The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (24 page)

With a wrench of his sword arm, Corathel’s blade came free and the dead man crumpled atop his pole-axe. The general felt only a passing guilt. It was either kill or be slaughtered upon the tip of that weapon like one of the rancher’s cattle.

His greater feeling—as he parried the lunge of another’s spear—was fury. At the Illysp, who would imprison men so. At whatever fell gods had granted them this power. At Torin, for unleashing them upon his world. If he could, he would banish them all back to the Abyss, in exchange for the souls of those innocents already taken.

He wheeled and spun, then leaned forward as his mount reared, flailing its hooves at a pack of enemies drawn near. For a moment, he feared he had plunged too deep, that he would be cut off from the rest of his unit. The mere thought brought an ache to his chest.

But then Owl and his Mookla’ayans were there, half-moon knives slashing. Poisoned darts filled the air, and the forward waves slowed and staggered. Corathel seized his opening, jerking his steed’s head back to the east.

Not all were so fortunate. To either side, he listened to the screams as his men were torn from their mounts, and horse and rider both were buried under by a relentless pursuit. With each foray, he seemed to lose a few more. But the reavers were still streaming eastward from around the city walls. Until he had lured them all out and strung them across the open plain, he dared not make his own break to the south.

The next squad of cavalry was barreling toward him.
His
squad, Corathel realized, the head of their company, gathering speed for what would be its third charge. Corathel should have been among them, wheeling and striking alongside. But with each circling pass, he had lingered longer and longer, to fight among the succeeding squads, which rushed in and out in staggered waves. Somehow, he had slipped all the way from the head of his force to its tail. Were it not for the Mookla’ayan guard, this most recent pass would have been his last.

Even so, he considered rejoining the forward ranks as they went thundering past, into the teeth of the trailing storm. But he could feel his horse flagging beneath him, driven as much by its own fear and desperation as its rider’s commands. However brief, they both needed respite.

They slowed to a canter as the crunch of bodies and clangor of arms signaled the next raking collision between Parthan and Illychar. Corathel turned back to gauge the number unhorsed. One in four, it seemed. Too many. In the
beginning, they had managed to strafe the enemy front with nary a casualty. But his men and their mounts had wearied, and the enemy had grown wise to their tactics. Though the reavers continued to string themselves along in reckless pursuit, they were wise enough now to form up when the waves of cavalry made their charge, raising pikes and spears and pitchforks in defense, then striking out when the beasts presented flank or tail.

Too soon
, the chief general despaired. He had not given the legion enough time. Not enough by half.

The next squad roared past, shouting a salute to their general as they raced to relieve those ahead of them. Corathel responded with raised sword and a raucous cry, flanked by a small handful of riders and his Mookla’ayan guard, loping alongside.
Their
numbers were dwindling, too, he realized, though he had never been certain of their original count. Threescore, perhaps, trimmed now to two. Lose many more, and he might lose them all.

Another wave went past, and another, each seeming smaller than the last. As he came upon the knoll on which the resting waves perched, he saw in their valiant faces that they were ready for his command—to charge again, to die, if necessary, on his order. Corathel steeled himself, determined to not be swayed, one way or the other, by their faith and dedication.

In looking back at the city, southwest of their current position, he saw that the rear ranks of the Illychar were even now pulling away from her eastern gate and leaving her walls behind. One more cycle, he thought, should be sufficient. One more, and their work would be done.

But when he turned to give the command, it stuck in his throat. One more charge was all they had left. There would be no more cycles of strike and withdraw. Few would be able to rally again at a point such as this—and even if they could, each retreat forced them farther and farther from the city. If any returned to claim a new staging ground, it would likely become their last.

To lead men to their deaths was cruelty enough. But this would be another sort of condemnation altogether.

“Upon next strike, make for the Wormroad,” he ordered Jenarin, the next squad commander in line. “Do not look back until the teeth of the south gate are behind you.”

“Sir,” Jenarin acknowledged with a salute, then asked, “Have we given them enough time, sir?”

“You men have done your part. Time now for our comrades to do theirs.”

A moment later, the appointed timekeeper reached his tally, signaling the departure mark. Jenarin saluted his chief general once more, and called to his men.

“Final run, lads. Make it count.”

They set off at a canter down the rise, leaving Corathel to wonder which, if any of them, he would see again.

He wondered the same when the next squad followed them, and the next
after that. All too soon, the man given to mark time for his own squad—the one he had most recently attached himself to—gave his signal.

“Barak will lead you,” he ordered. “I’ll wait here for the last.”

The men did not question, but started off in pursuit of the appointed veteran—a valor sergeant once, though it seemed his entire company had been scattered or killed during the massacre at Atharvan. A capable man nonetheless.

One by one, the squads not yet ordered to make for the gate returned. And one by one, Corathel turned them on ahead, to follow after the others. Twice he had to move himself and his Mookla’ayan guard to a farther knoll, to maintain distance from the ever-lengthening reaver swarm. All the while, he kept his eye upon Jenarin and those sent after, who veered south as though in full retreat, before cutting sharply west along the Wormroad. Reavers farther back, along the southern fringe, began seeping in that direction, as if realizing the riders’ intent and moving to cut them off. But the vast majority continued to push north and east, toward the chief general’s position and the headwaters of the cavalry’s flow.

When the last squad to turn back toward his position disengaged from the Illychar front, Corathel raced down to meet them. Of the ten men originally assigned to that unit, only three remained. It might have been better for them had they tucked in and joined the squad before them, or simply bolted. Instead, they were returning along the rally course, buying time for those ahead of them to get away.

They redirected quickly enough when he came upon them, waving his sword in a circle overhead before pointing it to the south. He doubted they could hear his shouts, but they recognized his signal, and fell in readily beside him.

The chief general had barely regained his wind. He could only imagine the others’ exhaustion. His horse strained, its eyes wide. With the bulk of the cavalry racing westward, and the majority of reavers redirecting in pursuit, he wasn’t sure he and the riders bestride him had the speed to turn the corner and gain the Wormroad before their enemies sealed it off.

He cut a tighter angle, nearly spilling from his mount as a spear hurtled past his head. The forward Illychar were too close. At their present trajectory, those racing east would intercept him long before he had to worry about those farther back who were sweeping south.

Once again, Owl’s bloody savages saved him. Though they lacked the speed to match his horse at a gallop, they had followed him south just a short distance before turning west into the very heart of the horde. He wanted to scream at them to clear away, to warn them that no more squads would be coming to relieve them.

He chose instead to save his breath.

The Mookla’ayan diversion bought him seconds only, but they were the seconds he needed. Veering sharply along a boulder-strewn escarpment, he and his trio of riders gained the Wormroad mere heartbeats before the reavers
spilled down as if to wash it away. Had the enemy done so along the full of its length, he would have been finished. Fortunately, like any breaking wave, the Illychar throng was doing so from one end to the other—in this case, east to west, as the trailing ranks were the last to learn of the cavalry’s movements.

But word traveled faster than bodies. By now, even the rear ranks of Illychar seemed to realize that the enemy that had teased them out from the city was charging westward, in the very direction from which they had been lured to begin with. The entire host was redirecting accordingly, as if pushed along that course by a gusting wind. Would that he were a ship at sea, Corathel thought, able to harness that wind with sails upon his back.

Defenders atop the southern wall were doing what they could to occupy the maddened enemy, sending down a steady rain of hot oil and flaming arrows and crushing stones. At this distance from the wall, however, their barrage seemed to have little effect. The enemy ahead of him—that which had chased Jenarin and the leading riders—seemed to be cresting overhead, ready to break. He could scarcely see the squad he trailed, but did not favor their chances against the looming darkness. The most he could say for them was that the odds of their escape were better than his.

With the road ahead like a river of sluggish black waters in the meager twilight, Corathel settled in for the final ride of his life.

That road leaned and twisted as it crossed the foothills beneath the city, filled with ruts and scree and rain furrows as Jasyn had warned. More than once, he raced past horses and riders broken from a fall. Some lay motionless. Others hobbled about or could be seen crawling south into the woods. He yelled at them to get away, but could do no more.

Time and again, his own mount faltered. He clung to it as best he could and urged it recklessly onward. He kept waiting for the Illychar wave to wash over him, but for some reason, it did not. It was as if the farther he went, the more something else drew its attention.

Then he caught sight of the wedge, stretched out from the southern gate as he had commanded. Its angled face was like a dam against which the Illychar threw themselves, churning madly. The riders ahead of him were even now ducking around its tip, cutting north toward the city behind its blockade.

A hundred paces off. Maybe more. With the finish in sight, Corathel found his strength renewed. He willed what he could of it to his steed, as its lean muscles flexed and pulled.

The rider at his tail went down, torn from his mount and washed away in a surge of crushing violence. The overhanging wave was closing upon him, the reaction and pursuit of the enemy host overcoming the speed of his mount at last.
No
, he thought angrily. They had come so far. They were almost home.

His terror-stricken mount seemed to sense it, flinging mud and stone at their pursuers with its pounding hooves. Enemy missiles flew at them in return. Corathel ducked low, warding off their attacks with a battered shield. Stones thudded against his partial plate and against his horse’s lathered hide.

Before him, the legion’s phalanx was weakening. He saw Lar at its point,
giant Lar, swinging that mighty axe and bellowing commands, making sure that the tip did not fall inward too soon. Though the Illychar threatened to spill over its southern edge, the Fourth General realized how close they were, and was making every effort to counter the swarm, to draw its focus and give the last of the cavalry the precious time it needed.

Corathel bore down, demanding of his steed one final push.

Then an arrow struck its hindquarters. The destrier faltered, but churned on, refusing to surrender. Corathel grimaced as a spear or sword scraped his leg. Behind him, he heard the agonized shriek as another of his men went down, followed quickly by yet another. He glanced wistfully toward Lar’s position. So close, he thought, as the leaping bodies of his enemies cascaded over him.

Death roared in his ears as their weight bore down upon him. A suicide charge it had been, and so it would end.

His brave mount carried on for a moment, amid a chorus of howls and a knot of thrashing limbs. It then lurched suddenly to the side, spilling him to the earth and into the darkness awaiting beyond.

A
WARMTH AT HER WRIST DREW
her from her slumber. Her eyes opened. Dawn had not yet come, though a brightening through the forest canopy told her that it was not far off.

The warmth was from her mother’s wellstone. Her gaze shifted to find the central crystal aglow in the palm of her hand. Its color was faint, its inner pulse slow and steady.

A warning nonetheless.

Her chest tightened, and she forced herself up from the bed of moss upon which she lay, pushing aside a silken blanket. She smelled smoke at about the same time she saw the gentle aura of a nearby flame, casting its flickering light upon the trees at her back. She had been lying on her side, but rolled over quickly now to have a look. Her breath caught to realize that a hooded figure sat on a log beside the fire, poking the flames with a stick.

The figure made a muttering noise, before a raspy voice cut through the quiet of the tiny glade.

“So she awoke, the fatherless wanderer and orphan-to-be, whelped by her of elf and man.”

Annleia blinked, then cast about, searching for others. She sensed them, but could not see them, as though they kept watch from the shadows.

“Sent by those who did not exist,” her visitor croaked, “in search of a man who once had.”

Annleia felt her skin prickle, each word like bark scraped against stone. A female voice, she thought, though she was not yet sure. The stranger’s head remained bowed toward the flames, its face invisible. She clasped her wellstone tighter.

“Forgive me,” she offered, her own voice sounding stronger than she felt.

“I did not mean to trespass.”

“Yet trespass she did in a world unfamiliar, from one path to the next, with scant inkling of which to take.” The figure twitched, its cowl twisting to the side, and made a guttural sound Annleia did not understand. “Until the one she sought found
her
.”

Again Annleia searched the surrounding shadows, unnerved more by the many she could
not
see than by the one she
could
. That changed when the stranger reached up with gnarled hands to draw back its ragged hood.

Annleia gasped. A woman, she decided, though she might have been part troll. Her face was grotesque to look upon, the skin as mottled and growth-ridden as a shagfire oak stricken with white fungus. In the crag of her brow—
beyond the crooked stretch of her jutting nose and a stringy veil of matted hair—shone a pair of catlike eyes, cold and piercing.

“Who are you?” the Finlorian lass heard herself ask.

The withered crone twitched again, at the neck and mouth, to mumble in the ear of the rotted, weasel-like carcass draped across her shoulders. “Necanicum, she was known to some, by others not at all. It was not her name the Orphan needed, but the gift she carried.”

“Gift?” Her wellstone continued to glow softly in her palm. Despite the alarm generated by this Necanicum’s unexpected presence, the wild woman did not seem to pose any real danger.

For a moment, Annleia feared the crone meant to gnaw upon the head of that poor, desiccated creature, so intense was her spasm. There were others, as well, draped upon her humpbacked frame. Furs, they should have been, but each bore some piece—limb or head or tail—that had not been properly skinned, and left instead to shrivel like unpicked fruit.

When the episode had passed, Necanicum drew a deep, rattling breath.

“Given the Teldara by the Immortal One, prior to his fall. Delivered by Necanicum as the spirits foretold.”

Annleia sifted through the crone’s words. Ravings, they seemed, though she could not make herself believe that. That there was some mysticism at work here was obvious. What it all meant was not as clear.

“When did you meet this Immortal One?” she asked.

Necanicum muttered to herself before offering her reply. “The sisters led him through her woods, in search of those who did not exist. She knew not where he might find them, only that he would. And his sickness with him.”

“Sickness?”

“The one that would claim the world, his and theirs, one way or the other. By fire or by water, it had to be cleansed. And the Leviathan made certain, for that was His penance.”

A chill crept up the column of Annleia’s spine, and she realized she was shaking. Riddles they were, but plainly spoken, easily understood by one who held the key.

It was time to make sure that she did.

“The Immortal One. Did he call himself Torin?”

Necanicum poked sharply with her stick. All of a sudden, the tiny campfire erupted, spewing green-tinged flames toward the dome of leaves. It settled thereafter, but remained green in color, burning with twice its initial strength.

“The bearer of the Sword, the stirrer of souls, the waker of the dead and those that should have been,” Necanicum croaked. “He called himself aught, yes, but was helpless to answer. The sickness ruled him, and in its throes, he harvested only chaos, bathing the world in fire and blood.”

Blessed Ceilhigh
, Annleia thought to herself,
I’m too late.
She felt a sweat building upon her brow. “And was he stopped?”

“He was, if the end the Teldara spoke of be true. But all events cast a shadow,
and not even the spirits knew which would vanish when that sun did rise.”

Two outcomes. Two fates. She still had a chance. “What must I do?”

“Upon the wall she fought, and beyond it she waited, when her power was filled. She might have felled him outright, yes, but protected him instead from those who would. For his fate would become hers, and theirs, until the oceans claimed all, unless she poisoned him first.”

The crone raised a shaking hand to her breast, to clutch at a wooden phial hung from her neck. She muttered to herself, then tugged sharply, snapping the leather thong that held it in place.

“The fire did not harm her. Only in
its
light could she see.”

Annleia stood. Though she could scarcely bear the heat, she forced herself to move closer to the flames, naked feet treading softly upon a dew-dampened earth. The closer she got, the more she could smell the wild woman’s terrible musk: an odor of age and death and magic.

“In its light,” the crone repeated, bending over the fire.

Annleia bent with her, gaze drawn to the phial clutched in Necanicum’s hand. Before she could get a good look, the hand formed a fist, a gnarled mass of crooked fingers and swollen joints, wrapped in a leather skin hairy and spotted and wart-ravaged. Clawed yellow nails—cracked and caked with filth—dug into that flesh as the crone’s grip tightened. Annleia glanced at the wild woman’s eyes, and found them closed. Her lips moved, but this time, her mutterings were silent.

Then her hand thrust forward, into the flames. Annleia gasped and recoiled. Her next thought was to tackle the woman, to draw her from that mystical blaze. Then she realized—

The hand did not burn.

“In its light.”

Annleia peered deep. In the heart of the fire, Necanicum’s fingers uncurled, revealing the phial.

“Did she see?” the crone asked.

She did. Though the phial was carved of ebony darkwood, in the light of that blaze, its sides appeared as glass—clouded, yes, yet clear enough that its contents were revealed.

The Immortal One’s gift.

Still, she did not understand how she was to use it. “I am to poison him with this?”

She looked up to find Necanicum’s gaze, and could not look away. Up close, the crone’s orbs were like chiseled gemstones, their edges cut into myriad facets. Annleia felt as if not one, but a thousand eyes were upon her.

“A venom,” Necanicum confirmed. “The purest to be found. Warded until the time was right. For it could be used but once, by she who wielded no power of her own, but who controlled the ebb and the flow.”

The eyes released her, allowing Annleia to glance at her wellstone. Her gaze slipped then, back to the phial.

“But how am I to administer it?”

The crone responded to her own shoulder—a stern reprimand, it seemed, for her silent companion. She then turned back to Annleia, and her wrinkled, crusted, wart-filled lips parted in what might have been a smile. “Necanicum did tell her.”

And so she did. The process was complicated. Though Annleia listened attentively, she was not sure she could remember it all—or that even if she did, she would be able to execute the task without mishandling some vital stroke or measure. Her first thought, when Necanicum had finished and Annleia stood staring at the opaque phial that lay now in her own palm, was that she should not be asked to do this alone.

“We could travel as one,” she suggested, though a part of her shuddered at the thought. “We could perform this task together.”

Now that she had surrendered the phial, Necanicum sat back, eyes closed, murmuring gently to herself as if slipping into a slumber. The flames between them weakened into small yellow curls.

“Necanicum?”

“Necanicum had neither the speed, nor the strength, that was required. Nor was it she who sang sway to the gosswyn, or would carry it hence.”

“Carry it hence? I am to keep the flower?”

“Until its time,” Necanicum whispered. “All in its proper time.”

“Necanicum,” she said, frightened at how quickly the crone seemed to be fading, “you are sure this will put an end to the…the sickness?”

“Ends come and go and come again. The Leviathan would make sure. The Leviathan…”

Though close-related, that seemed almost another challenge entirely. “If I should fail…Necanicum, if I should fail, can the Leviathan be stopped?”

The crone’s lips moved, but only whispers slid forth. Her head began to sag.

Annleia was about to go to her when another savage twitch brought the wild woman to life. When she finished muttering, her head snapped upward, those dreadful eyes freezing Annleia in her crouch.

“On their battle, the world hinged. For it was he who wielded the fire, and the Leviathan that wielded the waves. One would be stayed, but not without treachery against the other. Either way, time grew short, for the Harvester moved swiftly.”

“Where will he find me, this Harvester?”

Necanicum looked away, eyes darting from one end of their sockets to the next. Her strange gaze swept the glade in fits and starts, as if the wild woman herself had become suddenly reluctant.

“Necanicum?”

“He had but one trail, one path to retrace. One road upon which to sow the seeds of wanton destruction.”

A chill spread across Annleia’s shoulders before crawling through her stomach.
No. No
,
no.

“She followed that road,” Necanicum continued, “until she came to its fork.”

“Which way did he turn?” she asked anxiously.

“Not his fork, but hers. Two fields he planted—one known to her, the other a city by the sea. She was forced to choose. She could return to deliver warning, or she could administer the poison, but she could not do both.”

Beneath her continued denial, Annleia felt the threat of tears.
Orphan
, the wild woman had called her, more than once.
One trail
,
one path to retrace.
Despite her enigmatic manner, Necanicum was presenting her with one of two decisions: Press forward to put an end to Torin’s butchery, or go back to warn her people.
She could not do both.

“And what choice did she make?” Annleia asked, her voice quavering.

Necanicum met her gaze at last. Beyond the madness reflected in those wild orbs, Annleia thought she detected a gleam of pity.

“Her own,” the crone rasped, and once again, her ravaged eyelids began to droop. “It was not for Necanicum to decide. A courier she was called to be, and served her purpose. She could fulfill no other’s.”

The tears came. Annleia wanted to dismiss it all then and there, to tell herself that the old woman might be wrong—about part of it, if not all. If she hurried, perhaps she could return to tell her mother of this strange encounter. Perhaps together, they could find another way. Or else, she might just be swift enough to catch up to Torin afterward, at whatever time and place the crone believed their paths must cross.

But in her heart, she knew otherwise. Had there been any possibility that this meeting was some ruse or mistake, she would not have been overcome as she was. She knew magic when she felt it. Necanicum’s thoughts had been wild and at times erratic, but never muddled. The crone was a messenger—sent by whom, she did not know, but nature and the Ceilhigh themselves did not always divulge the reasons for their methods. Unless she awoke to learn that this had all been a dream, she had no reason to doubt what had occurred.

Nor what she must do.

She peeled her eyes from the phial resting in her palm, looking back to her visitor. “Necani—”

She halted. The crone sat motionless upon her log, chin tucked low against her breast. There was a coldness emanating from her that had not been there before. Annleia glanced at her wellstone. It, too, had chilled.

Still, she rose to make sure, hesitating only briefly before laying her fingers against the crone’s terraced brow. She found it clammy. Down upon the neck she felt, then the wrist. Necanicum offered no resistance. Her eyes remained closed, and no breath entered her lungs.

Annleia stepped back slowly, looking skyward as the sun’s first streamers slipped through the trees. In her ears, the little fire that Necanicum had built crackled and spat.

But the dawn’s rays provided no strength, and the murmur of the flames seemed only to echo those conferences the wild woman had kept to herself. There was no one to answer her remaining questions, none to tell her how to proceed.

A child I’ve been to have come even this far
, she thought ruefully. She had set forth with such stubborn bravery, naivete her shield. Now, with her mother’s wellstone in one hand and Necanicum’s phial in the other, this adventure—both wondrous and frightening from the outset—suddenly seemed much too real.

And the responsibility too great to bear.

She sniffed, and wiped the last of the tears from her face. Her people were not helpless, she reminded herself. Her mother was wary and wise, and knew already of the danger they faced. Necanicum’s use of the term
orphan
did not necessarily mean that her mother would perish on the morrow or the next day or anytime soon.
Orphan-to-be
, the crone had said first. Well, could not the same be said of most children?