The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (63 page)

He crested the shelf to find Rogun hard-pressed. A pair of giants seemed to have him trapped near the promontory’s edge. Kethra Dane, Torin realized with a sharp breath. Leader of the Illychar host he had met in the Whistlecrags before setting off for Mount Krakken. And with her, Rek Gerra, her lieutenant, who had tried at the time to rip him from his mount.

They seemed to be attempting much the same here. Dane was prodding at Rogun’s steed with a metal pike, while Gerra took axe-swings at the general himself. A clutch of Kuurian foot soldiers were involved in the skirmish, helping to draw Gerra’s attention, but Rogun was hollering at them to clear, to leave him and secure the ridge.

All of a sudden, the pair of giants reversed focus, with Dane making an abrupt lunge at Rogun. His horse saved him, rearing up to deflect the blow and beat against Dane’s chest with bloody, ironshod hooves. Dane staggered, but Gerra took advantage of the opening with a swing that bit halfway through the stallion’s corded neck. The animal found its legs, but only for a moment. With a gargled trumpeting, it foundered and crumpled, spilling its rider to the earth.

Though Torin was already racing in that direction, he knew Rogun was finished. If his horse hadn’t crushed him, the weight of his armor would hold him pinned until Dane or Gerra finished the job.

Instead, the general bolted upright with a flourish. Gerra, who had turned to swat aside a pair of Kuurians, wore a look of shock as the general’s sword plunged into his stomach. The giant then snarled, belting Rogun across the face so that his helmet went flying. For a moment, it seemed the general’s head must have still been inside—but only until the angle changed, and a leaning Rogun pulled back, ripping his sword free.

By then, Dane had returned, to press Rogun with a jabbing charge. The general was forced to leave Gerra behind.

Torin swept in.

Rek Gerra spied his approach. Recognition flared in the Illychar’s eyes. A moment’s confusion gave way to eager fury. The giant bore down on him, monstrous axe descending from overhead. But Torin ripped the Sword across in a wiping motion that severed the giant’s forearm. He followed that with a pair of diagonal swipes—up, down—in a blindingly swift crosscut pattern. Hip to shoulder, shoulder to hip, the cuts went all the way through. By the time Gerra looked down, his body was sliding apart in four, wedge-shaped pieces.

Torin spun to find Dane. The giantess appeared to have vanished amid the melee. Rogun was still on his feet, trading blows with a ring of enemies. He was singularly suited to the task. When enemies hacked at him, the jutting ridges of his armor redirected their strikes into reinforced grooves, where,
with a twist, he would snap a weapon haft or yank it from its wielder’s grasp. His face was purple with exertion and rage. Even now, he bellowed commands, trying to organize those who battled to resecure the plateau.

The Illychar at the general’s back shrieked and squealed as Torin ripped into them, sweeping the bloodstained ground. Some leapt from the Fang’s edges rather than face him; the rest were left wishing that they had. There weren’t enough in all the world to bring him the retribution he craved, the revenge he so needed for a lifetime of prior failings.

With the north-facing promontory cleared, he spun back to where he had last seen Rogun. Kethra Dane had returned. He thought her a boulder, at first, until she uncurled herself at Rogun’s back. The general was parrying strikes aimed at him by another giant downslope. He had no idea its leader was there.

“Behind you!” Torin roared.

Rogun ducked a hammer blow from his opponent and brought his sword down hard upon the outside of the creature’s knee. The Illychar toppled with a wail upon the ruin of its leg. But Torin’s warning went unheard, unheeded. Instead of turning to face the new threat, Rogun hefted his sword for a killing blow.

Dane skewered him through the back.

The giantess snarled triumphantly, twisting her pike’s shaft. Its tip had punched clear through Rogun’s torso. Her tusked grin only widened, yellow teeth gleaming with slaver, as Torin descended upon her.

She yanked on her weapon…but its head snagged on the front of Rogun’s armor. Her grin faltered. She let go of her pike and tried to sidestep his charge, but Torin knew precisely where she would be. His first swipe relieved her of her entrails. When she bent as if to collect them, the Sword split her skull down the center.

He looked to Rogun. The general was on his knees, studying the red-painted shaft where it protruded from his stomach. When Torin approached, his gaze lifted, glimmering with amusement.

“Such fine armor,” he said wistfully, blood spilling from his mouth.

Then he fell, another corpse to be trampled underfoot.

Torin scarcely paused. There were yet too many adversaries atop the Fang. When he glanced farther west, he found Hokkum Spire similarly beset. If he was to reclaim that distant anchor position, he had to finish securing this one with all haste.

To either side, the lines were splintering. He spied not one, but a pair of widening breaks. Rogun had been right. It seemed the coalition had held already as long as it could.

Yet he was still alive. The Sword still burned bright in his hands. Odds be damned, he wasn’t finished.

As if in answer, there came a shuddering rumble. Somehow, Torin knew what it signified, even before he looked to the east and the heights of the
Thornspur. Soldiers were streaming south atop that towering bluff, displacing from their positions along its northern rim. A torrent of water was gushing across those abandoned grounds, unleashed from a cleft in the mountains even higher up. The command Rogun had urged from the outset had been given.

While others murmured in awe and uncertainty, Torin felt his heart sink.

Troy had just surrendered the Gaperon.

A
WE TURNED TO CHEERS AMONG
the coalition forces as the Shia River came roaring down upon the heads of their enemy, channeled northward by the natural depressions of the land. The flood did what they themselves could not: force the enemy into a sudden retreat to avoid being swept away. Those spread along Morgan’s Harrow were spared, save for windblown gusts of river spray. With the bulk of the Illychar retreating north or racing toward higher ground, only a thin, ragged wave now remained to press the southern entrenchments.

Frontline soldiers fell upon these with renewed vigor, seizing the sudden advantage. The Illychar, without benefit of reinforcements, fought like cornered badgers, but succumbed swiftly. Their shrieks, and those of the ones being engulfed, raised a cacophony that punctuated the river’s continuing roar.

Nevertheless, the coalition’s fallback had already begun. As of now, the Shia was a churning wash that gutted the land and devoured anything in its way. When it settled, however, it would do so within its ancient bed along the base of the eastern slopes. Thousands of Illychar would be killed in the torrential crush, but not all. The survivors would regroup, and come again. The dead, when hauled from the river, would rise and rejoin them. This time, the defenders would not have the heights of the Thornspur upon which to anchor their already tattered defenses. Survival depended now on banding together south of the pass, behind the trenches and bulwarks set farther south upon the broken plain.

To remain within the Gaperon was suicide.

Torin stood his ground upon Tonner’s Fang. A cold numbness crawled through his veins as he watched so much of the carnage be swept up in the Shia’s wake—buried by the river’s own, scouring form of butchery. Rogun’s strategy had worked, but the general himself had not survived to witness it. The coalition had bought itself time, but doing so would become ever more expensive in the days and weeks to come.

At best, a hollow, fleeting victory.

At worst, the end.

A few around him were leaning on their swords, swallowing much-needed breaths as they, too, beheld the sudden, violent turn. Their inaction, along with his own, rekindled his fury. Beneath the Fang, battle still raged. He might yet make a difference. If not, he might still leave himself bleeding upon the field, having exhausted every ounce of his will in a final, defiant display.

He spun about with a snarl, only to find Zain riding up the Fang’s slope. The commander-in-waiting faced him, then turned to where General Rogun lay among the slain. Torin hesitated as Zain dismounted and removed his helm.

“Bring the body,” the commander ordered a team of his men.

The soldiers moved to obey. Torin studied them a moment longer, then started past.

“Where are you going?” Zain asked, catching hold of his arm.

Torin pointed with the Sword at a line of Illychar still digging southward, past the rise. “There are still enemies to be thrown back.”

“Don’t bother,” Zain said. “They won’t make it past the rear lines.”

The commander was likely right. But that would scarcely satisfy the volatile mix of emotions still churning within.

Torin wrenched free of the other’s grasp.

“They’re running mad,” Zain called after him. “You’ll never catch them. It’s over.”

Sword in hand, Torin marched down the slope, Zain’s final proclamation echoing ominously in his ears.

It’s over.

Not yet, it wasn’t.

For a time, he lost himself in the continuing slaughter. He fought for those who had been killed. He fought for those whose lives might yet be preserved. Mostly, he fought to ward off the harrowing, encroaching truth, that this struggle, like all others in his life, was futile.

But the enemy trail led him only so far. Most of the Illychar that had escaped and might have circumnavigated the river’s rush chose not to pursue the retreating forces, but to linger upon the western slopes of the Gaperon, securing and retrieving slain coils. So Torin hunted southward after those that had broken through the lines. Without burden of position or assignment, he carved his way freely, painting himself in blood and grime. As Zain had predicted, however, many were brought down before he could catch them, ringed and hacked apart by reserve units set down to defend the allied encampment. By the time dusk began to settle over the war-torn region, the coalition’s withdrawal was nearly complete, and the enemies among them all but dried up.

A courier found him, and bade him to a command council. Torin nearly cut the man in half. To discuss what? Another defeat. Another round of stratagems, none of which would avail them anything more than they had won this day.

He went with the youth anyway, not knowing where else he might go. It occurred to him that he might try to find Annleia. For some reason, the thought of seeing her brought him comfort. Confronting her with his failure did not.

Soldiers saluted as he passed. Others made an effort to raise a cheer on his behalf. Torin ignored most of them, and glared sullenly at the rest. The string of cheers soon grew silent.

The command tent felt almost empty without Rogun’s domineering presence. A somber Zain seemed uncomfortable in the general’s stead, something Torin would not have expected. The dwarf king, Hreidmar, still lived. As did Troy, of course, who had sat out the most recent battle on account of his injuries. Third General Maltyk stood representative of the Parthan Legion’s sad remnants. By this, Torin determined that Corathel and his other lieutenants, Jasyn and Lar, had not yet returned. He wondered how much time would pass before they were presumed lost.

Allion was present, as well, but chose not to favor Torin with his gaze. Nor did Torin seek it.

“You fought well today,” Troy said. “By all accounts, there are many who owe you their lives.”

Torin glanced at Zain, who nodded.
It’s over
, Torin heard the soldier say again. Neither Maltyk nor Hreidmar offered a reaction. Allion continued to study what looked to be a diagram of the present trench configuration.

“We cannot win,” Torin replied. There, he had said it. Something within seemed to tear.

Hreidmar snorted.

“No,” Troy agreed bluntly. “But we can hold. A month, a week, a day. Whatever time and hope we can provide, we will.”

Torin regretted already his compliance in coming here. Hope? What hope?

“His Majesty’s reinforcement divisions will arrive within two days,” Troy went on. “Will you still be with us?”

So
that
was why he’d been summoned. To be asked again a question he had already answered.

Only, the fire he’d felt before had gone out of him, his conviction reduced to embers and ashes. What difference had his efforts this day truly made? A stretch of earth held here and there a few moments longer. A handful of lives, perhaps, saved. What did that matter, with all set soon to be consumed?

“Our fates shall be one and the same,” he remarked tonelessly. It seemed the only promise he could give.

Troy accepted it. “Commander Zain has recommended you be given General Rogun’s position of command.”

Allion looked up with a frown.

“Rogun’s riders are much more familiar with the commander than they are with me,” Torin argued. “
He
should be their new general. Make whatever other use of me you will.”

Allion turned back to his defense map.

“Partha’s legion stands in need,” said Maltyk, speaking to Troy as if Torin himself were not present. “Especially if Corathel is delayed in his return.”

Or fails to return at all
, Torin thought morosely.

Either way, the air in the tent felt suddenly stifling. Nor did it seem like he truly needed to be here for a decision to be made on his behalf. “If the commanders will excuse me,” he said stiffly, “I’ll take a moment to wash while you debate my next assignment.”

“Let me call for an attendant,” Troy offered.

“I’ll fare well enough on my own,” Torin assured him, turning toward the exit flaps.

He acted as if nothing were amiss as he brushed past the sentries. And yet his head was spinning, his stomach roiling. The open air did little to help. As the crest of the sun dipped below the western horizon, he half trudged, half stumbled his way up a shallow rise. Upon reaching the top, he collapsed to one knee. He drew the Sword, but its warmth seemed as diffuse as the fading, dusk-choked daylight.

It’s over.

He thrust the blade’s point into the earth, and watched the soft glow of flames that arose. His forehead lowered until it touched the pommel in defeat.

It’s over.

He did not understand the malady taking hold, but could not deny its effects. His entire body ached, wracked from within. He needed to retch, but could not seem to do so. He wanted to weep, but no tears would come. A wringing hollowness gripped him, as if some primeval force were turning him inside out.

How had this happened? He had always tried to live nobly, to conduct himself with selflessness and honor. So why did he continue to reap only failure and disappointment for himself and those around him? How had all his yearnings, all his efforts, come only to this?

His hand clenched the Sword’s hilt, seeking to choke the answers from the talisman’s flaming depths. But the truth lay buried, like the secret of the fires themselves. Those damned, crimson fires…

His knee throbbed; his shoulder ached. Buried scars welled up amid fresh wounds, until a lifetime of cuts and scrapes and bruises seemed to assail him all at once. Worse was the brewing sting of failure that came with it. Every heartache, every rejection, every setback he had ever known seemed to be pushing toward the surface with taunting, gut-wrenching force. As the pain began to overwhelm him, he gritted his teeth and fought back, clamped down against an eruption of madness.

“This is not the end,” someone said.

He turned his head just enough to catch Annleia’s gaze. The bubble of agony subsided as she approached, replaced by the emptiness he’d felt a moment before.

“If I may?” she asked.

He searched quickly for others. She had come alone. He wasn’t sure what difference that should have made, but it struck him as faintly invigorating.

“You are wrong to lament today’s defeat,” she continued, stepping closer.

“A courageous struggle, but meaningless.”

Torin glared. For one so perceptive, how could she fail to understand? He’d left all he was upon that battlefront, all he’d ever hoped to be. For him, this had not been just another skirmish, but the culmination of his life’s purpose.

“Meaningless?” he echoed, choking on the word.

“Our true objective remains to the east, whether our armies stand here, or if still within the Gaperon.”

Torin looked away, shaking his head and giving her his back once more. “Another failure, Annleia. Like all that have come before. What difference does it make who is right, you or Allion? No matter how I choose to fight, the result is the same.”

“Too often, failure is a choice, used by those who would evade further challenge.”

Had he the strength, Torin might have laughed. “Choices? Oh, I’ve made plenty enough of those. And been wrong, as you say, time and again.”

His decision to seek the Sword in the first place had permitted the destruction of Diln. Drawing the blade had unleashed the Illysp. Accepting Darinor’s charge to find the Vandari had very nearly cost them this war before it had truly begun. Even his decision to forfeit his life for Allion’s had proven to be an egregious error—the worst of all, perhaps. Thinking back, he wondered if Cianellen hadn’t tried to warn him. Had she foreseen the devastation that would result? If so, he hadn’t bothered to listen.

“Yet in each instance,” Annleia pressed, “you made the best decision you could with what you knew at the time. Is that not so?”

He dimly recalled voicing that same argument with Allion. It sounded now like self-justification, as the hunter had claimed. “Don’t try to label me innocent, Annleia. You have no idea what I’ve done.”

“I know you to have a kind and dutiful heart. I know that you have confronted every challenge set before you, no matter the personal risk. I know that you have sacrificed—”

“Sacrifice?” he balked, no longer able to control a simmering fury.

“Not once have you—”

“Sacrifice?” he repeated, his voice becoming shrill.

“Both great and small, whatever was required.”

And suddenly he was on his feet, spinning angrily, lashing out. “Your mother is dead!” he roared, brandishing the Sword at his side. “I killed her!
She
is the one who sacrificed. She offered up her life to help cover your people’s retreat, and I took it!”

He stood over her, teeth clenched, his chest heaving. The Sword flared in his hand. Annleia’s face was a mask of horror. Here, at last, he would have from her the loathing he deserved.

Instead, her eyes began to water, and her legs crumbled beneath her. Torin might have caught her, but reaching out would have been yet another affront. His heart fell as she sat upon the earth, legs folded awkwardly, downcast eyes peering into her lap.

She remained like that for a long moment, sobbing quietly. Her right hand reached out to grasp the wellstone cupped within her left. He had already lost the will to tell her the rest: that he had left Laressa behind in that valley, her body intact. Likely as not, Annleia could determine that for herself.

He felt his sword arm lowering. His gut churned, sickened anew. The acid silence grew thick. But what was he to say?
I’m sorry
?

“I should have told you before. I had no right…”

His words trailed away as she shuddered. A moment later, he thought he heard her speaking—the faintest whisper, a prayer in her Illian tongue.

“I knew,” she said finally, without looking up. “Somehow, in my heart, I already knew.”

He hesitated, then crouched before her, laying the Sword upon the ground.

“No,” she said, swiping at her cheeks. “This, we do not share.” Her gaze fell upon the Sword. “Pick that up.”