The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (52 page)

Mountains. The image of a fiery volcano came to mind. He did not know
if he had thought of it himself, or if Ravar had put it there, but he echoed its name aloud.

“Krakken.” It was the first word to escape his lips since the Dragon God’s emergence. “Your power is what gives it life, dominance over the rest of the Skullmars.”

A whit
,
no more. A latent force that drew Killangrathor
,
when he sought sanctuary from those who hunted him. A power that he
,
as my child
,
was able to stir.

The mention of Killangrathor sent a fresh chill rippling down Torin’s spine. He glanced at Annleia, and found her peering at him with beetled brow, as puzzled by his words as he had been by hers. Then her face lit with understanding.

“Do you riddle with him as you do me?” she demanded of the creature. “If time is so short, do not fence with us. Tell him what he must know.”

Ravar continued to hover, great gills sucking vainly at the salt air as He breathed now through His lungs. There was no expression in His great, craggy face, only the skitter and squirm of crabs and cockles and sea flowers. Yet Torin could feel His mockery all the same.

Do I bore you
,
Asahiel? Is there something else you would know?

All and more. Too many questions to grasp. Yet, despite Annleia’s protest, and despite Ravar’s obvious taunt, he was not yet ready to let go of this one.

The dragonspawn
, he thought, keeping his thoughts from his elven companion.
They were yours as much as Killangrathor’s.

Bound and unbound
,
forever.

The Sword’s warmth billowed as Torin felt an anger curdling within. Not Ravar’s, but his own, fueled by the Dragon God’s snide, spiteful manner. So many dead, mutilated, devoured…

Such minuscule lives you lead. A breath
,
no more.

Yet it is the dragonspawn that are dead
, he thought, anger spilling over into defiance.
As is the one who birthed them. The last of your children
,
was he not?

So he believed. So all of you believe.

The ambiguity took him aback, but he refused to dwell on it. He glanced at Annleia’s longknife—Ravar’s spine—embedded upon the drained shore.
It must gnaw at you
, he countered,
to have spawned such weakness—a creature that would sooner succumb to death than fight for its right to exist.

He felt Ravar’s derision as a tightening in his chest, and wondered if he might have gone too far. But they would be dead already, he felt, if the monster cared enough to make them so.

You have never stood in the presence of your creator
, came the Dragon God’s reply.
Nor can you begin to fathom the soul-wracking anguish and humility should you be confronted by even one lash fallen from Her brow.

I am but a man. Men are weak. Dragons were meant to be strong. To be so fearful as to kill himself—

Ravar’s spines rattled—whether in response to him or Annleia, he could
not say.
There are fates worse than death
,
Asahiel. Killangrathor understood this. The acids that ravaged his skin and stopped his heart are like infant oils when held against the fires of oblivion.

Torin considered that for a moment, if that was really all there was to it.
Oblivion. And is that what
you
face
,
should you refuse to aid us?

I will play my part in this
, Ravar assured him,
however I must. What is yet to be decided is
,
will you?

Annleia was looking at him again, this time with a worried expression. Whatever she was hearing, she did not seem pleased.

“Tell me of the Illysp,” he said aloud, thinking to unify their conversations once and for all.

Have you not learned enough?

“I would know where they came from, how to send them back.”

Where they came from?
Ravar echoed, and Torin felt suddenly as if he had stepped out over a precipice.
I shall show you.

The world went dark. Torin did not remember closing his eyes, but when he opened them, the cove, the Dragon God, Annleia—all of it was gone. He stood instead amid a charred wasteland. Oven winds baked the arid landscape, stirring dust and soot with every howling gust. The air was black and foul, and choked him when he tried to breathe. He covered his mouth and nose to ward off a nauseating stench that seemed somehow familiar. Then he heard Ravar’s disembodied voice within.

On their own plane
,
the Illysp were beings who could shed their physical coil and exchange it for a new one. They could do so at will
,
as often as they cared to
,
and thus live forever.

The sky flashed, a parade of lightning dancing from cloud to cloud. Torin whirled and spun, seeking shelter from the grit that pelted him.

But the coils themselves were not unlimited. Exhausting their most precious resource through war and waste
,
the Illysp became naught but fleshless spirits
,
hungering for so much as a taste of what once belonged to them in abundance.

A raindrop fell, burning his skin like acid. Torin glanced up, and another struck his eye, gouging as if it were a bead of molten steel.

Here
,
they have found a new source
,
albeit bodies to which they must commit for life. Regardless
,
the hunger for flesh
,
for the sensations it brings
,
is too great for them to ignore. Physical life
,
even a mortal one
,
is a temptation they cannot resist.

The rain began in earnest then, a drizzle at first, then a downpour. Trails of smoke drifted from his clothes, while his flesh began to steam. His search for shelter became frantic, as he gripped himself against the searing agony. But the desert surrounded him. He had nowhere to run, and the rain was falling faster. He tried to duck beneath his cloak, but the garment was already in tatters. Then he saw his hand. The skin had melted, and was sloughing away to reveal muscle and ligament and bone. As he watched, a finger fell off. Drawing a deep breath that nearly gagged him, Torin screamed…

…and found himself within the cove once more. The sea’s windborne spray lashed his face, and he swiped at it in a reflexive panic. Salt, not acid. He stared at it upon his fingers, gasping in relief to find them whole.

“Enough, I say!” Annleia was shrieking, all taut muscles and clenched fists. She then turned to find Torin gaping, and stomped toward him as if to make certain he was all right. He blinked once, twice, and held up his hand to ward her off. With the other, he strengthened his grasp upon the Sword.

This realm
,
too
,
might end the same. Given rein
,
the Illysp will resort again to chaos and butchery in the ultimate
,
maddened pursuit of self-preservation.

Torin shook his head, still dazed from his brush with that feral world. Would the Ceilhigh, the creators of
this
world, truly allow that to happen? How could that be?

As ruler of your people
,
do you harvest every grain and tube grown within your nation’s fields? Do you rush to defend against every storm
,
every poacher
,
every vermin? The Ceilhigh are cultivating an entire maelstrom. They have scant cause to dedicate themselves to the concerns of a single world or the lives crawling upon it. They left caretakers for that
,
avatars
,
when their creations were fresh and young. Ha’Rasha
,
whose calling was to guide and nurture and oversee this realm in its infant stages. But that time is past
,
and the Ha’Rasha all but extinct
,
having returned in one form or another unto the great Var-Rahim.

Not all, Torin thought, reminded immediately of Cianellen.

A child
,
as you learned
,
of whim and fancy and coquettish curiosity. She and her kind may play upon this world
,
but long ago ceased to affect it in any meaningful way.

Leaving you.

Leaving me. My punishment
,
as it were
,
for seeking to shape a history my brothers and sisters thought better left to its natural course. For taking part in this world’s struggles
,
I condemned myself to forever doing so—an avatar
,
in my own way
,
since that
,
in effect
,
is what I chose to become.

The answer to your question
,
then
, Ravar continued,
is yes. As sole warder against this infestation
,
I would stand aside if I could. I would follow the lead of the Ceilhigh and leave this realm to rot. I would give it over to the plague that elves and then humans unleashed.

The creature’s great bulk clenched. Spines bristled. Ledges of reef and barnacle cracked and crumbled and splashed into the waters beneath. Another slow groan slipped through the eel-like lips, its rumble seeming to fill the dome of the sky.

But I cannot. Even now I feel them
,
skittering upon the surface like roaches upon mine own skin. Illysp
,
Illychar
,
their form makes no matter. I cannot resist the growing hunger planted in me by my brethren of the Ceilhigh. I must rid myself of their pestilence
,
though I would see your sufferings continue…if only a while longer.

To end it all now would be a mercy. Ravar knew this. He was going to
hold out for as long as He could. He was going to give them as many chances as possible to fail. Only when they were battered and broken and had nothing left would He do His part and sweep it all away, and let the world begin anew.

“You will do as you must, then,” Annleia said. “As will we.”

She glanced back at him for confirmation, and Torin gave it, nodding with as much confidence as he could muster. “The seal. How do we restore—”

Forget the seal
, Ravar urged.
Would you vanquish this menace before I do? Then close the rift between these worlds and destroy the Illysp utterly.

Torin regarded Annleia at the same time she turned toward him. The expression she showed him might have been his own.

“Is that even possible?” he asked. “If so, why didn’t the Vandari destroy the rift the last time? Why did they seal it up instead?”

Once Sabaoth was slain
,
Algorath was charged with precisely that
:
the rift’s destruction. He need only have commanded the Sword’s full power
,
but could not do so. The seal was created to mask that failure
,
a construct of Finlorian magi
,
Algorath’s Sword
,
and the Dragon Orb
,
which I was obliged to provide them. A patch
,
I warned
,
but they could see no other way.

Neither could Torin. If Algorath, an Entient, had failed to unlock the Sword’s fires, then what chance did
he
have?

The answer to that lies within. Words of instruction do not equal faith. Nor am I given or required to make men into avatars. The key to the Sword is something the wielder must divine for himself.

The nebulous answer did not surprise him. His gaze dipped to study the talisman, to watch the swirl of flames within its lustrous blade. “And if I cannot?”

Should the Illysp be locked away
,
how long before they are once again unleashed? I have but one more Orb to bestow. How will your progeny survive without one?

“Perhaps one of them will find a way to do what I cannot.”

And perhaps the talisman will again be lost to the enemy when the seal is breached—and this time fail to be regained. The Vandari might die out completely. You would leave your kind naked
,
defenseless. You would leave it to me to save them.

By eradicating them
, Torin thought glumly.

“If he should succeed,” Annleia asked, “if he should unleash the fires of Asahiel and destroy the rift, what are we to do about the Illysp and Illychar already set loose?”

They will know
,
when the time comes.

“
They
?” Annleia echoed. “Who are
they
?”

All who played a part. Granted
,
their actions
,
like yours
,
cannot be guaranteed. One choice will be to aid you. The other to let the world fall.

Annleia was clearly unsatisfied by the response. But Torin found it a moot issue. Try as he might, he could not foresee himself succeeding where Algorath
had failed. To believe otherwise would be a childish vanity, and would be to wager too many lives in the bargain. Better to attempt what had been done before, and thus could be done again.

Ravar disagreed.

You must not leave this sickness to fester. You must do as Algorath should have
,
and destroy it.

Torin faced Annleia. Though she peered at him with that imploring gaze, he could not imagine what she expected of him. “If I cannot?” he asked again.

You must.

Raise his hopes only to have them dashed again? Why? To provide amusement for a fallen god? “If I cannot”—he made it a statement this time—“surely, there is another way.”

Annleia’s gaze fell, as if his stubborn refusal somehow disappointed her. Her reaction caused his own frustration to billow, but before he could speak to it, he felt again Ravar’s sneering derision, like screws upon his chest.