The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (7 page)

Both men’s hands froze upon the hilts of their swords.

“Master Allion,” one of them offered, peering through the evening dusk, “is that you?”

“Tell me first who
you
are,” the hunter replied, “and what you are doing in my woods.”

“My lord, we are come from Krynwall. We bear a message for His Lord Regent Allion.”

“And what message would that be?”

“Are you indeed Master Allion?” the other of them asked.

“My proof will be this shaft through your throat. Deliver your message.”

“My lord,” the first replied hastily, “there has been an accident—at Krynwall, my lord. It happened late last night, not long after you left.”

Marisha.
Allion’s throat constricted. “
What
happened, Corporal?”

“We do not know, my lord, only that Master Stephan begs you hurry home at once.”

Allion tried to tell himself that it could mean anything. But Stephan had learned of his departure—and likely his destination, for these riders to have found him. That meant that Marisha—or Pagus—had told him, and neither would have done so unless the need were dire.

“That is all of it? You are sure?”

“Yes, my lord.”

An
accident
, they called it. News deemed too terrible to be delivered secondhand.

“We ride for Krynwall,” he agreed, spurring himself to action before his heart could sink further. He had been a fool to come here. Marisha had warned him. Why hadn’t he listened?

The messengers helped him to retrieve his horses. No mention was made of the shovel or litter left behind in the grove, nor of the wagon he chose to abandon once they reached the main road. With all haste, Allion galloped westward in the murky light of a forbidding sunset, driven by an uncertain horror, and with those who had delivered it in tow.

V
ORRIC
H
AZE WAITED UNTIL
A
LLION
and his messengers had left before venturing forth from his place of concealment. Once again, his knowledge and intuition had served him well. He had known that riders would be dispatched in search of Allion to inform the regent of the murders in Marisha’s chambers. Having escaped the city with his own contingent ahead of time, the former First Elder and now wielder of the Crimson Sword had been well on his way by then. They had headed east, for that was where an army of their brood lay in wait—an army of which Haze now intended to take command.

But that had not been his only reason for taking the eastern road. In truth, he had already come to suspect what Allion was about, and the direction in which the regent had headed. When finally those bearing the sash of royal dispatch had galloped past, with Haze and his escorts tucked out of sight along the woodland road, the Elder had led his team in furtive pursuit, presuming that they would lead him to his quarry.

They had.

“We should have killed them,” one of Haze’s guardsmen grumbled.

There were only two of them now—Fasor undiscovered as Illychar. Held in reserve while Haze had confronted Marisha, the duo had joined him in setting forth from Krynwall. There might have been three, but Haze had decided to put an end to the one Marisha had crippled.

Still, even odds should he have decided to attack Allion and his escorts. But he had deemed it an unnecessary risk. He had not come here to claim Allion, but the former wielder of the Crimson Sword—he who might be able to share with Vorric Haze a measure of its secrets.

He explained none of this to his disgruntled guardsman, only glared in warning before continuing on through the trees. Except for the stream, the grove was silent, serene. A fresh and unprotected grave lay in a wash of filtered moonlight. A litter lay nearby, and next to that, a single shovel.

Haze picked up the shovel and handed it to the questioning guardsman. “Dig,” he commanded. To the other, he said, “Stand watch.” When both looked to him for further explanation, he replied with a withering scowl. “I would have a word or two with your former lord.”

C
ORATHEL HELD HIS BREATH AS
he held his salute. This was the report he had been anxiously awaiting for two days now. But given the grim set of his scout’s jaw, he was no longer certain he wished to hear it.

“Report.”

“Sir. Atharvan is besieged, and in desperate need of reinforcement. I estimate her enemies’ number at twenty thousand, sir.”

The chief general of the Parthan Legion felt his stomach knot. Just as they’d feared. Worse, even. When his scouts had returned with word that the western cities of Laulk and Leaven were all clear, he had dared hope that those fears might prove unfounded. It would seem he had given to hope too soon.

They had commenced their homeward trek from the Gaperon two nights previous, prepped and ready to march even before receiving the message from Allion urging them to do so. Darinor had played them false. The mustering of Pentanian armies into a central coalition, intended to draw the enemy into battle at a place of their choosing, had been a ruse, it seemed, meant to strip the various homelands of their defenses. Krynwall had already been ambushed. There was no telling which city—or cities—would be next.

Now they knew.

“Have you anything further?” the chief general asked.

“No, sir. All else is quiet, sir.”

Of course it was. Most of the major cities and holdfasts lining central Partha had been annihilated by the swarms of dragonspawn unleashed by the Demon Queen. And this latter threat had emerged before they’d had a chance to even begin rebuilding. Survivors throughout Partha had flocked to the capital city of Atharvan, to the east, or sought refuge behind the walls of Laulk and Leaven, to the west. Outside of that, his country was a wasteland.

“Have any of the others reported in, sir?” the scout asked him.

No. Nor could the chief general be assured that they would. Of the scouts he had sent out, less than half had returned. Waylaid at the very least. More likely ambushed and killed by rogue packs of the enemy. Giving him an incomplete view of what they faced, and making information such as he had just received ever more difficult to come by.

“Yours is the first we’ve heard of the east,” he admitted. “I expect reports from the others soon.”

The rider nodded, though his hopeful countenance fell.

“Dismissed, Corporal. Take your rest.”
You’re going to need it.

“Yes, sir.”

Corathel sat astride his mount for some time after the scout had left, watching his forces march past on either side. If any looked to him, he did not see it, for his own gaze was fixed upon the plains to the east. He had thought to keep them moving throughout the night, thinking to return home as quickly as possible—to get them behind Atharvan’s walls before allowing them sleep. But this news changed everything.

“Sergeant,” he called, summoning the lieutenant commander of his personal regiment to his side.

“Sir?” the man greeted, pushing his way through the buffer of marching soldiers his chief general had placed between them.

“Call a halt, and summon my lieutenant generals for a command council. Have my tent erected here on this ridge.”

“Yes, sir.”

B
Y THE TIME HIS COUNCIL
convened, the chief general knew already what he must do. After sharing with his division commanders the word from Atharvan, he delivered his orders.

“Your men are to receive a half night’s rest. After that, the Second, Third, and Fourth Divisions resume march to the east. The Fifth marches north to reinforce Leaven. The Sixth will do the same for Laulk.”

As expected, the orders touched off a minor debate among his most senior officers.

Lar, the soft-spoken giant who commanded the Fourth Division, was the first to speak. “With respect, sir, Laulk and Leaven have been reported clear. Why divide the legion when, by the sounds of your report, all will be needed at Atharvan?”

“Because we don’t know that either will remain clear for long, and I would rather have our armies inside the walls when the enemy comes.”

“Atharvan shields more than Laulk and Leaven combined,” Fifth General Dengyn reminded him, “not to mention the king himself.”

“I’m aware of that, General. But I will not favor one city over another, picking and choosing as to which shall be spared.”

“Either way, we weaken our overall strength by splitting our forces,” added Bannon, lieutenant general of the Sixth Division. “And you ask us to do so not once, but twice.”

“For a time only,” Corathel corrected. “If possible, I want those two western cities rolled into one. When you have reached Laulk, your division, General, is to escort her people east through the mountains to join those at Leaven.”

That made sense to everyone, since all assembled knew Leaven to be more defensible than her sister city, and no nearer the conflict since this conflict surrounded them.

“Shouldn’t those of us headed to Atharvan be on the move?” Jasyn asked with typical eagerness. “It’ll do us no good to arrive after the city falls.”

“You know as well as I that our lord king can hold out for a couple of
days, even with the limited garrison we left behind. I will not race my men into battle only to deliver them faint from forced march and lack of sleep.”

“Perhaps I could lead an advance cavalry company, just to relieve pressure.”

Corathel shook his head. “Patience, my friend. There will be battle aplenty before the week is done.”

The Second Division’s commander frowned, but withheld further protest.

“As good a plan as any,” Maltyk offered in support. “Until we know more, I see no better alternative.” The Third General’s voice was the last to be heard, but put an end to further discussion.

“You know your assignments, then,” the chief general concluded. “Advise your units. We strike camp upon the Vulture’s Hour.”

A
LLION STRODE BRISKLY DOWN THE
castle corridor, step for step with the page sent to escort him. He could have throttled the lad for not simply giving him a destination and letting him be on his way, but this was one of Rogun’s own. On top of that, soldiers lined the walls of this lower passage, stone-faced sentinels hand-selected for their loyalty to the general.

The hunter gave little thought to what it might mean. He had not slept in over a day now, and only a few fitful hours in the last three. Emotionally drained and physically exhausted, it was all he could do to recognize where he was and to keep his body upright. Only one thing allowed him to do either: the need to know what had become of Marisha.

At long last, the page stopped beside a door warded by no fewer than four watchmen—this in addition to the score or more they had passed en route. Their captain returned the page’s salute, glanced at Allion, then moved at once to unlock and open the guarded portal.

The page turned to the weary hunter. “I shall inform the lord general of your arrival,” he said.

Allion ignored him. For as the door opened, he caught sight of Stephan, who knelt beside a bed in which Marisha lay motionless.

He said nothing to page or guardsmen, but rushed inside, only vaguely aware of the door being closed and locked behind him.

Stephan rose to meet him. “My lord, praises be, you’ve returned.”

Allion brushed right past, his heart in his throat and fresh tears in his eyes. “Is she…”

“Resting, my lord.”

A soft laugh burst from the hunter’s lips, part sob, part sigh of relief. He gazed down upon Marisha’s slumbering form. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Her skin seemed paler than usual, and her lips were tinged blue. A pile of blankets and heavy quilts covered her.

“What happened?” he whispered.

“She nearly drowned, my lord.” There was sadness in his tone, but a touch of bitterness as well. “The Ceilhigh alone could have saved her from that fall.
And were it not for the sentries who happened by on patrol…” He shook his head as if to clear away the thought. “By rights, my lord, she should have been killed.”

Allion touched her forehead, then gently brushed a hair from her lips. It was so hard not to wake her, to reach beneath the covers to grasp her hand, to kiss her and tell her how sorry he was.

“If only the others had been as lucky,” the chief seneschal added solemnly.

“What others?”

“Corman, my lord, and Brae and Donal.”

City Shield, Allion recalled. His men, from a time not so long ago, when he had served as their captain.

“Elders Logrim and Kamis, as well,” Stephan continued, “and…”

When he did not finish, Allion turned to find the seneschal wiping his eyes.

“And Pagus, my lord.”

A sudden warmth billowed through him, flush with horror and denial.

“What? No.”

Stephan composed himself and nodded. “He tried to defend her, my lord, against Thaddreus and those under his command.”

“Thaddreus?” Allion’s head swam. He could hardly believe it. “
Elder
Thaddreus?”

Stephan nodded. “An Illychar, judging by his deeds, and the others—all but Pagus and Corman—with him. They—”

“Why was I not sent for earlier?”

Stephan seemed startled by the rebuke. “My lord?”

“Your riders claim this happened not long after I left. Why did it take them so long to reach me?”

“My lord, I was busy with preparations for the arrival of Baron Nevik and his retinue. It was some time before I learned of the struggle in my lady’s chambers. Even then, I knew not the extent of it, nor where word should be sent, since my lord did not bother to let me know he was leaving.”

The steward’s plump cheeks had grown redder than usual—in embarrassment, perhaps, or indignation. Allion suspected the latter, given the man’s reproachful tone. The hunter decided to forgive his friend’s frustration, however, for the reprimand was well deserved.

“As soon as she revived,” Stephan went on, when it became clear Allion did not mean to chastise him, “the lady insisted that riders be sent to fetch you. For even the swiftest horse, Diln is a half day’s ride, my lord.”

“You have done what you could, then,” the hunter allowed. “For that, you have my thanks.”

It was not exactly the apology he felt Stephan was looking for, but as close as the steward was going to get.

“My lord, Elder Thaddreus escaped, and the Sword with him.”

Allion blinked, then felt a new hole open up inside him.

At that moment, Marisha coughed, and both men spun back to her. Allion, who had closed his eyes against hearing any more, opened them now as Marisha’s fluttered wide.

Her blue orbs found him. “Allion?”

She shifted within her cocoon. Allion placed a hand atop the mound of covers where he had seen
her
hand begin to rise. He knelt and kissed her forehead.

“I’m here, Marisha.”

A wan smile loosened her lips, but quickly faded. Tears welled within her eyes. “Pagus…” she tried, but couldn’t finish.

Allion hushed her. “I know, Marisha. I…” He knew not where to begin. There was so much he wished to say to her, so many apologies he wished to make. His grief for Torin had blinded him to what was most important: those still fighting for a chance to live. He realized that now, and wanted to swear to her that he would not make that same mistake twice.

Marisha wept silently for a moment, then asked, “Did you get to…? Is Torin…?”

“Torin is home now. I won’t be leaving you again.”

Her features tightened with sudden urgency. “The Sword—”

“That doesn’t matter.” And it didn’t. Not to him. Not in that moment.

“We’ll be all right, Marisha, with or without it.”

“My lord,” Stephan interjected quietly, “there is more you should know.”

Allion tensed, wishing suddenly that the other wasn’t there, but forced himself to nod. “So tell me.”

“My lord, riders and emissaries have begun to return with word from abroad. Kuuria is secure, and western Partha, my lord. But Atharvan is under attack, surrounded as we were. Only, they have no armies to protect them, and are begging aid.”

“And what is the Circle’s response?” Allion asked with resignation.

“My lord, the Circle no longer rules Krynwall.”

The hunter turned his head. “What?”

“The Elders are no longer in control, my lord. General Rogun has established martial law.”

Allion looked back to Marisha. Her somber expression confirmed the truth. One day. He’d been gone only a single day, and in that short span, his worst fears had been realized. The Sword gone, the city fallen from within, Marisha nearly killed. And yet, could he really have prevented any of it?

Just then, the door to the chamber opened, and a pair of guardsmen stepped in. Another pair followed, and another, forming up to either side to create an aisle between them. Through this aisle stepped Commander Zain, and finally, General Rogun himself.

The door closed. A temporary silence hung in the air.

“Master Allion, welcome home,” the general greeted. “And Lady Marisha, I’m pleased to see you awake.”

Neither replied. Allion glanced at Zain, who flashed him a weasel’s smirk.

“I trust you find your quarters suitable?” Rogun asked.

Allion cast about, noticing for the first time the fine appointments given to this makeshift infirmary suite.

“I am quite comfortable, General, thank you,” Marisha replied.

“And well protected,” Allion added, somewhat dryly.

“I would not risk a repeat of last night’s tragedy,” Rogun remarked, standing there with arms crossed. “Surely you do not disapprove.”

Allion dipped his head in stoic acknowledgment. There seemed little point in quarreling over the issue. Whatever his grievances with the general, he did appreciate the aid rendered Marisha, though it would seem he had made a captive of her—of all of them—in doing so.

“Judging by your brooding,” Rogun continued, “I presume our good seneschal has already briefed you on recent developments.”

“I’ve just learned that the army has taken control of the city.”

“In the absence of king, regent, and First Elder, the people have demanded it, and the remaining members of the Circle are not so foolish as to fight it.”