The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (58 page)

Dugg frowned. His cheeks and pate were blistered, his beard singed. “You were bled just last night. With what scant liquids we have, you can’t hope to—”

“That was a command, Master Duggarian, not a request for counsel.”

Her friend’s face pinched to one side, left eye squinting, the lip beneath curling up in a half snarl. “At once, General.”

He continued to mutter, but did as he was told, slicing a new gash across her wrist and turning it over a collection bowl. She sat quietly as it drained.
Now and then, one of her crew would glance over at her. The look she would give in return sent their gazes skittering away.

She would see them to Souaris if they had to wring her body dry. Better that than the hell to which she had just consigned Tegg and his rover crew.

She closed her eyes, wishing her doomed comrades swift passage and eternal flight amid the bellows winds of Achthium’s Earthforge. She prayed they would not become skatchykem. She prayed they would choose to burn first. Let the entire belly of their rover become a blackened furnace. Let the enemy pick and claw its way inside to claim only ash.

She lay back, wondering what her own crew’s choice would be, should she fail them. For now, she listened to their huffs and grunts amid those of their armored carrier, battling still.

From beyond, the enemy’s triumphant howls dug like slivers beneath her skin.

S
AWS WHEEZED AND HAMMERS RANG,
punctuated by every manner of creak, squeal, and shout that Torin could have imagined. From the central district and its governor’s manse high atop the coastal bluff, down to the encircling horseshoe harbor, Wingport swarmed with untold thousands of men, women, children, and service animals, all in steadfast activity. Their numbers spread even beyond the city, to the north and west, where teams attacked the sheltering forests like an army of termites, stripping the hillsides bare.

Wingport, it appeared, was readying to take flight.

It hadn’t taken long to confirm that suspicion. Coming up from the south, he and Annleia had encountered no guard patrols, only work crews hauling bushels of raw hemp with which to weave rope. Torin had observed their efforts for a time, then hailed them from a distance and asked if he could lend a hand. The response was brusque, but accepting: Unless he was a reaver, no hand was being turned away.

Keeping the Sword carefully concealed in the folds of his cloak, he had introduced himself to the crew’s foreman as a fisherman from a tiny hamlet to the south. Hadn’t been any reavers in his quiet corner of the world, Torin claimed, but with all his neighbors pulling up stakes and moving north, he had finally relented. He and his sister, he amended, once he’d made certain that these men were no Illychar. Annleia’s presence seemed to put an end to their lingering wariness. Hands let go of weapon hilts, nerves relaxed, and the team went back to work.

From there, he had learned quickly enough about Wingport’s treachery and King Thelin’s failed exodus. The thousands gathered here were refugees, one and all, working alongside soldiers borrowed from the northern front to construct seaworthy vessels. Those too weak to contribute were holing up at nearby Stralk, the most defensible southern city of any reasonable proximity.

“And those who refuse to flee?” Torin had asked. Matters might have been worse, he supposed, but the truth as it stood had left him aghast. “Surely, some are more frightened of the sea than the Illychar.”

“And will be drowning themselves in its breakers, mark my words, when the reavers come.”

Torin would not wager against it. Not when he knew that the Illychar had yet to muster their full strength. Or had they? Might Itz lar Thrakkon’s secret reserve force have been the one to trigger this desperate retreat?

And desperate it was. Futile, really. When he had looked to Annleia, he’d seen that even she understood as much. For all the obvious reasons, yes, but
more so for the ones these people could not possibly know.

They had begged leave once the delivery had been completed, heading off, they said, in search of friends from their former hamlet. The crew chief, a Kuurian sergeant, hadn’t tried to stop them—whether because he lacked the authority, or because he did not wish to displease Annleia, Torin wasn’t sure.

Since then, they had been working their way toward the governor’s manse. There seemed little enough reason to visit the docks and shipyards up close. It didn’t much matter what progress was being made on those skeletal hulls. If Thelin commanded twice as many ships as needed, and was already setting sail, the end result would be the same.

According to Ravar, the sea was to be their doom, not their salvation.

“Will this Thelin believe any of what we have to tell him?” Annleia asked.

Torin pulled his thoughts and gaze into focus. “I cannot promise that he will. The less we actually have to tell him, the better, I would guess.”

“Then perhaps we should be looking for someone else.”

Who?
Torin nearly asked, but realized it to be an unfair question. She knew no more than he concerning the guide and escort they were to find en route to Thrak-Symbos. Or so she claimed. In either case, he didn’t wish to provoke her. The sense of withdrawal and isolation shrouding her over the past week had continued to slacken throughout that morning, lifting like a fog. It felt almost as if the greater distance between her and their time with Ravar, the less troubled she became. Whatever the reason, he was relieved to see her spirits climb, and did not wish to dampen them.

His, on the other hand, had only grown more somber. For some reason, traipsing among these inhabitants of his former land had made him both nervous and grave. It was an unwelcome feeling that had nothing to do with any spoken words or the disinterested looks that passed his way. It went deeper than that, to an inner sense he couldn’t quite place.

“We may as well start at the top,” Torin said, limping slightly as he climbed the uneven cobbles of that steep, winding hill. “If King Thelin is actually here, as they say, then he is the one who must be warned. I know of no better way to…”

He trailed off as he realized she was no longer listening to him, her attention diverted by the sounds of a company descending toward them from around a sharp bend. He wondered why she should be more fascinated by this troop than any of the others seen coming and going throughout the city…until their actual forms came into view from behind a rugged retaining wall.

Dwarves.

Torin nearly tripped. None they had spoken with had made any mention of dwarves among them. Then again, it had never occurred to him to ask.

His hand slipped reflexively to the Sword’s hilt, even as his thoughts flashed back to when he had met his first dwarf, Crag, back in Yawacor. The Tuthari had come to them in hopes of reuniting with his Pentanian cousins.
Torin had warned him then that there
were
no more dwarves living on these shores, to which Crag had scoffed:
Precisely what the Hrothgari would have you humans believe.

“Craggenbrun?” Annleia gasped.

Torin glanced at her, then traced her stunned gaze to the head of that dwarven column. His own breath caught in his throat when he spied the pepper-bearded dwarf scowling back at them. He looked exactly like—

Crag’s eyes widened, sharing their surprise. “Lei?” He started toward them, mouth agape. “Lei, what are you—” The dwarf faltered as his gaze shifted to Torin, probing his drawn cowl. “Torin?” A flicker of excitement lit his features, and he resumed his approach. “How? They told me ya were killed—”

The Tuthari drew up short, noting Torin’s hand where it lay inside his cloak upon the hilt of his weapon. A shadow of alarm passed over his bearded face, dousing his initial enthusiasm. In the next breath, his axe was in his fist, ripped from its sling with a leathery rasp.

“Crag, no!” Annleia shouted, stepping forward with hands upraised.

Torin was careful to keep his where they were. Crag’s company numbered more than a score. Already, its members were fanning out behind their leader, hammers, picks, maces, and other weapons unslung.

“Dead, Lei,” Crag growled in renewed warning. His eyes remained locked with Torin’s. “That’s what they told me.”

“And they told you true, but he is not what you fear.”

Crag glanced at the elven-blooded woman, a fresh dread blooming in his gruff features. It was not difficult to read. If Torin
was
what the Tuthari feared, might she be, as well?

Annleia lowered her hood. She looked back at Torin, gesturing for him to do the same. Moving slowly, Torin released his grip and reached up with both hands to comply.

“Back!” Crag barked at those dwarves who began to inch past him.

In the distance, the ocean hissed and rumbled. Strangers along the roadway were now taking notice of the confrontation. A few scampered away, up or down the hill. Most froze in place, gawking.

Crag gnawed his lip for a moment, then stepped forward. “Your wrist, Lei.”

She offered it to him, drawing back her sleeve to reveal her wellstone bracelet. He met her gaze in unspoken question, but remained focused. His relief a moment later was palpable. He gave her arm a friendly squeeze, then pulled her protectively behind him.

“Now yours,” he said to Torin.

Torin held forth his arm, trying not to focus on Crag’s axe while the dwarf grabbed hold of him. A knobby thumb pressed tightly against the tendons of his wrist. “You found your people, I see.”

Crag’s crushing inspection became a welcoming clasp. “That I did, lad. Like I told ya I would.” He spun back to Annleia, leaning upon his axe head
while reaching out with the other arm to catch her enthusiastic embrace. “Aw, child, I’m so sorry. You’ll never know.”

Only then did Torin realize that Annleia was weeping, her body shuddering as she clutched that of her friend.

He remained silent, doing nothing that might disturb them. Instead, he looked back at the pack of dwarves, most of whom appeared every bit as uncomfortable. One or two nodded at him. The rest continued to glare.

At last, Annleia withdrew. Though tears streaked her cheeks, a broad smile warmed her face. “I can’t believe we found you.”

Crag scowled. “Was it me ya was looking for, then?”

Was it? Torin wondered. Could Crag be the one Ravar had claimed they would find? Certainly, the Tuthari was more likely than most to believe—or at least accept—what Annleia had come here to do.

“I never even imagined it,” Annleia admitted, shaking her head. She leaned over for another quick hug, which only added to the dwarf’s evident confusion.

“Well then, how…What
has
brought ya here?” He glanced at Torin.

“And why did they tell me ya died?”

Torin opened his mouth, then realized he had no idea where to begin.

“Ours is a lengthy story,” Annleia answered for him, “best shared elsewhere, I think.”

“What can you tell us about matters here?” Torin asked, thinking it crucial to learn just how much time they might have.

“What don’t ya know?” Crag asked. “Ain’t it plain to see?”

The Tuthari sounded gruff, as always, but there was an unmistakable gleam in his eye. He was genuinely pleased to see them both, Torin decided, and a measure of his own anxiety swiftly drained with the realization.

“They say our armies battle at the Gaperon,” Torin said.

“Those that ain’t here,” Crag snorted. “When I left ’em, troops up north were still awaiting the enemy’s arrival. Most are here, working on our escape.” He seemed to spit the last of this, as if critical of the decision. Or maybe it was just his reluctance to set sail again so soon after his last voyage.

“King Thelin,” Torin said, peering toward the crest of the hill. He could see the upper roofline of the governor’s manse almost directly around the corner, peeking above the roadside ridge. “Is he here?”

Crag nodded. “I just came from a council briefing. Come to rattle his head, have ya? Sour taste, this seafaring business. You’ve brought better hope for all, I trust.”

Had they? Torin wasn’t sure. He felt confident that their current efforts were a waste. But what use was there in telling them that without providing a positive alternative?

“Some might call it that,” he hedged finally, gaze drawn by a fresh trample of booted feet marching in unison. “Others may say…”

He stopped as the vanguard of the new company cleared the bend. Kuurian infantry, by their colors, led by a cadre of Souari royal guard. One of the
onlookers who had scampered away moments ago was with them. A lookout, disguised as a civilian. He knew it the moment the man leaned toward the company’s commander and pointed in Torin’s direction.

“Hold!” the commander shouted.

Torin took an involuntary step back, holding up his hands in a gesture of faith. The Kuurian force doubled pace, thudding toward him.

When their weapons came free, Crag stepped forward to shield Annleia. His monstrous axe swept up as if it weighed no more than a willow switch.

“That’s close enough, I’m thinking,” the Tuthari warned.

The first wave slowed, but continued to approach, backed by a spreading line of infantry. Though clearly outnumbered, Crag signaled to his accompanying dwarves, who turned at once to form a defensive line of their own.

“Stop!” a new voice cried out.

Torin looked to the retaining wall. Atop its ridge, a dozen archers had gathered, bows flexing. Among them…

“Allion,” he breathed in relief.

“Stay as you are,” Allion snapped back. “These men have leave to feather anyone who moves.”

Torin blinked in surprise. Beside him, a growl rose in the back of Crag’s throat.

“I checked ’em, you doddard. They ain’t the enemy.”

“Then they won’t mind being taken into custody,” Allion countered.

His friend’s arrow, Torin noted, was aimed directly at him. His chest itched with the certainty of it.

“Good of you to remain vigilant,” he replied. “Come, then, examine us for yourself. I assure you, we are at your mercy.”

“Surrender your weapons,” Allion demanded. “Then we’ll see.”

Crag’s eyes were flitting back and forth, measuring odds. When the Tuthari’s gaze met his own, Torin shook his head.

“And how do we know
your
men can be trusted?” he asked.

“I’ve not buried any of
them
.”

So his earlier assumption was true. Allion was the one who had attempted to preserve his remains there in Diln. It seemed he was going to have to explain much that he had hoped to avoid. “As you wish, then. I’ll not resist.”

Allion scowled in obvious, understandable mistrust, but nodded at the commander below. A gloved signal sent two men forward, who promptly relieved Torin of the Crimson Sword. Its silver, gem-studded hilt captured a splay of light from the afternoon sun, causing an awed murmur to sweep among the growing mass of roadside viewers.

The talisman was passed on to another team, allowing the first pair to turn to Annleia.

“She ain’t armed,” Crag said.

“I’ve a dagger and longknife,” she corrected. “Though I’d prefer you be the one to hold them.”

Crag gave the soldiers another threatening look, then found the blades
Annleia had mentioned. He stuffed one at a time into his own belt with his free hand, keeping his axe at the ready.

“Gonna examine them, then?” he asked irritably.

Allion ignored him. “Bring them,” he said to the troops upon the ground.