The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (12 page)

K
RAKKEN’S MAW LOOMED BEFORE HIM,
the slack-jawed gape of a titan at rest. Surely, the black cleft was but one of many such rifts in the mountain’s stone skin. But having followed the unmistakable trail of thousands of dragonspawn to its source, there could be little doubt that this was the opening he sought.

As the light of yet another day slipped away over the sharp cliffs that walled this particular valley, Itz lar Thrakkon, the Boundless One, tried to imagine this fissure and others as they had recently been—jagged scars that helped to give vent to the tumultuous forces caged within. But just now, the mountain was quiet, oblivious to those come to gather at its threshold.

Helpless to resist the plundering of its depths.

He continued forward then, Sword in hand to light the way. Those who had accompanied him all the way from the Whistlecrags hesitated only briefly before following. Thrakkon could sense their upturned eyes, their gazes rooted upon the magnificent summit that yet rose thousands of feet above their heads. He could feel their solemn apprehension. For they had come to disturb not a dozing titan but a slumbering god.

Thrakkon, however, would not be cowed. Were he to succeed in this endeavor, he would come one step closer to breaking the shackles fixed upon him by this world’s creators, transcending even their immortal designs. In doing so, he was about to prove himself stronger than they.

To that end, he was relying more on his bodiless brethren than on those whose heavy steps crunched against the piles of obsidian stones beneath their feet. The Illychar would serve as laborers, yes, but it was the Illysp—clinging to his mind and theirs like a swarm of gnats—who faced the greater task: that of bringing to life the creature who would help to ensure that their kind were never again shut out from this world.

As the dank, suffocating chill of the cave closed round, and the winds from outside funneled ahead with a mournful wail, it was difficult not to be reminded of that time. The barren emptiness of that tomb within the earth, trapped between this new world and the one from which they had been loosed. He might have gone back, of course—he and the others who had not yet claimed bodies material to this realm. But even for them, there was naught but a storm-tossed void to return to. Their world had long since been stripped of its own resources, its desolate future already decided. Despite their defeat at the hands of the flesh-wearers, it was
this
world that offered them hope, a chance to begin again.

So he had remained, like so many others, to watch over the centuries of butchery that had taken place amid their Illychar brethren. With no one else upon whom to unleash their hateful frustrations, those with coils had turned against one another in a chaotic bloodbath that was without end. For no sooner did a body fall than it was possessed anew by one of the innumerable Illysp desperate to taste the pleasures of flesh—chiefly, the ability to inflict pain and otherwise exercise physical dominion over others.

But Thrakkon, nameless at the time, had resisted. Though he, too, hungered, he did not wish to waste his only opportunity at physical life on one that would provide only short-term gratification. He and those like him had managed therefore to control their common craving, to satisfy themselves with merely viewing the ceaseless brutality, when they so urgently yearned to participate.

And then, without warning, their imprisonment had ended. It had taken them some time to realize it, and to break off the cannibalistic self-slaughter. Once they had, many had ventured forth recklessly, heedlessly, in search of a freedom they could scarcely remember. But not all. Other, wiser ones—those better able to manage their own hunger—had recognized this for what it was: an opportunity to overcome their mistakes of the past, to make sure that this time their freedom would last forever.

So it was that they had lain in wait for those they knew must come, those who had locked them away to begin with.

Even they, however, had not foreseen the utter folly of the one who had come alone, the one they later learned to be the gatekeeper. Darinor, scion of Algorath—the same Algorath who had helped lead the battle against their kind so long ago—had come to inspect the seal, to see with his own eyes whether it had actually been broken. By the time he had learned the truth, he had delved too deep to escape their ambush. Despite a ferocious struggle, the renegade Entient was killed.

And Kael-Magus was born.

Thrakkon smiled. With Darinor’s fall, they had learned almost everything about how they had previously been defeated, and what they must do to avoid a repeat of that fate. With Kael-Magus to pave the way, they would soon know ultimate victory.

The smile faded. Thrakkon had been covetous, at first, of their new leader. He had been one of the many to attempt to infiltrate and possess Darinor’s fallen shell. All those years of patience and starvation, waiting for the perfect coil to come along, and when it had, he had failed to lay claim.

He might have surrendered then, and settled for another, but had not. Instead, he had remained with Kael-Magus, one of many to do so, waiting once again for the right kill, or for the mystic himself to fall a second time. Only at the very end, when Kael-Magus had been utterly destroyed, had he been forced to abandon that vessel and find a new host to cling to. He had latched onto Torin, lurking helplessly about the man’s mind, whispering inaudible curses and doing what he could to sow seeds of mental despair.

Yet when Torin himself had fallen, the fury and outrage Thrakkon had felt at the loss of Darinor’s coil had become a stream of unalterable focus. If any offered an acceptable substitute, it was the body of he who bore the Crimson Sword, he who had journeyed to Yawacor and met with the Vandari, he upon whom the flesh-wearers believed they depended most. The Illysp spirit Thrakkon had been had not hesitated, but had dug deep, with savage will and insatiable need, fighting off a host of others to lay claim to the slain king.

With one hand still gripping the Sword, Itz lar Thrakkon ran the other through his close-cropped hair.
His
hand.
His
hair. Though hardly the destiny he had envisioned for himself, he had little reason to be dissatisfied with the result.

Of course, he still would have preferred Darinor’s coil to this one. The renegade Entient had borne strength and knowledge the likes of which a pure mortal like Torin could scarcely fathom. Had
he
been able to gain control of those powers and chart their course from the very beginning, how much better off would they be?

But that was the animal in him—always hungry, never sated. In truth, Kael-Magus had done an almost unerring job of plotting their emergence this second time around. Playing the guise of Darinor to near perfection, he had seen to it that almost all of their primary goals were accomplished. His only significant failure had been his inability to finish off Torin and the rest of those at Krynwall once the young king’s mission to Yawacor had been completed. Instead of riding forth from a captured city with the Crimson Sword in hand, he had been exposed as an Illychar, and had paid for his victories with his life.

Which was, perhaps, the best possible outcome. Had the renegade Entient taken hold of the Sword, his rule might have proven unshakable. As matters stood, Kael-Magus had done him the favor of setting everything up and then stepping aside forever—leaving Thrakkon to oversee the ensuing conquest, and saving him the trouble of challenging the renegade Entient later on for supremacy of their kind.

For hours, such reflections consumed him. As the frigid darkness of the scabrous corridor stretched endlessly ahead, Thrakkon continued to contemplate Kael-Magus’s scheme—both its triumphs and shortcomings—and how he might build upon those gains. He considered his past and his future, agonies endured and glories to come. Now that the latter was upon him, the centuries of isolation and banishment seemed worthwhile, for that same span of time had served to weaken this world. The Vandari were gone. The last of the Crimson Swords was in his possession. The men of these shores were weak. What opposition remained?

The question prompted a recollection of Crag, the Tuthari dwarf who had accompanied Torin from Yawacor to seek out his cousins upon these shores. But Thrakkon already knew what the fool would find. The Illysp had gained possession of some Hrothgari dwarves weeks ago, and thus understood the threat posed by a potential massing of Crag’s embittered people.

Itz lar Thrakkon was not concerned.

Yet what else might he be missing? He searched his new mind, grinding away at those hidden memories, jaw clenched against the pain it caused him. Perhaps there was something more in there that Torin knew, some secret discovery that might be brought to bear against them. Much of what the man had kept from him had taken place in Yawacor, after all. Thrakkon could discern that much based on the gaps in what was now
his
memory—like threads missing from a tattered weave. And some of those slender gaps did indeed extend up to and through Torin’s visit to Aefengaard. Given the overall fullness of his recollection, he doubted that Torin’s secrets had anything to do with the Finlorians or their powers. And yet, it would only be prudent of him to make sure.

But try as he might, Thrakkon could come no closer than before to wearing down those prized nuggets. Despite being consumed with a soul-wracking turmoil, Torin wasn’t giving these up just yet.

It was a strange sensation, having another essence locked within him. He did not know if Torin was actually conscious; if so, the man’s current thoughts were closed to him. But he could feel a general presence, a tortured writhing that indicated an awareness on Torin’s part of the fate he had come to, and of events taking place. As eager as Thrakkon was to accomplish his goal here, that deep, silent part of him in which Torin still resided was a gnawing sense of reluctance, horror, dismay—all of which suggested at least a primordial understanding of their purpose in visiting this mountain tomb.

For that was what Mount Krakken had become, really: a monolithic cairn housing the remains of Killangrathor, the last of the most powerful creatures to have ever inhabited this world. The dragon had made the mountain its home millennia ago, when, at the close of the Dragon Wars, it had fled the fury of the Vandari and their Swords of Asahiel. Having no heart to eradicate the mighty species altogether, the Finlorians had allowed the dragon its self-imposed exile. Here the creature had simmered as ages had come and gone, dreaming of the annihilation of the lesser beings that ruled its earth, yet accepting its bitter fate as even its god had accepted His.

In all that time, only the vain and the foolish had taken it upon themselves to pursue Killangrathor’s death. Without fail, each had found his own instead.

But that was before Spithaera had launched her conquest upon these shores. Knowing of the dragon’s ability to harness the latent magic of the mountain itself, she had stoked the embers of Killangrathor’s smoldering hatred and enlisted his aid. Though unable to coax him from his den, she
had
convinced him to give birth to an army capable of laying waste to the world beyond. In doing so, he had made himself the focus of a hunt sanctioned by the Entients—a hunt that had ended ultimately, almost inexplicably, in the dragon’s demise.

To this so-called Demon Queen, Itz lar Thrakkon owed a considerable debt.

Onward he burrowed through the ancient tube, its curtains of darkness cleaved by the Sword’s penetrating glow. His band of Illychar followed dutifully. He could hear the huffing of their breath—a reflex, not a need—and the scuffing of their footfalls upon the jagged stone. Otherwise, they kept silent, doing nothing to interrupt his musings. In that relative stillness, he was well aware of the presence of the others, the Illysp. Their wordless whispers bespoke a feral eagerness, fostering in him an urgent need to hurry. Understandable, given that they had come to contend for perhaps the most magnificent coil of all.

A gamble, yes, on Thrakkon’s part, helping to give birth to a potential rival. But the Boundless One was wagering that as long as he wielded the Sword, he could keep Killangrathor under control. In life, the dragon had both hated and feared the magnificent weapon, having witnessed its fury in the slaughter of its kin. Regardless of the spirit that ruled Killangrathor’s actions, that wariness would remain, and—as long as Thrakkon did not turn his back or show sign of weakness—would hold the creature in check.

Giving him the vessel he required to dominate this world on a global scale.

A wonder, really, that Kael-Magus had not attempted this course upon hearing the tale of Killangrathor’s fall. Too busy with his own schemes, perhaps. Too subtle for his own good. He might have doubted his ability to harness the creature’s fury, or lacked Thrakkon’s ambition of moving beyond these shores. A shame, then, that one of their kind should limit himself with such narrow vision.

Or perhaps he feared simply that it wouldn’t work. As of now, Thrakkon himself could not be certain that it would.

But nothing would stop him from trying.

Flush with anticipation, the lord of the Illysp strode on.

W
HEN AT LAST HIS TREK
ended, it did so abruptly, tunnel walls and ceiling giving way to a gulf of unending darkness.

The heart of Mount Krakken.

The crypt of Killangrathor.

His focus sharpened, and an eagerness overtook him, spreading from within his gut. The Sword’s fires quickened in response. Its crimson light strained against the smothering blackness, a candle in an abyss.

Rather than delve forward into that fathomless void, Itz lar Thrakkon angled to his right, seeking the cavern wall where it met the tunnel that had brought him. He found it after a few steps, rising skyward into infinity. With the fingers of one outstretched arm brushing lightly against its cold, jagged surface, he edged cautiously ahead.

Shattered boulders and bits of rubble littered the uneven floor. As he had heard it, the mountain had nearly caved in upon itself during and immediately after the dragon’s final frenzy. Some chunks were so large that Thrakkon was forced to navigate around them, while other, smaller pieces slid precariously
beneath his feet. Several times, he had to let go of the wall and pick his own path through the darkness, tetherless in the unknown.