The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (15 page)

He shook aside the helpless notion, then fell back again into his chair.

“And that is the simple part. Assume for a moment that we could in fact keep pace and burn our dead into dust. How are we to prevent an invisible assailant from entering our walls? How do we know these Illysp are even substantial enough to be kept out by walls? We know nothing, Nevik. We suspect much, we can guess more, but the truth is, we know only that which Darinor imparted to us. Much of this is true, I don’t doubt, but how much is false? And how do we distinguish one from the other?”

Nevik continued to hold his tongue. He understood now what was truly eating at the king. The lack of knowledge. The uncertainty of when, where, and in what form his enemy would strike. Worse, the baron could do little but agree. They had been crippled from the outset by the mix of truth and untruth with which Darinor had left them to grapple. Their only hope—again, according to their enemy—had been those whom Torin had been sent to find. But Torin had returned empty-handed and was now dead, leaving them naught but unanswerable questions.

The silence between them lengthened. As much as Nevik wished to lend the king strength, he first had to rediscover his own.

“This burial is not our way,” Thelin remarked absently.

Nevik looked up, but the king did not meet his gaze. What was he suggesting? Seemingly, that this defensive posture, in the long run, afforded them nothing. But what options might they have?

Before the baron could probe the other’s thoughts, Thelin raised a question of his own.

“Your people. Have they been well received?”

“They have, Your Majesty. Ghellenay will see to it that they cause no stir.”

“Ah yes, the
baroness
of Palladur. I understand the two of you have grown close.”

Nevik flushed at his slip of familiarity. It still seemed strange to him at times, knowing her to be the cousin of his father’s mortal enemy. And yet, working alongside her these past few months had been nothing less than a boon to his shattered spirit.

“We have done what we can, Your Majesty, to put the enmity of our forebears behind us.”

Thelin nodded, a hint of a gleam in his lightless eyes. “Good it is to see onetime rivals joined in common pursuit. It gives me hope.”

Nevik nearly scoffed, for he saw little enough of hope in the king’s glum visage. “And the queen?” he prompted instead. “How fares she?”

Thelin’s head turned, his gaze focusing as if to spy her through whatever walls lay between them. “I find it truly amazing, how easily she finds peace in these times.”

“She has great faith in her lord and husband, I’m sure.”

Rather than brighten at the notion, Thelin frowned, shriveling further beneath the crush of some unseen pressure.

“I should let you to your sleep, Your Majesty,” Nevik offered hastily, worried now that his visit had done more harm than good—to both of them.

“It is not you that prevents it, I assure you. But do go to your people. Be sure to let me know if any of their needs are not met.”

“We shall do our best to aid Your Majesty, rather than burden him.”

The king nodded absently, then turned his gaze to the open window as a coarse wind blew through. A candle upon a nearby table guttered and went out. Thelin made no move to relight it.

Nevik studied the man a moment longer, then bowed again and made his way from the room.

Leaving Thelin, king of Souaris, to brood silently in the moonlit darkness of his chambers.

C
ORATHEL FELT HIS STOMACH LURCH
as he tumbled from his mount, followed by a bone-jarring crunch as he hit the earth. For a moment, the world became faint, and he sensed it turning around him. A thunder rocked his ringing ears. The cries of men. The hammering of hooves.

The storm of battle.

He found his sword, then pushed himself to his feet, making himself as thin as possible as armored horses continued to roar past. A wonder that he hadn’t already been trampled. Better to suffer
that
risk, however, than to have taken that javelin in the chest.

Behind the passing cavalry came a charge of foot soldiers, howling now as they broke into a run. Realizing that they were to have been at his back, Corathel turned. A horde of elves was racing toward him, having sifted through the lines of his mounted vanguard. He and a host of others injured or unhorsed in the initial crush were caught now in a no-man’s-land between the two forces about to collide, rising amid the dead like wind-stirred blades of trampled grass.

Though dazed and battered, he managed to raise his sword as another spear came flying, deflecting its shaft so that the tip only grazed his bronze shoulder plate. An elf then lunged at him from the side. The general stumbled, but put his sword in the creature’s stomach while blocking its strike with a swipe of his armored forearm. He need scarcely have bothered. The elf carried no weapon; its hand had been severed, and its legs were badly broken. Though it thrashed and hissed, it was as good as dead.

Still, he had to kick the sputtering thing away in order to free his blade for the next opponent. By then, his soldiers were pouring past him in droves, sweeping across the battlefield with lethal intent and seasoned proficiency. It appeared their maneuvers this day had worked. Thanks to a diversionary strike from the west, and the use of a canyon trail snaking up from the south, they had gained the plateau with three full companies—one mounted, two afoot. More than half a battalion in all, and plenty, he believed, to attain their next objective.

He glanced about for his horse. When he did not see it, he ran forward to join the assault. Elves dodged and skittered, their lithe forms swift and graceful. Yet they lacked the armor of their Parthan counterparts, and were, for the moment, badly outnumbered. Slipping one blow only put them in line for another. With chain and plate and iron shields to repel the elves’ light
weight weapons, Corathel’s troops happily traded the nicks and cuts from spear, arrow, and dagger for the crushing, cleaving impact of sword, hammer, and mace.

Their advantage would not last long. Sooner or later, the enemy would get itself turned around to confront the surprise threat. For days now, the legion had attacked Atharvan’s foothills in this manner, with a series of feints and runs, draws and flanking maneuvers. No matter the strategy or the angle of attack, they had yet to make a serious gash that had not quickly been filled.

But this was a first—catching the enemy off guard on such a large scale—which gave the chief general hope. On this, the fourth day of fighting, his men were in serious need of a major victory. Battle had all but ground to a stalemate. With one after another of their assaults repelled, the bulk of the legion had settled a stationary defensive line along the western front. They had been forced to in order to allow troops to rest and regroup. What he and his lieutenant generals had hoped would be a swift and decisive offensive against a smaller enemy force had become anything but. As it now stood, those superior numbers—and weaponry—were all that was keeping them alive, negated by an enemy that neither needed nor offered any reprieve.

“Goblin!”

The warning shouts came only a moment before the creature came ripping through the lines before him. Corathel’s muscles clenched, eyes wide with both horror and fascination. Of all the savage forms taken by the Illychar, goblins were perhaps the worst: nothing but a whirlwind of tooth and claw and crushing strength. Their leathery hides did not bleed easily—and that was assuming you could pin one in place long enough to get a clean strike. If you took the time to aim your attack, you were already too late.

So he barreled in as the others did, hacking heedlessly at what seemed to be a vortex of whipping tendrils, then racing past. His blade tore through some part of the beast, so he must have caught it looking elsewhere. Only blind luck determined whether you took a piece of a goblin, or it took a piece of you. He certainly hadn’t killed the thing, but hoped he had at least helped to slow it down so that those coming behind him could.

Either way, he did not stop to check. The primary goal was to continue driving forward until his force encountered one led by General Jasyn from the west. Clear the plateau,
then
sweep up the dregs. If successful, they would have secured a critical stretch of high ground from which to carry forth their continued assault.

Most of his men needed no reminder of this, killing as many as they could while surging onward, trusting those who followed to keep the survivors off their backs. He did spot one team fighting to bring down an ogre, but its members were quick enough to abandon the brute when he ordered them on. As the largest and strongest of the enemy, ogres were difficult to fell and sought after by many as trophy kills—a sport for which there was no time. Or perhaps his men simply feared leaving one of these rampaging monstrosities to attack them from behind. Slow as the beasts moved, Corathel himself
would have much rather had an ogre huffing down his neck than a goblin—or even an elf. Regardless, the only true issue, in those terrible moments, was to prevent his forces from stalling.

He maintained such focus instinctively, even in the midst of battle. He’d been at this enough times that his tactician’s mind never seemed to rest. Or maybe that was the problem. He’d gone without sleep for three consecutive shifts now, fighting longer than he should have and drawing up plans instead—even while lying in his cot. His thoughts seemed a permanent part of the maelstrom by which the legion had been engulfed, and raged now with single-minded purpose.

A semblance of a guard ring had formed loosely around him, comprised of men rallied by his commands. He hadn’t summoned their protection, but they granted it instinctively, shielding him from the worst of the bloody chaos. Bodies continued to hurtle past or else fall to either side. Their screams cut the midday sky.

Another goblin tore across the field to his left, while a third carved a swath to his right. The press ahead thickened with the growing reaver response, and, with fatigue setting in, the Parthan charge began to slow.

They battled on, each man forging his path one kill at a time. From farther back came the crackling roar of blazes being lit, accompanied by the shrieks of fury and indignation of those enemies who watched coils being destroyed. It also marked a sign of progress, for Corathel had ordered that the fire teams hold back until the forward rush had crossed the westerly line of Fahren Cleft. He had not wanted to draw the enemy’s full attention too soon, nor set ablaze the ground of their only escape. As of this moment, they had passed the point of no retreat.

With renewed strength and ferocity, he and his men bore down against the foes in front of them. Corathel had lost count of the number he had killed, and though his lungs and shoulders burned, he held his sword high, ready for the next.

The cavalry was just ahead now, wheeling and grinding amid choking clouds of dust. Corathel’s heart leapt in recognition of their finishing maneuvers. The battle was nearly won.

The notion fueled his spirits, even as he stepped over and around the bodies of the fallen—more of which were Parthan than had been in the beginning. The movements of those around him—and indeed his own—had grown increasingly leaden. Attacks were weaker, defenses slower. More and more, men had to pause to catch their breath, awaiting the next confrontation rather than seeking it out. Their mortal bodies had only so much to give.

But they could not relent now, not with victory at hand. So Corathel continued to bellow amid the tumult, barking commands and shouting encouragement. Those nearest him relayed his words and his growls outward, until the field resonated his sense of conviction. Slowly, sluggishly, their lines drove on.

At almost the same time, however, he began to detect cries of dismay echo
ing back from the front lines. As they grew in strength, he knew something wasn’t right. He tried to see what was happening ahead of him, but saw little more than a thrashing wall of knotted limbs and weapons, screened through by curtains of dust.

The northern edge of the plateau loomed before him, walled off by a mountain bluff that served as its spine. The reavers had been decimated and were fighting a helpless struggle now in scattered pockets. They had nowhere to flee.

The cavalry, he then noticed, was doing its best to form a line to the west. Corathel angled in that direction. Jasyn’s force had arrived! Their plan had succeeded.

So why the defensive posturing?

And then he realized.

These were not Jasyn’s men.

They closed upon the cavalry line with a sickening crunch, Parthan weapons hacking with abandon at horse and rider alike. Corathel had known it would happen eventually. Though he had done everything he could to prevent it, the reavers had, by this fourth day, hoarded away a fair collection of the Parthan dead.

The time had come to battle his own.

Instead of celebrating a hard-fought and much-needed triumph, Corathel felt the worst sickness he had ever known take hold. He had seen his slain rise again on the plains to the south, in the forests of the Kalmira, and in the jungles of Vosges. It had been a sorrowful experience, akin to watching a friend go mad or losing a dog to the foaming disease. But on a scale such as this—in which it was not just a matter of putting down one or two unfortunate souls, but concentrating a full-scale assault against hundreds who had once been like sons to him—the truth seemed more than his heart could bear.

He carried on anyway, burying such feelings as soldiers did, in order to fulfill his duty. Brothers that they were, he would not see them enslaved. It became the new rallying cry sent forth among his troops: Bring them down. Set them free.

But words alone did not restore broken confidence, or heal a man’s shattered faith. His troops had been prepped for this eventuality, and were responding as expected, but they, like he, lacked the passion and assurance with which they had cut down the nonhuman creatures for which the reavers were known. No matter how they chose to view it, this was something quite different. Given their already ragged state, the chief general could no longer be certain they would overcome.

And yet, they had little choice. The wall of fire set at their backs by those charged with destroying their trail of carnage would not be easily breached. Their best option was to press forward, trusting that Jasyn’s force was still en route, and that it could seal off the swarm of Illychar that doubtless would be surging right behind. That it had yet to arrive—given its earlier start and a shorter distance to cover—was a foreboding sign.

“Sergeant!” he shouted breathlessly, pleased to find the commander of his cavalry company amid the throng.

The soldier did not hear him at first, too busy directing matters of his own. Within moments, however, Corathel’s troops had successfully established a western phalanx that would allow the cavalry to disengage from the new threat—as the general intended of them. With the help of his ever-growing command ring, he finally managed to secure a hasty conference with the cavalry’s leader within a pocket of relative stillness.

“Sir! We feared you fallen.”

Corathel did not waste time recounting his fate, but issued hurried orders for the valor sergeant to begin the reverse sweep against those who by now were forming up at their backs.

“And Sergeant, send word to the fire teams. I want spot blazes only. No more oil lines. It may be our own necks we’re roasting.”

The company commander nodded. “Will you not have my horse, sir? I can remain here with the front lines.”

The general shook his head. “I mean to make sure we hold until Jasyn arrives. Go.”

The conference ended. As the valor sergeant wheeled his lathered mount to the south, Corathel and his protective flock rejoined the western fray.

Already, the lines were splintering, as weary and heartsick soldiers fell beneath the unnatural strength and rage of their former comrades. Corathel recognized the danger in letting that happen. For once the two armies mingled, there would be almost no telling friend from foe. Every raised blade would become a potential threat. Hesitate and be slain, or strike indiscriminately and kill the living along with those undead.

Exactly the type of chaos on which the Illychar would continue to breed.

His voice rang out, ordering the desired formations, making certain they held together. As long as the reavers continued to lunge at them as ravening individuals, accidental deaths could be kept to a minimum. Should his men break apart, or the enemy begin to mirror their movements…

To his horror, some of the reavers chose that very course, mimicking his strategy, demonstrating the same understanding of warfare that their stolen vessels had shown in life. Low-level commanders shouted orders, and the others seemed willing enough to follow them. Their organization was spontaneous and rudimentary. But the mere fact that they remained capable of—and willing to execute—a common strategy did not bode well.

With dwindling hopes and no rest in sight, Corathel and his troops dug in.

A
LLION LOWERED HIS BOW AS
Corporal Janus did the same. The others in their squad swiftly followed suit.

“What do we do now?” the hunter asked.

The squad commander only shook his head.

“Is there a problem?” Marisha demanded.

Allion glanced back at her. She and half a dozen others had formed a team of frontline healers, tending hastily to the most grievous of wounds suffered by those being dragged from the battlefield, then sending them on for full and proper treatment. In order to remain near her side, Allion had joined the squad assigned as protection, allowing the physicians and nurses to do their work with less risk of falling victim themselves, so near the fighting.