The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (6 page)

The mere thought made her dizzy, so she forced her gaze back to her chambers. Thaddreus had reached the edge of the terrace. Beyond, Ashwar stood now upon his remaining leg, unthreatened by the loss of stagnant blood dripping from the wounded stump.

She looked to those who could have aided her. Her sentry slumped lifelessly against the far wall, blood spilling from his mouth and the deep slice across his throat. Pagus, as brave as he was foolish, lay facedown in a heap of his own intestines. Their deaths, it seemed, had merited nothing.

Still, Marisha refused to go quietly. She would rather her body be destroyed in communal fire than become an Illysp vessel.

Thaddreus lunged, seeking to trap her. Before she could reconsider, Marisha swung her legs up and over the rail, casting herself to the wind.

T
HE TENDONS IN HIS WRIST
strained as Allion tightened the final strap, cinching the leather band about the frame of the simple litter. When satisfied that his canvas-wrapped cargo was securely fastened, he stepped back to survey his work. All at once, his eyes began to moisten with emotions he could no longer seem to control. He had driven most of the night to reach this point, a long, lonely progression of hours spent in pained remembrance and soulful reflection. His thoughts were ragged, his emotions raw, and he had not yet begun what he had come here to do.

He stepped toward his wagon, parked aside the forested road. The bulky cart could carry him no farther, but had served its purpose well. The litter had been tied to its undercarriage, while Torin’s body had been stowed in a hidden lockbox, cleverly concealed beneath the bench seat. Only a trained eye would note that the seat’s primary storage bin was shallower than it should have been, or be able to uncover the trapdoor to the secondary compartment, accessible only from below. An unlawful design, clearly built and used for smuggling. When asked where he had acquired such a wagon, Pagus had claimed that it had been bequeathed along with store and tools to a young friend of his, Tam, upon the death of Tam’s master, an armorer by the name of Faldron.

A good lad, Pagus. Enthusiastic and resourceful. So focused had Allion been on their task that he had neglected to tell the boy just how much he appreciated the helpful efforts. He would be sure to do so, he decided, just as soon as he returned to Krynwall.

He crawled beneath the wagon long enough to close the trapdoor to the smuggler’s box, then unfastened the digging spade that had been lashed in place beside the litter. Finding no better place for it, he shoved the long-handled tool beneath the leather straps he’d used to tie Torin to the litter, then set off to retrieve his horses, which he had set to rest and graze in a tiny glen just off the roadway. Neither seemed too happy about resuming this journey, but Allion cared little for their complaints. With one hitched to the litter and the other tied off behind, Allion left the empty roadway and set forth through the trees.

It was a dense, uneven trail he followed, grown denser in the many weeks since it had last seen regular use. Darkness pressed him, but he knew this route well enough to walk it in his dreams.

He tried not to listen to the litter as it scraped and bounced along the overgrown path, focusing instead on the potential approach of any enemy. While
one hand held his mount’s lead rope, the other gripped his hunting knife. It was one of the main reasons he had sought to do this in private. He hadn’t wanted to endanger Marisha or any members of his family by allowing them to come. If the Illychar gathered at Krynwall had been driven forth, there was a good chance he might stumble upon them here, in the concealing reaches of the Kalgren Forest. As he stood little chance of defeating even one of the possessed creatures by himself in his ragged state, his best hope was to simply escape their attention.

He had done well enough so far. The highway leading east had been deserted. All farmsteads had been abandoned. Birds and wildlife had been scarce—hauntingly so, here within the forest. Perhaps that meant the Illychar were still about, hunting for prey. Or perhaps even they had moved on.

Allion was not certain he cared either way. Though he carried his bow and arrows, the weapon was not even strung. Part of him wished that his enemies would come and take him—relieve him of his misery and pain. In a way, he envied his fallen friend. For Torin, the struggle was already ended. For the rest of them, it had scarcely begun.

And what was he to fight for? He cared little about Krynwall. He cared even less about any hidden treasures the future might have in store. Chasing his dreams had brought nothing but grief and betrayal. Performing his duties had resulted only in loss. Weary of fighting, he simply wanted things to be as they had been before.

He paused as he realized where he stood—upon the rim of a small clearing that lay within a wooded hollow. One of their favorite archery grounds, Allion recalled, and the one in which they had first heard Queen Ellebe’s startled cry. This was where it had all begun. Her arrival—and their rush to respond—had led to the rest: Torin’s quest, Diln’s destruction, the drawing of the Sword, the unleashing of the Illysp, Torin’s death…

Allion clenched his eyes against the flood of imagery. The truth, so terrible and fresh, still seemed to lack a solid edge. It was more like a flame, bright and scorching and difficult to grasp. Even now, he could scarcely fathom how that single event had triggered so much death and devastation.

His lead horse tossed its head. The trailing one whickered impatiently. Flush with sorrow and regrets, Allion marched on.

He tried to see the forest as it had once been. It was easier out here, removed from the village center that had been burned to cinders and trampled into the earth by those who had hunted them. Having returned well after Torin’s team had gone through and buried the remains, Allion had been spared much of the toil and grief his friend had endured in laying so many friends and loved ones to rest.

Now it was his turn.

It might have been easier had he been able to understand how Torin had died, exactly, or what his death had won them. Certainly, his victory over Darinor represented a tremendous counterblow to the Illysp conquest. But was
it enough to alter the final outcome, or would they only find another leader? Regardless, what greater price could Allion be asked to pay?

An internal scream silenced the hunter’s tortured reflections. This wasn’t about him. As forbidding as his own future seemed, there would be time enough to confront it later. His mission now was to mourn and bid proper farewell to he who had already paid the ultimate price. Justice, some might call it, in that Torin himself had unleashed this scourge. But such a debate would seem to dishonor the man’s memory. For the next few hours, at least, Allion meant to think only of his friend’s better qualities.

He reached his destination as a new dawn spilled through the trees, spreading diffuse light and meager warmth over a swollen stream and its forested banks. There was no need to search for the perfect plot. Each member of their erstwhile community selected his or her own at the age of eight—deemed the first age of accountability—by planting a tree that would grow as they grew, and mark their final resting spot. Torin’s lay beneath the canopy of a fire poplar planted near the edge of the stream. While half its boughs reached out over the water’s edge, the other half sheltered a grassy rise atop the southern bank, where Torin, as a child, had taken that first small step toward becoming a man.

Allion smiled wistfully as he gazed upon the sheltered grove. From the banks of that stream, he and Torin—Jarom, at the time—must have watched half their youth flow by, while dreaming of adventure in faraway lands. Their fantasies had been filled with monsters and maidens and triumphs on an epic scale. But that had been long ago, before they had outgrown such childish reveries and been compelled to experience the dark and harrowing reality of them. They had been so naive, so innocent and carefree.

So long ago.

Amid the rushing of crystalline waters, Allion heard again Marisha’s pleas to stay, to allow Torin to go to the fires instead. He was glad now that he had ignored her. In the solemn hush of these familiar surroundings, he was more certain than ever that this was what Torin would have wanted, to be returned to his true home, to lie forever among his original people. Despite the risks involved, it seemed such a small favor to grant.

His smile vanished as he forced himself to the work at hand. He untied the horses first, watered both, then led each to a separate sentry position some thirty paces off. Leaving each hobbled and with a nosebag of feed, he then returned to the gravesite, shovel in hand.

Ignoring his own hunger, Allion knelt upon the site and bowed his head in silent prayer. When finished, he wiped his eyes, set shovel to earth, and began to dig.

He dug slowly at first, mindful of the strength that would be required, and determined to execute this task with proper and noble dignity. But by the time the first bead of sweat fell, Allion felt himself losing control, succumbing to the memories and emotions that were so much a part of his labor. Never
again would they sit side by side within this grove to discuss their hopes and dreams. Never again would his boyhood friend dip his toes into the cool water, grinning as the waves lapped at his ankles. That boy was slain, and all that remained for Allion was to dig…dig…dig…

With unbridled fury, the hunter attacked the earth, hacking at its surface. It would share his anguish. It would know the horror and emptiness of his loss. With each memory, Allion’s wrath increased. The long days at work and at play…the nights of mischief in Glendon…the time they had run away…And later, the coming of Queen Ellebe…the hunt for the Crimson Sword…their battle at Kraagen Keep against the dragonspawn…

Allion could not stop the onrush, and it fueled him when all physical strength had fled. It forced his muscles to respond, to lash out again and again until blisters formed, burst, and formed again. The burning within his shoulders and arms became unbearable, yet he would have welcomed its eternal agony for but a moment’s reprieve from that in his head and heart. So much to mourn, so much to reckon with, and for hours, Allion had no choice but to face it all, to challenge every demon his grief could muster.

Until finally, almost suddenly, it came to an end.

As the last shard of their former lives left its scar and skittered away, Allion found himself staring blankly through the mud, sweat, and tears that stung his eyes. He leaned heavily upon his shovel, its haft smeared with the blood from his hands, and gazed at the floor of the pit in which he stood. It was finished. He had nothing more to give. A hollow ache remained, a hole within that he would carry to his own grave. But the time had come to bury the worst of his feelings and be done with his grieving.

As Marisha had told him, life must go on.

He took a deep breath, a refreshing taste of the early spring season, and looked to the heavens. The sun shone high in the sky, almost directly overhead. Midday already, and his task was only half finished.

As he climbed from the pit, however, and looked to Torin’s bundled form, Marisha’s other concern became paramount once more. How could he be sure that Torin was truly being laid to rest? There was a chance, after all, that the king was already being possessed, suffering through the three-day incubation period that all Illysp faced—during which the host’s original soul was torn from the Olirian afterlife and shackled once more to its physical coil. Assuming, of course, that what they had learned of their enemy from Darinor was true, Allion might merely be burying his friend as an Illychar—a creature that would not perish from hunger or lack of breath—leaving him imprisoned in an earthen grave for eternity.

And yet, waiting around to see if his friend would revive—so that he could kill him again—only increased the time in which an Illysp spirit might take possession. For all Allion knew, he carried a host of the fleshless spirits with him. He might mutilate the body in some fashion, but he could not bring himself to do so. If even a headless corpse might rise again, as Darinor had claimed, then what good would it do for Allion to desecrate the body by
hacking it into pieces, only to have those pieces somehow retain Torin’s living awareness? What sort of torment might that be?

No, he reassured himself, short of cremation, which he still refused to consider, the best he could do was to bury his friend quickly and trust to the mercy of the Ceilhigh that the young king had not already been poisoned. Perhaps, when this war was finished and the world rid of Illysp, he might return and dig up the grave to make sure Torin’s remains were truly at peace. Until then, he had done all he could.

The rest went faster than expected. Cut from the litter, Torin’s body was interred in the earth that had nourished it in life. Though he was no priest, Allion took it upon himself to bestow all rites customary to his people, as he had seen them delivered. Torin’s life in the hereafter, he assured himself, would be better than this one.

As he tamped the last of the soil back into place, Allion looked to the grave’s marker. A dozen years after its planting, Torin’s tree had grown tall and strong. And it would continue to do so, the hunter reminded himself, though the human life it represented had moved on.

He set aside the shovel and again lowered himself to his knees. Time to beseech the final blessing of the Ceilhigh, and to offer his own apologies for the wrongs he had committed against his friend. The latter, he thought sullenly, could take some time.

He had accomplished the first, but had only barely begun the last, when one of his horses gave a cry. Allion froze. He heard voices, and the thrashing of bodies through the brush. It seemed his time was up.

His bow and arrows lay beside the empty litter. Allion moved quickly to retrieve them, slinging the quiver over his shoulder and locating a thick trunk behind which to hide. By the time the intruders reached his clearing, leading their own mounts afoot, the hunter peered at them through the foliage with an arrow drawn.

There were only two of them—human, they appeared—dressed in the royal livery of Alson. Marked as messengers by the sash each wore. Neither had yet drawn a weapon.

“He was here all right,” one of them said.

“Clearly,” the other snorted. “But off to where, then, with his mounts behind?”

They did not appear to be Illychar, which left Allion to wonder if Colonel Venmore had made good on his oath to track down the insubordinate wagon driver. After waiting a moment to reassure himself that they were alone, he released his arrow. It struck the earth at the toe of the messenger nearest him, drawing a startled shout.

“Stay your weapons!” he commanded, another arrow already loaded and ready to fire. He let them see this as he stepped out from behind his shelter.