The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (38 page)

It thrust him back against the earth, tethered to an invisible rack. He was
being drawn and quartered, every limb and digit outstretched. Heat roiled and built until he feared it would erupt as flames from his skin.

He made his left hand fumble for the clasp of his baldric, knowing he must free the Sword so that he could get at it with his working arm. At the slightest tug, the leather strap tore like spiderwebbing. Some of the burning dissipated. He sat up. The shadow-figure was no longer at the dell’s rim. He could hear it scampering down the slope. He heard insects chewing at logs and stumps, and worms burrowing in the earth. He could smell all through thickened layers of both bloom and decay.

He spun, snapping his legs beneath him in a crouch. The Sword slid from its sheath and flared in his hand, so bright that he had to avert his eyes. Its own smooth warmth swept through him, caging the unknown flux. The foreign power would not be dispelled, but the fires of Asahiel harnessed its jolts, removed its thorns, bringing it under control.

Thrakkon turned his head—a whiplike motion. There, on the other side of the log, a woman with golden curls pressed and matted about a sweat-streaked brow. She wore a focused expression, though her emerald eyes were bright and full of strain. He could smell every inch of her, as if suddenly possessed of an animal’s senses. He growled as an animal might.

Her hands raised, and he saw her weapon: a crystal of some sort, large and flat, clutched in her palm, hung from a chain about her wrist. His eyes narrowed. He had seen such before, though not with his mortal eyes. An ornament from centuries past. The device of an age forgotten by most, but not by him.

Her lips moved silently. Her fingers clenched and then spread. Thrakkon hissed and hefted the Sword. No sorcerous power could—

The blue-tinged bolt streaked unerringly past his defenses. The Sword flared as it struck his body. It lifted him off his feet and threw him far. His back hit a stump, which turned him aside to land facedown again on the forest slope.

Thrakkon could not even cry out, so intense was his pain. The forest roared around him. Every beat of a fly’s wing, every scratch of a beetle’s leg, sang in his ears. He heard a rattle of fresh rain upon the woodland canopy, the gurgle of stream waters, and the eternal murmur of the distant ocean, rumbling its discontent.

Somehow, the Sword was still in hand. Were it not, he might have slipped away. But its rush continued to envelop him, to steady the waves of the sea in which he swam. Tides of fire, still billowing, still rising within. His teeth were clenched, and every muscle taut. His human coil could not contain this power, so thick, so potent. Why did the Sword not purge him? Why had it not protected him in the first place?

His legs were shaking now, and his arms and torso as well, jerking in convulsion. A landed fish, he must have seemed, wracked by seizure. His instinct was to rise again and fight. But he could hear her coming, the one who had done this to him. And he sensed that he might not survive another blast from her cursed stone.

He made himself go limp. Even so, he felt his muscles flexing and then relaxing of their own accord, as if hooked to the strings of some puppet master. The thought infuriated him, but he would not be drawn from his feigned stupor. Let her think him finished. Let her believe the struggle was won.

He heard her hesitate in her approach, eyeing him warily from afar.
Come!
he screamed silently.
Finish me!

He could not restrain himself any longer. Even with the Sword, each instant was agony—piercing, swirling, writhing within him. If he did not give it release—

She was moving again, stepping quietly, carefully, across the creek and through the brush on the other side.
Yes
, he urged through gritted teeth.
Just a little closer…

She stepped around his flank, marching a wide circuit. His body continued to spasm, but he made his face seem as lifeless as possible.

He could feel her eyes upon his back, his face, the Sword. She slipped toward the weapon, keeping her gaze rooted upon his expression, searching for a reaction. She meant to kick the talisman away, he knew, to rid herself of any further threat.

He must let her do so, he realized angrily. He could sense her crystal, primed and ready, still flush with whatever power was being used against him. If he did not relinquish the Sword…

Her foot swept out. A gentle nudge at first, followed by a swift kick. He forced his fingers to relax, though the muscles were as tightly coiled as those of a man in the rigid stage of death. When his hand no longer brushed the hilt, his body seized and spasmed anew.

She hovered over him momentarily. Without the Sword, he no longer knew where exactly her hands were—or more importantly, the crystal. But he could still smell her fear and caution. It was in those beads of perspiration, the tightness of her breathing, the uncertainty of her movements…

At long last, she knelt before him, reaching out to feel for a pulse. He knew not what she meant to achieve with that. Did she not know he was already dead?

She relaxed slightly, exhaling long and slow. He held himself a moment longer—

Then sprang to his feet, clawing out with his left hand. Swifter than even he could believe. Faster than he had ever been. He caught her with her head turned, looking back toward the Sword. She spun back with a startled intake of breath, and brought her trinket to bear, but his own hand clamped over hers.

The crystal seared his flesh, further igniting the fires within. With a howl, he ripped it from its chain and flung it aside. She squealed as her only weapon ricocheted off the fallen log at his back and plunked down to lie at the bottom of the shallow stream.

Once again, his own strength took him by surprise. Yet even that small use of it brought welcome relief, dispersing some of the energy that raged inside, enough to clear his thoughts. She hadn’t harmed him at all. She had
fed
him.

That was why the Sword had failed as a shield: Her attacks had not been intended as destructive blasts. Though the infusion of power had proved almost as lethal, she had held back for some reason. He cared not why. Only that it was
her
turn to suffer.

She seemed to sense it. She lost her feet in her haste to escape, but turned on hands and knees, and lunged for the Sword. He caught her by an ankle and tossed her like an empty pouch, laughing at the ease of it. His strength had increased fiftyfold. Bleeding away with every motion, yes, but plentiful enough to finish the task before him.

He scooped up the Sword using his left arm. The other was still displaced, hanging from its vacant socket. No matter. The Sword glowed, while the energy she had stunned him with rode lightning through his muscles and veins. He had the vigor of a giant, an ogre, a
dragon
.

His opponent was scrambling for her life, scurrying like a lizard toward the stream’s edge. Her lungs wheezed, and he heard her heart thumping in its cage.

Thrakkon sneered and started after.

Her hand plunged into the waters. The crystal used to channel her magic glimmered amid the algae-coated rocks. But the streambed ran deeper than it appeared. Though she fished frantically, the artifact remained beyond her reach.

She glanced back. Her face was painted with grime, the skin beneath flush with fear. Merciful she had been, or merely daft. Thrakkon was neither.

He flipped the Sword, reversing his grip upon its gem-studded hilt, intent on skewering her where she lay. He pulled back to strike—

And froze, openmouthed, as a flaming poker punctured his chest. He looked down, but there was nothing there, only a sudden, piercing thought in his head.

Dyanne.

For an instant, he did not understand. Then the rain of memories began.

A girl Torin had cared for. In the Widowwood. On the journey north. The thread that had been missing. Revealed at last, so that the tapestry of Torin’s time upon these shores was finally complete.

Thrakkon cared nothing for any of it. Yet the thread wove through him, a blaze of fresh pain that bound him head to toe. He tightened his grip on the Sword, then doubled over as a cramp seized him. It was
she
who had battled with him against Necanicum’s demons—she and Holly.
Her
hands that had tended his wound.
Her
playful words, delivered in that smooth, sweet voice.

Rubbish and less. Thrakkon fought to push it all aside. Though his enemy had seemed momentarily startled and confused, he heard her groping and splashing anew through rushing water. He was uncertain as to what that might mean, but recalled that he had meant to kill her.
Yes. The Sword. Finish her.

But the images continued, released like a tidal wave from Torin’s closely guarded mental clutches. His surrender against Lorre…the dance at Vagar-bound…Dyanne’s touch…

Thrakkon wanted to scream, but his body was clenched too tightly to permit it, struggling to cope with the abrupt surge of buried emotion. A girl. A sack of human flesh like any other. Yet Torin’s feelings for this one had paralyzed him and set him afire all over again. And all he could do was wait for the flood to pass.

He felt himself stumbling, falling backward. Their battle in the mountain passes…their final farewell…

Still it went on. The unspoken words…the waking dreams…the heartfelt yearning…

His enemy stood before him, dripping wet, crystal in hand. Thrakkon spat and slavered. No.
No!
He would not accept this betrayal from his own skin. He would rend his heart, put out his eyes, claw the entrails from his stomach, to regain control. He would do the same to her. He wasn’t going to fall. Not like this. Not to one who stank of Finlorian descent.

Yet
this
pain went somehow deeper than muscles and tendons. It was in his blood, in his bones, clear to where his Illysp spirit had taken root. The crystal pulsed, and all Itz lar Thrakkon could manage was to gnash soundlessly, helplessly, in final, frenzied denial.

I’ll shred your coil and feast upon—

A flash. A jolt. A chasm of unconsciousness that consumed the severed thought.

Shackled by a darkness blacker than itself, the Boundless One followed after.

S
HE AWAITED HIM WITHIN THE
darkness, and when he found her, his world filled with light.

They were seated together, on the grassy slope at the edge of a wide, gently flowing stream. The boughs of a tree spread over their heads—his life’s tree, planted in his youth.
Home.
He was back home, in the forests of Diln, sharing with her his favorite boyhood haunt.

This was no memory. He had relived those often enough to know. Besides, she had never visited Diln. He had met her in Yawacor, and there bid her farewell. They shouldn’t be here. This had never happened.

A dream, he realized then, and felt something that might have been a shiver. He had not dreamt since before his death. As an Illychar, he had known no sleep, only images of events that had been, and variations thereof tweaked forcefully by his tormented mind, in search of solace that would not be found.

But he had relinquished all of those. He remembered now. In a desperate attempt to overwhelm his Illysp parasite, he had set them free: every loving thought, every longing sensation, his most treasured memories and emotions. In doing so, he too had been set free.

To dream.

As he focused on the water’s rush, he realized through the corner of his eye
that she was staring at him. He glanced away nervously, then carefully looked back. She was still gazing at him, admiring him.

He turned his head to fully face her. Before he could speak, she leaned toward him, her lips meeting his in a soft, delicate kiss.

His eyes closed, and a welcomed darkness took him. His chest heaved, burning with exaltation. At the same time, his mind spun with wonder. She had never shown a hint of affection toward him. A token of gratitude it must be, for having done his part to fell the monster he had become—for having spared her people the butchery brought to so many others.

It mattered not. With this simple gesture, his ultimate desire was made consummate, enabling his soul to fly forever in mindless bliss. With but a single kiss, his life had been given order and meaning and joy undeserved.

Within the depths of his own shapeless existence, Torin smiled.

And at long last knew peace.

C
ORATHEL LEANED HEAVILY AGAINST A
weathered merlon, closing his eyes as a wave of dizziness swept over him.

“Are you unwell, sir?” his young attendant asked him.

The chief general grunted. He had sought to escape his flock of captor-healers altogether, but their persistent urgings had led even the governor to insist he be accompanied by one of their brood.

“Steady as the wall beneath our feet,” Jasyn answered, covering for him until the spell had passed. “And likely to last as long.”

The attendant wasn’t convinced. “Perhaps the general should return to his rest.”

Corathel ignored him, fixing his gaze upon the Illychar swarm below. Having finally won his freedom, he had no intention of relinquishing it. The past four days had seemed an eternity—lying helplessly abed while the city around him struggled to withstand the ongoing siege. Jasyn and others had advised him often, and kept him well stocked with registries and diagrams and reports of every tactical nature. But none of that could match the feeling of a sword in hand or the ring of combat in his ears. What
they
called healing felt to
him
like wasting. It was battle he needed in order to stir his blood and make him whole.

Jasyn understood, and so had helped him forth to join the morning rounds, promising those who objected to keep the chief general from harm’s way. As if he were so foolish as to charge headlong into combat when he scarcely had the strength to mount a horse or climb a flight of steps.

“What you see here is what you’ll find around the length of the curtain wall,” Jasyn offered.

Corathel nodded. Their plan had been to march the city’s entire perimeter, but his lieutenant was tacitly offering to cut that trip short should he not feel up to it. While loath to admit as much, the chief general believed that might not be a bad idea. He feared his presence thus far had done as much harm as good. Throughout the city and upon the wall, soldier and civilian alike had greeted him warmly, with cheers and salutes. But behind their proud smiles, he sensed the strain that Jasyn had warned him of upon his first waking. Pale and drawn, he must seem to them as much ghost as man—a grim omen to those who wanted to look upon him as their savior.

They had received no new word from either Alson or Kuuria. Nor had they been able to slip any fresh riders past the enemy lines. With thick concen
trations outside the gates, and tens of thousands prowling a constant circuit, the reaver stranglehold was complete. Leaven was highly defensible, a city long shadowed by civil war and fortified to withstand it. But no city could stand forever—not against an enemy that did not hunger or thirst or tire. If an ally did not come to break the siege…

“I would see the gatehouse,” Corathel said, pushing back from the parapet and the chaos that raged below.

If only he could push aside the foul truth as easily. Whether bedridden or patrolling the battlements, he remained a prisoner, biding his time while anticipating some form of miracle. His daring incursion had won this people a moment’s hope, only to foster further disappointment. Despair surrounded them now, worming its way insidiously into their hearts. On a battlefield, a man could lose himself in his fury and find his end before he saw it coming. Trapped behind these walls, there was nothing for many but to wait and wonder and envision the many dreadful forms that death might take.

He did his best to mask these concerns, as did the men who continued to greet him as he passed. Jasyn’s retinue of guards made sure that none pressed him too enthusiastically. His body ached and his leg throbbed. Every limping stride twisted the imaginary blades buried beneath his flesh. Nearer the parapet, real blades hacked at scaling ropes, felling enemy climbers. Arrows, stones, and other debris were used sparingly, for any missile hurled down upon their enemies became a weapon in their hands. Oil and fire were used instead—the only armaments an Illychar truly feared. The stench of both—and the poisonous smoke they bred—hung thick in the air.

“What’s this, now?” Jasyn murmured, as they looped around from the south and caught sight of the tower above Leaven’s east gate.

Corathel looked. The barbican was astir, as were the twin watchtowers that flanked it. But the activity did not appear any different from that left behind. “Is something amiss?”

Jasyn pointed east, beyond the gatehouse. A morning mist still clung to the low-lying hills, filling hollows and ravines as if they were cauldrons, and boiling out onto the slopes. Black shapes writhed within, as Illychar surged toward the wall or battled among themselves. Wherever Corathel searched, their frayed lines covered dozens or even hundreds of paces…

Except on the eastern road. There, the line stretched a league or more
away
from the city, its farthest point lost in mist.

“Where are they going?” he asked aloud.

Jasyn shook his head. “Perhaps our lookouts can tell us.”

Corathel hastened his pace—until finding that it made his limp more pronounced. He settled then for keeping an eye to the east as he shuffled along bestride his escorts. The reavers farthest out continued to bleed off toward the rising sun in a long, unbroken string. They did not appear to be departing with any real haste—as if drawn by curiosity rather than bloodlust. Nor were their numbers sufficient to distract the hundreds assailing the main gate, or
the thousands of others who clamored against the walls or fought for position. Even so, a dozen possibilities, both hopeful and horrid, had raced through Corathel’s mind by the time he reached the tower steps.

They were not the first to take note of the strange exodus. Atop the watchtower, they found Ragenon gazing eastward through a spyglass. Lar, standing head and shoulders above the city’s garrison commander, nodded at their approach.

“Chief General, sir,” Ragenon greeted, lowering his instrument. “I’m pleased to see you on your feet.”

Despite his gracious words, the commander seemed startled by Corathel’s ragged appearance—one of a hundred such looks the chief general had suffered that morning.

“What have we found?” he asked, frustrated by his own labored breathing.

“Perhaps you can tell us,” the colonel said, offering him the spyglass.

Corathel wiped the sweat from his brow before taking the well-worn instrument in hand. Its leather casing was stained and cracked, its brass fittings gone green. Scratches in the glass showed clouds where there were none. More than once, he pulled it away to check the horizon with his naked eye.

“What do you make of it?” Ragenon asked finally.

“Smoke.”

“Yes, but from what?”

At his shoulder, Jasyn snickered. “Fire, be my guess.”

“Multiple columns,” Corathel decided, squinting through the glass.

“Three, four, maybe more.”

“Reavers caught wind of it during the night,” Lar reported. “Watchmen found their stream an hour ago—a trickle compared to this.”

“Been growing ever since,” Ragenon added, scratching at his beard. Its coarse hairs, red and thick and unruly, gave him the look of a face wreathed in flame.

“Not fast enough, for my taste,” Corathel muttered.

“Could it be reinforcements?” the colonel asked hopefully.

Jasyn snorted. “From the east? More likely theirs than ours.”

Indeed, while their own prayers for support had gone unanswered, the Illychar ranks had continued to swell over the past few days, as their prolonged assault drew rogues and strays from the lands east of the Whistlecrags—lands deserted by the peoples who had fled Atharvan.

“But we’ve not seen the reavers make such use of fire,” Ragenon observed.

“They do everything they can to stamp it out.”

“Might be our dragon has returned,” said Jasyn.

“Or the King’s refugees,” Lar rumbled. “They might have been waylaid when setting forth from Llornel Lake.”

Corathel disagreed. “Colonel Boldin should be well south of us by now.”
If not
,
only the gods can help him.
“This has to be something else.”

“But what?” Ragenon pressed.

The chief general shook his head. “It matters not. Friend, foe, or something in between, it has captured our enemy’s attention. We should make ready, should it continue to do so.”

Ragenon frowned, his beard of flames consuming his mouth. “Make ready. For exodus?”

“We’ve agreed that if the chance should present itself, we must lead this people south, to join with those who shelter now at Souaris.”

“What if this is a ruse, meant to lure us from our stone cage?”

“Our enemy already possesses the strength required to overrun us in due time. They need not resort to such tricks.”

“Then let us suppose this distraction is genuine, and not some ploy. Even if every last reaver at our gates races off to meet it, how long will we have? What if we aren’t swift enough in our escape?” When Corathel did not answer, Ragenon’s argument gained momentum. “And what of the road south? If we should find it blocked, what then? That was a sizable force that veered off days ago—thirty thousand or more. Common folk, yes, but plentiful enough to bottle us up until these others can rain down upon our backs.”

“Valid fears, one and all. Do you have a point, Colonel?”

“With all due respect, sir, it seems a terrible risk. Are we not safer here?”

“Today, yes. Another week or more, perhaps. But beyond that…” Corathel trailed off, allowing all to listen to the din of battle raging below. A constant roar, it seemed, punctuated now and again by a shrill cry—like gulls upon the seashore. “Make no mistake. Here, we are but cornered playthings, alone upon a shrinking island. If we do not set sail for higher ground, we will surely drown.”

“If the Kuurians will not come to us,” Lar agreed, “we must go to them.”

Ragenon glanced at the imposing Fourth General, then turned back to Corathel. “Given a clearer opportunity, I might readily agree. But I don’t see it here, as yet.”

“Then look closer, for it may be the only chance we get.”

The red-haired colonel looked instead to Jasyn, and then again to Lar, but saw little help coming from either. Corathel knew his lieutenant generals well enough to sense when they were of the same mind. Had they any protest, they would have uttered it by now.

Ragenon crossed his arms, his expression smoldering.

“The people have prepared already for this eventuality,” Corathel reminded him. “We need only give word that the time may be at hand.”

The garrison commander shook his head. “I’ll advise the governor. His Honor will wish to have a say.”

“His Honor is a sensible man. I shall be glad to hear his counsel.”

A formality, Corathel knew. In a military crisis, a Parthan governor was beholden to the will of legion command. And this particular governor was more pragmatic than prideful. He had remained at Leaven during the last citywide evacuation, but that was because the West Legion had initially planned
to hold her gates. If Corathel were to insist that the entire city must empty—and that he and the army would do so alongside—His Honor would be quick enough to comply.

Ragenon saluted, then led his entourage in departure. He rounded, however, before reaching the first step. “A final question, sir, if I may.”

Corathel nodded.

“Pray tell, if we Parthans abandon our last city, who is to say the Kuurians have not already done the same?”

The chief general scoffed. “At present, the Kuurians have more strength than we do.” He peered again through the borrowed spyglass, then returned it to the lookout standing post to one side. “And as one who fought among them, I promise you: Thelin will never yield Souaris.”

By midday, word had reached every niche and corner of the city, and expectations had begun to build. The mists had burned off, and with them, more than half of the enemy horde. The smoke stains spotted that morning had grown larger, become visible to the naked eye as a single black smudge against the faded backdrop of the distant Skullmars. With a spyglass, one could see now that there were seven columns all told, staggered in some instances behind one another. Seven distinct blazes, headed slowly their way.

It did not seem right to Corathel. Fires that large would spread and join. But these remained separate, the space between their sooty stalks actually widening as they neared. The foot of each column remained obscured by distance and the uneven lay of the land. As yet, the lookouts had seen no hint of flames—not even a glow to suggest their presence. Surely, the first waves of Illychar had reached them by now, but if so, those upon Leaven’s battlements saw nothing of the result.

His lieutenant generals shared his concerns. Odd, they called it, though Dengyn went so far as to deem it unnatural, and proclaim it an ill omen. Others might have agreed—were it not for the reavers’ continued departure. Given that, the majority of soldiers and civilians—knowing little about the fires’ true configuration—were quick to celebrate, giving praise to the Ceilhigh for this Olirian boon.

Such reaction only reaffirmed Corathel’s fears concerning this people’s morale. He had lived all his life in war’s shade, and had learned to decipher its every deepening chill. In this case, his gut rumbled an insistent echo of Jasyn’s observations. Should this people not soon find freedom, they would likely surrender to madness.

Even so, he tried not to let that weigh too heavily in his decision. Ragenon had voiced some good arguments, and Corathel might have raised several more of his own. He meant to choose this course should it prove to be the best available option, not merely out of desperation.

The first scouts set forth at midafternoon, charging hard from a western postern under cover from above. Enough reavers remained to take notice, and to drag two from their mounts while the other half dozen sped away. Their escape brought a renewed rush against that section of the city wall, but the re
taliation proved short-lived. Upon Corathel’s witching-hour raid, the Illychar as a whole had shown no concern in abandoning the city to chase down easier prey. It seemed
that
much hadn’t changed.