have been here to do it himself, Troy said, but was pressed with matters of city and state. He had sent his high commander instead, as well as a pair of dignitaries, to beg his pardon.

Once all of the reunions and forced pleasantries had been exchanged, Corathel sent his lieutenants back to their posts to finish herding the legion southward. The chief general himself rode ahead with Troy, and invited Allion and Marisha to do the same. From what Allion had been told, the two commanders had forged a close bond while defending Souaris from Spithaera’s dragonspawn. No doubt they were anxious to speak directly of this latest threat.

But the Souari commander surprised Allion by turning first to him and Marisha.

“Your escort is waiting,” Troy informed them. “I’ve two squads of elite cavalry ready to accompany you.”

“Is that not a shade excessive?” Marisha asked.

Troy grinned. “As I said, I’ll take no chances. Intending no offense to your guardian, of course.”

The commander turned to him, and Allion shook his head. “Of course not. Before we ride for Souaris, though, I suppose I should check in with General Rogun.”

“General Rogun?” Troy asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Chief commander of Alson’s forces, sent from Krynwall,” Allion replied.

He’d been a little surprised that Rogun had not been among those to welcome their arrival. Perhaps he hadn’t been invited. Or perhaps he had refused. Allion hoped that the general, ever the malcontent, was not proving troublesome to the other leaders of the coalition.

“General Rogun is not among us, sir.”

“What? How do you mean?”

“Alsonian riders report that he remains at Krynwall.”

Allion looked to Marisha, his stomach beginning to roil. “That’s nonsense. He marched forth with both our legions more than a month ago.”

Troy reined to a halt at the rear of his retinue. Allion, Marisha, and Corathel stopped alongside him. One of Troy’s attendants, whose name Allion couldn’t recall, looked back, but the commander waved him on.

“A single company from Krynwall arrived some six weeks ago, as you say,” Troy reported, his face serious. “Their word was that the rest of Alson’s armies, led by General Rogun himself, would be en route.”

“I don’t understand,” Marisha said. “If they’re not here, then where are they?”

“We thought it odd,” Troy admitted, “given that the request for this alliance originated from Krynwall. But all reports from Alson are that the bulk of your forces have not yet been given the order to march.”

“But we received word he had arrived here on schedule,” Marisha insisted, turning to Allion with a look of fear.

The last of Allion’s headache was replaced by a savage dread welling up from within. Rogun had never liked Darinor. In fact, the general had been opposed to this entire plan from the first. Allion recalled the surprise he had felt upon learning that Rogun had complied with the Circle’s orders. Less surprising would be if the general had
not
obeyed those orders after all.

“Shall I arrange word with the Alsonian company commander?” Troy asked.

Allion’s thoughts continued to race, mind aswirl with cruel possibilities. How could Rogun have manipulated the lines of communication running both north to Krynwall and south to the Gaperon? Most of Alson’s southern couriers were in service to Drakmar, the barony of Nevik. To have taken control of the entire network meant one of two things: Either Nevik was somehow in collusion with the renegade general, or Drakmar had fallen.

The hunter’s blood churned. He wasn’t sure which notion angered him more. Either way, if Rogun had been bold enough to commit such open treachery against the will of the crown, it meant that Krynwall was next.

Both Darinor and Torin were riding into a trap.

Allion stared at Marisha, who gaped back in horror, having evidently arrived at the same conclusion.

“Father,” she whispered.

“Your company commander—” Troy began.

“Likely knows only what he’s told you,” Allion interrupted. “Or else will no doubt resist revealing the rest.” He gritted his teeth, still staring at Marisha. “We haven’t time. Marisha and I must ride for Krynwall now.”

Corathel shook his head. “Alone?”

“I’ll fetch your escort,” Troy determined at once. “Its riders shall accompany you.”

“That’s very kind of you, Commander,” Allion said, “but we haven’t a moment to delay.”

“You’ll need fresh horses,” Troy insisted, “and stronger ones than these. Should you choose to head north, my riders will run you down within the hour.”

Allion looked again to Marisha. “So be it. Have your men bring our remounts. They’ll find us along the main road.”

“Before the Illychar, I hope,” Corathel grunted.

The hunter nodded, already wrenching on his reins to turn his steed about. “Send a team to Drakmar, as well, if you can spare them,” Allion begged. “On full guard. Find out if Baron Nevik still lives.”

“Go,” Troy urged them. “I’ll mobilize a division to follow. If your general has betrayed us, he’ll soon be answering to Kuurian authority.”

Allion put heel to flank to chase after Marisha, who charged northward as if meaning to split the trailing Parthan Legion in two. They were assuming the worst, the hunter knew, but if correct, then he could take little comfort in Troy’s words. For the true question was not whether Rogun could be made to pay for his treachery.

The question was whether it would be too late.

D
ESPITE HIS HEAVY HEART,
Torin could not deny the twinge of anticipation that began to build as he rode north across the land.
His
land. The land of Allion and Kylac, Baron Nevik and Chief General Corathel. The land of Marisha. Though it felt like ages had passed, his reunion with these and others was finally at hand. In a short time, he would be met by his true friends with open arms, and all would be well once more. That other, far-off land would be forgotten, and with time, when the ache regarding those left behind had vanished, he would be glad that it had.

When he reached Krynwall, however, that feeling fast began to dissipate, bullied aside by a sense of uneasiness. He wasn’t certain from where it stemmed, but it prompted him to ride a distant circuit around the city before closing to a forested hillside a hundred yards to the northwest. He and his mount hid there for some time, studying the sparse traffic that filtered in and out through one of the rear gates. A storm brewed overhead, shrouding the dusky sky and threatening to break at any moment. Every now and then, an advance drop would strike his brow, but Torin only blinked these away, eyes locked on the walls before him.

Had he known where to go, he might have tried making his way in via the secret tunnels leading through the undercity to the palace proper. But it had been Allion who, as Fason, had acquainted himself best with those passages. Though Torin knew where a couple of the openings lay within, he knew not where to find the exit doors, or how to trigger them from the outside.

Finally, when it became clear that this distant vigil would do nothing to justify or refute his stubborn anxiety, the king of Alson slipped from his cover and led his mount down to the roadway. There he waited a while longer, until spotting a desirable position between two merchant wagons. Ordinarily, the watchmen and tariff collectors were more interested in companies bearing goods than lone travelers appearing empty-handed. From what Torin had witnessed so far, that much hadn’t changed.

His hope proved true. As the inspectors closed in on the pair of wagons, one of the weary watchmen, clearly anxious for his shift to end, waved Torin onward with a grunt. Hood drawn against the impending rain, Torin nodded, and marched through.

He continued for a while on foot, keeping his gait casual and doing nothing
to attract unwanted attention. At the same time, his eyes swept the buildings and streets, searching for some sign of that which haunted him. Throughout his trek, he’d heard nothing to suggest that Krynwall had been overrun. There were conflicting reports about the whereabouts of her armies, but nothing to suggest that they had been eradicated. Then again, information of any kind on the road from Gammelost had been scarce. Times being what they were, most of the land’s populace had made for the nearest holdfast, abandoning winter plots and hunting grounds for the safety of wall and parapet. Few were those brave enough to be wandering the open range—fewer still who claimed to have wandered far.

Certainly, the dearth of patrolmen suggested that the army had been deployed elsewhere—perhaps to Kuuria, as most had said. While he found it alarming that Krynwall stood virtually undefended, she obviously still stood. Doubtless, Darinor and the Circle had had their reasons, and if the city could stand alone, then surely Torin had nothing to fear.

But he knew better than to dismiss his nervousness out of hand. Likely, it was nothing more than the unfamiliarity of a place from which he’d been gone for so long. It might even have something to do with his reluctance to have returned at all. But until he heard for himself a trustworthy account of all that had transpired in his absence, he could not be too careful.

Though anxious to reach the palace and his friends, he took a circuitous route through the city’s districts, on guard against any spying eyes. Whenever he reached one of the more crowded plazas, he paused to listen to snatches of conversation, but stopped short of asking the kinds of questions that might draw notice.

The more he saw and heard, however, the more he knew his fears to be unfounded. As he neared the palace, his pace quickened. The sooner he carried through with this, the sooner he would find peace.

He hesitated again, though, when the gates of the palace grounds came into view, and he quickly turned off down a side avenue. Aside from a smattering of guildhouses, the surrounding area was reserved for gardens and shade trees, a poorly tended ground for picnics and the like. Picking his way through the overgrown tangle, glancing back constantly to check for pursuit, he pressed forward. When at last he reached a wall of bushes through which his horse could not pass, he tethered the animal to a nearby trunk, and proceeded alone.

His flesh itched by the time he reached the encircling iron fence, where he hunkered for several moments, peering inward upon the castle. All appeared as it should. And yet his entire body was taut with anticipation, his neck and shoulders tied up in knots. He took a deep breath, reconsidering his course. But where else was he to go?

He drew the Sword, and with a few effortless swipes, made a hole in the fence large enough to slip through.

Ducked low, he circled the grounds twice before finding his opening. Several of the entrances were warded by only a single guardsman, rather than the usual two. As luck would have it, he caught the lone man back by the kitch
ens taking pity on an overburdened scullery maid, and moving off with her toward the midden heaps. Before Torin could reassess the wisdom of his own actions, he dashed forward from the opposite direction, scooped up an empty barrel lying outside, and, trying to appear like any other servant, hauled it within.

He all but held his breath after that, his heart pounding as if a thief in his own castle. He wished, in fact, that he
were
a thief, so that he might know better what he was doing. As it was, he but scurried along as best he could, ducking aside whenever he heard voices, slinking from shadow to shadow.

His confidence grew as he found his way at last to the royal wing and set track for Allion’s study. He hoped to find his friend before having to explain himself to any guardsmen—even though he’d heard rumor that Thaddreus, and not Allion, was now serving as regent. His next best hope was for a member of his inner circle—someone he knew he could trust. The odds of that were slim, but the closer he got to his former household, the better off he would be.

No sooner had he told himself this than his luck ran out. Turning a corner, he nearly trampled someone emerging from a side chamber. Torin tried to grumble an apology and continue on without allowing his face to be seen, but a voice called after him.

“My lord? My lord, is that you?”

Torin considered the voice before turning about.

“My lord!” Pagus exclaimed.

“Shh!” Torin hissed, drawing the young herald back into the chamber. It was a small storeroom, filled with racks of candles and holders. Pagus, he noticed, was clutching a bundle of each. Since there was no door, Torin pressed the boy quickly into the nearest corner, snorting against the smells of wax and tallow.

The youth’s eyes were wide. “My lord, you’re back!”

“Something I don’t wish to proclaim just yet.”

“Is something wrong, my lord?”

“You tell me. Is the city safe?”

“Safe enough, my lord, from what I’m told. The battle is to take place in the south.”

“Battle?”

“Against the reavers, my lord.”

“Reavers? You mean the Illysp?”

“Aye, my lord. ‘Reavers’ is what most of the common folk are calling them.”

Torin remembered now having heard the term once or twice over the last few days. But he had thought the speakers to be talking of human brigands, not flesh-thieving spirits.

He leaned close. “Marisha—is she here?”

The spiky-haired Pagus shook his head. “She is with Lord Allion, my lord. At last report, they were marching with the Parthan Legion to Kuuria.”

“And the Circle commands Krynwall?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“What of Darinor? Is he—”

He cut short his own question at the sound of slippered feet rasping near, followed a moment later by a new voice.

“Master Pagus?” the voice called.

Torin searched, but saw no place to hide amid the narrow wall racks. Hurriedly, he tried to send Pagus out to answer the call.

But it was too late for that, as the caller had already reached the open doorway.

“Master Pagus, how long must you take to fetch—”

The speaker froze as he caught sight of them, jaw hanging open. Torin, however, felt a flood of relief at seeing his loyal seneschal, Stephan.

“Ceilhigh be praised,” the steward whispered. “My lord, is it really you?”

Torin waved the man forward. When his shock had subsided, Stephan obeyed, charging the pair as if he meant to crush his lord in a feverish embrace. Thankfully, he remembered himself at the last moment, and bowed instead.

“My lord, I cannot say how greatly it pleases me to see you!”

“Enough, my friend. Quiet now. You’ll stir the entire household.”

“But, my lord, why weren’t you announced?”

Torin patted his hands in the air to slow things down. “Because I do not wish to be. Not without knowing how matters stand.” He managed a smile for the sake of his friend, whose features had twisted worriedly. “And you are just the person to tell me.”

“Of course, my lord. I understand fully.”

“Can you secure a more private chamber nearby?”

“Certainly, my lord.”

“What about me?” Pagus asked.

“The chamberlains still need their candles,” Stephan noted.

The boy looked to Torin in protest. “But—”

“Do as he says,” Torin interrupted. “I don’t wish to draw a crowd. The best thing you can do is return to your current tasks.”

The youth frowned.

“I’ll consult further with you later, I promise,” Torin added. “In the meantime, I’ll need you to make excuse for our chief seneschal here, in case anyone is to inquire.”

Pagus continued to scowl, making clear that he would not be so easily pacified. Nevertheless, after glaring at his king a moment longer, he hung his head in defeat and, with his bundles in tow, marched toward the exit.

“And Pagus,” Torin whispered after him, “be sure to tell no one else of my arrival.”

The youth’s head lifted, his eyes narrowing. But he gave a nod, and was gone.

“Is there not enough news to relay within the castle that you have him performing common chores?” Torin asked.

“He is worse now than before you left,” Stephan replied. “Always underfoot, trying to take on some other task.”

“The shadow of someone else I know, then.”

The seneschal stiffened defensively. “My lord, you are well aware—”

“Indeed I am. Come, let us speak of things the other might
not
already know.”

“B
RING HIM IN,”
Z
AIN COMMANDED,
cinching a belt about his breeches.

His lieutenant nodded, opening the door and signaling to those outside. A second soldier appeared, this one escorting the young rat, Pagus.

Zain snapped his fingers. The door was closed, and his lieutenants took up post on either side of the boy, hands on their sword hilts.

“Well, then,” Zain began, crossing his arms over his bare chest, “what have you brought for me, boy?”

The young rat was not looking at him, but staring into the candlelit room beyond, mouth agape. Zain followed that gaze to the pair of wenches lying in his bed.

“Cover yourselves, for mercy’s sake.”

The wenches smiled and made eyes at the boy, but did as the commander bade, pulling the blankets up about them.

“I’ll ask again,” Zain said. “For what purpose have you disturbed my rest this evening?”

Pagus blinked and cleared his throat. “I’ve brought news, Commander.”

“Of course you have. Why else does a rat come calling?” He leaned forward. “What is it?”

The boy shifted nervously. “I’d like my payment
now,
sir.”

Though he tried to bridle his surprise, Zain felt one of his eyebrows lift in response. “What’s that, you say?”

“A gildron, sir.”

One of his lieutenants snickered. Zain silenced the man with a scowl.

“Remember yourself, boy. This is not some hog-poke armorer you’re reporting to now.”

Pagus gulped, but matched his gaze. “I understand, sir. It’s just that…I’ve been cheated before, sir.”

Zain considered the youth a moment longer. “So be it.” He turned to his snickering lieutenant. “Pay the rat.”

The soldier did not protest, reaching at once to loosen the strings of his own purse.

“This had better be good, boy,” Zain warned. “Else I’ll be taking back that coin along with the hand that grips it.”

Pagus gulped again as the coin was given. He examined it briefly before pocketing it. When he looked up, his smile took in his ears. “King Torin has returned, sir.”

“What? When?”

“Just now, sir. In secret. He wishes no one to know.”

Zain frowned. “Does he suspect danger, then?”

“He is wary of
something,
sir. What, I cannot say.”

The commander-in-waiting of Krynwall’s army reached up to trace his thin, jawline beard. “Are you certain about this?”

“Quite certain, sir. I intercepted him as he stole through the palace.”

“And where did you leave him?”

“With Master Stephan, sir.”

Zain controlled himself well enough to hide his smile. He’d had a hunch that taking on Faldron’s palace informant as his own might prove worthwhile. But never had he expected to yield a windfall such as this.

“Fair enough,” he replied finally. “You may keep your gildron—and your hand—for now. But say nothing of this to anyone else.” He uncrossed his arms and bent close. “No one. Do you hear, rat?”

“I understand, sir. Is there to be a coup, sir?”

Zain was already turning to locate his boots, but spun back swiftly. “Another question such as that, and you’ll be found in the sewers where you belong. Now go.”

The boy opened his mouth, then closed it again, and twisted toward the door. Zain nodded, and the lieutenants set him free.