The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (66 page)

At the same time, Darinor dropped a crate, then fell to one knee upon the floor beside it.

“Father!” Marisha cried. “Are you all right?”

The Entient put his back to the makeshift blockade, wincing as his daughter tried to search him for wounds. “I told you to leave me be!” he snarled, shoving her away as he had before.

“Father, you must let me have a look!”

“You have no time for that, and no time to be waiting on me. Go.”

“Father—”

“Go! I will safeguard your retreat.”

Torin glanced between the woman and her father, pained by her injured look. “
I
will stay,” he offered instead. When the Entient glared at him, he held his ground. “You are the one who must lead us in this war. No one else has the knowledge to do so. I will stay, and fight as long as I must to give you the chance to get away.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Allion chimed in at once. “The Sword cannot stay here, and without it, you may as well be weaponless.
I’ll
stay.”

“Give me your bow, then,” Torin said as the hunter began to slip it off his shoulder. “Take the Sword and carry on.”

But Allion shook his head. “If you think I’m leaving you to—”

“Silence!” Darinor roared, though it caused him to flinch and bend over his side. “My daughter is not staying here to die. If each of you insists on being the fool hero,
I
will take her and the Sword and leave you both behind.”

The Entient turned to Marisha, who crossed her arms in refusal.

“Then again, I know not how long I can continue,” said Darinor, his face and his tone softening, “and I would not risk leaving her alone. Moreover, neither of us knows the route through these tunnels. At least one of you must agree to guide her. The other can abandon her and risk death here alongside me, if he likes.”

Torin looked to Allion. Together, they shifted their gazes to Marisha.

“No,” she said. A crash resounded from back in the dungeons as an iron door was slammed wide. “No!”

Again she tried to go to the Entient, and again he fended her off with one hand while clutching his hidden wound with the other. This time, Torin and Allion both helped to restrain her.

“You must,” Darinor said, “or you condemn us all—not just the four of us, but the rest of your kind throughout the land, maybe even the world entire.”

“I don’t care,” Marisha replied, and began to sob. “I don’t care!”

Torin felt the woman shudder, and was taken aback by the intensity of her passion. Never had he seen her like this—not even when he and Kylac had whisked her away from the slave pits of Kraagen Keep, leaving hundreds of others to their suffering. At that time, the young assassin had been able to appeal to her sense of greater good. It seemed they would not be able to do so here.

“I won’t leave you, Father! I won’t!”

And then it struck him. This wasn’t the Marisha he knew. This was Marisha at six years of age, on the verge of losing the most important man in her life—again. Only, this time might be forever, and she wasn’t prepared to let that happen.

“You will, my daughter, as I left you. For a time only. Because you must.” The man reached out with one hand to take hold of hers. “’Tis the natural order of things, for parent and child to say good-bye. We who are descended of the Ha’Rasha are no exception.”

Marisha wept, gripping his hand and kissing it and washing it with her tears. She knew it had to be this way, Torin realized, else she would not have been so distraught.

“That it should happen now,” Darinor added softly, “so soon after being given this second chance, pains me more than you know. But you have a legacy to carry on, and if I go to my grave this night, I do so knowing that it is a greater legacy by far for having you as its bearer.”

“Father…”

“Go now,” he pressed, and his tone hardened. “Do not dishonor your mother by lending greater weight to my passing than to hers. You bid
her
farewell. You must do so now to me.”

He looked purposefully to Torin, then to Allion, and withdrew his hand. Marisha shook her head and tried to follow, but they held her by the arms, allowing Darinor to pull free.

“I love you, Father,” she cried, sagging in their hands. “I love you.”

The Entient turned his eye to Allion. “When you get clear, do not stop, but hurry south to Kuuria. If I can, I will meet you there. Otherwise, follow the plan we have set forth.”

Allion nodded dumbly. The clamor of pursuit had reached the hall outside. Torin barely had time to meet the mystic’s gaze one last time before their assault on the storeroom door began.

“Away!” Darinor snapped, rising boldly to his feet and putting his back to them.

“Father,” Marisha whimpered. When Torin and Allion began dragging her toward the tunnel entrance, she wailed, “Father!”

Torin worried that they might have to render her unconscious in order to get her through the crawl space, to say nothing of hauling her through the secret maze of passes and trapdoors. But then Allion shook her arm, still holding their torch in his other, and forced her gaze to meet his.

“We’ll see him again,” the hunter assured her. “We’ll see him again soon. Come now.”

Torin couldn’t tell what it was that finally persuaded her, but Marisha composed herself and nodded. Choking back tears, she shrugged free of their grasp and ducked through the opening before them. Allion followed, and, with a lingering glance back at Darinor and the pile of stores meant to barricade the door, Torin slipped through on the hunter’s heels.

He shut the panel behind them, muffling the sounds of their enemies’ assault, and leaving the renegade Entient to his fate.

He turned forward then, to find his friends. For their own fate lay somewhere in the darkness ahead.

T
ORIN HAD LEARNED AS A CHILD TO DISLIKE TIGHT SPACES.
Once, when playing at moles and vipers, he had hidden in a burrow that had partially collapsed, leaving him trapped for hours until his friends had found him and been able to dig him free. Since then, he’d been prone to the occasional nightmare in which he was being buried alive or else forced to squeeze and writhe through a dark and twisted landscape while some vile creature—be it man or beast—hunted him from behind.

It felt like that now, and deep within, some voice kept urging him to stop struggling and simply wake up. But this was no dream, and the only way to escape would be to keep moving.

Yet the going was slow. The route they followed was not some singular access tunnel, but a patchwork string of chambers and passages—some used, others abandoned—stitched together by various false walls and secret openings. Part of a web, it was said, laid among the lower levels of the city. None knew its true origins, nor how widespread the entire network might be. There were maps to certain segments, but due to its secretive nature, most were left uncharted or incomplete. Most likely, it had come into being gradually, built in bits and pieces by smugglers and fugitives. From what Stephan had told him, this particular course had not been designed so much as discovered, one link at a time. At some point in history, when one of Torin’s ancestors had decided he needed a bolt-hole from the city, he had evidently opted to save time and effort by simply tapping into what was already here.

A decision that might cost his progeny dear, Torin thought, choking on the dust-filled air beneath the floorboards of what was rumored to be a deserted charnel house. Time was slipping away from them. When they should have been running, they were instead forced to duck and crawl and search for hidden levers. Then again, for all he knew, their enemy was already outside, waiting for them to emerge—making this entire retreat a wasted endeavor.

But it did him no good to think like that. Better to take heart in the progress they had made. The most suffocating stretch was that which they navigated right now, and already, Allion was near the far end, triggering the panel that would allow them to spill free. From there, if Torin recalled correctly, it was in and out through a pair of false crates hidden in a cluttered cellar, and
back into tunnels in which they could at least stand. They would be moving faster then, hoping that faster would be enough.

He watched his friends carefully—especially Marisha. She seemed to be holding up well. Every now and then, she would freeze momentarily at an unknown sound. No doubt, she continued to pray that her father might change his mind and manage somehow to catch up to them. The likelihood seemed unquestionably remote. But for her sake, if none other, Torin hoped she was right.

His memory proved true concerning the cellar and the tunnel beyond, though he’d forgotten there was yet another storeroom to duck into by way of secret opening before they could access the next set of corridors required. Fortunately, Allion remembered the path better than he. The city’s former Fason led them without hesitation, moving urgently from marker to marker. Marisha followed close, clutching Allion’s arm at times. Torin, wary of enemies, kept guard at their backs, eyes sweeping from side to side in the crimson glow of the Sword.

They exited the final storeroom through its main door, which placed them in a hall belonging to a metal foundry. Once again, they discovered all to be dark and quiet.

If only that meant they were safe.

Allion cut left, leading them to a metal door embedded in the rock wall. As he hauled open the heavy portal, a wash of heat swept inward, so intense that the air shimmered. With noses rankled by a sulfurous stench, they pressed through.

Despite the fiendish conditions, Torin felt a measure of relief. They had reached the smelter, the last major checkpoint of their journey. From here, they had but a few mine tunnels to run down, a cave to crawl through, and an air shaft to climb. A short jaunt through a private tract of woodland would bring them to a horse ranch whose possessor had long ago been friends with his royal grandfather, King Sirrus—and later with Torin’s mother, Ellebe.

They were almost clear.

And yet, rather than hastening forward, Allion stopped suddenly to look around, clearly troubled.

“What is it?” Torin asked.

Already, however, he could see for himself. Blast furnaces scraped the cavern ceiling, belching smoke and gases through natural chimneys, doors wide to reveal the flames inside. Tools lay scattered—tongs cast aside, shovels left lying atop mounds of crushed ore and limestone. Molten slag flowed through troughs and piping, slowly filling a giant vat to Torin’s left. The smelter was alive, yet there was not a single worker to tend it.

Allion turned to Torin with a telling look. Wherever these workers had fled, they had done so in a hurry.

“Suppose our tunnel is clear?” Torin asked, considering the several passages open before them. Though any number would carry them from the smelter, only one would do so beyond the city walls.

“We won’t know until we try it.”

“Then why are we lingering?” Marisha snapped. “Father might already be waiting.”

Torin looked again to Allion, who slipped free of his bow. Handing Marisha their torch, he nocked an arrow to the string.

“I’ll go first,” Torin said.

They maintained their course, following a railway used to transport ore and other minerals in heavy carts. Torin set pace at a cautious jog, sweat pooling upon his brow, skin itching as invisible claws raked his neck.

The tunnel quickly swallowed the fiery glow of the smelter, leaving the aura of the Sword to stave off the darkness rushing headlong to meet them. But as they turned a bend, they were startled to find new light in the form of a lantern, gripped casually by a young soldier who carried an old scar upon his cheek.

“Evhan!” Allion exclaimed.

Torin drew up short, and placed a restraining hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Making our escape, are we?” Evhan asked, leaning against the cavern wall.

Torin held position at the front of their group, hackles raised in alarm. “What are you doing here, Captain?”

“Waiting for Your Majesty, of course. You promised to spar with us again, did you not?”

Allion tensed. “Evhan—”

“Now is hardly the time,” Torin cut in, still gripping his friend’s shoulder.

The Fason laughed. “Now may be the only chance we get.”

There was a hint of movement from behind the young captain. Faces emerged from the shadows—haunting masks of shriveled skin and angled features. Faces that should have been dead.

But weren’t.

“You’ve made us wait for quite some time,” Evhan noted. “We were beginning to wonder if you meant to keep your promise.”

“My promise was to a young man who is no longer with us,” Torin replied, his gaze darting from face to face. They were elves, Finlorians, and seeing them immediately brought to mind his slow retreat from the valley of Aefengaard—moments he would have rather forgotten.

“Oh, he is with us,” the Illychar purred. “I can feel him stirring. My guess is, he wants this as badly as I do.”

“Then you are both fools,” Torin replied, placing two hands upon the Sword as Allion fell back beside him. “His partners are gone, and this is no practice weapon I wield.”

“He has acquired new partners, as you can see. Or do you think you can defeat us all?”

Torin wasn’t sure. Not without knowing how many he faced. There were fewer than had accompanied Bull; that much he could sense. Of course, these were elves, who he knew from experience were swifter than humans—though perhaps weaker than…

The thought trailed off as the almost soundless movements of the elven
Illychar gave way to a deep huffing and the shuffle of lumbering footfalls. It resumed as a giant, lumpish head hove into view.

…An ogre.

The beast muscled past the puny Finlorians, stopping only when Evhan raised his hand. Its skin was as tough and wrinkled as a walnut, with knotted strands of black hair hanging about in seemingly random patches. It gave a snort at being restrained, blowing mucus from its bulbous, growth-encrusted snout. When rearing back, its head nearly scraped the ceiling, at more than twice the height of the average man.

He had not yet finished taking in the sheer bulk of the brute when a second shoved in beside the first, tipping a mine cart as though it were a wooden cup and fully blocking the way forward. Its vacant eyes fixed upon the talisman clutched in Torin’s hands.

“The Sword will be ours,” Evhan assured him, “one way or another. I can make it much less painful should you agree to simply hand it over.”

“I’d sooner give it to one of them,” Torin remarked, with a second glance at the ogres.

The Fason’s eyes narrowed. He knew, Torin thought, that the surest way to survive this conflict—and to make certain
he
was the one to lay claim to the blade—was to resolve it without a fight.

“What if I were to guarantee your companions’ freedom?” the villain offered.

It was the king’s turn to snort—with mirthless laughter. “You would let them go?”

“In exchange for the Sword, yes.”

Torin’s thoughts raced. “Allow me to see them safely away, and I might consider it.”

A quick motion from behind and to the side caused the pack before him to tense. Even without their reaction, Torin had felt that motion enough times to know exactly what it signaled.

“That’s not going to happen,” Allion declared, bow flexing.

Evhan turned to him with a cold smirk. “Loyalty, I suppose.”

“I wouldn’t expect your kind to understand,” came the hunter’s retort.

The Illychar’s smirk broadened. “Perhaps you can explain it to us. Perhaps, while you do so, you’d care to share with your friend the secret you’re hiding from him.”

Allion scoffed. “Secret?”

“Is there more than one? Or perhaps you feel it is the lady’s place to tell him.”

Torin frowned, but kept his gaze upon his enemies. “What are you talking about?”

“
They
know what I speak of,” Evhan hissed. “And unless they are blind, they will recognize this as an opportunity to take what they truly want—while at the same time protecting their friend from the harmful truth.”

The ensuing silence fast grew uncomfortable.

“I’ve a better offer,” Torin countered. “Make way, and you’ll keep for now these mortal coils. Else you’ll soon be yielding them to new hosts.”

One of the ogres groaned restlessly, while the elves around it shifted with anticipation. Evhan held wide his lantern to rein them in. When next he spoke, his smirk had slipped.

“You cannot escape,” he said. “Even now, a host of my kind lay siege to your walls. With but the pitiful few left here to guard your gates, they will soon be overrun. The greatest mercy would be to end this quickly.”

“Done,” Allion agreed.

His arrow ripped through the air, and Evhan, though he tried to dodge, caught it through the throat. His lantern crashed to the floor, and the tide of Illychar was unleashed.

“Run!” Marisha screamed.

Neither man had to ask where, or check to see if the other would follow. They spun together and bolted after her, back toward the smelter. Better that than trying to force their way past this knot of enemies—hoping there weren’t more waiting behind. At least in the cavern, they would be able to see what they were up against.

The elves were the first to catch up to them. With the Sword in hand, Torin sensed where they were, though he hadn’t turned to look. Thinking him unaware, they lunged at his back. Down swept the Sword, severing a leg. Torin then stopped and spun, slicing overhead to catch one that had scampered up and off the wall. As its blackened torso fell away, he pressed up close to the rock, making himself thin enough to escape the sweep of another’s blade. The elf hissed in fury, but by the time it came back around, it was missing its sword arm.

Its head rolled after.

The others gave Torin a bit of room at that point, and he took it, sprinting out through the mouth of the tunnel. By then, the first of the ogres was nearly atop him, swatting aside one hesitant elf and grinding another between its foot and the iron rails upon the floor. It thundered on, moving not so much like a limbed creature as a rolling pile of boulders, great lumps of armored muscle looking for something to crush.

Torin veered suddenly as a fist came down—so hard that the ground cracked and rolled beneath his feet. He lost his balance and had to stoop to recover, losing precious seconds. Then came a familiar twang, followed by a sound like snapping twigs, as Allion’s arrows ricocheted off the beast’s bonelike skin. Still, it drew the ogre’s attention, giving Torin the opening he needed.

He pivoted in reverse, coming back around the creature’s flank. By the time the dimwitted brute had located the pesky archer, Torin had severed the tendon of one of its ankles and opened a gash in the back of its knee, eliciting a howl that seemed to shake the cavern walls.

He could do no further damage, however, for the elves were on him once more, springing out from around the massive ogre like fleas. They greeted him with withered faces and rictus grins, blades flashing with such speed and
precision that he could barely track their movements. Fortunately, he didn’t have to. Given the Sword, he knew instinctively which thrusts were feints and which posed real harm. Ignoring the former, he concentrated on the latter, chopping weapons and their wielders into pieces without a single wasted motion.

A good thing, since the elves didn’t need to kill him, only pin him in place long enough for one of the ogres to finish the job. Too late, he felt the searing heat from one of the giant blast furnaces at his back. And while the first ogre was limping in place upon its wounded leg, the second was even now roaring in, the elves at its flanks.

Torin held his ground, backed up as close to the furnace as he could stand. At the last moment, he dove forward, slipping just inside the creature’s lumbering reach. His momentum carried him directly between the ogre’s legs, where he slid forward on his back, tearing at the skin beneath his jerkin.