Eldon
THOMPSON
THE
Obsidian Key
Book Two of The Legend of Asahiel
Books by Eldon
Thompson
The Legend ofAsahiel
Book One: The Crimson Sword
Book Two: The Obsidian Key
Forthcoming in hardcover:
Book Three: The Divine Talisman
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously
and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
EOS
An Imprint ofHarperCollinsPublishers
Copyright © 2006 by Eldon Thompson
Yawacor map by Tone Rodriguez
Pentania map by David Cain
ISBN: 978-0-06-074153-2
ISBN-10:0-06-074153-8
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used
or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in
the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For
information address Eos, an Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
First Eos paperback printing: March 2007 First Eos
hardcover printing: July 2006
HarperCollins® and Eos® are registered trademarks of
HarperCollins Publishers.
Printed in the
10 987654321
If you purchased this book without a
cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported
as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author
nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
MATT BIALER for leading the crusade when there was nothing but a
dream.
THE
Obsidian Key
Contents
Maps: Pentania
Chapter 1 Chapter 16 Chapter 31 Chapter 46 Appendices
Chapter 2 Chapter
17 Chapter 32 Chapter 47 Eldon Thompson
Chapter 3 Chapter
18 Chapter 33 Chapter 48
Chapter 4 Chapter
19 Chapter 34 Chapter 49
Chapter 5 Chapter
20 Chapter 35 Chapter 50
Chapter 6 Chapter
21 Chapter 36 Chapter 51
Chapter 7 Chapter
22 Chapter 37 Chapter
52
Chapter 8 Chapter
23 Chapter 38 Chapter 53
Chapter 9 Chapter
24 Chapter 39 Chapter 54
Chapter
10 Chapter 25 Chapter 40 Chapter 55
Chapter
11 Chapter 26 Chapter 41 Chapter 56
Chapter
12 Chapter 27 Chapter 42
Chapter
13 Chapter 28 Chapter 43
Chapter
14 Chapter 29 Chapter 44
Chapter
15 Chapter 30 Chapter 45
CHAPTER 0NE Back Table of Contents Next
The winter storm tore across the land,
ripping and snarling like a caged beast set free at last. Its howling breath
wailed in his ears. Its frigid claws raked his skin. The darkness of its maw
enveloped the earth, rendering deliberate progress a fool's dream.
Gram looked again to his battered compass, scraping at
the ice that shielded its surface. Its needle swung uselessly, drawn in random
circles. He shook the instrument, cursing it to the smelter of Achthium's
Forge. To the west were the Skullmars, the treacherous peaks from which they'd
been blown off course. To the east, the tempest of the sea. Or so he assumed.
The world around him had disappeared, its planes and edges forced together in a
hazy smear. Head bowed, eyes squinting against frenzied gusts of windblown
earth, he could scarcely spy the ground beneath his feet, let alone even the
largest of markers that might guide him home.
He risked a backward glance to check on his
companions. He could see but one, Raegak, tethered to him at the waist in their
makeshift line. Beyond that, the rope stretched into the swirling void of
pelting ice and strafing winds. He could only hope the others were still there,
knowing that to become separated now would mean dying alone in these frozen
wastes.
Not that remaining together afforded great
consolation. Truth was, they were hopelessly lost, miles from the safety and
comfort of their subterranean home. And even if home lay just around the bend,
were they to stumble half a step to the left or right, they might pass right on
by without ever knowing it.
Raegak glanced up, eyes hollow, snow clinging to his beard.
Grum looked quickly away, hiding his compass within a gnarled fist, determined
to mask his dismay. He was toifeam, leader of this expedition, and by
Achthium, he would see them through.
To accentuate this silent oath, he crammed the
worthless compass deep into a leather pouch. At that same moment, the earth
fell away, and he found himself scrabbling against a clutching blackness. Chunks of ice
and gravel skittered beneath his feet, while a shower of snow cascaded about
him. Everything seemed to be sucking him down, down into some depthless—
A sharp tug caught him about the waist, folding him
violently forward and snatching the wind from his lungs. For a moment he slid
downward again, before coming to a lurching halt. Curtains of snow slid past as
his companions struggled with their footing above. He hung there, twisting in
the abyss, before reaching up for the lip of the pit, where Raegak, stout legs
braced against the earth, bent down and offered a leather-wrapped hand.
Moments later, Grum huddled with his companions around
the rim of the breach, peering into its depths. Should it prove to be the
shelter that saved them, he would forgive himself his fright from the fall.
Nevertheless, he had lived in these mountains long enough to know not to trust
them. Such clefts might become fissures descending hundreds, even thousands of
feet—or if not, might open into the den of some surly creature in no mood to
share its home. Even the most foolish of his kin knew better than to enter such
an opening without knowing what lay within.
Producing a flint and steel with frozen hands, Grum
worked to light the pitch-coated head of a thornweed firebrand. But no sooner
did the sparks flare to life than they were borne away by shrieking flurries.
Grum persisted, ignoring the stiffness setting into his unmoving joints, lips
pressed tight in a determined frown. At last, feeling the hopeless stares
of his comrades upon him, he slipped his flint back
into its pouch and motioned for Raegak to put the torch away.
He regarded each of his companions in turn—Raegak,
Durin, Alfrigg, and Eitri. Friends for more than a generation, they held a
shared understanding, their faces reflecting hopes and fears that mirrored his
own. They would have to risk it. To prolong their exposure any longer would be
fatal.
After a few quick signals, each began working loose
the knot that bound him to his companions. Gram alone left his intact, for he
would be lowered first. Only after assuring himself of the relative safety of
this hidden cave would the others follow. With any luck, nature's wrath would
expire by morning and allow them to begin the task of finding their way back
from this wayward trek.
With the thickness of their gloves—and the fingers
within numbed almost beyond use—even this simple task proved arduous. Doubled
over, they picked at the iced ropes while quivering lips muttered private
oaths. Grum watched them for a moment, until a flicker of motion drew his
attention down into the hole. He leaned forward, peering intently, but saw only
the void. He was about to shake it off as a trick of the storm when it came
again, just a hint of movement, of something even darker than the ink in which
it swam, shriveled and twisted, almost like—
He fell back as the thing shot forward, blinding in
its swiftness. There was a flap of wings, a splash of blood, and a terrible
cry that just barely resounded in the din of the gale. By the time Grum had
regained his balance, Raegak knelt in the snow, his empty shoulder socket
gushing. Already, the thing had moved on. An ebony claw seized Alfrigg by the
face. He screamed as barbed nails gouged his flesh, tearing free chunks of skin
and even an eyeball. Before he, too, had fallen to his knees, a silent Durin
lay gasping, his throat flayed wide.
Grum brought his pick-axe up just in time to deflect a
strike from the whirlwind that pressed him. It hit him like a sack of gravel,
and off he flew into the blizzard, the pick-axe sailing from his grasp. He
caught a glimpse of red-bearded Eitri, battle-axe drawn, peering up at a
shapeless mass of whipping black tendrils—like a shredded pennant snapping in
the breeze. Raegak, the iron bear, was rising to his feet. Then the battle
scene vanished, devoured by a roaring curtain of ice.
Down an invisible slope he flew, skidding headfirst on
his backside. His fingers clawed desperately, leather gauntlets plowing the
frozen earth. As before, however, he jerked to a halt almost before he realized
what was happening. This time, the rope bit into his skin, wedged into a seam
of his woolen garments. He grimaced sharply, then reached immediately for his
own battle-axe, his first and only thought that his companions needed him.
That changed when the rope about his waist gave a
sharp tug. He sat up, seeking to find his feet, when another yank threw him
down once more. He knew straightaway by the strength of the force that it was
not his companions who were at the other end, hauling him back.
Panic seized him. Instinctively, he gave up trying to
free the unwieldy battle-axe and reached instead for his smaller hand-axe.
It slipped from his belt as the creature snatched his
ankle with a crushing grip. Grum felt his bones splinter, and he arched his
back in agony, letting loose an involuntary wail. His enemy pulled, dragging
him up toward the lip of the hole that moments before had tempted him with
salvation. Summoning his strength, Grum bucked at the waist and brought the
blade of his weapon down hard. A shriek rang out, and as the creature recoiled,
Grum aimed a second strike at the length of rope that served as his tether. It
split at once, curled up against the edge of a stone and cleaved by the
diamond-edged sharpness of his blade. As his enemy leaned in, more carefully
this time, Grum gave a shout and hurled himself out of harm's way.
The fire in his ankle erupted as he bounced and rolled
down the mountainside. The slope wasn't steep, but the icy conditions would not
allow him to slow. Nor did he try. Using gravity as his ally, he clenched his
jaw and rolled onward, as far and fast as his god would allow. He gave no
thought to where he was going. His only prayer was that whatever he had
uncovered would not give chase.
He should have known better. The
It was the light that woke him, illuminating a world
both foreign and familiar. A world without color, sound, or smell. Yet it
remained, somehow, a world of pain.
Numbed, yes, though not so fully that he was dead to
its touch. It coursed through him in shallow waves, radiating from one area in
particular. Drawn down the length of his body, his gaze fell upon the region of
his lower left leg.
Understanding, creeping along, a pace or two behind,
leapt forth like a thief from the bushes. Although packed loosely in fallen
snow, his shattered anklebone lay exposed enough to reveal the truth. His
memory flashed back in an instant to the secret cave, the sudden struggle, his
rolling flight from the savage creature that had ambushed them all.
And after? He opened his eyes, realizing only then
that he had closed them against the onrush of mental imagery. His colorless
prison he now recognized as a crevasse, a scar in the surface-earth whose floor
was filled with a mattress of snow. This bedding had saved him, unless he
missed his guess, for the rift's opening stood at least two dozen feet above
where he now lay. The breach itself had been plugged by a wedge of ice and
boulders, sent skidding after him as part of the small avalanche he had no
doubt triggered. A fortunate turn, really, for the natural barrier had
sheltered him from both beast and storm—the only explanation as to why he still
drew breath.
Any joy wrought by this discovery quickly faded, however,
as he thought of his friends. He had to assume they had perished, far from
their homes in the shadow-earth, made to face death out of doors like a pack of
wild dogs. He shut his eyes in pained remembrance: Raegak, bairn of Raethor;
Durin, bairn of Nethrim; Alfrigg, bairn of Adwan; Eitri, bairn of Yarro.
And Tyrungrum, bairn of Garungum, he added harshly,
tacking his own name to the list. For if he did not haul himself from this hole
quickly, it would become his cairn. Dwarven flesh or no, he could not survive
these elements forever. If the cold did not claim him, his hunger would. As it
was, he ran the risk of being buried alive if he could not dig free before the
next layer of snow fell.
Tentatively, Grum lifted an arm from where it lay
half-buried in powdery snowfall. He reached first for his face and then his
head, feeling along its growths and protuberances, tracing the signature
collection of bone spurs that marked him unique among his people. At least a
handful of those spurs—along with his nose—were frostbitten, he was sure. But
that was the least of his concerns.
Somewhat encouraged, he shook free his other arm and,
worked now to pat along his chest and each of his gnarled limbs, making sure
all was intact. It took more than a steep fall to damage a Hrothgari, he
thought heartily. His brightening mood, however, lasted only as long as it
took to haul himself into a sitting position, at which point the pain in his
crushed ankle flared to agony. He gritted his teeth, waiting for the
body-stiffening waves to subside. Eventually they did, though he shuddered to
think of how it would feel once he had thawed.
First things first, he reminded himself, forcing his
eyes open and his head back. At least the storm had passed. The sun shone
brightly through cracks in the ceiling of his shelter— and through those covered
areas where the ice and snow was thinnest. Water dripped here and there, mostly
to catch along cavern walls already wet with moisture. It occurred to him that
his roof might melt suddenly and dump upon him. But then, that would be almost
too easy.
He cast about for his hand-axe, remembering belatedly
that he had let it go early on after making his escape, so as not to carve his
own hide during his frantic tumble. His pickaxe was gone as well. All that
remained to him was the hefty battle-axe—strapped to his pack—that he had been
unable to free
in the fight above. A poor climbing tool, but it would have to suffice.
As he reached around to grip the weapon's familiar
haft, he recalled his final vision of Eitri, axe in hand to face certain
death. In another time and place, the image might have brought tears to his
eyes. But time now was his enemy. He would pay tribute to his comrades and beg
their families' forgiveness later.
Biting down against a pain made worse by the slightest
of movements, he shifted his pack from his knotted shoulders. When at last he
had shrugged free, he paused to catch his breath. He then brought the pack
around in front of him, careful to set it to the side and not on his lap. He
paused momentarily to admire the bag's straps and buckles, not one of which
had failed him.
Then he went to work.
Like it or not, he had to do something about his leg.
He didn't need to see beneath his boot to know that his toes would be purple
with blood loss! Judging by its mashed appearance, the limb was lost to him,
if not now, then by the time he dragged it back to Ungarveld. But fresh wounds
were often deceiving, and he preferred that a surgeon make the final
determination—not to mention any amputation. Still, he could not have it
flinging about, threatening his climb at every pull.
After some quick rummaging, he pulled free an unguent,
then changed his mind and took three long draughts from his mead cask. Only
then did he dip his fingers in the salve with grim intent. Rather than cut away
his boot and leave his foot exposed, he reached carefully inside the padded
interior...
A mere brush against the damaged area was like bathing
it in molten metal. His resulting bellow echoed in the confines of the narrow
cavern and within the canyons of his throbbing ears.
The noise, as much as the pain, gave him pause. He bit
off his own scream - nearly taking his tongue off in the bargain - and shook
his head, which swelled with the un-released pressure. As spasms wracked his
body, he listened intently, fearful of what monsters the outburst might bring
down upon him.
But as the moments passed, and the only sounds
remained those muffled by me closeness of his icy tomb, he began to relax and
think clearly once more. Had the creature from above wanted him, it would have
sniffed him out the night before. His trek had taken him into the southern
reaches of the Skullmars along the eastern coastline. His friends were dead.
Just who did he suspect might hear him?
He'd spent just a short time alone, and already he was
raving. He needed to get moving before madness set in.
He decided against further use of the unguent. As of
this moment, he'd be lucky to die of infection. And its numbing properties
wouldn't do much more than the snow already had.
Seeing no way around it, he doubled up a length of
leather and placed it in his mouth to guard against further screams. He then
unstoppered his scroll tube, set aside the rolled maps of tanned goatskin, and
used a diamond-edged dirk to split the hard leather canister down its center. After
carving out the base, he had himself the makings of an excellent splint.
Lashing the guard into place was another matter. By
his estimation, it took more than fifty drips from Achthium's Spear, though the
great stalactite by which his kinsmen gauged the passing of time was far away
from here. Still, he only lost consciousness once, and completed the task with
no more than a dozen swallows of mead. When finished, he felt immeasurably
better about his prospects.
He fastened his climbing spikes next, to the foot of
his good leg. He sure as stone wouldn't be putting any weight on the injured
one. His hammer and anchors hung in a pouch about his waist. The rest of his
belongings, those not needed for the actual climb, he left in his pack, to which
he measured and tied a long length of rope. He secured the other end to a rear
loop in his belt, making sure to leave plenty of slack. He could not have the
pack weighing him down, and yet he wanted to be sure he would be able to
retrieve it once he'd reached the top.
As a final precaution, he gathered as much loose snow
as possible into the
center of the chamber, so as to more deeply cushion any fall. After that, he
attached his hand spikes, mapped his desired path, and began to climb.
It seemed impossible at first. Just rolling over and
levering himself from the floor was a test of will unlike any he could recall.
As soon as he stood, the blood began returning to his feet, causing him to
swoon with agony. But the mead helped, and the thought of having to start all
over again kept him upright. Reaching up, he set his first anchor, buckled
tight his safety rope, and, with one leg, lunged for his first mark.
He made it, and clung there for some time, grimacing
in pain, wondering how in the world he could make himself do this. It would be
so much easier to simply lie down and let the ice take him. Yet he was
determined that if Achthium were to come for him, here and now, He would not
find him lying down.
It grew easier after that, though his pace was methodical
at best. From shelf to shelf he hauled himself, doing most of the work with his
hands, while using his good foot as his base. Where there wasn't a handhold, he
used his axe to chip away at the earthen skin. He set his anchors dutifully, at
least every third pull. Despite his best efforts to protect it, his wounded leg
bounced and swayed, clipping the stone every now and then, causing him to grind
his teeth into nubs. But the splint shielded him from the worst of these minor
collisions, allowing him to continue.
Hours passed. Hunger and thirst assailed him. Grum ignored
these aches as he did all the others, drawing himself ever higher, until at
last the doorway to his freedom came within reach.
Perched beneath the lip of the crevasse, he paused to
gather his strength. Above the sound of his own labored breathing, he heard
what he believed to be more than just the wind. There was that, to be sure,
whistling through the cracks of his ceiling, but there was something else,
deeper and angrier, the unmistakable restlessness of the sea. Had he and his
team strayed so far?
When ready, he set a final anchor and pulled forth his
axe. The daylight was fading, its red glow through the ice dimmed. The sooner
he emerged, the better, especially if he wished to find new, suitable shelter
before nightfall.
He stopped short, however, before making his first
cut. Once again, fear gripped him, the dread possibility that that creature
might still be out there, waiting for him. Hack through this blanket of packed
snow, and he might bring his own death down upon him.
Grum growled the notion away as he had before. If that
was his fate, so be it. He deserved no better than his friends. The snow was
thicker than it appeared, and more solid. Sun melt throughout the day had
helped turn it to ice. Grum braced himself as well as he could and continued to
chip away, forced to hit harder than he would have liked. After all, he had to
be careful not to dislodge the entire pack, for if he were to do so, he might
end up right back at the bottom.
As if made manifest by his concern, the wedge of ice
and stone gave a shudder before cracking and shearing away. A jagged boulder
struck his wrist, and his axe went spinning into the chasm below. Grum closed
his eyes and clung to the rock face, doing his best to ride out the sudden
storm. Had he glanced up, he might have seen the larger boulder that slipped
in after, skidding down from somewhere higher up the escarpment. When it struck
him, his world exploded, and amid the telltale song of snapping anchors, he
felt himself bouncing, flailing, plummeting once again, down into
darkness.
When consciousness next greeted him, Grum knew right
away that he was in worse shape than before. His head rang, and his vision
would not seem to clear. The snow around his head Was colored pink with blood,
and the pain in his crushed ankle reached now through both legs, clear to his
waist.
He lay this time upon his stomach, his arms sprawled
out in pinwheel fashion. When he brought them in and tried to push up, a
piercing agony in his lower region left him whimpering. He tried again, having
no other choice, and twisted his head around to survey the damage. A boulder
had landed atop him, sandwiching both legs, and now held him pinned.
Turning back, he cast about for his axe. A couple of
his teeth lay in the bloody snow, before him, and a hand went to his swollen
jaw. His weapon was nowhere to be seen, buried, in all likelihood, on the
other side of the cavern. If only he might have fallen on its edge, so as to
end his suffering quickly.
Instead, he kept himself alive for two more days. Foolish
hope, perhaps, or sheer stubbornness. He had no right to expect a rescue, and
there was no longer any way to set himself free. He ate the snow, though it
chilled him from within, while his shelter continued to ward him from the
storms that swept overhead. He became ill, and was set upon by delirium, to
the point that he was not surprised when the voices of his slain comrades began
to call down to him.
"Grum! Grum!"
Grum moaned and stirred, but was unable to escape the
haunting echoes.
"Grum, we're coming for you."
He dreamt then that they were there, surrounding him.
Durin and Alfrigg, even Raegak, with his missing arm, lowered down in a
leather sling. They inspected him, and let him sip mead. He mumbled his
apologies, but still the wayward spirits would not let him be. They dismissed
his concerns and whispered reassurances that all would be well.
The throbbing pain had for the most part died away,
but it wracked him anew as the boulder was shifted aside. There was more
discussion, and then he felt himself being hoisted skyward, no doubt lifting
free of his mortal coil so as to join the bellows winds of the Great Smithy in
His everlasting Earthforge.
The Forge itself was scintillating in its brightness.
Grum squinted against its glare as he was brought up from the fissure and
hauled from the sling. There was much more jostling than he had imagined might
be found in the afterlife. And no release from the pain. He felt himself being
set down again in the snow, the way it crunched beneath his weight. But if he
was now a spirit...
His eyes flickered open. The glare was gone, blocked
by the shadows of his friends, who encircled him. They were all there now, even
Eitri, who grinned broadly.
"Thought we might have smelled the last of
you," the red-bearded dwarf said.
Only then, as he heard the other's voice crisp and
clear in the brine-filled wind, did Gram realize the truth. He was not dead,
but very much alive. More importantly, so were his friends. Impossible, he
knew, but he could no longer deny the physical evidence.
"You're—" he tried to say, but his Voice
cracked, lending further proof to his realization. "You're alive."
His companions glanced at one another, their smiles
cold.
"And so shall you be, my athair" Raegak
offered. "So shall you be."
The others laughed, granting harshly. Gram's own mirth
began to fade as his gaze shifted from face to face. Something wasn't right. It
was clear his friends all bore the wounds from their final battle. What wasn't
clear was how they had survived them. Raegak's bloody stump was unbound.
Alfrigg's face remained a mangled mask of torn, flesh. Durin's laugh hissed
weirdly through shredded vocal cords.
He turned to Eitri, inspecting the other more closely?
A great gash was revealed in his side. Grum saw a hint of internal organs.
Like those of the others, the open wound did not seem to trouble him.
Grum felt his pulse quicken, yet wondered anew if he
might be dreaming.
Then the dagger struck his chest, biting his lung, so
that his scream was choked short by a mouthful of blood.
He looked over, gaping first at the familiar bone
handle protruding from his chest, then at the gloved hand of he who held it.
Raegak smiled and hissed in his ear, although Gram was no longer certain who
his friend was speaking to.
'Taste, my athair. Taste this realm of flesh."
*****
It was a world unglimpsed by man, a world of mystery
and wonder, uninhabitable by his standards of life. Yet there it flourished in
the lightless depths, a veritable jungle of exotic plants, animals, and
organisms—forms of life that were not troubled by the frigid cold and
impossible pressures, or that needed sunlight to thrive. Creatures here milked
the earth of its thermal energies, or fed upon those that did. They saw in ways
that beings of light could not, and dwelled their entire lives in isolation
from the world above—a world as separate and foreign to them as they to it.
Except for him.
He alone among his deep-sea brethren had seen that
world and others, he who bore an awareness and experience unmatched by any
mortal being. But this was his home now, and he had learned to cherish the
isolation of his surroundings, the tranquility of his final resting spot.
Untroubled by even the harshest elements of his environment, he had long ago
come to terms with his fate, even learned to take comfort in it. It was as good
a place as any in which to while away his eternity.
And yet, he could ignore the waking summons no more.
After weeks of restlessness, he had at last stirred to life, allowing his
barnacle-encrusted eyelid to slide slowly open. After so many centuries, so
many mortal ages, it had taken him but a moment to orient himself, lying upon
the bottom of the
A world to which he must soon return.
He shifted his gargantuan body, and the millions of
creatures that had made his coral-covered hide their home scattered. The
tides themselves recoiled, and beyond, the seeds of quests were sown—those of
the witch ... the avatar . . . the one who had unleashed this storm ... He
could feel their reactions, even if they as yet could not. For nothing so great
had ever lived—or ever would again.
Still, even he could not resist the call, that which
beckoned him to emerge, to make known his wrath upon the world. So be it. For
despite the passing of centuries, it felt as though he had just barely settled
down to rest, and his anger was indeed kindled. He would answer the call. He
would resume his timeless hunt. And he would feed.
CHAPTER TW0 Back Table of Contents Next
Torin ducked beneath the swinging sword,
close enough to feel the breeze of its passing against his sweating brow. He
followed up with a roundhouse kick, separating himself from his assailant,
clearing space in the battleground for the approach of the other two.
They came without hesitation, and he met them head-on.
As anticipated, one went low, the other high. Torin spun from the trap,
engaging with the fighter on his left so as to guard his flank. Doing so also
enabled him to avoid the blade of the first, whose return charge carried him
now headlong into his own companions, rather than into Torin's back.
As they took a moment to disentangle themselves and
catch their wind, Torin crouched low, measuring what he had learned so far.
Brown-beard was clearly the strongest of, the three, but also the slowest, with
a fondness for great, cleaving strikes meant to finish an opponent in one fell
swoop. Scar-cheek was fast, with rapid thrusts of a rapier whose pricks stung,
but had yet to do any real damage. Fish-eyes ... Fish-eyes seldom did anything
more than parry, as if afraid of taking a hit.
Truth be told, their individual skills complemented
one another well—if coordinated properly, they might make a formidable trio.
Fortunately for him, it seemed as though this was the first time these ruffians
had ever fought side by side.
With a growl, Brown-beard took up the charge, his comrades
following. They were determined; Torin would give them that. Heart pounding, he
raised his broadsword to meet them.
Lunging past another of Brown-beard's windmill
strikes, he took aim at the smaller Scar-cheek. The larger man was already
tiring, and Torin wanted to waste as few swings as necessary clashing with the giant
until it was time to bring him down. It was Scar-cheek for whom he had to
conserve his energy. That might best be done by getting rid of Fish-eyes, but
he first had to goad the mouse into a more offensive stance. Otherwise, he
might spend all day railing away at the other's perfect defenses.
Across the floor they danced in fiercest harmony.
Torin slipped around and through their chops and thrusts, dodging or parrying
a flurry of blows. He continued to focus on Scar-cheek, pressing the man at
every available juncture. At long last, Fish-eyes took the bait. No doubt
thinking himself forgotten, he made a lunge for Torin's exposed flank. In an
instant, Torin disengaged from Scar-cheek, driving the other's rapier up high
while he spun low. Fish-eyes had overextended himself. Torin saw it in
the man's eyes, which widened further in dismay. Hack, slash, twist—just as
he'd been taught—and Torin watched the other's weapon go flying. Another
well-placed kick sent the little man himself sailing after.
Torin smirked with satisfaction as he spun back to
intercept Scar-cheek's renewed assault. Brown-beard was huffing heavily now,
all but standing aside. The day was Torin's. One on one, he'd met only a
handful who could outduel him. His strength and energy actually increased as he
beat his enemy back, driven from within by the sureness of his victory. With
his heavier broadsword, he continued to slap the rapier out in ever-widening
circles until at last he saw the opening he needed.
But as he was about to deliver the final blow, a
burning pain sheared across his back. The hit was accompanied by a mighty
crack, and snatched the wind from his lungs. Releasing his sword, Torin
crumpled.
He managed to catch himself, but only on hands and
knees, where he clenched his teeth in anticipation of
the next strike.
"My lord ... my lord, I'm sorry," Fish-eyes
offered, bending to help his king.
Torin reached forth an arm to ward the little man off,
then at last drew a giant gulp of air into his starving lungs. He rocked back
on his heels, grimacing in relief as his breathing was restored and the worst
of the pain dispersed.
"My lord, I didn't mean ..."
Fish-eyes didn't seem to know how to finish, but
instead looked at his blunt-edged iron practice weapon and cast it aside as if
it had become a snake.
"All part of the training," Torin wheezed,
brushing aside the other's concern. He glanced to where the discarded weapon
clanged upon the arena floor. "What's your name, soldier?"
"Cordan, my lord. Of the City Shield."
Even now the lad appeared horrified at what he'd done.
Torin gave him a reassuring grin.
"Well played." He extended a hand so that
the other could help him up. Cordan did so, and seemed to finally relax once
they were both standing.
Torin turned to Scar-cheek. He always saved the
introductions until afterward, preferring to know nothing about his opponents
going in. "And you?"
"Evhan. First Rank. Also of the City
Shield."
"Bullrum," Brown-beard managed between
breaths. "Legion of the Sword. Friends call me Bull, Your Majesty."
"I can see why," Torin said.
"Shall we again?"
Torin turned. It was Evhan who spoke, still holding
his rapier at the ready.
For a moment, he considered granting the bold lad
another go. But then he looked to Bull, huffing still, leaning on his greatsword,
and to Cordan, whom he doubted he could convince to cough in his direction,
let alone take up arms—even practice ones—once more.
"I think that will be all for today,
Lieutenant." On the young man's crestfallen look, he added, "We'll
spar again, I grant you."
It was a promise seldom given. Torin much preferred to
exercise with those whose tendencies had to be learned on the spot. But he
liked the other's heart, and the fact that Evhan had yet to address him with
any form of royal endearment.
The young lieutenant at last lowered his sword and
gave a perfunctory bow. "As you wish," he said, though neither his
voice nor his countenance hid his disappointment.
With the decision made, Pagus came forward from the
edge of the chamber to help Torin from his lightly padded leather armor. Upon
his promotion to chief herald, Pagus had become more like a personal attendant
from whom Torin could seldom escape. He was young, having not yet completed
twelve full years. But in the short time Torin had spent here in Krynwall, he'd
found none other who could match the boy's enthusiasm. Besides that, he
continued to reserve a special significance for this lad who had hailed Allion
and Kylac's long-awaited return from
"This is a savage welt, my lord," Pagus
chided.
Torin winced as the boy's fingers poked at the streak
of inflamed skin that he could feel stretched across his naked back.
"Leave it be, then," he hissed, spinning
around to face the spiky-haired youth. The words left his mouth more sharply
than he'd intended, and so he chased them away with a laugh.
"Sorry, my lord," Pagus replied, hanging his
head. The leather vest in his other hand drooped toward the floor.
"No harm done," Torin assured him. "May
I have the Sword?"
Pagus grinned before setting down the vest and
shrugging out from under Torin's sword belt, which hung over his small shoulder
like a baldric.
The Sword of Asahiel.
The boy presented the divine talisman proudly, his
hands low on the scabbard so that Torin could take hold of it by the throat.
With his other hand, Torin clutched the weap-
on's hilt, that intricately carved crutch of silver
with its nine flaming heartstones—those principal, ruby like gems in which
swirled the same tendrils of crimson fire found in the blade. At a mere brush,
the Sword's strength coursed through him, dulling the pain and soothing his
wounded pride.
While using the weapon in sparring sessions, he'd been
able to carve through as many as two dozen men while taking nary a scratch—not
only because he had yet to find an armor or weapon the Sword could not slice
through like hot butter, and not only because of the endless reserves of stamina
it granted him. Mostly, it was due to the miraculous way in which he was able
to anticipate attacks before they happened, as though the Sword understood his
will and knew better than he how to execute it.
Pagus, as always, beamed at having served as the artifact's
temporary bearer. And, as always, Torin smiled in understanding. Forged by the
Ha'Rasha and made vessel to the power of the Ceilhigh, it was a wondrous weapon
from which he seldom parted. But in an effort to avoid becoming too reliant on
its divine nature, he exercised most often without it, choosing to test his own
burgeoning skills. And while these sessions often ended in painful lessons
such as this one—not to underestimate a downed enemy—Torin inevitably felt
better for the knowledge and talent gained.
After all, as he watched his fellow fighters Evhan and
Bull and Cordan limp from the arena clutching bruises of their own, he could
see that he'd administered at least as many hits as he'd received.
"Perhaps you should see Lady Marisha for a
salve," Pagus suggested.
"Ah, let it bruise," Torin decided, buckling
the Sword into place around his waist. 'The lady is likely not yet risen."
With Pagus's help, he returned his practice gear to
the storage racks before donning an open shirt and setting forth from the
sanctum of the training hall. Despite the fresh lumps and bruises, he did so
with a spring in his step. He always felt invigorated having taken his exercise
first thing in the morning; he found it gave him much-needed strength in
confronting his duties of the day.
No sooner had he exited the hall and turned the corner
than those duties found him.
"King Torin! King Torin, my lord!"
The urge to ignore the voice flared within him, but
Torin forced it down. It had been roughly twelve weeks since the death of the
Demon Queen, eight since his shattered world had been made whole by the
triumphant return of Allion and Kylac and Marisha's acceptance of his abrupt
marriage proposal. In that time, he had made numerous concessions, not the
least of which was the adoption of his birth name. He was Jarom of Diln no
longer, but Torin, king of Alson.
Not that he relished the title. On the contrary, it
had been the cause of more bother than he'd expected:—and he'd expected a
great deal. But there were too many battles to be waged on too many fronts to
allow for continued, futile resistance of rank and moniker.
"Good morning, Master Stephan," he greeted,
turning on his heel to meet the aging steward.
Stephan continued to jog toward him with that
strangely feminine gait—knees high, toes pointed, hands gripping his fancy
skirts so as to keep from tripping on his own robes. He held his breath in his
plump cheeks, so that the only sound was the rasp of his slippers on the stone
flooring. When,at last he reached a bemused Torin, he let that breath out in a
great puff along with small flecks of spittle.
"My lord,'General Rogun seeks audience with
you."
Torin resisted the urge to wipe clean his own face,
not wishing to offend. Stephan had been chief seneschal of Krynwall since the
time of Torin's father, King Sorl, before falling out of favor with his former
lord and ending up in Sort's dungeon. A merciful fate, it had turned out, for
as a prisoner, he had escaped the wrath of Soric, Torin's elder brother, during
the wizard's occupation of the city. For all his hate-driven behavior, Soric
had a soft spot, it seemed, for those branded as criminals—perhaps because he
had once been branded one himself.
"Can the general not wait until after
breakfast?" Torin asked.
Stephan shook his head. With those fatty cheeks and
his prominent front teeth, he looked rather like a chipmunk. "My first
question as well, my lord. The general felt the matter too urgent to
postpone."
Torin frowned, though he was not surprised. Seldom was
the day in which he did not have to face down Rogun on some issue, usually when
it was least convenient. The general, he believed, liked to keep him off
guard. Just one of the many games his new rank called upon him to play.
"Very well, you may tell the general..."
Torin hesitated. In addition to his many functions and
titles, Stephan often served as crier for any matter involving the royal
household—a task to which he was ill suited. As the seneschal continued to
catch his breath, sweat beaded oh his brow and ran down his reddened cheeks,
carrying the oils with which he kept his hair dyed black with false youth.
Torin hated seeing the man used as a runner. But then, they'd spoken of this
before, and it seemed there was no dissuading the proud steward from personally
fulfilling each and every one of his self-assumed duties.
"My lord?" Stephan asked, waiting
expectantly.
"I was just thinking of where the general might
meet with me."
"Right here should suffice," came the rugged
response.
Torin felt a weary weight settle about his shoulders.
The hard clop of boiled-leather boots and the jangle of spurs rang against the
stone walls as Rogun himself turned the corner.
"I thought I might catch you at play," the
general announced, having emerged from the passage that led back to Torin's
private sparring arena. "A short session today?"
"Long enough to get the blood flowing," Torin
replied.
"Your wounds aren't too grievous, I trust?"
Torin bristled at both the assumption and the other's
condescending stare.
"My lord," Stephan cut in, "shall I
have the cooks begin breakfast?"
Torin nodded. "I'll take it in my chambers. If
you would be so kind as to draw my bath?" Among everything else, Stephan
was pleased to serve as master chamberlain.
"Of course, my lord," he replied with a bow.
"Go with him," Torin said to Pagus.
Stephan scowled, but stopped short of refusing the
younger one's assistance. That also was a conversation they'd already had.
With both seneschal and herald slipping away, Torin
turned his full attention back to Rogun. "What can I do for you,
General?"
Rogun stepped forward. With the others gone, his imposing
bulk filled the narrow corridor. If he was an imperious man, he had every
right to be. Tall, powerfully built, he projected rugged manliness in every
way. Even in his face—from the wide jaw to the broad forehead to the thick
mustache hanging down over thin and weathered lips—all seemed as durable and
unyielding as mountain stone.
But with Rogun, looks did not begin to tell the story.
He was a fourth-generation soldier whose great-grandfather, Caruth, it was
said, once saved the life of the king in battle. As a reward, Caruth was
offered a lordship. Caruth refused, asking instead for a promotion within the
ranks of the military. His wish was granted, as he was made a lieutenant
general. Both his son and grandson had served likewise, in ceremonial fashion
if nothing else.
There was nothing ceremonial with Rogun. Exceeding
even his forebears, he had become chief commander of Krynwall's armies, both
the Legion of the Arrow and the more recently instituted Legion of the Sword.
Like Stephan, he was a holdover from the ,days of Sorl and a survivor of
Soric's conquest. During the wizard's occupation, Rogun alone among Sorl's
chief military officers had been spared, for Soric had seen something in the
other worth turning to his advantage. The general had resisted these overtures,
unmoved by bribery and uncowed by torture. He had thus been left behind in
Krynwall's dungeons—to be dealt with later—when the wizard had taken the bulk
of his mercenary army and gone off to join the Demon Queen.
The man's fire was admirable. But once freed, he had
quickly become Torin's staunchest opponent and rival.
Alson was a land in chaos—understandable, given all that she'd so recently
endured. Rogun had very specific ideas about how to set things aright, and
Torin, despite having been accepted as the son of Sorl—or maybe because of
this—had been treated from the beginning like no more than an obstacle in the
general's way.
"I received word this morning of one of our aid
caravans being attacked," the general snapped.
Perhaps it was only his own insecurities, but to
Torin, the man's tone always seemed rife with accusation, as if he himself were
responsible for all of Alson's ills—this one included.
"Last I heard, one in five of our missions to the
outlying areas has been beset. Unfortunate, yes, but hardly the most pressing
matter of state." Torin did not care for the callousness of his own
words, but with Rogun, he knew he must sound stronger than he felt.
"These were not ordinary bandits," the
general growled. "These were ogres."
Torin blinked. "Ogres?"
"Accompanied by trolls. But the ogres did the
most damage."
"And you're sure the reports are accurate?"
To Torin's knowledge, it had been more than a century since either of the
creatures now mentioned had been spotted in Alson—or anywhere else in Pentania,
for that matter. Naturally there was the occasional sighting by a hunter or
trapper come from the high mountains or deep forests— often shared for the
price of a drink—but unsurprisingly, none of these claims could ever be
confirmed.
"I would not have troubled Your Highness
otherwise."
Rogun seldom stooped to mockery. It did not suit his
blunt nature. But Torin believed the general would bleed wine before addressing
him with genuine respect. He therefore scowled away the royal appellation as
he formulated his retort.
"I
assume you've already dispatched a patrol, or you would not be washing your
time with me."
"As surely as I breathe," the general
affirmed. "But a single patrol will not suffice. You've got us chasing
around putting out fires, while the rogues lighting them remain free to set
more. To put an end to these attacks, we must strike at the source..."
Torin knew where this was headed, „and so let his
attention slip to the throbbing welt across his back. Despite the wounds of
his physical training, he much preferred these to the mental toil of dealing
with such issues of state. Although never prone to headaches, he found he had
them often these days. Listening to Rogun rail on, he could feel another coming
on now.
"Grant me the authorization to marshal the
legions for a full sweep of the countryside. Let me stop these rogues and
restore order to our lands once and for all."
As was often me case, Torin was not entirely at odds
with the general's way of thinking. However, given his inexperience, he did
not wish to make any unilateral decisions. That was why he had established a
ruling council—the Circle of Elders, named for that which had once governed his
home
And on this matter, at least, the Circle had already
taken a stance, deciding that a sweeping military force such as Rogun suggested
would face a road of perception too narrow and dangerous to tread. The people
of Alson craved protection, but did not want to feel threatened or restricted.
They'd had enough of that in recent months. And while this made Rogun's job of
defending them that much more difficult, who was Torin to go against the will
of the council?
"General, can we not save this matter for debate
within the Circle?"
Rogun spat. "Damn the Circle. You're the king.
All it takes is an order."
Torin decided he could take the man looming over him
in that cramped corridor no longer. "General, walk with me."
He did not wait for a response, but turned and began
mak-
ing his way toward the royal quarters. Glaring
heatedly over his shoulder, Rogun fell into step behind him.
"Believe it or not, General, I am on your side in
this."
"Then grant me my request."
"As Third Elder, you have the right—"
"That title means nothing to me."
Torin glanced back at the other's disgust. "Well,
it should. Because the Elders speak for the people, and so they are the
ones you must convince. I'm sure that with this new report—"
"Perhaps I should convince your precious Elders
of our need for a new monarch. A man who does not require the crutch of a
council in order to lead us against that which threatens."
Torin had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing
aloud. What would Rogun claim he'd been doing before this? As best as Torin
could tell, the general had been campaigning actively for his crown almost from
the beginning.
Truth be known, he was often inclined to simply hand
it over to the man. Nothing would please him more than to take Marisha and run
back to the
"Should the Circle wish to entertain that notion,
you'll hear scant argument from me," he agreed, struggling to keep the
weariness from his tone. "Until then, I am king, and will conduct the
affairs of this land as I see fit."
Rogun snarled. "You have no idea what it takes to
rule this kingdom. You are a forest peasant, nothing more."
"Which is
why I depend so greatly on your counsel, my good general."
Rogun may have been above
mockery, but Torin was not. "If you would but—"
"Torin, my sweet."
He stopped at the sound, and there she was, the light
on a frosty morning, Marisha Valour. Or Marisha Lewellyn, as she preferred to
be called now. Valour was the designation applied to an apprentice
healer of her former order, while Lewellyn was reserved for those who
had attained the rank of master. And although none other remained of that sect
to bestow the coveted mantle, she had taken it upon herself so as to honor her
former people.
His bride-to-be was framed by the doorway of an embroidery
chamber. Within the chamber, she stood upon a pedestal, flanked by a pair of
handmaidens. She wore the framework of a breathtaking gown, which the maidens
were fussing over with all the determined focus of master craftsmen—measuring,
cutting, folding.
"Hold still, my lady," one of them said
through gritted teeth. She removed from those teeth a pin that she used to hold
an unstitched hem in place.
Marisha froze, though her candid smile remained ever
bright, untroubled by the rebuke. Torin found himself drawn to it like a
drowning man to the water's surface.
A gruff snort from behind reminded him of Rogun's presence.
"General, will you excuse me?"
Not without protest, it seemed. "We've not
yet—"
"I thank you for bringing this to my immediate
attention. We shall discuss it at length this afternoon."
"I've no doubt we will," Rogun grumbled.
"Without action whatsoever." He spun and marched away, the jangle of
his spurs echoing down the corridor.
"What was that about?" Marisha asked as
Torin approached.
"Nothing new." He reached up to clasp her
outstretched hands. "You look radiant this morning."
The woman freed one hand to paw at her hair in a
self-conscious fashion. The golden tresses hung free, unbound by ribbon or
braid, to steal light from the sun streaming in through an open window.
"I've not yet had a chance to prepare for Your
Lordship's greeting," she teased in apology.
"None is required, given such natural
beauty."
Marisha pushed him away with a laugh. Torin smiled in
return.
"I expected you'd still be sleeping," he
said.
"On the day of first rehearsal for my lord's
coronation?"
Torin's smile slipped.
"Or had you forgotten?"
"No, of course not," he assured her. Why had
Stephan not reminded him?
"What do you think?" Marisha asked, twisting
back and forth so as to cast a ripple through her garment. This of course drew
sharp glances and even a cough from the seamstresses fighting to hold her
steady. A coronation dress, yes, but also that which she would wear for their
wedding, scheduled just two weeks hence.
"Does it not bear ill fortune for the bridegroom
to see his lady in her gown before the ceremony?"
"As you can see, the gown is not yet finished.
Besides, there is no ill fortune that we cannot overcome."
Torin flinched. Though he had come to believe that destiny
was what one made of it, he saw little need for tempting fate. Still, no small
sense of foreboding was safe in Marisha's presence, and he found the chill
sensation melting quickly away. All things considered, he had much to be
grateful for. The responsibilities, the headaches, the enemies—a small price to
pay for that which his fortunes had granted him.
Marisha sniffed twice in exaggerated fashion.
"Someone needs a bath," she remarked.
Torin stepped back, bowing humbly. "With your
leave, my lady."
The woman tossed a piece of fabric at him. "Get
out of here, you krtave." She then smiled. "I'll see you at the rehearsal."
Torin held his bow until he reached the doorway, then
flashed her a grin of his own and stole from the room.
Amazingly enough, he was able to reach his chambers
almost without interruption. The entire palace had awoken early, it seemed, no
doubt in preparation for the midmorning rehearsal. The halls were filled with
decorators, designers, organizers of all form and fashion. Fortunately, most
were too busy to spare him more than a nod in greeting. Those who sought more
seemed understanding enough when he politely excused himself, and went about
their business.
The coronation. His fate, such as it was, made formal
and sealed at last. He'd escaped it as long as he could—longer, in fact, than
he had any right to expect. He saw no need for it. But then, this celebration
wasn't for him. It was for the people.
With a quick word of hello to the sentinel posted
outside, he ducked into his personal living quarters. As the door closed, a
temporary relief settled in. An undisturbed peace so seldom to be found these
days. Freedom from retainers, courtiers, and supplicants of every variety. Upon
second thought, perhaps this rehearsal wasn't such a bad idea. At least it
offered a break from the usual routine, a respite from the long days of giving
audience to everyone from city planners to local guildmasters to simple well-wishers—an
endless menagerie of those in need, those with grievances, and those who
sought to form alliances or otherwise sway him to their particular cause.
He glanced around the sitting room with its hearth and
overstuffed chairs. Breakfast had not yet arrived. Likely, Stephan had ordered
the cooks to delay until after he'd bathed, so that his food wouldn't grow
cold. As if royalty had softened him to the point of being damaged by dried
bacon grease or lukewarm eggs.
With a sigh of resignation, he moved toward the
bedchamber, unbuckling his Sword belt as he went. Setting the weapon aside in
the doorway, he went straight for the wardrobe closet, surprised not to find
old Scar—the one-eyed cat inherited from the father he'd never known—blocking
the doors as usual. For once, the beast had found something better to do than
make his life difficult.
He pulled forth his bathrobe and slung it over an
adjacent chair. The bath itself would be waiting by now across the hall. He
stripped off his boots first, men his shirt. He wore no jewelry; save for the
Sword, he eschewed adornments of any kind. He was about to unlace his breeches
when he twisted
instead to examine his most recent welt in the mirror.
Pulling one arm over at the elbow, he reached around to test the line of
swollen flesh.
Only then did he spy the intruder.
Torin's heart skipped. The reflection showed a figure
stood on the opposite side of the room, wedged in a corner beside the
shuttered window. He blinked, thinking it was Rogun, come to renew their
unfinished debate. It took only a moment to determine otherwise. This figure
was tall like Rogun, yet thin, wrapped tight in a cocoon of dark robes. Its
face, if there was one, was mostly hidden behind damp strands of hair hanging
loose about the forehead, as well as a black beard that jutted from its chin.
In color and stance, it was something less than human, like a scarecrow come to
life.
Instinct drove him where rational thought could not.
With legs slow and leaden, he lunged for the inner doorway between sitting
room and bedchamber—and the weapon he'd left there. In the corner of his eye he
spied the scarecrow, uncoiling, charging to intercept him. It moved faster than
he would have imagined possible, as though its size aided rather than impeded
its motion. More wraith than substance, its outline billowed and swam. He felt
its shadow descend upon him, and sensed in that moment the chill of imminent
death.
Then the Sword was in his hands, its warmth burning
through his palms and coursing through his veins. With a lightning motion, he
reached with one hand to tear the scabbard free. As he cast aside the sheath,
the weapon's glow filled the room, revealing to Torin the face of his enemy.
A man after all, or so he seemed. The billowing was
mat of his robes, dark in hue and soaked darker with rain. He had come to a
stop mere inches away, throat perched upon the tip of the Sword, features
twisting in its crimson light. Emotions swept across his skin like the colors
of a chameleon—rage and frustration, contempt and loathing, pity and sorrow,
until at last they settled into a derisive sneer.
"Behold, the instrument of our doom."
Before Torin could respond, there came a swift knock
from the outer doorway as the posted guardsman stuck his head in.
"My lord? I thought I heard ..." He stopped
as he took in the scene.
"Kien, call the Shield."
Torin kept his eyes on the intruder, but heard the
other fumbling for his sword.
"Kien! The Shield. I will hold our friend
here."
At last he heard Kien scamper from the room, leaving
the door to his chambers open. With the other gone, Torin re-focused on the
stranger before him, at a sallow face bathed in sweat. He looked like a man
staving off some form of illness.
"You will raise a panic," the scarecrow
intruder observed, his jaw clenched in checked fury.
Torin coiled, resisting the urge to shuffle back a
step. The man's breath reeked of decay, rushing down over the cliffs of his
craggy beard. His blue eyes reflected the light of the Sword, so that the same
flames that swirled within the polished blade seemed to smolder beneath the
surface of his orbs.
Questions skittered through Torin's mind. Despite the
stranger's menacing stance and sudden, unwanted appearance, there was
something about him, some sense of familiarity that Torin could not quite
place.
"Who are you?" he asked, the Sword lending
strength to his quavering voice.
The man seemed to swell in size, even as he withdrew
slowly from the radiant blade. "You have no idea. Even now."
If Rogun's tone had been accusatory, then this one's
was downright incriminating. Torin felt himself laid bare by its assault. Again
the feeling that he knew this man—or should—dug like a splinter at his mind.
And yet he refused to lower his guard for an instant, for the haunting notion
did nothing to allay his fears.
"My lord, your bath—"
"Stephan, stay where you are," Torin
commanded as the other's shadow filled the outer doorway. He could hear his
master chamberlain sputtering in alarm as they each
focused on the unwelcome visitor.
"You've not answered my question," Torin
growled, using anger to steady himself. He took a step toward the intruder,
putting him back within range of the Sword's gleaming tip.
The man's sneer remained, even as his eyes narrowed.
"Kill me," he cautioned, "and you condemn us all."
"And don't think I lack the will to do so,"
Torin snapped.
"My lord—"
"The Shield is coming, Stephan. Just stay
back."
The stranger was shaking his head. "A reckless
response from a reckless whelp."
He lifted his hands in mock surrender, revealing
sun-baked skin and open lacerations as his sleeves fell away. The wounds looked
as if they should be bleeding, but were not, and only then did Torin notice
that the man's dripping robes hung in tatters, as though shredded by some wild
beast.
"I am your past and your future," he
answered finally, smirking at Torin's sudden doubt. "I am living proof of
the horror your foolishness has unleashed upon us all."
Again the man's stench washed over him. Only this
time, Torin recognized it. It drew him back to the defining moment of his young
life, the moment during-which he had drawn the Crimson Sword from the orb and
altar into which it had been embedded, deep within the bowels of Thrak-Symbos.
Again he watched the shattered pieces of that edifice crumble into the pit that
had lain concealed beneath. And again, he felt the stagnant wind that had
escaped that pit, the frigid gust that had driven away the lizards by which he
and his companions had been surrounded. Its chill ripped through him now as it
had then, and abruptly he wondered: What else had escaped from that pit?
His thoughts reeling, Torin was ill prepared for the
sweet sound of Marisha's voice as she came upon Stephan, still frozen in the
doorway.
"I just ran into Kien. He said—" Her words
ended in a gasp, and Torin turned to find her staring into the room.
"Stephan, get her out of here," Torin
moaned, glancing back and forth between the woman and the intruder. The chief
seneschal, Torin noted, was already doing his best, blocking Marisha with his ample
body, an arm and a leg thrust up against the opposite side of the jamb. Surprisingly,
Marisha was not fighting him, but continued to stare at the two men without
speaking, without blinking. Her face was as pale as Torin had ever seen it.
All of a sudden, she slumped to the floor, sliding
just inside the chamber. Torin had to fight the urge to drop his guard and rush
to her aid. There she sat, openmouthed, until he feared she was the victim of
some sort of wizard's spell. He didn't know whether to go to her, or to
throttle the stranger.
He chose neither when at last her lips came together
to whisper a single word that echoed throughout his chambers.
"Father."
CHAPTER THREE Back Table of Contents Next
Torin blinked in the tomblike stillness
that followed. He gaped at Marisha, waiting for her to say something more, to
explain. When she did not, and tears began to brim in her eyes, he turned back
to the stranger. The man's wrath had dissipated, it seemed, as he stared back
at Marisha in respectful silence.
"What is this?" Torin asked. Confusion
reigned, forcing him to grope for words. "Are you ... are you her . . .
her fath—"
He stopped abruptly, realizing suddenly why this man
seemed so familiar. He squinted, peering not so much at the stranger but into
the past at his own memories. The recollection only intensified his
bewilderment. For he had been eight years old at the time of their brief
encounter, while the other's appearance had not changed in over a decade.
"Darinor." He mouthed the name, yet, like
Marisha's quiet exclamation, it seemed to reverberate in the taut air.
"Yes," Darinor huffed, though his gruffness
now seemed forced. "On both counts."
Torin found his sword arm lowering. Darinor came forward,
but moved past him, staring all the while at Marisha. He approached slowly,
reverently, this towering, cadaverous man who was at the same time as hale as
any Torin had ever encountered. In the outer doorway, Stephan shrank back, his
eyes like full moons. Darinor ignored the seneschal as he had Torin, focused
still on the young woman whose lip was now quivering. The great man knelt
calmly before her, reaching out in a manner both soothing and supplicating.
Torin did nothing to stop him, but watched as one great hand cupped her cheek.
As it did, she reached forth both of her own hands to catch hold and press it
more tightly against her. The dam burst, and she wept.
Torin continued to stare, suddenly feeling as if he
were the one intruding. He glanced up as Stephan did the same. As their
eyes met, the sound of booted feet came tramping near at a hurried pace.
Led by Kien, a team of Fasor—the City Shield—had arrived.
Known before as the palace guard, Torin had changed the name to sound less
elitist and more inclusive of the general populace. And once again, he'd paid
homage to those of his home village by naming them after the position of
guardianship that he himself had once held—that of Fason, captain of the City
Shield.
After shouldering Stephan aside, they too crowded in
the doorway like a clutch of awestruck children. They might have been watching
a flame-swallower rather than the reunion of a father and daughter separated
for more than a dozen years.
Torin caught Kien's questioning eye, and shook his
head. He was struggling to recall all that Marisha had told him about her
father. There wasn't much. The man had left both her and her mother when she
was but a child—at her mother's request. Upon his departure, he had bestowed
upon her the secret pendant she wore, the pendant that had saved her life—and
Torin's—but that now, with her mother gone, only the young king knew of. Sacred
blazes, she hadn't even shared with him the man's name. Although even if she
had, he never would have assumed it to be the same Darinor he himself had met
as a child, the same Darinor whose night of storytelling had inadvertently
spawned in him the lifelong desire to one day seek out and recover—
"Whoever is in command here, I don't think we
require an audience," Darinor said. He made no effort to keep the edge
from his voice, although as soon as he had spoken, he went back to consoling
his daughter by resting his forehead against hers.
Torin studied Marisha carefully. She continued to be
wracked by sobs, but they appeared to be sobs of disbelief, maybe even joy.
Though she had never said so, the one thing he had gathered from their sparse
conversations on the subject was that she loved her father deeply, reserving
for his memory a sacred regard such that she could not even share it with him,
her husband-to-be.
"Kien, that will be all."
To a man, the Fasor hesitated, as if seeking some
further confirmation.
"All of you, you are dismissed. I bid thanks for
your prompt response." As they began to disperse, he added, "Kien, resume
post, please. See to it that we are not disturbed."
Kien nodded before remembering his salute.
"Uh, my lord," Stephan intervened, "the
rehearsal?"
"The rehearsal is postponed. See to it, Master
Stephan."
"Canceled would be better," Darinor
remarked.
The seneschal's jaw dropped, and he looked to Torin in
protest.
"As he says," Torin agreed.
"My lord—"
"Kien, if you please?"
Kien saluted again before drawing the red-faced
Stephan from the doorway. The door closed—carefully, so as not to disturb the
pair kneeling just inside the threshold. An ensuing silence persisted until
Torin wondered if he should excuse himself as well. He was about to do so when
Marisha finally withdrew from the apparition before her.
"Father, is it really you?"
Darinor did not respond, but gently reached toward the
silver chain barely visible around the neckline of her unfinished wedding
gown. Marisha did not resist, but let him pull forth the flaming heartstone
that hung from clasp and chain—the Pendant of Asahiel.
From the angle at which he stood, Torin could not
quite see the other man's face. But he guessed that the look Darinor gave was
somehow lacking in approval, based on the guilt that flashed across Marisha's
features.
"I
kept it secret, Father. As you warned."
Darinor turned, just enough to frown at Torin.
"And here I half expected to find him wearing it."
Torin scowled, a renewal of both his uncertainty and
anger. This was not the kindly storyteller of whom he held such fond
remembrances from his youth. What had he done to so fuel the man's ire? He
chewed up any number of retorts, seeking instead to set a tone of civility.
"If you are Darinor," he said, "you know that you are
welcome here."
"And yet you still brandish your stolen
blade."
Torin glanced down to where he held the Crimson Sword,
half lowered at his side. With another scowl, he set its tip to the floor in
front of him and folded his hands upon the pommel. "Will you tell us now
why you've come?"
Darinor lowered the Pendant softly to Marisha's chest,
then stood, pulling her up after him. "If you've composed yourself well
enough to listen."
Despite the calming influence of the Sword, Torin felt
his frustration building in waves. "You will forgive me,, I'm sure. I am not
accustomed to being ambushed in my own quarters."
Darinor guided Marisha to one of the worn velvet
chairs beside the hearth, turned so that she faced Torin. "Is that how you
would describe my patient vigil here?"
Torin thought back to their encounter moments ago.
"If you intended no harm, why lunge at me like some rabid animal?"
"You appeared to be fleeing," Darinor
replied as he folded Marisha's own delicate hands in her lap. All the while,
she continued to gaze up at him as if worried he might disappear before her
eyes. "And I've come a long way to see you."
Torin opened his mouth to object, but realized he
could not disprove the other's account. That it might be true caught him off
guard. "Me?"
"But I thought..." Marisha squeaked, eyes
glinting with hurt and confusion.
Darinor sandwiched her hands in his and crouched low,
gazing deep into her eyes. He said nothing, but held that pose for another long
moment. When finally he arose, he kept one hand gripped reassuringly upon her
shoulder.
At long last, he turned to face Torin, and at once,
the bearded face curdled in accusation. "You are Torin, are you not? King
of Alson, savior of Pentania, wielder of the last known Sword of Asahiel."
His lip curled in mockery—and in satisfaction, Torin thought, at his listener's
helplessness. "Thus, it is you I seek."
Torin's tongue felt thick in his mouth. Nevertheless,
he felt he had to say something in order to deflect the other's penetrating
gaze. "You seem to know a great deal about me," he admitted.
"Once again, you have me at the disadvantage."
"Perhaps. I know your story, for your countrymen
speak of little else. Then again, I dare not believe this common account by
half. Despite certain evidence, there are details of which I am skeptical, and
many others that are altogether missing."
Torin peered past the speaker to Marisha, who still
looked betrayed.
"But we've not the time needed to explore
them," Darinor went on, his tone made sharper by Torin's inattention.
"Your foolishness has seen to that."
"Am I to unravel these riddles?" Torin
responded crossly. "Or should I but stand here and remain their
target?"
Marisha turned in his direction. "Torin, please
..."
This time, however, Torin remained focused on Darinor.
For a moment, he felt the other meant to strike, and as one hand slipped down
from the Sword's pommel to clasp its hilt, the weapon flared slightly,
revealing his anticipation. A slow smirk drew tight the elder man's thin lips,
as he appeared to come to a decision.
"Save your strength," he chuckled mirthlessly.
"You will need it for your journey."
"And just where is it you think I'm going?"
"To restore that which you have destroyed. Else
to the grave, here and now, before you take the rest of us with you."
"Enough!" Marisha shouted, springing from
her chair and seizing her father's arm in restraint. "I'll listen to no
more of this from either of you. Torin, if you would have your answers, sit and
be silent. As for you, Father..." Her voice cracked, yet remained
authoritative. "You will explain your presence here, or you will leave at
once."
Torin fumed a moment longer, then dipped his head in
apology to his lady love. With a hawk's eye upon Darinor, he moved to the
nearest available chair, across the hearth from Marisha, and sat, laying the
Crimson Sword across his lap.
"Then listen closely," Darinor admonished
them, when Marisha had retaken her seat and he alone stood so as to face the
pair. "For our enemies multiply as we speak."
"What enemies?" Torin urged, glancing
sidelong at Marisha.
Darinor ignored him, brow twisting as if considering
where to begin his narrative. "You must know something of the Swords of
Asahiel," the sallow-faced man determined, "else you would not be
holding one now."
Torin merely nodded, but Darinor's look prompted him
to elaborate. "Forged by the Ha'Rasha and imbued with the divine power of
the Ceilhigh, to be used in the shaping of this earth and the shepherding of
those who lived upon it."
"And the Dragon Wars?"
"That's when the Swords passed from these avatars
into mortal hands, given to the Finlorian elves that they might withstand the
armies of the Dragon God."
It was clear that Darinor did not recognize him, nor
recall that he himself had once related to Torin much of this mythology. Torin
was emboldened by the fact that he knew something the other did not. In any
case, he was always proud to share with others the knowledge of his favorite
study. With even this brief overview, his enthusiasm for the topic fortified
his voice.
"In the millennia that followed the defeat of the
Dragon God's minions, the Swords were lost, one by one, save that which was
passed down along the lines of Finlorian royalty to the high king Sabaoth, some
three thousand years ago. Finally, even that blade disappeared, when Sabaoth
and the entire city of
Torin waited, silently daring the other to contradict
his account. For a long moment, Darinor made no attempt to do
so. He stood with that brooding glare, waiting, it
seemed, for Torin to say something more. As the weight of his pause increased,
a determined Torin held his gaze.
"In other words, you know nothing but what you've
been given to know." A menacing smile tugged at one corner of Darinor's
mouth.
Torin frowned, but guarded any further reaction to the
man's theatrics.
Darinor crouched close to Marisha once more.
"That is not Sabaoth's Sword," he said, indicating the weapon in
Tor-in's lap. He reached up once again to finger the heartstone Pendant on its
silver chain—the Crimson Stone, as they had nicknamed it.
"This is."
Torin did well to hide his interest. But he was
undeniably excited by what he was about to learn. What little Marisha knew of
the secret talisman had been revealed to him only guardedly—and only after
Torin had discovered for himself the Stone's existence. Even then she had kept
him at arm's length, clinging to her childhood oath to a man who had deserted
her, honoring his memory, fearing for her own safety and that of the artifact.
Pretending to understand, he had respected her wishes, allowing the matter to
remain a quiet source of bitterness. For he could not help but wonder if she
knew much more than had been revealed.
"My daughter was granted no knowledge of the
Pendant's true history or purpose," Darinor remarked, as if to dispel
Torin's unspoken suspicions. "She knew only a famer's stern command that
the talisman never be revealed to anyone."
Once again, father and daughter shared a quiet moment.
And yet Torin noted that Marisha's features had taken on a stern and demanding
cast, as though her own understandable anger was beginning to win over her
shock and adoration.
"A charm by which to remember me," Darinor
added, echoing his words of long ago. "A talisman to keep her safe."
While addressing Torin, he continued to stare into Marisha's eyes, the
slightest tremor weakening his voice. "But most importantly, the means by
which we might one day be re-united. That I might share with her the truth of
her family's legacy."
Like the lull in a storm, the moment of tenderness
passed. Darinor turned his head, a mask of dark clouds once more.
"Sabaoth was a fool. Like you, a seeker of
glories he was not meant to attain. The Finlorian Empire had reached the height
of its majesty. Its people believed that all manner of art and industry
conceivable to mortal minds had already been achieved. Thus, their thoughts
moved beyond the mortal toward the immortal. They thought to ascend to the
heavens, to connect this world with that of the Ceilhigh."
A strange excitement began to bubble up within Torin
at the realization that tragic secrets, centuries old, were about to be
revealed. Despite the circumstances, he felt himself leaning forward, unable to
deny his growing fervor.
"In their arrogance, a sect of Finlorian magi,
commissioned by Sabaoth himself, created a rift beneath the city of
Torin blinked. He had never heard of an Illysp. He had
no notion of what they were. But he was fairly certain that he had no desire to
learn.
This sentiment must have been scrawled across his
face, for Darinor addressed it almost immediately. "Do not bother to
envision these denizens," he said, raising his lacerated hands, "for
they are unlike anything you may have encountered before."
Torin was not sure whether to be relieved by this, or
horrified. It was decided a moment later as Darinor finished his
pronouncement.
"They're far worse."
The young king's stomach growled with hunger—or perhaps
in response to the slow dread boring its way through
the pit of his belly. He didn't bother trying to hide
his unease from Darinor, but waited for the other to take delight in it.
But Darinor, it seemed, was past any hope of delight,
even at Torin's obvious discomfiture. "In their natural state, the Illysp
can best be described as spirits, lacking bodies material to our plane. When
first unleashed, they had only limited mobility, like a foul scent in dead
air."
"Then how ... ?" Torin began, before Darinor
waved him off.
"They quickly overcame this limitation by
clinging to the mind of a host creature—whatever crossed their path— where they
lingered like a thought unbidden. Slipping from mind to mind, they learned to
travel as might a swarm of flies among a herd of cattle, dancing from host to host.
They even learned to influence their hosts through the power of suggestion,
with silent promptings to lie, thieve, and kill, thereby carrying out their
innate desire to spread mayhem and violence. As with any undesired thought,
these urgings were not easy to dispel."
"I don't understand," Marisha admitted,
stealing the words from Torin's lips. "Mortal beings have always been
tempted. Were these so much harder to resist?"
"They were," Darinor assured her. "But
what the Illysp really craved were bodies of their own, that they might touch
the physical world and sample for themselves the sensations of flesh, in order
to participate fully in the hateful activities for which they were bred and to
exercise dominion over others. It was not until they learned how to obtain
these bodies that their true horror was exposed."
Torin's heart slipped into the chasm that his stomach
had become. "Possession," he presumed grimly.
"A suitable term. Although still not quite what
you think. For it required a dead body, a mortal housing from which the living
essence had already departed. Presented with a coil thus abandoned, an Illysp
could infuse itself therein. After a brief incubation period, the original
essence returned, but as a prisoner in his own mortal shell, subject to the
whims of the controlling Illysp. A collection of memories, a consciousness, and
nothing more. Upon waking, the Illysp consumed this former consciousness, laid
bare its knowledge and experiences while retaining its own, and made this the
vessel of its destruction."
Torin glanced at Marisha and wondered right away if
his eyes were as wide as hers. "Could they be killed?"
"In a manner of speaking. For an Illychar—as it
was known once it had taken physical form—did not live in the traditional
sense. It did not require nerves, a brain, or vital organs. It functioned via a
form of innate memory. Like the phantom pain of an amputated limb, an Illychar
retained whatever abilities were inherent to its chosen vessel in life. It
breathed, though its lungs needed no air. It moved, provided the muscles and
ligaments required to do so had not completely rotted away. Its body may have
contained blood, but it sat stagnant in its veins. Since it did not require the
functioning of organs, it did not have to feed, and was subject only
superficially to the ravages of time. Left alone, an Illychar would live
forever."
The harsh words resonated from his chest as if from
the grave. Torin gripped tighter the Sword's hilt, reflexively seeking its
placating warmth, and saw that Marisha's hand was clasped firmly about the
Stone.
"But this innate memory worked both ways, making
an Illysp-possessed creature as susceptible to injury in death as in life. Even
an eviscerated carcass, if pierced by an arrow where a vital organ had once
been, might fall over dead. Not due to visible injury, but to what that injury
would be if the creature were still alive. It was as though the mind
understood—not the physical mind, but that of the deepest body or soul. For
even a headless corpse could be resurrected to stumble around again; the same
rules applied when the brain wasn't there. It was all about perception, the primordial
sense within."
"And the Illysp?" Marisha croaked.
"What happened to the Illysp when its body was slain? Could it not simply
inhabit another?"
"No. Once an Illysp selected a coil, it was bound
to it, inheriting its weaknesses along with its strengths. Convince
an Illychar of its death, and the Illysp within was
dispelled and could no longer sustain itself."
Torin found it odd that they continued to speak of
these creatures in the past tense, as if their threat were far removed. For if
that were so, he would not be here listening to this.
"Then they can be fought," he said, seeking
assurance.
"They can, and they were," the gaunt-faced
speaker rumbled. "Seizing the carefully preserved bodies of Fin-lorian
dead, they rose up against Sabaoth and his people. With the influence of his
Crimson Sword, the high king held them back for a time. But an Illychar was
generally swifter and stronger than its host was in life, its physical
attributes heightened by its savagery. They sensed pain, but ignored it, and
were thus difficult to bring down. Furthermore, it was soon learned that a
slain Illychar, while freed forever of one Illysp, could be possessed by
another and reanimated again. And again, and again—forever, as long as an
Illysp remained to claim it. And the number of Illysp in pure, spirit form was
without end."
As he went on, the great figure seemed to lose some of
his bluster, as if bent with resignation beneath the weight of his own account.
"Had Sabaoth known how to command the Sword's
full fury, catastrophe might yet have been averted. But he did not, and pressed
by the ever-increasing numbers of his parasitic enemy, he was overcome, killed,
and possessed himself."
The man stared at Torin pointedly, as if the words
alone were not enough to impress upon him the horror of this threat.
"After that, the Illysp spread far and fast
across the
Trolls
and ogres. The names resonated clearly in Torin's mind, shedding
grim light on his morning's encounter with Rogun.
"The Finlorians were without hope. But at least
one group refused to surrender, a warrior sect made up of a handful of those
descended from the first mortal wielders of the Swords of Asahiel during the
Dragon Wars. It was this sacred company, the Vandari, who had been responsible
for the preservation of the blades ever since, and who could not abide that
their king and captain—along with one of the divine talismans—remained in the
clutches of the enemy.
"They journeyed far to the south, farther than
almost any other had dared by sea, to reach the distant shores of Seku-lon, the
birthing grounds of man. For there dwelled the order of the Entients,
self-proclaimed shepherds of mankind, who possessed the only other known Sword
of Asahiel. The Vandari made their pleas for assistance, or at the very least,
for the loan of the talisman. But the Entients refused. Man was a fledgling
race struggling for survival, and the Entients, as overseers, were too obsessed
with matters of their own to lend aid to outsiders.
"Only Algorath, a prominent member of the order,
took pity, urging his fellow Entients to reconsider. But they continued to
vote against him. Unless the threat spread to their lands, it was none of their
concern. That by then it might be too late was an argument that fell on deaf
ears.
"In response, Algorath left the order, stealing
the Sword and traveling with the Vandari back to Tritos. While evading
pursuit, Algorath led a renewed resistance against the II-lychar swarm. In a
desperate attempt to turn the tide of war to their favor, Algorath confronted
Sabaoth himself. During a battle that pitted Crimson Sword against Crimson
Sword, the true power of Algorath's blade was somehow released, shattering
Sabaoth's Sword and immolating the high king himself.
"In the aftermath of this conflagration, Illysp
and Illychar alike were driven back into the tunnels from whence they had
emerged. But the rift remained. The best Algorath could do was to trap them
there, deep beneath the surface. With the aid of Finlorian magi, the Vandari
fashioned an altar over the exit and set upon it the Dragon Orb, a talisman of
great power. Through it all they thrust Algorath's Sword—now the
last Sword of Asahiel—the key to a lock meant to
contain the Illysp forever."
Torin was consumed by a dire fascination. It was all
so real to him. For he had seen the Sword unleash its flaming fury more than
once, and could imagine easily enough the titanic struggle between Sabaoth and
Algorath. Not only that, but he had viewed and felt the magic of the lock that
had kept these Illysp from his world, there in the catacombs of Thrak-Symbos.
He even understood now, at least in part, the blade's curious appearance as it
held that lock together: its crimson radiance masked in gleaming obsidian while
its inner fires were diverted through this "Dragon Orb" and its
altar. Only after being drawn had the obsidian key been fully revealed as the
Crimson Sword. By then, the lock was no more. A construct of divine majesty
designed for a single purpose. Reduced in an instant to shards and rubble—by
his own hand.
Marisha sensed his torment, coming over to crouch
beside him. One hand slipped around his stooped shoulders, while the other took
comforting hold on his arm.
"Why?" he murmured, staring at the Sword.
"Why would the Entients have assisted me in—"
"The Entients?" Darinor snorted.
"Doddering fools. Did they have a hand in this?"
'They spurred me on my quest," Torin said,
feeling no less responsible, "planting dreams and suggestions in my head,
even sending me a map so that I would know where to begin. I didn't know it at
the time, but afterward—after I retrieved the Sword—they met with me. They
wanted to witness the blade for themselves and to learn all about the manner in
which it was found. In return, they told us—"
Darinor was shaking his head. "I might have
known. How a mere lad such as you could even begin to seek out the Sword was a
mystery I could not fathom. That the Entients spurred you on explains a great
deal."
"But how could they have done so?" Torin
replied, ignoring the inherent insult. "How could they have succored me
in this, knowing the truth?"
"Because
they did not know the truth," Darinor snapped.
His eyes were wide, his brows raked, his chin tucked
into his beard, giving him the stern and ruffled look of a great owl.
"Like all others, they knew only what they were meant to know."
"How can that be?" Marisha asked, coming to
Torin's defense. "Are they not avatars of the human race?"
"Self-proclaimed," Darinor scoffed.
"The true avatars were the Ha'Rasha. The Entients are descendent only, the
progeny of those demimortals who bred with mortals and have been doing so for
ages since. Each is more human than avatar, though together they have long
played at being more than what they are."
The truth hit Torin's lungs like a ball of flaming
pitch hurled through a ship's sails—first piercing, then devouring. Although it
made sense, it shocked him to have to relinquish such a long-standing belief.
"Still," Marisha insisted, "they knew
of the Sword, the Vandari, the Illysp—everything. How could they have forgotten?"
"First off, even by the standards of the
Entients, this all took place roughly ten generations ago."
"But older legends persist today," Torin
argued, cutting the other short. "Even among the mortal races, there would
be myths, memorials, festivals of remembrance."
"Second," Darinor continued unabated,
"no sooner had the war ended than the cover-up began. So terrible had been
the struggle, so widespread the devastation, that the Finlorians elected to
continue the exodus that most had already begun. Few cared to wager their lives
against the odds of an Illysp escape. So the Vandari warded with magical snares
the catacombs in which the sealed pit lay, then unleashed a series of
earthquakes, and landslides that buried the entire city. After that, they took
flight with the rest of their people, leaving their ravaged lands to those who
would emerge eventually from the high mountains or from deep within the
earth—or later, from across the tempest seas.
"But even this was not enough. Algorath and the
Vandari agreed that no one should learn what had happened, lest some fool brave
the dangers set for him, unearth the seal, and
draw the Sword, destroying the lock. So they changed
the stories, misleading those who would pass the legend down to their
descendants. Elven historians left formal records of a great and natural
cataclysm of the earth. Bards and minstrels helped to spread this false word.
Few knew the truth to begin with, and over the course of centuries, this revisionist
history replaced that of actual events—even among those whose forebears had
lived through it. Only the Vandari, along with Algorath, preserved the
knowledge of what had really transpired, as a necessary safeguard should it
ever happen again."
"And what of the Entients?" Marisha reminded
him. "Surely they kept records of their own."
Darinor sneered. "For his betrayal, the Entients
struck all records of Algorath's existence. His studies remained, but in
altered form, his deeds and learnings attributed to another. To hide the
further embarrassment of having the Sword stolen from them, they modified
their writs and journals in such a way as to obscure the fact that they ever
actually possessed one of the talismans. Since Algorath had obtained the blade
and brought it to the order, and had also removed it again, it was easy enough
to do this. All that was kept were general writings and images concerning its
legendary powers and ancient history.
"There was of course some opposition,"
Darinor proceeded, heading off Torin's next question. "One among them,
who had spent years studying the Sword with Algorath, decided to give chase,
and was permitted to do so. It was agreed that if he retrieved the talisman, he
would be allowed to return and take the place of Algorath in their records. If
not, then he would be exiled and erased along with his former mentor. The rest
would continue to devote their time and energies to matters of their own race
and their own lands."
Something wasn't right, and Torin knew it. When he
shook his head, Darinor went on with the frustrated sigh of someone instructing
a dullard. "The order was in its infancy at that time, its focus narrowed,
its attention drawn by man's own wars. They had neither the inclination nor the
resources to expend recording the trials and history of faraway lands. It was
therefore left to the hunter to capture these events, if any record was to be
made."
"And how did Algorath learn of this?" Torin
asked, brushing this last bit aside as he realized why the explanation didn't
work. "Or did he just take for granted their response?"
Darinor leaned forward, a haunting black shadow.
"He learned it from the hunter's own lips, before making sure that the
other failed in his endeavor."
Torin swallowed thickly.
"The Entients were left to assume that both had
perished in this Finlorian war of which they kept no record. Most likely, it
was not until their descendants began colonizing these lands, more than two
thousand years later, that they began digging into its past—too late to have
any recollection of what had actually occurred. For by that time, the only surviving
history was that which had been altered by the Van-dari. Clearly, their support
of your quest indicates an effort to uncover at least part of this missing
truth—as blind as any to the consequences."
Though sitting forward, Torin felt as if he were
sinking into his chair. His mind was a maelstrom, thoughts and emotions
swirling ever faster in a sucking spiral that threatened to pull him under.
Questions gathered at its edge like mosquito swarms on the shore of a
lake.
"If everyone forgot, then how do you know
all of this?"
Darinor relaxed, if only slightly, from the
aggressiveness of his stance. "Have you not already guessed? After the
war, the remnants of Sabaoth's shattered Sword were buried by the Vandari in a
sacred shrine. Except for one small piece, a heartstone from the ruined hilt,
seated in a clasp and fastened to a silver chain. It was presented to Algorath
as a token of appreciation. But more than that, it was a tool with which to
monitor the integrity of the Illysp seal. An enchantment woven upon its links
connected Pendant and seal, so that if the magic of the seal were to fail, that
failure would resonate with the bearer of the Pendant."
Darinor's expression softened predictably as once
again he turned his focus to Marisha.
"Like the Finlorians, so too did Algorath abandon
the shores of Tritos, departing for a secluded island far to the southeast. As
the seventh great-grandson of the renegade En-tient, I came eventually to serve
as guardian of the Pendant and gatekeeper of the Illysp seal. I refused the
charge at first, rebelling against my father and all that he expected of me. I
left his island to journey far and wide, eventually settling upon these shores,
where I met your mother." He paused with open mouth, looking as if he were
about to say more, before shaking his head.
"When later I accepted my calling, your mother
refused to accompany me or permit me to stay. As a pure mortal, she felt it
best to say our farewells then and there, before suffering the indignity of
growing old long before I."
Indeed, that would explain the man's unchanged appearance,
Torin thought. A life measured in centuries, rather than decades—whether by
mystical or divine embrace. He glanced at Marisha with fresh wonderment and a
twinge of fear.
"She understood, however, that you, my daughter,
might one day come to question the unique nature of your own existence, and
that I would be the one to best explain it to you. She permitted me, therefore,
to leave the Pendant with you, knowing little more than what I had shared with
you, that it was a sacred talisman that would protect you as long as you
protected it."
He reached into the tatters of his robes and, from a
hidden pouch, pulled forth a small length of silver chain. "Only she and
I knew of this, the token I kept, links from the chain you now wear. Without
the attached heartstone, the power of the enchantment is latent, but can be
called upon by one who knows how. Thus I could not only check on the status of
the seal, but could use it to track you down when the time came."
His eyes shifted back to Torin. Sure enough, their
gaze hardened.
"Never did I imagine my return would come under
these circumstances. Even after I discerned that something had gone wrong with
the linking magic, I rejected the notion that the seal itself might be broken.
Nonetheless, I came with all haste to inspect it for myself. As you can see,
that decision nearly cost me my life."
Marisha gripped Torin's arm with reflexive concern.
"The Illychar?"
Darinor nodded. "The first had emerged and
scattered weeks before. But in the rained depths, a large brood lay in ambush
for those they knew must come. I escaped only narrowly before coming for the
Pendant in search of answers— many of which I found along the way."
"Hold on," Torin said. "You mean to
suggest that the same Illychar who were trapped three thousand years ago are
still alive today?"
The other flared with impatience. "Have you heard
nothing I've said? They do not feed. They do not age. They kill among
themselves, certainly, but for every coil that is felled, innumerable are the
legions of Illysp just waiting to raise it up again. As long as the seal held,
they could do no further harm. But you, my young fool, have single-handedly
let loose their horror upon all of us."
Torin felt Marisha's restraining hand as he tensed in
bitter frustration. "What about you?" he demanded. "If the
secret of the Sword was to be so closely guarded, why did you go around telling
of it?"
It was Darinor's turn to betray uncertainty, and Torin
relished it.
"Or do you not remember? Twelve years ago. Not
long, I'm guessing, after you abandoned your daughter. You came to my village,
Diln, in the
A squinting Darinor waggled a crooked finger at him.
"You. You're the youth who asked me afterward if the Swords remained, or
if they were merely legend."
It was a small triumph, but Torin took it. "Had
you told me then that the blades did not exist, this might never have
happened."
Darinor chuckled, a subtle, scoffing sound that barely
carried past his own beard. "Then cast upon me a measure of
your blame," he agreed. "Although I daresay
such common myths have been shared countless times and by many others besides
me. With you alone did it result in the plundering of the Sword."
Torin's scowl deepened. He considered pressing the attack,
but decided against it. His gaze slipped to the proof of his guilt, resting in
his lap, and he lost himself in its flaming depths. The Sword's crimson
radiance bathed him as he studied the eternal fire that swirled within the
polished blade.
"You seem to have all the answers," he said,
"so tell me this. In the fight against Sabaoth, how did Algorath trigger
the Sword's wrath?"
Darinor shook his head. "My ancestors and others
have spent centuries pondering that question. None have found an answer. The first
Vandari, those who served as generals during the Dragon Wans, are the last to
have commanded the full force and fury of the blades. They did not share that
knowledge, even among those who followed in their footsteps, for fear of the
destruction to be wrought by their misuse. As they died out and disappeared,
their secrets vanished with them."
Torin sagged. He should have expected as much. For it
was the one riddle he most wanted answered. Still, there were plenty more where
that had come from. "Well then, what of—"
"No
more questions!" Darinor barked, with such sudden force as to startle his
listeners. "I have told you already more than you need know. The Illysp
are upon us. The only question that matters now is this: What do you intend to
do about it?"
CHAPTER F0UR Back Table of Contents Next
The answer to that had seemed obvious
enough.
Between the two of them, Torin and Marisha uttered
only a handful of protests to the plan that Darinor laid out for them. Despite
a host of unreconciled concerns, Torin saw little room to argue. For he
believed the man's account. Despite a great many details which they had not
the time to discuss, the renegade Entient's story fell into place so snugly
with what he already knew, filled in so many of the gaps that had long existed in this land's history,
that he dared not doubt it. There were at least as many questions as answers,
but this much he understood instinctively: Though he had yet to meet his enemy
face-to-face, he could not wait to do so before taking action against it.
He had begun his preparations straightaway, as soon as
their clandestine meeting had come to a close. Breakfast was forgotten; he had
no appetite for food. Taking Stephan aside, he instructed the chief seneschal
to lay out provisions as quietly as possible for an expedition party scheduled
to leave on the morrow. Torin wanted no word to be leaked of any of this until
he'd had a chance to meet with the Circle. He gave a rough estimate of numbers
and emphasized the need for swiftness. He tried not to be cross, but Stephan
plied him with questions he did not then care to answer, forcing him to send
the steward off with his tail between his legs.
By then, Allion had returned from his morning rounds.
Torin went to his Fason at once, skipping over the daily report on the welfare
of the city in order to relay all that Dari-
nor had told him. He did so in search of the man's
counsel, but at the same time, worked to impress upon his friend the need to do
as the mystic suggested—much as he had months earlier, following his surprise
reunion with Queen Ellebe and the charge he'd been given then.
As before, Allion was not easily convinced.
"He looks and smells like a corpse himself,"
his friend complained.
The pair had been briefly introduced just before
Marisha had whisked her estranged father into a private council, allowing king
and captain to do the same.
"He nearly was, to hear him tell it."
"Then how can we trust him? How do we know he's
not one of these Illychar himself?"
Torin motioned for the other to keep his voice down,
even though they had found their way into a private audience chamber and posted
a pair of guardsmen outside.
"Because," the king replied, his own voice
lowered, "if he were Illychar, why would he have come to warn us like
this?"
"To get you out of the way, it seems,"
Allion snapped.
"Why? Why not just kill me and take the Sword for
himself?"
"Perhaps he means to do just that."
Torin shook his head. "I already offered him the
blade."
"What?"
"You think I want any part of this? I bade him
take it before I make things any worse. I'm merely a foolish human, after all,
while he's an Entient—or at least, close enough that I don't know what else to
call him. He turned me down."
Allion hesitated. "Why would he do that?"
"He said mine is the greater need. The Sword is
vital to this quest, not only as a matter of survival, but to convince those
who must be found. He, on the other hand, must stay here in order to marshal
the land's defenses."
"He's not going with you?"
"He alone knows how best to direct our armies so
as to contain our enemy's numbers."
"That may be,
but how does he expect you to accomplish this other task without him to guide you?"
"I asked him that very question." Torin
sighed. "He said that since I am the only living man to wield the Crimson
Sword, I am the most qualified person to do so. It's my mess, he said. I should
be the one to clean it up."
"And what if you or the Sword are lost? If any of
what he says is true, it seems to me that's the best weapon we have. He's not
concerned about that?"
"I—" Torin stopped himself. He was about to
say that he would be wearing Marisha's Pendant as well. Darinor was indeed
concerned about tracking his whereabouts during his journey, and more
especially, those of the Sword. The mystic assumed that should one of the
artifacts fall into a thief's possession, both would. By exercising his control
over the enchantment that connected his links of silver chain to the necklace
from which they'd been taken, the Entient should be able to give chase and
retrieve the talismans, should it become necessary.
However, Torin had not yet told Allion about the
existence of the Pendant, omitting any such references from his narrative. He
assumed it was only a matter of time now before others found out about it, but
he preferred not to be the one to violate Marisha's long-held secret.
"He, I mean." Torin coughed, covering his
misstep. "He claims to have some means of tracking me, as he tracked
Marisha. Some form of magic, I would guess."
Allion's brow wrinkled in distrust. "And is it by
magic that he expects you to find these so-called Vandari?"
The Vandari. Those who lay at the heart of his quest.
For Darinor had reiterated that as gatekeeper of the Illysp seal, he was but a
lookout. It was the Finlorians, and more specifically the Vandari, who had so
long ago served as its architects. If any could rebuild what Torin had
destroyed, it was they.
And yet, by Darinor's own admission, the Finlorians
had abandoned these lands ages ago at the conclusion of the Illysp War. The
only elves known to still exist upon these shores were the Mookla'ayans, those
savage tribespeople secreted away in the jungle marshes of
them, Darinor had quashed the notion as he might an
insect. Only the Finlorians could help them—and among these, only the Vandari.
"I wish that were so," Torin admitted. But
it would not be that easy. Not even Darinor possessed a charm or cantrip that
would reveal the whereabouts of the missing elven nation. He knew only what he
had learned from his forebears, that most had fled westward across the Oloron
Sea, there to tame the lands of Yawacor while leaving their own to be reclaimed
by wilderness.
"This is preposterous. How long does he expect
you to search?"
"As long as it takes, would be my guess."
Allion's brown eyes fixed him with a glare that was
every bit as immutable as the earth they resembled. "And if they no longer
exist?"
A shiver traced the edges of Torin's spine. He did not
want to consider that possibility. For if Darinor was to be believed, the
Vandari alone might hold the key to salvation for the peoples now occupying their
former lands. If not—if their light had been extinguished, or if Torin could
not find them, or if they had not the knowledge or powers with which his people
could arm themselves against this scourge—then, as the renegade Entient had
promised in that ominous manner of his, both Torin and those he loved were
about to face a gloom and misery such as his mortal mind could not fathom.
But they did exist, Torin assured himself, and would
not be told otherwise. The empire of Finloria was no more. But the Mookla'ayans
had survived, despite centuries of effort on the part of man to drive them to
extinction. And Yawacor, it was told, was yet home to many of the older races,
those deemed undesirable by Pentanian standards and long since swept from her
lands. While such reports were largely disregarded as superstitious hearsay,
Torin refused to presume that the Finlorians no longer lived simply because he
had never met one.
"You wondered
the same thing about the Sword, remember?" Torin said. "Whether I
could find it. Whether it existed at all."
"Exactly my concern." Allion, whose
attention—like his—had been drifting inward, came back suddenly. "Don't
you see? It's your quest for the Sword all over again."
"I was successful, wasn't I?"
"Were you?" his friend challenged, pinning
him again with those eyes. "And what of the cost? What of Diln? How will
you feel if something like that were to happen again, here at Krynwall?"
Torin tensed. Allion had assured him over and over
again that he did not blame Torin for what had befallen their home village
while he had led them off in search of the one weapon that might allow them to
defend it. But it hardly mattered what his friend said. Despite every attempt
to rationalize the decision—then and now—Torin blamed himself, and was
tortured every day with thoughts of what might have been had he acted
differently. His Fason and others could say what they wished, but deep down,
they all held him accountable.
Allion must have recognized his darkening mood.
"All I'm saying is, are you honestly willing to take that risk?"
"Aren't you the one who likes to trumpet duty
over desire? I'd only be doing what has been asked of me."
Allion shook his head. "Too much is unknown.
About this Darinor. About these Vandari." Torin sighed, for his friend was
already repeating his arguments, but Allion pressed on. "I have a bad
feeling, a viper in my gut. Don't do this."
Torin glared. "I guess I don't see where I have a
choice."
"Of course you do. It's one we all have. Stop
risking everything to change the world in one fell swoop, and work instead
little by little, day by day, like everyone else. You were raised a cultivator,
not a monarch, remember? Stay, and we'll face together whatever dangers
arise."
It was difficult to argue. Even if he found the Vandari,
he had no guarantee they could or would agree to help. But there were times
when one had to be guided by instinct rather than logic. Despite his own
reservations, the gnawing sense was that he had to do this.
"I don't think Darinor will see it that
way," he said.
"Then make him see it that way. Your duty is to
your peo-
ple, not some raving madman wandered in from the rain.
And he'd have to be mad," Allion hurried before Torin could cut him short,
"not to see that there are too many responsibilities for you to leave
behind."
"Those can be handled by someone else," the
king muttered.
"And they will. Mark my words, if you leave now,
Rogun will have usurped your throne by the time you return."
In this, at least, his Fason was probably correct.
Allion had constantly chided him for giving the general too strong a voice on
the ruling council. Torin had done so in an effort to placate the overbearing
commander and quiet his objections. Instead, it had made him all the louder,
giving him a platform from which to shout his agenda, allowing him to drive a
wedge of dissent into the foundation of all that Torin hoped to accomplish.
With Torin away, Rogun would move swiftly to wrest control of the kingdom from
the Circle and its speaker.
"Rogun will come around," Torin replied,
feigning confidence. "In the meantime, that's why I need you to stay here
as regent in my stead."
His friend's eyes widened in shock. "Hah! There's
a fanciful dream, even for you."
"Come, Allion, you said it yourself. My mission
means nothing if this city and its inhabitants are not kept safe until my
return,"
But Allion was shaking his head emphatically.
"This is madness. Complete and unwarranted. But if you insist on leaving,
you know I'll follow, with or without your commission."
Torin scowled. He knew. It had happened before, hadn't
it? But Allion understood as well as he the challenges this land faced. Train's
honeymoon as king was over. Expansionists from neighboring Partha, as well as
nationalists within Alson, had already begun to question his authority. Few did
so as openly as Rogun, unwilling to risk their political futures in debate
against a man who was still deemed a hero by a majority of the populace. But
the rumblings were there, and pressure had begun to build as the more powerful
guilds and factions made their demands known, probing for weak-nesses like ivy
upon the wall. Rogun, a popular figure, was a spearhead for many of these
efforts. But without a strong counterpresence to keep them in check, the
audacity of all was likely to grow.
"Allion—"
"Call upon Nevik, if you must. Just don't think
for a moment that you can weaken my resolve in this."
Torin's jaw locked with frustration. Of course he
would like to call upon Nevik. When first they had arrived at Kryn-wall, the loyal
baron had spent weeks lending him invaluable assistance, aiding in every way
his assumption of royal duties. He was, in truth, the one noble thus far to
whom Torin would happily entrust his own welfare and that of Alson. Time and
again he had tried to abdicate to the more-qualified baron, but Nevik had
refused him just as often, focused as he was on healing his own lands to the
south. The young man was in much the same position as Torin, and the king knew
that it would be unfair to ask of the baron more than he had already given.
"I'll send word to Drakmar at once. But there
isn't time to await Nevik's response, let alone his arrival. And I would feel
terrible about forcing this upon him in any case."
Allion threw his hands up in mock surrender. "But
you care nothing about forcing it upon me."
Torin's chest tightened with regret. They had both
been forced to grow up so quickly. Not yet twenty, Allion, formerly a village
huntsman, was now captain of the City Shield, chief defender of the capital
city of
"You're the one, Allion. The one I most depend
upon. The best man I know to defend this kingdom against its enemies—both
within and without. Most of all, you're the only person I trust to watch after
Marisha while I'm away."
Allion, who had been rolling his eyes and preparing
any number of retorts, halted wordlessly. For a moment, he seemed uncertain of
himself, and Torin figured the argument
was won. Then a slow, smug smile spread across the
other's face.
"You've no greater chance of keeping her here
than you do me," he declared.
Torin looked to the closed door of the audience chamber,
as if his gaze might somehow track the corridor beyond and settle upon the
room in which Marisha was even now beginning to reacquaint herself with her
long-lost father.
"Part of me would like to believe that," he
admitted. "But something tells me she will remain here with Darinor. I
can't see him permitting her to accompany me, and I don't see her challenging
him on it."
Allion's confidence slipped. Torin knew that his
friend cared for Marisha with a brotherly devotion. All three had been
hard-pressed of late by their newfound endeavors— those of king, captain, and
in Marisha's case, master and founder of a new order of healers here within the
city. But Torin remained far and away the busiest, and Allion had taken it upon
himself to keep company at Marisha's side when Torin could not. The pair had
become close, for which the young king was grateful. Especially now, as he
sensed his friend's dilemma in refusing him this request.
For a moment, Allion shifted from foot to foot. One
hand twisted the tasseled ends of his ropes of office, then reached up to rub
the back of his neck beneath his ponytail. Finally, it came around to pick at
the hilt of his hunting knife. "When would you leave?" he asked
reluctantly.
Torin kept his own arms folded across his chest.
"As soon as the expedition force is assembled. No later than dawn tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? You can't raise an army in that
time!"
"We're not taking an army."
"You'd better," Allion advised.
Torin disagreed. "Speed is of the essence.
Summoning and outfitting a full force would require time we do not have. Nor
could such a team move as swiftly as a smaller party of, say, half a
dozen."
"Half a dozen? How do you expect to find
anything," Al-lion demanded, "combing an entire land with but a
handful of men?"
"Darinor claims that the Finlorians, if they
still exist, are most likely in hiding, and will be far less likely to reveal
themselves if made to feel threatened. The smaller the number, the less
threatening we'll seem."
"And what of safety? From what little I know,
this Yawacor is nothing more than a frontier wilderness overrun by cutthroats
and warlords. And that's assuming you manage somehow to survive the sea
crossing."
"That's why I've come to you." Torin
grinned. Silently, he wished his friend would stop reminding him of all the
obstacles that he himself feared. "Stephan is already handling the
preparations. But since I can take only a few men to accompany me, I'd like you
to handpick those who will see me safely home."
Allion did not share his attempt at enthusiasm.
"And what makes you think I know anyone mad enough to join in this?"
"I was thinking City Shield. You're their
captain. I'd hoped you could persuade them."
The Fason started to object, but Torin could see that
his friend was already beginning to consider whom to select. "This is
madness," he repeated finally.
"So you've indicated. Unfortunately, that doesn't
change matters."
Allion glowered, then brightened as if struck with a
sudden thought. "What about the Entients?"
"What about them?"
"Maybe you should pay a return visit to Whitlock,
see if the meddling codgers can at least confirm Darinor's story."
Torin rejected the notion with a shake of his head.
"And how would they do that, given that most of it is supposed to be
unknown to them? Besides, we failed to find them the last time we searched,
remember? If these creatures are already prowling our lands, we haven't time to
hike those mountains again, hoping that the Entients sense our need and agree
to grant us an audience—especially when I see no reason to trust them any more
than we do Darinor."
Allion's jaw worked from side to side as he searched
desperately for some other suggestion. At last he yielded, heaving a sigh of
exasperation. "I'll introduce you to a few guardsmen—and let you explain
to their mothers why it is you intend to drag them off on this fool's
adventure. Maybe then you'll reconsider."
"As enticing as that sounds," said Torin,
glancing at the clock that stood in its mahogany cabinet against the near
wall', "I have to meet with the Circle to set things in place for the new
regent."
"I never said—"
"And please, keep it quiet. If word is spilled
too soon, every guildsman and supplicant and courtier will be demanding that
his license be signed or grievance heard or dispute settled before I leave. I
can't afford to be waylaid."
"I make no promises," Allion said.
"Nor do I require any," replied Torin,
clapping his friend's shoulder. "As always, I trust you will do everything
in your power to see that the needs of this issue are met."
Allion frowned at the compliment as Torin released him
and headed for the door.
"How did Evhan fare in this morning's
session?" the Fason called after him.
"Very well," Torin admitted, recalling an
event just hours old but which seemed to him a lifetime removed. "He held
his own to the last. Had me promise him another row."
Allion smirked with barely concealed pride.
"They made a good team," Torin acknowledged.
"I should think they'd be excellent travel companions."
"Oh no, you're not getting Evhan. If there's even
a chance I'll be remaining here to look after your job, I'll need someone to
watch over mine."
Torin suppressed a grim yet satisfied smile of his
own. "I leave it to your good judgment," he said, before flinging
open the hardwood door and striding from the room.
Although he could barely contain his excitement, Pagus
held himself in check, waiting until Allion had followed Torin from the chamber
before daring to breathe normally again. Even when he was alone, he kept still
for several moments longer, tucked away in his place of concealment, waiting to
make sure that none of them—the king, the Fason, or the sentries—would return.
He .made himself measure ten full minutes before replacing the tiny viewing
slat and reaching through with his knife to trigger the outer latch.
He emerged slowly at first, a crack at a time. Once assured
that the way was clear, he swung wide the door of the cabinet in which the
pendulum and other clockworks were housed, and leapt free. His knees were only
slightly cramped at having been pinned open for so long, and he ignored the
uncomfortable tingling sensation as he reached back to latch the closet shut.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he tiptoed toward the
exit. That had been close. The herald had been tracking his king ever since the
commotion of that morning, fighting to get near enough to give ear to these
furtive goings-on. It wasn't like Torin to brush him and so many others aside,
and he had been all the more determined for it. When the king had found Allion,
Pagus knew they would be meeting here, in Torin's favorite audience chamber.
Still, the halls were abuzz with activity, and the pair had moved with uncommon
urgency. Pagus had just barely managed to squeeze into his regular hiding spot
before the private council had begun.
And what a council it had been. Even now, his ears
hummed, and he had to struggle to retain all that he'd heard. He didn't want to
forget a word of it, knowing that to do so would cost him dear. A miner took
greater caution when carrying diamonds than coal.
By the time he reached the doorway, his heart had
settled somewhat, skipping rather than pounding. The organ had nearly failed
him when Torin had looked in his direction toward the end of the meeting. That
had happened before, and under normal circumstances, it didn't bother him. But
given this newfound treasure, his every fiber was drawn taut, as he just waited
to be discovered.
He peeked around the edge of the doorframe, glanced in
both directions, then slipped into the hallway beyond. By
the time he reached the stairs, his skin had cooled,
and he allowed a spring into his step. It wasn't until he reached the landing
below that he met his first guardsman. Kien greeted him with a quick hello, and
Pagus responded with his typically bright and eager smile.
"On my horse," he said, making his standard
apology without slowing.
He made sure of
Kien's nod before scooting down a side passage that would lead eventually to
his quarters. A quick stop, then on to the stables. All the while, his smile
remained, as he blithely considered just what his news might be worth.
CHAPTER FIVE Back Table of Contents Next
A shower of sparks cascaded over his naked
arm, covering him from chest to foot, to dance like silent hailstones on the
earthen floor. Faldron disregarded them, protected as he was by his leather
smock and by a hearty layer of soot and sweat. Ropes of muscle bunched and
corded as he gripped the iron with a pair of tongs, while with the other arm he
continued to rain blows from above.
After forty years of shaping metal in this armory that
he'd inherited from his father, the smith's hearing was not what it had once
been. Nevertheless, he could still detect the ringing tones of the service
request bell strung from the storefront to this, the back of his workshop—even
over the clangor of hammer and anvil. He ignored its summons all the same,
waiting for his loafer of a shop boy to answer the call. When after several
moments the ringing continued unabated, he responded with a growl. Laying his
tools and gloves beside the unfinished piece, he stanched the airflow from his
bellows and closed the damper to his forge, then stomped forth to greet his
uninvited guest.
By the time he
reached the front, he had stowed the worst of his anger and donned the mask of
geniality reserved for customer interactions. All of that changed when he
caught sight of the spiky-haired youth hanging from his bellpull.
"Leave off," he snarled, slapping at the
boy's hand. "I ain't deaf, you know."
The youth gave one last, accidental tug as he jerked
away, just barely avoiding the smith's meaty swipe.
Faldron looked daggers upon the scamp, who was not
fazed in the least. The lad was covered in grime and dressed as a street
urchin. But even this could not hide the bright eyes and even brighter smile
that shone through the meager disguise.
"What did I tell you about coming to me during
hours?" the smith scolded, glancing out at the busy roadway.
"Sorry." The boy beamed, without the
slightest hint of apology. "This couldn't wait."
"Well, it's going to," Faldron rumbled.
"I've told you before, even out of uniform you're too recognizable. Come
back after dark."
"But—"
"Sorry, lad. Price you pay for becoming the
king's favorite." He was about to withdraw when the slow clop of approaching
hoofbeats drew him back.
"Master Faldron," the newcomer hailed.
"Good afternoon."
Faldron glanced at the boy, hoping the lad had the
good sense to make a swift and discreet exit. But it was already too late.
"And young master Pagus, is that you?"
Pagus coughed, cast about as if to flee, then nodded.
"Why, I can hardly recognize you. What would your
king say if he saw you looking like that?"
"He's just here to pick up a pair of heavy boots
for His Majesty," Faldron covered swiftly.
Commander Zain was a weasel of a man, with an ermine's
face to match. The thinnest tracing of a beard hugged his jawline, highlighting
its sharp angles and the upturned corners of his mouth. Black eyes glittered
like marbles in their sockets.
"I wasn't aware His Majesty ever wore heavy
boots," Zain observed, peering down from his mount with a reptilian smile.
"What can I do for you, Commander?"
"Just come to
check on our order," Zain answered, his gaze bearing down upon Pagus. The
young lad, to his credit, had ceased to squirm, but faced the other squarely
now that he'd been found out.
"Your order will be ready in two days as
promised. I might finish sooner," Faldron added, "if you and your men
would cease coming by to measure my progress."
Zain's horse tossed its head and gave a flick of its
tail. The steed of one of his two soldiers behind him snorted.
"I do beg your pardon," the commander offered
with that infuriating tone of mock civility. "We'll be on our way, then,
and leave the two of you to talk."
Faldron glared. "Come, lad, let's fetch you those
boots."
Zain's soldiers pulled aside to let their commander
by, then fell into line behind him. Faldron, meanwhile, came around to grip
Pagus by the shoulder. The trio looked back only once before falling in with
the traffic upon the roadway.
The armorer breathed a sigh of relief. As
commander-in-waiting of Krynwall's armies and the right hand of General Rogun
himself, Zain was not one to be trifled with. No doubt, Rogun would hear of
this before the day was out.
"Well, then," Faldron snarled, shaking the
boy so that his pretty teeth chattered. "The damage is done. Let's hear
what you have to say."
He shifted his hold to the scruff of the youth's neck
and hauled him around the counter, leaving the boy's disinterested roan
tethered to one side. With a stern pace, he propelled the other forward, past
the front awning under which display racks showcased samples of his wares, and
into the dark opening of his smithy. He did not stop there, but marched deeper,
back through storerooms filled with armor and weapons in various stages of
creation or repair, stowed upon shelves and racks or in assorted piles. There
they came upon Tam-—his useless bum of a shop boy who hoped one day to be an
apprentice—hanging gorgets upon the wall.
"Where were you?" the smith roared, kicking
a battered helmet in the boy's direction.
Tam started and fell back into a rack of halberds that
threatened to tumble around him. "I... I was replacing the well rope, as
you requested."
Faldron felt Pagus twisting for a look at the other,
and so
jerked the herald away to keep his face hidden.
"And you didn't hear the bell from there?"
"N-no, sir," Tam stammered, eyes affright.
Of course he hadn't, the smith realized. Nor could
anyone. "Bah," he grumbled, and hauled Pagus onward.
The smell of fire and molten metal and singed hair
replaced that of oil and leather as at last they reached the forge. They kept
going until they came to a far corner where slumped a pile of coal. There they
stopped, with Faldron flinging Pagus toward the mound of crushed ore and
jabbing a beefy finger in his face.
"This had better be good," he warned.
For a moment, the herald did not respond, his young
eyes fixed upon Faldron's blunted nose—an ancient injury that had never healed
quite properly. Then, Pagus seemed to remember himself, and in an instant, his
smile returned.
Faldron worked hard to mask his own delight as the
news was delivered. The stranger named Darinor, the Illysp, and most critical
to him, the report of the king's planned departure. This last part was
something for which he'd been waiting a long time, an opportunity that would
surely fetch him a handsome sum.
Nevertheless, he squelched his enthusiasm, guarding
his emotions behind a stern frown as he considered the eager face of his
youthful informant and pretended to deliberate on what this knowledge was
worth.
"You did well in bringing this to my attention at
once," he allowed. He uncrossed his arms and reached beneath his smock,
pulling forth a small key. "Wait here."
Leaving Pagus to do as told, he retreated briefly to
an adjacent office, where he removed a small wooden chest from a hidden
drawer. Using the key, he triggered the lock and withdrew from the chest a
smaller leather pouch, which he carried forth with him.
At the sight of
the pouch, Pagus's keen young eyes widened to the size of a breastplate whose
outer edges had yet to be hammered round. Faldron smirked inwardly and jingled
the pouch before producing two coppers and a three-piece of silver.
As the coins fell into Pagus's outstretched hand, his
hopeful visage crumbled. He seemed at first unable to speak, then screwed his
courage into place. "I thought all of that should fetch at least a
gildron."
"A gildron?" the smith balked, though he
knew the value to be ten times the suggested amount. "Where would a young
lad like you spend a gildron? Least of all without raising suspicion."
"You said—"
"Bah, this news would have come to me—as to everyone—soon
enough. Bring me something secret, something I can use, and the reward will be
much greater."
Pagus was unmollified. "But—"
"Keep it or return it." He loosened the
purse strings suggestively.
The herald gave him a dirty look before thrusting the
coins into his pocket.
"I'll lead you out," Faldron offered, as if
that might ease the lad's pain.
"I can manage," Pagus muttered. He turned
and shuffled away.
The smith called after. "Wait!"
Pagus rounded, even now, with a glimmer of hope. That
hope faded when the armorer handed him a pair of heavy boots.
"Consider that part of your payment," said
the smith. "You may return them to me for a copper. Next time, be more
careful, or wait until dark."
The herald slunk back the way they'd come, looking as
though his horse had ridden over him.
Faldron followed him out, scanning the roadway for any
sign of Zain or his men. Seeing none, he disappeared back into his workshop,
there to stare at the abandoned blade whose angry red folds had chilled to
burnt umber. His sudden urge was to leave it be and set forth at once to meet
with his client, for by the sound of it, the man would need this word as soon
as possible if he wished to organize a pursuit.
But no, he decided. Better that he follow the
structure of their agreement. He did not wish to fan the man's ire as Pagus had
fanned his.
After replacing his coin purse within its chest, and
the chest within his desk, he squared himself before his anvil and roared for
"Yes, sir?" the boy answered, skittering
near.
"Run down to Orru's with a full brace of
butcher's knives. Tell him to raise the red."
"Sir?"
"Just do as I say." He flipped the other an
ivory half-piece withheld from his purse. "Make haste."
"Yes, sir."
When the boy had gone, leather-wrapped bundle in hand,
Faldron returned to his forgotten task, suppressing the rash of anticipation
that prickled beneath his skin. Firing his forge, he snatched up hammer and
tongs and went back to work.
At dusk, the armorer rode from his shop on the back of
a well-worn bay. He was an easy man to recognize, what with that twisted spade
of a broken nose. His giant body was practically hairless; that which wasn't
shaved had long ago been singed to the roots. Closer up, one could see that his
fire-tanned skin was mottled with burn scars, the signature of an ancient
blacksmith.
"Good work, Lieutenant," Zain said, lowering
the spyglass and handing it back to his junior officer. Perched in a clouded
window on the second floor of an abandoned masonry storehouse across the way,
the soldier had been ordered to keep a sharp lookout, and to alert him of this
very moment. "Follow me."
The lieutenant accepted the spyglass and saluted
sharply before pivoting on his heel and heading with his commander for the
stairs.
Moments later, the pair mounted their steeds and urged
them into the crowded street. Night fell early during these winter months,
coinciding with the end of the workday. Traf-fic was therefore at its evening
peak, allowing Zain and his man to hide themselves among the grinding throng.
They kept to the far edges of the brick-laid avenue some twenty lengths back,
shielded by a wagoner and the near darkness, wrapped in riding cloaks. Within
the hoods of those cloaks, they pinned an eye to their quarry at all times.
Zain recognized a rat when he saw one, especially a
royal rat stripped of his tabard and masked in soiled woolens. And it was well
known to him that despite his considerable skills with hammer and tongs,
Faldron specialized in intrigues. To find the king's own brat meeting with the
renowned armorer on the very day in which an unknown stir had interrupted a
long-planned coronation rehearsal was a matter that needed to be explored.
A choking layer of dust coated his throat and
scratched at his eyes. Zain would have preferred to be lying as usual within
his chambers at this time, being bathed in oils by a pair of palace wenches.
But in order to retain such favors granted him by General Rogun, he had to be
willing to focus on his duties whenever an opportunity such as this arose.
Time slipped by with slow monotony as they fought
their way along the congested maggot trail. Behind his turned shoulder, the sun
spewed a final, desperate burst of color over the city's curtain wall before
being dragged helplessly away by the night. Stars glimmered against a charcoal
sky, twinkling like dying embers, as the day's fire cooled.
All the while, Zain and his lieutenant clung to their
man as surely as if they had him leashed, giving slow chase through the city
streets. Faldron glanced around from time to time as if sensing he was being
followed, but never came close to spying the guilty pair.
At last, after forging a circuitous route along the
city's main avenues, the smith doubled back along a zigzag path of quiet lanes
and deserted alleys. Continuing the pursuit at this point was more of a
challenge, but that only heightened Zain's thrill. Working as a team, the
bundled soldiers kept pace.
They came finally to an inn of some repute—and none of
it good. Years ago, Zain had been a regular, and
enjoyed himself well enough during those times. But over the years, his tastes
had become more refined, until this place had grown too coarse for his liking.
A tattered pennant flew upon a flagstaff in the small picket courtyard,
fluttering restlessly in a cold evening breeze. It teased and waved, then
unfurled at last to reveal the embroidered symbol of a honeycomb. The pennant
was scarlet in color, Zain noted, rather than jade. The Queen's Hive was full.
So why did it appear deserted? From his position of
hiding, the commander-in-waiting breathed forth clouds as his narrowed gaze
scraped over the beaten woodwork. It seemed far too early in the evening for
the Hive to have filled itself to capacity. Certainly, it was odd that none of
the upstairs lights were on, rooms from which Zain would have expected to hear
the sounds of drunken laughter and lecherous cajoling. By all appearances, the
Hive was closed.
This did not stop Faldron, who vanished temporarily
into an adjacent stable to tether his mount. Emerging a moment later, the
armorer came around to rap at the Hive's front door. Zain crouched lower, wary
of being seen. He had left his lieutenant with the horses in a dilapidated
shack two streets over—just a short dash to safety, without risking that the
animals would give him away. Still, he bated hisbreath as he awaited the
Hive's response.
As the moments passed, it appeared there would not be
any. Perhaps Zain had guessed wrong in what the armorer was about. Perhaps
Faldron was here for sport, and just didn't understand the sign of the red.
Perhaps, despite the dim light that glowed through the shuttered windows of the
inn's lower level, the place was deserted.
Then the door cracked, and that light spilled briefly
onto the threshold. When the light disappeared, Faldron was gone.
Zain waited awhile longer, attuning his eyes and ears
to the night around him. No new sounds came from within the Hive; no new flames
were lit.
When confident that the vanished smith would not be
coming out directly, Zain dashed forward from his cover, clutching his scabbard
to keep the blade from rattling. In a crouch, he scurried across the empty
street and up to the side of the Hive's slatted exterior. The drumming of his
heart echoed in his ears with accelerated rhythm. The thrill of the hunt.
Skulking along a bed of withered flowers, the
commander crept toward the nearest window from which a muted light shone. The
paned glass was in need of cleaning, but was clear enough to show him the inn's
common room. Peering closer, he caught his first sign of movement—there, behind
a counter against the far wall. A man appeared, fetched an oil lamp from a
sagging shelf, and was gone.
Zain smirked. Orru. He'd heard that the butcher had
taken over management of the Hive, but had forgotten it until now. He didn't
bother trying to track the dealings of all the various whoremasters in this
city, just those with whom he had direct business.
Was it Orru with whom the armorer was trading? Zain
didn't think so. More likely, the butcher was merely facilitating some other
meeting. That might explain why the Hive had been shut down for the evening.
He was about to surrender this rather limited vantage
point and seek another—when Orru returned, his lamp alight—and headed upstairs.
Zain looked around, eyeing the balcony that skirted
the second floor outside. Every inn of this nature worth its coin was equipped
with at least one means of hasty egress, and if memory served, the Hive was no
exception.
The commander left his window and went searching for
the hidden ladder. He found it behind a rotted woodpile. Obvious, to anyone in
the know, since the Hive had no hearth. Each room contained a small coal stove,
but relied for the most part on the flush of drink and activity to keep its patrons
warm.
Zain's soft-soled leathers made scarcely a sound as he
ascended the weathered rungs to reach the platform above. Just as he did so,
the light of an oil lamp filled the window nearest him. Zain started and
flattened himself against the wall.
His heart beat frantically now as he waited for the
alarm. But there, were no cries, no hustle. Just the quiet rustle of windblown
leaves.
He realized, however, that he could not stay in this
position. The lamp was most likely a beacon, a signal for someone who might or
might not be entering through the front door. Remain here much longer, and he
would certainly be exposed.
He skittered like a roach from the revealing signal
light, until he reached the corner of the building and had followed the balcony
in wrapping around its side.
The commander paused. He needed to get closer to that
room, yet dared not do so by sneaking inside. But the Hive had two kinds of
rooms. Those that offered absolute privacy were located in the cellar. These
lacked windows of any sort, and no doubt had an escape route of their own.
Zain, however, had always preferred the upstairs rooms, which had windows in
the walls and in the ceiling.
Leaping from the rail to catch the edge of the gabled
roof, Zain hoisted himself as quickly and noiselessly as he could manage atop
the slanted bed of shingles. Keeping to the front side of the building,
opposite the slope on which the lighted window was found, he rolled patiently
and quietly toward the far end. Leaves and needles clung to his clothes, and,
along with a layer of moss, helped to cushion his approach. The boards beneath
creaked, but not so loudly as to be a concern, especially when he believed the
rooms below to be empty. Once he'd gone about two-thirds of the way over, and
had aligned himself with where he thought his target on the other side to be,
he settled onto his stomach and crawled carefully toward the peak.
He missed his target by a dozen paces, and was glad
that he did. For just before he crested the roof's peak, a dark shape alighted
at the very spot for which he'd been heading. It did so almost like a bird:
weightless, soundless. Zain froze, chilled from the inside out. A window entry
he had anticipated. But what manner of unsavory character descended upon his
cohorts through the roof?
The commander held his breath as the cloaked shadow
figure turned its cowled head from side to side. Then it held perfectly still,
and Zain feared he'd been spotted. An unnatural dread filled his gut, coring
him like an apple. Had he not lost his capacity to move, he might have fled.
With a muffled crunch of shattering glass and
splintering wood, the shadow thing disappeared. As soon as it had gone, Zain's
terror lifted, and he scrambled forward to see what had become of it. In truth,
he already knew, else he'd not have dared to pursue.
Along the rear side of the building, one for each
room, were a line of eyebrow arches in the roof plane. Faint light spilled from
only one of these—the one in which the window had been broken and the shadow
had gone.
There was a deep, flustered cry—Faldron's, he was
sure—before the light flicked out. What could explain that? Perhaps they'd gone
to another room. But no, the light had died suddenly, as if extinguished.
Besides, he could still hear Faldron's voice, quieter now, but there just the
same. Perhaps the shadowy newcomer insisted upon absolute darkness in which
to conduct its affairs.
Zain's dread fascination grew.
That fascination, however, did not warrant a potentially
bloody encounter with whatever creature—man, woman, or beast—Faldron had called
upon this night. While inching closer to the open dormer window, Zain made
sure to shield his body behind the adjacent arch, avoiding the area beneath
which the conspirators held their council—so that the crunch of his movements
would not be heard. As a consequence, their gossip escaped him. But he could
pry that from Faldron later, if necessary. Some things weren't worth the risk.
A cold wind probed the folds of his cloak, seeking to
slow the pulse that kept him warm. Hunkered against its chill touch, Zain
waited for the secret meeting to draw to a close. Once it did, he had every
intention of following this shadow figure—from a distance, of course—to see
what he might learn.
Faldron's hushed account went on for quite some time
without interruption, more recitation than
conversation. Not once did Zain detect the voice of the other, if indeed it had
one. From the night without came the occasional clop of a distant horse or the
echo of a drunkard's merriment. In this far-removed quarter, at least, the city
slept.
His level of attention was starting to sag, his sharp
mind drifting, when he heard the scooting of a chair. He perked at once and
ducked lower against the protective dormer. There was the sound of footsteps,
the closing of a door, and silence.
Zain waited. Had the shadow exited by a different
route? He started to look, then stopped himself. That was exactly what a hunter
did, outlast his prey, wait for it to show itself. The parallel almost made him
laugh. Which of the two was he?
It was not until he heard the slamming of the Hive's
front door that he craned his neck to peer around. There was no sign of the
shadow. Quickly he scampered across the roof's peak and down the other side.
Faldron was shuffling toward the stable. Orru, when finished locking up, did
the same. The pair stopped briefly to share a grumbling exchange, then disappeared
within. A moment later, each was on his separate steed, and headed off in
separate ways.
Zain sank back on his haunches, feeling a slight
twinge of regret. He'd missed his chance to gather anything more this night. He
should have known that anyone who would go through as much trouble as the
shadow had to enter a place unnoticed would not leave the same way. Or maybe he
had just flown away on the wind like smoke.
Either way, the commander's disappointment was assuaged
by an even stronger sense of relief. There were safer ways to study strangers
than to track them through the city streets. With Faldron, he knew what he'd
been up against, but this other had caught him completely by surprise.
No matter, he assured himself, delaying for good
measure a few moments longer before dropping from the roof and heading for the
balcony ladder. He could still rely on Faldron. Maybe even Orru. One way or
another, there was clearly more to uncover here, and he intended to do so—just
in case it was something he might twist to his own advantage.
As he made off to retrieve his waiting mount, he felt
the stars, like the eyes of a bird of prey, watch him go.
CHAPTER SIX Back Table of Contents Next
More
often than he could remember, Xarius Talyzar had killed a man as a matter of
precaution. Every now and then, he let one live for the same reason.
The spy on the roof of the Queen's Hive was not
Faldron's. The assassin could see that just by watching the man's furtive
movements around the building's exterior. More likely a flea picked up by the
armorer somewhere along the way. A nuisance rather than a threat. But Xarius
tolerated neither.
He went straight for the roof, cutting off the spy's
approach to the lighted window. His purpose was not to confront it, but to
startle it, then gauge its reaction. Had it scampered off in fright, it was
probably of no concern. Instead, the insect had held its ground.
It had come no closer, however. The assassin's abrupt
appearance had made sure of that. He'd marked its skittering movements even
while listening to Faldron's account, making sure it did not venture near
enough to see or hear anything. He'd made no mention of it to the armorer. For
all his subtlety, the mistrustful smith might have ended their meeting then
and there.
One thing at a time.
Afterward, given Faldron's report, the insect's
presence became much more meaningful—or utterly inconsequential, depending on
its identity. If a stray rat seeking crumbs, it was of no concern. If someone
who might alert the king of the assassin's presence, it would have to be
exterminated.
For that reason, Xarius had lingered until the spy
de-parted, watching to see if it had friends—potential witnesses—before he
questioned and then killed it. When it flashed by in the lighted pool of a
street lamp, the assassin took a long, studied look. What he saw surprised
him, and justified his decision against rash action. He knew this man, this
Commander Zain, if only by repute, which complicated his decision.
Zain was Rogun's man, and Rogun was no friend of the
king. There was scant chance, therefore, that he was rushing back to the palace
to warn Torin of suspected danger. However, he was powerful enough and devious
enough to have spun this entire web, or to have designs that might otherwise
conflict with the assassin's own.
After all this time, Xarius was not about to take that
chance. He could already guess what his employer's reaction to this news would
be. This was the opportunity they had long been waiting for. Best to confirm
the truth and remove any potential complications here and now.
He was still mulling over his options when the
skulking commander dashed in through the rear of a confectioner's shack whose
walls and roof listed dangerously. As swift and silent as the man's own shadow,
Xarius slipped up to the leeward side.
"Sir. Did you learn what you needed?"
"Not near what I'd hoped. That fool armorer is
plotting something, and with dangerous company, but I know not what."
"Shall we report to General Rogun now, sir?"
"No." A saddle creaked, and a horse tamped
and whickered. "Not yet. Let me work on the matter until we have
something worth bringing to the general's attention."
They rode swiftly through the door, Zain and his lone
companion. The assassin could have felled them both, but let them go. Zain was
an outsider in this, and Xarius's own identity remained a mystery. Better that
he let the commander live and avoid the undue attention his death might bring.
The decision weighed on the assassin for some time,
though his doubts were alleviated by the expectation of what this all meant. A
strange turn, but one that worked in his
favor. For nine weeks he'd been stuck in this ruin of
a city, relegated to the role of lookout, commanded by his employer to sit and
observe and do nothing but mark the movements of the young King Torin—a test of
patience such as he had never before endured. All of a sudden, it would seem
that was about to change.
He blew forward on a billowing wind, a vessel slipped
from its moorings to sail the dark, placid waters of night. None saw him as he
passed by the few rabble who crossed his path at this late hour and in this
quiet sector. Within moments, he had returned to the district in which he'd
made his home, an area that had unofficially been cordoned off for the pariahs
of even this society—the deaf and dumb, blind and maimed, disease-stricken and
mentally infirm. To Xarius, these shunned vermin were no more or less
disgusting than the rest of those who rotted within the walls of this city. He
lived among them as a matter of convenience, having found that such individuals
tended to be isolated and withdrawn, with far more respect for one's private
business than those of rank or basic privilege.
When he came upon the sewage duct, he reached out with
all his trained senses, searching for anyone nearby. Only then did he pick the
lock of the grate and duck inside. Without a torch, he ran along the narrow
ledge that rimmed the enclosed channel, keeping clear of the sluggish and
foul-smelling river current, kicking aside squealing rats and bits of debris.
Every now and then, moonlight slipped through another gated service portal.
Judging by the cracked and festering condition of the tunnel, most had gone too
long unused.
At last he came to
a break in the tunnel that opened into a spacious alcove. He had no idea what
the area had originally been used for. A staging ground for crews or their
equipment, perhaps. More recently, it had been home to a flock of lepers whose
only other choice had been exile from the city. When one after another of their
companions had started to die off—not as a result of their ailment, but due to
severed windpipes—the rest had decided that life in the country might not be
so bad.
It was but one of many temporary shelters in which the
assassin lived. His needs were small. He had no possessions and needed no
comforts. He found that he kept a sharper edge by denying himself even the most
basic luxuries. His only companions were his blades and quarrels, his only
friend the darkness.
Squatting in the center of the dust-covered alcove, he
scraped about until he'd lit a small fire within a ring of stones. It didn't
take much; even a candle's flame would do. He then pulled a pouch from his belt
and reached for a pinch of the dried-skin powder inside. Xarius did not pretend
to understand how it all worked; nor did he care to. As a result of their
devastating nature, the arcane arts had been abandoned by man centuries ago.
They certainly held no interest for him.
A sprinkle was all it took. The fire hissed and
guttered, and its smoke turned black. Xarius recoiled slightly from the stench
of burning flesh.
Within moments, an image took shape within the vile
curtain of smoke. The image of a man. Elder brother to Torin and son of Sorl.
The onetime crown prince and then king of Alson.
Xarius Talyzar, the
wizard greeted.
He did so without voice, using instead the assassin's
sign language. And though his image was but a sixth of his true size and made
of wavering smoke, his motions were clear.
Good news, Xarius signed in
reply. Our little bird prepares to leave the nest.
When? Even through the
smoky image, Soric's eagerness was manifest.
At dawn. Better still, he is heading your
way.
The assassin proceeded to relate all that he had
gleaned this evening from their hired mole. He skimmed briefly over that which
did not matter—the rumors of bestial races on the prowl, ancient spirits
unleashed, and the unknown history of the Crimson Sword. He focused instead on
the result. Torin, he who had usurped Soric's throne in the wake of the Demon
Queen's failed conquest, would be setting forth at once with only a small
party, boarding a vessel, and sailing westward across the ocean.
Directly into their hands.
The wizard's initial reaction was even more gleeful
than Xarius had anticipated. Understandable, given Soric's obsession, and that
they might have waited months or even years for a lesser opportunity.
Xarius's own enthusiasm was quickly quelled, however,
by the wizard's secondary response.
Give chase, my
What?
I wish you to observe only. Alert me to
any changes in his progress. You will not seek to capture him, is that
understood?
The wizard's signals had become rigid and harsh. Xarius
replied in kind. I've been waiting for this as long as you have. You '11 not
deny me now.
You had your chance, remember? You failed
to bring him to me then—and that when he traveled with but a
single companion and without the weapon he now carries.
Soric's reminder was a slap in the face. All of a
sudden, the dancing flames felt cold compared to those that scorched his
cheeks.
I will arrange
for another to handle delivery. You will follow from the rear to help guide my
hand.
Then you will find another, Xarius
fumed. I am a hunter, not a lapdog.
You will do as I say.
Or I will kill him myself, here and now,
and end this pointless charade.
You will not! Or I swear by all my powers,
Talyzar, you '11 be next.
The assassin felt his nostrils flare. Had the wizard
been standing before him, he might have taken his chances and unleashed his
hand. As it was, there was little he could do.
You cannot run far or fast enough to
escape me, the wizard warned. Do not think to try.
Too late for that, Xarius thought, but kept it to
himself.
It will all be
over soon, the other continued, seeking now to smooth his raised
hackles. And your sacrifices will be well rewarded.
Indeed, it was these rewards, more than any of the
wizard's threats, that had kept the assassin chained so long. Until recently,
Soric had been the perfect master, with deep pockets and a long leash. The only
thing Xarius enjoyed more were the tasks themselves, tasks that challenged him,
and which were free of moral restraint. From the outset, theirs had been an
ideal arrangement.
But all of that had changed—overnight, it seemed—with
the ill-fated hunt for the wizard's younger brother. For it was then that each
had become distracted by his own obsession. Soric, of course, was consumed with
his need to exact revenge upon the upstart king, for reasons to which even the
assassin was not fully privy. Xarius, meanwhile, cared nothing for the whelp
one way or the other, except in how he might be used to gain access to his own
bitter rival. Had he not believed Torin might make for the perfect lure, he
never would have agreed to this otherwise wasteful expenditure of his time and
talents.
Our agreement stands, the
wizard promised. When Torin is mine, I shall lend whatever assistance you
may need in hunting down Kronus. Do not unravel on me now, so near the end.
The youth's name, even unspoken, rankled Xarius to his
core. He resisted the urge to reach for the scar the other had left with him as
a result of their last encounter, to trace its raised length and swear death to
he who had placed it there. An obsession that was every bit as unhealthy as the
wizard's, he knew. But like the wizard, he didn't care.
Am I to sever loose strands? the
assassin prompted.
Soric's image smiled. Our work here is finished for
now. Do as you deem necessary.
Xarius bowed in acknowledgment. A small concession,
but at least it was something. A residual twinge of regret swept through him at
having allowed Zain and his companion to escape, now that he knew for certain
his time here was coming to a close. If nothing else, their deaths might have
lent him some small measure of satisfaction on this most inauspicious night.
But that was too dire an outlook, the assassin
realized, as
the oily black smoke burned away and the wizard's summoned
image drifted into the ether. One way or another, he was ready to move on. He'd
been idle for too long, constrained to gathering gossip while his skills
eroded from lack of use—a hobbled raptor left with only its sight. Although he
was not yet free of the wizard's tether, this next exercise would at least
allow him to stretch his wings.
Nevertheless, he squatted before the dying flames for
some time, simmering in frustration. Dissatisfied with having sat around for as
long as he had_while his ultimate quarry escaped him. Aggravated by the
wizard's negative assessment of his abilities. Xarius Talyzar, the Shadow, was
a patient man. But that patience had worn thin, leaving him exposed, as naked
as a soldier without his armor. It was a discomfiting feeling, and he knew of
only one way to resolve it.
Kicking aside the failing embers, he took hold of the
hilt of his saber and made his way back out into the night.
*****
"Congratulations, Fason."
The young Evhan let slip a crooked smirk of pride and
gratification. To hide it, he looked down, fingering the ropes of office that
had just now been bestowed upon him.
But Allion would not deny him this pleasure, even
under these grim circumstances. The lad had made it known from the first day of
training that this was his goal, and had ever since labored tirelessly—and with
an infectious intensity— to make that dream a reality. He had been a wonderful
influence, not only on his fellow guardsmen, but upon his leaders as well.
Allion could think of no one more deserving, and he clapped the young man's
shoulder in approval.
"The promotion is well earned," the former
captain assured him. "I've no doubts that you are ready."
Nor did Evhan, he noted. The new Fason grinned fully
this time, although the scar upon his cheek caused his face to retain its
lopsided appearance.
"I will
fulfill the duties of my office with the utmost faith and fidelity," the
young man swore.
Young man. The lad was two years older than himself.
"I'm confident you will."
One of the double doors to the assembly hall lurched
open. Both men turned at Marisha's approach.
"Sir?"
"Dismissed, Captain," Allion agreed.
Evhan saluted, right fist covering his heart, before
taking his leave. On the way out, he bowed to Marisha, who dipped in curtsy.
When the doors had closed, Allion offered a weary
smile. "Best sight I've seen all day."
Marisha blushed. "I'd thought you would assemble
the Shield and hold ceremony for Evhan's promotion."
Allion sighed. "I would, if I knew for certain
I'd be here in a day or two to conduct it." Marisha came forward to take
his hands, and a measure of the weariness drained away. "Please tell me
you've talked him out of this."
"I haven't tried," she admitted. She touched
his hands to her cheek in fond greeting before releasing them.
"How can you not?" The words sounded more
cross than he'd intended, resounding in the empty hall.
"Because I believe he must do this. For all of
us."
Allion was taken aback by her commitment. "And
what makes you so certain?"
"Because I believe in my father."
"Your father." Allion snorted, and again
made a note to have these stark stone walls softened with flags or tapestries,
"You don't even know the man. How can you trust him?"
Marisha took his hand and led him over to a bench beneath
an arched alcove. When both were seated, she stared intently into his. eyes.
"Because he is the only one we can trust,
The only one who can guide us in this." She hurried on to cut short his
protest. "There is much to learn about him, yes. With all the time we've
lost, much that I may never know. But of what I remember, my father is a kind
and devoted man, self-sacrificing and honest.
"Much like you," she added, and Allion
squirmed in his
seat. He turned away, but she squeezed his hands, then
forced his chin back around to face her.
"He may seem impatient and headstrong," she
continued, "and with no tolerance for foolishness. But that is only because
he is unconcerned with what others think of him. He is concerned only with what
needs to be done. My mother used to tell me as much. It was the reason he left
us. To see to the greater good of mankind, no matter his personal
desires."
Her eyes fell, and her hands withdrew into her own
lap. Allion wasn't sure whether to reach for them, or to let her be.
"I will not yet say that I understand," she
said, her voice unusually timid. "Perhaps I never will. But I've always
known this much. He left us out of respect for my mother's wishes, not his own.
He did what he had to then, and I've no reason to believe he'll do otherwise
now."
Allion gulped. The argument, in and of itself, was not
enough to allay his fears. But the way in which she made it, the conviction in
her posture and in her eyes, was much more difficult to discount.
"And you'll not leave him," he presumed,
"even if it means letting Torin go off alone on this dangerous
venture."
"Especially because Torin is going off on this
venture," she replied. She quieted for a moment, during which Allion
thought he detected the briefest tremble. "I deserve an opportunity to
learn who my father is. I deserve to learn who I am. This may be my only
chance. And Torin will be safe in the hands of those you've selected, will he
not?"
Allion let loose a long, slow breath. "I don't
know." How could he? He'd done his best to assemble what he thought would
be a good mix. Men like Cordan, of the City Shield, whose cunning and loyalty
were without question. Men like Bullrum, of the Legion of the Sword, whose
strength and determination put to shame those of an ox. But when it came right
down to it, he'd only known these men for a few months. "The only way to
be sure would be to accompany him myself."
"And you're still considering doing just
that."
He gave her a sullen look, but did not bother denying
it. Even without his comment regarding the hasty manner of Evhan's promotion,
she knew him well enough to sense the truth.
"You gave him your oath."
"I most specifically did not."
"Then you would leave me here alone, under my own
care and that of a man you do not trust?"
Allion measured carefully his response. "I believe
you're quite capable of defending yourself," he said, smiling bravely.
"I appreciate that. And yet you do not believe
your best friend can do the same?"
"I... It's different. Jarom—" He caught
himself, having accidentally referred to the man by his childhood name.
"Torin and I have been looking after each other for as long as I can
remember."
"I understand," she said, and he believed
her. "But I think you must, just this once. I think you should respect his
wishes; Do not set aside your natural impulse, only follow it in a different
way. He needs you here. I need you here. The entire kingdom needs you
here."
Allion held his breath as he gazed into her pleading
eyes. It was difficult to see her like this, lacking her customary playfulness
and confidence. Something about her father's return had scarred her more
deeply than he yet realized, leaving her—leaving all of them—dazed and
uncertain. Always the first to lend aid, she now seemed to require it. Or maybe
she was merely challenging him to find his own strength, as she so often did
with others. Either way, he could deny her nothing, and ached with the truth of
it.
"In any case, if you were to leave, you would be
putting me in the awkward position of abandoning my father or breaking my
oath."
"What oath?"
"The oath I made to my betrothed, our 16rd the
king, to keep you safe while he is away."
Allion choked on a sputtering retort. He did not know
whether to cry out in indignation or to laugh. Marisha's charming expression
decided it.
"I suppose I should have seen that coming,"
he chuckled in defeat.
"Then it is agreed. Each of us will have the
other to look afterthem."
Allion shook his head. It was the inevitable decision.
As badly as he wanted to refuse this forced regency, the sense of duty
instilled in him by his parents and others would never allow it. He was too
well versed in doing what was expected of him to simply abandon his appointed
role. Toss an obligation to Marisha into the mix, and he no longer had a
prayer.
"Where is the conniving scoundrel?"
he asked.
"Still in council, last I checked."
"It's late. Think we should attempt to rescue
him?"
Marisha leaned her head upon his shoulder. "I
warned him not to expect a quick briefing. I think at this point, Torin is best
able to rescue himself."
With the scent of
her hair in his nostrils, Allion was less inclined than he might normally have
been to disagree. "I hope you're right," he said instead, closing his
eyes against the absurdity, of it all. "I hope you're right."
CHAPTER SEVEN Back Table of Contents Next
Faldron awoke to the dim light of a
guttering candle. The assassin watched him squint and squirm, then finally
lurch up to lean upon a powerful elbow.
"You," the armorer acknowledged, peering
across the bedside table to the black form of the visitor seated there.
"Have you brought my payment, then?"
Xarius was impressed. Any normal man would have pissed
his breeches to find himself so intruded upon. Especially in these hours of
waning night, when a man's strength was at its furthest ebb.
In response to Faldron's question, the assassin shook
the heavy contents of a leather purse. The sound had a remarkable effect on the
other's wakefulness.
"First, we must discuss your trail," Xarius
whispered.
The armorer scowled. Xarius could almost see the other's
senses at work, testing the air of this unexpected meeting. It was unlike the
assassin to reveal himself so openly. Even though his hooded face was kept
clear of the candle's aura, the fact that he'd lit one at all, in addition to
the time and manner of his coming, was unusual enough to elicit concern.
"What trail?"
"The trail of your spies," Xarius explained.
"Those who delivered this information to you. And any others with whom you
may have shared it."
Faldron growled. "My sources are my own business.
You agreed to that going in."
"And you're certain they know nothing of
me?"
"I know nothing of you." The armorer
snorted. "Save for your unnatural interest in the king."
Xarius set the coin purse upon the table, massaging
its contents with his gloved fingers. "And what of your spy on the
roof?"
"What spy?"
"You were not to include any observers. That also
was part of our deal, was it not?"
Faldron was indignant. "What game are you
playing? I know nothing of this."
An honest response, of course. Xarius already knew the
truth about Zain. But he was enjoying watching the armorer sweat. "Then
you are not as adept as your reputation would indicate."
The burn-scarred smith was running out of patience.
"If you don't like the way I do business, why don't you find someone else
from now on, eh? Why not deliver that payment and be on your way?"
"One problem." Xarius twisted at the pouch's
drawstrings as if distracted by his thoughts. "If I can't silence your
informants, I'll have to silence you."
The other laughed. "You think you're the first to
threaten old Faldron here? I've been around a long time, lad. Watch yourself,
and you might live to say the same."
"Your source," the assassin repeated.
"I'll give you a count of three."
Faldron laughed again, nervously this time. His eyes
flicked momentarily to the far side of his bed.
"One..."
The laughter persisted.
"Two..."
With a practiced lunge, the armorer reached down with
a quick swipe and produced a crossbow, cranked and loaded, that hung from the
outer bedframe. With a fluidity that belied his size, he leveled the weapon and
sent its bolt screaming toward the assassin, all within two beats of a steady
heart.
But Xarius was already gone. Two steps up and along
the cornering wall dropped him atop the oblivious armorer, where the shorter of
his two sabers slipped easily through the center of the man's windpipe and
pinned him to his headboard.
The assassin knelt there for a moment as the powerful
smith coughed and sputtered, rage flashing in his eyes. "A fine blade
indeed. Rest assured, I will put it to good use."
Faldron tried to spit, but succeeded only in dribbling
more blood down his chin. Before long, his eyes lost focus, and his helpless
struggles ceased.
Xarius waited a moment before freeing his weapon with
a single smooth tug. His switch to the heavier sabers was yet another
consequence of that last confrontation with his former guildmate, Kylac
Kronus—a duel the other had won only as the result of a broken blade. In
response, the assassin had sought out the best swordmaker Alson had to offer
to forge him a new set—he who now slumped lifelessly in his own bed.
A small cloth was used to wipe the blade clean, then
discarded over the body of the victim. After that, Xarius stepped away.
Although the night was failing, there was time yet to track down Zain—maybe
even one or two more who might know of him. But that would be an unnecessary
risk. The deaths of Orru and Faldron would likely serve as warning enough to
their lesser informants. And by the time Zain or someone else discovered these
bodies, the assassin's quarry would be beyond help, and Xarius himself long
gone in pursuit.
He did not intend that either of them should ever
return.
Besides, he still had preparations of his own to make.
Horse, provisions—nothing drastic, but neither was he one to wait until the
last minute.
Retrieving his abandoned coin purse, he blew out the
lone candle, then slipped outside like a stray breeze that had found its way at
last.
*****
The sun had not yet risen—its faint promise a mere
blush in the eastern sky—when it came time for Torin to say good-bye. They met
beside a rear gate of the palace grounds, at
the edge of a hilltop cemetery overlooking the city
below. Stephan and Pagus joined Allion, Marisha, and Darinor as those who would
be remaining behind, come to bid farewell to Torin and his six-member
expedition team. A ring of distant guardsmen, led by Evhan, the newly appointed
captain of the City Shield, saw to it that they were otherwise undisturbed.
"Before the thaw, would be nice."
It was Darinor who prodded, but Torin was slow to
react. In the frosted gray mist of predawn, the world had taken on a ghostly
quality, causing him to wonder if the entire episode were naught but a dream
staged somewhere in his mind. Given the whirlwind of these events, he found it
difficult to think clearly. There had been no sleep, for when finished with the
Circle, he had gone to his most trusted servants, Stephan and Pagus, and
explained all with his apologies. After that, he had met with both Marisha and
Darinor and accepted from them the Pendant. When finally he had completed
these preparations and thought to lie down to rest, the dawn—and this
moment—was virtually upon him.
Now that it was here, it felt as though all the hours
of explanation and debate had never taken place. Had he truly given thought to
this course?
"I wish you would reconsider, my lord," a
sullen-faced Stephan pleaded. Torin did not recall having approached the man,
and yet stood before him, watching the breath that clouded from his chipmunk
face while impish breezes rouged his already reddened cheeks.
"I leave the palace in your good hands,"
Torin said, giving his devoted seneschal a warm embrace about the shoulders.
"See to it that you treat your regent as well as you've treated me."
Stephan nodded, then lowered his eyes and tucked his
chin into the high collar of his fur coat.
"And you, Master Pagus," said Torin, moving
on. "I trust you will be the first to give me a full report upon my return."
The boy herald also looked glum—angry even. Nor did he
brighten when Torin tousled his hair.
"Stephan is right," Allion asserted,
ignoring the throat-clearing cough of the renegade Entient behind him.
"You don't have to do this."
The sky had begun to roil overhead. Ashen clouds billowed,
and the mist thickened. Flitting breezes coalesced, converging in larger
streams to form a blustery wind, and a distant clap of thunder echoed across
the land.
"Let's hope you are both right," Torin
agreed. Allion's frown deepened, but he accepted Torin's hand and allowed
himself to be pulled into a one-armed hug. "If not, remember to look after
her, and yourself," the king added quietly.
And then, suddenly, it was Marisha's turn.
"Don't worry." She smiled. "I'll keep
them all in line. And anyone else who needs it."
Torin laughed. "I know you will." He was
serious men, and saw that she was too. For a moment, he did not know what to
do. He might have kissed her, but he was keenly aware of the presence of the
others—most notably her stern father looming over him from behind her shoulder.
Despite all that they had been through, all the time they had spent together,
it would have been their first. And while this would seem the perfect time for
it, it also seemed the worst.
Behind her encouraging smile, Torin saw a similar
strain within his lady's eyes, but could only imagine what she was thinking. At
last, feelings overcame confusion, and they fell together in a clinching
embrace.
"You can do this," she whispered in his ear.
"Have faith."
Yours will be enough, Torin thought, and
held her tighter. Ultimately, he was doing this for her—like everything else,,
with an eye to their shared future. Although torn to be leaving, he swore
silently to achieve his goal, rectify the error of his ways, and return to the
newfound glory of his life. A glory that did not exist without her.
"I'll be back before you realize I've gone."
Marisha sniffed and pulled away. "Too late."
She placed her hand upon his chest where her Pendant hung, safely buried
beneath the layers of wool and leather. "You carry my heart with
you."
At his daughter's request, Darinor had explained
better
how the linking magic worked. Ripples, he had said,
caused by the rhythmic squeezing and heating of the intense aura of divine
pressure surrounding both seal and Pendant—fuelled in both cases by the power
of Asahiel. These pressure ripples were like waves of sound attuned to the same
frequency, and formed a specific pattern between the two nodes. When the Sword
had been removed and the seal broken, the shift in that pattern had caused a
resonance in the Pendant, much as matching sound waves generated by marching
soldiers might cause a bridge to collapse.
Of course, these vibrations existed on a scale that
were beyond untrained senses. Had Darinor been wearing the Pendant, he would
have sensed the trouble at once. Instead, he had relied upon the latent
enchantment of his piece of the Pendant's chain, which, while lacking the
constant power of Asahiel, could be used much like a musician's fork and tuned
to the same magical frequency. It was this that would enable the renegade
Entient to track Torin's movements, just as it had enabled him to locate his daughter.
And it was for this reason that he would not allow Torin to leave the
heart-stone Pendant behind to protect its rightful bearer.
Nevertheless, Torin considered again doing that very
thing before he surrendered the idea and forced a confident smile. "I will
safeguard it more dearly than my own," he swore, squeezing her hand.
Marisha nodded and stepped back, reaching for Allion's
arm. They would be fine, Torin assured himself. They would protect one another
as he had made them promise.
"May fortune favor you," Darinor offered.
Torin ignored the man. Was that meant to be
encouraging? All it did was remind him that not even the mystic could be sure
as to whether or not the Finlorians still existed, or in what state. How could
he possibly be expected to succeed in this?
"It's not too late to join me," he
challenged at last, his eyes never shifting from Marisha.
"It is you who sought the glory enjoyed by heroes
of old. Now's your chance."
"I sought no such thing," Torin snapped,
wrenching free to glare at the other. "I'd have much preferred to remain
nameless in all of this."
Darinor's smile was slow and sardonic. "Those who
wish to remain nameless do not fetch a Sword of Asahiel from the ruin of time.
In any case, it is too late for regrets. And if I were to guide you, who would
stand guard against this scourge you've unleashed?"
Torin looked morosely away, his attention drawn by an
aged cemetery groundskeeper who had come forth at this early hour to collect
dead leaves from beneath a skeletal tree. The swirling breezes continued to
strengthen, and the old man, wrapped in his coat and scarf and fingerless
gloves, was having a difficult time. If he had noticed their gathering, he did
not seem interested by it.
Torin, however, was struck by the correlation. His
world was like that pile of dry leaves caught in a gust of wind—just when he
had gathered up its pieces, they'd been scattered once more. And yet there was
no help for it. It was his job, and he would see it done.
Squaring his shoulders, he faced Darinor directly, his
features somber but resolute.
He turned then to the members of his expedition team,
those few brave souls who had agreed to see him through this madman's venture.
Sacred blazes, he wasn't even certain of their names. Trustworthy and capable,
he was sure, else Allion would not have selected them. Men to whom he could
entrust his life.
A sudden pang gripped him. He would trade them all,
he, realized, for the one who wasn't there. Kylac Kronus, the boy who had been
raised an assassin but had become his friend and mentor—who had saved his life
more than once—would not be with him this time around. Never one to sit idle,
the warrior youth had been gone for two months already, having wandered off to
parts unknown within days of his and Allion's triumphant arrival. Were he here,
Kylac would be leading the charge—in which case Torin would feel much better
about their prospects.
As it was, he was on his own.
"Give my regards to Nevik," he said to
Allion. He hoisted
himself into his saddle, there to join his waiting
men. "And to Kylac, should the rogue show up again."
The regent dipped his head. Of course he would do
those things, Torin thought, and realized abruptly that they had moved beyond
words that needed to be said.
Still, he sat astride his mount, staring at those
gathered— at Marisha in particular—until another thunderclap shook the
cathedral of the heavens. As he looked up, the first rains of the new day began
to fall. He glanced over to where the groundskeeper had been raking leaves a
moment ago, only to see that the old man had gone.
Drawing his gaze from the grave-covered hillside,
Torin gave a final wave of farewell, then pushed through the open palace gate
and started away through the mist and the rain.
*****
Rogun's war room was chill and dank, pinned deep
enough beneath the city that it might have been used as a cold cellar. The
general liked it that way. The frigid temperatures kept him alert, his mind
sharp and focused.
Even so, he was finding it difficult to concentrate at
this particular moment. An array of plans and diagrams papered the tabletop
beneath his white-knuckled fists. Everything from troop registries to proposals
for shoring up damaged areas of the curtain wall to maps of the city's
aqueducts and irrigation lines. Ordinarily, he was able to conduct such reviews
with an artisan's flair, attacking even the most mundane report with the same
lust that he carried into battle. For it was all part of defending his city and
her surrounding lands, doing the work that needed to be done.
But on this evening, his thoughts were elsewhere. An
opportunity long anticipated had come to him at last. Not in the manner he had
expected, but that was the way of such things. Torin was gone. The city was in
the hands of the Circle of Elders and its regent, Allion. All had been agreed
to the night before, when the young king had shared with them the ill tidings
delivered by the savage-looking Darinor.
His time had come.
Although he urged himself to remain focused on the
business at hand, the thought would not stay banished for long. His
great-grandfather had been a fool to decline becoming a member of the nobility,
and that poor decision had cost his progeny dear. Especially now, with Alson in
such dire need of a strong-willed person who could make things happen. Had
Rogun had a noble tide and not just a military one, he would have found it much
easier to assume the reins of this runaway steed his land had become.
The general did not consider himself—as others whispered—to
be power-hungry. He already had more notoriety and respect than he required.
The simple truth was, he did not trust the son of Sorl to rule this kingdom.
Torin may have proven to be more responsible than his father, but the youth was
weak, too easily distracted. By his own admission, he did not want to be king.
He should therefore leave it to someone who did.
That he had not stormed in, seeking to direct matters
over which he had no experience, had endeared him to the general, initially.
But any leader, even an unseasoned one, needed at some point to plant a
standard, a point around which others might rally. Unwilling to enforce his own
will or surrender to another's, Torin instead wasted time listening to everyone,
giving all a fair and equal voice. What he refused to realize was that such
politics were impractical at best. Few people knew what it was they really
wanted, and those who did could never be made to agree on a singular course. As
a result, nothing was ever accomplished.
Just thinking about it caused the muscles in Rogun's
neck to tighten. Action. Action was paramount. Even poor actions could be
undone by assessing the negative results and taking further measures to offset
them. Mistakes were to be expected. But the key was to move forward at all
times, not to stagnate while every man, woman, and child with a voice expressed
feelings and opinions, too obsessed with one's own needs to give ear to
another's. Torin's Circle was a romantic notion, but it needed a man of
strength, a leader who could unite its members in their thinking. Rogun had
long argued that if Torin would not take action to do so, then he should step
aside so that someone like himself could.
"General, Commander Zain to see you."
Rogun looked up from where his vision foundered in the
depths of a weaponry supply listing. "Send him in, Corporal."
The stern-faced sentry saluted, then beckoned to
another guardsman posted farther down the hall. A moment later, Zain's rasping
footsteps carried him into view.
"You're late," Rogun noted.
"My apologies, sir. There has been a
development."
The general pushed himself from the table. He
obviously wasn't going to get anything done this evening anyway. "You've
got my attention, Commander. Proceed."
Zain did, telling Rogun all about his activities of
the previous night, during which he had tracked Faldron to the Queen's Hive.
He did so without fanfare or embellishment, delivering straight fact as the
general required. Rogun did not interrupt, but waited for the other to finish.
"... I was unable, therefore, to discern the
identity of this shadow figure with whom the armorer met."
"I assume there is more to this," Rogun
replied.
"This morning, sir, I was as distracted as
everyone else by news of our king's departure. It was not until this afternoon
that I went to follow up with Faldron. I found him dead, sir."
"Dead? Faldron?" As a matter of point, the
general was not often surprised. But this surprised him.
"Orru as well, sir. Both in the middle of the
night, it would seem, in their own beds. And Orru's wife alongside him. I
questioned their children. None of them heard a thing."
Rogun settled into a hardwood chair, his brow
furrowed. "What does it mean?"
"I've been working on that, sir. I cannot say for
certain, but it would be too great a coincidence if any but this shadow were
our killer."
"Agreed."
"I can only assume, then, that his actions were
prompted by last night's news, which I imagine to have been leaked from your
briefing with the Circle—perhaps before."
"Torin's voyage."
Zain nodded, his ermine mouth twitching. "I
suspect, sir, that our young king is in danger, although from whom, I dare not
guess."
Rogun's chin slipped into his hand as he considered
the possibility.
"Shall we send warning, sir?"
The general did not respond right away. "I think
not," he determined finally. "Even if our riders could catch up to
him, such warning as we might send would be vague and indirect—and therefore
of little use."
Zain's features twisted in mild astonishment.
"Then we're to do nothing?"
Rogun glared to keep his smirk from showing. "If
the son of Sorl doesn't return, so much the better."
CHAPTER EIGHT Back Table of Contents Next
Despite the foul weather, muddied roads,
and host of doubts that dragged after him like an anchor, Torin and his company
reached the seaport town of
He had learned their names, at least. Bull and Cordan
he already knew from their recent sparring session. Two others, Ashwin and
Ulric, he had sparred with before, although too many weeks and too many faces
had passed since then for him to recall without a friendly reminder. The last
two, Silas and Kallen, were a pair of brothers he'd never met, whose ceaseless,
almost comical ridicule of each other helped to keep Torin from dwelling too
deeply on more distressing matters.
The town greeted them all with a cold shoulder, its
face turned to the west and the boundless ocean that gave it life. The sea
itself was not immediately visible, blocked by hills and shrouded by a
stone-gray curtain of mist, but Torin could smell its distinctive breath.
Soaked through by a blustery rain that had fought them
the entire way, he led his mount down the principal roadway and into town. He
kept his head low and his hood up, clinging to his hidden identity. Buildings
and storefronts in varying degrees of disrepair leaned down from either side
with sagging roofs and drooping eaves. Street gutters overflowed, clogged with
natural refuse from winter's storms. Torin had never before visited Gammelost,
and though it may have been just the dreariness of the season or the somber
circumstances, he could not imagine ever wanting to do so again.
He continued without pause, ignoring the various side
streets and alleys that angled off at random junctures, trusting in his nose
and in this principal thoroughfare to lead him to the harbor. Sure enough, as
he emerged from the town's backside and crested a small rise that bent like an
elbow around a craggy bluff, he spotted it through the fog, a collection of
docks that sprawled below like threads protruding from a frayed cloth.
They reached tentatively into the iron expanse of the
cold sea, these jutting piers and curving jetties, and Torin almost laughed at
the absurdity. From this vantage, it seemed as if the slumbering ocean, with a
single restless heave, might sweep them all away to reclaim its littered
shoreline. It made him think of man's efforts as hopeless and inconsequential.
It reminded him of how small he was.
"Suppose we can find you a woman down
there?" Silas asked his brother. "I've heard those who comfort these
sailor types ain't choosy."
"I've heard the men ain't either," Kallen
retorted. "So maybe we'll both get lucky."
"Business first, lads," Bull reminded them
before Torin had to. Already, Brown-beard had become an unofficial leader on
this expedition, a captain who kept an eye on the little issues so that his
king could focus on the larger.
Of which there were many. Torin's grandfather, Sirrus,
had once owned an entire fleet of merchant ships. But Sorl had long since sold
those vessels off for short-term profit, leaving the crown without a single
schooner to call its own. As a result, they were facing the prospect of paying
for transport—and secrecy.
"How long will it take to book us passage?"
asked Torin. The question was directed toward Ulric, who'd been raised
upon the wharves of this town—one of the principal
reasons for his selection.
Ulric breathed deeply of the salty air, savoring it as
one might the scent of fresh-baked bread. "Could be awhile," he
admitted, "given the lack of ships at sea this time of year. Longer still,
given our destination. We may have to hop vessels more than once before
boarding one that will carry us clear to Yawacor. Either that, or wait a few
weeks."
"We don't have a few weeks," Torin replied,
although deep down, he felt a willing flutter at the possibility of being
forced to return home for a time. Long enough, perhaps, to reconsider this
entire course.
"I'll dredge us up something," vowed Ulric,
misreading Torin's thoughts.
Ulric took the lead, guiding them through a twisted
maze of streets, each more lively than the last, as they worked their way down
to the harbor, then quayside along the town's face. Much of what they saw had
been battened down for the winter, from vendor booths to fishmonger
stalls—even some of the giant shipyards. When he saw the harbor up close, Torin
had to admit that it seemed much more impressive than from afar, an expansive
network of labor and commerce that bustled with gruff workmen and steadfast
activity even in these slow months.
They stopped first at the office of the harbormaster
to view the public log of ships in port, as well as general postings of those
seeking to hire help. In both areas, the pickings were slim. A sprinkle of
coins and a couple of names gave them access to the private logs, including a
schedule of incoming vessels, but still yielded little hope.
"Not to worry," Ulric assured them.
"These lists are seldom accurate, and never complete. Just gives us our
bearings, is all."
From there, they visited the offices of every maritime
merchant, builder, and recruiter they could find along the wharf, before moving
onto the docks themselves. In most every case, the answer was the same. It was
the low season. Some of the most skilled sailors in the land were out of work.
If they were lucky, they might find themselves scrub-bing barnacles or painting
hulls in dry dock, mending sails or repairing rigging. But considering that
most of these jobs were taken up by those normally at sea, even this was probably
asking too much.
They fared no better when inquiring about straight
charter. Once again, the few vessels that dared head out to the deep waters
this time of year were already booked to capacity.
It came to the point where Torin feared they might
have to reveal their true identities and purpose. They had agreed early on that
to do so would bring them no great advantage. Though they might be able to bump
a voyaging band of lesser importance, the price for their passage would likely
double. Alson was a poor kingdom, its resources bled dry by hedonism and then
war. Torin had taken very little from its coffers for this voyage, deciding
they could earn their keep and forage their food as they went along.
For even if they were to spend the necessary
coin, they would not be able to do so without drawing unwanted notice, and
above all, Torin did not wish to add to the panic already sweeping this nation.
That he'd embarked on this journey was a secret that would not long be limited
to the esteemed members of the governing council. Allion and the Circle would
then have their hands full—as if they didn't already—coming up with excuses for
his absence and reassurances that all would be well. As it was, he worried that
he might be recognized by some prominent townsman who had visited the royal
court. For that reason, he'd sullied his appearance and used leather wraps to
conceal the jewelled hilt of the Sword. Having taken such precautions, he
remained reluctant to simply give himself away.
With the gray afternoon passing swiftly toward night, they
split into pairs to widen the search. When that didn't work, they fanned out as
individuals, with the agreement that they meet back at the harbormaster's at
sunset. It was not long before Torin began stopping men he passed in the
street. One knew of a local fisherman in need of a hand or two. Another had a
cousin aboard a merchant vessel that often made the full crossing, though as
best he knew, she had dry-docked in
Yawacor for the winter. Everyone knew someone, it
seemed, who worked in one capacity or another as loaders or ferrymen upon the
pier.
Tired and thirsty, Torin found himself drawn at last
to one of many taverns that lined the waterfront, where most of the action
seemed to be. A clamor echoed from within—the drone of voices, the creak of chairs
and tables, the clack of wooden cups and leather tankards. An occasional shout
of anger or laughter punctuated the din and gave him pause. Probably not the
best place to seek out those serious about offering employment. Then again, he
was wet and shivering and had had no better luck elsewhere.
After tethering his mount, he entered through the open
door, dodging swiftly to avoid another who was staggering roughly out. The
place was poorly lit, and even more poorly ventilated. Shadows and smoke filled
the musty room, enough to cover the rank odor of fish and brine that clung to
this town as tightly as the fog that filled its streets. The bar was centrally
located, an island amid the milling throngs. A thin carpet of sand covered the
floor.
Everywhere he looked, men and women seemed to be
caught up in games and challenges or boisterous conversation. While his eyes
adjusted to the dimness, Torin searched the quiet corners, seeking those who
were not so fully engaged. At last he spotted his first target, a single man
brooding over a tankard at a booth along the far wall. With a deep breath that
nearly choked him, he started in that direction, careful not to push or shove
too crossly at the jostling patrons who blocked his way. The last thing he
needed was to trap himself in a barroom brawl.
He reached the table and stood over it, waiting for
the stranger to acknowledge his presence. A moment passed, however, in which
the other did not stir. At last, Torin seated himself across from the man,
whose eyes were riveted upon his untouched tankard.
"Begging your pardon, this place is packed. May I
join you?"
The man never flinched, staring blankly into
nothingness. His eyes were shot through with streaks of red and under-scored by
charcoal rings. His arms lay on the table, gangly in shape and white in color.
"I don't mean to disturb you," Torin
pressed. "I was just wondering if you knew someone I could speak with
about securing passage overseas."
The man's cracked lips parted as if to speak, then
hung open uselessly. A string of drool dripped from the corner of his mouth.
"Thank you for your time," Torin muttered,
slipping from the booth.
He scanned the room again before pushing toward the
counter. Perhaps the barkeep could direct him to someone who was at least coherent.
But that was assuming he could catch the other's attention.
Three times he signalled the man eye to eye. Only on the third attempt did he
garner a response. The bustling barkeep nodded curtly, then scurried off to
attend a customer on the far side.
"Here then, lad. Share mine."
Torin lowered his hand and looked to the patron beside
him, a swarthy-faced individual with a gold tooth in the middle of his black
smile. The stranger nudged a bottle in Torin's direction.
"Actually, I'm not..." He stopped as he
noticed the stranger's naked arms, mottled with tattoos. And not just any
tattoos, but images of sea creatures—both real and mythical—and of flags and
symbols, all of a nautical nature.
"Go on. Have a drink," the seaman insisted,
reaching for an abandoned cup. He dumped the dregs of its former contents and
gave it a sniff, then poured from his bottle.
Torin eyed the dark brew warily. He'd not been raised
on strong drink, a,nd had yet to develop a taste for it. A refill of his empty
waterskin would have sufficed. But he didn't dare refuse this gesture and
alienate any potential help.
"Most kind of you," he said, raising the
liquid in salute. Its scent went clear to the top of his head. With a concerted
effort, he tossed it back, grimacing as it scorched his throat.
The seaman grinned, amused by his discomfort.
"You look familiar, lad. Do I know you?"
"I have a common face," Torin replied. He
opened his mouth
to let in some cooling air, and wiped his lips with his
sleeve. "Perhaps I've met someone in your family
then. A father or
brother." His grin widened. "A sister, perchance?"
Torin glared. "Not likely."
The seaman chuckled. "A joke, lad. Meant nothing
by it."
"I've never had a sister," Torin explained.
"A father and brother,
once upon a time. But I no longer have either."
That was
truthful enough, he decided.
"Sorry to hear it, lad."
"Anyway, I'm not from around here."
"No, you don't look it. That's what had me
confused."
He quaffed
another draught of his own, straight from the bottle.
"Where you from?" Torin hesitated. Despite a
grisly voice, the man seemed
affable enough. Only far too prying.
"Glendon," he lied.
"
"You've
heard of it." Torin was impressed. Though many times the size of his real home village,
Glendon was a small town,
out of the way by most respects.
"Been there myself. Been all over. Name's
Malus."
The man had an unforgiving grip. "Jarom."
"Well then, Jarom, how can I be of service to
you?"
His wink caught Torin off guard. "What makes you
think
I'm in need of service?" "Saw you pestering
that rooter over there. Then you come
to the bar, not looking for drink. The sun ain't baked
all the
clams in this shell." Torin wasn't sure yet
whether he liked this Malus or not.
Perceptive, yes, but with an abruptness that set his
nerves on
edge. There was a wicked gleam to the man's eye,
though
that was probably just the lighting.
"Clearly not," he responded at last.
"You're a seafaring man,
are you not?"
Malus smirked. "What gave it away?"
"It so happens, I'm looking for passage to the
west."
"The west? Yawacor? Ain't too many vessels making
that crossing this time of year, lad."
"So I've discovered. I'm willing to work my way,
or pay for the privilege."
Malus looked him up and down, as if measuring him for
some task. "Pay with what? That's an expensive trip you're talking
there."
"I've a horse and supplies to sell. Why? Do you
know someone who might help me?"
The man took another drink, seeming to consider. One
eye squinted as he swallowed. "Perhaps," he said finally. "I've
a friend setting sail tomorrow, if that's not too soon."
"Not at all," Torin agreed, a bit too
hastily.
"He ain't got plans to go all the way to Yawacor,
mind you. But sometimes, ships from either land meet to exchange goods halfway.
Might be you can hitch a ride that way."
"I have companions."
Malus scowled. "I didn't see any come in with
you."
"They're out searching, same as me. There would
be seven of us altogether."
"When are you meeting these companions?"
"At dusk. Outside the harbormaster's
office."
"And what about home? Ain't you got anyone back
in Glendon going to miss you?"
"We're on our own," Torin admitted, fighting
down a fresh wave of nervousness. Or maybe it was the drink, settling about as
smoothly as it had gone down.
"Tell you what. Why don't we go meet with my
friend now, let you have a chat with him? That way, you'll know better if it's
an option for you and your companions."
"I'd be most grateful."
Malus nodded then and drained his bottle. As he rose
from his stool, the barkeep came scampering over at last.
"Can I get anything else for you gentlemen?"
"Gentlemen? How do you like that?" said
Malus, flashing Torin a conspiratorial grin. "Too late, my good sir. We're
on our way out."
The fresh air was greeted by Torin with welcome
relief; this time, even the fish didn't smell so bad. A damp gust swept past
with a warbling sigh. He paused for a cleansing breath, then went for his
horse.
Malus emerged a moment later, clothed in only the
leather vest and breeches he'd been wearing at the bar. A brace of knives hung
across his torso. He too inhaled deeply of the smokeless air, causing his chest
to swell.
"Where's your cloak?" Torin asked him.
"Didn't bring one."
"You're not cold?"
"Wait'll you're at sea, lad, soaked to the gills
while she rails at you with her frozen breath. Then you'll know what cold
is."
Malus had no horse, so Torin followed afoot, guiding
his mount by its lead rope. The seaman spoke incessantly as they went, asking
all manner of questions. It felt as if the man were fishing for something,
though his disarming nature made it all come across as innocent banter. Torin
answered as openly as he could, guarding details, but not wanting to seem
evasive. Every now and then, he tried to squeeze a question in edgewise, just
to stem the tide, but always the focus ended up back on him.
One topic they hadn't discussed yet was that of money.
Or more specifically, what Malus's cut would be for doing him this favor. This,
more than anything, raised Torin's suspicions, and kept his free hand resting
casually on the disguised hilt of his weapon.
"What manner of trade did you say your friend was
involved in?" he asked, mimicking the other's offhand tone.
"I didn't," Malus replied without turning. A
sheen of water clung to his bald head, so that it reflected the waning
daylight. "The answer is, all kinds. Whatever will fetch a coin. He's been
a merchant, a fisherman, even a pirate, from time to time. Not to worry,"
he added, as if sensing Torin's unease. "He's no brigand. Just lacking in
focus. At the moment, he runs supplies—fresh water and such—to some of the
deep-sea fishing vessels. Comes back with some of their catch. Allows them to
follow the schools without making any unscheduled stops."
Torin forced a smile to match the other's own.
"This way," Malus beckoned, indicating a
narrow, rancid-smelling alley.
Torin eyed the garbage-strewn path with obvious
distaste. "How much farther is it?"
"Back door to his place is just around the
corner. What's wrong?"
"The docks are that way."
"So they are. But my friend doesn't spend his
time on ship when in port. This is his chance to get away, you know?"
"You said he sets sail tomorrow. Should he not be
loading his cargo?"
"He has a crew does that for him. This here's
personal time. Spend a few weeks at sea, you'll understand."
It made sense, but still Torin didn't move.
"What're you afraid of? Strong lad like you has
nothing to fear from an old sea dog like me."
"Perhaps your friend would be willing to meet me
out here, where the air is fresher."
Malus shrugged as if it made no difference to him.
"Don't know why you'd want to stand out in this slop when you could be
sitting by a warm hearth, but I'll ask. Wait here, then."
He ducked into the alley, disappearing quickly behind
a pile of broken crates. Torin waited only a moment longer before shaking his
head in private disdain. What was he afraid of? The man had done nothing
to earn his mistrust. Why offend him with misguided suspicions?
He started down the alley. "Malus?"
He'd taken just a few steps, passing the mound of
crates, when his horse whickered and his own senses, heightened by the Sword,
screamed in warning. Had the blade been in hand, his assailant would have met
with quite a surprise. As it was, Torin was unable to draw before darkness
stole his vision.
The scent of burlap smothered him. He kicked and
shouted, thrashing against the suffocating hood, but a string drew tight around
his throat, further strangling his wind and weakening his protests. Powerful
hands pinned his arms behind his back before a knee or elbow shoved him
face-first to the ground. A leather thong lashed his wrists.
"Easy, lad," came the muffled sound of
Malus's voice. "The more you fight, the worse it'll be."
The voice came from in front of him, which meant that
the odds against him were at least two to one.
"His weapon," Malus ordered.
Torin gave another stifled shout as the Sword slid
free. He bucked, but a booted foot held him down. Aside from his own struggles,
an awed silence ensued. Even his horse grew quiet.
"Sweet pearls of the mother sea," Malus
whispered. "This ain't the blade of a farmer—is it, lad."
Torin's stomach churned, but it was all he could do to
keep breathing.
"Looks like we snagged ourselves a royal, eh,
Dahl? And not just any royal at that." The voice drew closer. "But
what would you be doing so far from the nest, royal?"
"I say he's a thief," said the one called
Dahl.
Malus snickered. "Which is it, lad? You a thief?
Or are you the one they call Torin, one and only wielder of the Crimson Sword,
and this land's very king?"
"Those is just stories," said Dahl.
"Then how do you explain that blade in your
hands?"
The other didn't have an answer for that.
"Come, let's have a look," said Malus.
Although he couldn't see what was going on, Torin
sensed Dahl's hesitation.
"Dahl, you lumbering oaf. Do you want to stand in
this alley all night? Give it here."
Torin could feel himself edging toward
unconsciousness. The reassuring pressure of the Pendant dug into his chest, but
he couldn't see how the talisman would be of any use. His heart fluttered. His
mind raced. Despair washed over him.
"Give it... Let go, Dahl. Let go!"
The pair were tugging back and forth. Their scuffle reverberated
in Torin's back, where Dahl's foot was planted for leverage. He squirmed,
trying to throw off his assailant's balance.
Then came a sickening crunch, and the tussle came to
an abrupt end. The pressure on his back released as Dahl pitched over,
splintering crates. It sounded as though Malus hit the ground as well.
"Something tells me that doesn't belong to
you."
Torin's ears perked at the sound of the new voice.
Malus hissed in response, then was heard scampering away. The whoosh of a heavy
object hurtled after him, followed by another crunch. A weapon skittered on
gravel. A body slapped down on the same. Then silence.
His first thought was that one or more of his companions
had found him. But that wouldn't explain the newcomer's quiet, measured march
down the alley. For a moment, Torin wondered if he'd not been rescued from one
set of thieves only to be robbed by another. The footsteps returned, and a
presence loomed over him. A knife rasped from its sheath. Torin's breathing,
rapid and shallow, came to a bracing halt.
Hands worked around his neck. There was a rough sawing
motion before the hood came free. Torin rolled to his side for a desperate gulp
of air, and came face-to-face with his savior.
The man wore a gray cloak with the hood drawn back.
Pale blue eyes softened an otherwise stony visage dotted with sharp fields of
stubble. Matching blond hair was trimmed short except at the neck, where a tuft
of curls billowed like mist at the base of a falls.
The stranger held up his dagger. "I'll cut your
hands loose, if you'll hold still."
Torin blinked, taking in the scene. The Sword lay
beside him, next to a spiked war hammer. Blood and hair were matted against
the hammer's uneven surface. Dahl's body lay twitching, draped over his feet.
Down the alley, Malus was a motionless heap.
A series of ragged breaths pumped through Torin's
lungs. Finally he looked again to his rescuer, and nodded.
He rolled back over to show his hands. When the bonds
were severed, the stranger helped him to his feet.
"I'm indebted to you, friend."
"Arn." The man was short, not much taller
than five feet. But his shoulders seemed almost as broad, and his handshake was
like a stretched noose. He bent to pick up their weapons. "This your
blade?"
Torin resisted the urge to lunge for the Sword,
waiting for Arn to hand it to him. The man did, after a moment in which he
hefted it in admiration.
"Never seen its like."
Torin did not sheathe the talisman right away, but
held it at the ready. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"I come from Yawacor, to the west."
"Yawacor?"
"Been in port for the past seven days."
"You're not a sailor," Torin observed, as
Arn bent to wipe his hammer on Dahl's jerkin. He tried not to look too closely
at the mashed hole in the back of the fallen man's head.
"More of a mercenary," Arn admitted. When
finished cleaning his weapon, he hung it from a sling on his belt. "A
mercenary with a grudge."
"Grudge?"
Arn spat upon the lifeless form at their feet. "I
don't care for these kind of men."
"Thieves?"
"Slavers," the other replied, as if
surprised Torin didn't know. "Were it not for me, you'd have been shipped
overseas and shackled to a trading block within weeks."
A warm sense of dread flushed down Torin's throat.
"Again, I don't know how to thank you."
"That weapon, I think, would even the scales
between us."
Torin felt the remaining color drain from his face.
"I'm jesting," said Arn. A sneering grin
flashed across his face. "You can probably put it away now."
Torin did so, double-checking the fastenings of the
leather wraps around the hilt. His would-be abductors had not had time to
remove them, but their struggle had tugged them out of place.
"Blade like that has a story goes along with it.
Would go well with a solid meal, no?"
Torin smiled. "Supper and a tale? It's the least
I could do. Though I'll be surprised if you've not heard rumor of it already."
"Haven't spent much time at the local watering
holes. And like I said, I'm not from around here."
"Yawacor," Torin said, regaining focus.
"Any chance you'll be heading back there soon?"
"Tomorrow, actually. Would've been today, but one
of our primary suppliers was behind schedule. Lucky for you, I'd say."
"I thought we agreed you were no sailor."
"Swordhand," Arn clarified. "Hired
guard for a merchant vessel. Not the most exciting work, which is why I've been
stretching my legs ever since we got into port, hunting thugs like these. Been
stalking the big one here for days, waiting to catch him in the act."
"Any room for a few more? Hired swords, I
mean?"
"You looking for work?"
"I'm looking to hitch a ride. And my companions,
if possible. Whatever it takes."
Arn shook his head. "Our roster is full. Though
it can't hurt to talk with the captain. How many in your party?"
"Seven. But I'll go it alone, if necessary."
"Running from trouble, are we?"
"Toward it, more likely."
Arn continued to regard him with a discerning eye.
"Let's talk it over with the captain. With that blade of yours, might be
you'll fetch me a recruiting bonus."
Torin smiled with newfound hope and relief. He moved
out of the alley, giving chase to his restless steed. Am fell into step beside
him, leaving the bodies where they lay.
"What's the name of your ship?" Torin asked.
Even now, it would not hurt to be cautious.
"Pirate's Folly."
Torin's pace faltered. "I don't recall seeing
that name on the harbormaster's list."
"Of course you didn't." Arn snorted.
"Captain Jorkin has money and influence. Not to mention common
sense."
Although he hid his frown, Torin's silence gave voice
to his doubts.
"It's not near as shady as it sounds," Arn
assured him. "Best way to avoid a thief is to hide your business from him
altogether."
"I suppose."
"Come now," said Arn, slapping him on the
back with a brawny hand. "If I intended you harm, I'd have left you in
that alley. You want to meet Jorkin? Then tell me your story."
It was hard not to be reminded of Kylac. Although he
had yet to break a real smile, Am had that same roguish style, the same
unassuming air.
And he had saved Torin's life.
Finally, as they turned toward the docks, Torin
relented, and did as he was asked.
*****
When the pair had gone, Xarius emerged from the
shadows. Perched upon his roost, he watched them trail away through the sordid
city streets, his mind clenched around a single notion.
So close.
For a moment there, he'd thought he would have to intervene
if he wished to preserve the wizard's prize. Were it not for this mercenary,
Arn, he might have done so, and the whelp would now be in his hands. Soric had
been explicit in his commands, but would have forgiven his actions upon
learning the circumstances for them.
They were exactly the kind of circumstances for which
the assassin had hoped. Despite the wizard's instructions, he had no intention
of allowing Torin to be delivered by any but himself. Perhaps Soric would grant
him his release to hunt down his nemesis as promised, once Torin was handed
over. Perhaps not. The best way to be sure was to put himself in the position
of dictating the terms of the young king's release.
If nothing else, he had to get close enough to Torin
to extract the information he needed as to Kylac's whereabouts. His city
informant, Faldron, had failed him miserably on that count. According to the
late armorer, none in the palace had any idea as to the youth's destination.
Xarius had to believe otherwise, had to believe that Torin, of all people,
could provide him with a stronger lead.
Upon the moss-grown rooftop overlooking the alley,
Xarius hissed a private oath. All of that had been within reach, but was now
slipping away through the soggy brume. Perhaps he should have risked killing
this Arn. It would have been a simpler matter to secure passage for himself and
his prisoner aboard a slaver's vessel than that of a wealthy and well-armed
merchant. Thieves were so much easier to barter with.
A temporary setback, the assassin assured himself. The
journey was young. His opportunity would come.
Keeping to the crowded rooftops, he set off in
pursuit.
CHAPTER NINE Back Table of Contents Next
No sooner had Torin stepped aboard the Pirate's
Folly than he began to question his decision in doing so. Even in port, the
great ship lurched and swayed, rocked gently by windswept harbor swells. Like
a living creature, it tossed restlessly, heaving and then settling to an
unsteady cadence.
But it was not the motions that troubled him. Rather,
it was the roiling doubts, the fears and suspicions with which he'd been
plagued since the night of Darinor's coming. Why was he doing this? What had
possessed him to give such credence to what could only be considered a madman's
account? Surely he'd not been told enough to merit this hazardous journey,
undertaken at a moment's notice. Were it not for Marisha, would he have
believed a word of what the renegade Entient had told him? Or would he have
listened to Allion and turned a deaf ear?
And Allion, faithful Allion, upon whom Torin had thrust
the burden of a ruined kingdom, a land and monarchy in disarray. In all
likelihood, General Rogun was already breathing down his neck. Allion, who had
always supported his endeavors, both sane and otherwise. Left behind with a
mountain of responsibility and scarcely a word of farewell.
His friend deserved better. So convinced was Torin of
this that he very nearly spun around and headed for the gangplank. It was not
too late to turn back, to relieve the man of this burden, to take Marisha in
his arms and refuse to leave her, to face the consequences of his actions
head-on. For in some respects, it felt as if he were running away. Should he
take too long, or fail in his quest altogether, who would pay the price? His
closest friends. His dearest loved ones. While he was half a world away.
"Are you all right, sir?"
Torin looked up to find fish-eyed Cordan peering back
at him, wondering why he had stopped. The others marched on ahead, boots
thudding on the wooden planking, oblivious to their lord's reservations as they
followed Brand, a freckled ship's boy, to their cabins belowdecks.
"Just fine, Bearer," Torin lied, addressing
the other by his rank within the City Shield.
"Is it the ship, sir?" Cordan pressed.
"I'm told not all adapt well to life at sea."
Torin saw past the other's concern to the nervousness
haunting his young eyes.
"You'll do well, my friend. Of that much I'm
certain."
He hefted the strap of his leather pack and forced a
smile. Cordan smiled bravely in return. He was doing what he had to, Torin
reminded himself. His misgivings were only natural, brought on by a sense of
upheaval, of venturing into the unknown.
Only, no amount of rationalization could change the
way he felt.
Together, they hurried after the others in their
party, ducking aside as sailors bustled about, carrying out duties in preparation
for their departure. The ship was like a nest of spiders, teeming with
activity. Men scurried about the decks, clung to the rigging, even swung about
the outer hull on lines and harnesses. Measurements were being taken, gear
stowed, crates lashed into place. It was a good thing they'd been accepted
aboard as guardsmen, because Torin wouldn't have had the first idea as to how
he might contribute any other way.
Captain Jorkin, it had turned out, had heard of
Torin and his recent adventures. As such, he'd been thrilled to welcome the
other aboard his vessel, even leaving behind half a dozen of his own men to
make room. The only price was that he should get to glimpse this talisman of
divine creation up close, and to hear the truth of the rumors of this so-called
War of the Demon Queen. This made Torin more than a little
nervous, and he could not help but wonder what
Jorkin's plans might be for him and his company once they were trapped aboard
the other's ship.
Another disadvantage was that he'd been forced to
divulge to both the captain and Arn the true purpose for his voyage. He hadn't
done so in any great detail, but it was made clear up front that his was a
quest to find the Finlorians, to enlist their aid in a struggle against a dark
threat emerged from their time upon these shores. A threat brought about by the
retrieval of the Sword.
His candor had seemed to win him favor with the ship's
captain, and the decision had been made before he'd left the other's office
that space would be made before they embarked at dawn.
Of course, dawn had come and gone hours ago. Having
been delayed already an entire day, Jorkin was in a fire to get under way. An
assortment of officers, from the first mate to the master deckhand, were
bellowing commands with thunder in their voices. Threats of docked wages,
lashings, even an occasional keel haul, kept the men hopping, but with the way
things looked to Torin, they'd be lucky if the ship was ready to cast off on
the morrow.
Somehow dodging the worst of the commotion, he and
Cordan caught up to Bull and the others just as they reached the stairs leading
down to their berths. Against Torin's protest, Jorkin had afforded them a pair
of apartments among the officers' quarters. They needed no special treatment,
Torin argued, but Jorkin had insisted. Taking it as a minor victory that he was
not sleeping in the captain's own billet, Torin had been the first to relent.
Now that he saw the truth of things, he was glad that
he had. Ducking below was like crawling into an animal's burrow. The halls
were tight, the ceilings low, the air moldy and close. The cabins themselves
were closets, smaller than some of those he'd seen used as wardrobes in the
royal palace. If these were officers' accommodations, he shuddered to think of
those in which he would find the crew.
"Will you require anything else then, sir?"
Brand asked him upon showing him his room. "Not a thing." As he set
his bag of provisions upon a feather-thin mattress, the frame beneath creaked
and a rat was sent scurrying across the floorboards. "Please give my
regards to the captain."
"The captain requests that you and your men dine
with him tonight in the officers' lounge."
"Again your captain is most gracious. We'll be
pleased to join him."
Brand nodded without once making eye contact, and
ducked from the room.
As soon as he'd left, Silas entered. "Can you
believe this?"
"Could be worse." Ulric's voice echoed
through the thin walls from across the corridor. "It's better than being
stuffed with the rest of the crew like rats in the hold."
"Small difference. I just heard one scampering
underfoot. And I've yet to see a woman on board."
"That's why the rats," Kallen taunted.
"You won't need a woman with them to nibble on your ear."
"Be quiet, all of you," said Torin.
"Any man wants to leave can do so now. Otherwise, be grateful for what we
have."
"Just wondering aloud, sir. Wondering how a man's
supposed to keep his wits together while buried in a floating coffin."
"Well, do
it silently from now on. We spoke of this before. Until we know we can trust
these men, it'd be best not to show any sign of weakness."
"As you say, sir," Silas mumbled, making his
way back to his room.
When their gear had been stowed, Torin led them back
on deck to see if they couldn't help make the ship ready. But after Ashwin was
nearly decapitated by a swinging boom and Silas almost crushed by an incoming
cargo crate, the prevalent opinion was that they could best serve by staying
out of the way. Arn led them back to their quarters, and asked that they wait
patiently until he came to retrieve them—-which he promised to do as soon as
they were ready to shove off.
It seemed as if that might never happen. With all that
was going on, and all that had yet to be done, Torin feared they
might be trapped in their stale cabins for days before
the voyage even began. But the estimate proved grossly unfounded as Arn
reappeared within the hour. The final boxes and barrels were loaded, calls of
departure were made, and their vessel set sail from the pier, headed toward the
open sea.
He could only hope that time would transpire as mercifully
in the days ahead.
*****
Evhan, captain of the City Shield, strode quietly down
the abandoned tunnel. A thick layer of dust stirred beneath his feet, while
cobwebs tickled his arms and face. He brushed these aside as best he could and
moved onward, using a torch to light his way. The air was stale, unused save by
the rats and insects that scurried along the gutters and walls.
It had become a nightly ritual, the last step of his
daily routine, to walk this tunnel and ensure that it remained clear. In
actuality, it wasn't a single tunnel, but a long string of interconnected
passages, storerooms, and workshops that together comprised an emergency egress
route for the royal inhabitants of the palace—those who knew of it, anyway. Not
many did. Rumor had it, this was the route Queen El-lebe had used to escape the
siege of the unknown wizard who had so briefly occupied the city before
throwing in with the Demon Queen and disappearing when her armies had been
vanquished. It had served its purpose then, and Evhan wanted to make sure that,
if necessary, it could serve its purpose again.
As the eyewitness accounts of savage races continued
to tighten around the city, that grim likelihood seemed an ever greater
possibility. And Evhan had taken it upon himself, as Krynwall's chief defender,
to sweep these grounds to keep them free. If the worst came to pass, he would
be able to lead his king, his regent, and any number of men out through these
tunnels, so that even if the city fell, they might live to fight another day.
The odds of that happening were still remote, but
Evhan took his newfound responsibilities seriously, and preferred to be
prepared. As of yet, only he and a select few knew these scattered bands for
what they were: II-lychar, mortal creatures who owed their unnatural lives to
the Illysp, parasitic souls that preyed on the bodies of men. Or at least,
that's how it had been described to him. Whether or not this was true, he would
not have enemy creatures skulking the streets of his city or clogging its
escape routes.
He'd told Allion that it all sounded a bit far-fetched
to him. But deep down, he hoped the stories would prove real. Not that he
wanted any great harm to befall the citizens of this nation, but he'd not
enlisted in me City Shield just to wear down with measured paces the stones
fronting some nobleman's manor house—not even the king's. He'd enlisted to
make a difference, that he might defend the lives of others, even at the cost
of his own. To live his life on the edge of a blade for the sense of excitement
and satisfaction it would bring.
Even when alone, he found it difficult to contain his
zeal. As he marched these deserted corridors, his imagination took hold,
conjuring a gang of creatures just around the bend. A family of ores, perhaps.
Maybe even an ogre. A company of intruders to fall before his sword. He would
raise the alarm, and disaster would be averted. He would make himself a hero.
Alas, on this night, nothing seemed different from the
previous nights in which he had made this trek. The same fetid smells filled
his nose; the same gentle squeaks raked his ears. It would not be long before
this duty grew stale, and he passed it on to one of his subordinates. It was
the idea, he supposed, more than anything. A route of secret escape. Every city
was rumored to have them, like ghosts in the bell towers. But to have learned
that it was actually there, to have been charged with keeping it secure, had
provided a thrill not easily dispelled.
He arrived at what appeared to be a dead end, where
the tunnel emptied of mortar and bricks and ran aground of an earthen wall.
Tools and materials lay stacked about as if the workers might return at any
moment to finish what they'd begun. Except of course the tools were rusted, the
masonry
stones blanketed in dust and webs. Whoever had begun
this task had not been back in awhile.
Evhan ducked left, into one of many niches that lined
the unfinished walls. There he fished around until he found what he was looking
for: in a hole in one of the rough-shaped blocks, behind a collection of loose
stones, a rusted chain. He tugged, coughing against a light cloud of dust. A
counterweight mechanism shifted, and an area of the floor within the niche
fell away, lowered like a drawbridge on creaking chains.
On hands and knees, Evhan ducked through the opening,
doing his best not to dislodge the dirt caked atop the lowered board. Below, he
found himself in an earthen crawl space, tucked away beneath the rotting
floorboards of an ancient charnel house. He pulled another chain to raise the
concealed bridge, then peered ahead through the gloomy expanse. It was the
worst stretch of the entire course, wide and flat, foul and confining. He held
his breath as he scurried through, scooting awkwardly along beneath the
waist-high ceiling in the manner of a trundling insect. At the other end lay a
trapdoor, this one set in the wall. After using a dagger to pick at the inner
latch, he flung it open, then pulled his body through.
He closed the door securely behind him. From mis side,
it looked to be a part of the walls that surrounded him, with the keyhole
hidden inside the empty knot of a pinewood board. He was able to stand now, at
least, hunched over within the square confines of a wooden crate. Without
hesitation, he rose up, pushing open the top of the box. Finding the footholds,
he stepped up and clear, lowering the lid once more.
The cellar was stacked high with barrels and crates,
which helped to disguise the false one. Evhan strode quickly down the uneven
aisles, following the trail of prints in the dust. He exited not through the
door, but through another empty crate and wall gate. There was another tunnel,
followed by another storeroom. This time, he took the main door and cut a sharp
angle down the hall to another portal, this one shaped of metal, in the rock
wall.
Passing through this door was like stepping into an
could see in the dark. And yet if he did not take drastic action, his
struggles would soon be ended.
He had to break their rhythm, catch them by surprise.
Once again, he went down low, drawing in the enemy at his back. Instead of
turning to face the attack, he came up flinging a fistful of gravel. A sword
bit into his leg, but he howled away the pain and used it to fuel his fury
against the suddenly uncertain companion. Moves practiced a thousand times were
executed almost without thought. As he forced his enemy wide to draw blood along
his arm, his own rapier found the creature's throat.
Evhan rounded at once, but was already too late. He
was hit yet again, this time in the soft side of his belly. The elf sneered at
him, a skeletal mask with shriveled, leathery skin. Nothing like the romanticized
depictions of ancient legend, Evhan realized, though quite healthy for a
creature three thousand years dead.
The blade twisted in his gut. Without thinking, Evhan
reached down with his free hand to grasp it. The edges dug into his clasped
palm, slicing fingers to the bone. But in the same movement, he sent his sword
through the other's stomach. They held like that for a moment, locked in a
grisly embrace. Then Evhan yanked free and, while the other tottered in
confused shock, struck deep through its chin.
With the tip of his blade protruding through its
skull, the elf's eyes widened, then narrowed in defiance. It spat and clawed,
but Evhan clenched his teeth and held firm. His strength won out, and a moment
later, his enemy pitched to the earth.
Evhan followed it down, slumping to his knees. He
looked to his wounds, but couldn't tell which was the most grievous. He
doubted he had the strength to bandage them, but would never stumble out of
here without doing so. Waves of fire and ice collided beneath his skin. A
dizzying darkness closed in.
He snarled it off like a wolf defending its kill. He
felt himself sway, but refused to shut his eyes, refused to fall. If he did,
there would be no getting up. For strength, he focused
on his slain attackers, then looked to his own tabard
and the strips of binding cloth it might provide.
But before he could begin, a soft rustle closed round,
echoing strangely in his ringing ears-. He looked up, his head heavy and
rolling to one side. They were all around him now—four, five, half a dozen
more. They studied with interest the bodies of their fallen companions, then
focused their attention on him. Although each had its own distinct features,
they all appeared more or less the same to Evhan. Enemies. He had to sound the
alarm. If only he could hold his head in place. If only he could find his
sword.
Then his torch failed, and the stabbing blades closed
in.
*****
Torin leaned against the salty rail, peering out at
the vast ocean with a faint smile upon his lips. It was his first experience
at sea, and he'd never felt anything like it: the crisp air, the gentle swells,
the invigorating spray. As he gazed out upon the endless waves, he lost himself
in the rhythm of their motion. He closed his eyes then, and listened to the
murmuring surge. The sense of freedom, both exhilarating and frightening,
buoyed his spirits, filling him like the wind in the ship's sails and carrying
him along on the endless flow.
Out here, nothing seemed to matter. Not his lingering
questions about Darinor, his regrets at having left Allion to tend to his
duties, or his doubts as to whether he had made the right decision. Out here,
where the dome of the sky stretched unbroken from horizon to horizon, he knew
only peace, a divine tranquility. His only regret was that Marisha was not here
to share it with him.
"Hey, if you're just going to stand around, why
not lend a hand with this rigging?"
Torin turned from his fantasy to find Iigo, the ship's
boatswain, glaring up at him.
"Just taking a moment to admire the
scenery."
Iigo snorted. "You'll grow tired of that soon
enough. It ain't going anywhere for awhile, trust me. Now grab a hold."
"Master boatswain," a new voice interrupted.
Both men turned as Captain Jorkin sauntered near. "Is there a
problem?"
Iigo snapped to attention. "No problem, sir. Just
putting a layabout to task, sir."
"Just because Master Torin here has offered to
lend a hand doesn't mean he was hired to do your duties. Unless, of course, you
wish to surrender your pay to him as well?"
"Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir."
"It's no trouble," Torin assured the
captain.
"As you are, swordhand. Master boatswain, carry
on."
"Yes, sir," said Iigo, hefting his load of
heavy lines and dragging it off across the deck.
"May I join you at the rail, swordhand?"
Torin nodded. He still wasn't sure whether to accept
this man at face value or beware some secret agenda. Whatever the captain's
emotions, he hid them behind kind eyes and a pleasant smile. Or maybe he was
genuinely that way.
"You were made for the sea," Jorkin
observed. Standing beside Torin, he stared out at the wind-tossed swells, seeming
to admire their sparkling beauty as the sun edged toward the horizon.
"What makes you say that?"
"Where are your shipmates?"
"In their cabins below. Wishing they were
dead."
Jorkin smiled. "As I said. You were made for the
sea."
From the corner of his eye, Torin studied the man, his
pocked face and balding pate, tanned and blistered by countless years beneath
the sun. But ever more obvious was his heartfelt respect and love for the ocean
itself, and this way of life. Difficult, yes, and not for everyone. Regardless,
there was something satisfying in seeing someone who lived his true calling
eve'ry single day. Swept up in the moment, Torin couldn't help but wonder if
the captain was right, and he had missed his.
"The name, Pirate's Folly. Is that meant
to discourage marauders?"
"The reputation came first," Jorkin replied.
His gaze remained lost among the sun-dappled waves, like a drunk
given in to his stupor. "She was christened the Shark's
Fin, for she cuts through the waves like no other. But over the course of
her maiden sailing season, she staved off no fewer than seven pirate attacks.
Sank one vessel, crippled two others, chased off the rest. Word like that spreads,
even among pirates. Such a name by itself would do nothing, but she's got the
deeds to back it up."
"I must say again, it was good of you to welcome
my men and me aboard."
Jorkin looked to him at last. "A stroke of luck
for both of us, it seems. Two days now and not a hint of a storm."
"Should we be expecting one, then?"
"Always, lad. Always. The moment you turn your
back to her is the moment she'll remind you of her deadly grace."
The captain left him then, walking off with the loose,
rolling gait of an experienced sailor. Torin shook his head as he watched the
other go. Every time Jorkin approached him, he expected to be hounded further
about his business, asked to divulge more concerning his mission. But the
captain continued to show complete trust in him, a trust he had yet to earn,
just as Jorkin had yet to earn his. Whatever the reason for this undue respect,
perhaps it was time to put aside his suspicions and offer the man the same
courtesy.
A stiff gust pushed Torin back to the rail. It seemed the
sun was melting into the ocean, spilling molten gold into its endless troughs.
Sails billowed overhead, straining to hold the wind that blew them swiftly
toward that glittering treasure. They were making wonderful time, as the
captain had indicated. But the realization brought to Torin an unexpected
twinge of doubt. On the one hand, the sooner they reached their destination,
the sooner he could return home. On the other, he didn't want this leg of the
journey to end.
He let his mind wander, setting thoughts adrift like
foam upon the seas. It felt good to relax, to put aside the many concerns that
at this moment could not be helped. He wondered fleetingly if this was what
death might be like, this welcome release of worldly cares. If so, then there
was little he had to fear.
At last, the sun disappeared, so that all that
remained was a dim glow of heat to mark its passing. In the gathering dark,
stars began to emerge, and the sky grew deeper, more vast. Torin considered
them with a distracted air, searching absently for any familiar
constellations.
All of a sudden, a call came from the crow's nest, a
sort of strangled yelp. Torin scarcely had time to register the warning before
the ocean erupted, dousing him in salty spray. He turned his head, crouching low,
and gripped the rail. The ship lurched beneath him, feeling as if it might
capsize. He wiped his eyes and, blinking against the stinging bite of
seawater, looked up as a shadow fell over him like an eclipse.
The thing surged forth with a power and majesty unlike
any Torin had ever witnessed. It hovered off the starboard bow, a mile or more
away, yet was larg'e enough to swallow up his entire field of vision. It
appeared to be a great pinnacle of rock—a sliver of the earth itself. Then it
turned to face him.
Shouts went up, but Torin held his breath, bolted like
a capstan to the deck of the ship. Above him, the beast loomed, higher than the
ship, its snout raking the heavens. Coral and barnacles grew in reefs along the
spine-studded length of its silver, eel-shaped torso. Forests of seaweed clung
to it like hair. An obsidian orb rotated in a crusted socket, gleaming in the
moonlight. An eye, Torin realized, far too small for its gargantuan body. It
seemed to peer down at him. Seemed to pierce his soul.
Though he could not recall reaching for it, the
Crimson Sword appeared in his hand. The monster leaned closer. Its lips parted,
revealing a cavernous maw ringed with mountainous teeth. Men screamed in fear.
But the leviathan remained nearly motionless, reared
up as if to challenge the very sky. Gills opened and closed, while a pair of
nostrils flared, altering the course of the winds. Torin gripped the Sword and
stared up at the thing, unable to flee, unable to look away.
Then, as suddenly as it had surfaced, the unfathomable
creature slid slowly back into the depths of the sea. As it slipped away, a
mournful groan filled the night, reverberating long after the immense head had
vanished beneath the dark waves. When it finally died away, not a trace of the creature
remained. Only the churning waters, an awestruck silence, and a shivering sense
of dread.
CHAPTER TEN Back Table of Contents Next
For the better part of a week, the Pirate's
Folly continued westward, unchallenged by wind or weather. In all that
time, no mention was made of the unknown creature of the deep, though Torin
could tell it was on everyone's mind. With haunted looks, guarded movements, or
the anxious stare with which he swept the sea, each man revealed clearly enough
the same fear. But none dared give it voice, as if to do so might make it real.
Routine alone saved them from going mad. While some
among the crew whispered at night of ill omens and the desire to turn back,
most knuckled down and found escape in their daily duties. Torin was among the
latter. Although he had yet to learn much about sailing, he was only too happy
to serve in a menial capacity: hauling, swabbing, sanding, painting—whatever
was required. He took his instructions from deckhands and cabin boys, Iigo the
boatswain and Hocker the helmsman. Here and there, he picked up a thing or two
about the craft, but mostly he just kept himself busy, fixing his thoughts on
matters above the waves so they would not slip down to dwell on what lurked
below.
That they continued to make blessed time was an unexpected
boon to everyone's spirits. The winds, said to be especially volatile this
time of year, remained steadfastly in their favor. The sun, so often held
hostage to storm clouds and rain, blazed unchecked across a gentle sky. Such
perfect conditions—and the fact that they were ahead of schedule— made it
difficult to focus on less positive matters. Some, like
Torin, began to question privately whether the
unlikely encounter had been anything more than a hallucination.
"What was that thing, do you suppose?" Arn
asked finally.
It was dawn, the sixth since the encounter, and the
first that showed signs of a gathering squall. Torin stood on the poop deck,
looking down at the blond-haired mercenary, who rested upon one knee following
the latest round of their daily sparring session. The shorter man was stripped
to the waist, huffing for breath, his torso rippling.
Torin shook his head, casting a fearful glance toward
the sea. "You mean I wasn't the only one to imagine it?"
He recalled with a shudder how he had felt in that
moment, and in the moments that followed. Even with the Sword in hand, an
insect to be crushed, a candle to be snuffed, shivering and wet and wondering
why he was not dead.
"A beast like that surfaces either to breathe or
to feed," Arn declared. "But that thing had gills."
"As well as lungs," Torin noted, "to
have made that sound."
"So why didn't it swallow us whole?"
Torin shifted nervously. "I've never encountered
a sea monster before. Why don't you tell me?"
"Sea monster?" Arn's pale blue eyes had been
staring into space, but swung about now to fix Torin with a chilling stare.
"I spoke with Captain Jorkin. He's battled sea monsters— from great whales
to giant serpents to the ten-legged kraken. That, he says, was no sea
monster."
Torin started to respond, then realized he had nothing
to say.
"Something caused it to breach. You're sure it
wasn't that Sword?"
Their gazes flew across the deck to where Cordan and
Bull stood at the rail, guarding the Crimson Sword while observing the mock
combatants.
"I couldn't tell you," Torin admitted.
"There is far more about the blade that is unknown to me than is known.
That it might have summoned the creature or discouraged it—or both—seems a
possibility. Either way, I'm at a loss to say."
Arn continued to study him, or perhaps just his words.
He was looking for some form of reassurance, as they all were. Torin had none
to give.
"Fair enough," Arn said finally. "But
I'd be careful around the men. Sailors are a superstitious lot. That thing
shows up again, I'd not be surprised if they tried to throw you overboard."
Torin nodded, unsure how to take that warning. Was Arn
himself one of those who intended to do so? He had certainly noticed the
looks, the cautious distance afforded him by many of Jorkin's crew since that
day—even those he had toiled alongside. But he had thought it merely a part of
the uneasiness they all shared. He hadn't considered that they might blame him.
They completed a few more turns of spirited fencing,
spiked war hammer versus borrowed longsword, as a dense fog rolled in. Normally
by this time, the sun had begun to burn away the thick tendrils of dawn's blanket.
On this morning, however, the soup roiled and darkened, leaving night's chill
heavy and moist. Though long expected, the foul signs marked a definite shift,
a clear indication that their luck was about to change.
Even so, none could have predicted the cry that
shrieked down from above.
"Pirate vessel! Port astern!"
Together, Torin and Arn raced to the aft railing,
where they were met by Bull and Cordan. At first, Torin saw nothing through the
swirling fog. Then Am thrust forth a muscled arm.
"There!"
"I see it," said Cordan.
Torin squinted. Suddenly, there it was, a black beetle
on the horizon, its raked masts and taut lines like horns and pincers in the
gloom.
"Where did it come from?" he asked.
"And how do they know it's a pirate vessel?"
Bull grunted.
"They know," was Arn's only explanation. He
turned, scooped up his leather jerkin, and dashed across the deck toward the
wheelhouse. Torin exchanged weapons with Cordan, then led his companions in
pursuit.
Hocker was in the pilot box, his mane of sandy hair
tossed by filtering breezes. Arn stood beside Captain Jorkin, who was peering
through an expensive-looking spyglass.
"By the looks of them, they're built for
speed," Jorkin observed.
"They'd have to be," Hocker spat, "to
have stolen upon us like this."
"What say you, Captain?" There was no
mistaking the gleam in Arn's eye. "Shall we come about and meet them
head-on?"
Before Jorkin could respond, a relay of new calls came
from the lookouts.
"Two more! Starboard bow!"
The company in the wheelhouse spun about. The brume
was thicker ahead of them, and even with the spyglass, it took Jorkin a moment
to pinpoint the enemy vessels and confirm the report.
"Sangho's Tempest," he swore. "What is
this?"
Hocker's gaze narrowed. "A pirate fleet!"
"What does that mean?" Torin asked.
Jorkin lowered his spyglass. "It means the time
has come for you and your mates to earn your passage."
The captain stepped from the wheelhouse, where he was
met by a cadre of senior officers. "To arms!"
That set off a blur of activity. Crewmen scurried
about as if the sky were falling. Orders were executed, responses relayed.
Torin didn't understand the half of it. Sails were lowered, while others were
raised. There were shouts regarding course and heading, given in response to
the maneuvers of the enemy vessels. At the same time, deck catapults were
unhooded and ballistae wheeled into place. Missiles and bows and polearms were
produced, taken up by almost every member of the crew.
Arn led them out to the bow rail, where Clave, the master
swordhand, was assembling the troops. As Torin's group joined the muster, Silas
and Kallen, Ashwin and Ulric, came running up.
"You men ready for this?" Clave called back
to them.
Ashwin, the last to recover from his seasickness,
still looked a little pale. But he nodded fiercely alongside his fellow
fighters.
"We'll be the first defense against any boarding
parties," Arn explained calmly. In addition to Torin's seven, there were
half a dozen others, seasoned veterans, huddled in front of the stout
mercenary, taking orders from Clave. "Rarely does it come to that. But
with three ships—"
"Arn, does your team know its assignments?"
Clave demanded.
"Yes, sir!" Arn replied.
The huddle broke, and the defenders hustled to their
sta-tions. Torin and his men followed after Arn, who took them down one level
to the main deck. There they braced themselves amidships, toward the bow on
the starboard side, waiting for the battle to begin.
An unnatural quiet settled over the ship's passengers,
as raucous preparation gave way to breathless anticipation. The most prevalent
sounds were the sloshing of the waves and the creaking of the vessel that rode
them. All hunkered in their posts, awaiting that first, terrible volley.
"What's taking so long?" Arn wondered aloud.
His spiked war hammer slapped against the opposite palm, while his thick
muscles bunched and corded with expectation. "They should be upon us by
now."
Torin had been thinking the same. As a show of
strength, Jorkin had raced the Pirate's Folly under full sail directly
toward the pair of heavy galleons that lay ahead, as though he intended to
brush right past them. The great warships, however, had called his bluff and
stood their ground, swinging broadside to present the widest possible barrage.
The captain had then had little choice but to tack south. With the third ship
coming up from behind, he could ill afford to be caught between the three. In
response, the forward vessels had moved to cut him off, while the smaller,
faster ship gave chase along a tight intercept course. Oddly enough, the
forward attackers had yet to close in, as if waiting for their weaker comrade.
When Jorkin realized this, he spun his bark about,
pointing her toward her own wake. Better to confront and dispatch
the large schooner coming up on their tail. It would
be an easier contest than taking on the two ahead, a strike both swift and
sure. With any luck, they would put on such a display of power as to give the
others pause.
But the trailing schooner was not as swift as she had
first seemed. Weighed down with men and weapons, perhaps, or with stolen loot.
Though she showed no signs of furling sails, it took a long time for her to
catch up. Were it not for the ships ahead, they might have outrun her after
all.
Now it appeared as though they would in fact be
trapped. The three attackers were equidistant from them, forcing Jorkin to
order Hocker hard about once more, maneuvering to protect their rudder. The
brunt of the assault would come from the heavy warships ahead of them, and they
had no choice but to position themselves accordingly.
That was where they now stood, almost still in the
water, awaiting the first strike. The twin galleons were nearly on top of them,
dark and ghostly, shimmering in the fog.
"Perhaps they mean for us to surrender without a
fight," Torin suggested.
Arn grunted. "They'd have fired a warning shot,
at least. Something here is ghastly strange."
They continued to stare at the looming ships, which,
despite their closeness, remained hazy and indistinct. Torin measured the time
with the beats of his racing heart, as he searched for men upon the rigging.
They were almost within hailing distance. Any moment now, something had to
give.
Then they vanished.
It happened so suddenly that Torin blinked and rubbed
his eyes. One moment, the black and bulky shapes were gliding soundlessly ahead
through curtains of brume. The next, all that remained was empty fog.
"Incoming!"
The shout was followed by a terrible rending and cracking
sound an instant before a great crash rocked the ship to its core. Men
screamed, wood splintered. The entire vessel shuddered with the impact of
falling timbers and broken spars.
Torin got to his feet and tore across the uneven
decking, a burr on Arn's heels. On the port side, the unmistakable hum and
twang of arrows being fired sang through the air. A powerful whoosh signaled
the release of a catapult, and Torin turned the corner as its load splashed
into the churning sea.
Another blast rocked the ship, and again Torin was
thrown. He recovered just in time to dodge the whipping descent of a severed
stay. Despite the chaos, it was easy enough to see what was going on. Unlike
its companions, the enemy schooner, the first they had seen, was still out
there, pelting them from afar with a long-range catapult. The Folly was
frantically returning fire, but had yet to gain proper position. Not only had
she been caught off balance by the phantom galleons, but it seemed her own
weaponry had the shorter range.
The pirates had the element of surprise. And given the
accuracy of their initial volleys, Jorkin was dealing now with a wounded
vessel. Shouts continued to fly—damage reports, cries of alarm, commands meant
to right the sluggishness of the ship's responses. Torin clung helplessly to
the rail, Sword in hand, awaiting an opportunity he feared would never come.
Another projectile came flying in from the enemy's
deck catapult. This time, it sailed long, taking a bite out of the far rail.
Jorkin shouted in triumph as the Pirate's Folly swung around at last.
The order to shoot went up, and three catapults returned fire. Two fell short
of their target once again. The third, however, scored a direct hit on the
enemy's hull, only to be deflected aside by an iron plate, exposed beneath the
smashed and splintered wood.
"She's armored, sir!"
Torin was close enough to see the shock on his
captain's features. But Jorkin wasn't interested in excuses. He continued to
order a raking assault with ballistae, arrows, and catapults. The onslaught was
intense—piercing sails, cracking masts, and punching holes in the hull and
planking. But the smaller schooner weathered the storm, shielded in iron where
she was most vulnerable, making her deceptively resilient. A cunning ruse,
Torin realized, to disguise a lumbering warship as a fleet schooner, to
convince its enemies to
fight rather than flee, luring them close with a false
sense of strength.
Not that it would matter in the end. With the extent
of the damage being taken on both sides, Torin could not see how this conflict
would end with anything less than both ships at the bottom of the ocean.
Perhaps it was only his untrained eye, but he felt certain the time was fast
approaching when neither vessel would be able to stay afloat.
"We're being pulverized!" Iigo shouted in
despair. Torin turned to find the master boatswain at his shoulder, anger and
fear reflected in his eyes.
"They don't want to sink us," Jorkin
growled. The captain spat blood as Arn helped him from beneath the debris of a
fallen sail. "If they want our cargo, they have to come aboard to get
it."
A series of impacts rocked the blasted vessel, seeming
to argue this point. But as the air cleared of splinters, Torin found the enemy
sidling up close. Hooked lines were thrown forth, tethers to hold her in place,
while bloodthirsty shouts echoed in the morning gloom.
As the ships ground together, a swarm of arrows cut
through the air in either direction. Torin ducked and closed his eyes,
listening to the splashes of men pitching overboard, and to the sharp thud of
those bolts that missed their mark. Then a cry welled up from the enemy horde,
and the takeover began.
Torin rose up to meet it, the Sword's radiance a
beacon in the mist. He followed Arn, who rushed forward to confront the first
wave. Clave was beside him, but went down almost at once, a thrown dagger
sticking from his eye. He had a vague sense of those at his heels—Cordan and
Bull, Ashwin and Ulric, Silas and Kallen. Somehow, they had remained with him
through the initial assault. Only to rise up and join him now within a
whirlwind of death.
But it was too late to consider their safety or order
them back. A fever had overtaken him—the calculated frenzy wrought by
possession of the Sword. As always, it seemed an extension of his own will,
only with a heightened awareness of the threat, a clearer understanding of his
goal: It guided his hand as much as obeyed it, though he never felt in danger
of losing control. His passion fueled it, and the Sword responded in turn,
filling him with limitless energy, unbridled strength, an alert fervor that was
nothing short of divine.
It did not take long to make a spectacle of himself.
With each stroke, the radiant blade tore through whatever it came in contact
with, be it armor or wood or bone. Each time, it did so wreathed in crimson
flames—a protective sheath burst forth from within. When the stroke Was
finished, the flames vanished, retreating back within the depths of the
polished blade, leaving it as perfect and pristine as before. Its glow
undimmed, its beauty unmarred, it bathed him in an aura of ruby light, an
unmistakable brilliance that lent strength to his companions and filled his
enemies with awe.
But they kept coming, brandishing their weapons of
iron and steel, feinting and dodging and drawing him on. Torin did not
hesitate. He was being baited, he knew, even as he danced across the boarding
plank that lay stretched between the ships, high above the black seas below.
Nevertheless, their insolence troubled him. Surely, in just a few short moments,
they had seen enough of his flaming blade to tuck tail and scurry away. And yet
they refused to do so. Insulted by their lack of deference, Torin lunged ahead,
determined to make them regret that decision.
Before he knew it, he was aboard the enemy schooner,
his onslaught gone virtually unchallenged. But then, who could challenge him?
Who could withstand the Crimson Sword, this talisman of gods and avatars, whose
holy might had been used to shape the very earth? Even with just this small
measure of its power, who could oppose his will? Certainly not a boatload of
criminals, men who knew nothing of honor, only murder and greed.
The tumult enveloped him. There were cheers now, from
both sides. Pressed from every quarter, Torin was too busy to give the matter
more than a passing thought. Perhaps his foes thought him cornered. Perhaps
they supposed he must eventually tire. Little did they know that he could dance
like this forever, with flawless aim and lethal proficiency, turning
aside his enemies' blades while gradually using their
own weariness against them.
Too late, Torin realized his mistake. It had happened
to him before, and he cursed his foolishness for allowing it to happen again.
During the Battle of Kraagen Keep, the first time he had wielded the Sword
against an enemy, he had gone too far, allowed himself to be swept up in the
undulating rush of power and forged too far afield of those he was fighting
beside. As a result, he'd been cut off from his company, and only the Sword—and
the warrior skills of Kylac Kronus—had saved him from a quick defeat.
His first indication were the warning shouts from the Pirate's
Folly. As he shifted focus just enough to see what had caused this fresh
alarm, he heard and spied the sawing of ropes and the tossing aside of planks.
The pirates were cutting loose, shoving off from their intended target. It
would appear they'd had enough, and were leaving their spoils behind.
Or perhaps they already had what they had come for.
Despite the rapture of the Sword, worry bloomed in the
pit of Torin's stomach. Already the vessels had disengaged, with the armored
schooner beginning to pull away. Only a handful of fellow fighters had crossed
over; most had been more concerned with holding the pirates at bay. He saw Arn
and Cordan and a pair of unknown swordhands nearly buried amid the throng. Bull
was at the rail of the Folly, bellowing and snorting, trying to draw the
pirate ship back but finding little help from Jorkin's crew. Beside the big
man, Ashwin made a reckless leap, only to catch an arrow in the chest and go
pinwheeling into the breach, where his body slapped down against the roiling
waves.
Torin cried out and surged across the deck, scattering
enemies in his haste to free Arn and Cordan and get them all back to where
they belonged. If nothing else, perhaps they could sweep this vessel clean, or
near enough to take control. Whichever, they needed to do so quickly, for
whether as a result of her wounds or the will of her officers and crew, the Pirate's
Folly seemed content to let them go.
His enemies laughed at his urgency, rising against him
with rattling blades and sneering faces. A few scored minor hits, as Torin
sacrificed a measure of his own defense in order to rush to the aid of his
comrades. Even so, he was too slow. Before he could cut the intended swath, the
pair of unknown swordhands went down. Arn and Cordan followed, swarmed over by
the enemy crush.
Torin roared a denial. At that same moment, the nets
began to fly.
He sensed the first coming behind him, and whirled to
meet it, slashing it in midair. The Sword ripped easily down its center,
opening it wide. But the severed strands were weighted at the corners and
coated in pitch, and thus clung to him like a spider's webbing. He might have
extricated himself, but then a second and third blanketed him, followed by a
fourth. His own thrashings tripped him up, and he succumbed in a tangled heap.
A beating followed, a pounding of clubs and staves and
weapon hafts from every direction. He gritted away the worst of it, shielded by
the thick strands of netting, clutching the Sword for all he was worth. But
ensnared as he was, he was unable to mount a defense. A battering assault on
his arm loosened his grip before burly hands pried the hilt from his fingers.
He grasped after it, feeling as though someone had snatched the heart from his
chest, but a barrage to the skull left his mind dazed and his vision clouded.
"Enough!"
A few last-ditch blows landed. Through a haze of
groggi-ness, Torin recognized the whistle of arrows and the thunk and clatter
of spears, as the ships made their parting salvos. The pirates cheered.
Somehow, he pushed himself to his hands and knees, weighed down by the sticky
nets. An enemy spat upon him.
"I said enough!" a cool voice reprimanded.
"Aye,Cap'n."
Torin peered from beneath the ridge of a swollen eye
to see a swarthy, dark-bearded brute lower his head and step back. The Sword
was in his hands, but even with the strengthening caress of the concealed
Pendant, Torin was too dizzy to reach for it.
Then the other came forward. A tarred mop of greasy
black hair hung straight to his shoulders. Beady brown eyes glanced at the
Sword, then locked upon Torin.
"Take him below."
A flurry of hands reached for him, seizing hold of his
hair, his limbs, and the netting of his cage. When he tried to resist, they
punched or shook him, knocking him down again and dragging him across the deck.
"This one's still alive, sir."
Sweat and pitch stung his eyes, but Torin forced them
open. Nearby, Arn was on his knees, head lolling. A straddling enemy clenched
his tuft of curls and put a dagger to his throat. His blue eyes were clouded,
his blond hair matted with blood.
"Feed him to the sharks," the man with the
tarred head ordered. "His mates too."
A lump filled Torin's throat as the semiconscious
mercenary was tossed overboard. Cordan's limp form went after, as soon as a
pair of laughing pirates had plucked their bloodstained blades from his back.
Torin forced his gaze away, over the rail and beyond,
to where the Pirate's Folly lay crippled, abandoned in the middle of
the ocean, midway between continents. He thought he could make out the somber
forms of Silas and Kallen, standing now with Bull, staring after the pirate
vessel as it slunk away. Kallen leaned upon his brother, one hand covering a
wounded eye.
Then he was being dragged once more, like a haul of
netted fish, leaving his companions to fade in the mist.
CHAPTER ELEVEN Back Table of Contents Next
Allion gaped at the severed heads, his
stomach churning with revulsion. Amid the gasps and shouts of his comrades,
bile rose to his throat. He willed himself to look away, but his gaze refused to
be drawn from their openmouthed stares, their lolling tongues, their
rolled-back eyes.
When the furor had calmed, Thaddreus spoke. "And
what point do you wish to make with this display, General?"
Rogun snarled, tossing the bloody sack—from which he
had dumped the three heads—onto the table beside them. "That it is time,
once and for all, to address this threat in the manner that I, as chief
commander of Krynwall's forces, see fit."
Thaddreus, speaker of the Circle of City Elders, did
not appear impressed. "Which would be what? To sweep this land like a team
of plow horses, raking everything underfoot?"
"Are you blind, old man? Do those look like human
heads to you?"
They did not, which was part of the reason for
Allion's dismay. The skin of their faces was dark and wrinkled, sucked tight against
high cheekbones, stretched to a point at die eyes and ears. Though ravaged,
their features reminded him of those of Cwingen U'uyen, chieftain of the
Powaii, of the Mookla'ayan elves.
"We've all heard the evidence to suggest the old
races have returned to roam our lands," Thaddreus persisted, refusing to
be riled. "Your exhibition, while striking, tells us nothing we do not
already know."
"These were not found roaming our distant
lands," Rogun growled, "but the woods beyond our very city."
A fresh clamor went up among those assembled, with
fourteen of the sixteen Elders all fighting to be heard and Rogun, a fifteenth,
trying to quiet them. Of their ranks, only Thaddreus kept his tongue, along
with Allion beside him.
"The three here represent only a small portion of
their band," Rogun went on, his powerful voice drowning out those of the
others. "The remainder of their party escaped into the trees. The patrol
that happened upon them was not large enough to root them out."
Again the general paused, and again the shouting
ensued. Allion at last pried his eyes from the trio of heads, holding back his
nausea, and found Rogun staring at him. The general appeared both pleased and
disgusted by the row he had caused. It had been some time since he had joined
them in council, having no stomach for their pointless deliberations. Allion
had been grateful for the respite, had even begun to hope that he'd heard the
last of the man's grumbling. He should have known the general was merely biding
his time, and would intervene when certain that his presence might make the
greatest impact.
Allion did his best not to flinch beneath the
general's withering gaze. He had caught them off guard was all, storming in
unannounced, grisly baggage in tow. The din was rife with fear and anger,
accusation and loathing—just the kinds of emotions to play when seeking to
manipulate men along a desired course. Though Allion was as moved as any of
them, as regent, he had a responsibility not to show it.
Thaddreus waved his arms in a slow flapping motion. At
first, this only heightened the uproar. Gradually, however, his patience won
out, and the furor abated.
"Please, General," the old man bade.
"Take your seat with us here in the Circle."
Rogun refused, leaning down to plant his fists on the
great marble-topped table. "I did not come to join your ceaseless debate.
I came to end it. Declare martial law. Grant me charter to combat this enemy
before it is too late."
A chorus of cheers lauded the general's plan, while a
smattering of grants opposed it. Before long, the discussion had deteriorated
into a shouting match once more.
Allion rubbed his temples to ward off an encroaching
headache. Less than two weeks had passed since Torin's departure, and already
he'd had enough. Each day, he considered seriously abandoning his oaths and
responsibilities and chasing after Torin as he had before. Were it not for his
vow to watch over Marisha, he might well have done so. The city was a crumbling
pile of stone, the land around it barren and worthless. Citizens within and
without waged an endless war against poverty and starvation, still working to
rebuild their . lives following the taxing reign of King Sorl and the invasion
of the wizard. Everywhere he went, people looked to him for relief.
Small wonder that Torin had been so willing to leave
it all behind, to accept even this wild charge as an avenue of escape. As
Fason, Allion had been painfully aware of the chal-lenges his friend faced, but
had been a step removed from the politics of them. As regent, he had stepped
squarely into their midst.
"Where is our Fason?" someone demanded, as
if attuned to his thoughts. "Any word yet from our captain of the
guard?"
Allion perked up. Evhan had been missing for a week
now, having vanished without a trace just days after his promotion. Despite a
sweep by the City Shield and Allion himself, there had been no sign of the
young captain, leaving the regent deeply saddened and suspicious.
"Deserted," Rogun replied, shaking his head.
"Or slain, perhaps, by one of the enemy. It matters not, except as another
sign that we have sat on our hands too long."
Allion narrowed his gaze at how quickly the general
dismissed the issue. The prevalent opinion was in fact that Evhan had deserted them.
But Allion knew better. Until this very moment, he hadn't considered that Rogun
might be behind the young captain's disappearance. Such a move would be just
the sort of inexplicable, off-balancing maneuver used to generate the chaos and
confusion on which Rogun was now feeding. Even so, he felt surprise that the
other could be
so bold, and found himself wondering who might be next
if the general did not soon get his way.
"We cannot continue to fight in this
manner," Rogun pressed, "allowing our enemies to strike and disperse
as they see fit. If we are to win this war, we must force them to engage us in
direct confrontation. The only way to do so is to assemble a force that will
sweep across these lands and flush the cowards into the open."
"And how will you control the widespread panic to
ensue among the populace as the result of such an extreme course?"
Thaddreus challenged.
"Extreme?" Rogun gestured toward the rotting
heads upon the tabletop. "Perhaps I should have brought you the heads of
the innocent victims, rather than those of our enemy—though it would have
required a team of men to carry them."
A blistering outcry commenced, and lasted for several
moments. Still Allion remained silent, praying the storm would pass. While it
scarcely seemed possible, the gathered councilors were growing ever more
agitated. When Rogun spoke, most everyone listened. Other than that, it was becoming
increasingly difficult to make out one argument from the next.
Although the governing council was yet in its infant stages,
Allion had begun to think its creation may have been a mistake. Hoping to iron
out differences through a fair and equitable discourse, Torin had given its
strongest voices to members of those factions who opposed both him and one
another. As such, it had settled into little more than a forum for the airing
of grievances, each presented more loudly than the last. Some saw the entire
Circle as a sign of weakness, an indication that the young king—and now his
regent—was unable to rule. Perhaps so. Nevertheless, it grated on Allion that
their bickering had become second nature, so that even when presented with a
common problem, the councilors found the pursuit of deep-seated rivalries and
prejudices more important man resolution.
He was about to holler a desperate appeal for silence
when once again the chamber doors burst open without call or warning, and a
startling figure strode in. A deep hush fell over the room, brought on by
perhaps the one man capable of silencing this brood. He was tall and gaunt,
with a sallow face and the tattered robes of a scarecrow. A gust of wind
accompanied his entrance, stirring the stench of decay that clung to the
severed Illychar heads.
Sickened anew, Allion covered his mouth.
"Well, now, if it isn't our guardian and protector,"
Rogun muttered. "Where have you been?"
"The same as you." Darinor glared, stepping
forward with the swish of heavy fabric. "Scouting the movements of our
enemy." He paused as he eyed the heads of the elven dead. "I see you
have made some progress."
"And you?" Despite surrendering half a head
to the thinner man in height, Rogun showed no signs of standing down.
"The Illychar spread more quickly than I had
imagined," Darinor confessed, his deep voice rumbling from that cavernous
hollow within his craggy beard. "Their overall movements bespeak caution,
as if testing our waters, but by packs and individuals, they grow bolder by the
day."
"Again, you tell us nothing we've not discerned
ourselves," Rogun complained. "You claim to be our leader in this.
Do you have a plan?"
Darinor gave the other a scornful glance -before
turning his attention to Allion and the seated members of the Circle. "The
plan is this, and the time to execute it is now. If you let them, the Illychar
will fight like owls in the night, swift and silent before winging away. They
will do so forever, or at least until their numbers are so much greater than
ours that we will be overrun."
"Go on," Rogun said, his interest piqued.
"The key-is to draw them out, and the only way to
do this is to assemble a singular force around which—"
"I've already suggested that," Rogun
grumbled. "Time and again. It is these fools before you who cannot see the
truth."
Darinor fixed him with a stern eye. "Your plan
does not go far enough, General. You speak of an army that stomps across this
land, beating the tall grasses as if hunting snakes. What I am proposing is
much more radical. Empty this city
of soldiers. Leave only the young and the elderly, the
immature and the infirm—coils that will do little to tempt the Illysp spirits
come to haunt these grounds. Since each Illysp can claim only one mortal shell
with which to wreak havoc and mayhem in the physical world, they crave the
bodies of soldiers, not nursemaids. Put the land's men-at-arms in one place and
the Illysp—and the Illychar who support them— will gather like flies to a
corpse."
Rogun frowned. "You say they will come to
us?"
"If the temptation is great enough. Which is why
you cannot afford to divide your forces into wandering patrols as they are now.
In fact, Krynwall's army alone is not sufficient—I speak not only of Alson but
of all Pentania. You must unite your strength with that of your neighbors, with
Partha and Kuuria. Only then, when all are marshaled, will your enemy have no
choice but to combat you openly."
"Then we could at best defend a single city. You
would have us leave all others defenseless?"
"To defend your cities, you must lure the Illysp
away from them. Leave a token garrison if you must, but the greater their
numbers, the greater the temptation will be for the Illychar to ransack those
stores for the sake of their Illysp brethren and the swelling of their own
ranks."
Allion didn't have Rogun's sharp mind for military tactics,
nor his experience and training. But he, too, was uncomfortable with what
Darinor seemed to be suggesting. On the surface, it made sense. At the same
time, Allion's stomach knotted in warning.
"No," Rogun said flatly.
"What you suggest would require a terrific leap
of faith on our part," Thaddreus agreed. "Both on those sallying
forth, and on those left behind."
Darinor nodded. "Then a leap of faith it shall
take."
"No," Rogun repeated. "What you suggest
flies in the face of any convention of war known to man, and I won't allow
it."
"In case you haven't noticed, General, we are not
fighting a conventional enemy."
But Rogun was emphatic. "We build walls and
cities for a reason. It is the same strategy by which our forefathers came to
dominate these shores—and against many of the same creatures it would appear we
must battle now."
"Yes," Darinor allowed. "But in the
past, when one of your ancestors slew a troll or ogre or elf or goblin, that
creature did not rise up to battle you again. And again. And again."
With that, the bickering began anew. Once more, Allion
refrained from participating, choosing to think the matter through before he
offered an opinion. Unfortunately, it seemed to boil down, as before, to a
matter of trust. As some were shouting, if Darinor was wrong, then the soldiers
risked coming home to find their wives and children and grandparents
slaughtered. But, as others argued, if he was right, what choice did they have?
Through the jumble of loud voices and flailing bodies
and gesturing limbs, Allion peered across the table at the grim figure standing
at its far head. Just who was this Darinor? What motives might lie behind his
latest scheme? Despite Marisha's pleas, Allion was not yet ready to trust the
man. If he was as honorable as his daughter claimed, why send Torin off on such
a foolhardy mission?
But try as he might, the regent could discern nothing
of Darinor's thoughts by studying the man's visage. Only the eyes conveyed
anything at all—a wealth of secrets that Allion meant to uncover.
As those eyes turned to him, Allion looked away. Without
the swell of his fury, the mystic seemed less threatening than before, like an
adder at rest. And yet his stripping gaze was still too terrible to face.
"And what does our regent say?" the renegade
Entient asked.
The roar of voices died away, and all eyes shifted
toward the reluctant'Allion. He fought to meet those stares evenly, to conceal
the trembling weakness he felt. Though he did not want this burden, he refused
to crumble beneath its pressure.
It was Rogun, in a roundabout way, who came to his
rescue.
"Who is he that we should take his advice in a
matter of such critical importance?" the general challenged before Al-
lion had opened his mouth. "This is a military
issue. Since when does a woodsman know anything about war?"
Allion had heard this argument before. Only, this time
he was grateful for it. Upon coming to Krynwall, his true desire had been to
become a commander in the Legion of the Arrow, the city's legendary troop of
archers. Decimated by the wizard's invasion, the legion had to be rebuilt
almost from the ground up, a task to which Allion felt eminently suited. But
Rogun would not allow it, decrying his lack of military experience—never mind
his unrivaled skill with a bow. Rather than force the issue, Torin had made him
captain of the City Shield, over which the king was the ultimate authority.
For while the same might have been said of the army, Torin and Allion had
agreed as a matter of appeasement not to tell Rogun his business.
"If I'm not mistaken, he is your acting
ruler," Darinor snapped. "It is his vote that carries the greatest
weight."
So much for dodging that arrow, Allion
thought. In truth, part of him was glad to see Rogun put in his place. On this
particular occasion, however, he'd have rather the general won.
Fortunately, the commander was not yet finished.
"My plan is not only one of experience, but would seem now to be a fair
alternative to the madness this one suggests." He glared at Thaddreus, as
if knowing that were he to sway the First Elder, the other dissenters would
fall into place. "Put it to a vote, if you must. But I demand to know
where the Circle stands before I leave this room."
Thaddreus stroked at the arms of his moustache, which
hung down over a pointed chin. A beam of sunlight from one of the room's vaulted
windows lit the table before him and shone upon the braids of his silver mane.
The light held for but a moment before a winter cloud stole it away.
"I for one would continue to argue against either
action as reckless and rash"—the First Elder held up his hands to quiet
the ensuing murmurs—"but it seems neither proponent is willing to allow
for more prudent deliberation. If we must come to a conclusion now,
without full understanding of the risks involved, then I shall file formal
objection and surrender my vote to the king—or in his absence, the king's
regent."
A few groused at this notion, or hollered outright
protest. But little by little, the sentiment took hold. It was their way of
ducking the responsibility, plain and simple, and of heaping any subsequent
blame or consequences onto Allion's shoulders alone. Allion could see it
happening, like the flames of a wildfire leaping out of control, but was
powerless to stop it.
When he looked to the far end of the table, he found
Rogun and Darinor standing side by side, staring at him expectantly.
A warm flush crept through his cheeks as he considered
the choices—not the plans themselves, but the men who offered them. On the one
hand, there was Rogun, a warmonger of the first order and an unforgiving adversary.
On the other, there was Darinor, who, with his Illychar-infected wounds and the
pallor that hung over him, appeared as if he might be the very enemy they were
fighting. To which should he listen?
He wished he could defy them both. If his heart wasn't
so heavy, his mind so full, perhaps he might formulate a more reasonable
alternative. As it was, he felt as if the only choke he had was to select the
manner of his own execution.
"This is useless," Rogun hissed in
exasperation.
Allion ignored the man, shifting his focus squarely to
Darinor, this descendant of a renegade Entient who claimed to be the keeper of
this buried history. Should he, or should he not, put his faith in the man? If
so, then he—like Torin—had little choice but to do as the other said,
regardless of what Rogun or anyone else might think.
But why should he believe even half of what he'd been
told? What proof jiad he that this petulant mystic was who and what he claimed
to be? Again he stared into those smoldering blue eyes, seeking but a glimpse
of the truth behind them, like searching shadows with a dying light.
And then it hit him, the unexpected memory of another
from his recent past, another whose gruff mannerisms had belied a noble intent.
It was the Entient Ranunculus who had carried the tome that would start them on
their quest for the
Sword, and later had guided them to the secret
stronghold of Whitlock, where they had learned how they might overcome the
dragonspawn of Killangrathor. That man, also, had possessed an irascible, almost
threatening nature, acting on the will of his peers and against his own better
judgment. But had it not been for his help, the Illysp would now be fighting
the Demon Queen rather than mankind for dominion over these lands.
A cruel irony, actually. For if Torin had not
reclaimed the Crimson Sword, none of them would be alive today, save as slaves
to Spithaera and her minions. And yet, what had he truly won them? Instead of
dying at the hands of the Demon Queen, they would now be consumed by the Illysp,
an enemy from which not even the grave would grant relief. Torin's actions had
delivered them from one scourge, only to serve them up to another. So was he a
champion of mankind, or a harvester of doom?
Allion brushed the wayward thought aside. All that mattered
was the present, in which they still had a fighting chance. At least Torin had
given them that much.
"I cannot speak for King Thelin or King
Galdric," he said slowly. He addressed Darinor, but his voice echoed in
the grim silence of the room. "We would have to send forth em-. issaries to advise them of your plan."
"Then do so at once," Darinor commanded.
Allion searched the other's face for a hint of triumph at the apparent choice,
but the grave mask he wore may as well have been chiseled from stone.
Rogun, on the other hand, was incensed. Without
another word, he removed his fists from the table and stormed toward the exit,
spurs rattling like the horned tail of a sistrum viper. As the doors slammed shut behind him,
the arguments started up once more.
"Silence!" Darinor shouted, robes billowing
in a windless air. "I'll say it once more. You must put aside your petty
differences—among one another, and among your neighbors on these shores—if you
are to combat this enemy. For I assure you, it will smother all without any
such discrimination."
"We've tried this before," Allion noted,
thinking back to their previous attempt to unite the kingdoms of Pentania under
a single banner. "It will not be easy."
"Nor will surviving this threat. The more time we
waste with words, the more difficult it becomes."
Many of the Elders wore sullen faces, like children
denied, but none seemed prepared to dispute the mystic outright.
"Do as I tell you now," he urged in final
rebuke, "or regret it later."
His glare swept aside all challenges before piercing
Allion to the core, as if to pin ultimate accountability on him. Turning his
back on any further protests, he then slipped like a dark cloud from the room.
No sooner had he gone than Allion slumped in his
high-backed chair, caught between waves of relief and defeat while the Circle's
grumbling filled his ears like an ocean's dull roar.
CHAPTER TWELVE Back Table of Contents Next
A steady drip from the ceiling hammered
against the top of Torin's skull. At first, it hadn't troubled him, but after
he'd been alone in the darkness for several hours, it had become like a spike
being slowly driven into his brain.
There was no escaping it, lashed as he was—even at the
neck—to an upright beam in the tiny storeroom. He'd caught only glimpses of his
prison while his captors hauled him down and roped him in place. Then the hatch
was closed. There were no windows, no light, leaving him in damp, inky
blackness.
They posted no guard, and so he had wriggled at his
bonds for awhile, thinking to wrench free. But if there was one thing sailors
knew best, it was-their knots. The more he pulled, the more his bindings
.seemed to tighten. As their bite deepened, he surrendered his struggle.
After that, darkness and solitude laid claim. A
coppery taste filled his mouth, from the cuts sustained during his beating.
His entire body throbbed and stung, as bruises formed and lacerations filled
with sweat and pitch. The nets used to capture him were gone, but the sticky
coating remained. Its scent dominated a potpourri of damp wood, of must and
mold, of the ever-present brine of the sea.
In his blindness, he listened to the thunder of rain
on the decking above, and to the trample of men hustling to and fro. He could
hear their shouts, but could not make out the words. The walls of his hold
creaked like an old wagon wheel over rocky terrain. The nail in his head drove
deeper.
He wished they had left him the Pendant at least. With
it, he would have been able to better tolerate the aches and pains. Alas, if
there was one thing pirates knew best, it was how to loot their victims.
But his own ignorance troubled him most, more than his
physical condition. Why the pirates had abducted him remained a mystery, as
did their reasons for keeping him alive. The only thing clear to him was that
he had lost his friends, his freedom, and any hope of accomplishing his
mission, all in one fell swoop.
A cunning adversary, this team of seafaring brigands,
with their skills of illusion and the manner in which they had lured the Pirate's
Folly to her fate. He might even have been impressed, had he not been on
the receiving end of it. Instead, all he could think of were his slain
comrades—Ashwin and Cordan and Arn—whose deaths resonated with every drop of
rain. Even without understanding how, or why, he knew the blame for their
sacrifice was his to bear.
He never should have boarded Jorkin's ship. He should
have turned around when he'd had the chance. As usual, he had made the wrong
choice, and now there was no going back.
He wondered idly if the merchant captain might chance
an attempt to rescue him. Not likely, he conceded. The Folly and her
crew had suffered enough at his expense already.
These thoughts circled like vultures in his mind,
winging around again and again, waiting to finish him. But just when he thought
they might settle, another raindrop would strike his skull, and they would
scatter once more. Over and over, until he was certain he'd gone mad.
Finally, after what seemed like days though was
probably no more than hours, there was a scrabbling sound and the hatch to his
prison lifted. The muted drum of rain and voices sharpened. Gray dusk poured
through on the shoulders of a gusting wind, which whistled through the crack.
The light of a flame followed. Torin squinted as its yellow glare pushed back
the darkness, accompanied by the thud of booted feet. He heard a mutter of
instructions to someone stationed above, then the hatch slammed shut.
The footsteps continued, heavy on the stairs, then
across the warped flooring. Torin blinked slowly, painfully, until his eyes had
adjusted enough to force them open. A lantern bobbed into view, illuminating
the stark face of the pirate captain, whose tarred hair hung thick about his
face and shoulders. He stood there dripping for a moment, then shook himself,
hurling beads of water in every direction.
"Vicious storm brewing up there."
Torin ignored the comment, uncertain he could respond
had he wanted to. The cold had numbed his aches, but had left him shivering,
and he strained instinctively toward the meager warmth of the pirate's lantern.
Its weak light revealed the shape and contents of a leaky storage hold, stuffed
with ropes and barrels and all manner of nautical equipment.
"Your name is Torin, is it not?"
Despite everything, Torin's brow lifted in surprise.
"Things will go better for you if you answer my
questions," the other added, producing a long, ivory-handled dagger.
Torin scowled. When he tried to respond, he found it
difficult. His wind was impeded by the cords around his chest and neck. His
lips were cracked, his tongue like a cured strip of rawhide. The first few
attempts caught in his throat.
"What is it you want from me?" he managed
finally.
The pirate was silent for a moment, his beady eyes and
his grim face contemplative. "Someone wants you dead."
Torin was too confused and too angry to show alarm.
His best guess as to why the pirates had nabbed him and no other was for the
Sword—which didn't explain why they hadn't killed him, since the blade was
already theirs. Likely, they suspected the weapon held a power that only he
could teach them. Or else they wanted to know more of where and how he had come
upon such a treasure.
But this now suggested something else, not an accidental
encounter, but a manhunt commissioned by yet another, outside party.
"Whatever this person has offered," Torin
croaked, "I will pay you that and more."
The pirate sneered. "I'm not interested in your
money, any more than I'm interested in his."
"Then why not let me go?" The leak in the
roof persisted, faster now, as the roar of rainfall above grew louder.
"As I said, someone wants you dead. To start
with, I want to know why."
"It might help if I knew who this person
was."
"Are there so many people with cause to kill
you?"
Torin seized the offensive. "Those who have dared
present themselves as enemies are vanquished. The rest hide in shadows, too
afraid to make themselves known."
It was a bold statement, and not entirely true. From
the other's perspective, Torin realized, he must have sounded ridiculous.
"And how many of these foes practice magic?"
Soric. The name rose like bile in Torin's throat, warm
and nauseating. It had to be. The use of magic was a forsaken art. Those who
practiced it today did so in dark corners, feared and reviled—and in regions
governed by law, under threat of arrest. Even in these few rumored cases, the
power in question was often of a simple, benign nature, little more than the
tricks and illusions practiced by court entertainers and street magicians. All
other forms had long ago been set aside or stamped out.
Then the wizard had come along, with a command of natural
energies not seen in ages. It was his conquest that had led to the revelation
of Torin's true identity, and ultimately his quest for the Sword. Later, he had
learned the wizard to be none other than Soric, the elder brother he had never
known, returned from more than two decades of banishment to lay claim to the
throne. Where and how the man had uncovered such arcane knowledge remained a
mystery, as did his whereabouts. For when the Demon Queen had usurped Soric's
conquest with her own, only to be defeated, the wizard had scurried away like
a roach into the night.
Torin had known all along that he hadn't seen the end
of his brother. But he had never imagined this.
"Judging by your silence, and the pallor of your
face, you know who I'm referring to."
Torin blinked at the pirate captain, unable to respond.
"A ruthless man, is he not?"
The accusation sounded strange, coming from a man such
as this. Nevertheless, Torin grunted, after a failed attempt to nod.
"And tell me, what is his grievance with
you?"
Torin's gaze fell. Where to begin? He only scarcely understood
the enmity his brother bore him. And he certainly was in no condition to relay
his entire story to the cutthroat before him; nor was he inclined to do so.
Still, it appeared he must say something.
"The man laid siege to my nation, the
"I've heard of the land, though I've never
visited it. And you are?"
Torin frowned in confusion. "I thought you
already knew."
"I know your name, your point of departure, and
the route along which your vessel was headed. I was given a description of
both you and the flaming weapon wielded against my crew."
Torin gritted his teeth at the memory of the battle
and their ignominious failure. Once again, he heard the slap of Cordan's body
being cast to the waves.
"I know nothing else," the pirate continued.
"One of the many reasons for which I refused to become involved."
"Yet here you are," Torin spat, "doing
a madman's bidding."
"Here I am," the captain corrected,
"trying to rescue the woman I love."
Of all the surprises he had endured so far, this was
the greatest. For a moment, Torin stared blankly. When his wits returned, he
studied the ruffian's features, looking to unravel this absurd riddle. At
first, the pirate appeared as shocked as Torin by his own admission. Then, as
if to prove he was unashamed, he went on to explain.
"Hard to believe, no? Harder if you knew anything
about me. Red Raven, they call me—and not for my windburned cheeks. For nearly
ten years, my ship, the Raven's Squall, has hunted the seas of Yawacor,
living a life of opportunity. I've sent ships like yours to the bottom of the
ocean, and for no better reason than to fill my own coffers. My mates and I
have killed men, women, and children, in numbers I dare not recount."
He glanced down to his dagger, which he spun on its
tip, pointed into the crate on which he sat.
"But that was before I met Autumn of the Rain.
Only months ago, following the sinking of a merchant vessel, a fell wind blew
us westward. We drifted into a cove on the northern coast, where we happened
upon a castaway from that very same vessel. She convinced one of my men to take
her aboard. Almost immediately, she went from being my prisoner to my
companion. We have sailed together since."
"Let me guess," Torin scoffed. "In her
arms, you've sworn to become a new man, to settle down and atone for your
past." .
Raven's eyes narrowed sharply. "Bilge rot. I've
done only what was necessary to survive. I make no apologies for the life I've
led. Nor has Autumn asked it of me." His eyes lowered again, and his
voice quieted. "But while she has done nothing to discourage my pirating,
I find myself losing my taste for it. Her mere presence has turned my thoughts
for the first time toward a life of peace."
Had speaking not required such effort, Torin might
have declared his skepticism. Instead, he kept his suspicions to himself,
waiting to hear what more the pirate might reveal.
"We were in port for the winter when your
wizard's man came calling—Madrach, a man I know, and my first clue that this
was something in which I wished to have no part. He bade me to an isle he
called Shattercove to meet with his master, with an overview of what would be
expected. A kidnapping, he said, worth a year's supply of plunder. Though I've
committed worse for less, I refused. Nothing that man could offer was going to
pry me from my season's den."
The dagger stopped spinning, its ivory handle clutched
now in a savage grip. Its owner's eyes found Torin's and, in the flickering
lamplight, seemed to flash with dangerous fury.
"To persuade me, his mercenaries paid Autumn a
visit. By the time I reached our cottage, she was gone. How they
found her, I know not. When I discover who it was
betrayed me, I shall see him boiled and the flesh peeled from his bones. All
that remained was a note from Madrach. He had taken Autumn hostage, to be
ransomed in exchange for the one his master sought.
"So I gathered my crew and followed Madrach to
this Shattercove, where I met with the wizard who calls it home. There I
learned of the ship you were sailing, and the course along which it could be
found. I was given your description, and told you served as a swordhand. I was
to deliver you alive, should I wish Autumn to be returned the same. Thus, here
I am."
Torin started to shake his head, but stopped as the
coarse ropes chafed his skin. "How could he have known where to find
me?"
"One of many questions I'd thought to ask
you," Raven admitted. "The wizard declined to tell me; nor was it the
heaviest of my concerns. Sorcery, perhaps."
That answer did not begin to satisfy Torin, but he
brushed it aside in order to ask a more pertinent one. "Why are you
telling me this? You've all but completed your task. Why not deliver me in
irons and be done with it?"
The other fixed him with a discerning eye.
"Because I know better than to trust this wizard to comply. More likely,
he will kill me—and Autumn—the moment he has what he wants."
"And what cause have you to believe that?"
Torin snorted dryly.
"Because that's what I would do."
Torin swallowed thickly. Clearly, the pirate was
unwilling to make light of the situation. Perhaps there was something to all of
this lost-love nonsense after all.
"Are you saying you don't intend to turn me
over?"
"I'm saying that this wizard picked the wrong
pirate. I did not become one of the most feared men on the high seas by
allowing others to get the better of me*. I'm saying I would much prefer to
punish the man for his insolence, and that your interests might best be served
by helping me."
"Helping you?"
"Though he demanded you be delivered alive, it
seemed clear the creature does not intend to long keep you that way."
"I would think not," Torin agreed. "But
I'm not sure how it is you imagine I might be of assistance."
"I've visited the wizard's isle," Raven
reminded him. "I know something of its perils. Alone, I do not believe
they can be overcome."
"What of your own magic?"
The pirate raised a puzzled eyebrow.
"When you attacked my vessel," Torin replied
with renewed bitterness, "there appeared two phantom ships, in addition
to your own. Was that not magic?"
Raven smirked, but waved dismissively. "Illusion,
as you saw. A minor contrivance. Nothing that would hold sway against the
powers I saw your wizard to possess."
"And what makes you think I have any?"
"He is your adversary. And a vanquished one at
that, to hear you tell it. There must be something you can share with me, some
knowledge I can put to use."
So that was the purpose behind this meeting, Torin
realized. The ruffian sought to gauge him as a potential ally, to use him
against Soric in whatever manner might befit his own designs.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I take my chances, and leave you to the
wizard's mercies."
"You killed my friends."
"As you killed mine. Unless you wish to join
them, I suggest we put that behind us and do what we can to aid each
other."
Torin considered his limited options. He would deny
the pirate if he could, but as he'd already recognized, there was no going
back. The best he could do was press onward and see where matters took him.
"All I want is to rescue Autumn and offer her a
life of contentment," Raven continued. "Some might say I'm reaping
the seeds of my own villainy, but I won't accept that. You can either benefit
from what I mean to accomplish, or fall victim to it."
Torin studied the man anew. His professed goals were
easy enough to relate to. And despite a lingering skepticism, it was hard not
to be won over by the other's scathing honesty.
"I assure you I have every reason to hate this
wizard," he replied at last. "My mother, my father, and countiess
friends lie dead at his hands. Unfortunately, I know nothing that might aid
you. The wizard fled my lands as a matter of circumstance. I wouldn't begin to
know how you might face him."
Raven considered this with a dubious expression.
"Can you at least tell me who he is? Why he's so desperate to claim
you?"
"He—" It was Torin's turn to hesitate. He
hadn't told anyone, not even Marisha, the truth about the wizard's identity.
As far as he was aware, no one knew of their blood tie, and he preferred to
keep it that way.
"As I said," he began again, clearing his
throat. "He blames me for usurping his throne, for I am Alson's recognized
king."
The pirate skewered him with that beady gaze, as if detecting
the omitted falsehood. "That sword of yours. Has it no power that might be
used against him?"
"It is the last Sword of Asahiel," Torin
confessed, seeing no reason to deny it. "Are you familiar with the legends?"
"None that I would believe. The wizard warned me
to beware its strength, lest you single-handedly decimate my crew. I didn't
believe that, either, though I'm glad I made preparations to the
contrary."
He was speaking of the nets, Torin realized, designed
especially for his capture. "The Sword may grant you some protection
against the wizard's magic," he allowed. "My pendant as well,
assuming your men handed it over to you." He paused, seeking some sign of
confirmation. The pirate captain didn't blink. "But as I say, I've never
confronted him directiy, so I cannot promise how much use either may be. What I
can promise, should you set me free, is to do what I can to secure
Autumn's release."
Raven shook his dripping head. "I had not
intended on storming his keep. From what I've seen, he might dash us against a
reef before we come within a league of his isle, should he suspect such an
attack."
"Then what do you offer me, if not my
freedom?"
"Your freedom comes later, when .the wizard is
dead. What I must know now, if nothing else, is whether or not I can count on
your support when the time comes."
In spite of the circumstances, Torin snickered, which
in turn caused him to cough and choke against the suffocating ropes. "You
offer precious little inducement," he rasped, once he had recovered.
"Do you mean to tell me nothing of your plan? Only that I am to trust
blindly in the word of a brigand?"
"The lesser of two evils, am I not? Think of me
as you will, but in this matter, we both want the same thing."
Torin's smile faded. "Then how about this? You
say the wizard informed you of my destination. What he may or may not know is
that I did not set forth for this foreign land in the dead of winter in search
of salt air. I don't care to explain to you my business, and doubt you'd care
to hear it. Suffice to say, your future, and that of your precious maiden, may
be short indeed if I do not succeed in what it is I've come to do."
The ruffian regarded him evenly, unimpressed.
"What would you have of me?"
"When this is over, if any of us are still alive,
you will give me back my possessions and return me to my ship, that I may
resume my journey as before."
Raven hefted his dagger, eyeing its gleaming edge in
the murky light. "Seems to me, you are not in any position to set the
terms of our bargain."
"I will have your oath, such as it is,"
Torin demanded. "On Autumn's life, if I am to aid you, you will find me a
way back to my companions."
"On Autumn's life," the pirate agreed
finally, "if you are to aid me, and see to it mat Autumn is
returned to me unharmed, then I will deliver you to Yawacor myself—at any
landing you desire."
Torin considered the careful phrasing, turning the
words over in his mind in search jof any hidden meaning or loopholes.
"Fair enough?" Raven pressed.
Torin continued to ponder. "Fair enough."
"Good," the pirate said, sheathing his
dagger with a sharp rasp. He turned then, snatched up his lantern, and headed
for the hatch.
As he reached the base of the steps leading upward
into the storm, he paused and looked back. "But understand," he said,
"king or no, if it means Autumn's life—or my own—I will gladly slit your
throat myself."
Before Torin could respond, the hatch opened and
closed, and he was abandoned yet again to leaking darkness, in which the rhythm
of raindrops etched away at his aching skull.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN Back Table of Contents Next
The old man shuffled as quickly as his
ancient bones would carry him down the rough-hewn corridor. At this depth
within the buried keep, only the floor was paved, and unevenly at that. Jagged
walls curled up along either side, joined in a ceiling supported by arching
ribs of iron at regular intervals. Beyond that, the weight of the mountain bore
down on him like the stones of a cairn.
He carried no torch, nor did any burn along the walls.
Rather, he made his way by tuning his vision to the spectrum of the
shadow-earth. Veins of minerals glowed blue before his sapphire eyes, casting
all the light he needed to navigate the rocky tunnel. His sandals scraped along
the rugged flooring, a rasping echo in the otherwise oppressive silence.
But it was the burden he carried that oppressed him
most—and paradoxically forced his pace. He had lived for nearly three
centuries, a time during which he had witnessed wars and treaties, seen
bloodlines come and go, observed the erosion of the land and the buckling of
nations. Consequently, few events in the natural order of things gave him
cause for alarm. This did.
Perhaps because this particular chain was not entirely
nature-formed. It had begun that way, its initial links forged by the curiosity
of two children—Garett and Elwo-nyssa Culmaril, of the ruling family of Souaris—whose
intrepid explorations had led into the dank lair of a demon avatar and given
her new life. But he could have prevented
it, he and those of his order. He could have persuaded
the youngsters by any number of subtle means to turn down a different path, to
carry their journeys elsewhere so that Spithaera—whose secret presence the
Entients had long ago discovered—might continue slumbering undisturbed, of no
threat to the races of man.
He had argued that very course all along. But his
brethren, especially Maventhrowe, had sensed an opportunity, and convinced the
others of it. That opportunity was twofold: to present a quarrelsome mankind
with a common enemy that would compel them to unite, and to give one man of
faith desperate cause to seek out the last known Sword of Asa-hiel—whereby
their order might at long last shed light on a missing chapter in the history
of this land..
The plan had worked only too well. Despite a plethora
of unforeseen incidents, the young Torin had retrieved the Sword from its centuries-old
resting place and put an abrupt end to Spifhaera's conquest. However, as was
always the danger when going beyond the study of man's affairs to active
involvement, they had unwittingly helped to unleash an even greater menace.
Htomah had learned all about it when scrying upon Torin during the king's
meetings with the renegade Entient who called himself Darinor. Darinor was correct
in his assumptions concerning the Entients' fragmented knowledge of the history
of these lands. It had been fascinating to hear how this blot of ignorance had
come about— among those who for millennia had chronicled so much. At the same
time, the truth had filled him with an unease that bordered on dread.
If only he could convince his brethren to share his
sense of urgency. He should have gone to them right away when first he had
scryed the creatures known as Illychar emerging from the well beneath the
Sword. But he had not understood at that time the extent of their peril, and
had feared to cry wolf. Instead, he had continued to keep watch as much as he
could, night and day, waiting for the right moment in which to share his fears.
He had missed seeing Darinor's fight with the Illychar
within the ruins, and the renegade Entient's narrow escape.
But that only made sense now that he knew the truth
about the man, having heard it while scrying upon Torin during the pair's
conversations. For while a fellow avatar was generally the easiest form of life
on which to focus his third sight, they also had the ability to cloud themselves
from view. Why Darinor would do such a thing had at first aroused in him a deep
suspicion, but once he had heard the other's account of willing exile, the
curtains of isolation were easy enough to understand.
It was then, of course, that Htomah had hastened to
meet with his brethren and tell all of what he had learned. Like Torin, he had
no cause to disbelieve the tale Darinor shared. Nor could they afford to stand
idly by if it were true. This catastrophe was their fault—in part, at least.
They had to take action at once.
He might have received greater reaction had he
addressed a wall of mountain stone. As usual, where he saw fire, the others
barely smelled smoke. Maventhrowe, their leader, was the worst. Though the
average life of an Entient spanned three or four centuries, Maventhrowe had
lived already more than five. Too long, perhaps. For such years taught patience
of an uncommon variety, filling one with an assuredness that while the earth
and its inhabitants might crumble away, he would go on. When older than the
founding of the first human city on these shores, one tended to lose sight of
the potential significance of daily events.
Or maybe the others were right, the old man thought as
he continued down the empty corridor. Maybe it was he who lacked
perspective. Maybe he did just enjoy the seeds of excitement blown on the winds
of calamity. It was entirely possible, he admitted privately, that he was
making canyons of wallows.
The air in the tunnel thickened, growing warm and
damp. Its wetness gleamed on the rough surface of the granite walls. Moments
later, he reached what appeared to be a dead end, with the cave closing about a
portal of solid stone.
Almost without stopping, he waved a hand before the
marble slab. The barrier shimmered and disappeared, and he stepped through it
as if it were smoke.
Across the threshold, a vast cavern was revealed,
filled with ledges and outcroppings whose many tiers were connected by winding
stairs chiseled from stone. Earth-warmed mineral pools dotted the many shelves
and spilled over the ridgelines, forming a dazzling array of falls. Steam rose
in curtains from each of the bubbling
"Ah, welcome, Htomah. You are late."
Htomah scowled in the direction of the voice. Though
it was nearly swallowed by the immensity of the cavern, he knew where to find
it. Several of the pools were occupied, filled with the bodies of his brethren,
who came here often to bathe and relax, to revitalize tender muscles and aching
joints. Many of the Entients had their favorites among the springs, and
Maventhrowe was no exception. He had long ago laid unofficial claim to the
largest in the complex, a bean-shaped pond up two levels and only slightly
right of center, directly beneath the shadow of a giant amethyst that jutted
from the ceiling above. The pool was of a size to hold twenty men or more, but
seldom did it host even half that.
On rare occasion, Maventhrowe held council here with
his inner circle, those Entients who served as representatives of the order.
Today was such a time. In addition to the unmistakable white mane of the head
Entient, Htomah spotted the bald pates of Barwn and Sovenson, the hunched
shoulders of Uthan and Alganov, the toothy grin of Quinlan, the necklace worn
by Prather, the earrings of Oreshand, the tattoos of Merreseth, and the
peppered beard and chiseled frown of Ranunculus.
Htomah stalked toward them, taking his time so as to
catch his breath. Beads of sweat cut across the furrows of his brow and the
lines of his cheeks, to catch in the coarse grass of his beard. His nose
wrinkled in the sulfurous air.
"Where are the others?" he huffed, once he
had reached the side of the pool.
"Wislome is trying to cage a rather nasty
craggobite, and Jedua is working to plug a breach in the primary celestial
chamber." Maventhrowe beckoned with a dripping hand. "Please, join
us."
Htomah crossed his arms before him. "He has been
captured."
"Who?"
"Torin. By pirates, a week out from his
destination."
"Htomah, please—"
"They deliver him now to his brother the
wizard."
Maventhrowe's next words were lost to the same silence
that stilled the others. For a moment, all that could be heard was the bubbling
of the waters and the rippling of others in their distant pools. Htomah gritted
his teeth to hide his satisfaction. At last, he had their attention.
"And what would you have us do about that?"
"I fear it's too late already," Htomah
complained. "I see not how Torin can escape his brother's vengeance,
unless we conjure a storm to blow his ship off course—which would but leave him
in the hands of brigands."
"Now, now," Maventhrowe droned with
intractable calm. "I do not think we need do anything so dramatic."
"We need not do anything at all," said
Uthan. "Come, Htomah, we have been over and over this."
"And yet done nothing!" Htomah snapped,
glaring at the other.
"Htomah, soak with us," Maventhrowe urged.
"Your emotions carry off with you."
"How can all of you be so blind?"
"Maventhrowe," Ranunculus grumbled,
"must we listen to this?"
The head Entient raised his hands in a placating
gesture. "Please, everyone, have patience. Let us hear what our senior
brother has to say."
Indeed, Htomah thought. For other Jhan
Maventhrowe, he was eldest among those present. Even in some of the most
barbarous societies, that meant he should be accorded some respect.
"I say again," he began, glaring at Uthan,
"the time for action is long past. Whether any here will admit it or not,
we are the ones who prompted Torin to seek the Sword of Asahiel in the first
place—"
"Not I," Ranunculus snarled. "I was
against this from the first."
"As was I," Htomah reminded him. "And
Merreseth, as I recall. And the absent Jedua. But that does not erase the part
we all played. The responsibility for Torin's retrieval of the Sword and this
ensuing madness must be ours to share."
Oreshand's earrings jingled as he shook his head.
"Torin's actions were and continue to be his own. I will accept no blame
for them."
"Nor I," agreed Prather.
A murmur went up as each of the others echoed this
sentiment. Only Quinlan remained silent, his smile slipping. And Maventhrowe,
who, as always, sat back with an air of mild amusement, as if none of this were
of any concern.
"Our influence was minimal," Alganov
claimed. "You cannot possibly hold us accountable."
"For the decision you make now, which may lead to
the end of mankind, I most certainly will."
The murmurs grew louder. Many scoffed. Some were
angry. All appealed to Maventhrowe to end this.
"My friend," the head Entient cautioned,
"we must not make a habit of affecting the lives of those we were born to
study."
"Not even to rectify that which we have already
affected for the worse?"
"Our purpose is to observe and chronicle, not
dictate."
"They are only mortals," Ranunculus
muttered.
Htomah snorted. "Darinor was right. We are not
Ha'Rasha. We may expect to outlive these mortals, but we share their world, and
will in fact, each of us, come to our own end. I fear that if we ignore this
blight any longer, our end, and that of our human flock, may be one and the
same."
"Then I ask again," Maventhrowe offered
calmly, "what role would you have us take?"
"That is what we must discuss."
But Maventhrowe shook his head, the ends of his great
mane floating in the waters around him. "The truth is, we have no
knowledge with which to combat this threat. Though there may come a time when
we must act, we must not do so in haste."
"Haste? Haste would have been for me to take
measures the moment I learned of what Torin had set free. Or upon the return of
this renegade Entient. Long before Ravar's awakening and certainly before
Torin's capture. Already, any action we take may be too late.
"And do not speak to me again of
forbearance," he added hastily, heading off Uthan's next protest.
"Had we done so in the beginning, as I and others insisted, none of this
would have happened."
Uthan smirked. "I was only going to remind
everyone that Torin has surprised us with his resourcefulness in the past. I
say we let him do so again."
Several of the council members softly hailed their
assent.
"You may be right," Maventhrowe conceded,
"in suggesting we were wrong in our prior endeavors. I will not be so foolish
as to defend a decision born of foresight against an attack based on hindsight.
I might argue, however, that we would have come to this crossroads sooner or
later. Knowledge is preferable to ignorance, is it not? We have uncovered an
unexpected danger, but at least now we realize it exists, and will not,
therefore, be caught off guard. I encourage you to observe these matters
closely, since they trouble you so, and to keep us abreast of the situation.
Should cause and opportunity coincide, we shall decide then if action on our
part is warranted."
"That is not good enough," Htomah growled.
Maventhrowe raised a bushy eyebrow. "No?
Remember, according to the tale this Darinor tells, our forebears did not act
when begged by the ancient Finlorians to do so. And yet, here we are. We
survived, as did the Finlorians, who managed to contain the threat on their
own."
"Only with the help of Algorath," Htomah
pointed out.
"I submit," Maventhrowe continued,
"that we not so readily accuse our ancestors of blindness. Rather, we
should respect them enough to trust that they acted in wisdom, and that we,
therefore, should be slow to overrule their decision—which is what it would
mean for us to behave now in a contrary fashion."
Htomah held his tongue, considering carefully what his
response should be. His brethren already thought him an overanxious fool. No
reason to lend additional weight to those accusations.
"I would like to know more," Maventhrowe
assured him. "Especially with regard to this Darinor."
Htomah grunted. "He continues to shield himself
from scrying eyes. I can mark his comings and goings only in the presence of
another."
"Then so it shall be. Do your best, and it shall
be more than we require. Now please, join our council. Let us engage your mind
with less-worrisome matters."
"If it pleases you, my brothers, I think I shall
return to see if the Sword of Asahiel has yet fallen into the clutches of the
wizard Soric." He bowed, then turned toward the chamber exit.
"Htomah."
The retreating Entient paused.
"Lest you be tempted to follow in the footsteps
of Algorath and defy your brethren, know that you will share his fate."
Htomah cocked his head. Despite his frustration, he
could not help but be surprised, for never had Maventhrowe spoken so sternly
to him. "Meaning what, precisely?"
"Unless those here disagree, you are hereby
forbidden any unauthorized human contact. Should you choose to intervene on
your own, you will be stricken from the order."
The head Entient glanced around, seeking the
concurrence of the others, and received it in their gruff nods.
"Such as it is," Htomah groused.
Maventhrowe smiled that benevolent smile. "Such
as it is."
"I have been warned," Htomah acknowledged,
then exited the cavern, sealing the portal behind him.
As he left the sweltering air behind for the relative
cool of the outer tunnel, a terrible weariness overcame him. For nigh upon
three hundred years had he dedicated himself to his calling—a charge handed
down to his progenitors by the Ceilhigh themselves. He had done so with faith
and diligence, never once questioning what his role as servant to the gods
should be. He cared not for vain glories; not for recognition or prestige. He
sought only to do the work asked of him, to carry on the legacy of those who
had come before, to play his part and no other in the unfathomable scheme of
the great creators.
Now, as he dragged back down the stale corridor toward
the upper levels of the keep, he found himself wondering which was more
important: his divinely inspired studies, or the endangered welfare of his
earthly flock.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Back Table of Contents Next
With the colored sands burning in his
nostrils, Soric inhaled deeply of the winds' that blew through his tower window.
The potent mixture worked swiftly, clearing his upper passages and heightening
the sensory vessels within. He closed his eyes, focusing his thoughts. There,
beyond the leather and stone and dust of his chambers, beyond the salted sea,
he found what he was looking for: the mildew of sails, the pitch of watertight
timbers, the oil and sweat of men.
"Seems our Madrach chose well," the wizard
said. He opened his eyes and turned to his captive. "Your champion draws
nigh."
She sat upon a pile of cushions, chained to a corner
of the castle wall, farthest from the window before which he stood.
"And does he carry what you seek?" the woman
asked.
"We shall know soon enough. Let us hope so, my
flower, lest your delicate beauty be made to wilt before his eyes."
As always, his threat had no apparent effect on her.
But then, that was what drew him to her, the key to her mysterious charm—the
principal reason for which he had moved her here, to his tower, from where
Madrach had stashed her in the dungeons below. Autumn of the Rain, she called
herself. She professed to be a common girl, the daughter of a shipwright
recently slain. And yet she possessed uncommon courage, an air of unflappable
confidence that did far more to attract him than did the shimmer of her hair,
the color of her eyes, the softness of her skin. Soric was not easily
enchanted, but this pirate's concubine mesmerized him in strange and wondrous
ways. A fortnight had she been his prisoner, yet there were moments when he
wondered who the true captor was.
He banished his predatory smile and turned back to his
window. Time enough for that later. For now, he had far more immediate
concerns. His brother, delivered unto him at last. The very notion caused him
to shiver with anticipation. Nearly four moons had come and gone since the
fall of Spithaera and his withdrawal from the lands of his birth, but those
months felt more like years. Like decades, even— longer than those he had spent
marooned here before, alone upon this isle, following the wreck of the ship
that had carried him forth into a life of slavery. For this time it was not
his parents who had sent him away, but a young upstart, a whelp of a brother
whose only authority was mat of a stolen crown—his crown—wrested not by
strength but by cruel chance, and given to another less worthy.
As before, he meant to have his revenge.
Further maddening was that he had been compelled to
retreat, to leave behind all that after years of planning he had finally
achieved. His adversary hid behind an army, while his own had been stripped
from him by Spithaera—an obligatory barter in order to spare his life from the
wrath and hunger of the demon avatar. Even so, following the rout of her
dragonborn at Souaris, he might have ambushed Torin at Krynwall, waiting for
his brother to stake his false claim before striking him down in that very
moment. But death, Soric had decided, was not enough. Not after the agonies and
indignities he had endured, both before and after he had learned of Torin's
birth. No, he meant for his brother to suffer, to experience a touch of the despair
and loneliness he himself had suffered, to teach the last of his kin—those who
had cheated him throughout his life:—the true measure of pain.
It was for this reason he had elected the path of
patience, leaving Xarius Talyzar and a private network of spies behind. Not to
assassinate the lad, but to keep a close watch on his movements, to seek a
window of opportunity, the chance
to snatch him from his nest of pilfered comforts and
to bring him to the wizard's den—here, where S5ric could exact upon him the
fate he deserved.
"What will you do to this man," Autumn
asked, "should Raven deliver him to you?"
Soric grinned. The woman spoke as if he had been uttering
his thoughts aloud.
"A fate most befitting," he assured her, as
he set aside the mortar and pestle in which he had mixed his scent-enhancing
powder. Already, its effects were beginning to fade. "One that will ensure
he will not trouble me again." "And will that somehow comfort your
own pain?" Her melodic voice sounded out of place within the constricting
confines of his quarters, like a songbird in a rusty cage. Her words, however,
brought his blood to a boil.
"What know you of my pain?" he snorted. He
did not face her, but continued to stare out the open window, his hands white
as they gripped the edge of his worktable.
"Only that you seek to allay it. But inflicting
pain on others is no way to heal one's own."
Soric just barely smothered a laugh. His pain was what
fueled him, his hatred what gave him strength. This was not about healing, but
retribution. "I will have what's mine, what has been taken from me."
"What has been taken is lost," she said. "Yet you stand to lose
even more, should you continue on this path of vengeance."
He turned to face her. "I suppose you would have
us become friends, allies, like you and he who sent your father and shipmates
to a watery grave."
"It is not too late," she agreed. "Put
aside your bitter past. Look instead to paving your future."
Again the wizard smiled cruelly. "With every,
breath I take."
He continued to stare, fascinated by her unblinking
gaze, as a violent rapping caused his chamber door to shudder. With a gesture,
he threw back the locking bolt from a dozen paces away.
"Come."
The portal opened, and Madrach entered, short of
breath. He stopped upon the threshold, where he quickly removed his helm and
bowed low. "My lord, the Raven's Squall approaches."
"Excellent news, Captain," Soric
acknowledged, smiling still at Autumn. "Assemble the guard. We'll greet
them in the courtyard. Take our prisoner with you, but see to it that she
remains unharmed. Am I understood?"
Madrach saluted. "Understood, my lord. Will you
be joining us, my lord?"
"Once I have seen to their landing. Go."
"Aye, my lord."
The wizard moved back to his window, listening to the
clank and rattle of chains as Madrach produced a key and unlocked the iron wall
clasp to which Autumn had been anchored. From the woman herself, he detected
not a hint of loathing or struggle.
As they left the room, however, her voice sang out
once more, echoing an old refrain. "It is not too late."
Soric ignored her, waiting for Madrach to close the
door before throwing the bolt back in place. Upon its dull slap, he peered into
the gray mix of cloud and sky, searching the horizon for the vessel carrying
his brother. He spied it straightaway, a black speck in the afternoon gloom,
like a flea on the pelt of an old hound. He imagined what Torin might be
feeling—the desperation, the terror. That thought, along with Autumn's parting
words, brought a fresh smirk to his taut lips.
For you, my brother, it is.
*****
Torin clenched his eyes against the sun's harsh glare.
Though it was swathed in misty cloud cover, its brightness was more than he
could bear. He tried to recoil, leaning back and raising his arms—bound before
him—as a shield. But his escorts shoved him forward without mercy, up the
wooden stair, through the hatch, and into the light.
It had been five days since he'd felt the brush of
daylight, five miserable, wet, chill-wracked days since his arrest on the
high seas. For the duration of his journey aboard the Raven's
Squall, his jailors had kept him locked away within that dank storage hold.
He hadn't seen the captain, Red Raven, since his interrogation on the evening
of his capture. The only allowances had been food and drink—though he could
barely call them that—and a loosening of his bonds. That, and he had been moved
to a different corner, so as to be spared the torturous drip of leaking water.
All in all, the rats—some of whom had kept him company—had had it better.
That he was being brought above deck was hardly cause
for relief. Not only did he have the sun to contend with, but he hadn't moved,
and had scarcely slept, in nearly a week. His joints were stiff, his muscles
seized by cramps, and he had lost the sense of balance with which to stand on
his own. Moreover, being sprung meant something had happened, or was about
to—and most likely not something to anticipate.
Half blind, he stumbled across the unfamiliar planking,
dragged from the front and prodded from behind. As his eyes adjusted, he took
note of his surroundings. Men in smelly rags husded about their business. Few
bothered to notice him. Those who did, did so with sullen stares,
yellow-toothed sneers, or animal snarls.
"Come along," someone growled, as his
attendants passed him off to another set. Peering out of the corner of his eye,
Torin recognized the man. It was the one called Keel Haul, perhaps the
friendliest of those who had tended to him over the past several days. The man
smelled of cheap ale and vinegar, but had been the one to accommodate Torin's
requests where possible, and had even spent some time talking with him. The
others, Torin sensed, would just as soon have flogged him as fed him.
"Time to look sharp," Keel Haul added with a
grin full of dead teeth, as Torin tripped over a coil of rope.
The man's real name was Kell. All aboard went by an assumed
name, the pirate had told him, given by the captain when welcomed into service.
Torin had wondered whether "Keel Haul" meant the other had survived
one ... or if he enjoyed performing the savage deed. He hadn't felt comfortable
enough to ask.
He had asked whether Kell knew the captain's
real name. At that, the pirate had laughed and shaken his mangy head. As he
understood it, no one did.
Torin tripped again at the next stair, which led to
the top of a forecastle. While Kell tried to help him keep his feet, the man on
his other flank jerked him pitilessly, leaving his knee to crack against the
wooden step. Torin refused to cry out, but swung his head to glare at the
ruffian, another he knew. Flambard, of the flaming red hair, sightless eye, and
scathing disposition. As if sensing his anger, the pirate stared back at him
with his one good eye, and snarled.
When at last they reached the bow rail, they found
Raven stood beside the swarthy, dark-bearded brute who had first taken the
Sword upon Torin's netting. Together, the pair stared forward into a rapidly
thickening mist, pierced by the vessel's bowsprit. Beneath the jutting spar, Torin
saw the figurehead that clung to the prow: a blood-colored raven, its wings
outspread as if it might catch the wind and fly from its perch.
The pirate captain glanced over as Torin lurched to a
halt. "Shattercove," he murmured.
Torin squinted through the gathering haze, which
helped to smother the sun. A rocky isle loomed in the distance, on which they
were closing apace. Even so, he could see lime more than its silhouette, stark
and jagged, bristling with stunted jungle growth. A promontory raked sharply to
the east like the horn of an anvil, atop which a lone tower rose up among a
walled compound of outbuildings. He was allowed only a brief study of its
rugged contours before a curtain of brume shrouded it from view.
"Grimhold, Madrach called it," said Raven.
"The wizard's fortress."
An unnecessary clarification, Torin thought, but a
fitting name. A fresh chill rattled his bones, and not from wind or spray.
Having glimpsed the wizard's home, it was as if he could feel his brother's
baleful eyes upon him.
An eerie disquiet closed round with the fog. There
were no voices, just the crash of the cutwater as it split the waves, the creak
and groan of planks and fastenings, the whip and flutter of
stay and sail. Torin craned his neck toward the stern
of the ship, and saw pirates clinging to their ratlines, staring forward with
dour faces. In the gauzy stillness, they looked like wraiths.
"We'll not be able to navigate the shoal in
this," Raven observed.
Then the wind died. The sails went limp, and the
ship's momentum slowed. Several of the crewmen groaned or muttered, but
otherwise held their ground, as if uncertain how to react.
"Drop anchor," Raven ordered.
Torin looked to the pirate captain as the brutish
companion relayed his command.
"That there's Black Spar," Kell whispered.
"First mate."
"Shut your hole," Flambard snapped,
wrenching Torin's arm as if to send a shock wave through to his comrade.
"That will be all," Raven said sternly.
"Prepare three skiffs. Put four men in each. Marauders only. Flambard, I
want you and Pike as my oarsmen. See to it."
"Aye, Cap'n," Kell replied quickly. Flambard
grumbled the same.
When they let him go, Torin only barely managed to
keep his feet. He was alone now with Raven and Black Spar, both of whom
continued to stare into the fog as if seeing something Torin couldn't.
"Do we have a plan?" he asked.
Spar glared at him with curled lip, raising a fist as
if to clout him on the ear, until Raven turned. "Keep quiet, or I'll have
you gagged."
Torin responded with brooding silence. So much for
their partnership. It would seem he was to have no knowledge of what was
expected of him, no inkling of Raven's plot for penetrating the wizard's tower
and freeing Autumn. He understood only that the pirate was not going to do
anything to jeopardize his lady love. In all likelihood, Raven intended to go
along with the parlay until such time as the wizard tried - to back out of
their deal. It was a poor bargain Torin had struck. But what choice did he
have?
Moments later, Kell returned. "Shore boats are
ready, Cap'n."
Raven grunted. "You know what to do?" he
asked of Black Spar.
The first mate nodded. "Aye."
"Remind Mackerel he is to set forth at the first
sign of trouble."
"As you say, Captain." Spar's voice was like
thunder on the wind, Torin thought, then peered up at the motionless sails. Had
there been any.
"Move."
This time, Raven's order was directed toward him.
Torin gave the brigand a sour glance, then turned and shuffled after Kell, who
led him astern. Though his movements remained slow and painful, he was pleased
that he managed not to fall, even on the stairs.
When he reached the skiffs, suspended in their rigging
over the starboard side, he was shoved aboard by Flambard and caught by a lanky
pirate whose skin was chafed and mottled as if ridden with fever. He ignored
this as best he could, just as he did the size of the man's nose—a hooked wedge
on a face so angled it might have been shaped with a carpenter's plane. Pike,
Torin supposed.
Flambard climbed in, then Raven after him. Pulleys on
either side screeched as the tiny boat was lowered to touch down upon the dark
waters. All of a sudden, swells that had seemed mere wavelets from above loomed
large, lifting and lowering like the chest of a slumbering giant, tossing them
like cork. Were the wind to return, Torin thought the waves might swallow them
whole.
Nevertheless, cables were unhooked and oars set to motion,
grinding within their locks. Raven crouched in the bow, peering into the
drizzly, low-hanging cloud cover. Pike and Flambard sat center with their backs
to the captain, each bent over an oar, while Torin lay in the stern like a sack
of provisions. Behind them, barely visible across a foggy stretch of maybe
twelve oar-strokes, trailed the other two skiffs, filled like theirs with glum,
shadowy forms.
They had not gone far before the waves turned to surf,
breaking against a jagged reef. A few strong pulls left them in the calmer
waters of a coral shallows. Every now and
then, Torin thought he saw fish darting through the inky
depths, though the only ones he glimpsed for certain were those scooped up by
hunting cranes and diving herons. Even these were but a flash of pale color and
a glitter of scale.
Perhaps it was because he was watching the waters so
closely that he was the first to spy the unexpected disturbance.
At the edge of the reef, just before the break line,
there was a guttering light, as though a torch had been set to burning beneath
the sea. It lasted only a moment. When it passed, the ripples began, swirling
outward in widening circles. Over a slow series of heartbeats, the rate of
their spiral quickened, until the waters in the middle started to drop, as if
being sucked down through a submerged funnel.
"Look!" Torin shouted, pointing with his
bound hands. Flambard reached over and cuffed his ear with a studded bracer.
Glowering, Torin peered past the ruffian to Raven, who had turned to check on
the alarm. The pirate captain's face was a mask of irritation until his gaze
slipped from the mist to the ocean's suddenly churning surface.
"Whirlpool!" he cried out.
By now, the lookouts on the other boats had seen it
for themselves, and were barking frantically at their oarsmen. But their
warning came too late. The vortex had grown so far and so fast that already
both skiffs were upon its outer edge, with no chance to swing about. Oars
became useless as the pair of skiffs were pulled round and round, steadily
toward the roiling center. The crewmen in each dove and clambered, tripping
over themselves and one another in a mad panic. Their helpless pleas sounded
to Torin like the shrieking of gulls.
The waters around his own vessel were darkened further
by billowing clouds of silt. Pike and Flambard continued to row, turning their
paddles at an urgent pace. From this position of relative safety, Torin gaped
as the first of the trapped skiffs reached the mouth of the maelstrom. The
small craft lurched suddenly, torn from beneath its occupants by the incredible
pull. He felt their horror as both skiff and men were ripped to splinters by an
unnatural force, then sucked into the abyss. By the time the second craft
overcame the first, he closed his eyes, unable to watch.
When the screams had died, and only their echo
remained in his ears, Torin looked back to see that the whirlpool's spin was
already slowing, its fury dissipating. Scraps of wood floated to the surface,
along with other bits he tried not to recognize. When the last of the ripples
had drifted away, a gathering flock of birds swooped down to make their own
inspection.
For several moments, the only sound was the violent
chorus of these birds, pecking and flapping at one another over the remains.
Torin was the first to pry his gaze from the grisly sight in order to study his
boatmates. Pike and Flam-bard gripped their oars above the waterline, as if
preparing to wield them against an unseen attacker. Raven sat stock-still in
the bow, his own hands clenching the gunwale. All aboard the lone skiff stared
in stunned silence, unwilling to believe what they had just witnessed.
Finally, Raven swallowed as if choking down a lump of
meat. "Garry on, mates."
Torin looked at Pike, who blinked.
"Carry on!"
"But sir—"
"If the dog had wanted us among them, we'd have
been so. Carry on, I say!"
Pike continued to hesitate, while Flambard scowled so
that his red eyebrows curled up like flames. With Pike beside him, he began
working his oar, squeezing its'haft and looking for all the world like he
wished it to be his captain's throat. In this case, Torin could not bring
himself to fault the man. The more he saw of this Red Raven, the more he
questioned the pirate's sanity. Well and good that he should risk his life for
that of his woman, but did he have to take the rest of them with him?
Still, Torin could not help but admire the glimmer he
saw in the other's eye as Raven turned to face the hidden isle once more. Such
focus and determination was infectious, even when misplaced. The captain was
entrusting his life to them as surely as he was demanding theirs be entrusted
to him. Like it or not, the four of them were now in this together.
Pike's eyes roamed anxiously now, Torin saw, across
both misty sky and murky water. Flambard, he noted, had refocused his glare
upon his hated prisoner, leaving Torin to wonder whose throat it was the rogue truly
meant to strangle. With nothing to win in a contest of stares, Torin looked
away.
After several nervous moments, their craft slid
aground on a glistening shore. Raven leapt out and helped to pull the skiff up
onto the rocks, then dragged a rope and anchor out after.
"Bring him."
The pair of marauders stowed their oars and moved to
join their captain, yanking Torin along. He twisted his ankle as he exited the
boat, slipping with a splash into the small waves that lapped at his feet and
flooded his boots. But his captors simply dragged him forward, across the
sharp, weed-slicked stones.
They stopped when they had caught up with Raven, who
held a loaded crossbow.
"From this point hence," the captain said
gravely, "I need each of you to keep your wits about you. Take no action
without my signal. If I detect so much as a whimper, I will personally bury
this bolt in the back of your skull, then leave you to the wizard. Is that
understood?"
He waited for their reluctant nods.
"Trust in my lead, and I'll do what I can to see
us all through this." Raven then dropped a purposeful gaze upon Torin,
though what reassurance he was to take from this, Torin wasn't certain.
"On your feet."
Torin obeyed, wrenching free of the clutching hands of
Pike and Flambard and drawing himself to full height. Freezing saltwater
scratched at his wounds, but he hid his discomfort behind a glare of defiance.
He had survived worse, he reminded himself silently. If only he knew how that
might help him here.
Raven smirked as if reading his thoughts. "We
make for the wizard's tower," he said, gesturing with the crossbow for
Torin to take the lead. He then added, "Your Majesty."
Again Torin did as he was bid, turning his back to the
pirate and allowing Raven to nudge him with the crossbow toward a distant,
fog-shrouded scrub line. Already, the haze was beginning to diminish, making
clear the desired path at the base of a cleft leading up through the isle's
deadwood forest. Raven pointed him toward it, and without complaint, Torin
started their trek across the rocky beach.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN Back Table of Contents Next
The climb to the wizard's stronghold took
longer than expected, so that darkness was virtually upon them by the time
they reached its face. The curtain wall was a sad, crumbling thing, its black
stone pitted and ravaged by untold centuries of coastal storms. The merlons
atop the gatehouse had eroded into nubs, filed by wind and rain—such as that
which had picked up during their trek. A haunting glow hovered beyond, seeping
through crenellations, arrow slits, and the crack of its iron gates.
They had not quite come to a stop when the great
doors, emblazoned with mysterious glyphs, began to open, yawning wide on
groaning pins. Chains squealed in the background; through the widening breach,
Torin could see the rusted links being taken in.
It took forever. When at last the portal was clear,
the eyes of the company flicked about uneasily, looking through the opening and
at one another. Save for a roiling black mist and a ring of torches ensconced
in iron wall brackets, the courtyard appeared deserted.1 At last,
Raven nudged Torin with the tip of his loaded crossbow. The point pricked
Torin's neck, but still he did not step forward. It was not a conscious decision,
but instinctive, as if he knew that should he set foot within this Grimhold, he
would not step out again.
The immediacy of Raven's threat won out, however, causing
him to stagger onward. Glancing back, he could see that Pike and Flambard were
just as tentative; despite the blades they carried, their legs quivered like
those of a foal taking its first steps. He could not see whether Raven was as
frightened as the rest of them, but supposed it wouldn't matter if he was.
The empty yard was filled with broken paving stones
that had been shoved aside by weeds and grasses grown up beneath. Torin strode
as bravely as he could across this cobbled terrain of rock and sand and vegetation,
while raindrops struck like icicles upon his neck. The haunting scene reminded
him of the graveyard from which he had bidden his friends farewell, and the
chill he felt deepened within.
They had gone no more than twenty paces when the black
mist drew aside like a curtain. As suddenly as that, his elder brother,
erstwhile crown prince and king of Alson, was revealed.
The man wore neither the supplicant's robes in which
Torin had first met him, nor his studded battle leathers, but a belted tunic
not unlike Torin's own. Black in color, only with longer sleeves and a stitched
pattern of scales. In one hand he gripped his ebony staff, carved to resemble a
hooded serpent, while from his neck hung the iron skull pendant with its
rictus grin. Yellow eyes beamed like lanterns in the near darkness, matching
well the sickly pallor of torchlight upon his ghostly skin.
Torin's breath lodged in his throat. He had forgotten
what it felt like to gaze upon his brother, a creature poisoned by the use of
powers mankind wasn't meant to harness. Without the Sword, he was utterly
helpless beneath that gaze, a mouse at the mercy of a hawk.
The wizard's lips compressed in a tight smile.
"Welcome, brother."
The words hissed like steam from a kettle, raking
Torin's already over-wracked spine.
"What do you think of my home?" Soric asked,
gesturing with his staff. Torin glanced around as a ring of soldiers armed
with crossbows were exposed by the retreating mist, perched atop the bailey.
"An uncharted isle. Well off the regular sea lanes. Only a rare
southeasterly wind, coupled with an even rarer tide flow, will deliver the
uninitiated to
its shores." His smile widened with gleeful
menace. "I'm so pleased you were able to come."
"Where's Autumn?" Raven croaked, jabbing
Torin with his crossbow.
The wizard's glee seemed to dissipate as he inspected
Torin from head to toe with an unblinking gaze. His eyes shifted then to the
pirate, whom he addressed rather sternly. "He was to be delivered
unharmed."
"Unkilled, you said."
The wizard's smile returned, seeping slowly to the
corners of his mouth. "So I did." He paused. "You made good
time, given the damage you sustained."
Torin could feel Pike and Flambard shifting to glance
at one another, wondering like he how the wizard could know this. Or perhaps
Soric was only guessing, seeking to put them off guard. The cold sneer told
them nothing. "Come inside then. Let us see to the condition of your
flower."
"If it's all the same," Raven said through
clenched teeth, "I think we'll make our exchange right here."
Soric inclined his head, then tamped the butt of his
staff against the ground. From a stone-framed doorway behind him, a soldier
stepped forward, bearing at knife-point a woman draped in heavy manacles.
Again, Raven's bolt dug into the back of Torin's neck, betraying the pirate's
sudden fervor. Other than that, the ruffian held himself in check.
As the pair continued forward, beyond the wizard to
within a few paces of where the visitors stood, Torin found himself breathless
once more. Autumn, he decided, should have been named for the spring. She was a
modest beauty, the kind whose fair looks would draw eye in a seedy tavern, but
might go unnoticed among the fancy maidens at a town festival. Her smooth skin
was lightly freckled, her shoulder-length hair thick and lustrous. But it was
her bearing that captivated him, some quality he could sense but not quite see.
Her eyes, perhaps, which glimmered with a hint of amethyst as they seemed to
stare at him alone. Or perhaps the way in which she smiled, as if considering
some private, warmhearted jape at his expense. Whatever it was, she caused him
to feel detached in a soothing, comfortable way, as if his cares should belong
to someone else, and nothing should matter beyond the connection they now
shared.
"As you can see," Soric said, "she has
been well tended."
"Then let us be finished here," Raven
snapped. "Tell your dog to release her."
Torin continued to match Autumn's stare, which he
found both curious and enticing. Her hair, he now noted, was neither light nor
dark, but a blend of shifting hues in the uncertain light. At last he grew
self-conscious and looked away—though not far—to the soldier beside her, who
hadn't moved.
"Release her, Madrach," Raven demanded
again, "else I drain this man's skull here and now and let your master do
what he will with the corpse."
The soldier, Madrach, was almost as striking as his
prisoner, given the resemblance he bore to the ill-tempered pirate captain. He
was clad in tight-fitting armor, leather mostly, but with greaves and bracers
and cuirass of hammered plate. His helm fit close against what appeared to be
a shorn head. He was a stretch larger than Raven, in height and in girth, but
the features—the flat nose, the beady eyes, the crooked mouth and cleft chin—might
have been etched from the same mold.
"Careful, Captain," the other teased,
pressing a stubbled cheek close to Autumn's, "lest 1 start and cause her
pale throat to sprout a pretty red smile."
"Madrach!" The wizard's voice cracked like
the bite of a whip, a clear reminder as to who was truly in charge. "Turn
her loose."
The mercenary stiffened, but did as he was bid,
sheathing his dagger and producing a key that he used to remove Autumn's
shackles. He let them drop to the earth, then shoved her forward.
Somehow, despite the rough treatment, Autumn lost not
a trace of dignity. She stepped forward, eyes gleaming in Tor-in's direction,
as she came to stand next to Raven. Quickly she gave the pirate a kiss upon the
cheek, before slipping her arm around his waist.
Raven leaned into her, but kept his attentions focused
on
the wizard, on Madrach, on the circle of crossbows
above. One last time he prodded Torin with the crossbow, and only then did the
young king realize he had turned his head almost fully around in order to
watch the reunion. With a wink from Autumn, he faced ahead once more, and, at
Raven's urging, took a pair of uncertain strides.
Madrach stepped forward to meet him. Before the image
of Autumn's wink had faded from his mind, Torin, still bound, found himself
given over to the enemy.
"The Sword," Soric prompted. "Where is
it?"
"The Sword remains aboard my ship," Raven
announced. Wood and leather creaked as the soldiers upon the bailey leaned in
and tightened pressure upon their triggers. "There it remains until my men
and I are returned safely, else cast into the sea."
Torin's gaze flitted from Raven, to the wizard, to the
soldiers looming above. He glanced at Autumn, then back to his brother, whose
response he awaited.
"You play games with your men's lives,"
Soric said. He appeared bemused, but his words bore an unmistakable chill.
"Theirs I can see, but Autumn's—"
"Do you want your trinket or not?" Raven
squawked.
The wizard grinned, no doubt to hide his calculating
thoughts. Everyone but Raven himself—and Autumn, of course—seemed surprised by
the pirate's boldness.
"Very well," Soric agreed. "Madrach,
take a score of men and accompany our good captain to the beach. Deliver them
to their ship, and procure the Sword. From there, each will allow the other to
be on his way."
"Yes, my lord," Madrach said, scowling at
Raven.
Raven smirked in return. Upon seeing this, Soric's own
smile slipped like a spider into its hole. "If you cross me," he
warned, "I shall command the winds and waves to shatter your vessel upon
my reef, where gulls will pick clean your remains. Are we agreed,
Captain?"
Raven matched the other's glare. "Let's get
moving."
At a snap of Madrach's fingers, the soldiers standing
watch atop the bailey shuffled down the steps on either side, filing to order
within the murky courtyard. Their numbers appeared to ease the mercenary's
malcontent. "After you," he sneered.
Raven wheeled about, signaling Pike and Flambard to keep eye on those who followed.
"Take the prisoner," Soric added, when
Madrach had stepped past Torin as though to leave him behind. "Have him
identify the talisman our friend hands over. 1 leave his life in your hands,
Madrach."
The mercenary nodded, refusing to be cowed by the implied
threat. He seized Torin by the arm and propelled him
forward.
Torin's thoughts raced as though he were a badger
caught in an iron trap. Clearly, he had no allies here. He had only himself to
turn to if he wished to survive—or at the very least, to prevent the Sword from
falling into his brother's hands, where doubtless it would be used in future
conquests against his land and others. Better that it should remain in the
possession of pirates.
Or was it? With the Sword might go the Pendant. Either
way, there would come a time during which Darinor would have no choice but to
come in search. Had that not been the reason for taking the Pendant in the
first place? It might make sense to see that Raven surrendered both, to make
sure the two artifacts remained together, and close at hand.
But that was foolishness. What reason had he to
believe the wizard would keep him alive long enough for Darinor to attempt a
rescue? Likely, he would be long gone, and would have only made it harder for
the renegade Entient to retrieve the divine talismans, in that he would have to
pry them from the wizard rather than a mere pirate—or whomever Raven sold them to.
He was still wrestling with these choices when he
reached the gates to the courtyard, where everyone came to a startled halt.
A trio of men filled the narrow path fronting the
keep, on the last leg of their winding journey from the rainswept beach. In the
lead was Kell, his hands lashed to an oar that he wore across his back, his
bloody face smeared with mud and leaves from multiple falls. Behind him was Raven's
first
mate, Black Spar, unbound, and carrying a long, wooden
box. A handheld crossbow tickled his jeweled ear, wielded, it seemed at first,
by the man's own shadow.
Then the shadow came into focus, taking on a form of
its own. Torin blanched.
Xarius Talyzar.
The assassin halted at the head of the trail, in the
shadow of the open gates. Kell's eyes flicked back and forth like those of a
deer surrounded by hunters. Black Spar's gaze found Raven, and the two shared
an unreadable look. But it was Talyzar Torin focused on, the man who had come
nearer than any other to ending his life, months ago, during his quest for the
Sword. He hadn't seen the man since the other had plunged a dagger in his back.
To face his would-be executioner now, so unexpectedly, filled him with shock
and residual dread.
"Have we missed the festivities?" Talyzar
hissed, his voice masked in whisper.
Soric came forward, parting the sea of soldiers that
stood between him and the new arrivals, breezing past Torin like an icy gust.
"What have we now?" he asked, in a manner that suggested both
amusement and irritation at the surprise.
Talyzar gave a slight bow. "You bade me leave
delivery of the whelp to these pirates," he observed, with a clear measure
of distaste. "But I thought you might like to take possession of his
blade."
Torin's reeling thoughts came sharply into focus. The
assassin's presence explained much. It was Talyzar who had followed him to
Gammelost, supplying the information ultimately used by Raven to locate him.
Talyzar who had stowed aboard first the Pirate's Folly and then the Raven's
Squall, sending messages as to Torin's progress, and the results of the sea
battle between the two. It all made sense—save for the means by which the man
was able to go undetected and relay messages to his master over so great a
distance. But those were details, trade secrets of assassins and wizards and
perhaps beyond his understanding. What pained him was to learn that he'd been
so blind as to carry along his own doom, right from the beginning. "You've
brought me the Sword?" Soric asked, delight gaining sway over displeasure.
The assassin nudged Black Spar with his weapon.
"Show him."
The pirate grunted.
A knife appeared in Talyzar's free hand, so quickly
that it might have been there all along. Its edge fell upon the seam between
the gruff pirate's head and ear. "With or without your ability to
hear."
Spar looked to Raven, who nodded.
With a bolt at one ear and a dagger on the other, the
first mate hefted the wooden box he carried and flicked free the latch. He
turned its facing outward, so that those before him could see, before flipping
back the lid. In a shallow tray, pillowed among velvet folds, lay the Sword,
its crimson radiance muted but still drawing gasps of astonishment. Its silver
hilt gleamed in the twilight; its blade and heartstones swirled with inner
flame.
Hung around the hilt was the Pendant.
Soric smiled. "Well done, my assassin. Well done,
indeed." He turned to Raven, who swallowed thickly. "So, my good
captain. It would seem you have nothing else with which to barter."
The pirate looked to his own crossbow, leveled before
him, aimed now at the wizard. But the air went out of him, as even he seemed to
realize how pointless was his stance. His arm tightened protectively around
Autumn's shoulders.
"No?" Soric asked. "Then perhaps you
and your men would be good enough to remain as my guests, until you have had
such time as to reconsider my previous offer."
The wizard raised a finger, and his soldiers took
action, quickly disarming both Pike and Flambard and pinning their arms behind
them. Madrach himself took Raven's crossbow with a laugh.
"The box," Soric said.
Spar glared as if to tear the wizard asunder, but
closed the hinged lid and latched it shut. He posed no struggle as Soric
stepped forward and slid the container from his grasp.
"Madrach."
"Yes, my lord?"
"The lady, I'm sure, will be more comfortable in
my tower. Find quarter for the rest within our dungeon." "Yes, my
lord."
There was a jostling from Flambard, and another growl
from Black Spar, as the soldiers closed ranks. Raven tightened his grip on
Autumn.
"My brother is to remain unharmed," Soric
clarified. "As to the others, gut whoever resists."
That ended the lingering protests. Even Raven remained
still as Autumn was jerked from his embrace.
"Welcome, all of you." The wizard smiled,
clapping Taly-zar on the shoulder.
"My lord," said Madrach, when all had been
gathered. "Permission to sack the Squall?"
Soric
considered. "To what end?"
Madrach blinked as if confused. "To safeguard
against a rescue, my lord. We would gain additional prisoners, and loot. There
might be treasures—"
"I see no reason to risk the lives of my
guardsmen for the price of a few trinkets," the wizard replied, waving the
request aside. "Let those who remain keep their plunder. There will be no
rescue. My guess is they will not wait long before hoisting anchor and setting
forth like whipped pups."
"Indeed," Talyzar whispered, turning a
heated stare in the mercenary's direction. "They have done so already. The
moment I brought these others ashore."
"There, you see?" Soric snickered.
"Such is the valor of thieves. Away now, Captain. See to my orders."
Madrach cast a wary eye in Talyzar's direction, trying
hard to appear neither cowed nor crestfallen. His flagging spirits lifted when
he turned to find Raven his captive. "Carry out," he barked, and the
procession started forward, back into the wizard's keep.
Though he received a rough shove for doing so, Torin
twice glanced back at those just behind him. One was for Autumn, who met his
look with a faint smile devoid of concern—a simpleton, perhaps, lacking the
capacity to understand. The other was for a stooped Raven, and the headstrong
pirate's masterful plan.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN Back Table of Contents Next
Soric's gaze swept the stone tablet,
marking carefully each dusty rune, though he had all but committed its verse to
memory. Too long had he waited for this. This very night, he meant to finish
it. He would not risk that anything should go awry.
Twenty-one years had he prepared, through exploration
and study. Closer now to twenty-two. For this was merely a continuation of what
had begun decades ago, when he had been escorted from the court of his father
like a common brigand. Once Torin was gone, he might finally lay to rest the
demons that plagued him, and give thought to the renewal of his rightful
conquest.
It would be easy enough to assemble another army and
to repeat the strategy and troop movement that had met with such success the
last time he had invaded Alson's shores. This time, there would be no upstart
rivals—no secret heirs, no army of dragonborn, no demon avatars—with which to
contend for his throne. Not only would his resistance be weakened, but his own
powers would be even more formidable, given these added months during which he
had honed his craft—and that he would soon be adding a Sword of Asa-hiel to his
arsenal. And the pirate, Red Raven, should he be properly persuaded, might make
a noteworthy ally, capable of rallying a fleet of ships to plunder the
coastline and pave the way for a more direct landing.
But all of that remained open to planning and debate.
Eggs before fowl, the wizard thought with a shake of his
head. Banish his usurper. Torment him with isolation
and exile. Serve unto him a dose of the bitter loneliness and unimaginable
suffering that had shaped his own life. Should he never lay claim to his
birthright, this alone might bring him peace.
Strange it was: the depth of his feelings, the
strength of his resentment. He had thought himself evolved beyond such
pettiness. But returning to his homeland, seeing how life had progressed
without him, had stirred emotions long since buried. And there was nothing
petty about survival. Let others label him evil, should they so choose. Nature
did not distinguish between right and wrong, good and evil—only strong from
weak, predator from prey. With the perception of evil came fear. With fear,
respect. That was all he demanded from his fellow man.
He eased away from the tablet and closed his eyes. His
victories this day had made him heady, sapping his focus. He would have to
settle his churning thoughts and emotions if he meant to do this. What he
intended was no simple cantrip or dweomer, but a channeling of mental energies
through all ten sephiroth, clear to the ascending plane of the Carafix of Life.
To do so was well within the range of his abilities, but not an exercise to be
taken lightly. The slightest misstep or uncertainty could wreak havoc upon him,
both mentally and physically. He would have to be ready.
He stepped back, seating himself upon an altar of granite,
carved from the floor of the chamber. Discipline. It had served him so
well—saved him, really. He would not let it desert him now.
Before he could begin a deeper meditation, there came
a tug at one of the lines of magic with which he warded his keep. Moments
later, Xarius Talyzar stepped through the open portal to this subterranean
chamber, and bowed his head in greeting.
"I pray I'm not interrupting," the assassin
remarked with unusual courtesy.
Soric sighed. "I welcome the diversion.
Come," he said, waving the other forward.
Talyzar strode to within a pace before stopping and
bowing again. He glanced down at the tablet on its broken, lichen-covered
pedestal. "An incantation?"
"Which I'm preparing especially for our
guests," the wizard confirmed. "One of them, anyway." "Do
I even wish to know?"
"Why ruin the surprise?" Soric smiled. When
the assassin smiled with him, concealed as he was within the shadow of his
cowl, the wizard knew for certain something was amiss. "What can I do for
you, Talyzar?" "My actions. They have met with your approval?"
"You know they have. Since when does that concern you?" "I was
thinking of our arrangement." "Ah yes," the wizard said. He
should have known at once. "The Kronus boy. Your young rival."
Talyzar tensed. "The whelp you requested is
yours. His blade as well."
"And so you seek your leave to hunt down this
rogue and repay his insult."
"For a time only," the assassin assured him.
"But how much time, Talyzar? That is my concern." "If you would
allow me to question your brother—" "You believe he can tell you
something our spies did not already uncover? As I recall, there was no great
secret to the youth's departure. None knew his destination because he himself
did not." The assassin clenched his teeth. "I will find him."
"Of that I've no doubt, my raptorial nightbird. But at what profit to me?
Should you find the youth, will you be able to defeat him this time? Either
death—his or yours—merits me nothing."
"It would assure you a faithful servant,"
Talyzar hissed.
"I have that already, do I not?" Soric
glared into the other's hood, daring contradiction.
"I've done all you asked, and more."
"Indeed you have. But the time is not yet right.
After this night, we resume measures for our return to the east. I may have
need of you."
"A man such as you thrives on making enemies.
Until that changes, there will always be a need for me."
Soric chuckled. 'That may be. Though let us not
confuse use with necessity. Bear with me, Talyzar, awhile longer. Your
vagabond pup is most likely to show up once he learns of the fate we shall
bring to his friend's kingdom. You need not waste your time—and mine—giving
chase."
The assassin did not respond, but stood there
simmering. Soric hoped he had not pushed the other too far. He would hate to
have to destroy him.
Still, it would not do to have one of his dogs testing
its leash, lest the rest follow. His vaults—those of this ancient stronghold he
had discovered—were filled with more wealth than he might spend in a lifetime.
But coin went only so far toward keeping men like Talyzar and Madrach in check.
As with all men, it was more important that they know and accept their place.
"Have you another task in mind then?" the
assassin asked finally.
"Yes. Take some rest. Seek comfort, whatever you
may find within these walls. You have earned it."
Talyzar bowed once more, his deepest yet, before
gliding from the room like the wraith for which he was named.
When the other had gone, Soric took a deep breath of
the stale air here in the bowels of his keep. Time was wasting. After all this,
he would not risk that anything should go wrong. To make certain, he intended
to lay forth the entire procedure ahead of time, so that he would have only to
trigger it later. It was the best way, he assured himself, yet it meant he had
that many more preparations to make.
Sharpening his focus, he took to his feet and set
about his tasks.
*****
The door to their prison slammed shut with a
resounding thud that sent shivers through the cavern stone. When it faded, all
that could be heard was the scrape and clank of men dangling in their metal
cuffs. Six of them, all told. From the corner of his eye, Torin watched the
others huff and grunt, twisting uncomfortably. Raven and Black Spar, Pike and
Flambard, and a battered Keel Haul—all swaying like suspended candle holders
in a storm-wracked house.
The reverberations of their guards' departure had
barely expired when Raven broke the near-silence. "Why didn't you tell me
this wizard was your brother?"
Torin lifted his head. "Why didn't you tell me
Madrach was yours?"
Raven's features soured, then broke in a snorting
laugh. "I suppose that's only fair."
Nothing about this was fair, Torin thought, but
offered instead, "It makes no difference now, does it?"
The cast of their surroundings was gray and damp, permeated
like all else by the chill of the sea that cradled this mountain rock. Once
inside the wizard's stronghold, they had been led through a series of tunnels
that burrowed downward through the isle's heart. They had ended up in this
mostly natural cavern, a rugged hollow shaped with clefts and ridges and broken
bits of crumbling stone. -
"Perhaps not," Raven agreed, glancing up
into darkness, to where his chains were anchored to the cavern ceiling.
"Though perhaps we should share our stories now, just in case."
Before he could object, Torin coughed, his lungs
rejecting the oily black smoke that drifted from a loose array of pole-mounted
cressets sheltering them from absolute darkness. By the time he'd overcome his
fit, he lacked the will to deny the pirate his meaningless request.
"I've nothing more to reveal," he sighed.
"He was exiled before my birth, sold into slavery at the age of twelve for
attempting to poison his father the king. I don't know how he escaped, or how
he learned the craft he now wields. I never knew him at all until our paths
crossed during his invasion of Alson."
"Where he found you sitting his throne."
"In a manner of speaking," Torin allowed,
having no desire to delve further simply to explain the truth of things.
Raven was quiet for a moment before responding.
"Madrach is my younger. We used to sail together, up until four years ago,
when he led a failed mutiny against me. Because he's my brother, I would not
have him killed, but turned him out to fend for himself."
For some reason, the pirate captain was swaying a great
deal more than the others as he squirmed against his restraints, though Torin
paid this little heed.
"Since then," Raven continued, panting from
his efforts, "I'd heard only rumors of his dealings. Most had him roaming
the coastal lands of Yawacor as the leader of his own mercenary band. I'm
assuming that's how your wizard found him."
And why, Torin realized, when the wizard needed someone
to carry out his abduction, Madrach had gone to Raven. He scoffed at the irony.
In effect, they were both here because of grudges held against them by their
siblings. "Perhaps they should have been brothers, and left us out
of it."
"Perhaps." Raven laughed. "It's been my
experience that siblings make for the closest companions, or the fiercest rivals."
As he twisted around on his chain, he fixed Torin with a knowing stare. "I
suspected there was something more to your relationship, to have fostered in
the wizard such a deep feeling of insult." "Yes, well, now you
know."
"Then let us strike a bargain, here and now,"
Raven proposed. "Whatever else happens, we will trust in one another to
see the other delivered from his brother's menace."
Torin bit his lip to keep from laughing aloud. Just
what was the man thinking? They were trapped, strung up like sides of beef in a
butcher's salthouse. Buried in a hive of rock in the middle of the ocean,
secluded from the outside world. Even if they could escape their bonds, even if
they could fight their way past Madrach's soldiers and the wizard himself,
their ship had fled, leaving them no way off this reef.
No, their only hope was for Darinor to come for them,
to follow the emanations of the Pendant's chain to these misbegotten shores.
Which, as he'd already decided, could only happen too late.
Still, the very idea of an angry Darinor showing up on
Soric's doorstep was cause for a grim smile, such that, for a moment, he forgot
his predicament altogether.
He came to at the sound of a sharp click, followed by
the quick and sudden descent of Raven dropping free to the floor.
For the span of several heartbeats, Torin merely
gaped, while the captain rubbed his wrists and got to his feet. Only when he
moved away did Torin begin to stammer, glancing back and forth between the
pirate and his empty manacles. "How ... how did you—"
"A minor talent," Raven assured him,
brushing his escape aside as casually as he had the matter of his phantom
ships. He fetched the stool used moments ago to hang each of them in place from
the ceiling chains. "Do we have our bargain?"
Torin checked the reactions of the other, pirates.
Pike and Kell were shaking their heads in wonderment, more relieved than
surprised, as if they should never have doubted their captain. Flambard flashed
Torin a cruel grin. Black Spar, to whom Raven went first with a pair of lock
picks, grunted for the other to hurry.
"I apologize," Raven said, more to his men
than to Torin, "for not taking each of you into my confidence. I felt
where the wizard was concerned, it was best to keep things quiet. A man can't
reveal what he doesn't know."
Torin did not bother trying to hide his astonishment.
"You planned this?"
"Me and my relief captains—Black Spar and
Mackerel," Raven admitted. Spar's cuffs came free, and together the pair
moved stool and lock picks over to Pike. "Of course, I hadn't counted on
the wizard shredding two of my skiffs and leaving me eight men short. Nor did I
foresee our stowaway. Sneaky one, that. But old Spar was to come ashore with
your
blade anyway, under pretense of selling it—and me—out
to the wizard."
Torin's mind worked frantically. "But why? Once
you turned me over, the Sword was your only leverage."
"Even had we made it back to our ship,"
Raven replied, working ceaselessly, "the wizard wasn't going to let us off
this isle. We're inside, lad. We'd never have gotten this far had we tried to
force our way."
A scrape, and Pike joined the ranks of the free. The
whole operation shifted to Flambard, gaining momentum, like a snowball rolling
downhill.
Could it be? Torin wondered, hesitant to take anything
from this group at face value. He had supposed the pirate's latest overtures to
be those of a desperate man forced into collusion with any possible ally. Since
Raven's plan had failed, he was perhaps hoping Torin would have another. But if
it was true that all of this had been but a ruse intended to help infiltrate
the wizard's keep ...
"So what now?" Torin snickered. "We
fight our way free? We're, weaponless, outnumbered, and with no way off this
rock, thanks to your shipmates having deserted us."
This brought scowls and snarls from both Black Spar
and Flambard as the group worked now on Kell.
But Raven would not be troubled. "The wizard
holds all the advantages, right? Good. That's what I want him to think. The
numbers I didn't count on, but we'll have to make do. And we've not been
deserted. As for weapons, that was why we smuggled your blade inside—not quite
as planned, but I won't argue results."
"Except that you gave it to the wizard." In
the echo of his own voice, Torin could hear his conviction slipping.
"The wizard doesn't have your sword. Not yet,
anyway. Although it probably won't take him long to find it."
"What does that mean?"
"I'll explain along the way," said Raven,
turning at last to face him. "But first I must know, are you with us, or
against us?"
Torin let his gaze slip briefly over the others before
fixing on their captain. "I'm with you, of course—though I feel like a
blind man."
Raven nodded to his mates, who slid the stool—grudgingly,
it seemed—beneath his feet. The captain climbed up next to him to have at the
slackened cuffs.
"Wait," Torin said. "How could you have
known the wizard wouldn't kill you—kill all of us—right there on the
beach?"
"Hold still," Raven chided him. "I
visited the man before, remember? As cocksure as they come. Only cowards go
about killing foes recklessly, so as not to risk facing them again. Men who
believe themselves impervious think first as to how they might profit by
keeping others—even enemies—alive. If I'm no threat to him, why not use
me?"
Torin shook his head. "But—"
"That offer he spoke of was to retain my services
on an ongoing basis. I refused, of course. And I've done nothing since that he
wouldn't expect, giving him no reason to raise his guard, and certainly no
reason to dispose of me out of hand."
The pirate uttered a brief exclamation a heartbeat
before Torin's shackles opened up. The young king lowered his arms to his side,
massaging his wrists as he'd seen the others do, while mulling through Raven's
reasoning.
"Seems to me a rather dangerous maneuver,"
he decided.
The pirate nodded. "A gallows wager. But with
better odds than that he would turn Autumn over to me and let us leave."
He stepped from the stool onto solid ground, beckoning Torin to do the same.
"I still think you might have warned me as to
your plans."
"And risk letting you set them awry?" Raven
asked, askance. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly, slipping his lock picks
into the greasy mop of his hair and turning his attention toward the door.
"There were already more wild cards than I normally care to deal
with," he said, shuffling ahead of the others. "The less you knew,
the less likely you could betray me—willingly or otherwise." He reached
the door of studded iron and leaned an ear against its surface.
"Besides, would knowing my plans have given you
any greater sense of peace?"
Torin considered this, a step back from the others,
and determined the pirate was right. Still, he wasn't ready to give the other
the satisfaction. "Depends on what else you have in mind," he
muttered. He added gravely, "Especially since I doubt he'll spare any of
you a second time."
Raven offered him a wink. "I wouldn't."
Torin wasn't sure which he preferred: the glowering,
uncompromising brigand he had met aboard the Raven's Squall, or this
new, almost playful rogue crouched before him. Nor did he get the chance to
decide; for as quickly as the mood had come, it seemed to wash past the pirate,
who placed his hand upon the door's pull ring, all business once more.
His shipmates fanned out to either side, arming themselves
with stones. Torin hadn't been paying close attention, but he believed the door
to their prison contained a locking bar on the outside. Sure enough, it refused
to open when Raven yanked upon the ring. He half expected a sentry to come
barging in at the attempt, but there was no noise from without. It seemed they
had truly been abandoned.
While his mates and so-called marauders continued to
stand guard, Raven slipped from under his belt a long, waving piece of metal
that had been looped around his waist. It looked like a shortsword, only
hammered to a mirror finish, thin as parchment. It fit between door and frame
as if made for just that purpose, and while Torin immediately doubted it would
be sturdy enough to unseat the locking bar on the other side, he kept the
comment to himself.
"These tools of yours," he wondered instead.
"Why didn't Madrach take them?"
"I've only acquired these skills over the past
few years," Raven confessed. "Had he not betrayed me when he did, my
brother, too, might have learned them."
Torin thought to ask a follow-up question, but a growl
from Black Spar persuaded him against it. With nothing else to do, he watched
the captain work in silence. For several moments, Raven struggled with both the
weight and posi-tion of the unseen bar. More than once, he retracted his slip
of metal through the lightless gap to begin again from a new angle. In that
time, Torin matched eyes with Keel Haul, and thought back to his mistreatment
aboard the Squall. As it had turned out, Raven had been right not to
show him any kindness, due to Talyzar's presence onboard. The pirate had
disavowed any knowledge of the assassin, but Torin wondered if he had not at
least suspected the wizard of prying eyes, and if that—and not cruel-hearted
malice—had been the cause of his actions.
Before his thoughts could wander any further afield,
there was a dull clattering from beyond the door and a whispered cry of
exuberance from the man leading their escape. Raven jumped back, whipping his
metal serpent back through the tiny fissure. The others held their positions,
adjusting their grips on their stones. All was quiet as they listened intently
for a reaction from without. For several moments, Torin heard nothing over the
drumming of his own pulse.
At last, Raven reached again for the pull ring,
leaving the giant Black Spar to guard the crack. As the door groaned open, Spar
nodded. He lowered his rock and thrust his bulk through the opening, first his
head, then his shoulders. After a quick look to either side, he ducked back in.
"All clear," he rumbled.
Raven smiled at Torin, signaling silence before he
scooted out into the rough-hewn corridor. The others followed on his heels.
Beyond, the captain paused just long enough to. close the door and replace the
locking bar before herding them all down the tunnel and into the first
available alcove.
When all were tucked aside, Raven produced yet another
hidden device, this one resembling a compass. He studied it for a moment,
glancing down the corridor in the direction its needle pointed. Apparently
satisfied, he then snapped its lid shut and drew his mates close in a tight
huddle.
"Time now to find where Autumn is being held,
retrieve the Sword, kill the wizard, and escape. Does anyone have a problem
with that?"
In these close quarters, Torin was more concerned with
the smell, an offensive musk of breath and sweat that
made him long for a bath. When he realized that Raven's question was directed
primarily at him, he shook his head fiercely.
"How do we do it, Cap'n?" asked Kell.
"The wizard must keep a ship or two upon this
isle. Spar, I need you to find it. The rest of you will go with him. Seize it,
and send signal to the Squall. She's to be hiding off the north coast,
out of view of this tower."
Flambard scowled; his features seemed incapable of anything
else. "What about you?"
"Torin and I will start by tracking down the
Sword. I'm guessing that will lead us to Autumn, and to the wizard."
"Just the two of you?" Flambard's scowl
deepened, and Torin, as always, seemed to be the target of his ire. "You
should let one of us come with you."
"You'll do as commanded," Raven snapped.
"When he learns of our escape, the wizard will expect us to flee. The
theft of his vessel will confirm this, and draw his attention. He won't then
be expecting our attack." He turned to Torin, who was shaking his head.
"Better that we be rid of him now," Raven insisted. "We won't
get a better opportunity."
"I'm not opposed to that," Torin clarified.
"I'm only wondering how you mean to find him, and to lay hands on the
Sword before he does."
Raven explained. "This compass is attracted to
the box in which your blade is hidden. The box itself is a smuggler's device.
There is a switch, near the bottom on the back, disguised as a knot of wood.
This switch must be triggered when the lid is opened. Otherwise, the box will
reveal a secondary chamber and the weapon inside—that of an ordinary
broadsword."
Torin's brow furrowed in suspicion. He looked to Black
Spar, who nodded.
"Clearly," Raven continued, "I don't expect
to fool the wizard for long. But it should buy us some time. Time enough for
the Squall to return and launch a diversion assault. Time enough for us
to lay hands on the real Sword and rescue Autumn."
If he understood the plan correctly, Torin could spot
a dozen holes before they'd even begun. It was like setting sail in a leaky
skiff. Impressed by the manner in which Raven had won them entrance into the
keep and then set them free, he had dared hope the pirate captain would have
some brilliant scheme for carrying out their escape. Still, even this was
probably more than he could rightfully have hoped for, and wasting time in
further debate could only hurt their chances.
"So be it," he agreed.
Not to be outdone, the other pirates nodded or grunted
or slapped their fists in accord.
They shuffled from the alcove and back into the
corridor, where Raven double-checked his strange compass. The needle held its
direction, and the captain bade them all follow. At the next fork, a sloping
tunnel, he consulted the compass again. It led upward, which caused him to pull
Spar aside.
"We split here. Look for a hidden harbor,
somewhere within the cliff. When in doubt, go down."
Spar grunted, and clasped the captain's outstretched
arm.
"Full sail," Raven tendered. "Oh, and
Spar, I'd prefer to deal with Madrach myself, but should he get in the way, do
not feel obliged to spare him on my account."
Spar grunted again and turned to the others.
"Mates."
With that, the brute took off down the tunnel, drawing
the others after like a shark leading scavenging minnows. Each of them—Pike,
Flambard, and Keel Haul—shared a nod and handclasp with his captain before
departing, and even glanced or glared in Torin's direction. The young king met
those looks until a chill weight settled upon his shoulders. At once, he turned
his gaze back down the passage from which they had come, where for half a
heartbeat he thought he spied a flicker of movement.
"What is it?" Raven asked him when the
others had gone.
Torin squinted, but could detect nothing unordinary
about the shadows that skulked amid the staggered line of torches.
"Bats in my vision," he mumbled, shaking the
heavy feeling aside.
"Shall we do this?"
"I'll be right beside you."
Raven flashed him a roguish grin—meant to be reassuring,
Torin supposed—before squaring his jaw in determination. "For
Autumn."
For Marisha, Torin amended
silently, then had to hurry to catch up.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Back Table of Contents Next
"I assume you're permitting this,"
Xarius hissed, perched again in the doorway of the chamber in which the wizard
busied himself.
Soric did not deign to look his way as he tapped fluid
from a vial over the flat head of a statue on the far side of the room.
"Of course I'm permitting it. Within this keep, I sense their movements as
clearly as I sense yours."
"And you would have them roam free?"
"For a time," the wizard said, wringing his
hands above the statue as if warming them over a flame. "Madrach has been
told not to let them off the isle."
Xarius withheld a snide remark regarding his faith in
the mercenary's abilities—he who had become Soric's right hand while the
assassin was left to linger in Alson. "They do not seek escape," he
said instead. "They seek a reckoning."
"Do they now?" The wizard added a fewmore
drops of his arcane solution. "For that is what they shall find."
"They are tracking the Sword as we speak. With a
compass drawn to some manner of lodestone, it seems."
"Good. Then it will not take them long to find
their way to me." The wizard stoppered his vial and returned it to a pouch
on his belt. He turned toward the center of the room, where the box containing
the Sword rested upon a plinth at the edge of-a swirled pattern etched into the
granite floor.
It occurred to Xarius to mention the secret of the box
and
its trigger, but, for now, he preferred to keep that
information to himself. "Might it be you're underestimating this
rogue?"
Soric laughed, a mirthless hacking sound.
"Madrach already suggested as much, when I ordered their prison unguarded."
He stared at the assassin with a gimlet gaze. "Your concerns are touching,
Talyzar, but unnecessary."
Xarius wondered if the shadows were sufficient to hide
his true heart from the wizard's vaunted insight. For it would seem Soric had
it wrong. He had indeed come to warn die other of the prisoners' escape, but
only to mask his own intentions on the wizard's life.
"I don't understand these games," he said.
Soric drew sand from a small leather pouch and
sprinkled it over the floor near the Sword. "That surprises me. For I've
always admired your artistry. Poetic, is it not, that an enemy choose his own
fate, rather than having it forced upon him?" He paused to stare again at
the assassin. "Rest assured, I take no chances with my life in doing so,
and misery unto those who think to catch me unawares."
The wizard's words echoed with grim warning. Given his
own treacherous thoughts, Xarius dared not move, blink, or breathe, lest
something in his manner betray him.
"Power is born of perception," Soric added.
"And nothing is more demoralizing than to believe you have an advantage
over your enemy, only to find that you were playing into his hands all
along."
"You still mean for the pirate to join you,"
Xarius reasoned. It seemed to him a poor excuse for the risks being taken,
however minuscule they might be.
"If possible." The wizard smirked. "But
come. Should it soothe your worries, stand guard as I grant our guests their
final choice, and watch how easily I dispatch those who oppose me."
Xarius bowed. "I think that might be best."
Soric's smirk became more of a grimace as he stowed
his powder. "Bring the woman then, from my chambers. By the time you
return, I shall be ready."
"How many guard the keep?"
"Twoscore, not counting the servant staff, which
is more protection than I require."
Xarius nodded in obeisance. "The pirates mean to
signal their vessel, which is waiting to attack."
Soric waved dismissively. "Madrach will see to
that. A boat full of brigands is of no threat to us. If need be, I will deal
with them when this other matter is finished."
"As you will," the Shadow whispered, and
bled into those of the hallway behind him.
As he padded silently down its length, an itch of
readiness went with him. For one of his trade, the sensation was never far off,
like the buzzing of a persistent bee. But its presence was heightened by what
seemed to, Xarius an opportunity. A dangerous one, to be sure, but it might be
the only chance he would get.
If the wizard seemed overconfident, he had every
reason to be. Despite such reckless talk—poetry for Torin, a lesson in power
for Raven—Xarius was not about to presume his master on the verge of a mistake.
But the assassin was determined to reclaim his freedom, and it had become clear
that the only way to achieve this was to see Soric slain. If he could find a
way to turn the upcoming showdown to his advantage, he might rid himself of the
wizard and extract the information he so needed from Torin on Kylac's whereabouts—all
in one fell swoop.
He had done his part, Xarius brooded silently. He had
resisted the urge to abduct the young king himself and had instead followed
him across the seas, sending messages to Soric by sign language over dim flame,
making certain the bounty was delivered in accordance with the wizard's every
request. He had then foiled the pirates' bid to keep the Sword aboard ship as a
bargaining tool, imparting both the weapon and its handlers as additional
gifts. All had been done so as to win the wizard's favor and that which had
been promised in return.
Soric had betrayed him, sure and simple. And while the
assassin would never allow his pride to overrule caution, it was in fact the
core of who he was—the reason he was compelled to hunt down Kylac, and
something that no one
would take from him, not even one as formidable as
this wizard.
He knew not how he would manage it; he need only be
ready to exploit the possibilities. There would be no plan, no scheme whose
hitch or failure might leave him paralyzed. Though he preferred to know every
potential outcome to a situation beforehand, such was not always feasible. No
matter. He was ultimately a creature of instinct, trained to react with
serpentine reflexes to each situation as it arose. So it would be this night,
and given the opening, he would strike.
Coiling in preparation, he pressed onward, upward, toward
the wizard's tower. To fetch this pirate's woman, and the final piece of bait.
*****
"Hold, you fool!" Spar rasped, seizing
Flambard's shoulder with a muscled paw.
Flambard scowled, but could not break the other's
grasp. "The way is clear," he protested. "All is quiet."
Spar drew his mate roughly back. "Too
quiet," he whispered with a frown of his own.
Kell, hunkered along with Pike a pace back from his
mates, agreed. His eyes scoured the near-darkness, searching for sign of that
which crawled like an army of insects along his spine. Beyond the mouth of the
tunnel in which they crouched, ocean waters heaved restlessly against rock and
piling. In the closed quarters of the cavern, its quiet murmur, like that of a
slumbering dragon, echoed a dull roar.
Raven had been right about the harbor. Although the
reef that warded the shores of Shattercove seemed to skirt the entire isle,
there was a break here on the eastern side, in the shadow of the cliff upon
which the wizard's tower was planted. They had traversed a maze of tunnels from
their dungeon to find it, aiming ever downward, trailing Spar as they might a
bloodhound. At last they had arrived at the edge of this hollowed, sea-filled
cavern, where now they considered their next move.
"Where are all the men?" Pike asked,
suggesting that he, too, shared the
reservations that held his shipmates, Kell and Spar, in check.
"Sleeping," Flambard insisted. The
flame-haired pirate peered hungrily through the tunnel opening, staring out at
the giant carrack lying in berth beside a wooden dock. Its handful of longboats
were tied off alongside. All rested upon the black waters, limned by
fog-shrouded moonlight pouring through a cleft in the cliff face off to their
right. "We're wasting time."
Kell wondered at his mate's anxiousness. Likely, the
man was simply eager to be away from this place. The overwhelming temptation,
this close to freedom, was to make a dash for it. So mought the mouse with the
cat waiting to pounce outside its hole.
"We'd be hard-pressed to set sailon that thing
with just the four of us," Spar muttered grimly. "They're like to
catch us before we've unfurled the course sails."
"What then? Sit around here till dawn? Cap'n
wanted a diversion."
"The diversion comes when we signal the Squall,"
said Pike. "We'd do better shoving off in one of those longboats."
Kell nodded quickly. Silent sounded safer than swift.
Spar's eyes glittered black in the darkness. "Too
long," he decided. "We don't know how far out the Squall might
be. Besides, in this murk, she may not see us."
What did that leave them? Kell wondered. There were no
mid-sized craft that they might rig quickly to carry them on their way. For
such smaller vessels, it would be a difficult voyage indeed from the mainland
to this treacherous isle. All they had to choose from was that which floated
before them.
"Flambard is right," Spar agreed at last.
"We've no choice but to launch the carrack."
A hole opened in Kell's stomach, and any protest he
might have uttered was sucked into it. He stared again at the imposing ship,
then swept the harbor for sign of sentries. Their view here was partially
obscured. They might very well be spotted the moment they stepped from the
tunnel.
"Follow my lead," Spar growled at Flambard,
who was itching again to get moving.
Once again, the marauders fell into line behind their
giant first mate—Flambard, then Pike, then Kell—moving ahead in a crouch and
glancing to either side. Setting foot within the main cavern felt to Kell like
emerging naked onto a frigid snowscape. The eyes of imagined enemies dug like
slivers of ice into his skin. Every hair stood on end.
But there were no sounds, no sudden movements. It
seemed Madrach's mercenaries were indeed tucked away in their billets, wherever
those might be. Difficult to believe, but since they'd not felt need to post
dungeon guards, why should they post any here?
Still, Kell gripped his rocks in his sweating palms,
ready to hurl them at the slightest skittering. Odds were, he'd end up braining
a rat or cracking the shell of a rock crab—assuming his throw was true—and
give them all away.
For this reason, he tried to steady himself as they
crept from stony ground onto the planks of the makeshift wharf. Ocean waves
growled, surging in and out of the cavern breach. While listening, Kell scanned
the many caves and alcoves lining the subterranean walls, searching their yawning
depths for anything that might justify his alarm.
At last they reached the carrack, rising and falling
in its berth. The gangplank was raised, but a series of rope ladders hung over
her sides. The members of their company took turns peering over one another's
shoulders, taking one last look around. They listened, but all they heard were
the waves.
Spar let Flambard go first. The marauder scurried
nimbly up the rungs and rolled over the edge. After a tense moment, his head
popped back into view and he gave a signal. All clear.
Pike went next. Then Kell, tucking his rocks into his
shirt. Spar remained below, his back to the hull, searching. Only after Kell
had clambered over and onto the main deck did their first mate make move to
join them.
They waited for him, though by now Kell was as antsy
as Flambard. It was too late to do anything but go forward.
Should they be discovered, they might scatter, but
where could they run?
"Haul," Spar grunted quietly, "find us
some weapons. Pike, Flambard, make ready to sail."
The pirates nodded, then scrambled in opposite
directions, running low and on the balls of their feet. Flambard claimed the
foremast, Pike the mizzenmast, and Spar the mainmast. Kell went in search of
the nearest weapons closet. He didn't have to go far. The main deck was lined
with them, chests filled with hooks and pikes, hand-axes and shortswords. He
claimed a couple for himself, then scooped up an armful and wheeled toward the
pilothouse.
"Hello, Keel Haul."
Kell nearly soiled his breeches to hear Madrach's
voice, and to see the mutineer standing so suddenly before him. As it was, he
dropped his load of arms and stumbled backward, pitching over the rail. There
was a rush of cold air, then the plunge into what might as well have been a
bucket of ice, so frigid was the winter sea.
When finally he righted himself in that depthless
void, he kicked toward the surface, where his attempt to draw one big breath
resulted instead in a staggered series of small ones, fractured by the cold.
Over the sound of his own splashing and wheezing, he could hear an odd mix of
shouts and laughter from above.
"Fish him out," Madrach hollered. Men barked
and crossbows hummed, and Kell knew his comrades were under fire.
His first instinct was to pull himself from that water
as quickly as possible. It clutched at him like fingers from the grave, chill
and sharp, and with a dying man's insistence. Had Madrach's mercenaries tossed
him a rope then and there, he might have seized it, heedless of the
consequences.
But it took them a moment to gather themselves, and to
overcome their merriment at his expense. In that time, Kell's thoughts cleared.
Not for anything he might consider actual reasoning, but enough that one urgent
need overcame the other. The need to reach the longboats. The need to warn the Squall.
His frantic effort to tread water became an equally
frantic swim. He did not stop to calculate the odds, or even to worry about
his mates. They would cover for him, if they could. Perhaps one or more would
escape on his own. It all depended on whether Madrach's orders were to kill or
recapture. He could let neither happen to him.
And so he strained against the cold, against the
darkness. He slipped under, carving his strokes beneath the surface, hoping to
hide his intent. He did not pause to look back, and came up to breathe only
when his lungs demanded it. Every now and then, he opened his eyes to confirm
his path and direction. Otherwise, he simply swam.
He nearly rammed the skiff before he saw it—a
collision that could have knocked him senseless. Kicking and pulling, he
tumbled aboard, grateful to be free of the sucking sea.
"To the boats!" he heard someone shout.
Kell lunged for the mooring lines, fore, then aft.
Each was a simple slipknot, which he yanked free. His frozen hands grappled
with a pair of oars, struggling to fit them in their locks, while the gangplank
hit the dock with a thud and a cadre of mercenaries came scampering out.
At last his uncooperative oars fell into place. Even
then he flailed uselessly for a moment, too anxious to be away. The paddles
slapped and spun, resisting his unsteady control. He forced himself to take a
deep, shivering breath in order to gain his balance, then thrust deep, and
pulled.
A shredded cry sounded from aboard the ship, reverberating
along the jagged walls of the cavern. Flambard, Kell thought, grimacing.
"Fools!" Madrach roared. "I want them
taken alive!"
That was of small consolation to Kell as a half-dozen
men leapt into a trio of longboats, snarling with a huntsman's glee. Even if
they'd heard and decided to obey their leader's command, Kell knew this was his
one best chance to get off the isle. He didn't know what sort of game the
wizard and his underlings were playing, letting them escape their cage only to
round them up again. But he wanted no part of it.
He'd gone maybe a dozen strokes, and already his back
and shoulders burned. With no idea as to how long he might have to keep this
up, and with the first of his pursuers shoving off with not one man but two at
the oars, his prospects seemed grim.
The shadow of the cavern slipped away like a blanket
as he reached the mouth of the underground harbor. Misty starlight fell upon
him, funneled down between giant pinnacles of limestone that flanked the
opening like tusks. A wave swelled beneath as if to carry him back through the
cleft, but he dug deep and slid over its backside, into the retreating trough.
Gritting his teeth to still their chattering, he
tucked his chin and rowed on.
*****
Torin dropped to a sudden crouch, shoved back against
the wall of the tunnel by a sweating Raven.
"What is it?" he asked.
The pirate silenced him, then looked to his compass.
The needle was dancing, as if closing upon its goal and excited by the prospect.
The unlikely companions had come a long way from their dungeon, traveling what
seemed to Torin more than a mile of rough and winding corridors—an entire
warren of chambers and passageways that cored through Grimhold's rock
foundation. Clinging to the shadows and to one another, the pair had run a
labyrinthine course through these hidden levels, and, as best as Torin could
tell, were hopelessly lost. He wondered if Raven had any better sense of their
location, but was afraid to ask.
"Just ahead now," the pirate whispered,
confirming Torin's hopes and suspicions.
Even now, Torin wasn't sure what to make of this man.
Throughout their trek, he had continued to wonder what reason the pirate would
have to return his weapons and set him free when this was over—to say nothing
of their bargain to deliver him to Yawacor. The only scenario in which he could
imagine that happening was one in which he somehow gained the upper hand, able
to turn the tables on the other. But could he do so? Could he perhaps threaten
Autumn's life as Raven had his and thus force the pirate to do his bidding?
He didn't think so. He didn't think he could turn
cutthroat, even with the greater good at stake.
Nor would he get the chance, he berated himself
silently, if they started scheming already against each other. Their only hope
of surviving this was if they trusted one another, as the pirate suggested,
focusing their full faith and efforts against their common enemy. He had little
choice but to assume Raven believed the same.
Shrugging aside his lingering doubts, he peered with
the pirate around the corners of this newest intersection. Their tunnel had run
headlong into another, which forked off to the left and right at rounded
angles. To the right, low-burning torches flickered in their sconces,
illuminating an open portal in the far side of the curving hall a few paces
down. To the left was blackness.
Raven pointed, indicating the empty doorway. They had
encountered a dubious lack of guardsmen in their travels; those whom they had
spied had been easy to avoid. The same was true here, which caused Torin's skin
to prickle. By the look on Raven's face, the man shared his discomfort. This
is it, the eyes seemed to say. A warning, a plea, a question. Torin took a
deep breath, and nodded.
They turned the corner as they had most others, back
to back, to guard against ambush. Raven scooted ahead, Torin watching the rear.
Even so, he knew when they had reached the doorway, for his companion stopped
and coiled, as if braced for attack.
Torin spun quickly to get his own look of the room. It
was a windowless chamber, round and spacious, lit by a scattered array of
braziers. Like most of what they had seen, its construction appeared both
natural and man-made. While the floor was paved, the walls and ceiling were of
raw stone. A swirling pattern dominated the center, four or five paces in
diameter, gouged into the earth. Around it was gathered a brood of crumbled
statuary, overgrown with lichen.
He couldn't be sure how much of this Raven saw, for
the pirate's attention was drawn at once to one of the statues to their left,
an altar in the shape of a spitting gargoyle. A woman, blindfolded and gagged,
was pilloried to this sculpture, locked at the wrists, her hands jutting from
the creature's empty eye sockets. Despite being unable to see, she turned her
head in their direction.
Autumn.
Raven spared a quick glance to either side before
rushing to her. Torin was more thorough in his search, bending his knees and
casting about as if the roof were threatening to collapse. He half expected
Soric to materialize before his eyes, but the wizard was nowhere in sight.
"The Sword," Raven said as he reached the
strange altar. Autumn remained inexplicably calm, making no effort to speak
through her gag or to squirm against her stocks. Then Torin saw what he had
missed before. Before him was a pedestal, at the edge of the circular floor pattern,
almost directly across from Autumn's position. The pedestal faced out over the
circle like a lectern. Midway up, on a ledge of the plinth at the base of the
pedestal, on the side opposite the would-be speaker, lay the box containing
the Sword.
A caterpillar of warning inched across Torin's neck,
and he renewed his desperate scan for hidden occupants. It was clear enough
what was happening. He was a wild animal sniffing at the bait of a hunter's
trap. The smart thing would be to turn tail and scamper as quickly as he could
from this place.
Or was it? They were in the wizard's house, and would
have to play this by his rules. Torin had known that much coming in. And all of
their feeble posturing had done nothing to change it.
"What are you waiting for?" Raven snapped,
fumbling with the statue, searching for a trigger or latch that would spring
the clap-piece holding Autumn in place.
Torin shook his head. Ignoring for lack of options his
own better judgment, he stepped toward the pedestal, eyes darting. Raven,
meanwhile, had given up on figuring out the statue, and reached instead for the
gag roped around Autumn's mouth. Whatever the knot, it melted beneath the
rogue's skilled fingers.
"Close your eyes," the woman said at once.
"What?" The pirate blinked in bewilderment.
"Autumn, how do we get you out of this?"
He slipped off her blindfold. Doing so sparked an explosive
pop, as a scintillating flameburst erupted from the flat head of the statue.
Autumn's exposed lids were already clenched, but Raven scarcely had time to
cry out. Torin, who had been watching the pair as he crept toward Sword and
pedestal, threw an arm up to shield himself from the blast. An intense glare
flashed across the chamber, consuming gloom and shadow, then flickered and was
gone.
Torin let his arm down slowly. Raven was staggering
about, arms flailing as if warding off a swarm of locusts. Then the pirate's legs
failed him completely, and he crumpled to a seat on the stone floor.
A flutter of movement from the opposite edge of the
room stole Torin's attention, and he whirled in its direction. From the depths
of a hidden alcove stepped Soric, yellow eyes agleam.
Torin's own eyes snapped back to the Sword box, and before
he could rethink his decision, he lunged. A crack echoed as the wizard's staff
butted the earth, causing the ground around the box to glitter. Torin saw it,
but by then was a slave to his own momentum. As his foot came in contact with
the suddenly glowing sands that lay sprinkled about, once-solid rock became as
mud, swallowing his leg halfway to the knee.
It hardened as quickly, clamping down and causing him
to pitch forward with an agonizing wrench of muscle and bone. He was able to
recover, thrusting out with his hands and shoving himself mostly upright, but
he found himself trapped within the outer rings of the circle, stuck at a
sprinter's angle, with the box mere inches from his extended reach. He yanked
and twisted, but the sands' glow had faded, and the stone held fast.
The wizard laughed. "Gnaw through it, if you
wish, dear brother. The mount will sooner crumble than release its hold."
Torin spat and wheezed, desperation overcoming him in
waves. He strained again for the Sword, tugging at his anchor, but the weapon
remained out of reach. His eyes flew then to the exit, a reflexive response, to
find it blocked by the familiar form of an assassin's shadow. "So let it
end between us," Soric hissed, "once and for all."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Back Table of Contents Next
Kell's muscles burned. Though strong winds
and a misty rain numbed his already sodden skin, they couldn't reach the flames
that consumed him from within.
Still he rowed, driven by his fear. The pain of weary
muscles would heal, but not if he failed to make his escape. The trio of
longboats that had flushed him from the secret harbor maintained their pursuit.
Unable to close distance with their oars, they had taken to firing upon him
with their crossbows. Kell ducked and twisted to avoid the attacks, but had
refused to slow, trusting to the shield of his boat's stern and the protection
of whatever gods he hadn't alienated long ago.
The wind and weather aided him in this regard. His
foes were shooting while standing in a boat, with both bowmen and target being
tossed by the swells. In addition, when one man decided to fire, that left the
other to take up his oar, so even when Kell was forced to drop his, the enemy
gained no ground. Best of all, his hunters seemed to be treating it all mostly
as sport, pausing to laugh and jeer whenever they came close.
Nevertheless, it was but a matter of time before his
luck ran dry and a quarrel found its mark. This much Kell understood clearly,
and it spurred him on with desperate strokes.
But even desperation had its limits. He'd been edging
north along the eastern shore of the isle for better than ten minutes, he
guessed, and still no sign of the Squall. Worse his pursuers appeared at
last to be showing signs of com-petence, coordinating their chase so that while
one or two boats kept him pinned with fire, the others concentrated on moving
in. And the closer they came, the more tenuous his predicament grew.
At last he realized that he could go no farther under
these circumstances. He cast about frantically, wondering what he might do to
alter his fortunes. The sea was of no help. Were he to lunge overboard, as
tired as he was, it would swallow him with scarcely a gulp. Yet if he were to
stop and throw his hands in the air, he might only be filled with crossbow quarrels
before ending up the same.
A crash of waves against rock triggered a desperate hope.
Looking over his right shoulder, he spied a smattering of clifflike formations
jutting from the water, broken apart from the main isle. They reminded him of
tombstones in a poorly-tended graveyard. The ocean slapped and churned around
their base, spewing foam with an angry roar. To approach would be to risk being
splintered against their jagged sides. And yet, if he could slide his craft
among them, he just might be able to lose himself in their mammoth shadows.
When a crossbow bolt slammed into the haft of his oar
just above his hand, Kell decided it was worth the risk. Dragging the right,
he pulled hard with the left, digging a tight turn toward the isle's surf. Once
again, he managed to catch a wave just right, its surging crest helping to
speed him away from his would-be captors. Another bolt whistled wide. Kell
glanced back to check his markers, biting down on a muttered oath.
More than once, his arms threatened to give out on
him, like flaming driftwood on the verge of crumbling into embers. He bent at
the waist, redistributing the weight of each pull as best he could among back,
shoulders, and limbs. Though he yearned to succumb, he denied his muscles' dire
need, fearing that to take even a moment's rest would make it his last.
His breath was sawing in and out by the time he
reached the shadow of the first rock. Its craggy skin glistened with spray,
obsidian in the moonlit darkness. For a moment, as its sharp mass loomed
menacingly above him, he was convinced he'd made a mistake.
Then he glanced up and saw that the others had eased
off, betraying their hesitation. Kell savored a reckless sneer, even as he
fought against waves that threatened now to dash him against the fortified
shoreline. He had just about cleared the corner. Already, two of the pursuing
longboats were blocked from view by the giant rock's rugged outline.
Before the same could be said of the third, the
vessel's crossbowman loosed a final shot, catching Kell square in the shoulder.
His cry was lost to the wind as his left arm went limp as wet sea grass. His
oar dropped, an eddy seized him, and he spun wildly out of control.
He tried to recover, but his wounded arm would not respond,
lifeless save for the stabbing waves of pain. Nor was there any use, he soon
realized, in trying to steer his vessel with one oar. He was at the mercy of
the ocean or that of his tormenters—whichever claimed him first.
Up and down the tide took him, twisting him this way
and that. Sneaker waves crashed in over the gunwale, sweeping him from his seat
and into the bottom of the boat. Freezing water sloshed and roiled around him.
When he tried to breathe, he coughed and sputtered on a mouthful of brackish
foam. Roving seabirds screamed overhead. Among this garden of cliffs, this
close to the jagged shore, he was as good as dead. ,
He managed to right himself, clinging to a bench and
using it for leverage. Peering over his prow, he saw those of the other boats,
headed straight for him. They had lit their lanterns, which bobbed and
flickered, but glowed brightly enough in the coastal brume. Kell's eyes,
however, had begun to lose focus. He couldn't tell how far off they might be.
Then the lanterns began to flash—a series of signals
that Kell recognized. He squinted, shivering uncontrollably, as the signal was
taken up farther away and relayed once again. A moment later he stiffened, as
the silhouette of a large vessel cleared the edge of another of the tombstone
rock formations. At first he thought it to be the nose of Madrach's carrack,
set sail from its underground lair. But then a shaft of starlight spilled
through the cloud cover to illuminate the figurehead of a bloody raven, its
wings outspread in flight. Kell smiled against thickening waves of pain. Not
even another sneaker wave could wipe it from his face. When he came up this
time, his boat had been turned around once more, to face the direction from
which he'd come, where the first of his pursuers were only now coming around
the rock. He twisted the other way. The Squall and her lookouts
remained, the most blessed sight he'd ever seen, emerging from their place of
hiding and bearing toward him on a swift wind. Without thinking, he reached up
with his one good arm and gave his mates an emphatic wave.
Then the ocean surged up beneath him, catching his hapless
vessel at an odd angle, flipping him over and into the sea.
*****
Torin's gaze swept like an animal's around the
chamber. From her altar, Autumn studied him in silence, while behind the
mysterious woman, Raven blinked and rubbed his eyes in obvious dismay.
Talyzar's dark form hovered in the doorway, blocking any hope of escape—even
if Torin were to break free from where his leg was rooted to the floor. And
then there was Soric, who stepped forward to loom over him like a hooded
executioner.
He struggled until the wizard's shadow covered him,
then forced himself to return the other's gaze boldly. A tight smirk strained
the corners of Soric's mouth, seeming to mock his struggles, while the gimlet
eyes shone with anything but mirth.
His brother surprised him by stepping past without a
word toward the disoriented Raven. The pirate had come to his hands and knees,
but was groping about like a blind man. As if sensing the wizard's approach, he
froze suddenly.
"Our games are ended, Captain," Soric said.
"Time now to make your choice."
Raven spat in the direction of the voice, striking the
ground at the wizard's feet.
"Your fire is admirable, but misguided. We need
not be adversaries."
"Then free her," Raven growled. "And
let you and I be rid of each other."
"Too late for that, I'm afraid." Soric
turned to Autumn, who, to Torin's continuing wonderment, did not shy as he
cupped her chin in his hand. "Like you, she has sparked my interest. I
will make use of her as I will of you, one way or another."
Raven made a lunge from his knees, reaching out as if
to wrap the wizard by the legs and tackle him to the ground. But while his aim
was true, Soric calmly stepped aside, leaving the pirate to bash himself
against the stone of Autumn's gargoyle statue, where he crumpled at its base.
"You will serve me," the wizard
declared. "Willingly or otherwise. The only difference will be your
reward. Be it unbridled wealth and freedom," he said, gesturing toward the
assassin in the doorway, "or pain."
With that, he reached down to snag the pirate by the
chin, using thumb and forefinger like a barbed hook. Raven fought with clenched
teeth, but was drawn steadily to his feet. When he reached forth to grapple
against the hold, Soric merely twitched, sending an invisible jolt through the
captain's body that snapped his arms out wide.
Rigid with pain and defiance, Raven was nevertheless
helpless as Soric led him to a sculpture much like Autumn's. There the wizard
raised the hand holding his staff. As if attached by strings, the crest of the
statue's head lifted straight up with a dull scrape, exposing the deep prongs
on either end that rooted it like a tooth into position. With another jolt,
Soric forced Raven's wrists out straight and into the cups of the empty eye
sockets, then dropped the lid of the pillory shut once more.
With the pirate secured, the wizard drew a gleaming
knife from his belt. "As proof, you will first help me to dispose of this,
the last thorn of betrayal in the circle of my crown."
"Let them go, Soric," Torin snarled,
addressing his brother by name for the first time. "They've nothing to do
with us."
"My preference as well," the wizard replied,
scowling at the blind Raven, who flapped at his stocks. "I had hoped to
use their shipmates for this purpose, or soldiers of my own. But a horse must
be broken before it can be ridden."
With deft swiftness, he slid his blade across the
bottom of Raven's wrists, forced downward before him. The pirate thrashed and
wailed, more in fury than in pain. Blood pulsed from the wounds, catching in a
trough of the gargoyle's snout. A moment later, it emptied in a trickle through
the creature's mouth, a tiny rivulet beginning to flow.
"Yes," Soric hissed in Raven's ear.
"Fight it. The more you struggle, the greater my strength and control."
Raven turned purple with strain, veins bulging from
neck and face as he twisted and clenched as if to tear the wizard to pieces. As
he did so, Torin watched the flow of blood drip from the altar and into the
grooves of the swirled pattern carved upon the floor. His eyes widened as the
entire design began to emit a faint glow.
"Your stubborn refusal condemns not only
yourself," the wizard reminded the flailing pirate, "but your flower
as well." He stepped toward Autumn, presenting the knife and the trace of
blood along its edge.
Torin felt his own fury rising, and jerked again at
the mountain rock that held him trapped. He leaned out for the box containing
the Sword, but was no closer to reaching it than before. Forced to admit defeat
on a physical front, he looked back to Autumn, whose calm gaze seemed to sap a
measure of the wizard's thunder. Then the dagger found its mark.
"No!" Torin shouted, as the blood slipped
from her wrists. The woman herself uttered not so much as a whimper. "Damn
you, Soric! What do you want of me?"
The wizard was held captive a moment longer by Autumn's
glittering, amethyst gaze, then turned toward Torin, wiping the blood from his
knife.
"Want?" he echoed. "Desire is for the
weak, a craving by those who have not. Look around you, brother, at this keep
that has become my home. Rough it may appear, but within its vaults lie
treasures beyond compare—not only the metals and gems used to purchase men's
allegiance, but ancient knowledge, a limitless store of tomes and scrolls and
artifacts of unspeakable power. I alone was chosen to unravel their secrets,
to inherit command of natural energies one like
you can scarcely begin to fathom. There is nothing for
which I want. Nothing I cannot have."
Torin looked to where Autumn's blood now met Raven's
upon the floor. The glow of the strange pattern deepened.
"But there is a stark difference," the
wizard continued, striding over to leer down at him, "a chasm between
desire and demand. Destiny grants us opportunities, nothing more. The rest is
up to us, to claim or leave behind for one of stronger will. I have sacrificed
half my life in pursuit of a legacy to which I was born. And I shall be damned
indeed before I watch the fruits of my labors be enjoyed by one to whom
everything has been so freely given."
"And what is it you think I've been given?"
"Everything!" Soric gnashed.
"Everything that by natural order should have been mine."
"Love," said Autumn suddenly, and both men
turned. "Nurturing. I pity you, wizard, the envy you bear."
Soric's eyes narrowed. "Envy?"
"Had you received the attention and support your
brother did, everything he has achieved—the joy and recognition:— might instead
be yours. Worse, he does not enjoy what fame and glory are his, while you crave
it. Is that not what this is about?"
The wizard sneered. "He is the younger son, is he
not? What right has he to the blessings of the first?" When Autumn did
not respond, he scoffed. "Either way, you may keep your pity. Were it not
for my actions against our father, this whelp would never have been born.
Everything he has is due to me."
Though his mind remained addled with hopeless thoughts
of escape, Torin could not help but acknowledge the truth of his brother's
words. Queen Ellebe had told him as much, that he'd been conceived only after
Soric's banishment, to secure a monarchy bereft of an heir. Whatever else the
wizard chose to believe, Torin did, in essence, owe the man for his very
existence.
He looked up, feeling the heat of his brother's glare.
"In return, he would take that which remains to
me, that which I have earned by right of birth and toil. Speak all you will of
envy and desire. I speak only of demand. Demand for the fealty owed me. Demand
that a thief be punished. That, my dear flower, is what this is
about."
Torin waited for Autumn to raise another argument, as
he was out of his own. But the woman only stared at him, her head tilted to one
side, her expression unreadable.
As if their silence marked a grim victory, Soric
snorted and walked away, coming to a stop on the other side of the pedestal.
There he peered down at a disc-shaped tablet Torin hadn't noticed before. With
a crooked finger, he began tracing spherical patterns upon its stone surface.
Suddenly, the circle beneath Torin started to vent, trailers of mist wafting
from its furrows.
At the same time, the air within the chamber began to
hum and crackle, alive with mystical energy. Torin's gaze flicked to Talyzar,
to Autumn, to Raven—all of whom appeared to be at the mercy of the wizard.
"And now, my brother, we see to your fate."
Kell coughed, spewing seawater from his lungs. The
salty fluid tasted like bile and burned like acid, but then air—wondrous
air—filled his chest once more. He sucked it down in ragged gulps, while a
powerful hand slapped his back in encouragement.
"Spit it out, mate. There's a good lad."
Kell reached up to ward off the enthusiastic pounding,
which sent waves of agony through a stinging shoulder. He glanced about, his
eyes slowly regaining focus. He was in a skiff—not that stolen from the
wizard's harbor, but one of those belonging to the Raven's Squall.
"Welcome back, my friend," said another of
his mates, at whom he could only manage to stare.
"Boy doesn't know head from tail," replied a
third, and a snicker passed through the boat.
"Cap'n!" Kell wheezed, clutching at the bolt
lodged in his shoulder. "Black Spar! They need help."
"Settle down, mate. Let's catch your breath
first."
But it was all coming back now. Amid painful coughs
and the bucking of their little vessel on the choppy waves, Kell righted
himself. "We've got to get to the Squall. Raven's orders."
"She's a mite busy just now, mate. Take a
look."
Kell squinted along the line of the other's
outstretched arm. The longboats that had pursued him were rowing desperately
toward shore, seeking the shelter of the reef. Closing fast was the Squall,
her deck firing away with ballistae and catapults. Though trapped at the
edge of the shoal, she was not letting them get away.
The half-drowned pirate found his smile as the first of
the boats was struck by an iron ball that bit off its stern and launched the
mercenary in its prow screaming into the air. While pulling frantically away
from its doomed comrade, another of the enemy boats was seized by a wave and
dashed against a coastal outcrop, where it crumbled into splinters.
The last looked for a moment like it might actually
get away, but then a volley of spears caught its oarsmen through the chest and
stomach. It carried on, dead men aboard, steered by the sea.
As her firing ceased, the Squall heaved to,
waiting for her longboats to return. Kell turned to Brack, the burly boatswain
who had slapped the breath back into his lungs, and shared with him a roguish
grin.
"Hurry, mate," he said through chattering
teeth. "We've a bigger fish to reel in."
"Yeah?" Brack asked. "What might that
be?"
"One of the largest carracks I ever saw, nested
in the wizard's harbor, captained by one Madrach."
Brack's grin vanished. The man had lost his favorite
tooth and three fingers from his left hand during Madrach's attempted mutiny
four years earlier. To Kell's knowledge, not a day had since passed in which he
had not grumbled about a chance to even the score.
"Captain gave us permission to take him
down," he added.
"You heard the man!" Brack roared to his
oarsmen. "Back to the Squalll Faster!"
Kell shivered as the wind whipped through his soaked
body. Brack tossed him a blanket of coarse wool, fetched from the storage
locker beneath his bench seat. Clutching its folds about his neck in a
blue-fingered fist, Kell sat facing out over the prow. Perhaps he should have
lied to save his own skin—told them he was the last and urged them away with
due haste. The Squall was still hurting from her fight a week ago, and
Madrach's ship posed a much more lethal challenge than a handful of longboats.
He hadn't gone through all that he had just so narrowly survived to plunge
headlong into a serpent's hollow.
Then again, he hadn't come so far in his duty only to
fail his beleaguered mates now.
The winds blew and the boat rocked, and Kell hoped he
was not already too late.
CHAPTER NINETEEN Back Table of Contents Next
"I knew early on," Soric said,
"what was to become of you."
Torin was only half listening. Whatever his brother
had planned for him, he wanted no part of it. His mind raced, trying to come
up with something, anything, to extricate himself from this before it was too
late. But strive as he might, dipping over and again into his well of ideas,
the bucket kept coming back empty.
The wizard droned on, leaning upon his lectern like a
magistrate passing sentence. "Almost from the beginning, when I learned of
my mother's betrayal and her plans for you. I knew it would be something
special, a response worthy of the risk and planning she underwent to prepare
you for taking my role.
"As if to erase me," he snarled. "Like
some failed experiment."
His only hope, Torin decided, was to reason with the
wizard somehow. He couldn't tell if the man was gloating or venting. Either
way, it seemed clear that what he truly wished for was some form of
acknowledgment—an admission of guilt, perhaps. Otherwise, there would have
been no need for such theatrics.
"I, too, was betrayed," Torin blurted.
"Lied to from the beginning. The crimes of which you speak—we are victims,
one and the same."
Soric scowled. "Dare you compare your idyllic
village to the bowels of a slave ship? The embrace of a foster father to the
whips of those who barter in human flesh?"
Torin shrank from those flashing eyes, down into the
runner's stance forced by his foot being buried in the stone floor. The mist
from the circle swirled higher, brushing at his ears.
"The same? Hardly, my brother. Though you shall
taste soon enough what it means to be tormented, made outcast, while your world
goes on without you. While those who knew you speak your name only in guarded
whispers, as if it were better had you never been born. You would usurp my
existence? Then let you suffer for it, as I have. And let us see if you prove
strong enough, as I did, to return."
There were whispers in fact now, a voiceless
susurration rising out of the mists, swirling at the edge of the circle—like
the wind through the forest in the moments before a storm.
"Would you know how it happened?" Soric
taunted. "How I escaped our father's decree? Fate would not have it that I
live my life as a slave. I knew that much even while being led away in
shackles— Stay where you are, assassin."
Torin's gaze flew to the doorway, where Xarius Talyzar
had eased across the threshold and into the chamber. Although the wizard had
not even glanced in his direction, the assassin stopped in his tracks, pinned
in place by his master's outstretched hand,
"But destiny has a way of testing us," Soric
continued, "of preparing us for what is to come. So I realized when the
storm overtook us, and I washed ashore this lost isle. So I learned when I
crawled through the depths of this keep to discover the crypt of those who had
built it, those who had conducted their study of magic within.
"They were gone, but their treasure—and their
secrets-remained. Secrets I would one day reintroduce to this world. For years
I labored just to interpret the language in which the knowledge was recorded.
After that came the pain, of a kind you cannot comprehend, as I made their
findings my own and experimented with my newfound power. It shaped me as much
as I shaped it. But in the end, it was the magic that saved me, that made
possible my rebirth."
It was becoming more difficult to hear, let alone
focus on, the wizard's words. The whispers had given way to low,
sinister growls, and the thickening mist had begun to
spin more rapidly. He looked to Raven, slumped now against his altar—whether
alive or dead, Torin couldn't tell. Autumn was still alert, but was focused
upon Soric, as if it were her attention alone that kept him talking. Perhaps it
was, Torin thought, for the wizard was speaking to her as much as to him,
almost as if caught in some sort of trance. If only he could figure out what
all this time might buy him.
"Strange, the truth of magic," Soric said,
his yellow gaze clouding. "For it is no great secret, really. We are, each
of us, fashioned from the same universal energies. Such energy can be broken
into separate spheres, each a state of being, through which man can attune
himself to the natural flow of the universe and thereby manipulate its
component forces."
He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath. When he
opened them again, he stared directly at Torin, like a tutor addressing a
difficult student.
"Energy follows thought. To practice magic, one
must imagine it, feel it, make it real in his own mind. Focus hard enough, and
that which the wielder desires will become manifest. In the days when magic was
strong, some did so with words or tunes, some with artifacts or charms, some
with gestures or an absolute stillness of form. All are trappings, a means by
which to draw and aim one's focus in order to cast the desired manipulation of
energy."
Torin had heard enough. The growls had given way to
screams, a cacophony of agonized wails. The mist had become a vortex beneath
him, completely obscuring the circle at his feet. Its winds whipped about him,
scratching his flesh with dust and grit. Atop it all, he had to endure this
tirade from his brother, like something out of a poorly conceived mummer's
tale.
"Why are you telling me all of this?" he
shouted over the mounting gale.
The wizard smiled. "All? Dear brother, I might as
well give you a blade and tell you to put the sharp end in my belly. There's a
bit more to it than that, is there not?"
"Why don't we find out?" Torin snapped, his
eyes falling again to the Sword box, so painfully close to his grasp.
His brother's smile vanished. "I tell you this so
you know, brother, that your fate is nothing more, and nothing less, than what
I demand. A spell I have been perfecting ever since I returned to this keep. A
banishment, like that decreed for me. Only, I send you not to sea in the belly
of a ship, but into the Great Maelstrom, that churning tempest from which all
worlds are born. Within its fiery winds, you will be stripped of your mortal
shell, but your essence will remain, with an eternal understanding of your
punishment and a perfect recollection of he who cast you hither. Pain, my
brother, is all that shall stand between you and oblivion."
In response, Autumn's voice carried above the shrieking
tumult. "A dangerous game, wizard. To give vent to the Maelstrom is to
open a rift not easily contained."
The words were lost on Torin. He had never heard of
this Great Maelstrom. An old-world mythology, perhaps, pagan in its roots, from
before the enlightened age of the Ceilhigh. Even if it were true, as this
vortex might suggest, he was focused solely on what he knew: that if he did
not soon find a way to the Sword, he would not be long for this earth.
"The Sword!" he blurted. "It can still be yours!" Soric
wrested his gaze from Autumn and fixed it on Torin. "Do you think to bait
me, brother? The energy is in motion. You cannot stop it."
"But you can," Torin said. "And you will,
if you wish to lay claim to the true Sword of Asahiel."
The look the wizard gave him fell somewhere between fury
and amusement. "Are you telling me,
then, that the weapon I saw is not in this box?" He stepped around to
the other side of the pedestal and lifted the container from its perch.
"Look for yourself," Torin urged, clutching
a final shield of hope.
The wizard scowled in warning, but what more might the
man possibly do to him? Even so, Torin held his breath as Soric slid aside the
latch and opened the box.
Revealing, as Raven had claimed, the ordinary broadsword
within.
Fury was the clear winner now, flashing across the
wiz-
ard's face amid a terrific flickering of shadows cast
by the whirling mists. "What trickery is this?"
"Release these prisoners," Torin said,
nodding toward Raven and Autumn, "and perhaps I'll tell you what I did
with the real Sword."
Soric seemed on the verge of erupting, but, with an
obvious effort, regained control of his seething emotions. "It matters
not," he hissed through clenched teeth. "A trophy, and little more.
Like all else to which you've laid claim, the Sword was never yours to begin
with. It cannot save you now." Torin's feeble shield shattered and fell
away. "A look, perhaps?" Talyzar suggested. Torin wasn't even certain
he'd heard the man, but Soric snapped a hard gaze upon the other.
"Know you something of this?" the wizard
demanded. "As I recall, it was you who brought me the blade." The
assassin shook his head. "A suspicion. If I may?" Soric glared at his
servant, then at Torin, then back and forth between the two, as if attempting
to discern some form of subterfuge. Torin, meanwhile, could only frown uncertainly.
If Talyzar was working a ploy, it didn't include him. Finally, the wizard held
out the box, and the assassin came forward. Under his master's watchful eye,
Talyzar closed the lid and began feeling around the outside with one hand.
Again Torin held his breath, wondering what the assassin was up to.
After a moment of inspection, Talyzar froze, the
searching hand positioned near the bottom of the box. He tilted the box in
presentation, then opened the lid.
The Sword of Asahiel, along with the Pendant, gleamed
red in the darkness.
"Marvelous," Soric crowed. He turned to
Torin and his smile became cruel. "Although what I am about to show you is
no illusion."
Torin studied the assassin. Had Talyzar known, or
simply figured it out? But of course he knew, Torin fumed. He'd been spying on
them the entire time, betraying him to the wizard more than once already. Why
should this be any different?
"Step back, my shadow," the wizard bade his
servant. "You'll not want to stand too close."
Talyzar followed him around to the other side of the
pedestal, leaving Torin alone within his circle. It was like staring through
glass at an inverted funnel cloud, which waited to drag him in.
"Give my regards to the Great Fiend," Soric
said, "if ever you find the mercy of the Abyss."
He raised his palms out wide, then slapped them
together. The noise they made was like a thunderclap, and the roaring wind
shrilled suddenly louder.
Then it happened. One moment, the wizard was closing
his eyes, chin lowering as he muttered some sort of incantation. The earth
shuddered, and Torin glanced at the ground beneath him. When he looked up
again, the wizard's mouth was agape, his gaze fixed and staring.
The tip of the Crimson Sword extended from his chest.
Torin could barely see, his eyes squeezed tight
against the clawing winds. But he knew the telltale glow of the Sword, could
almost see the flames that licked along the part of the blade that was stuck in
his brother's body, illuminating the edges of the wound. Those within the tip
shone brightly.
Soric slowly turned, and the blade turned with him, so
that the hilt was now in Torin's view. Beyond stood Talyzar, the box tossed
aside, a pair of sabers at the ready.
"Traitor," the wizard croaked, choking on a
mouthful of blood.
The assassin stared back coldly. "We had a
bargain."
"You think you can kill me?"
"I already have," Talyzar assured him, eyes
narrowing like those of a viper.
But it was Soric who showed a viper's speed, lashing
out with one hand to seize the assassin by the throat. Talyzar put one blade in
the wizard's gut, while the other hacked at the arm that grabbed him. But
neither loosened the spellcaster's inhuman grip. The assassin's eyes bulged as
Soric shook him like a child's doll, breaking his hold on his blades.
A great fissure opened suddenly, cracking the chamber
down its center. An astonished Torin found his leg released
by the earth, and he flung himself to one side as the
entire vortex shifted away from him with a deafening rumble. Like shears
through wool, it carved a path through the pedestal that separated him from the
unexpected combatants, causing its sides to split and crumble away.
Soric pulled Talyzar's body close as the funnel
settled under them. "For an eternity shall I repay your treachery."
The invisible barrier shattered, and the storm was
upon them. Torin was scarcely able to overcome his shock, but did so to lunge
after the Sword. He could feel the winds engulf him. But when he clutched the
gleaming hilt protruding from his brother's back, and the Sword's warmth swept
through him, their tug slackened. After yanking the blade free, he tottered
upon a raging precipice as the vortex sucked and swirled, stripping cloth and
armor and flesh from the bones of those who vanished within.
But the storm did not disappear with the one to
unleash it; rather, it sent forth lightning streams that rent the earth and
widened at the edges, the threads of a great web that devoured all in a void of
whirring darkness. Clinging to the Sword, Torin found himself trapped on all
sides, with that darkness closing in.
Then a scream pierced the tumult. Autumn. Still alive,
doubtless horrified by what she saw.
But in the next few heartbeats, the storm seemed to
run out of breath and collapse under its own weight. Inch by inch, the earth
reclaimed its hold, like water rushing toward low ground. The black threads
withdrew; the snaking rifts closed. In a moment, the maelstrom had drained into
a tiny hole at the center of where Soric and Talyzar had stood, then evaporated
in a puff of mist. All that remained was the quaking and rolling of the
mountain beneath Torin's feet. Finally that, too, ceased.
When it was over, Torin blinked in stunned disbelief.
A few of the braziers remained, shedding meager light over what looked like a
charred landscape, with the last trailers of mist drifting upward from a floor
of black stone. His ears rang in the sudden stillness.
"Torin."
He spun at the sound, alarmed by the weakness in the
voice. Autumn, once again, draped upon the head of her altar.
His bounding steps carried him quickly to her side. He
set down the Sword, and, with both hands, heaved upward upon the head of the
altar the way he'd seen Soric raise the lid of Raven's stocks.
It wouldn't budge.
"Autumn," he said, picking up the Sword.
"Autumn, I'm going to cut you free. Will you trust me?"
She peered up at him with a half-formed smile. Even
now, her eyes sparkled.
"Keep your wrists down."
Pale-faced, she nodded. It would be amazing, he
thought, if she still had the strength to raise them. He stared at the line
between the altar's lid and base, visualizing his stroke. He then struck with
the Sword, ripping a path of fire along that line, just above her wrists. Cut
from its tusklike prongs, the sculpted slab of granite offered little
resistance as he shoved it aside, which enabled him then to assist the woman in
wriggling her hands from the cups.
He knew they would be unscathed by the blade, even before
he inspected them. What he did not anticipate was seeing that, somehow, the
blood spilling from her wrists had already begun to clot.
"Raven," she said.
Torin gave her hands a squeeze, to be sure she was all
right, before rushing to the pirate captain, who lay upon his altar like
crumpled linen. With a deep breath, Torin freed him as he had Autumn, then
helped the woman to lay him gently upon the ground.
"He's alive," Torin noted, though the
other's breathing was shallow. Nor had his blood congealed nearly as well as
Autumn's. Torin gave her a concerned look.
"Let me tend to him," she said.
"You're hurt too," he reminded her. "Lie
down. Let me help."
She refused the first part of his request, but made no
attempt to interfere as he cut strips from his shirt and used
them to stanch Raven's bleeding. Before he could
complete his work, however, his attention was stolen by the sound of booted
feet stamping near.
"Stay here," he said, snatching up the Sword
and running to guard the chamber entry.
He nearly cut the first newcomer in half before he
realized who it was. Looking like a drowned rat, with a crazed gleam in his
eyes and a crossbow bolt sticking from his shoulder, was the pirate Kell.
The man's eyes went wide as he caught sight of Torin,
and he skidded to such a sudden halt that he fell flat on his back to avoid the
glowing blade.
"Keel Haul!"
He reached quickly to help the other up, careful of
the rogue's shoulder.
"The captain?"
Torin nodded toward the chamber. "In there, with
Autumn. They're safe now, but badly hurt."
"Here! Over here!" Kell shouted back down
the corridor.
Torin ducked back inside. Within a few moments, Black
Spar, Pike, and others Torin didn't recognize had piled into the room. Spar, he
noticed, had taken two bolts in the chest, and suffered a gash that bled freely
down one arm. The first mate pushed past his comrades and glared down at Torin,
who warded Autumn as she tended to the unconscious Raven.
"The wizard?" the big man asked.
Torin shook his head. "Gone. As is the assassin.
What of Madrach? Is the keep secured?"
"It will be soon," Spar growled. "Just
rooting the last of the buggers out. Haul here brought in the Squall just
in time."
Torin glanced at Kell, then back to Autumn and Raven.
They had both lost so much blood. Too much, perhaps. "Can we get them to
the ship?"
"Pike, Sloop, see to the captain. Conger, Jib,
the lady. Everyone else, grab your blades and follow me."
Torin was the last to leave, pausing in the doorway to
look back on the scene of his brother's demise. He didn't believe for a moment
that Talyzar had intended to rescue him—any more than he had meant to
help arm the assassin with the killing blade. But whatever the villain's true
motives, Taly-zar had saved his life. He might even have felt grateful, were it
not for his horror at the overall result.
Only after stepping away did he remember the Pendant.
With a lurch in his stomach, he spun back, searching for the box, fearing that
it had been swallowed by the mystical maelstrom.
But no, there it lay, overturned upon the stone floor.
Torin rushed up to it and flipped it over. Concealed beneath its edges was the
flaming heartstone, aglow at the end of its silver chain.
He picked it up and dropped it over his neck,
breathing a sigh of relief. He then tucked the Stone beneath his shirt so that
its warmth touched his skin, and raced after the departing pack of pirates.
This time, he did not look back.
Within the hour, he was back aboard the Raven's
Squall— moored in an underground harbor next to the crippled, half-sunk
remains of a giant carrack. Given the condition of their own ship, it would be
some time before they were able to set sail. The wizard's mercenaries had all
been rounded up—the dead, the wounded, and those who had surrendered—along with
the members of his servant staff. The pirates not engaged in this were licking
their own wounds, or looting the keep. Torin wasn't certain that was wise,
prying through the vaults and cupboards of a wizard—even a slain one. But he
kept his reservations to himself.
He was helping Pike to bring down a tattered sail when
a hulking shadow fell over them. Torin looked up to find a moonlit Spar glaring
down at him.
"Captain wants to see you."
The first mate was bandaged but still bloody, his face
sweaty and drawn.
"Shouldn't you be resting?" Torin asked.
Spar grunted. "This way."
Torin trailed the other amidships, marching past the
hold in which he'd been locked away on his journey to this isle. A
sinking feeling accompanied him. Should Raven die now,
it was Spar's mercy he would be forced to rely upon.
The brutish first mate led him belowdecks to rap at a
cabin door. A husky voice bade them enter.
Spar held the door as Torin stepped inside. Raven lay
abed within, slurping at a flask that Autumn held to his lips.
"Torin!" Autumn squealed, and set the flask
aside. With a burst of energy, she flew across the cabin and gripped him in a
tight embrace. "Let us wed and have a thousand children!"
Torin stood rooted in place, his arms at his sides, a
flush of embarrassment warming his cheeks. He peered over the woman's shoulder
at Raven, who drew himself to a sitting position.
"Forgive my love's exuberance," the pirate
laughed. His blindness, it would seem, had passed. "What she means to say
is, thank you."
Autumn withdrew a step, her smile radiant. Amazingly,
her color had all but returned.
"I can't say as I did very much," Torin
admitted.
The woman arched a single delicate eyebrow. "You
came for me, didn't you?" .
Torin grimaced. "Your man didn't give me a great
deal of choice in the matter."
"No, but you might have left us there,"
Raven said. The skin of his face was ashen, with a waxlike sheen in the light
of an oil lamp hung from the ceiling.
"I suppose. But then, it would be a long swim to
get to where I need to go."
Autumn beamed. Raven snorted with laughter.
"We've been discussing that," said the
captain. "Autumn says that if it's the Finlorians you're looking for, your
best bet is to find and question Lord Lorre."
"Lord Lorre?" Torin asked, then stopped
abruptly. "Wait. How did you learn of—"
"Autumn heard it from the wizard."
Torin nodded slowly, peeking at the woman with quiet
suspicion. Autumn winked at him.
"Is this not so?" Raven asked.
Before Torin could answer, there was a commotion in
the hall. Spar, who still blocked the doorway, glanced out, then back to his
captain.
"Madrach, sir."
"Ah," Raven said. "Show him in."
Spar stepped aside and allowed a pair of captors to
drag a bound Madrach into the room. The mutineer-turned-mercenary was bleeding
at the mouth—where he was missing a front tooth—and from the stumps of three
severed fingers on his left hand.
"Well, well," Raven said, once he had looked
his brother over. "It would appear Brack got to him first."
"Not first, sir," Spar confessed. "But
he had his go."
The sagging mercenary drooled blood upon the floor.
Raven turned to Torin. "I wonder if we might
continue this later. I summoned both of you, but now that I've seen him, I'd
like to have a few words with my brother in private."
Torin nodded, and with a lingering glance at Autumn,
headed for the exit.
"Torin," Raven called.
"Yes, Captain?"
"Autumn filled me in on what happened in there.
If you're upset about your brother, I'm sorry."
Torin considered. He still had a lot of questions,
many of which, it now seemed, would never be answered. Aside from that, he
wasn't sure what to feel. "He fashioned his own noose."
"As do we all," Raven replied. He took another
drink and stared at Madrach. "As do we all."
Torin bowed and took his leave, heading above deck to
see where he might be needed.
Spar closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY Back Table of Contents Next
"Well?"
Allion's eyes lifted from the freshly delivered
parchment long enough to take in the stern angle of Rogun's brow. He would have
preferred to have read the message first in private, without the weight of the
other's demanding gaze. But Rogun's right hand, Commander Zain, had intercepted
King Thelin's emissary on the way in, and had seen to it that his general found
Allion at the same time as the Souari courier. At Rogun's urging, Alson's regent
hadn't even exited the hallway before unstoppering the scroll tube.
"It appears that Thelin has agreed to Darinor's
proposal for combating the Illysp," Allion replied, his eyes still scanning
the page.
"Impossible," Rogun said, looming closer.
For a moment, Allion thought the other meant to snatch
the scroll away and read it for himself. Had the regent any place to retreat,
he might have done so. As it was, he was backed against the wall of the stone
corridor, with a sudden understanding of how Torin must have felt all those
times the general had cornered him for one of these forced meetings.
"It remains for the Imperial Council to ratify
the decision," Allion continued, hiding his nervousness. "But nowhere
do I see objection from the king himself."
"Thelin would not be so foolish. Let me
see."
Allion whipped the paper aside, out of reach of the
general's grasping fist. "His list of concerns is as long as yours. But
it reads here that he has trust enough to follow Torin's lead."
"Torin is not here," growled Rogun.
"He acknowledges that," Allion went on,
pointing to a specific passage as he continued his hasty scan. In earlier
correspondence, he'd done the best he could to explain to the Souari king—as
well as to King Galdric of Atharvan and Nevik, baron of Drakmar—Torin's
absence. Nevik had already sent return word, expressing no small measure of
dismay. If Allion was reading correctly, Therm's response was more muted, but
no less heartfelt in its expression of both faith and concern. "He says that
if Torin chose to submit to Darinor's judgment in this, and that our governing
council has done the same, then he sees no reason as yet to suggest his
countrymen do otherwise."
"Madness!" Rogun roared. "Is that not
reason enough? Who is this man—this Darinor—that we should risk everything on
his word alone?"
Allion had no answer. Not a night had passed in which
he hadn't wondered the very same thing. He had half hoped that Thelin would in
fact devise an alternative to the renegade Entient's radical proposal. Alas,
with Thelin's acceptance, it seemed too late now to stem the other's tide of
reasoning.
"I am the only one who understands the enemy you
face," came the startling response.
Both Allion and Rogun looked up as the grim cloud that
was Darinor scudded toward them on the corridor's stale wind.
"You may heed my counsel and live," the
mystic said, his smoldering eyes boring holes in the rigid general, "or
ignore it and meet a fate worse than death. The more I hear of this ignorance,
the less I care."
Rogun's hand gripped the hilt of his sword. A reflex,
it seemed, more than anything else. Still, Allion did not want to risk being
caught between the two men in these tight quarters.
"Are you not the one, General, who has been
urging action in this matter?" he asked.
Rogun continued to glare at Darinor until the other
came to a stop—much too close for Allion's liking.
"As I've plainly stated," Rogun spat,
"the action this one suggests flies in the face of any military tactics
I've known. Leave our homes defenseless and trust the enemy to follow? I'd as
soon march into combat naked and trust my foe to strike only my shield and not
my exposed flesh."
"Then imagine you bear not a shield,"
Darinor countered "but a haunch of beef, and that your enemy is a starving
predator. Imagine further that your cities are filled with but scraps of leaf
and root. As the enemy, which would you go after first?"
"As a mindless predator, I would go after
whichever I came across."
A corner of Darinor's mouth turned up in a cruel smirk
"Then you have yet to understand the nature of your enemy. These are
rational creatures. To believe otherwise is to seal your fate."
"This is madness," Rogun repeated.
Once again, Allion tried to intervene.
"General—"
"Are you hearing this?" the chief commander
ripped into him. "I speak of shielding lives. He speaks of satisfying
hun-ger. Are we discussing war, or famine?"
"Both," Allion snapped, "if I
understand correctly." He met the gaze of each of his listeners in turn,
the pair of whom were caught off guard by his commanding tone.
It was Darinor who recovered first. "Is that a
response to one of your emissaries?" he asked, looking to the parchment
clutched in Allion's hands.
"It is," the regent acknowledged. "King
Thelin has agree to your course, and proposes we assemble our singular force
south of the Gaperon."
"Naturally," Rogun scoffed. "Where it
will shield his land entire, and ours not at all."
"He also indicates," Allion added with a
stern glare of his own, "that any and all refugees from our lands are
welcome at Souaris, and that if necessary, room will be made within other
Kuurian cities as well."
That seemed to disrupt Rogun's forthcoming outburst
giving Allion a surge of confidence until Darinor assailed him from the other
side.
"There is no need to send civilians south,"
he argued, his tone dismissive. "Doing so would waste time we do not have,
and expose many to unnecessary risk."
"You've assured us repeatedly that there's no
such danger to our civilian populace," Allion replied hastily, before
Rogun could formulate what he was sure would be a far less civil response.
"In their homes, beyond thought and sight,
yes," Darinor explained. "But to march them across the countryside
..." He shook his head. "You may as well herd a flock of sheep
through a pack of wolves."
"That's not what you would have had us believe up
until now," Rogun snarled.
Allion raised a hand to bid silence from the general,
but made no effort to mask his own frown.
"Never before has that suggestion been
raised," Darinor replied with ease. "Thus far, we have discussed
troop movement only, not that of those we must protect."
"It's a fair suggestion," Allion maintained,
not quite satisfied. "A reasonable option for those who wish it."
Again, Darinor shook his head. "Ordinarily, perhaps.
But in this instance, it is a fool's course."
Allion glanced at Rogun, who continued to glower.
"Is that not why I am here?" the Entient
demanded tersely. "To guide your actions against this enemy of which you
know so little? To warn of mistakes that could cost innocent lives? Either way,
I am through explaining myself to those who can scarcely comprehend the most
basic tasks assigned to them."
Allion pressed his ground. "I think we are
owed—"
"You forget yourself, young mortal," Darinor
interrupted, hissing through clenched teeth. Allion froze as the towering man
leaned over him. "My ancestors were beholden to an authority higher than
any you can understand. Do not presume to know what I owe, or to whom. Nor
should you mistake my charity for anything other than what it is."
Allion gulped. Even Rogun, he noticed, had eased down
a bit.
"I'm telling you now, and for the last time, if
you wish to buy
Torin the time he needs to repair the damage he has
caused, you must deploy now—to whatever location you desire. Your choice is not
whether you will face the Illychar, but where. Stall much longer,
and you will find yourself battling within the streets of this very city, among
your homes and your families. Is that what you desire?"
"What of Galdric?" Rogun asked. The fire had
gone out of him, leaving him to pout like a scolded child. "You claim mat
for your plan to work, all must participate. Yet we've no word from he who
commands Pentania's second-largest army. Should we not wait a few days longer?"
"The sooner we light our beacon, the sooner we
can draw our enemy—and allies to our cause."
For the first time since Allion had known the man,
Rogun seemed at a loss. It was clear he was not yet convinced. But it seemed
equally clear that this was not a debate they could win.
"I must still bring the matter before Thaddreus
and the Circle," Allion cautioned, seeking to salvage a measure of pride
for him and his general.
But Rogun, he realized, put no more stock in the
Circle than he did in this renegade Entient. Maybe less.
"The fools will do as you tell them," the
general muttered in disgust. His imperious gaze never left that of Darinor.
"If this is truly the course you would set fbr us, we may as well carry it
out." "The army is ready then?" the Entient asked. It was,
Allion knew. Despite his opposing stance, Rogun had been preparing his troops
for several days, ever since the council session during which Darinor's
proposal had first come to light.
- "Unless by miracle our regent here can talk
sense into our so-called Elders," the general rumbled, "we march at
dawn." He turned to Allion. "I'll not be holding my breath."
With that, he spun on a booted heel and spurred
himself down the corridor.
"I'm not sure he trusts you," Allion dared a
moment later, if only to break the uncomfortable silence left in the general's
wake.
Darinor snorted. "I don't need him to trust me.
Only to do as he's told."
"I'm not sure that I trust you."
The mystic regarded him without insult. "We'll
learn in the end, won't we?" He leaned forward, eyes glinting with
captured torchlight. "Until then, you defy me at your own peril."
Then he, too, headed down the hall, opposite the direction
Rogun had taken, and Allion was able to breathe once more.
"Inform your precious Circle," the Entient
called back without slowing. "By tomorrow, your city shall be empty of
soldiers. Your citizens will want to know why."
So will I, thought Allion. As
Darinor turned a corner, the regent looked back to the parchment in his hands,
rolling it shut with a heavy sigh. So will I.
The very next day, Rogun sat astride his favorite
steed, watching the road being churned to mud by the hooves and feet and wagon
wheels of his passing army. Ordinarily, it filled him with a grim sense of
pride to be on the march, to see those under his training and command venture
forth on campaign. To test his will and savvy against that of an enemy. It had
been a long time since he had done so beyond the walls of his city, and never
with his entire force arrayed before him. He was anything but pleased.
How could he be? He had been all but stripped of his
command, made puppet to another's will. It was one thing to ask a man to risk
his life in a maneuver the general believed in so strongly that he would wager
his own on its success. But to ask them to take that same risk on a course of
utter folly ...
It went against his every instinct, every bit of
learning to which he had dedicated his life. Yet here he was, on the road south
to assemble at the gateway of another's lands, while his own were under siege.
Trusting blindly that the enemy would not ransack what he'd left behind, but
would instead give chase—eschewing unguarded spoils for the fight itself.
He looked up as a company of pikemen trooped by in
loose formation. Each man saluted as he passed, and Rogun did so in turn. Stout
lads, these. Most were new recruits, pressed into service following the
slaughter that had befallen the regular army at the hands of the usurping
wizard. How long ago it all seemed, the general thought, as a windswept rain
beat upon his helm. A period that felt like years, but had in fact been a
matter of months. Scarcely enough time to rally a new defense force, let alone
offer its members proper training. What they lacked in skill, they accounted
for with pride, courage, and faith in he who led them. Their trusting smiles
cut Rogun to the bone. To say nothing of those back home, many of whom would be
incapable of defending themselves at all should the attack he feared come. The
only word they'd been given was that the army was venturing forth to flush the
recent scourge from their lands. Unsuspecting fools, they had bidden their
men-at-arms farewell with roses and banners and sweetmeats for the road. Rogun
had wanted to scream at them the truth.
They had not, of course, been left entirely
unprotected. Even the doe-eyed Allion and
There had to be another way, the general told himself
through gritted teeth, as he continued to survey and acknowledge those who
marched past in their various regiments. He had half a mind to impose his own
will, to ignore Darinor and use this force instead to march through and cleanse
his lands of these so-called Illychar. But doing so would make him an outlaw in
the eyes of Alson's rulers—pretenders though they might be. Thereafter, the
only way to escape a charge of treason would be to take the crown by force. He
was not yet prepared to do so. Not while Torin remained in such favor with King
Thelin, who, despite his losses in the War of the Demon Queen, was capable of
marshaling a force no less than twice—-and up to six times greater than—
Rogun's own. And comprised of seasoned warriors, at that. He felt his stallion
fidget restlessly beneath him, and gave it rein. The animal began working its
way north, opposite the flow of soldiers and supply carts, brushing aside the
tall grasses atop the embankment on which it strode. Krynwall's army carried on
like a river, hemmed in by the near slope and a forested ridge on the other
side. Rogun continued to monitor its rush, absently searching for the answer to
his
ongoing riddle.
When at last his horse stopped, tugging against its
reins in order to sniff at a patch of wet clover, the general's gaze fell upon
a rotted trunk that lay to one flank. Its sodden skin was in an advanced stage
of decay. An army of beetles swarmed its flesh, scuttling over and under the
softened edges. At least a score within, Rogun guessed, for every one without,
working their devastation from the inside, unseen by the birds and rodents
that might otherwise feast upon them.
And then it hit him. As suddenly as that, it became
clear what he must do. An idea only, still vague around the edges, but he knew
at once that it was the answer he'd been searching for, the best means by
which to execute his sworn duty. Carry it out, and he might yet earn the label
of traitor. But for the sake of his land and its people, that was a risk he
would have to take.
"Runner!" he barked.
The obedient herald, who had been shadowing him some
thirty paces off, galloped near.
"Sir!" He saluted sharply, fist to chest,
water dripping from his elbow in streams. "Vanguard relay. They are to set
a new course."
"Heading, sir?"
"South. We make for Drakmar."
The runner did not question the order, but gave
another salute. "Sir!" he acknowledged, then wheeled his horse
about. "And fetch me Commander Zain.!" "Yes, sir!"
Rogun glanced once more at the fallen log and its nest
of hidden beetles before gripping his reins. His headstrong mount resisted, but
only until his spurs bit into its flanks.
Pulling about, he started forward, gazing down again
upon his troops. Despite the
A charcoal sunset filled the western skies as Nevik
fixed his gaze on the northern horizon. A chill dread continued to stir within
the pit of his stomach, a sense that all was not right in the world. He tried
to dismiss it, but like a nagging child, it refused to go away.
He should have been used to it by now. Things had not
been right in his world for some time. Not since the wizard's invasion and the
death of his father, Baron Nohr, followed hard upon by the conquest of the
Demon Queen and her hordes of dragonspawn. Even after these enemies had been
vanquished and he had returned home to his father's lands, his life had seemed
a lonely and unfamiliar thing.
Only now, after months of working to repair what had
been ruined, to gather what had been scattered, had he begun to feel
comfortable once more. Like his king and friend, Torin, he was at last learning
to accepf his fate and to move on, filling his father's boots as best he could.
The timing, then, could not have been worse. First,
the marauding packs of creatures from ages past, growing bolder by the day in
these, the southern lands of Alson, as reports suggested they were everywhere
else. Second, the news of Torin's departure on a voyage of startling scope and
design, coupled with the story of what it was they were fighting. According to
Allion, of the many barons and liege lords and city governors throughout
Pentania, only he, King Thelin, and King Galdric had been given to know the
full truth of the Illysp threat. They who could be trusted to remain discreet,
and who would be relied upon most heavily to combat it. But how could he be
expected to wage war against a foe he wasn't even sure he believed in, with
just the sad remnants of his father's once proud army, while still protecting
that which he had been working so diligently to restore?
And now, word from his northern watchriders that
General Rogun was on his way, the entire army of Krynwall in tow.
His father, he knew, had always borne a grudging
admiration for the chief commander of Alson's principal military force. But
Nevik himself had spent weeks at Krynwall following the War of the Demon
Queen, having accompanied Torin there to help start the rebuilding process from
his nation's capital. There, he had seen for himself the animosity Rogun bore
for their king, the long-lost son of Sorl. Heard with his own ears the
general's demands that the crown be worn by someone better suited to the task.
Despite his father's opinion, Nevik wasn't certain Rogun had the country's
best interests at heart.
At last, the vanguard of Rogun's army crested the
hills fronting his castle home. Nevik tensed, but stood his ground, his retinue
at his sides. Against the protests of his advisors, the young baron had
insisted on greeting Rogun himself, before the general was even welcomed into
Drakmar's halls. He wondered now if he had made a mistake, for with the force
at his back, the chief commander need beg no such welcome. Should he desire, he
could simply trample the keep and its occupants into the ground.
Nevertheless, the baron remained where he was, more
than fifty paces out from the shadow of his gatehouse, whose portcullis he had
commanded remain open. He had no cause as of yet to expect hostility from his
guests—though it was possible Rogun had already overthrown Allion and the Circle
and come now to demand fealty from him.
With thunder beneath their hooves, a detachment of
horse came down from the main force, while the rest maintained their steady
march. Thirty in all, Nevik counted quickly. More than double his own numbers.
A spreading blot of ink against the rain-smeared backdrop. At their head,
flanked by a pair of standard-bearers, was Rogun himself, unmistakable in full
armor of blackest night. Its color matched that of his horse, a wild stallion
it was said no other could ride. Together they came, huffing and snorting like
something out of a youth's nightmare.
. '
When it seemed their pace must surely carry them
through
Nevik's line, and those who formed it had begun to
fidget on either side of him, the baron held his breath and watched the party
skid to a grinding halt in the wet earth. Horses tossed their heads, chomped at
their bits, and shook their dripping manes. At last, when all had settled,
Rogun reached up and raised his visored helm.
"Greetings, young baron."
Like his bladebreaker armor, the general's face was
full of deep clefts and sharp ridges, as rugged as mountain stone. With gloved
fingers, he combed the arms of his moustache, frowning as if a smile might
cause it all to crumble.
"And you, General," Nevik replied with a dip
of his head. "To Drakmar, I bid you welcome."
Nevik himself was a stout man—bearlike, some said,
though not so much as his father. He was not particularly tall,- however, and
felt even shorter as his guests remained on horseback. When he had finished his
bow, he looked to Rogun's right, where Commander Zain flashed him a weasel's
smile.
"To what do I owe this honor?" the baron
asked.
"I am bid deploy to Kuuria," the general
replied.
"A straighter road to which lies to the east,
unless I'm mistaken."
Rogun smirked briefly. His harsh features held.
"I am compelled to reject that order."
Nevik's stomach knotted. "On whose
authority?"
"My own, as chief commander of Krynwall's armies,
and. guardian of these lands."
As he had feared. The general turned rogue at last.
Nevik did well not to panic, and could only hope that his guard would obey his
earlier command to stand fast no matter what. Clearly, they could ill afford to
react with aggression.
"I have plans for Alson and its capital
city," Rogun admitted. "And those plans require your
involvement."
"Come inside then, and let us discuss—"
"I've had enough of discussion," the general
snapped. "I will have my way in this, by one means or another."
The hands of Nevik's soldiers went to the hafts of
their weapons.
"And should I refuse?" Nevik asked, his
heart hammering against its cage.
"Refusals are for requests, which this is
not."
"And yet you have rescinded, it seems, your own
orders."
Rogun regarded him silently for a moment, as if taking
measure of some quality hidden within.
"How fares Palladur?" the general asked.
The abrupt shift of focus caught Nevik off guard, and
those in his entourage glanced at one another uncertainly.
"As well as can be hoped, at last word," the
baron answered, while guarding his suspicions.
Before the wizard's invasion, Palladur and Drakmar,
Alson's two major baronies to the south, had been bitter rivals. Nevik's
father, Nohr, and Satallion, baron and self-proclaimed high lord of Palladur,
had long viewed each other as opponents for what had been believed to be an
heirless throne. This rivalry had come to a head when Nohr led a siege against
Krynwall to recapture it from the wizard, and Satallion had joined the battle
on the side of the enemy, in a gesture of supplication to the invading wizard.
The ensuing struggle had seen Nevik's father slain, and Drakmar's people driven
south to beg the protection of Kuuria.
Satallion, it was rumored, had been rewarded by the
wizard with a painful death.
Whatever the truth, the high lord had not been seen
again. Because of this, and due to the former baron's act of treason,
Palladur's lands had been offered to Drakmar once Torin had come to power.
Nevik had declined. Lording over his father's lands presented challenge enough.
He had no desire to complicate matters by trying to govern a people trained to
dislike any wearing the boar's head sigil. As a result, the southwestern barony
had fallen into the hands of one of Satallion's cousins—with the crown keeping
stem and watchful eye against any hint of fresh treason. Despite these and
other pressures, Palladur's new lord and Drakmar's had become friends and
compatriots, sharing plans and resources in a combined effort to restore their
broken lands and make the enmity of their father and cousin a thing of the
past. So what was Rogun hinting at by making mention of it now?
"You're a good man, Nevik," the general
offered at length. "You have your father's strength, and an uncommon forbearance.
I would make you my ally in this, rather than my enemy, But I must know now,
before I set foot within your walls, if I am to do so as friend or
conqueror."
A gusting wind rustled the curtains of rain between
them. Nevik suffered its chill within his joints and felt old beyond his years.
The last traces of daylight slipped away, leaving the world muted and gray. In
that drab, depthless void, he matched Rogun's unyielding gaze, before glancing
over to catch Zain's smirk.
The baron of Drakmar suppressed a heavy sigh, responding
instead with one of his father's scowls. "Then perhaps you should tell me
what it is you require."
CHAPTER TWENTY-0NE Back Table of Contents Next
A stiff wind filled the sails of the Raven's
Squall, pushing the vessel steadily south along the rugged shoreline. Standing
amidships, Torin watched the landscape slide by, a mist-shrouded procession of
cliffs, coves, and rocky beaches. The night before, there had been only the
endless expanse of the sea. But upon awaking that morning, there it was, as if
risen with the sun, his crossing of the great ocean come to an end.
They had been at sea only a day after setting forth
from the wizard's isle of Shattercove, with much deliberation as to their
course. Given Autumn's suggestion that he seek the one called Lord Lorre with
regard to the missing Finlorians, they had considered first dropping him off in
the northern port, of Kasseri—the closest on the eastern coast to Lorre's
homeland. But that would mean a westward trek through the passes of Serpent
Reach, said to be impenetrable this time of year. The only way across the
Besides, Raven had assured him, he would be more
likely to find a guide in Razorport than Kasseri. The latter was known
primarily as a shipbuilding town. Land tradesmen to be found there seldom traveled
farther west than the Splin-terwood. Razorport, however, was home to all sorts
of crazy rogues—maybe even someone mad enough to lead him to Lorre.
Torin was at the mercy of their word. Even after
studying their maps, he knew nothing as to the nature of this land's cities and
inhabitants. Nothing more substantial than rumor, anyway, and he was reluctant
to put much faith in that. After all, those same rumors held that the
Finlorians had long since disappeared, thus dooming his mission from the start.
So he listened to what the pirates had to tell him,
having no idea how much of it would prove useful, and wary of any preconceived
notions even their judgments might impart.
"Ready?" asked Raven, his approach marked by
the advance of confident footsteps upon the ship's decking.
Torin half turned to greet the other, amazed again at
how quickly blood had returned to the pirate captain's cheeks. His gaze
lingered only a moment, however, before shifting to the marauder's companion,
Autumn of the Rain. Even on this cloudy morn, her amethyst eyes shone round as
radiant moons, made all the brighter by that perpetual smile of private
amusement.
"Still a ways off, aren't we?" Torin asked.
Raven shook his head. "Aren't too many harbors
where this ship is welcome. Got a place farther south, but we'd be overshooting
your destination. Pike and Jib, they're prep-ping a boat to take you ashore. Be
a short hike, about half a league, to Razorport. If you hurry, might beat the
rains."
Torin looked back to where a ridge of dark clouds
peeked over the mountains like froth bubbling over a kettle's rim.
"Are you sure you wish to do this?" Raven
asked. "Not too late to change your mind."
"And do what?"
The pirate shrugged. "Go home to refit. Else stay
with us. We've always room for another lad such as yourself."
Torin surprised himself by not snorting at the offer.
At the moment, staring up at those looming peaks of an unfamiliar land, with
but a glimpse of the darkness awaiting him on the other side, he was more than
a little inclined to accept.
"Had I a choice, I would not have come this
far," he said. Again he found Autumn's smile, and was awed at what lay
beyond its mysterious depths: a warm mix of both innocence and wisdom—the
wonder of a child for whom the entire world was a toy.
"I'm sorry I cannot tell you more that might aid
you in your quest," Autumn said in that melodic voice of hers. "But
if any can tell you the fate of your, missing elves, it is
Torin nodded. In the time the pair had allowed him, he
had shared a rough account of that which threatened his homeland, and learned
a bit about the conflict that marred theirs. Though each claimed to have lived
outside that conflict, both knew enough to understand that it was the ambitions
of Lord Loire, self-proclaimed overlord of Yawacor, that had come to divide
their lands north from south.
Autumn reiterated this now.
"Approach him carefully, for many would accuse
him of a vicious temperament."
"He's a tyrant," Raven added, "who will
accord you no more than a tyrant's mercy. Beware."
"I will," Torin promised them. He took a
deep breath of the cold ocean air. "What about you? Where will you go
next?"
"Back to Grimhold," Raven admitted, "to
finish looting the wizard's keep."
"And Madrach? What will you do with him?"
"I've not decided. But I'm inclined to leave him
there, as master of his own isle. Not until I've gutted the place, mind you.
I've no desire to see him follow in your own brother's footsteps."
Torin winced at the notion, but held his feelings in
check.
"After that," the captain continued,
"perhaps I'll look to settle down as you suggested. Find me a life more
suitable for this maiden of mine."
"I wish you the best," Torin said. . "And you," Raven replied. "I
owe you everything."
"If ever you have need," added Autumn,
"of anything, call upon me, and I shall see it granted."
Torin nearly chuckled, but given the luster of the
woman's countenance, found that he did not disbelieve her promise. His stifled
laughter gave way to a bewildered smile. "I just may do that."
Autumn winked.
"Captain," a burly voice interrupted. All
three looked up as Black Spar tromped near. The first mate's wounds had been
dressed, but bled through their bandages, as he refused to take any unscheduled
rest. "Pike and Jib are ready."
"Thank you, mate," Raven responded,
dismissing the brutish sailor. Then to Torin, "Are you sure you'll have no
escort to Razorport? I hate to send you off alone. This is a dangerous
land."
"I'll manage," Torin assured him.
The pirate smirked. "I've no doubt you will,"
he said, offering his hand.
Torin looked at it, reminded of the risk in petting a
strange dog. He'd not forgotten that it was Raven's orders that had killed his
comrades. Then again, the marauder might have sent all aboard the Pirate's
Folly to a watery grave, and had instead let them be. So too, last night,
might he have taken back the Sword and Pendant and killed Torin in his sleep.
"I'll not soon forget you," Torin said,
eyeing Autumn as he gripped the other's outstretched hand.
The pirate clapped his shoulder. "Farewell, King
Torin."
"Farewell..." Torin hesitated, raising an
eyebrow. "Red Raven?"
The captain glanced around. "Karulos," he
confessed.
Torin grinned.
"When you get into town, visit the Gilded
Tankard. Ask the barkeep about a trapper named Hargenfeld. If he can't
guide you through the Cleft, he'll know who can."
"Hargenfeld," Torin repeated, then shifted
to accept Autumn's embrace. "You're certain this is what you want?"
The woman nodded, beaming. "Remember," she
whispered, "anything you wish. I am but a longing away."
Once more, Torin peered into her eyes, both captivated
and mystified all over again.
In the next moment, their vessel began to slow, and he
was led away. En route to his skiff, he accepted parting wishes from Keel Haul,
Mackerel, and a dozen others whom he didn't really know. Even Black Spar
grumbled a forced good-bye. Torin wasn't sure how to react to these unexpected
supporters, but did the best he could to acknowledge mem with due grace.
The valor of thieves, he thought,
recalling his brother's words.
Minutes later, he found himself alone upon a narrow
beach, waving back at Pike and Jib, and at those aboard the anchored Squall.
He then double-checked his possessions, most particularly the Sword
and Pendant, before turning his attention to the south, where a thin trail cut
a meandering swath between black waves to the east and wild, cliffside forest
to the west. A lone raindrop struck his nose, and he looked up to the dark
clouds that threatened now to escape the clutching peaks that held mem back.
With a determined breath, he started down the sandy
path.
Gusting winds and an uneven terrain sought to knock
him from his course. Gnarled roots and lunging growth, along with swirling
sands and roaring spray, made an easy hike much less so. At times, he found his
path completely eroded away, and was forced up into the brush or down into the
shallow surf. He crept across rockslides, ducked beneath low-hanging branches,
and clambered over fallen trunks wet with moss. Only once did he check to see
if the Squall was still there, out in the deep waters. All he saw was a
curtain of fog.
At last his trail cut through the forest to join an
actual roadway. Torin followed. By that time, he was already soaked through by
a driving rain. The woods offered moderate protection going forward, but the
damage had been done. Despite the warmth of Sword and Pendant, he was shivering
beneath his cloak when finally he came upon the outskirts of Razorport.
He was less than encouraged by the sight.
The forest fell away, receding up the mountain slopes
to the west. What remained was a collection of buildings loosely scattered or
tightly packed, each in all the wrong places. Everything had a sagging,
dilapidated look to it, drained of color—even the warm, earthen hues—leaving
behind a world of gray. Those he could see traveling the un-paved road ahead
did so beneath hooded robes, their faceless forms made ethereal by the rain and
mists, like battlefield ghosts trying to make their way home.
Burying himself deeper within the folds of his cloak,
Torin lowered his head and trudged forward, into the gloom.
Upon closer inspection, his surroundings fared no
better. Peeling layers of paint made a poor shield against the elements.
Wherever his gaze fell, there waited another sign of disrepair—rusting metals,
woods swollen and split, mortar seams grown over with lichen and moss. All, it
seemed, was dusted with sea salt. A battle against nature, he decided, and
nature was winning.
He paid scant attention to those he passed, except to
seek directions to the Gilded Tankard. The first ignored him, while the second
grunted and shook his head. A third crossed to the other side of the street.
Finally, a woman smelling of ale gave the name of a crossroad. Torin thanked
her and continued on his way.
The ocean's roar was ever present. That and the hammer
of rain drowned out any bustle. Torin scarcely heard the creak and rattle of a
cart that drove right past him. As he neared the area the woman had indicated,
he became distracted by his search for signs. The Wounded Gull. The Black
Heron. There seemed to be any number of inns and taverns, interspersed among
dealers offering the anticipated array of food, clothing, and trinkets. What he
hadn't anticipated was the limited number of patrons, causing him to wonder how
any of these shops managed to stay in business. By the looks of mings, many
didn't.
He was peering through the cracked remains of an
actual glass window, into what appeared to be an abandoned furrier shack, when
he was caught off guard by a sudden grunt and a pair of hands that shoved him
roughly to the muddy earth. As he reached back to halt his skid, he looked up
to see the man who sneered down at him.
"Out of my way, boy," the stranger snarled,
with a face like a dented hatchet.
Torin swallowed his anger. It was a bit early, he
thought, to be making enemies.
"My apologies," he mumbled, turning to pick
himself up.
A booted foot sent him down once more. "Keep them
apologies. Just watch where you're going."
Fighting the urge to straighten the ruffian's nose
with a driving fist, Torin kept an eye on his assailant this time as he arose
from the mud.
"Learned your lesson?" the man asked.
Torin glowered, but remained silent, avoiding the
other's gaze as he started past.
"Boy, I'm talking to you."
Torin spun as a powerful hand gripped his shoulder. A
knee came hard and fast toward his midsection. This time, he didn't hesitate,
but kicked out twice as fast to sweep the man from his remaining leg. The
stranger buckled, falling with a splash into a deep puddle.
The young king saw the rage in his opponent's eyes,
and braced himself for the man's charge. But rather than fling forward
recklessly, the ruffian surprised him by scrambling to his feet with a sputter
and putting greater distance between them.
"You'd best pray our paths don't cross
again," the man growled, gnashing his teeth in warning. He then turned and
hobbled off, down the dripping roadway:
Torin marked the coward's flight with a shake of his
head. Fine start he was off to. Would everyone he met in this land be as civil?
After watching to make sure the other did not spin around to put an arrow in
his back, Torin adjusted the fit of his cloak, shrugged into place the sack of
provisions Raven had supplied, and found his stride.
He focused on the touch of the Pendant against his
chest, and gripped the hilt of the Sword, trusting each to warn him of danger.
Even so, he tried not to be so easily distracted as
he moved ahead, for as he'd learned, their power could
not protect him from his own inattentions. Wary and watchful, he resumed his
search along the mostly empty street.
He had just about given up in favor of the nearest
shelter when he came at last upon the Gilded Tankard, its weather-beaten sign
all but unreadable. Its boisterous clamor gave him pause, reminding him of the
alehouse he had visited back home in Gammelost. Then again, at least this one
had a promising name.
Yet the Gilded Tankard was anything but—dimly lit,
poorly ventilated, reeking of smoke and drink and sweat. Less crowded than he
would have guessed, though, if judging by its noise. Most seemed to come from
a single table, off to the right, where more than a dozen men knotted round a
pair engaged in some manner of contest. He couldn't tell whether it was drink,
dice, or strength of arms. None held any interest for him.
Instead, he made his way toward the bar, built at an
angle in the northeast corner of the room. It was decorated primarily with
articles from the sea—nets and buoys, shells and driftwood, and the like—some
of which, Torin noticed, would make for excellent weapons in a brawl, such as
fish clubs and gaff hooks. Most were stained with use, though whether in a
former life at sea or right here in this room, he couldn't discern. He
wondered how often a man came here to drink only to leave blood—his or
another's—on the floor.
He sighted an empty stool, wedged between a bare-armed
figure with skeletal limbs and another so draped in heavy furs as to appear an
animal himself. Torin looked for another, but it seemed to be his only option.
Groaning inwardly, he moved to claim it.
No sooner had he sat down than the first man—the
scrawny one—turned on him with a sneer.
"Who told you to sit your dripping ass
there?"
Torin regarded the other through the corner of one
eye. A pimpled face hid behind an oily veil of long black hair, while curled
lips revealed a crooked set of browning teeth. Hoping the man might leave off
if his challenge were ignored, Torin turned away, motioning to the barkeep.
"Water, please."
The barkeep scowled.
"If it's water you want," said the larger
man to Torin's left, "try ordering an ale."
The barkeep snatched up the nearest tankard, but
paused to jab a meaty finger in the other's face. "Eat your slop 'fore I
shove it up your dunghole," he snapped, then turned to one of several
barrels lining his racks.
"I asked you a question," the scrawny man
spat, his fetid breath on Torin's cheek. "Or do I need to break that stool
over your head to get your attention?"
Torin gritted his teeth. He was beginning to think
he'd be better off seeking his answers from the orcs and trolls said to roam
these untamed lands.
"Ah, let him be, Tahnos," the fur-wearer
mumbled through a mouthful of food. Torin glanced over as the speaker's gaze
came away from the Sword's hilt, freshly disguised in leather wrappings and
tucked inside his cloak. "It's obvious he ain't interested in your
advances. Find yourself some other lass."
Tahnos sneered and took a drink.
"That was an insult to you," the big man
explained, giving Torin a nudge.
"I'll be offended in a moment," Torin
muttered, eyes forward as he accepted his drink. "My thanks," he
told the bar-keep.
As he lifted the cup to his lips, the barkeep's
massive hand slapped down upon the counter. "Hey, your thanks don't pay my
debts."
"You charge for water?" Torin asked, with a
half-turn to the open doorway and the sheets of rain cascading outside.
"Don't get smart, lad. There's only one drink
comes free 'round here, and that's to be found in my privy."
Again Tahnos snickered. Torin glared, unsure yet if he
was being had, before deciding his pride was of small issue here. Reaching into
the coin purse given him by Raven, he withdrew a silver half-piece and watched
the barkeep's eyes light up.
"I could do with some information as well,"
he said, holding back at the last instant.
An outburst of hails and jeers arose from those
competing in the corner. Money exchanged hands, a fresh contestant was brought
forth, and the process began anew.
The barkeep's scowl returned. "You pay for the
drink, then ask me what you want to know."
Torin started to withdraw, then dropped his coin to
the counter. The barkeep snatched it up on the second bounce. He examined it
under a lantern's flame before pocketing it in his apron with a smirk.
"Make it quick."
"Hargenfeld," Torin replied.
"Old Rags?" It was not the barkeep, but the
fur-wearer who responded, drawing Torin's attention.
"What about him?" the barkeep asked.
"I was told you'd know where I might find
him."
"And who told, you that?"
Torin started to answer, but thought better of it.
Raven had neglected to mention how word of his name might be received around
here. He'd led Torin to believe this was a lawless land, making slim the
possibility of arrest. Still, pirates had a way of making enemies, and he had
no intention of drawing Raven's to him.
"An acquaintance," he said finally. "Do
you know him or not?"
"Well as anyone, I'd guess," replied the
furs man. "And better than most."
Again Torin glanced the other's way, unsure now who he
should be speaking to. "Rumor is, he runs expeditions through the
mountains west."
The barkeep snorted, his smile cruel.
"Interesting rumor."
A man farther down the bar shouted for a refill. That
same request was taken up by the gang across the room. Sniffing out the greater
profit, the barkeep pushed himself away.
"Talk to this one then," he said, gesturing
toward the furs man. "I've customers to attend."
Perhaps I should give him my silver as well, Torin
thought snidely, but elected to forgo that argument.
As the barkeep trundled off, so too did the sneering
Tahnos, as if seeking better entertainment. That left Torin more or less alone
with the furs man, who licked his greasy fingers before offering Torin his
hand.
"Name's Gavrin," he offered with a grin.
"Friends call me Moss."
Though it was difficult to tell beneath that mountain
of furs, he appeared a portly man, only slightly less hunched than his garments
made him look. His hair was sandy in color, and ruffled as such. A cropped
beard, patchy below the ears, clung to his chin. The gleam in his cobalt eyes
hinted of a past steeped in mischief.
"Gavrin," Torin acknowledged, declining the
saliva-smeared hand. "I'm not looking to make friends."
"Too bad." The big man shrugged, without
offense. " 'Round here, friends can be useful." "How's
that?"
"Well," Gavrin said, scraping up a final
mouthful of what looked like mutton and potatoes, "first off, they can
watch your back."
"Or stab you in it."
Gavrin chuckled. "For a newcomer to these parts,
you seem to have grasped hold of things pretty quick." He swallowed his
bite with a swig from his mug. "It ain't companionship you're here for.
So what is it you want?"
Torin's response was automatic. "To conduct my
business " and return home as soon
as possible."
"Business, is it?" Gavrin looked him over.
"What kind?" "The kind I'd rather not discuss with the first
drunken stranger I meet."
"Well, that there would be Tahnos," Gavrin
replied, leaning back and pushing aside his empty plate. "So I guess you
ain't got nothing to worry about."
The man was disarming. Torin would give him that. But
the young king was not about to be taken in so easily. "You're looking for
something," Gavrin surmised. "Someone," Torin amended. "I
thought I'd made that plain."
"Rags," the other recalled, picking at his
teeth and giving a contemplative squint. "Was it him you needed? Or
a guide in general you're looking for?"
"A guide. But I was told he's the one to
ask."
"And where is it you're going?"
Another outburst from the corner. Some form of dice,
Torin now realized, as he watched one skitter to the floor, dancing away from
those who gave chase.
"If it's all the same, Gavrin, I think I'd prefer
to talk to Hargenfeld."
"Call me Moss. Gavrin was my father's name."
Upon Torin's look, he added quickly, "It don't have to make us
friends."
"Fine. Moss. Any chance you could take me to
him?"
Moss seemed to consider. "It would be my great
pleasure. Only, I don't think he can help you."
"No? And why is that?"
"Because the man's a ghost; that's why."
"What?" Torin frowned. "You're
sure?"
Moss snorted with laughter. "Now, boy, I may look
like a mule, and smell about the same, but I ain't dumb as one. Don't take no
sage to recognize a dead man."
"That's not what I meant."
"Buried him myself just last winter. Yep, I'm
sure."
Moss took a drink. Uncertain he should believe what he
was being told, Torin searched his own tankard as if the truth might be found
within.
"But me and Rags," Moss went on, "we
was associates. If it's a guide you need, look no further."
Torin studied the man, searching for any sign of a
lie. "You've crossed the Dragontails?"
"Crossed 'em? Shades of mercy, from east to west,
north to south, I've been all over."
"And what is it, exactly, that you do?"
"Hmm, now there's a question. I'm not one to
limit myself to any single talent, you see. I've been me a trapper, hunter,
merchant, scout, tracker, miner, explorer—"
"In other words, a rogue."
Moss flashed a toothy grin. "Born and raised,
right here in the Southland."
It was as Raven and Autumn had warned him. Wylddeor,
the Southland of Yawacor, had also been dubbed Land of the Rogues, having long
been home to a lawless rabble of independent, free-roving men and women whose
only common interest was a life free of moral and governmental restraint. There
were no rulers, and few towns—most of which were little more than trading camps
grown up around a handful of brave merchants, and which served the basic needs
of those who trekked this savage wilderness as packs and individuals. As a
whole, these people despised authority, using their freedom to cheat, steal,
and kill—whatever it took to get by. A man had to be fit, savvy, or downright
lucky to survive.
"Although," Moss added, lowering his voice
and leaning near, "I wouldn't go 'round calling everyone a rogue. Doesn't
bother me, you see, but these days, most prefer to be called Wylddeans."
"Wyl-what?"
"Wylddeans, the people of the Southland. Rogues
is what the Northlanders call us—among other things."
And then there was Lorrehaim, the Northland, domain of
Lord Lorre, who had been carving up the land for nearly two decades and
bringing it under his personal control. The man's armies were said to consist
not only of men, but of orcs, trolls, and giants—the dregs of these ancient
races. By all accounts, Lorre was a slave master. Those who lived under his
thumb believed in law and order, because to believe otherwise was to defy
their ruler. As a result, his people looked down upon their southern neighbors
as barbaric, uncivilized. Though such views might, Raven had suggested, have
more to do with envy of the freedoms these so-called rogues enjoyed.
"It don't make us a people, you see, in terms of
a nation, because we Wylddeans reject all such notions. Fundamental code of our
existence. But then, I can tell you all about that. If it's the Resistance
you're interested in, or—"
"I'm not interested in your resistance,"
Torin assured him. "Or your theories on how a people should or shouldn't
be ruled."
"Well, what are you interested in?"
Torin glanced toward the door as another troop of
angry-looking men entered the room, heading directly for the bar.
"I don't suppose we could finish this someplace a
little less public?"
"Sure. I keep me a cabin on the outskirts of town.
Buy me supper, and I'll answer any questions you have."
"You just finished eating."
Moss gripped his teeming waistline. "There's
always room for more."
Torin did not return the other's grin. The man
appeared harmless enough, but that was part of the problem. And yet, of those
he'd encountered, this was his most promising lead by far. When the leader of
the new pack shoved his way onto the stool vacated by Tahnos and claimed his
spot by stabbing a dagger into the top of the bar, Torin made up his mind.
After waiting for the new arrivals to receive their
first round, he gave Moss the go-ahead to order. A rack of seasoned beef, a
wedge of cheese, some day-old vegetables, a loaf of hard-baked bread, and a
cask of the barkeep's darkest ale were added to the tab. On top of mat, the
proprietor demanded from Torin a finder's fee for having introduced him to
Moss. Torin balked, but paid the requested amount, careful to do so in small
coins. He was quite conscious of those at the bar who looked on. Most, thankfully,
were more interested in the gaming going on across the room.
When finally the order had been put together, Moss
wrapped it up, bade those nearest him a pleasant and entertaining evening, and
swaggered from the room. Doing his best to ignore an array of feral stares and
crooked smiles, Torin followed after, into the rain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TW0 Back Table of Contents Next
Those rains continued without slackening as
Torin trudged westward along rutted avenues of mud in the wake of the rogue
named Moss. The weather alone was enough to make him second-guess his decision
to leave the tavern, but the big man's pace brooked no hesitation. He could
only hope that the damp and the chills would be the extent of his distress.
Moss, he noticed, wore no hood, and did not seem bothered
in the least.
"Does it always rain around here?" Torin
asked.
"Always," Moss replied, his lower lip
bulging with a wad of ground tobacco leaf. "You'll never see it snow
though. Not at these lower elevations anyway."
At last, Torin groaned inwardly, something
positive to look forward to.
"As I was saying," Moss added, resuming
their conversation from the tavern once they had left the last of the
ramshackle booths and buildings behind them and started up along a narrow
forest trail, "these days, anyone found roaming the Southland is
considered Wylddean—even an outlander such as yourself. Means 'Wild Ones.' Name
was first brought about by those who banded together at Neak-Thur to defend
against invaders from the north, but has since been adopted by everyone south
of the Bastion, since they prefer this to being called rogues, barbarians, or
outlaws—as they're known to Northlanders like Lorre."
"Lorre. Can you tell me about him?"
"Dragon's furrows, anyone could tell you about
Lorre."
"I'm asking you."
Moss turned to smirk at his surliness. "So you
are. But it don't do a man good to talk about him. Riles the blood. A villain,
sure as the rain. His subjects live only to serve him. The farther south he
gets, the less resistance he finds. Tough to organize a collective force among
those who care only about themselves. Rumors are, he's turned eye at last to
Neak-Thur, which has finally got folks down here startled enough that some are
suggesting action to slow his advance. As if the northern recruiters ain't been
preaching it for years."
The big man spat and shook his head. "But you
ain't interested in any of that, you said."
"He can have it all," Torin agreed.
"What I need to know is, how does one get in to see him?"
Moss laughed. "There's a notion!" But when
Torin failed to return his laughter, the big man stopped. "Now hold on.
You saying what I think you're saying?"
"My business is with Lord Lorre. I'm on my way to
see him."
Moss's ruddy face pinched with suspicion. "Who
are you?"
"Who I am is of no concern. But you owe me for
that food. So answer my question. Can you help me or not?"
The man looked to the bundle he carried as if
considering handing it back over. "You don't trust me."
"I don't know you," Torin clarified.
"And yet, you expect me to trust you."
"Your trust I'll have to earn. As you will mine.
That's how it works, in this land or any other."
Moss.chewed as if his tobacco had gone tasteless.
"Wise words. But if you're half as wise as you let on, you won't go
anywhere near Lord Lorre."
"You said if I needed a guide, to look no
further."
"That was before you made mention of the most
ruthless warlord in all of Yawacor."
"Are you saying now you can't help me?"
Moss turned to spit. "I'm already helping you, by
telling you it would mean your death and mine if we was to go anywhere near
that man."
Torin spun around and started back into town.
"Where are you going?"
"To start all over, it seems."
"If you and Lorre are allies—"
"We're not allies," Torin snapped.
"We're not enemies. The man is said to have information I need,
information that could save the lives of those back in my homeland, maybe even
your own. I've come a long way already, but I need someone who can take me
north, near enough to beg an audience with him. If that man isn't you, then my
search
continues." Moss considered him carefully.
"You've got quite a critter
gnawing at your withers, don't you?"
Torin frowned and turned away.
"Wait,"'Moss called. When finally Torin
rounded again, he found the big man shaking his head. "By grace, you may
be the least sociable fellow I've ever met. But at the moment, you're the only
company I've got."
"You'll take me north, then?"
"Now, I didn't say that. But I can get you
through the mountains, at least." . "Fair enough," Torin
agreed, taking a few return strides.
"For a price," Moss qualified, raising a
hand in due caution.
Torin returned the warning. "I don't have
much."
Moss chuckled. "If I believed that, we wouldn't
be here
now."
This time, Torin shared the man's amusement. "I
have no horse, and no possessions save those that fit in a single sack. What
makes you think I have money?"
Moss's smile turned predatory. "You came from
overseas, for one. That takes means. Your face is bruised and I've seen you
limp, so you've been in a scuffle of late. You come creeping into a tavern,
speaking the name of a guide known to peddle stolen wares, and seeking passage
west. That makes you a thief, I'm guessing. But then, that there's always a
safe bet, with or without the evidence. Then there's your sword."
Torin felt his own gaze narrow, recalling suddenly how
he had caught the other stealing a glimpse of the hidden blade back in the
tavern. "What about it?"
Again his companion chuckled. "That trick with
the leather bindings might fool thieves where you come from, but 'round here,
you might as well be carrying a golden scepter in plain view."
"So you think a leather-wrapped hilt makes me
wealthy."
Moss shrugged. "Men with nothing ain't got
nothing to hide. Stolen, or maybe not. Makes no difference to me."
"And were you planning on setting a price in
advance, or just looting me while I slept?"
"Now, now, ain't no cause for that. I won't say
the thought never crossed my mind, but if Lord Loire's in any way mixed up in
this, I'm keeping my hands to myself. I just want you to know that I ain't
fooled, and that if you want my help, it'll cost you a fair and reasonable
sum."
Torin smiled wryly. "All right, Gavrin. Name your
price."
"Twenty gildrons, plus rations and
supplies."
"I can pay you half that to take me clear to the
border. Neak-Thur."
The big man scoffed. "That there's a five-day
journey, and ten gildrons don't pay for that and the return trip."
"We'll discuss my return if and when I make it
that far."
Moss snickered. "I wasn't talking about your return.
I was talking about mine. Fifteen."
"Ten. Take it or leave it," Torin said firmly.
His companion scowled, rivers of rainwater washing
down his face.
"I'd offer more, but it would seem I spent too
much on supper."
The big man cracked a smile, but remained silent.
"Perhaps I should try my offer back in
town?" Torin suggested, with a half-turn down the trail.
"Oh, all right," Moss groaned. "I'll do
it for the ten."
"To Neak-Thur."
"Yes, yes, to Neak-Thur. But I want half up
front."
"You'll get two now, and another for every day of
completed travel."
Moss's jaw worked back and forth, sawing and sluicing
on his tobacco. "Deal. When would you want to leave?"
"How about now?"
But the rogue shook his head. "Would be tomorrow
at the earliest. I gather speed is of the essence?"
"It is."
"Won't nobody be following us, will there?
Looking to take back their property?" He cast about for the imagined
pursuers.
"No," Torin assured him. "Of that you
have my promise."
Moss squinted, as if determining what that might be
worth. "Bah, have to risk it, I guess. Even so, we'll need to equip for
the road, particularly the Cleft. If we wait to do so until we reach Latymir,
we'll end up paying twice as much, and will save no time either way. Might as
well do so here and now."
"What about horses?" Torin wanted to know.
"We can get those here, trade 'em in at Latymir.
That'll buy us a day. But ain't nothing but mules and mountain goats going to
make it through the pass this time of year."
"So we prepare tonight, set forth at dawn?"
"Dawn comes awful early," Moss grumbled,
then smirked at Torin's frown. "But dawn it is."
A fair compromise, Torin decided. Although he chafed
at the idea of spending one more moment than he had to on this forsaken
continent, he saw little to gain in questioning his new guide's every opinion.
"We'll be spending the night in town, then?"
he asked.
Moss snorted. "Only if you care to lose half the
night fighting off rats and brigands." He grinned jovially. Torin did not.
"Come," the rogue offered. "I'll show you my cabin. If it don't
look safe to you, we'll find you someplace else when we come back to make fit
for tomorrow."
Torin agreed, and so fell back into step alongside the
other.
A good half-mile farther on, they reached what Moss
claimed was one of several temporary shelters he kept throughout the Southland.
More shack than cabin, it was all but overgrown by the surrounding forest, with
a caving roof and walls that leaned dangerously down the slope to which it
clung. Before they reached its rotted stoop, Moss dashed ahead with a growl.
Torin's hand flew to the hilt of his weapon as the rogue bashed in the front
door, roaring like
a wild bear. The young king realized why a moment
later, when a family of five went racing out into the rain-slicked woods,
scattering in separate directions.
"Filthy buggers," Moss vented, reappearing
in the drooping doorway. "Can't turn my back but what they fill the place
like roaches. And stay out!" he shouted after the fleeing squatters.
It occurred to Torin to ask whose home this really
was, but it seemed already too late for that. Its former occupants might as
well have been startled deer. And Moss had already gone back inside.
Stepping in after, Torin made a quick and cautious
survey. The place appeared even smaller within than it had without, a
single-room affair consisting of a single large bed, closet, heating stove, and
a line of cupboards above and beneath a nicked counter. A stepstool was the
only other furniture, and creaked now beneath Moss's weight as the rogue
inspected the upper shelves. If it wasn't his place, then he had borrowed it
before, Torin decided, for he seemed to know his way around. Then again, Torin thought
with a second survey, how long might that take?
His host came down from the cupboard with a clay jar
from which he shook forth a small leather pouch. Finding it empty, he muttered
in angry disappointment. "Damn buggers." The rogue spied Torin looking
at him and shrugged. "Made off with my reserve coin stash."
"What of your travel supplies?" Torin asked.
"Surely you don't go around with just the furs On your back."
"I don't carry much. Keep places like this so I
don't have to." Moss sighed. "But yeah, I got me some of what you're
talking about. Stow it with my mule there in town at a livery stable. Costs to
have it held, but it's safer than leaving it to the vermin out here."
Torin nodded, withholding judgment.
"What do you think? Closet full of blankets
here—spun wool and fur. You'll be plenty warm, and more or less dry," Moss
said, taking a rusted kettle from the counter and moving it beneath a drip in
the ceiling. "We'd have to share the bed, but she's plenty big enough. You
ain't got lice, do you?"
Torin looked glumly at the arrangements.
"That be a yes or a no?"
"This will be fine," Torin said. "I'm
your guest, Gavrin."
"Moss," the big man reminded him. "Well
then, if you don't mind, I'll leave you here to guard the food while I head
back into town to set a few provisions for tomorrow. Any of them vermin come
skulking back, just shoo 'em off, you hear?"
Torin started to decline, preferring that he be there
for any "provisions" Moss intended to set, then decided otherwise. He
could use some time to himself, to rest comfortably, before standing guard all
night against whatever violent designs his host might have for him.
"Go on," he said to the rogue. "I'll be
here when you get back."
"Make yourself cozy. Be gone an hour or so. After
that, don't be shy about preparing some of that grub so it's ready when I get
back." Moss snickered. "Damn, it's like I went and found myself a
housewife," Then, before shutting the door, he added, "Don't fret.
You're safe with me. You'll see."
Surprisingly, the man proved good on his word. No one
troubled Torin while Moss was in town. Upon his return, they spent the evening
talking mostly of their plans for the westward trek. Torin did not sleep, but
that had more to do with his anxieties concerning those he'd left behind—Mari-sha,
Allion, Nevik, and others—than any he had for himself. With the Sword in hand
as he lay there, tucked in at the edge of the bed, listening to the endless
thrumming of rainfall, he feared no threat to his own well-being. Only the
strangeness of a land to which he did not belong, and the dread uncertainty of
a dark and clouded future.
He arose at the first hint of a brightening sky, weary
of listening to Moss's resonating snore. He woke the big man, who grumbled and
snorted and then finally rolled to his feet. Belching and scratching, the
rogue headed outdoors to attend his morning's business. Torin, meanwhile,
checked his outer garments, which had been left overnight on a line above the
heating stove to dry. They remained damp and chill, but he had no others, and
so gritted his teeth and slipped them back on.
The rains had slowed to a drizzle, making room for moments
of sunshine beneath a patchy gray sky as they headed back into town. But the
light would not be coaxed from its cocoon, and the gloom would not be
dispelled. By the time they had paid for and collected the possessions that
would carry them through the mountains, the gaps in the clouds had filled, and
the rain had summoned reinforcements on a westerly wind.
Despite pushing headlong into this mix, Torin and his
guide made good time on their rented mounts. They reached the town of
Passing through a gauntlet of hawkish vendors, they
came to the desired livery outfit, where Moss traded back their mounts and
selected a new mule for himself. They haggled for some time over price, a
shouting match that seemed to Torin unnecessarily vicious. Once an agreement
was reached, however, both men calmed and spoke then as if not a cruel word had
passed between them.
"What news of the Cleft?" Moss asked,
flipping the man an extra copper.
"As of yesterday, conditions were good," the
stableman replied as he worked. "Only a handful of minor landslides
reported. Trapper come through this morning, though, with a storm on his heels.
Nasty business, by his word."
"And was this a man knows what he's talking
about?"
The stableman shrugged. "Never seen him before.
But sounds about right, this time of year. I wouldn't risk it."
Torin soured as Moss turned to him with a grim expression.
"How much time would we lose?" the young king asked.
"No telling. Good squall might close things up
for weeks. Better that, though, than being caught in the middle of it."
Torin shook his head. He'd already lost half a day in
preparing to come this far. Another day or so, he might be able to surrender
to caution. But weeks?
"Best yet would be to outrace it," he
determined.
The stableman chuckled. "Outlander, is he?"
he asked of Moss. The big man nodded. "Do yourself a favor, boy. Listen to
your guide here. Ain't no good can come of challenging the Dragontails."
He held up his fingers, the majority of which, Torin
now saw, were missing their tips, trimmed at the second knuckle. Only his
thumbs remained intact.
"Toes look about the same," the man
continued. "She don't just nip up there. She bites."
Torin swallowed his discomfort. "I appreciate the
warning, friend." He turned to Moss. "This won't wait."
Moss chewed broodingly, juice from his tobacco grounds
dribbling down his chin. "No, I didn't figure it would."
"I'll go it alone if I have to."
The stableman snickered, but made no further comment,
shuffling back to his storeroom with an armload of tack.
"We'd best find you a heavier coat," Moss
replied at last. "Because I sure as rain ain't going to lend you
mine."
Soon after, they were headed up the trail leading west
from town, where a smattering of folk were found moving in either direction,
mostly in small herds. None, however, claimed to be making their way to or from
the pass, only outlying dwellings. Thankfully, Moss shrugged aside their looks
of derision, his focus now on getting the job done. Without grunt or murmur, he
led Torin and his mule dutifully along the switchback forest trail. Before
long, the settlement at their backs was lost in haze and a screen of brush, leaving
naught but the road ahead.
By then, they had that road to themselves. It was an
eerie feeling, especially given the black wall of clouds looming above the
treeline before them. Torin hunkered within the hood of his new fur cloak and
tried not to let his anxiety show.
Moss remained an amiable companion. As they pressed
onward at a steady pace, the rogue entertained both himself and his charge
with stories from his adventurous past. To hear him tell it, the man had been
everywhere and done everything, making him a font of experience from which to
learn. Assuming, of course, that even half of the tales were true.
Hoping to learn something about the Finlorians—yet
without arousing suspicion—Torin inquired as to the history of these lands and
its races. Which could still be found? Mostly orcs and trolls and giants, Moss
had replied, all three of which he had encountered at one time or
another—though always in the wild. He'd seen the prints of an ogre, but had
been lucky enough not to cross the beast itself. And he'd heard rumors of
gnomes, but none that he could ever confirm. The latter were said to be
deep-cave dwellers, and the big man spent as little time as possible in those
dark, cramped spaces.
"What about elves?" Torin finally pressed.
"Heard a tale or two, but only from the far
north. Same as goblins. If they exist, might as well be ghosts."
The big man went on to confirm what Raven and Autumn
had suggested, that as part of his conquest, Lorre had done away with most of
the so-called savage races, rooting them out of their forests and caves and
mountain lairs, driving them deeper into the annals of history. Some were said
to have joined the ranks of his army as fodder or slaves. Most were butchered
for sport.
The forest changed as they drew higher, the less
resilient vegetation falling away and leaving only that which had adapted to
the greater altitudes. Landslides became a constant threat, slopes weakened by
the incessant rains. But thus far, they had come across only one large and
treacherous enough to cause them to reroute. Moss's breathing became labored as
the air thinned, yet he trooped on without complaint, leading their mule with
an expert hand. Torin himself was unfazed.
That all changed when they reached the snowline. A
light powder at first, it piled quickly before them with the climb in
elevation. Less than an hour after the initial dusting, Torin found himself
slogging through an ankle-deep crust and knee-high drifts. The lightweight
flurries offered relief from the rain, at least, but that was of small
consolation when speed—not comfort—was of primary concern. Torin was tempted to
ask how much farther they had to go, but didn't want to give his guide a chance
to suggest they turn around.
In any case, the big man hardly seemed to notice. He
went right along, prattling now about the pleasures of women and strong drink.
Although the winds were picking up and visibility diminishing, he assured
Torin that he knew their path well—well enough to walk it blind, if necessary.
A meager reassurance, but Torin was not really
troubled. He was beginning to warm to this rogue. Although a bit crass in
speech and behavior, he projected an overall reliability. A false air, perhaps,
but Moss exuded a self-confidence that bordered on arrogance. It was something
Torin felt he could use a shade more of himself, to be so comfortable in his
own skin as to put others at ease as well.
Despite the harsh elements, Torin found a certain
peace in the midst of that snowswept wilderness. In addition to carpeting the
earth beneath their feet, the virgin powder lay piled on the limbs of trees,
floated as ice in nearby streams, and continued to swirl silently upon the
wind. Though he was a world removed from where he wished to be, and the snow
itself was but an obstacle to his return, there was a rugged majesty not to be
denied—much like that which he had been surprised to find at sea.
As before, he wished Marisha was there to experience
it.
Their pace slowed after that, weakening as the trail
steepened and the oncoming storm gathered in strength. Individual snowflakes
fell harder and faster, no longer the delicate shavings that had kissed Torin's
cheeks, but great, meaty slices that slapped at his exposed skin and refused to
melt. The trees had grown tall and scraggly, offering scant protection. Once or
twice, he thought he heard thunder overhead.
"We'd do well to find shelter now," Moss
urged finally. "Seems the old trapper was right. We're marching into a
wailer of a squall, and cover will become scarce once
we near the teeth of the pass."
"We haven't even hit the pass yet?" Torin
asked in dismay.
"Not by a fair margin. Once we clear the
treeline, we've a good two, three hours out in the open, with nothing but
granite outcroppings, narrow trails, and steep drops to shield us."
Torin peered into the wind, studying the churning
skies. "I can't afford to be trapped. Any chance we can push through, find
shelter on the other side?"
"Always a chance," Moss granted him.
"But only a fool would wager his life on it."
"Surest way to fail," Torin reasoned,
"is to not try."
The dark cast that shadowed Moss's features told Torin
what the other thought of his empty platitude.
"We make it through," the rogue countered,
stopping dead in his tracks, "I want the remainder of my payment. All of it."
"After just one full day?"
"If I feel like it, I'll continue on with you to
Neak-Thur. If not, you'll be on your
own."
Torin glowered. "Scant inducement, if you ask
me."
"Otherwise, we camp here, and hope the pass ain't
buried on the morrow. You decide."
They pressed on, as much to show Moss he wouldn't be
cowed as out of necessity or consideration of the facts. It would take more
than a snowstorm to keep him from completing his task.
That conviction faded somewhat with the failing of the
light. Dusk arrived early, dimming the sky and leaving the pair stranded in a
lonely world of bleak shadows. The storm intensified, almost as if the meager
sunlight had been holding it back before. As they emerged from the trees,
gusting winds shrieked in fiendish greeting, clawing at their faces. Torin
buried himself against their sting, focusing his squinted vision upon his
guide's snow-encrusted heels. The crests of the mountains rose up on either
side of him, reserved and immutable.
In defense, his thoughts drifted, in search of a more
comfortable time and place. Not surprisingly, he found himself returned
home—not to Krynwall, but to Dim, his village as a youth. There, he passed like
a ghost among those of a former life, drawing strength as he touched upon friends
and locations of a warm and familiar past.
And yet, something about his reveries startled him.
The scenery was unchanged—a perfect vision of the forest village in its prime,
before its desecration at the hands of the wizard's soldiers. The townspeople
were kind and inviting. But the entire setting seemed somehow foreign and
remote, as if he were looking at memories belonging to someone else.
He shrugged the feeling aside as weather-driven
dementia, and spat its bitter taste from his mouth. The heavens darkened
further. He could no longer recall how long they had been traveling. He started
to ask Moss, but quickly decided to save his breath.
Then the true brunt of the storm hit them—like an
endless wave, heavy enough to knock Torin briefly from his feet. Hail mixed
with snow, pelting him like gravel. He leaned into it like a spear. Moss's
stark silhouette struggled before him, outlined against a sea of frothing
white. Slipping and sliding on the icy trail, they flattened their backs
against the cliff face and fought forward, staring out at a chasm on the other
side.
Though rogue winds threatened to rip them from their
perch, and minor avalanches forced them twice to deviate from the safer path,
they managed to hold their ground and press raggedly ahead by fits and starts.
Somehow, they made it through. As soon as they crossed the summit—a narrow,
winding defile between shivering peaks—Moss drew near and roared in his ear.
"There's a small cave not far from here! The path
is difficult! Stay close!"
Torin could scarcely make out the other's words over
the howl of the tempest, which wailed and moaned as if comprised of vengeful
spirits. He nodded stiffly, then left Moss to concentrate upon navigating the
path before them. Under
assault from a barrage of icy shards, Torin followed
with clenched eyes, while the wind maintained its tormented caterwaul.
As if a predator that could sense its quarry slipping
away, the storm took aim, narrowing its attack with a fury that caused even the
mountains to rumble their displeasure. More than once, Torin was knocked aside
by a pummeling gust, while ducking low against a continual volley of
hailstones. The mule shrieked and brayed. Torin knew not how Moss kept the
animal from breaking its own neck.
Its struggles, however, were not without consequence.
All of a sudden, a portion of the trail gave way, chipped loose by the panicked
mule's thrashing hooves. It happened while he and his companion skirted a
yawning chasm, into which the broken pieces fell.
Torin watched the fissure appear before him, yet was
too slow to react. He had just barely registered that he was going to have to
jump the gap when it widened abruptly, causing his stornach to heave as the
earth beneath his feet slid away.
He did not have time to draw breath, and so did not
get a chance to cry out. Flailing arms sought desperately to halt his descent.
Moss reached for him, but was too late. In a billowing cloud of icy powder,
Torin fell, sliding and bouncing, all the while scrambling for his life. He
battled to retain consciousness, but a blanket of snow went with him,
enveloped him, and he knew no more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Back Table of Contents Next
Allion's head hung low as he slouched over
his work desk. His eyes squinted, stung by the smoke of low-burning candles,
strained by the long hours of reading beneath their meager light. A stack of
parchment lay piled before him and on all sides, scrolls and tomes of varying
length and subject, but all needing to be addressed. Were he a battlefield commander,
and these the armies of his enemy, Allion would have surrendered long ago.
But he couldn't. He was not at war. Not yet, anyway.
And there was no one else. Stephan, the ever loyal seneschal, did what he could
to help, as did Pagus and a host of clerks. But the final burden was his to
bear, the bulk of these tasks his to complete. Unlike Torin, he would not shirk
his responsibilities and leave them to someone else.
The regent stopped, dismayed by his harsh thoughts.
Like all of them, Torin was serving as he believed he must.
Then again, Allion couldn't help how he felt.
He wondered often how the other was faring. A sealed
note from Gammelost had indicated that Torin and his expedition team were
setting forth from the coastal town aboard a merchant vessel as hired
swordhands. Since then, more than two weeks had passed without so much as a
whisper of rumor. Not altogether bad, Allion supposed, since sending word
overseas would be difficult, and any word come this soon would most likely be
bad. But that left those of them here at home in the dark as to the company's
progress, trusting blindly that all they needed would come to pass.
A demanding test of patience, when what precisely they
needed had yet to be made clear.
Even so, supposing Torin could find these Vandari, and
supposing they lent him what knowledge or talents were required to subdue the
Illysp, how long would Allion have to wait? How long before he could relinquish
these duties and return to his own? How long before this madness came to an
end?
The regent leaned back and rubbed his eyes. Such
thoughts clouded his mind constantly, depriving him of sleep at night, robbing
him during the day of hours and focus better directed toward the mountain of
unfinished tasks before him.
With a determined grimace, he scooped up his quill and
bent low once more. But before his bleary eyes could make sense of the
characters scrawled across this particular page, there came a rap at his open
chamber door.
"A message, sir," announced Kien, who stood
post just outside.
Allion did not bother to turn. "Put it with the
rest," he said, gesturing vaguely toward a pile of neglected scrolls.
"Beg pardon, sir. It bears the seal of His
Majesty, King Galdric of Partha."
That drew the regent's attention. Allion twisted in
his chair. Though he did not recognize the courier standing beside his
guardsman, he identified quickly enough the red-on-black falcon's sigil of
Parthan royalty embroidered on the man's tabard. Most messages sent across the
lands went by a shared network of staged riders. But many of the noble lords
and rulers kept their own string of carriers for the passing of royal
documents, to mitigate the chances of tampering. This indeed appeared to be one
of Galdric's.
"Forgive me," Allion said, beckoning the
other forward. He accepted the scroll tube, which the other presented crisply,
and reached at once to remove its cap.
"Your mark, sir," the messenger reminded
him.
Allion murmured another apology, and quickly scribbled
a note of receipt for the other to return to his superiors. He sealed it with
a wax impression of his own signet, then handed it over with a nod of
dismissal. The echo of the courier's footsteps had not yet receded by the time
Allion had retrieved the message from its sleeve and torn through its seal.
He hesitated then, half expecting General Rogun to
barge in on him before recalling that the chief commander was no longer there
within the city, let alone the palace. Except for the faithful Kien, he was
alone.
As he read, his already disconsolate mood soured. He
had known this would never work. It had been a foolish plan to begin with, made
more so by Darinor's insistence that they execute it before securing the
necessary agreements. Now, it would appear his fears and Rogun's had come to
pass.
Allion struck the table in disgust, then cursed as a
pile of scrolls tumbled about him. In trying to catch them all, he managed to
knock over a pair of candles and send another stack of papers to the floor,
followed by a river of ink from his upturned well.
"Is everything all right, sir?" Kien asked.
"As you were, Kien," he sighed, scooting
from his chair and dropping to a crouch upon his heels. "Everything is in
order."
"There's a refreshing thought," came a
woman's voice, startlingly close.
Allion looked up as Kien did the same, the guardsman
fumbling for his weapon before he realized who it was.
"Although," Marisha continued, "if this
is your idea of order, I'd hate to see what you might consider a mess."
She smiled and placed a steadying hand upon Kien's arm.
The guardsman bowed and stepped from the room, resuming
his watch outside the open door.
Allion scowled. Ever since Torin's departure, Marisha
had been spending more and more time with her father. In doing so, she was
beginning to adopt some of his poor habits, such as stealing upon people
without notice.
"Looks like you could use some help," she
observed.
Allion grunted, bending to his task with gritted
teeth, forcing himself to think beyond the fact that he was doing Torin's work.
Despite the rude welcome, Marisha stepped near, stoop-
ing to collect some of the rogue articles papering the
study floor. "You should get some rest," she suggested.
"I haven't time," he grumbled. "This
work should have been completed weeks ago."
"The work is without end. A man's strength is
not."
"Yes, well, I'm not so quick as some to pass his
charge on to others."
Marisha's smile became crooked. "Is that a tone
of self-pity I hear?"
Allion tried to glare at the woman, then laughed at
himself and shook his head.
"Are you going to tell me what's troubling
you?"
"Unfortunate news, is all," Allion replied,
sifting through the clutter. "Nothing unexpected."
"About Rogun?"
Allion stopped. "Haven't you heard? I received
and passed word to Thaddreus on the general's progress perhaps an hour ago.
Surprisingly enough, he has obeyed orders and arrived at the Gaperon, almost on
schedule."
"Almost?" . "Poor roads to the south.
Nothing major."
"Then why the heavy heart?"
Allion cast about for the scroll delivered him by
Galdric's courier. When he found it, he handed it to her. "Here, read for
yourself."
Marisha did. Allion watched her for a moment, awaiting
her reaction. He couldn't seem to look away.
"My father will not like this," she said at
last.
"No," Allion agreed, clearing his throat,
"I don't suspect he will. And it makes my duty that much more
difficult."
Marisha stared at him. He met her gaze until it became
awkward. "It's not fair, is it," she said.
"What?"
"That you should be burdened with all of
this."
He searched her bright face for any sign of ridicule.
"Someone has to carry the load."
"But must it always be you?"
She did not appear to be mocking him, though Allion
might have preferred that to her sympathies.
"We do as we must," he said, "with what
comes our way. As best I can tell, fairness has little to do with it."
"No, but many are those who would rather bemoan
their fate than accept it. I've never seen you do that."
"Nor will you," Allion vowed, a fresh
determination sweeping through him. "There are too many challenges in life
to bother facing down those I can't win. I don't know how Torin does it."
The air between them changed abruptly, as if he had
said the wrong thing. Marisha blinked and went back to gathering papers.
"You should show this to my father at once,"
Marisha said, remembering the scroll in her hand.
Allion nodded. Odd, he thought, that they had
forgotten it, even for a moment. "I suppose you're right." Still, his
stomach knotted at the thought of sharing this news with the renegade Entient
face-to-face on his own. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to accompany
me."
Marisha's smile returned. "Of course. I left him
not long ago in the library of the east wing. He should still be there."
"Sir, you have another visitor—"
Kien's warning came but a moment before Darinor
brushed him aside and entered the study, his looming shadow eclipsing the dim
light like an ocean squall.
"Father," Marisha greeted. She rose
hurriedly, a clutch of papers in one hand, Galdric's message in the other.
"We have received word from Partha?" the
other demanded without preamble.
Allion stood, depositing an armload of papers and
scrolls on the desktop. Marisha glanced back at him.
"I have it here," she offered.
"And when were you planning on sharing it with
me?" the Entient asked, his disapproving glare leveled at Allion.
"You just missed its carrier," the regent
replied, wondering what he had done this time to merit the other's anger.
"Then how did I know word had arrived?"
Darinor asked, a scornful edge to his already hardened voice. He continued to
stare at them in strange accusation.
Marisha presented the scroll. "If you wish to
read it—"
"I don't need to read it," Darinor snapped,
barely taking his eyes off Allion. "Just tell me what it says."
"It says they have taken the matter under
advisement," Allion sighed. As always, he tried to exude civility where he
himself would wish to receive it. But he was tired, and whatever strength he
had gained from Marisha's visit had seeped away with the appearance of her
father. "However, the Parthan Legion is heavily engaged, and cannot agree
to our proposed course at this time."
Darinor's gaze narrowed further. "Amazing that it
should take so long to draft such a quick refusal."
"Would you care to have a hand, then, in crafting
our response?" Allion asked.
Darinor snorted. "And how long will that
take?"
"I can assemble the Circle and send for the
scribes straightaway."
"And then what? Wait yet another week for but
another refusal?"
"Have you a better idea?"
"I will waste no more time," Darinor
declared, shaking his head, "but will go to visit with this King Galdric
myself, to impress upon him the realities of our situation."
"I'll go with you," Marisha offered. .
"You will not," her father replied sternly. "As reluctant as I
am to leave you unattended," he said, casting another swift glare in
Allion's direction, "it is far too dangerous for you to travel at this
time."
"Two are safer than one," Marisha insisted.
"I would be mere to watch your back—"
"You would be a distraction I don't need.
No."
"But—"
"Child! You have my response. Do not make me
repeat it."
Allion's gaze slipped back and forth between the pair,
and he found himself holding his breath as the air thickened around them.
Marisha's eyes were pleading, but her features were taut, indignant. She would
not allow herself to beg.
"I will return to you when this business is
finished," her father added, his own visage softening. "You have my
word."
Marisha hung her head; Rather than seek to comfort
her, Darinor looked to Allion.
"I leave her safety in your hands," the
Entient said. "I pray you give me no cause to regret it."
Allion met the other's stare without flinching.
"Safe journey then. We'll be awaiting word." Once again, he
groused inwardly.
Darinor gave a curt nod before turning to his
daughter, who refused to look at him. He raised his hood and, in a swish of
dark robes, ducked through the doorway.
Allion was about to return to his cleanup when Marisha
made a slight curtsy.
"By your leave, my lord regent, I think I shall
take some rest of my own."
Allion nodded, feeling awkward at her formal tone.
"Please, my lady, don't let me keep you."
She managed a weak smile, for him, and then for Kien
on her way out.
When her perfume was all that remained, Allion
addressed his guardsman. "Kien, if you would be so kind as to send for
Elder Thaddreus? I'll be in my chambers."
Kien saluted. "At once, sir. Shall I have the
attendants straighten up, sir?"
Allion considered again the mess of documents still
strewn upon the study floor. "That might be best."
He took a moment after the other had departed to pick
up the felled candles and right the upended inkwell. By that time, his
decision, loosely wrought, was made. With a final appraisal of the study and
its contents, the regent of Krynwall collected his personal articles and strode
from the room.
A murky wash of filtered starlight seeped through the
seams of the stable's outer wall. The windows had been left closed. Though
Marisha had paid the head groom a handsome sum to keep quiet and to deliver her
note on the morrow, she did not want to take any unnecessary chances.
She worked through her inspection of horse and tack,
thoroughly double-checking the groom's work. While she
was no expert at handling steeds, she knew enough not
to trust blindly in another's preparations. A long journey lay ahead of her.
She had to make sure nothing was forgotten, and that both animal and equipment
were up to the task.
"Is my lady certain about this?"
Marisha nodded without so much as a glance at the nervous
stablemaster. Her father should have known better. As should Allion, had they
become half as close as she thought they had. Though conflicted about a great
many things these days, she would not let her father disappear again from her
life. There were still too many secrets between them, too many questions
needing to be resolved. The young woman meant for that to change—to learn, once
and for all, the full truth of who she was, and who she was meant to be. All
her life she had lived with uncertainty, her sense of purpose derived from the
aid she gave to others. And while she still took pride in her chosen calling,
it no longer seemed enough, not if it was possible to affect the world and its
many sufferings in some larger fashion.
Either way, she intended to find out.
Her fingers ran gently over the head and mane of her
mount, beneath its chin and down the bridge of its nose. She whispered all the
while to the young gelding, letting the animal familiarize itself with her as
she did with him. She inspected straps, buckles, and pouches, and verified the
contents within. All that she had asked for had been provided.
"He is a fine animal, my lady," the groom
assured her. "The finest I can offer at this time."
"So he seems," she agreed.
"Is there anything else I can provide, my
lady?"
"You will see that the regent gets my note?"
The groom bowed. "As per my lady's
instructions."
"Good," Marisha replied, taking hold of her
mount's lead rope. "I thank you, good sir, for assisting me on such short
notice. Your reward shall be doubled upon my return."
The groom bowed again. "Your gracious thanks are
enough, my lady. Just please, return to us unharmed. Else His Majesty will have
my head."
Marisha smiled reassuringly and headed toward the
exit, her steed in willing tow. The groom scurried ahead of her, to slide free
the locking bar and crack open the heavy door.
A surprise awaited them both. A man dressed in travel
leathers stood just outside beside a saddled mare. Marisha's heart leapt to her
throat. She looked to the groom for an explanation, but the poor soul seemed
even more startled than she, stumbling backward into a small stack of hay.
"A bit late for a ride, isn't it?" Allion
asked.
"I might ask you the same thing."
"You might," Allion agreed, "although I
asked first. Where is it you're off to?"
Marisha glanced at her own tunic and riding cloak, suddenly
self-conscious. She then squared her jaw, eyeing her friend evenly. "Don't
try to stop me, Allion."
The man laughed. "Does it look like I came here
to stop you?"
She looked again to the groom, who had picked himself
up but stood frozen in place, staring at Allion as if fearing reprisal for his
role in all this. The regent, however, ignored the man completely, his gaze
fixed on Marisha.
"Your duty is here," she reminded him.
"Yes, well, I'm tired of being the one to sit
around while everyone else takes action in this."
"What of your oath to Torin?"
"My oath was to look after you, remember? If I'm
not mistaken, yours was much the same."
"I meant the one concerning your defense of the
crown. Will you leave this city to the wolves just to chase after me?"
Allion shook his head. "I've already made
arrangements with Thaddreus. He has agreed, as First Elder and speaker of the
Circle, to serve as regent in my stead."
"But Torin wished—"
"Now that Rogun is gone, the danger to the
monarchy is lessened. In any case, neither Torin nor I fear that threat half as
much as we do the danger to you."
Marisha was grateful for the cold breeze blowing
through from outdoors, for it helped to control her flush. Admittedly, this
scenario was even better than that for which she had
hoped when deciding to set forth. Since Torin had
left—and in some ways, before then—Allion had been her closest companion. In
truth, she had wanted him to try to stop her. But she hadn't dreamed he
might offer to go with her, allowing them both to keep their oaths, one to the
other, while yet doing what she must to be with her father.
Her eyes slipped to the bow slung across his back, and
from there to the quiver of arrows nestled among his saddlebags. She would
indeed feel better protected against the many dangers of the wild with Allion
at her side. Except for Torin himself, and maybe Kylac Kronus, she could think
of no one with whom she would feel safer.
Still, she forced a frown, letting him know that this
was her journey, not his, and would take place according to the rules she
set forth.
"I journey east," she confirmed, "to
join my father in his petition to King Galdric. If you mean to accompany me,
I'll have your oath that we'll not deviate from that course unless we both
agree."
"If I intended to interfere," Allion pointed
out, "I'd have brought the Shield."
"Your oath," she insisted.
"Is given, my lady."
Marisha failed to conceal her smirk. It felt good to
see him like this, the hunter once more, no longer weighed down by the duties
and trappings of an office for which he had no use. Even in the pale light, he
looked fresher, more alive, than she had seen him in weeks.
"And you," Allion said, addressing the mute
stablemaster at last. "While it should come as no surprise, see to it that
the Circle of Elders is apprised on the morrow of events here tonight."
The groom bowed. "Yes, my lord."
"And next time you agree to do the lady here a
favor, take care not to do so behind my back."
"Yes, my lord. Your forgiveness, my lord."
"Carry on."
The groom bowed again, then turned to Marisha and
presented the open door. Marisha nodded and slipped through, then mounted her
steed and brought it quickly under control. Allion watched her before doing the
same.
"Are we ready then?" he asked, as the stable
door closed behind them.
"We'll want to keep some distance," she
advised. "If my father senses us too soon, he'll send us right back."
Allion looked at her and chuckled. "Stubborn as
you are, I'd like to see him try."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Never mind. Trust me, the less time we spend in
that man's company, the more comfortable I'll feel."
Marisha thought to offer a rebuke, but saw from his
sly grin that he was expecting just that. "Then I should warn you,"
she said instead, "his wrath is nothing compared to mine."
"Is that so?"
She winked, then kicked her heels and started ahead toward
the moonlit roadway. Allion followed, and together they set course for the
gates of the city, their thoughts already on the journey beyond.
CHAPTER TWENTYF0UR Back Table of Contents Next
A sharp sting, followed quickly by another,
jolted him from his cocoon of darkness. His eyes opened, and he found himself
in the middle of a dream—a memory. He recognized it at once as one of the
defining moments of his life, in which he had first set eyes on his future
wife. She regarded him now as she had then, hovered near as he lay upon his
back, a reassuring look on her unblemished face. Her blue eyes were bright and
inquisitive, her blond hair full of captured light.
"He's coming to," she said.
Another sting, followed by light waves of pain that receded
quickly. His gaze shifted to find another woman, this one with tanned skin and
freckled cheeks, who crouched beside a gaping tear in the left leg of his
breeches, through which the skin of his thigh was visible.
"I told you that would work," the second
woman boasted, rubbing her fingers to brush away a sheaf of hairs plucked from
his leg.
He looked away, quickly back to the first.
"Your name," she prompted.
"Torin," he recalled. He was aware now of
the seasoned smells of earth and woodland, and of a heavy mist that clung to
his sodden skin and clothes. This was not the Lewellyn
"Among the dead, I should think, were you not
speaking to me."
Torin blinked, then gathered his elbows beneath him.
The world spun as he propped himself upon them, and he squeezed his eyes
against the unsettling motion. When he felt it safe to do so, he opened them
again, and cast about in swift survey. He found himself at the base of a wooded
slope. Snow was piled about, save for the melted hollow in which he lay,
littered with gravel and boulders and the dead-wood of fallen trees. Beneath
him, the ground was clear of all but needles and moss—wet, but soft, and warmer
than he would have expected. It was cooling rapidly, however, its chill and
that of the wind seeping through him in the form of a wracking shudder.
A suspicion gripped him, and he reached toward his
breast. The Pendant was gone, as was the chain that held it. His eyes flew to
his weapons belt—it, too, was missing.
"Is something wrong?"
Torin looked back to the first woman, surprised again
at how remarkably similar she appeared to Marisha. Her face was leaner, her
lips thinner, pressed firmly between smile and frown. Her hair hung straighter,
though that might have been the weather. The most telling difference was in her
eyes, dimmer than Marisha's, and ringed ever so slightly with reddened circles.
The gleam they reflected was almost feral, bespeaking an animal wariness he had
never seen in those of his lady love.
"I—I wore a pendant," he stammered.
"Hmm," the second woman murmured
thoughtfully. "Did it look anything like this?"
Torin shifted to find the freckled companion with the
chain of the Pendant around her neck. She hooked a thumb around its length to
pull the Stone itself free of her forest tunic and into view.
"Lovely, isn't it?" She beamed.
Torin reached out reflexively.
"Only, this one is mine," she said, tucking
it away again.
"Stop it, Jess," bade her companion. To
Torin she said, "Your effects are safe. Those we found on you,
anyway."
"My sword?"
Jess shifted, reaching behind her to produce his
weapons belt. She planted the tip of the scabbard like a standard into
the ground, one hand resting upon the Sword's gemstone
hilt—its leather wrappings removed—and gave him a wink.
Torin glanced back and forth between the pair, trying
to hide a rising sense of panic. It occurred to him that they were most likely
bandits, to have stripped him of his possessions before reviving him. But if
that were so, why revive him at all? Why not slit his throat and be on their
way?
"A precaution is all," Marisha's
doppelganger claimed. "For your protection."
"My protection?"
"So that we wouldn't necessarily have to kill
you."
Her earnest manner smothered the smile mat might otherwise
have formed on Torin's lips. He regarded her evenly, more curious than afraid,
yet uncertain that it would be safe to disbelieve her.
"If that's the case," he said, and coughed,
finding his throat dry despite the damp, "may I have them back?"
"Not before you've answered my questions."
Torin looked to Jess, who grinned roguishly, then back
to the other. On the surface, her voice was smooth and pleasant, laced with a
tone of sympathy and the hint of ready laughter. And yet, there was an
unmistakable edge to it as well, as if she might turn on him at any moment.
"Fair enough," he agreed. "What is it
you care to know?"
"How you came to be here, for one."
He stole a fresh glimpse of his surroundings.
"I'm still not even certain where here is."
Soulful eyes regarded him as they might a wounded animal.
"This will go better if you do not play games with us." . Torin's
features soured, letting slip his irritation.
"If true," she allowed, "then tell me
where you've come from"
"Alson," he replied, "a land of the
island continent Pentania, from across the
The woman nodded. "I've heard of it. Go on."
"I was headed west through the Dragonscale Cleft
when an avalanche took me. That's all there is to tell."
"An avalanche, was it? Then why were you not
buried amid all this snow? Why aren't you dead?"
Torin didn't know. He had no recollection of anything
that might have occurred between this moment and that in which he had tumbled
from the mountain trail above. Although an involuntary glance toward Jess and
the talismans she now wore betrayed his best guess.
He looked back hurriedly, but the gesture was not
missed.
"I see."
"Come, Fawn," Jess urged, "let's take
him to the Nest." Her own voice was steady and strong, wild eyes agleam
with mischief.
Again Torin's gaze darted back and forth between these
two, Jess and Fawn. "The Nest?"
"Our home," Fawn admitted. "We are
Fenwa. Nymphs, to the rogues of these lands. Have you heard of us?"
Torin frowned and shook his head.
"This is our forest. All who enter unbidden are
deemed trespassers."
Jess's broad grin seemed suddenly predatory. Torin
looked back to Fawn.
"As I told you," Torin said, "I arrived
quite by accident. If you would be kind enough to show me the nearest road,
I'll be on my way."
Fawn considered. "I think our Granmarch should be
the one to make that decision."
"Granmarch?" His frown deepened.
"The leader of our clan. We can't report your
effects without reporting you. Unless we claim to have found you dead. And I'd
not do that without making it so, for risk of another finding you later."
Torin scowled. "Then why not return them to me?
You need never have found me at all."
"Because there's more to this than what you're
telling me," Fawn said solemnly. "But it's not my place to judge,
except to determine whether or not you may be worthy as a Catch."
"And what does that mean?"
"It means we're inviting you to accompany us,
back to the Nest."
"As your prisoner?"
"As our guest."
"How long will this trip take?"
"Have you somewhere else to be?" Jess
laughed, raising an eyebrow.
"I have business to the north. The shorter my
delay, the safer we'll all be."
"Ooo," Jess purred, "he's good."
Fawn nodded. "I'm sorry, but coming with us is
the only way you'll leave this forest alive. Yes?"
He didn't seem to have much of a choice, and so
accepted their offer, such as it was. It was either that or make a grab for his
weapons, hoping their threats were a bluff. A foolish move, given his condition
and what little he knew of them. Better, he thought, to journey with them for a
time and see what more he could learn—not only about these Fenwa, but also
about where he had ended up. After all, now that he had lost Moss, he had only
the faintest idea as to where he was going.
He could only hope he wasn't swimming into even deeper
waters.
Fawn offered him her hands. After a wary glance, Torin
accepted them. Though delicate in appearance, their sinewy strength was unmistakable
as she rose and pulled him easily to his feet. As they came to, Jess leapt
back, quick as thought, keeping her distance. The reaction seemed to Torin not
so much a precaution as a warning.
For a moment he stood where he was, head spinning
anew. He grimaced against an assault of aches and bruises made more sensitive
by the biting cold. Even a moment's brush of the Sword's strengthening warmth
would have been most welcome, but he wasn't going to ask again.
"Can you walk?" Fawn asked.
Torin nodded.
"Lead the way."
Jess smirked as she turned her back to him, then
climbed the snowbank on its shallow, downhill side. Torin waited for Fawn,
until she waved him forward with a nod. He didn't argue, but fell into step
behind her companion, marching up and out of the melted hollow, leaving the
other to take up the rear. He found it difficult to tell fresh wounds from old.
His body was a wreck, and any chance he might get to rest seemed a long way
off. Nevertheless, he hid his discomfort as best he could, trying hard not to
look or feel a victim.
"You're lucky we found you," Fawn said after
those first brief moments of silence. "We don't often patrol these higher
elevations."
Torin grunted, not quite ready to share her
assessment. He glanced back, peering through a break iri the trees to trace the
line of slopes and bluffs from which he'd made his sudden descent, clear up to
the peak that loomed invisibly now above a stone-gray ceiling of clouds. It was
indeed remarkable that he hadn't suffocated, or been pummeled by the tons of
icy debris with which he had barreled down the mountainside. He looked again
at the crater in which he'd been discovered, then to the Sword, slung in its
scabbard over Jess's back. It was either that or the Pendant that had saved
him—or both. But how had their power been triggered? He had seen each defend
its wielder against magical assault, but that didn't seem to apply here. Before
that, there had been the incident at the jailhouse in the city of
If only he could understand how it had happened, perhaps
he could unlock the mystery of how to summon those inner fires at will. He
would wield then not just an invincible blade, but power of a kind to bring
down a dragon from the . sky, raise or level mountains
Perhaps even prevent him from falling captive to a
pair of forest-dwelling girls.
His attention shifted from the Sword itself to she who
carried it. Jess's frame was lean and sinuous, with limbs much the same. She
was the taller of the two, with chestnut hair hanging down like a veil. She
trod lightly upon a thin crust of snow that became thinner as they headed
downslope, following no discernible trail, but weaving confidently between the
slender boles of evergreen trees and the scraggly brush grown up around them.
"Nymphs," Torin recalled aloud.
"Imaginary fairy creatures, are they not?"
"It's just a nickname," Fawn admitted.
"Given us by those who've spread rumor of our ways."
"Oh? And what rumors are those?"
"They say we are seducers of men, that we lure
them to their deaths after taking what we wish."
Torin nearly tripped on a snow-covered root broken
free of the earth. "Any truth to these rumors?"
"Some," Jess said, turning to grant him
another wink.
"Mind you," Fawn added quickly, "the
usefulness of such rumors. This is the Fenwood—or Widowwood, as some have come
to call it. As I said, it is our forest. Stories like that serve to dissuade
many from entering, granting us a measure of peace from those rogues who might
otherwise defile our lands."
Torin held back his response, trying to decide whether
he should feel more—or less—at ease. They certainly had made no effort to
seduce him. Then again, was he not traipsing blindly alongside them
into whatever fate they held in store?
"I seldom give stock to rumor myself," he
replied finally. "So who are you really?"
Jess gave Fawn a cautionary glance.
"It might be best if we allowed our Granmarch to
answer those questions'," Fawn said, seeming to agree. "Such knowledge
now might jeopardize any chance of your release."
The phrasing of her words was not lost on him. Nor did
he miss Jess's snickering laugh. Though this abduction was far more civil than
that suffered at the hands of Raven's pirates, he remained a prisoner unlikely
to be freed. At least Raven had been willing to divulge the expectations and
demands under which he was to be held. These "Nymphs" offered only
blithe smiles and left him to guess.
They traveled in silence after that. The girls
surrendered nothing more as to who they were or where they were going, and
Torin didn't ask. His thoughts had turned wholly toward making his own escape.
He wondered how quickly Jess would react if he were to rush her from behind. He
wondered if he might hold one or the other hostage against her companion. But
neither option seemed any more likely than it had upon starting out. He was not
bound. He was not gagged. And yet he was as powerless as if he were.
They continued on through the dripping boughs and the
sopping mist. Eventually, the snows disappeared and the brush began to thicken.
The earth leveled out as they left the foothills, but remained rugged and
misshapen, cut through by meltwater streams and bramble walls. Unless Torin
misread the signs, they were headed north, which pleased him. Should he have to
suffer this detour, at least it wasn't taking him completely off course.
It was midafternoon before they came upon anyone else.
When they did, it was another pair of women. These were somewhat older, and
judging by their interaction with Fawn and Jess, served as some form of sentry.
They inspected his articles as Jess presented them, gasping and whispering to
themselves when catching glimpse of the swirling flames and crimson glow of
Sword and Pendant. With wide-eyed interest in his marvelous talismans, they
looked him up and down, then waved his party on.
Soon after, they followed a switchback trail down the
side of a steep embankment, coming at last upon what looked to be an ancient
riverbed. Within its sloping basin lay a tumbledown series of shallow caves,
roofed over by humpbacked piles of boulders left behind by the missing waters.
Dozens of figures passed in and out of the gap-mouthed openings. Female all, he
quickly realized. Nymphs, young and old, of various shapes and sizes—but all in
pairs. A nervous prickle began to take root in the nape of his neck as he
descended into their midst, where most stopped what they were doing to study
the new arrival.
He wasn't sure what to think of the looks they gave
him, for there was a wide range. Anger and disgust appeared in equal measure to
the welcoming smiles and suggestive poses, making it difficult to determine if
the territory he had entered was hostile or friendly. Quite obviously, he could
expect a bit of both.
A few called or whistled, both to him and his
companions, as he entered the throat of the riverbed and was herded upstream
amid the uneven carpet of stones. Like the silent faces, these verbal responses
varied in their level of approval.
"You're out of season, Fawn," one might
grumble. While across the way, another would purr, "Hey, Jess, when you're
finished, bring him to me."
Torin did what he could to take it in stride, which
meant ignoring the many inferences—both positive and negative—while yet glancing
about with grim intensity so as not to miss any scrap of sensory information
that might prove valuable later on.
Like an animal sniffing out a strange home, when it
would prefer to return to its own.
They ushered him on toward what was perhaps the largest
of the boulder clusters, picking their way over and between natural
fortifications of rock and elevation to reach its yawning cave mouth. The
forming stones were smoothfaced, worn so by untold centuries of water flow.
Still, this and its fellow structures reminded Torin of cairns more than
anything else, an association he found more than a little discomforting.
The space within was remarkably dry, the overhanging
boulders sealed together with thick layers of moss and grass—as strong and
tight as any pitch or mortar. Flaming braziers lit the cavernous foyer and
lined a series of corridors passing back into darkness. In addition to their
smoky haze, the cave was filled with a pleasant musk that reminded him of his
own one-time forest home, spawning a gentle pang of fond remembrance.
When their eyes had adjusted to the dimness, they
continued on, rounding a corner to the left, where not one, but two pairs of
guards came forward to meet them. These provided additional escort as he delved
deeper into the cave tunnel, coining at last to an opening beside which had
been rigged a lever contraption of wood and leather used to open and close a
stone door. It was here that Fawn and Jess said their good-byes.
"Anything else you would wish the Granmarch to know
now?"
"Only that I'm looking forward to her
visit," Torin replied, hoping he sounded respectful and not just
aggravated.
Fawn gave a slight nod, Jess another smirk and a wink,
and the pair turned back the way they had come, his possessions in tow, one pair
of guardswomen setting their pace.
The remaining guards nudged him forward through the
cleft in the cavern wall. Beyond lay what appeared to be an immense holding
area, wide-ringed yet low-roofed. Sets of bindings lay empty throughout—leather
cuffs roped to anchors that had been hammered into the stone walls. With each
set of cuffs went a belt and collar. A fresh rush of alarm swept through him
when they marched him across the chamber and demanded that he kneel beside a
group of these opposite the cavern door.
"Is this necessary?" he asked, his words
muted by the weight of the cavern.
"Kneel," one woman repeated, while the other
leveled an artistically designed but cruel-bladed halberd at his throat. Torin
obeyed, resisting the urge to make a break for it, and, while held at
blade-point, allowed the other to buckle collar, belt, and cuffs into place.
"It may be awhile," his binder warned before
turning to leave. The halberd-bearer withdrew her weapon and spun away with a
snort.
A moment later, the slab of stone serving as the door
to his prison slid into place with a heavy grinding sound, and except for a
lone brazier set to burn near the sealed exit across from him, Torin found
himself left alone in deep, musty darkness.
He spent the next few moments testing his bonds,- more
in reflex than in any concerted effort to slip free. Though it had the
potential of becoming the worst decision he'd ever
made, his sense was that he had a better chance of
surviving this in submitting to their will than in fighting to impose his own.
In any case, he remained in a poor position to choose otherwise. His cuffs were
roped behind his back, attached to the belt in such a way as to deny him the
maneuverability required to remove tongue from catch. The ropes themselves were
coarse, and stronger than they appeared, seeming to be made of interwoven
strips of bark that gave them the feel of a thick and healthy bramble stalk.
And of course, even if he were to break free, there was little possibility of
bis remaining that way for long.
So he waited, with no idea how long it might be, only
his jailor's brief warning to go by. He wondered if Moss might be tracking him,
hunting him down in order to earn out the rest of his payment. More likely, the
rogue had moved on in order to seek out a safer charter. Which meant there was
no one who could know where he had ended up. Until such time as Darinor decided
to come in search of the Pendant, he was yet again on his own.
He sat down, slumped against the boulder to which he
was chained, and marked the flickering patterns of light and shadow at play
upon the cavern walls. He must have dozed for a time, for before he knew it, he
was alerted by the grinding of rock as the entry door was levered aside. His
head came up swiftly, eyes heavy with grit as he blinked in the darkness. A
torch and materials were brought in by one of the guardswomen and used to light
the now extinguished brazier. With its flame crackling once more, the
halberd-bearer from before marched up to him.
"On your knees before the Granmarch," she
said.
Torin did as he was told, rising awkwardly from his
seated position, ropes and collar chafing. He blinked some more as the woman
and her partner stepped aside and bowed as if presenting him to another.
He looked past them as yet another pair of Nymphs came
forward. All of a sudden, his blinking stopped. So too did his breathing, which
he held in an attempt to mask his own surprise. For of all the striking young
women he had seen that day, this one put them all to shame. Though she wore no
adornment that he could discern, he knew her at once as the leader of this
band. It was in her bearing, in her face and in her eyes: a confidence of the
sort possessed by generals and kings. Rarer still, it radiated outward without
bluster or fanfare, which somehow made it all the more evident.
"I am Dynara," she said, in a silky voice
both smooth and authoritative. "Granmarch of the Fenwa."
Torin realized he was staring, but could not seem to
recall what a more proper etiquette might be. Though oft enchanted by a
woman's beauty, he felt something here beyond simple appreciation. Perhaps
because he had expected someone older, a grand matriarch with wrinkled skin
and shriveled frame, wise yet weather-beaten from having lived a life
out-of-doors. But like Fawn and Jess, Dynara looked almost exactly his own age,
with a silken shirt and leather tunic cinched tight about her slim waist.
Auburn hair hung free, clear to her beltline. The cavern's shadows could find
no purchase on her face, so smooth and evenly formed and hollow-free. Despite
the dim lighting, her maple eyes gleamed.
She snapped her fingers, and for a moment, Torin
worried his obvious attentions had given offense. He was much relieved,
therefore, when the Granmarch's partner stepped forward, his divine talismans
in hand. This other had a roundish pixie face with hair not unlike a mushroom
cap, individual locks full of spring and body as they fountained down so as to
barely tickle the nape of her neck. There was a rouge to her cheeks—her skin
much whiter than Dynara's—iand a pleasant smile upon her lips.
"I'm told these were taken from your
possession," Dynara said, gesturing toward Sword and Pendant.
A frog in his throat, Torin managed a polite nod.
Dynara took the Pendant from her companion. With one
hand holding the silver chain, she used the other to cup and admire the flaming
heartstone.
"A marvelous enchantment," she said,
congratulating him. "Are you a warlock of some sort?"
Torin shook his head.
"And yet it is clear you are no ordinary rogue.
So tell me, Torin of Alson, what were you doing in our woods?"
Torin did so. He told her everything, from the moment
of his brother's invasion to now. He had decided even before he had fallen
asleep that he would, if given the chance. Perhaps in being utterly revealing
he might win this Granmarch's trust. Or if not, perhaps he might be able to
impress upon her how dire was his situation, spawning in her a fear that would
earn him his freedom. He'd been able to think of no reason not to, since there
was nothing he could tell her that would make him any more vulnerable than he
already was.
That had been his reasoning going in. Now, however, he
felt an additional motivation, a subtle urge that went hand in hand with the
rest. Seldom did he feel the need to tout his own achievements, to use them to
build himself up in another's eyes. But he did so now, speaking freely about
who he had been, and who he had become. He assured himself privately that it
was only for the benefit of his mission, to help convince his captors of its
importance. He told himself it was this and nothing more, that it mattered not
what she thought of him as an individual.
Even though it might have been a lie.
The narration took some time. His listeners didn't
seem to mind, doing nothing to rush him, bidding him continue whenever he took
pause. By the time he had finished, his knees were screaming at having been
pinned against the cavern bedrock for so long. Dynara and her companions,
however, remained where they stood, showing no sign of discomfort and making no
mention of having noticed his. Both the Granmarch and her partner appeared
stolid in their reactions, as if wary of being taken in by some charlatan. Nor
did the pair of unnamed guardswomen, flanked to either side of him, reveal
anything in their bluff expressions.
As their silence lengthened, Torin began to wonder if
he should not say something more. But his story spoke for itself; he had
nothing else with which to plead for clemency.
At last, Dynara spoke.
"That may be the most unlikely tale I've ever
heard," she said. "For you to tell it means either you truly believe
it, or else you presume me a fool."
Torin played through half a dozen potential responses,
but not one that might win him favor, and so kept his mouth shut.
"I'll assume for a moment it's the former, and
not the latter," she continued. Her gleaming eyes held him fast.
"The question then becomes, what do /presume of you?"
Torin worked hard to match her gaze, careful not to
let his own slip or roam.
"What do you think, Naia?"
Her pixie-faced partner puckered her lips in
consideration. "I see little risk to us, either way."
Dynara smiled, supple skin drawing back without creasing,
the teeth beyond like whitewashed marble. "Naia," she said to him,
indicating the other. "My kinmate." The smile diminished. "She's
right, of course. So let us agree for now that neither of us is a fool. What
would you have of me?"
"Only to be set free to resume course, with my
deepest apologies for having trespassed upon your lands."
"That's all?" Dynara asked, arching a single
brow. "You are an outlander. You claim to know nothing of these lands. You
ask me to set you free so that you may find your way into the hands of the
warlord Lorre. Perhaps one of us is a fool after all."
Torin frowned. What sort of game was this woman
playing?
"We are rangers," she explained. "To
care for this forest and its inhabitants is our solemn duty. If I am to believe
your story, it might be said that the best way to serve that duty would be to
see that your quest—mad as it seems—succeeds. Otherwise, it might be that I
should keep this so-called Sword of Asahiel for myself, using it to strengthen
our defense against unwelcome outsiders."
Torin thought he saw now what she was hinting at.
"Perhaps we can do something to aid each other," he suggested.
"An arrangement that would benefit both of us?"
Dynara's smile returned. "Now that at last
is a sensible idea."
"And does my lady have something in mind?"
"What would you say, I wonder, to having a pair
of Hunters of my choosing sent to escort you on this journey—to
Lorre and beyond, if necessary—with the understanding
that if at any time it seems you are about to fail, or they decide you have not
been utterly forthright with me, their instructions would be to kill you on
the spot and return these talismans to me."
Torin scowled. "You could just kill me
now."
"But you might be telling the truth—as you see it
anyway. In which case I would be doing neither of us a great favor. Besides, we
are not brigands, merely a band of women determined to resist the oppression
of men, offering both refuge and purpose to freedom-loving souls throughout the
land."
"Female souls," Torin
noted. "Making men like myself the enemy." It was dangerous
territory, he knew, but ground that needed to be tested if he was to have any
true sense of where he stood.
Dynara responded without anger or apology. "Tell
me, how are women regarded in your land?" Before he could answer, she
continued. "Here, we are treated much like mules and horses, animals of
service and little more."
Torin opened his mouth to press the issue, before
thinking suddenly of a better way around it. "Suppose I were to accept
this gracious offer," he began, his skepticism plain. "What would be
in it for you—should I find the Finlorians, prove my claim, and return home
with my talismans in hand?"
"You mean, in addition to knowing that I've
helped save the lives of your countrymen and perhaps a few of my own?"
. "Yes, in addition to that."
Dynara grinned. "It so happens that in the
journey itself, you would be doing me a favor. Certain"—-she paused, as if
searching for the right word—"elements within my clan have become a source
of disruption. I have a sister, in particular, who has become dissatisfied with
some of the principles of my leadership. I've done what I can to tolerate her
opposing views, but I will not have her sowing seeds of dissension among the
ranks. Were she not my sister, I would have silenced her voice long ago. I'm
afraid that if I wait much longer, I may have a civil uprising on my
hands."
"You want her to be among those who accompany
me."
"I'm certain she would be among the first to
volunteer. Of primary issue between us is what role we Fenwa should play in the
ongoing struggle between Lorre's armies and the rogues of Wylddeor. Our
position has long been one of neutrality: Let them grind one another's bones
to dust. My sister does not agree. She feels that if the Southland falls, our
freedoms, too, will be threatened."
"And what do you think?"
Dynara's expression darkened. "I need not explain
myself to you. Only, rest assured that I have the best interests of my fellow
Fenwa at heart. Should my sister join you, even for a time, it will grant her
the opportunity to satisfy her wild cravings, and give me a chance to mend the
rifts she has caused. All three of us will have what we want."
Or so it would seem. Torin would have a fresh set of
guides, Dynara would be rid of a malcontent, and this sister might get her
chance to take action against Lorre's threat. If the Granmarch was being as
honest with him as he'd been with her, it struck him as a fair arrangement.
Skewed toward Dynara, of course. For if he failed, the Sword and Pendant would
fall to her—unless her sister also was unable to return, which might be exactly
what the Granmarch was hoping for. But Dynara held all the advantages. It only
made sense that they should have to play by her rules.
"The lady's proposal is most gracious," he
reiterated with a low bow. "Should it please her, I would be happy to
accept her offer."
"Good. Then I shall send for and have word with
my sister. In the meantime, you will be set free in order to prepare as you see
fit—under armed protection, of course." She turned to the guard who had
locked Torin in his leather shackles. "Amber."
Amber nodded and stepped forward. As she worked to release
his bonds, Torin again bowed his thanks.
"One more thing," Dynara said, her face
pensive. "If it's elves you're looking for, you might do well to visit
first with a woman I know. Her name is Necanicum. She used to live among us,
but resides now in a region of the Fenwood all her own. She is among Yawacor's
eldest known citizens, and
must be approached with utmost caution. But it seems
to me that her wisdom may be of use to you in this matter. And better that
than to seek audience with
Torin nodded, though he wasn't so sure. Would Autumn
have suggested he visit with Lorre if the man was truly as ruthless and
implacable as everyone seemed to believe? Of all those he had encountered upon
this voyage, he still trusted Autumn the most. Then again, Lorre's was the only
name she and Raven had mentioned, and even they had done so in fair warning.
They may not have known this Necanicum. As long as it was en route, what could
be the harm?
Moreover, he dared not dismiss any advice the
Granmarch had to offer, for as of yet it was her aid or none at all.
"Any counsel my lady would give would be most
helpful," he replied.
Dynara's smooth face was expressionless.
"Rise."
Torin did so, wincing at the pain in his cramped
knees.
"I will keep these for now," the Granmarch
stated, handing the Pendant back over to Naia. "You will have them again
when all other preparations have been made."
He forced himself to nod. "As you wish, my
lady."
With that, Dynara smiled, just a hint, before making
her exit. Naia went with her, while the jailor Amber and her halberd-wielding
counterpart held him back in what he supposed was a show of proper respect.
Only, they forgot to arrest his gaze, which clung with a will of its own to the
Nymph leader's retreating form. It found its focus in the hypnotic swish of the
woman's hair, the supple sway of her rounded hips, and the seductive twitch of her
heart-shaped buttocks—which traded kisses with every confident stride.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Back Table of Contents Next
Evhan, captain of the City Shield, stood at
attention before the Circle of Elders, doing his best not to sway with the exhaustion
that gripped him. It had been a long day, from the moment of his arrival upon
the perimeter gates of the palace, to this one, in which the Circle had gathered
to hear his tale. It was a story he had told at least a dozen times that day,
and to a dozen different people—from the perimeter sentries to First Elder
Thaddreus himself.
He told it now as he had before. Of how, after
completing a sweep one night of the secret route of escape reserved for the
city's royals, he had happened upon a band of ruffians, members of a
particularly notorious gang of thieves known to operate within and without
Krynwall. Recognizing him by his ropes of office, the thieves had taken him
hostage. For the past two weeks and more—the entire time during which he had
gone missing—he had been held against his will in one of their hideouts right
here within the city walls. It had been a harrowing ordeal, surviving on little
water and even less food, while his captors plotted as to how to make best use
of their unexpected find. Taking advantage of the dissension among them, he
had managed at last to free himself, dispatch his abductors, and make his
escape.
It was an incredible tale, but measured out with a
perfect mix of grandeur and aplomb that held his listeners spellbound. On top
of that, there was the physical evidence—the hideout itself and those left
behind. A team of City Shield led by Jovanek, the acting Fason, had been sent
form earlier
to inspect the location and confirm his account. Among
the slain bodies, all of whom were recognized as known criminals, the team had
found various materials—ropes, gags, instruments of torture, drafts of ransom
notes, and the like— which would seem to support the missing man's story.
"You should not have been out alone,
Captain," Thaddreus observed when all relevant testimony had been
delivered. "You are lucky to be alive."
Evhan nodded with due deference. "A foolish
mistake, which I do not intend to repeat."
The First Elder did not respond right away, but fixed
him with a calculating gaze. "With respect for all that he has been
through, I move that Evhan be relieved of duty until such time as he has made a
full recovery," he determined at last.
"With respect to you, First Elder,"
Evhan replied firmly, "and to the esteemed members of the Circle, I think
my recovery may be served best by being allowed to return to my duties at
once."
Several of the Elders nodded, while others shook their
heads in wonder, all applauding the young man's courage.
But Thaddreus was unconvinced. "At this time,
with the legions away, we must be doubly vigilant against any hint of a threat.
We cannot afford a chief defender who is prone to lapses of judgment such as
that which led to your capture."
"Elder Thaddreus—"
"I am lord regent," the older man corrected.
"Until the return of our lord king or his appointed caretaker, you may
address me as such."
Evhan bowed in apology. "Forgive me, lord regent.
Much has happened in my absence, and I am only now coming to terms with it. But
it seems to me that with the legions away, this city needs every able-bodied
defender who is willing to serve. And I am willing. Your own physicians have
pronounced me well. If a demotion is in order, I will gladly accept it.
Jovanek," he added, with a glance across the chamber at his fellow City
Guardsman, "has served capably in my absence. I would not see him stripped
of his interim title. Only, do not ask me to sit around like a wounded hen, as
I have done these past two weeks, but let me offer my life in defense of yours
and the citizens of Krynwall as I am sworn to do."
It was an expressive speech, if not quite eloquent,
one that roused the spirits of his fellow guardsmen within the hall and drew
shouts of approval from the majority of Elders giving ear. Their people needed
passion such as his, the Fourth Elder said. Was he to be punished for being a
victim? asked the Sixth. What of his resourcefulness and bravery in setting
himself loose and dispatching his assailants? added the Ninth.
It was not often the voices in this chamber were given
cause to unite, but they seemed to do so in mis instance. Their vote of
solidarity spoke volumes to the young Evhan, revealing just how fearful and
desperate they had become. It was something not even he had counted on.
"Very well," Thaddreus agreed at last, as if
accepting it as the only way to quiet the mounting furor. "Let the record
show that the Circle has completed its review of this matter and voted to reinstate
Guardsman Evhan to the position of Fason, captain of the City Shield, with
full rights and privileges thereof. Guardsman Jovanek is thus relieved of his
temporary duty in order to rejoin the First Rank. Lieutenant?"
Jovanek saluted, first to the speaker of the Circle,
then to his captain, returned from the dead.
Thaddreus sighed. "This session is
adjourned."
*****
Before dawn the next morning, Evhan strode the palace
halls, still amazed at how easily his ruse had succeeded. He had taken a calculated
risk in returning like this, one that might have exposed not only himself, but
his entire brood—that which he had joined within the secret tunnels beneath
the city. But with both Darinor and Allion away—they who were least likely to
be fooled—the time had come to execute the next phase of attack. In the end,
none had dared disagree with he who insisted it to be a risk worth taking.
"Sir!" Kien greeted, snapping to attention
before the door to the chambers he was guarding.
"At ease, Bearer," Evhan replied, returning
the other's salute. "You are well this morning?"
"Yes, sir. And you, sir?"
"Immeasurably better than this time a day
ago," Evhan admitted. "Scrapes and bruises. Nothing that won't
heal."
"Glad to hear it, sir."
And he was, Evhan could tell. Like most of the others,
Kien was genuinely elated to see him again, and find him well. It was this,
more than anything, that had made them all so easy to deceive. The people of
this city were on edge as only frightened humans—so keenly aware of their own
mortality—could be. With all of the uncertainty that surrounded them, they
were in dire need of good news, and the unexpected return of their chief
guardian served that purpose, leading most to welcome him with open arms.
"Is our lord regent occupied within?" Evhan
asked.
"He is not yet risen, sir."
Evhan frowned with disappointment. "It is
important that I speak to him at once. Would his loyal guard permit me a brief
audience?"
Kien hesitated. An instinct, perhaps, born of
training. "If the captain can wait but a spell, the master chamberlain
should be along with breakfast within the hour."
"I would rather not be delayed, but neither will
I command the bearer to put aside his sworn duty."
The guardsman fidgeted. "Let it not be said I
denied my chief commander," he said finally, stepping aside. "Only,
bear that in mind should our lord regent recommend I be put to task scrubbing
privies."
Evhan shook his head. "That will never happen on
my watch. You've been a faithful guardsman, Kien. First Torin, then Allion, now
old man Thaddreus. If only your royal charges were as dependable as you,"
he said with a wink.
Kien responded with a wry grin, covered up quickly
with a cough and a salute. "You're an inspiration to us all, Captain."
Evhan bowed, smirking inwardly at the usefulness of
this newfound hero status. It would make that which he intended to accomplish
so much easier.
"Please see to it that we're not disturbed,"
he said, as he opened and then closed behind him the chamber door.
Inside, the speaker's sitting room was layered in the
gray shadows of predawn. Coals burned dimly in his hearth beneath a blanket of
ash. A hint of morning brightness limned a pair of shuttered windows.
In the unbroken silence, Evhan could hear clearly the
old man's breathing, deep and even. Glancing about once more, he made his way
toward the adjacent bedchamber. It, too, was empty, save for the sleeping
regent. Even in slumber, Thaddreus's aged forehead was furrowed, his thick
brows knotted. He wore a pinched, discerning look, such as that which he had
been wearing the night before, during Evhan's review before the Circle.
The captain paused, thinking back. Thaddreus had been
listening closely, Evhan knew, though that review had marked the third time the
Elder had been audience to his tale. Searching for inconsistencies, perhaps,
for any sense that the Fason's prolonged disappearance was part of something
more sinister than the abduction of a high-ranking city official. There were
none to be found—Evhan had made certain of that.
Avoiding examination by the physicians and healers
sent to look him over had been the biggest challenge, but he had done so by
assuring them that he only needed rest—and by giving each a ten-piece of silver
to simply deliver their reports and leave him be. Together, they had agreed.
None would speak out now, for the risk of censure all would face.
And yet, judging by Thaddreus's reaction the night
before, Evhan's work was not yet finished. Despite his unerring testimony and
the supporting evidence, despite the favorable analysis given by the
physicians, despite the eager embrace of his fellow guardsmen and the general
populace, the Fason could see that Thaddreus required additional persuasion.
Hence this morning's visit.
Of course, bringing the city's acting ruler over to
their side was imperative in any case. Start at the front, and the rest would
follow. Were he not so wary, Evhan might have taken this step against the
previous regent, Allion. But he hadn't
dared. Not with Darinor around—he who held them all in
check.
He reached down almost idly to pick up a pillow fallen
from the speaker's bed during the night. It was heavy, stuffed with down.
Almost gently, he laid it upon the old man's face. He then leaned over and,
with both arms, pinned it in place.
Thaddreus tossed fitfully in natural response before
coming awake. At that point, he thrashed and squirmed, crying out in muffled
denial. Evhan felt the speaker's terror as it radiated outward through the
smothering material in waves. He bore quite a kick for an old man, but Evhan
was young and strong—stronger now than ever before. The regent's frantic
desperation was not enough to overcome the Illychar's own savage resolve. Soon,
the struggles ceased, and the twitching began. Evhan held fast a few moments longer
before letting go.
The old man's eyes stared up at him, frozen wide with
fear and surprise. His mouth gaped within the frame of his pronged moustache.
Evhan tucked the extra pillow back into place. He then smoothed over the man's
lids and pushed up on the pointed chin. After that, the regent looked at peace,
his normally plaited hair freed from its braids to lie across his bedding like
strands of woven silver.
The Fason went out after that, drawing shut the bed
curtains and returning to the speaker's sitting chamber. There, he stoked the
remaining coals in the hearth, coaxing forth a crackling fire because it would
be the expected thing to do. He then removed himself a safe distance, to a
chair that he carried to the far side of the room, and waited for the sun to
rise.
Some time later, the knock he had been anticipating
sounded on the outer door.
"My lord?"
Evhan made them wait.
"My lord, the master chamberlain begs
entry."
At last Evhan stood and moved to open the chamber
door.
"Ah, sir," Kien greeted, and stepped aside.
Beside the guardsman, a breathless Stephan bowed his head in surprised greeting
over a breakfast food tray.
"Captain Evhan, sir, I've brought my lord's
breakfast."
"Thank you, Master Stephan," Evhan replied,
taking the tray of breads and fruits. "If you will please pass the word,
His Lordship is not feeling well this morning, and asks that the Second Elder
assume charge of his duties."
"Sir?" Stephan mouthed with some dismay,
craning his head for a look.
"He prefers not to be disturbed," the Fason
reiterated, holding forth his free arm to ward against the other's entry.
"I shall fetch me physicians at once," the
chamberlain assured him.
Evhan shook his head. "That won't be necessary. I
will sit vigil with him myself, and will send for attendants as needed. As it
turns out, I, too, am not without need for rest, and me regent and I have much
to discuss."
The chief seneschal frowned his staunch displeasure.
"Sir, it is my duty—"
"Your duty is to serve as commanded," Evhan
reminded him crisply. "I speak for His Lordship on this. Anyone wishing
to question me will also answer to him later."
Stephan pouted, but made no further attempt to enter.
"Kien," Evhan continued, "assure our
chamberlain here mat everything is under control, and that his assistance is
not required at this time."
Kien saluted and reached forward to pull the other
away.
"I can bring the captain another food tray, if he
wishes," Stephan offered.
"Make it dinner. His Lordship and I will share
this for now."
Before the seneschal could utter further protest,
Evhan closed the door and tripped the latch.
He went back to his chair, setting the unneeded food—
which he would consume later for the sake of disposal—on a side table. Unusual
behavior, certainly. Enough to raise eyebrows, perhaps, and spawn a few new
suspicions. But he was chief guardian, after all, and three days was not such a
long time for which to stall. After the required incubation period, all would
be forgiven and forgotten, as the Illysp assumed full control of its host and
the newly risen speaker
walked among them once more. He need only keep any
from discovering the truth until then.
After that, while the others of his brood remained in
hiding, the regent, too, would be among them, giving the Illysp a sympathetic
ear at the highest level of city government. Nor would it end there. Like most
illnesses of the winter season, this one was certain to spread.
Of course, even this was only part of the plan. The
numbers he gathered within were but a shadow of the legions
being positioned without. When the time was right, all would be unreined, and
their enemies crushed in the resulting stampede.
So Evhan settled in, readying his excuses, preparing
himself against any and all challenges, determined to make sure that when the
man known as Darinor returned, the Illychar would be ready.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Back Table of Contents Next
Clouds wrapped the sky, a blanket tucked
round the heavens so that only a sliver of the sun peeked through. From these
fell a light rain, a swirling mist like that found at the base of a waterfall.
Trees and stones glistened amid the morning mix of haze and shadow, their
soaked and ragged forms suggesting an inner chill that would not be dispelled.
His cloak wrapped loosely about him, Torin sat upon an
outcropping at the edge of the entrance to the Granmarch's cave, watching
Nymphs of all ages at work and at play. As they had upon his arrival, some
returned his observation with looks of disdain, while others teased him with
smiles and gestures both coy and inviting. Most, however, ignored him. Being
the only male around, he was surprised they didn't treat him more as an oddity.
Clearly, men had no place in this society. Or did they?
He resisted the urge to ask Amber or Mirren—his
constant companions since being freed from his restraints the night before—for
their surliness toward him made it seem a dangerous topic. Instead, he peered
past their looming shadows and into the cave mouth behind him. Though he'd been
allowed barely more than a glimpse of the deeper areas, he was inarguably
impressed by these formations beneath which the Fenwa had tunneled in order to
make their homes. Were it not for the braziers used for light and warmth, he
might never have guessed he would find anyone living within. Animals, perhaps.
Wolves and bears and the like. Or maybe one of the ancient races—orcs or gnomes
or dwarves—said to have
inhabited such burrows in untold numbers before the
coming to prominence of man. But not humans. And certainly not a rogue band of
women, out here in the wild.
Seeing no sign of movement among the cave's shadows,
he shifted his attentions outward once more. Despite the various activities,
the land itself remained virtually unmarked and undisturbed. Against all odds,
these Nymphs appeared to have forged a rare balance between their needs and
those of nature, resulting in a simple, harmonious co-existence.
It struck him as so very primitive, and he wondered
how they managed it. At the same time, it all spoke of a plainness and
serenity that was somehow appealing. If given the choice, he wondered which he
would truly prefer: the comforts and responsibilities of a progressive
society, or the rugged freedom of being removed from it all.
He was still pondering this when he heard the light
scrape of footsteps approaching from behind. By the time he turned, Dynara and
another he did not recognize were already upon him. As Amber and Mirren parted
to either side of him, Torin rose quickly to his feet. Surprised to see the
Granmarch so clearly outfitted for travel—and with another besides her
kinmate—he. glanced about for the missing Naia while offering a confused
greeting.
"Dynara," he welcomed with a polite bow.
"I thought you were sending another."
Her brow tightened, but the smile she gave him was
utterly beguiling. Before he knew what she intended, she snapped forward with
serpentine swiftness. He found himself stumbling backward, tripped at the
heels. An instant later, he was on the ground, facing the sky and a sneering
visage that remained somehow beautiful. A booted foot pinned his empty sword
arm, while her opposite knee drove into his stomach. When all had settled, he
could feel his pulse against the edge of a dagger held to his throat.
Helpless to do otherwise, he stared at his assailant
with astonishment, and watched her sneer transform into a tenacious grin.
"You must be Torin."
He held his tongue this time, along with his breath,
waiting for the other to relax. She did so finally, leaning back and taking her
dagger with her.
"My name is Dyanne," she declared
matter-of-factly. "Dynara is my sister. I would encourage you to remember
that."
He wasn't likely to forget, Torin thought, fixating on
the girl's features—most specifically her breath as it clouded the surface of
her blade.
When he realized that she was awaiting confirmation,
he nodded.
"My kinmate's name is Holly. Say hello."
Torin glanced at the other, who regarded him with a
devilish smirk. The best he could manage in return was an amiable grunt.
"Well then, I see my sister has already
introduced herself," came a familiar voice.
Dyanne's bluff expression never changed as she slid
her weapon into its sheath and offered him her hand. Torin accepted it, and
she sprang back, helping him to his feet. From behind her came Dynara and Naia,
the latter bearing the Sword and Pendant.
Once upright, Torin was able to get a better look at
the newest pair of Nymphs to make his acquaintance. He could see now that
Dyanne did in fact possess a handful of physical characteristics that set her
apart from her twin. But the differences were subtle—a freckle here compared to
a mole there, a slightly shorter length of hair, minor variations in shape and
stance. Aside from that, she might have been a mirror's reflection of the
Granmarch, and every bit as stunning. He doubted their own mother had ever had
an easy time distinguishing between the two.
Holly looked a child by comparison, with sable hair
and beady black eyes. Given her plaintive cast and petite frame, she might have
been a lonely waif with no more strength than a sapling of her namesake. But
Torin remembered clearly that flash of a devil's smile, and had been caught off
guard more than once already by these Nymphs' deceptive ways. He would not be
fooled by this one.
"Your effects," Dynara said, as Naia
extended his talis-
mans. Torin accepted them eagerly, trying not to
appear so, keeping one eye on Holly and Dyanne.
The Sword's hilt, he noted, had been rewrapped with
leather covering and thongs. It was amazing handiwork, much tighter and cleaner
than his own. He considered inspecting the blade to make sure it was in fact
his weapon and not a fake, but he didn't need to, for even while sheathed and
bound in its disguise, its soothing aura was unmistakable.
"I trust I do not have to remind you of the terms
of our arrangement?"
Torin hung the Crimson Stone in place around his neck.
"I'll give you no cause to regret it."
"Dyanne and Holly have agreed to accompany you.
They have been instructed to aid you in whatever manner you require, but to
utilize their own judgment in doing so. If you intend to do something foolish,
do not expect them to follow. It will be up to them to decide at what point, if
any, those precious artifacts are taken from you and returned here."
They can try, Torin thought,
with a wary glance at the pair of Nymph Hunters. Now that he had the divine
talismans back in his possession, he was determined not to lose them again.
"I'm in your debt," he said.
Dynara nodded, first to him, then to her sister and
Holly. "Then I bid you all farewell."
With that, she turned on a heel and headed back into
her den. Naia went with her, as did Amber and Mirren, wheeling about one after
the other. The next thing he knew, he was alone with Holly and Dyanne.
"Have you all the supplies you need?" Dyanne
asked him.
Torin hefted his leather rucksack. Meager as they
were, its contents appeared to be twice those contained in the various bags and
pouches slung or cinched into place on the girls' slender frames.
"I was instructed to prepare only for
myself," he admitted. "It's not much."
"It's likely more than you'll need," Dyanne
assured him, dismissing his concern with a toss of her head. "The forest
will provide for us."
Torin did not challenge the claim. Although he wanted
to be sore with her for, her unforgiving welcome, he found that as they stood
there contemplating one another, he felt guilty instead.
"I'm sorry for my confusion," he said, surrendering
the apology he felt he was owed. "No one told me you were twins."
"An honest mistake," she replied evenly.
"I'm sure it won't happen again."
Torin couldn't decide whether her words constituted an
acceptance or a warning. Finally, he looked to the sopping gray skies, seeking
escape from her level gaze and the awkwardness he was feeling.
"Shall we set forth then?" he urged.
Dyanne studied him a moment longer, then turned to
Holly. The two shared a brief, unreadable look that yet spoke volumes between
them. When it ended, both wore what seemed to Torin a knowing smirk.
'This way," Dyanne said.
They worked their way west, following the downhill
flow of the riverbed past the various boulder clusters that comprised the
Nest. Several of the Nymphs stopped what they were doing or emerged from their
dens to wave or whistle or call out wishes for a safe journey—mostly to Dyanne
and Holly, Torin noted, rather than to him. He searched among them for Fawn and
Jess, but saw no sign of the pair who had brought him here. The rest of those
he did see barely marked the trio's progress. He counted more than twoscore,
all told, a fraction of the number he was certain were busy elsewhere, in their
cairn-houses or the surrounding woods.
He would've liked to have met more of them, he
realized, which surprised him. His brief visit to their private community had
thus far provided him little more than scrapes and bruises to both body and
mind. But it had been memorable to say the least, repaying in the hint of
hidden wonders what it had cost him in self-esteem. He knew not what sort of
spell these Fenwa had woven, but it intrigued him enough to make him want to
learn more.
When they had passed below what appeared to be the
last of the inhabited boulder caves, his guides veered
northward, up along a switchback trail similar to that which he had descended
upon entering from the south bank. Dyanne and Holly strode side by side ahead
of him. It was difficult to keep his eyes on the path and off their strutting
forms. Each carried herself with an unflappable air of self-assurance, as if
fully aware of her own strengths and charms. Neither bothered to glance back at
him, seemingly unconcerned with whether he followed at all. He watched their
unbraided curtains of hair swish back and forth to the rhythm of their
stride—particularly Dyanne's, whose silken strands ended just above the small
of her back, as if to draw focus to her hourglass shape. Once he was caught, it
became that much harder to look away, for one contour led to another, trapping
his gaze in an endless flow across her supple physique. Twin sister
notwithstanding, never had Torin seen such a fine array of arcs and bends in a
single individual, each and every curve right where he would have placed it
himself. If the woman had been a sculpture or painting, he would have
considered her a flawless work of art.
A sight so rare, it almost made his trials in coming
here seem worthwhile.
He shook his head at his own fascination, and averted
his eyes. Time and duty did not permit for such fancies. Nor was it fair to
Marisha. Wriggling free of Dyanne's enchantment, he turned focus to the many
questions that would need answering before he traveled much farther along this
new road.
The first was on his lips as they reached the top of
the Nest's embankment and started into the surrounding trees. But no sooner had
the forest swallowed them than Dyanne headed him off with a question of her
own.
"Did my sister tell you why she was letting you
go?"
Her head only half turned as she asked him this, so
that for a moment, he wasn't certain she was speaking to him at all. He started
to answer, then hesitated, unsure what all Dynara might have said, and thinking
it unwise as of yet to reveal the Granmarch's desire to be rid of her own sister.
Dyanne took measure of his silence with a lighthearted
snort. "Don't worry, I'm no fool. You're clearly a viable Catch, Worth
keeping until next Season. Maybe longer. She must have really wanted me out of
her way."
Torin cleared his throat. "She made it sound as
if you were itching to leave."
She went on as if she hadn't heard him. "Visiting
Necani-cum. I'm guessing that was her idea, not yours."
"Did Dynara say otherwise?"
"No, but I didn't want to confirm by asking her.
To do so would've been a sign of weakness."
Siblings and their power struggles, Torin
thought. He shook his head. "I was told to seek Lorre. We don't have to
make this other stop if you think it's too dangerous."
Dyanne laughed. "Same thing my sister said. A
dare if you ask me, making a suggestion and then telling me to follow my own
judgment."
"Seems a poor reason to go marching into
trouble."
The woman shrugged, still keeping her back to him, her
pace unrelenting. "It's the right thing to do, if I understand your
mission correctly. The Finlorians have not roamed these lands for our lifetimes
and longer. Despite how unpredictable she is, we've a better chance learning
something from Necanicum than from Lorre. Just wanted to clarify your knowledge
of the situation."
Torin suppressed a groan. "I'm at your
mercy."
At that, Holly laughed. "He's a fast study, at
least," she said to her companion. She glanced back at him with impish
delight. "What shall we do with him, I wonder."
Torin frowned at the amusement all of these Nymphs
seemed to be enjoying at his expense. His frustration emboldened him to ask a
question that had been gnawing at him. "Tell me, what does it mean, all
this talk of catches and seasons!"
Dyanne spared him another half-turn. "Many of
those who form our ranks come from the lands abroad, seeking escape from
various circumstances. The rest are the result of controlled breeding. Our
Hunters capture men from the wild and deliver them to the Nest, where the best
speci-
mens are given over to those chosen to be Mothers for
the Season."
"And that's all that's required of them?" He
couldn't help but scoff at what was surely many a man's fantasy. "I can
think of worse methods of servitude."
The pair looked at each other, Dyanne with an innocent
smile, Holly with a wicked grin.
"Our breeding periods are strictly
observed," Dyanne explained. "The men are leashed, and disposed of
at Season's end. Rarely is it worthwhile to keep one alive throughout the rest
of the year. Men are plentiful. For each new cycle, a fresh crop is brought
in."
Torin's tongue grew thick in his mouth. Perhaps the
Nest would not have been such a magical place to remain after all.
'The last Season ended months ago, and the next
remains several months off. Otherwise, my sister would have been far less
likely to set you free. Of course, most trespassers caught out of Season are
required to pay the toll."
"The toll?"
"Stripped of their possessions and executed
straightaway."
Torin swallowed his growing discomfort. "That
doesn't strike you as barbaric?"
Dyanne considered him with a raised eyebrow.
"We've a long way to go to repay men for their crimes."
Torin couldn't argue that, and would have resisted any
inclination to do so. "So the two of you aren't Mothers?"
"Next Season, perhaps. Although neither one of us
will be volunteering."
He wasn't certain what to make of her obvious
distaste. "Are the two of you ... joined?"
"Joined?" Holly mimicked,
with another laugh.
"Sworn to each other."
"We are," Dyanne admitted, "but not in
the manner you're thinking of. All among our clan are matched at birth, or
paired with another of near age upon arrival. An act of survival. It's not
intended as an amorous partnership, although those do develop sometimes."
"Then why resist becoming a Mother?"
"Because Holl and I mean to impact things in a
larger way. We love the freedoms provided by our way of life, but in order to
keep those freedoms, we're at some point going to have to take action to defend
them. Though babes are taken from their Mothers and raised by Nurses, even just
a few months is too long a time to be trapped in a birthing den."
Torin's first response was shoved aside by another
thought, one which he was immediately afraid to ask. But he made himself do so.
"What happens to the children born male?"
"That never happens. Our Mothers are given an
elixir that ensures all our children are born female."
The answer was completely unexpected, and seemed to
head off any moral debate over infanticide. He wondered if it was truly
possible to predetermine a child's gender in such a fashion. He wouldn't have
thought so, but then, there was a lot he didn't know. Some things, he wasn't
sure he wanted to know.
His thoughts turned. The questions he had actually
meant to ask had been scattered and forgotten the moment Dyanne had spoken. He
sifted now through those that remained, and latched upon that which seemed most
pressing.
"This Necanicum. Who is she?"
"She's one of us," Dyanne replied. "Or
was, I should say. One of the founding sisters of our clan. It was she, in
fact, who developed the elixir I just told you about."
"So what happened that she is no longer with
you?"
"The way Holl and I heard it, the elixir was just
the beginning. Necanicum was fascinated with the dark arts and their effect on
nature."
"Dark arts? You mean magic?"
"Witchcraft, as it's known to us. The
manipulation of life and its natural order. I don't know how else to explain
it."
Torin nodded. "Go on."
"Some say it was this that brought about the
disease that overcame her, causing her to go insane. But in all honesty, no one
can prove the two were related. The fact remains that she became more and more
withdrawn, retreating into a world of dark practices and secret experiments. A
world
frowned upon by the other Fenwa. A world in which no
others dared go."
"She murdered her kinmate," Holly
interjected, turning to fix him with a glittering gaze.
Dyanne glared at the other's impatience, though there
was no real anger in the expression. "We don't know that either," she
argued. "It is said the woman perished under mysterious circumstances. No
one seems to know how, exactly. But the other Fenwa had had enough. Rather than
seek another with which to pair her, as is normally the custom, they asked her
to leave. They were afraid of her; they wouldn't dare try to threaten her outright.
But it was only a matter of time before their fear and mistrust would have led
them to it. Some say Necanicum recognized this. Others say she left much more
willingly, seeking isolation in which to continue her studies. Still others say
she was already mad, if not from her disease, then from grief at the death of
her kinmate, Granmarch at the time. Whichever story you choose to believe, she
left the Nest, venturing north into the older, more wild regions of the forest.
Few claim to have seen her since."
Torin mulled it through. He didn't care for tales that
left so much to interpretation, for they raised as many questions as answers.
"When did all of this take place?"
"Some twenty years ago, just before Holly and I
were born. Necanicum was an old woman even then." She glanced back at him
briefly, her stride unbroken on the narrow forest trail, maple eyes agleam.
"You're wondering if she's even still alive."
Torin nodded. "You say few claim to have seen
her."
"Few are foolish enough to try. We leave her to
her woods; she leaves us to ours. An unspoken agreement we dare not violate.
But the rogues of this land accord no such respect. They tread where they will,
and pay the price. More than once have we ensnared men gone mad with raving
about the dark things come to life in the northern Widow wood. Necanicum may
well be gone, but her influence remains."
"And yet, you believe it wise to trespass
now?"
Dyanne slipped him a patronizing look. "I never
said it was wise. I only agreed it to be a risk worth taking—at least in
comparison to visiting with Lorre. In either case, this is a challenge that
every Fenwa born in the last twenty years has considered facing, and one my
sister should never have dared us to undertake. If Holly and I succeed, our
influence among our clan will grow stronger man ever before."
A sense of disquiet began to form in the pit of
Torin's stomach. He didn't like the idea of wandering unbidden into the domain
of a mad witch, especially for the reasons they were suggesting. Whatever petty
struggle Dynara and Dy-anne wished to wage between themselves over the
direction of their people had nothing to do with him. Nor could he afford to
risk his own mission over it. At the same time, he was relatively certain that
with the Sword in his possession, he was well armed against any sorceries this
Necanicum might possess. And if there was even a glimmer of chance she might
know something of the fate of the Finlorians, he owed it to those for whom he
was fighting to find out. Besides, he could take heart in knowing that all of
it was most likely little more than folklore and hearsay.
"Where I come from," he submitted hopefully,
"men tell stories of all kinds of ghouls, but rarely does that make them
true."
Both Dyanne and Holly turned to regard him as one,
their faces an odd mix of scorn and amusement. "We'll find out soon
enough, won't we?"
They did not wait for his reaction, but tossed their
heads and sauntered on ahead. Like spoiled princesses, he imagined, with he a
palace servant left to follow behind. If that was indeed their attitude, he saw
no need to let it trouble him.
He allowed his focus to drift for a time, to be taken
in by his surroundings. For all its drab color and dour weather, the land had a
life to it, a vitality in the air. It was not something he could see or hear.
It was not something he could quite smell, taste, or touch. But he could feel
it nonetheless, like a tingling in his bones. He was better attuned to such
emanations of natural energy—had been ever since he had claimed the Sword. But
having been locked away for what had seemed ages within the stifling walls of
Krynwall, he noted
that it had been a long time since the environment itself had seemed so
enchanted, so filled with hope and promise. It was a refreshing feeling.
Up ahead, the girls began speaking to each other,
though he could not quite hear their words over the rustle of his movements
through the underbrush. He tried to listen for a time, before surrendering it
as a useless and unnecessary venture. Unless they should invite him to
participate, he would cling to his thoughts as they clung to theirs.
They proceeded in this fashion for several hours,
Torin trailing while his forward guides shared plans and observations and
whatever other private merriments served to pass the time, all the while
matching each other stride for stride. Though he had a great deal to be
troubled with, Torin pretended otherwise. It was easy to do, strolling through
that captivating woodland. He marked all manner of small detail: the tenacious bloom
of winter flowers, the silver sparkle of brooks and streams, the unswerving
dedication of a mother fox foraging for her young. In these and other minor distractions,
he was able to lose himself, allowing his burdens to drift away like puffs of
smoke. There were no Illysp, no Vandari, no quest to find the latter in order
to banish the former. There was only the simple serenity of this virgin realm,
unspoiled by man and his concerns.
They stopped twice to rest and eat, snacking on roots
and bulbs provided by the forest as Dyanne had promised. Torin nibbled
courteously if halfheartedly, wishing for some form of meat or cheese and
thinking that if this was all they ate, it was of small wonder that most of the
Nymphs he'd seen were so thin. At least the water was refreshing, sweetened and
taken from a skin given him back at the Nest. As with his other thoughts, he
kept these to himself. Even during these periods of rest, the girls made
scarcely an effort to involve him in their conversations, inquiring politely as
to his tastes and opinions, but expressing no real interest in his answers.
What little there was worth knowing about him, he supposed, had been relayed
already by Dynara. He might have taken offense, but again decided not to. This
fellowship had been all but forced upon: each of them, and was unlikely to last
long. There seemed little point in trying to become friends.
He thought of Marisha frequently throughout the day,
but was discomfited because it required an almost conscious effort to do so.
Once, not long ago, he'd had to expend such effort to keep hex from his
thoughts, so that he could concentrate on matters of the crown. He still
envisioned her easily enough, but each time that vision seemed farther away and
less distinct, as if reluctant to answer his summons. It felt almost as if
something more than time and distance had come between them, but there was no
imagining what that might be. Eventually he ceased his attempts and let the
feeling go, finding it too frustrating to contemplate.
His shifting mood affected his view of the woods as
well. They seemed colder than before, and darker, a maze without beginning or
end, the only trails those forged by his guides in front of him. He soon
realized, however, that it was not just him. Dyanne and Holly spoke sparingly
now, in hushed and solemn tones. The forest had changed, grown shadowed
and crooked, like a living creature shaped by a heart full of menace.
It grew worse as the afternoon lengthened. Black
trees, many of them stripped of leaves and needles, offered scant protection
from rains become thick and heavy. While the thinning cover should have
allowed more light to filter through as well, Torin found this was not the
case. The sun, already on its downward arc, was being drug away like a mewling
animal into a nest of snakes. Gusts of wind rattled the trees, flinging fallen
raindrops in new directions. The Sword's fires burned low, as if in measure of
Torin's flagging courage.
His guides, he noticed, had stopped speaking, and
stood waiting for him to catch up. Torin hastened to do so, more than a little
concerned by the grim look on Dyanne's face.
"Her domain has grown," the Nymph Hunter
remarked, sounding strangely distant.
Torin stood rooted, transfixed by her gaze. It took
him a moment to find his voice. "What do you mean?"
"Look around. We're just now entering the buffer
between her woods and ours. What do you see?"
She gestured. Torin did not have to follow the sweep
of her arm to know what he would find. Gone were the nesting ferns and winter
trilliums, withered into dust. Broken was the stately majesty of the ancient
granitewood, as well as the bold arrogance of the juvenile alder. What grew
here was a grotesque array of blackened boles, many twisted and splintered
beyond recognition. Between the toes of these gnarled giants grew only mold and
fungus. Not a single squirrel could be found darting upon their trunks, nor a
single bird perched upon their barren limbs. The air, unnaturally silent save
for the endless thrumming of rain, smelled of rot and decay.
"Stay close," she commanded him. "Keep
your mouth shut and your eyes open. If you sense trouble, alert me or Holly,
but do not draw weapon unless I give you leave. We mean her no harm."
Were it not for the oppressive stillness, Torin might
have laughed. For he had intended no harm to Fawn or Jess or any of their clan,
and yet had somehow ended up their plaything. He was about to remind Dyanne of
this, but saw in her eyes what little hope there was for any argument he might
raise. Opting to save his strength, he wrapped his cloak more tightly about him
and nodded.
Dyanne regarded him silently for a moment, as if
sensing he had something more to say and welcoming the challenge. Torin let his
gaze drift about the dripping woodland before bringing it back to her. The
diminishing twinkle in her eyes seemed to betray a sense of disappointment. It
caused in him such a sudden and unexpected sting of compunction that he very
nearly obliged her with the struggle she was seeking. But before he could open
his mouth, she shrugged him aside and started forward once more.
A bewildered Torin shook his head, and followed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Back Table of Contents Next
An actual trio now, Torin and his
companions eased their way through the gathering dark. The girls still strode
ahead of him, but only by a pace, each to a side. The earth they trod upon was
soft and sodden, a mix of wet leaves and rotting deadwood mat sucked at the
soles of their boots as if reluctant to let go. With each step, Torin wondered
if that might not be true.
The land's sickness became ever more apparent the
deeper they delved into the northern wood. He would have scoffed at the
possibility were he not seeing it for himself. Whatever poison gripped these
lands did so with a will that was frightening. Nothing wholesome prevailed
here, and only ants and beetles and spiders made it their home. As many trees
lay fallen as were standing, the latter of which leaned upon or curled round
one another in support. No, not support, Torin realized, but battle. Locked in
a struggle for survival, each sought to strangle or otherwise bear down upon
its neighbors, as if blinded by desperation to the fate that awaited them all.
The last of the daylight succumbed to the darkness,
and only the smothered gleam of moon and stars was left to light the way. Torin
looked up to find skeletal branches stretching across the dome of the sky like
knives, carving up the clouds and the moon's dim radiance. So eerie was the
withered landscape that, were it not for the familiar drumming of rain upon the
meshed ceiling of mottled tree limbs and his own shoulders, he might have
thought him-
self trapped in a nightmare from which he must eventually
awake.
They pressed ahead with heavy hearts and wrinkled
noses, subdued by the devastation, wrought upon this diseased woodland. Though
he didn't say so, Torin began to worry that mis blasted region might stretch on
forever—or all the very least, beyond me limits of the girls' endurance. His
own was bolstered by the Sword and Pendant, and he was determined mat if he
must, he would march all week to gel clear. He wondered what he might do should
his guides elect to stop for me night: camp with them here in this forsaken
wildwood, or abandon them to its ghosts?
Before he could decide, a mist began to form about
them as if risen from the ground. Within moments, its dark layers had grown so
dense mat he could not see his own feet. Molding leaves, fallen trees, and
wilting underbrush all drowned beneath its curdled depths, while islands were
formed out of small rises that dotted me landscape. Still me vapor rose, past
their waists, their chests, until its veil threatened to obscure all from
view.
Dyanne drew them both close.
"We can't travel much farther without risk of
wandering in circles or becoming lost," she said, her words soft and
urgent. "It may be best to camp here until dawn."
Torin checked the pale faces of his companions, and
saw that each was about as excited by the prospect as he. "The Sword might
be enough to light our way," he offered.
"No weapons," Dyanne insisted. "Not
unless they become absolutely necessary."
"Then we could light torches—"
"I'm thinking a campfire. For warmth and
protection, yes, but also to send signal to Necanicum that-we're here."
"If she doesn't know already," muttered
Holly.
"And what else might we be sending signal
to?" Torin asked, peering about guardedly and seeing nothing but the fog.
Dyanne's grin seemed cruel. "What, now you
believe in our stories of ghouls?"
"I believe in hoping for the best, but planning
for the worst."
"Very well," the woman agreed, "then I
leave it up to you. Either we continue forward blindly, drawing whatever you
fear might live out here to the torches we'll be forced to use, or we set for
ourselves a position of defense atop one of these mounds and meet whatever may
find us head-on."
Neither option was appealing, but the Nymph Hunter was
right. Should they continue, they would still be drawing attention to
themselves, and deep within the bowels of the fog, would be even more
vulnerable to attack. Nor would they catch sign of Necanicum's dwelling should
it lie more than a pace or two to either side. The choice reminded him of that
made with Moss while crossing the Cleft, and the consequences thereof. And that
had not been the first time his impetuousness had cost him. With Dyanne
watching him carefully, he finally relented. Better that they seek high ground
and wait out this foul night than hurry forward and accomplish nothing.
They settled on a rise of Dyanne's choosing, a mostly
bare knoll walled to the east by a tangled stand of what might once have been
fir or spruce. The mist swirled about its banks like an incoming tide, but
stopped just below its lip and climbed no higher. Torin kept watch with one eye
while helping his guides gather wood for the fire. Most of that which littered
the ground was so wet and rotted that it crumbled at his touch, and he was forced
instead to snap dead branches from standing trees. By that time, his
imagination was running amok, for the crack of each limb sounded to him like an
indignant shriek uttered by the disfigured giant from which it was broken.
Somehow, his guides coaxed a flame from that soaking
pile, sending out a thick tail of smoke that bled into the unbroken fog. Their
little company gathered round, shifting as needed to clear the smoke's path,
eyes darting about while they listened to the hiss and pop of rain upon their
meager fire.
Despite their elevated position, they could see little
of the forest beyond the crest of their own hill. Night had descended like a
phial of spilled ink, forming a black backdrop beyond the flickering aura cast
by the flames. Beyond that, the Wid-
owwood had become an insidious void that sensed
Torin's fears and granted mem life. He saw faces in the air and in the mist,
wraiths that seemed to pass through heavens and earth as though they were one
and the same. They were in the flames and in the trees, tormented spirits come
to share their anguish with those settled upon this cursed ground. He wondered
if his companions saw them, but felt foolish enough without asking. He closed
his eyes, blinking them away, only to find that those which fled invariably
returned, larger and more loathsome than before.
Perhaps he needed some rest. He was about to suggest
as much, that they take turns sleeping and standing watch, when he found Dyanne
squinting at him curiously from across the fire, as if seeing something she
hadn't noticed before. Then her eyes widened suddenly.
"Behind you!"
At the same time, he felt the flaming rush of Sword
and Pendant, burning in warning, and the whoosh of heavy shadows dropping about
him. He spun, lost his footing, and reached back to catch himself. He very
nearly scrabbled into the flames to escape what he spied—a face made of bark,
locked in a rictus grin.
A whirling knife struck the thing in the chest, and
though it seemed unable to scream, its face stretched, as if to hiss in silent
fury. Torin did not wait for Dyanne's order, but rolled to his feet and drew
his weapon. In the talisman's glow, his attacker hesitated, and Torin saw what
it was they faced.
Despite the warmth of the Sword pulsing through him,
Torin froze. The creature looked more than anything like a sapling tree,
humanoid in form, but horribly misshapen. It was lean and skeletal, comprised
of a trunk of sinuous wetwood. Its legs and arms were branches, its fingers and
claws no more than twigs. Atop its head and from its chin grew scraggly tufts
of thin, branching roots. Vinelike strands kept it all sewn together, along
with a barklike skin wrapped tightly about its gnarled frame. Fathomless eye
sockets burned yellow with unnatural light, reflecting feral hunger and
madness.
Torin brandished his blade and again the tree-demon
shied away. He saw now that there were others, on the ground and in the trees,
similarly assembled, yet each shape unique. Several were even now detaching
themselves, tearing their emaciated bodies from the interwoven stand that had
earlier served the companions as a windbreak but appeared now to be one of the
demons' nests. They dropped from their perches like falling seed cones to
gather around the edge of the knoll, hiding just within the shelter of the
mists. Torin could still see their faces, though, each a leering mask of death.
He glanced back at his companions and wondered if his
visage was as horror-filled as theirs. Each of them was armed now, Holly with a
pair of throwing knives from a brace he'd hot seen before, and Dyanne with a
dagger in one hand, rapier in the other. As of yet, he saw nothing beyond them
to suggest they had been surrounded.
He spun forward again, sensing motion. The first of
the tree-demons was advancing, Holly's knife still stuck in its chest. Its
lipless mouth stretched further, pulled open by roots that acted like tendons,
revealing a tongueless maw lined top and bottom with jagged rows of toothlike
stakes. Torin retreated a step in spite of himself. The thing's movements were
not stiff or awkward, but quick and graceful. The only sounds it made were the
snap and scrape of its limbs and bindings, along with the wind whistling
through narrow gaps in the creature's bundled form. An eerie rustle signaled
the approach of its fog-shrouded comrades below.
The demon pawed the air before him with a series of exploratory
swipes. Torin wasn't yet certain how he should respond. If this was some kind
of pet in service to the witch—
It lunged then, moving twice as fast as it had before,
and Torin had no choice. Up came the Sword, sheathed in flames as it cleaved
the beast in two. The lopsided halves went sliding through the muck to lie
twitching in the darkness.
For a moment, he thought that might drive the others
away. But they came on, groping and with silent hisses as they emerged from the
skirting mists. He realized then that the other did not seem to have perished,
but lay there in its ruined state, flailing at the air with frantic swipes of
its arms
and legs, refusing death. Torin allowed himself to
study it for a moment, then looked back to the scores of others. Only then did
he realize the trouble they were actually in.
"We have to run!" he yelled, hoping his
companions would simply agree, and not make him explain himself.
"In this murk?" Dyanne asked. "Are you
mad?"
She was right, of course. For all they knew, these
things could see in the dark, and give chase without need for rest. Could he
say the same? Even if his strength held out, this was their domain, not
his. He may as well attempt to out-swim a shark.
But how long could they remain on this drowning crest?
They came for him then, in a concerted rush. He had
only a vague sense of numbers, but feared at once they were more than he could
handle. Crimson flames ripped along the Sword's blade as it carved through two,
three, four of the things, almost faster than he could count. A fifth lunged
from his left, just as his stroke swept out to the right. Holly's knives
hammered at it like the beak of a woodpecker. Although they barely slowed its
momentum, the blades turned it aside so that it lost its balance and went
crashing through their fire pit, scattering flaming brands in every direction.
Again its brethren recoiled, swiping hatefully while
their comrade steamed and burned. Dyanne was on it in a heartbeat, hacking at
it with sword and dagger, then twisting her blades in such a way as to fling it
forward over the edge of the knoll while tripping it with her heel. The smoking
creature pitched and sailed out into darkness, illuminating for a moment the
inkwell mists and the packs of angry faces hidden within. Almost instantly, the
small fires that had sprouted on its limbs were extinguished, and the threat
became all but invisible once more.
"They're surrounding us!" Dyanne shouted,
sounding alarmed but determined.
Torin snorted, trying to clear the burning stench from
his nostrils. He kicked at a firebrand so that it lay as a barrier between him
and his enemies. "Backs to the fire!" he hollered. "Use the
brands to keep them at bay!"
They did so, arranging the burning pieces in a loose
perimeter, brandishing torches or weapons whenever one of the demons came
near.. But this, too, Torin saw, was unlikely to buy them much time. Alone on
the damp earth and in the incessant rain, the scattered pieces were fast
smoldering and going out. And each piece taken weakened the primary flame of
their signal fire. Nor did the creatures appear truly cowed, as even the
scorched one reemerged, shoving forward among its brethren. It was almost as
if they recognized fire as a natural enemy, but understood that what flame
their quarry wielded could do little damage to them here.
Torin tightened his grip upon the Sword, watching the
tree-demons draw about in a tightly knitted ring of hunched backs, twisted
limbs, and gnashing stake-teeth. It was a pathetic schilltron he and Dyanne
and Holly formed, gazing outward, encircled shoulder to shoulder with too much
space between in order to provide for the fire in the middle. He wished for
even one or two more fighters to help plug those gaps. Even better, he wished
Kylac Kronus were here, and not out seeking whatever purpose the youth felt to
be lacking in his life. Perhaps then he might have liked their chances.
After several moments of tentative approach, the
tree-demons launched a fresh charge, leaping over or kicking aside the
gap-toothed wall of firebrands. Torin stepped forward to meet them. He let the
Sword take him now, no longer searching for an easy way out, but resigned to do
battle until injury—and then death—lay claim. He gritted his teeth in a savage
euphoria, thrusting and sweeping in precise lines and arcs. The creatures came
in waves and bounds, diving at face and flanks, above and below. He could feel
them scoring hits, their claws raking his flesh with furrows of blood. But it
was nothing compared to the damage he inflicted, as he sent mem away in bits
and pieces.
And yet they came on.
He couldn't see how his companions fared. Every now
and then, while ducking or spinning, he caught sight of one or the other in the
corner of his vision. His sense was that they were holding their own,
coordinating their defenses and attacks as only a pair trained to complement
one another all their lives could manage. Not only that, but it seemed
the bulk of the demon charge was directed at him, as
if the creatures understood his talisman to pose the greater threat. Bring him
down, and the others would follow.
Torin fought on to make sure that didn't happen. But
not since Spithaera's dragonspawn had he faced creatures so driven. Whatever
fueled their hunger, these tree-demons fought now without any trace of
self-preservation, as if guided by a pack mentality that seemed to encourage
individual sacrifice. As stubborn and determined as he considered himself to
be, Torin realized full well that this battle would not be won by force of will
alone.
Just when it seemed the enemy's numbers were endless,
the unexpected happened. It began with an anguished cry— Holly's, he thought.
Her pain startled him, and drew him about. The clutch of demons he was fighting
refused him pause, looming over his back like a cresting wave. He felt their
darkening shadow, and then their claws upon his back, shoulders, and arms.
Then what remained of their campfire erupted in an
explosive gout of green-tinged flame. Torin's view of Holly was obscured as he
stumbled backward, arm raised to shield his eyes. In the same instant, smaller
fires began springing to life all around him, from each of the smoking brands
scattered about. Together, they lit the woods for dozens of paces in all
directions, revealing a swarm of tree-demons milling about in startled chaos.
Those nearest him and the fires were scrambling away
as if suddenly afraid for their own lives. Small wonder, for wherever one of
the creatures came into contact with even a spark of green flame, its entire
body lit up like an oil-soaked funeral pyre. There were no screams, but the
stench was horrendous. Torin remained where he was, crouched on one knee. He
searched for his comrades, but could not find them through the haze of smoke
and light and flaming bodies.
Within moments, those demons who had not been reduced
to cinders scuttled from the knoll in bitter retreat. Torin watched them go,
his guard up, casting about should any return. He found himself squinting,
blinded by the sudden radiance, wary lest the fires spread.
Then his eyes happened upon a lone shadow ambling from
the south, out of the dark, bearing a globe of dim light. It was neither large,
nor threatening, and yet the tree-demons, he noticed, gave it a wide berth,
like waters split by a river's fork. For a moment, Torin had no idea what it
might be.
"Necanicum," Dyanne whispered.
He glanced over as the Nymph and her kinmate stepped
round the fire to join him. Each was breathless and glistening from her
exertions, spattered with mud and sporting any number of welts and bruises. But
neither appeared to have suffered any serious harm. Turning back, Torin joined
them in marking the shadow-thing's approach—up the side of the knoll, edging
through the mists and picking its way past the twitching debris of battle. He
saw it clearly now—a woman, hunched and knotted, draped in the hides of animals
that had not been properly skinned. Legs and tails, still attached, swayed back
and forth, withered by rot, while bouncing skulls stared at him with shriveled
eye sockets.
She came to a stop directly before them, lifting her
lamp as if to have herself a closer look. The lantern itself was odd, its
battered casing aswirl with shifting lights, as though filled with twitching
glowworms and dancing fireflies. As she raised it high, the surrounding flames
lost their greenish tinge, dying into weak, yellow-orange curls that were once
again at the mercy of the rain. Beneath their feet, the mists swirled round.
Torin joined Dyanne and Holly in lowering his weapon,
waiting to be addressed.
"Ah, the young sisters, they looked affright.
They did not understand the gnats were but children."
The witch's voice was wispy and ragged, and as soon as
she had finished speaking, she tucked her chin into her shoulder and mumbled
something Torin couldn't hear.
"Mother Necanicum," Dyanne said again,
bowing deeply. "You saved us."
The old woman ceased muttering to whatever dead thing
it was that hung mere and cast about the flaming rise. The others followed her
sweeping gaze to find dismembered
tree-demons lying everywhere, wriggling and flailing
in the firelight.
"Did she now?" the witch asked, as if only
then becoming aware of what had taken place. "The earth's blood burned hot
that night. But was it not they who brought the Immortal One to shield
them?"
Sweat dripped from Torin's forehead and trailed down
his limbs, stinging rivers that carried salt and grime across the field of claw
marks that crisscrossed his skin. He glanced at Dyanne to see what she might be
making of this.
"We did bring one to speak with you," the
Nymph admitted quickly. "A man who seeks your wisdom."
"Men seek not wisdom," the witch groused,
"but the power that comes with it." She muttered again to herself before
turning to Torin with a birdlike thrust of her head. "Ah," she said,
peering close. "Here stood the one the Teldara spoke of."
Torin held his tongue as he returned the witch's gaze.
Her lumpish face was twisted and grotesque, with patches of hair that sprouted
from more moles and growths than he could count in one sitting. And her eyes
looked more like those of a cat, with multi-colored facets to both catch and
reflect the light. They stared right through him as she spoke.
"This way then, yes? They followed Necanicum
before the gnats did return."
Torin's own eyes lifted reflexively to search again
the night-shaded woodland. He saw only the helpless struggles of those
tree-demons already severed and destroyed, their teeth and claws digging
piteously at the earth.
By the time he looked back, Necanicum had turned, and
with a final word to the carcass hanging from her shoulder, shuffled on down
the slope.
"What now?" he hissed at his companions.
"It's your quest," Holly offered rather
pointedly.
"The woman is witless."
"She saved us," Dyanne reminded him.
"I'd rather not wait here to see if she'll do so again." She cast
about, gripping tight her sword and dagger. "Care to disagree?"
He didn't. Not after what had quickly become the
longest day yet of this ill-fated voyage. He knew not where this witch intended
to lead them, nor even that it was Necanicum they had found. But at that
moment, surrounded by the scrape and scuttle of those dismembered tree-demons,
anything seemed better than remaining where they were. "Fine, but I'm not
putting away my sword." "You'd be a fool otherwise," Dyanhe
agreed. "Keep watch of our guide."
Torin did so, eyeing the bob of the witch's lantern
while Dyanne and Holly retrieved what knives they could find and selected a
pair of firebrands to use as torches. After that, the three of them hurried
down the rise, following the sound of the witch's voice as she continued to
mumble in the darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Back Table of Contents Next
A geyser of sparks billowed skyward as
Allion poked and twisted at the crackling fire, rearranging its pieces in order
to stoke the struggling flames. Although it hadn't rained for hours, the
elements were stacked against the little blaze he had built, the land around
him wet and cold and swept by gusting winds. But he had decided against one the
night before, and had nearly frozen in his sleep.
He stopped for a moment, allowing the fire to respond
to his efforts, warming his hands over the flames. Through the shimmering veil
of their heat, he peered over at Marisha, who sat upon a downed log before a
line of trees they had selected as a windbreak.
"Warm enough?" he asked her.
Marisha nodded, a pleasant smile come to her face.
Allion couldn't help but stare at her, bundled there in a fur-lined hood and cloak, coiled tight against the
cold. Her breath clouded before her, her nose and cheeks made ruddy by the
frosty night. So helpless and dependent she appeared, when nothing could be
further from the truth.
"Come sit down," she said, patting the log
beside her.
Allion hesitated, reluctant to abandon his position by
the fire.
"Leave it be," Marisha insisted. "It's
fine."
The hunter blew a slow breath and climbed to his feet.
Circling around the fire's pit, he took a seat at the edge of the fallen tree.
"Do I smell like horse or something?"
Allion looked at her. "Of course not."
"Then come closer. You're wasting body heat,
sitting all the way out there."
He started to argue with her, but didn't want to
appear uncomfortable, and so shuffled nearer. What room he left between them
disappeared when she moved over to close the gap.
"Much better," she said when pressed against
him.
Allion grunted, peering out over the edge of the
plateau serving as their campsite. On the plains below, he could just make out
the shadowed ruins of the Parthan city of
"A beautiful night, is it not?" Marisha
asked.
Allion turned his gaze from the husk of broken walls
to the celestial ceiling above. Despite a nest of dark clouds strung across the
sky to the east, both moon and stars were out in force, casting a silver light
that lent a crystalline quality to the land below.
"Think it'll rain again tonight?" she
pressed.
"Snow, more likely," Allion replied finally,
glancing again at the looming cloud bank.
It was their second night out from Krynwall in pursuit
of Darinor. The first had been spent in the shadow of the
As far as Allion was concerned, the trip couldn't end
too soon. It had started out well enough, a welcome relief after too many weeks
of being cooped up behind Krynwall's stifling walls. Nor had they encountered
anything but cold trails of the various bands of enemies said to be plaguing
their lands. But a threat of a different sort had arisen, one that
Allion might have seen coming had he been paying
better attention to the signs. Or maybe he had seen them and simply
chosen to ignore them.
He leaned forward, hands reaching for the halo of
warmth given off by the fire.
"Your hands must be freezing," Marisha
observed. "I don't know why you insist on wearing fingerless gloves."
Allion wiggled and stretched the digits she was
referring to. "I need a full sense of touch when it comes to my
arrows," he admitted. "What full gloves grant in comfort, they sacrifice
in sensitivity."
"Yes, well, fine protector you'll be' when your
fingers fall off altogether. Here, let me warm them."
The hunter's chest fluttered in minor panic. "I'm
fine, Marisha, really."
"Don't be a stubborn child. Give them here."
"Marisha—"
"It's the least I can do for having you here with
me."
He ceased struggling and, with an exaggerated sigh, allowed
her to take his hands in her own, where she pressed them between thick leather
gloves lined with wool.
"As I recall," he said, "you didn't
exactly invite me."
"No, but here you are anyway, and I'm grateful
for it."
Allion scoffed.
"I mean it, Allion," she said, pulling at
him so that his gaze found hers. Her sapphire eyes had never glowed so bright
and blue. "Thank you for coming, for not leaving me to face these wilds
alone. For being so dedicated to me—to Torin." She stopped, leaving the man's name to twist
awkwardly in the wind. Silently, Allion cursed himself for ever leaving his
place by the fire. He'd been much safer sitting with the tiny blaze between
them.
He cleared his throat and forced himself to look away,
back to the flames. "Yes, well, friends do that for one another."
"And I've known no truer friends than the two of
you," Marisha confessed quietly. She looked to his hands as if she might
release them, then started gently rubbing them instead. "How do you
suppose he's faring?"
"Torin? Well enough, I imagine. Hip-deep in
trouble, no doubt, and probably of his own making. But if there's one thing I
know about him, it's that he doesn't know when fo quit."
"It just seems so impossible, what my father has
asked of him. I can't help but wonder sometimes if he's ever coming back."
Allion turned to her. "You must never stop
believing that he will."
"And what do you believe?"
She could read the doubt in his eyes, Allion knew.
Doubt as to whether his friend could survive in that savage land long enough to
find the Vandari. Doubt as to whether it was all part of somehorrible ruse
orchestrated by her own father, Darinor. He hid these doubts as best he could
in order to answer her.
"He has you to return to, remember? If it were
me, there's nothing that would stop me. Nothing."
Marisha leaned her head upon his shoulder. Allion
closed his eyes and wondered what he had gotten himself into.
"In any case," he added, "I suppose
only your father can tell us for sure what progress Torin is making."
His bitter tone made the words sound harsher than intended,
but it was too late to take them back. She pulled away immediately.
"You still don't trust him."
"He's keeping secrets, even from us. How can you
trust someone like that?"
"We all have secrets. Is that not so?"
He started to argue, to explain to her that with
Darinor, it was different. The Entient was hiding something—a great many
things, probably—but something in particular that had nothing to do with
personal shame, and that was vital to their struggle. Allion could sense it,
gnawing at his mind like a rodent trying to escape its cage. But he scarcely
understood these suspicions himself, much less knew how to explain them to the
man's doting daughter. So he shook his head instead.
"I suppose I'd feel a lot better if I could place
my faith
in someone I knew a little better, someone other than
just him."
"Then trust me," Marisha bade him. "Or
do you fear me to be an enemy as well?"
Allion snorted. "Of course not."
"Even if I told you that I, too, have a secret? A
secret I've kept frorn you all along, from the time we met in Feverroot until
now?"
He knew better than to dismiss the matter when he saw
the earnestness in her eyes. "Marisha, what are you talking about?"
He listened then as she told him about the Pendant of
Asahiel, worn since her childhood. She told him of how the talisman had given
her the strength needed to survive her enslavement at the hands of the
dragonspawn when all others of her village had perished. She told him of how
Torin had discovered it, and of the role it had played in their final confrontation
with the Demon Queen. She told him finally of how it had been given over to
Torin—that it was this artifact by which Darinor was purportedly able to track
him.
Allion was not entirely surprised. He had long
suspected there was something they hadn't shared with him about the battle that
had taken place in Spithaera's lair. The details given him had never quite
added up. He hadn't pressed the issue, because he felt perhaps it had to do
with horrors too great to relive. Hearing it now, though, he couldn't understand
why he'd been left in the dark.
"Why didn't you tell me this before?" he
demanded.
"Were you not listening? I told no one. Not even
Torin. He discovered it for himself."
"And why didn't Torin say something?"
"Torin's silence was in respect for my wishes. If
you need to blame someone, blame me."
Allion blew into his hands, which he had withdrawn
from Marisha during her narration, then wrung them in frustration. "It's
not that anyone needs blaming. It's just... If it was meant to be such a
secret, why are you telling me now?"
"Because you're right. You deserve to know. Do
you think less of me now, knowing I kept this from you?"
He scowled for a moment to delay giving her his only
honest response. "No."
"Then do not begrudge my father the secrets he
keeps. Sometimes, to defend an oath, those closest to us must suffer—just as
you put aside your responsibilities to family and friends at Krynwall in order
to defend the oath you made to protect me. Is that not so?"
Allion fidgeted, but refused to answer.
"And does your presence here mean you care for
them any less?" Marisha asked.
At last he met her entreating gaze. "Perhaps
you're right. In any case, thank you for telling me."
"I should think you'd feel privileged." She
smiled. "Being the first person I've ever told."
Allion didn't know what to feel. His emotions were running
like deer in flight, leaving him but scattered glimpses until he knew not which
way to turn. Fear, resentment, guilt—taken individually, any one of these was
difficult to comprehend. Viewed together, they were a roiling mess.
Marisha studied him as if sharing in some measure his
torment. She was good at that, he knew, always commiserating, regarding people
as if by look alone she might draw their suffering and ease their pain. Torin
had told him once that it was this compassion, more than anything, for which he
loved her. Allion could see why.
He realizedsuddenly that too much time had passed
since her last comment. He should have responded by now, rather than simply
stare at her. They had gone beyond awkward. Each was transfixed, lost in the
other's eyes. Marisha leaned into him, and before he could think of what to do,
she kissed his cheek.
As she pulled away, their eyes remained locked.
Allion's pulse raced, and while the heat from their little campfire washed over
him, a deep chill wracked his body. The moment had taken on a will of its own,
and like an eddy in a river's current, there was nothing he could do to stop
the flow.
Then the horses screamed, with such pain and terror
that Allion nearly pitched over backward. Upon recov-
ery, he lunged for his bow and his quiver of arrows,
left leaning nearby with their sacks of provisions. He strung the supple wood reflexively,
and came up with an arrow nocked and ready, aimed toward the trees where their
horses were picketed.
By that time,
one of the animals was already down. The other, Marisha's gelding, reared up,
flailing at the darkness. What Allion saw made his blood run cold. For it
seemed the darkness itself had come alive, like a whirling funnel cloud. It
ripped at spruce needles and branches and the low-lying brush indiscriminately,
whipping up a fog of debris. Great gashes appeared in the horse's hide as stroke
by stroke it was flayed alive. Blood spattered and sprayed, coloring the mist
red.
When the second animal had fallen, the cloud-thing
held its place, huffing and growling. Then it moved outward, toward the camp.
Allion fired his arrow, but the storm parted to let it pass. The attacker
slowed its approach, but widened and split again—no longer a single funnel
cloud, but three, emerging from the trees and into the moonlight.
Allion glanced at Marisha, who crouched low behind
their fallen log and stared outward with horrified eyes, a dagger clutched in
her hand. An acute terror sucked at him, gutting his insides. It was a fear
greater than any he had ever felt for himself—the certain dread that he was
about to watch Marisha die.
His numbness was forgotten, cold fingers dipping into
his quiver and strumming his bowstring as never before. He 'didn't pause to see
what became of his shots, for he already knew. As one after another sailed
harmlessly into the backdrop of trees, he worked all the faster, his desperation
driving him. The trio of storm-creatures came on, black and twisted, their
shredded forms billowing.
Marisha squealed in warning, and Allion, reaching for
another arrow, sensed the creatures breaking forward now in a sudden rush. He
let go the arrow and reached instead for his hunting knife. With the knife in
one hand and his bow in the other, he leapt atop the log.
"Run!"
In that final moment, the heavens opened, and a great,
scintillating light surrounded him. The accompanying boom was so loud that
Allion felt the earth rumble. He lost his footing and tumbled backward to lie
upon me chilled ground, eyes clenched against the radiant light and scorching
heat.
It was the screams that forced him to respond, for he
had to make sure they were not his own. He lurched up, squinting. Marisha was
atop him by then, having abandoned her shelter to cover his body with her own.
Riddled with shock, he peered past at their woodland shield. A leap away on the
other side burned a steady pillar of brilliant white lightning, its crackling
streams splitting and grinding in a dance about the three creatures, pinning
them in place upon the earth.
The stench of their burning forms nearly knocked him
back down as Allion wrestled Marisha aside and forced himself to his knees. He
cast about, sweeping the ground for his bow or knife. It was then he saw the
other, at the northern edge of their campsite, a towering scarecrow of a man
whose gaunt frame buckled with strain against an invisible burden. His cupped
hands were raised skyward, and Allion flashed back to a different fight not
long ago, when the En-tient Ranunculus had joined them in battle against a pair
of Spithaera's demons on the shores of
Darinor!
But this fight was not yet over. A horrible screeching
sound pierced the rumble of thunder, driving into his ears like rusty knives.
Whatever these creatures were, they refused to die, though their flesh was
steaming and melting away beneath the lightning's onslaught. Allion wanted to
help, but all he could think of was garnering Marisha and fleeing.
Within the dancing streams, the creatures clawed at
one another in rage and frustration. But the lightning shower appeared to be
weakening. Allion turned back to Darinor, whose legs were trembling. The
renegade Entient could barely stand, and yet their enemies struggled.
At last Allion spotted his bow, lying beside the
campfire, and managed to haul himself to his feet. Marisha tugged at him, but
he ran for his quiver first. A moment later, he dashed back toward the fire,
where Marisha had already retrieved his
bow. She understood without words what he intended,
and so traded items with him before feeding the first of his arrowheads into
the flames. One after another, she men handed him the burning shafts, which he
sent whistling through the air and into the midst of their enemies. Slowed by
the deadly lightning, the things within were unable this time to dodge his
strikes, and Allion carried out his assault with grim determination as their
continued shrieks rent the night.
Two were almost fully aflame when the jagged streams
of energy flickered suddenly and died out. Released from their stinging cage,
these two fled into the woods, flapping away in the manner of grounded birds.
Allion's eyes widened when the third turned in a direct line toward Darinor,
who hunched forward now on one knee, shuddering breathlessly.
"Allion!" Marisha yelled, clutching his arm.
The hunter turned, accepting the final arrow. Allion
looked at the single bolt in dismay before stealing a glimpse of her pleading
eyes. Shaking free of her grip, he took the arrow and nocked it to his
bowstring, then peered down its shaft at his intended target. Through the wisps
of smoke and curling flames, he could just make out its starlit outline, like
ink swishing about in a clear bottle. It seemed without set shape or form, but
his earlier strikes had told him otherwise. With practiced aim, he stared down
that swirling cloud, narrowed gaze digging deep with focus, and fired.
With a meaty thwack, the arrowhead sliced deep through
what he had guessed to be the monster's throat. He must have guessed right, for
it collapsed to the earth, where it spun and writhed but made only rasping
noises. With a final, choking screech, it arched stiffly along its crooked spine,
then went still.
Mere paces away from where the tiling had fallen,
Darinor fell back raggedly. Marisha raced toward him. Allion followed with a
loping stride, favoring a twisted hip. He held up when he reached the
smoldering creature, shielding his nose with a raised forearm.
While Marisha pawed at her father in search of wounds,
Allion studied the thing they had killed—shriveled limbs and barbed nails,
black hair and leathery skin. Though burned and mangled beyond recognition, it
reminded him of a bat as much as anything else, with its folded wings and
hooked teeth and pointed ears. Only, this "bat" had been taller than
him, and humanoid in its stance.
"Are you hurt, Father?" he heard Marisha
ask.
"Leave me be, child," Darinor wheezed,
shoving his daughter away.
Allion looked over as the mystic muscled himself unsteadily
to his feet.
"What were those things?" the archer
asked.
The renegade Entient limped near, blue eyes still
glowing from his magical summons of nature's energy. The look he gave held such
fury that for a moment, Allion thought the other meant to strangle him.
"Illychar," Darinor snarled, as if the
answer could not have been more clear.
Allion pointed at the smoking corpse. "No. I
mean, what manner of creature is that?"
Darinor looked at it. "In life? A goblin. King of
the El-drakkar family. Cousin to the elves. Illysp-possessed and strengthened
throughout centuries of serving host to the fell spirits." His fierce gaze
shifted to Allion. "Were it not for me, you would both be dead."
As would you, were it not for us, Allion
wanted to say. He settled for matching the other's gaze, refusing to turn away.
Darinor snorted and turned to Marisha. "You
disobeyed me."
Marisha appeared sullen, but refused to apologize.
"And you," the mystic growled, rounding upon
Allion once more. "Is this what you consider looking after her
safety?"
Before the hunter could think of an excuse, a mournful
whinny came from the area of the downed horses.
"You will need to finish them off," Darinor
spat. "Goblins prefer their meals to struggle while being consumed."
Allion found his horror reflected in Marisha's face.
"I thought Illychar did not eat."
"They obey the natural instincts of the creature
they once were. Behaviors such as killing methods often remain the same."
The hunter gulped down a wave of nausea.
"And this one," the mystic continued,
kicking at the charred carcass at their feet. "This one must be destroyed
utterly, unless you wish to face it again later."
The hunter looked at the Entient with doubt. In its
present condition, the goblin appeared a useless rag. Allion could not imagine
it ever rising again, no matter how many Illysp might come to possess it.
"Those that fled .. .Will they return?"
Marisha asked.
"They will," Darinor assured her.
"Though it is unlikely they will do so tonight. Still, there are others
who will come sooner. We must complete our tasks and be away from this place at
once."
Neither Allion nor Marisha felt like arguing, and so
went about doing as the Entient instructed them. They put the horses down
first. Although a hunter all his life, never had Allion seen so much blood, nor
an animal whose eyes shone with such helpless pain and fear. When that was
finished, he helped Marisha carry brands from their fire in order to rebuild
it over the corpse of the Illychar. It took a considerable effort to set it
alight, and in the end required that Darinor use his powers to enhance the heat
of the flames. Only when the Entient was satisfied did he lead the pair in the
retrieval of his own mount, the gathering of their possessions, and on down the
trail.
For the longest time, no one spoke, until the silence
began to drive Allion
mad. They'd not heard the last from Darinor on their actions in coming here; that much
was certain. And waiting
around for it, he thought, was worse than any punishment the other might
actually impose.
"The pyre back there," he began, as they
continued to wind their way down from the plateau. "Why was that necessary?"
The Entient, walking with them alongside his steed,
glared back at the hunter disapprovingly. Allion had really only meant to
trigger a revelation of what it was the mystic intended to do with them.
Darinor surprised him, however, by answering his question.
"Is it not obvious?" he fumed. "Fire is
the only way to ensure the destruction of a host's functionality. It does so
not only by consuming the components of motor skill— muscles and tendons and
ligaments—but more importantly, by destroying the marrow within, where it is
believed that the Illysp takes root at a granular level. Anything short of
cremation leaves open the possibility of reanimation, since' even a skeleton,
if held together by the necessary connective tissues, can be made to rise
again."
It was a conversation, Allion realized, that they should
have had a long time ago—and would have, he was certain, had he or anyone else
believed the half of what Darinor had told them. Only now, after a personal
encounter, did the hunter feel the need to understand fully that which he'd
heard tell of these Illysp.
"I should think that by cutting off one's head,
or removing one's heart," he said, struggling to make it all fit with what
he knew to be true in nature, "that that would be enough."
"Then you have not listened at all since the
moment of my arrival. When it comes to the functioning of an Illychar, the
physical condition is less important than the mental condition—that which
exists deep within a creature's smallest, most fundamental living particles. To
eliminate the potential for infestation, both must be destroyed."
Allion still wasn't sure that he believed, but this
might have been because he didn't want to. If he accepted that what Darinor
suggested was true, then they really were in the middle of a struggle that most
likely could not be won. For if the skirmish they had just waged was any
indication, given a full-fledged war, he doubted they would be able to destroy
the corpses on either side fast enough to keep them from rejoining the
conflict.
"What about..." Marisha began, before
stopping to collect herself. "What about the horses? Are they not subject
to this possession?"
"Only those of a humanoid intellect or greater
have shown themselves susceptible to Illysp conquest—though I find even human
rationality to be suspect at times."
A clear reprimand, Allion thought, and he wondered
again what the renegade Entient intended to do with them.
He didn't have to wait much longer. As they neared the
base of the plateau, Darinor steered them into a cave
worn by earthquake and erosion into the face of the sandstone bluff. After
guiding them through its shadows, to a cavern lit by faint streamers of
starlight filtered through a cracked ceiling, he turned them against a jagged
wall and pinned them with his gaze.
"Listen closely. Come morning—"
"Don't ask me to go back," Marisha said
immediately.
Darinor leaned forward, glaring. "That's
precisely what I should do, isn't it? What I would do if
circumstances were any different." He settled back, though his frown was
no less severe. "Sending you home now would be a death sentence. Atharvan
is two days away on foot; Krynwall is closer to eight. What I was going to say
is, come morning, we make for Atharvan together. Your childish disobedience has
cost us dear," he added, waving a finger before their faces as if it were
a blade that might be used to cut away any smiles. "Because I must now
remain with you, rather than ride on ahead. But that damage is already done.
Besides, there seems to be no sense in leaving you with instruction when the
only way I can trust you will comply is to keep you under my own watchful
eye."
Marisha swallowed the rebuke bravely, no doubt emboldened
by the fact that, ultimately, she now had what she'd wanted all along.
But Allion's focus was on Darinor himself. For as he
stared into the mystic's eyes, he saw something he hadn't noticed before. Pain.
As clear as that which, he'd seen in the eyes of their slaughtered mounts. It
confused him momentarily, and he wondered at its source. Concern for Marisha,
maybe? The realization humbled him. For despite the man's belligerent
behavior, it seemed he was in fact subject to the same emotions of love and
fear and sorrow that gripped the rest of them. A deep-seated anguish was
driving him, sparked surely by the feelings of uncertainty they all faced. The
man could speak and act however he wished, but those eyes betrayed the truth
of his torment.
"I extend this proposal with one condition,"
the Entient continued, his eyes fixed now on those of his daughter.
"From here on out, you do as I say, when I say
it. I must have your oath that you will not disobey me again."
Allion sensed Marisha's hesitation.
"Father—"
"Now, child. No matter what. Else we leave your
protector behind and ride ahead to Atharvan alone, where I will have King
Galdric lock you in the safety of irons."
Marisha's gaze slipped toward Allion.
"Look at me, child, not him, and swear."
The young woman shifted uneasily as she studied her father.
Her response was barely audible. "I swear."
"Should she break this oath," Darinor
rumbled, addressing Allion, "I shall hold you accountable. Do not
disappoint me again."
The hunter gulped and nodded. Given the fiery look
aimed his way, he did not need to ask what the consequences of failure might
be.
"Very well. Sleep now. Tomorrow will be a long day."
With that, the Entient retreated back down the tunnel
toward the cave's opening, drawing his horse with him.
"Where are you going?" Marisha called after.
"To stand watch. Get some sleep."
The tone in which he spoke was the softest and kindest
Allion had yet heard from the man, and it triggered a fresh wash of guilt
within.
"Good night, Marisha," the hunter muttered
when the other had gone, then marched to the far side of the cavern, fighting
hard not to look back.
"Good night," he heard her whisper, before
he unfurled his bedroll and settled upon the stone floor, prepared to wrestle
with his demons in his dreams.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Back Table of Contents Next
Catching up with the madwoman they believed
to be Ne-canicum did not prove difficult. The witch limped along as if wounded
in both legs, her gait slow and ragged. Torin hoped they didn't have far to
travel, for if so, it might take them months to get there.
Dyanne must have been having similar thoughts.
"Forgive me, Mother," the Nymph intruded, "but to where do we accompany
you?"
The witch did not answer, except to mumble again to
one of the desiccated creatures hanging over her hunchbacked shoulder. Dyanne
glanced back at Torin and shrugged.
"Are you certain you know your way in this
gloom?" he asked the elderly woman himself.
"No harm came to Necanicum in her travels. Were
it otherwise, the world of Eddaron would be a much different place." She began humming to herself after that—like
a dying frog, Torin thought, croaking its final lament. All further attempts
at communicating with her proved useless.
So Torin settled in alongside, flanked by his Fenwa
companions, grinding his teeth at the slowness of their pace and the
helplessness of their situation. They were clearly at the witch's mercy—at
least until dawn, when they might feel better about navigating these woods on
their own. It had been a mistake to come here, he was sure. But then, might not
the same be said of this entire voyage?
He studied the darkness as they went, peering past the
mix of light cast by the Crimson Sword, the witch's lantern, and the Nymphs'
torches. Though he could not see them, he could sense the sinister things that
waited just beyond, rasping and skittering at the farthest edge of his senses.
It left him to play games in his own mind: Were they real, or simply madness
setting in?
The exasperating trek, however, turned out to be mercifully
brief when measured against his fears and expectations. They had been traveling
less than an hour in a meandering line to the south and east, hugging nearer
the
The closer they got to it, the larger this tree nest
loomed, its girth large enough to swallow some of the bigger courtyards back
home, its uppermost reaches soaring well beyond the limits of his sight. Torin
was wondering what in nature could have caused such an unusual eruption of
growth, when his shifting gaze fell upon Necanicum. Perhaps in this case,
nature had been moved by a guiding hand.
Eventually they came to an opening in the base of the
gnarled structure, into which the limping Necanicum led them. A warren awaited
them within, shoot-lined corridors crawling with all manner of tree-dwelling
insect, many of which glowed. The members of the trio kept close, forced together
by the narrow walls and low-hanging ceiling, dodging knots and protuberances
that sprouted forth at odd angles. The pungent smell of decay that had ruled
the surrounding woodland was less prevalent here, overtaken by a strangely
pleasant musk.
He stole frequent glimpses of his companions as they
went along, watching them for signs of unease. Holly's face reflected a sheen
of sweat, but her eyes remained bright and eager. Dyanne had long since
sheathed her blades, and no longer did her free hand rest upon the hilt of her
dagger.
They were each captivated, it seemed, with these new
surroundings, as if children come to marvel at a new playground. A charming
response, Torin thought, though he might have felt better had either displayed
even a hint of his own wariness.
Their journey ended abruptly. After cutting through a
string of alcoves crammed with articles of fur and leather, wood and clay, the
passage emptied into a wide burrow that loosely resembled a central living
area. Or a workshop, Torin amended privately, for what had at first glance
appeared to be a pile of sleeping rugs looked now to be a stack of unfinished
weaves, heaped beside a broken loom. Tables and shelves had been hollowed out
of the interior walls, which were pitted, overgrown with mold and fungus, and
swarming with beetles. The many surfaces were littered with bowls and phials,
fluid-skins and herb-sheaths, as well as numerous implements of mysterious
function, and pouches filled with ingredients unknown. Like the structure
itself, dug deep within the heart of the enfolding nest, everything was fashioned
from natural materials-—tanned, carved, fired, stitched, or otherwise molded
into useful form.
As his gaze slipped about the chamber, exploring its
many crags and niches, it snagged upon a curious-looking altar with rounded
edges and tunneling hollows, almost like a honeycomb. Crooked seams ran
throughout the uneven surface. It wasn't until he looked away and came back to
it that he recognized it for what it was—a mound of rotted skulls, piled high,
sealed to one another with pitch the way a mason might assemble bricks.
The skulls were human.
His stomach churned, and bile rose to his throat. He
hefted the Sword in reflex, his tongue lashing out like a whip beyond his
control. "What do you want with us, woman?"
Both Dyanne and Holly gawked at him, alarmed at. his
disrespect. Necanicum, however, showed nary an interest in either his words or
his blade. She had set down her strange glow lamp, and was busy rooting around
her tables, gathering items he could not see, and for reasons he could not
discern.
"It was not Necanicum," she rasped,
"but the Immortal One who sought, when he entered her woods."
Torin wasn't, sure which was more infuriating: the gibberish
itself or the unruffled manner in which she spoke it. Before he could react,
Dyanne motioned him to keep silent, then turned to address the old woman
herself.
"And did this 'Immortal One' find what he was
seeking?"
They had to wait, as expected, for the witch to finish
grumbling to herself before she could respond. "The Immortal One found
less than he was seeking"—she wheezed—"and more. Not enough to save
him from his fall, but enough to rise again from it."
Torin scowled. "What sort of riddle is
that?" he demanded.
Again the private conversation with her own shoulder,
like an involuntary twitch. Torin wondered if the weasellike animal slung
there, with its dried-out eyes and gaping mouth, ever spoke back.
"In the end," she replied, "the riddle
was solved. But the answer was again both less and more than that for which he
-yearned."
Torin was still trying to unravel the words in his own
mind when the witch rounded slowly, a cracked mortar and bloodstained knife in
hand.
"Few remember it was Necanicum who turned the
tide."
He might have been troubled by the appearance of the
knife, but found that he wasn't. He was too confused by what he was hearing,
wary now of dismissing the other too quickly. She might well have been nothing
more than a raving madwoman, but she spoke as if in prophecy—albeit one that
in her mind, it seemed, had already occurred. Torin was not one to believe in
such things, but he saw now what Dyanne was thinking: Perhaps there was
something useful to be gleaned from all this madness.
"Turned the tide," Torin said, echoing the
witch's words. "And how did she do that?"
"By bearing his sacrifice, given the Teldara.
That which would preserve and make him whole again."
While Necanicum muttered to herself in follow-up,
Holly
whispered at him from where she stood, near the altar
of skulls.
"I've heard of these Teldara," the
Nymph said. "Spirits of divination called upon in ancient tradition. I
believe she intends to foretell the results of your quest."
"An orcish rite," Dyanne confirmed, her
supple features pinched with distaste; "Requiring a sacrifice of hair and
blood."
Torin was prepared to pull his hair out by the roots,
if that's what was required to make sense of all this. "How much
blood?"
"A trickle, and it was done," Necanicum
assured him, though her grating voice was anything but soothing,
Torin studied the old woman as if seeing her for the
first time. Her twisted frame was so gnarled and bent that he could not seem to
separate joint from limb. She carried a mountain of knobs upon her back and a
jutting nose upon her face. The face itself drew out toward the center, as if
stretched by her crusty snout. Her skin was infested with warts and ravaged by
lesions, and her hair, tousled and matted, brought to mind an image of wilting
leaves.
And yet, despite her horrid appearance and the knife
in her hand, he felt no threat from her. Perhaps it was the eyes,"' those
multifaceted orbs that seemed to stare right through him. Perhaps it was the
fact that she had saved them once already when she hadn't had any obvious cause
to do so. Whatever this old woman was or wasn't, he had no sense that she
intended him any harm.
Much good that would do him when he lowered his guard
and allowed her to slit his throat.
He looked to Holly, who nodded almost imperceptibly,
and to Dyanne, who merely shrugged. The decision was his. There was no one, he
supposed, who could guess any better than he as to what she might do. Only the
ghosts of this place could tell him for sure.
At last he lowered the Sword, though he refused to
sheathe it.
"Take what you need."
Necanicum hunched forward, reaching for his left hand.
Torin let her have; it, disgusted by the gritty feeling of her flesh on his,
repulsed by the filth caked beneath her yellow, clawlike nails. He held himself
steady, though, even when she used her bone-handled knife to cut three vertical
lines in his wrist. She murmured to herself while doing so—what sounded like an
invocation. She then set aside her blade and turned his arm over, positioning
her mortar to catch the blood that poured from the wounds.
It was more than a trickle, but Torin clenched his jaw
and waited patiently, only once looking up to glare at Holly. When the mortar
was full, the witch set it aside, then reached again for her knife. Torin was
acutely aware of his own heartbeat as he let her reach up with the blade while
pinching a finger full of hair. A quick sawing motion and the short strands
came free. When she looked at them, Necanicum chuckled, a splintering sound
like the snapping of deadwood.
The old woman turned away then, veering toward the
altar with her ingredients in hand. The trio repositioned themselves, granting
her room to work, while craning their necks to see what exactly she was doing.
Though he, too, was curious, Torin made no effort to hide his skepticism while
wrapping a cloth around his wrist.
The young king had met a fortune-teller or two in his
day. From what he recalled, their routine depended greatly on their
presentation—gaudy dress and extravagant movements, coupled with sly speech
and meretricious mannerisms. Intended to be entertaining, if not truthfully
fulfilling, and requiring more than a little imagination on the part of the
audience.
Necanicum's ritual bore none of that. Once again, she
acted as if she were the only one present—she and whatever fell spirits she
was talking to. Little by little, she poured his blood into a clay dish set
atop the altar, and stirred it round with her knife. Then she diced up his
stolen hairs and added them to the mix, stirring some more. When that was
finished, she scooped up a strange-looking jar and dumped its contents into the
dish. Beetles, Torin saw, and watched them squirm and scuttle throughout. All
the while, Necanicum crowed in archaic verse—or else more gibberish—even
then mumbling intermittently to herself. Torin's eyes
shifted from the witch, to each of his Nymph guides, and then back again,
marking each of the shadows that painted their faces in the smoky light of
torch and lamp, on guard should something change.
"He went in search of Eldrakkar," Necanicum said
suddenly. Her face was lowered to the dish, mere inches from where the beetles
skittered and swam, studying their movements. "Not the lesser, nor the
greater, but the middling variety—the elf, as it was known."
Torin started. Though he could not remember for
certain, he was confident he'd made no mention to the witch of what it was that
had brought him here. Holly flashed him a triumphant grimace.
'The Finlorians," he granted. "You know
where they are?"
The room's shadows seemed to deepen. "He was told
to seek the Overlord. But the Overlord did not lead him to the elves. He led
the Overlord to them."
Torin's mind raced. The Overlord. Lorre? A flicker of
excitement burned through him. But what did it mean? "How do I-find
them," he asked, "if not with the Overlord's aid?"
The witch dipped a fingernail now into the dish,
nudging one beetle after another this way and that, then tasted his blood on
the tip of her tongue. "The many he did not discover without the
one."
"The one?"
"He of the shadow-earth, made to walk the
surface. Alone, like the Immortal One."
Torin was no longer certain he was getting anywhere.
"Who is this 'Immortal One'?" he growled impatiently. "Is that
supposed to be me? What of the other, the one I must find? Where do I look for
him?"
"He drifted from place to place, his friends no
more, the last of his brood. Chained to this land by the blindness of those
around him."
Torin repeated the words to himself, but still they
meant nothing. He looked to his companions, searching their faces, but both
women just shook their heads.
"Is the Immortal One lonely?" Necanicum
asked. It would seem she had finished with her reading of the blood-soaked
beetles, for she turned from the altar to face him. "Does he, too, long
for his friends?"
Again Torin was forced to guess as to whether she was
actually addressing him, or referring to someone else. Her gaze remained
distant, as if peering beyond him, beyond this bizarre scene, into a world he
could not see. He hadn't missed the shift in her inflection of time, from past
to present. And yet, as a potential clue, it wasn't enough to help him.
"My friends, are they all right?"
The question seemed to jar the old woman, whose visage
shriveled in confusion. "He lost the first so long ago, before she was
ever truly his. She took to another, and so he let her go. Or was it that his
heart wandered first?"
Her moment of clarity, such as it might have been, was
gone. She was out of time again, speaking of the past. But whose past? His or
another's? And had this past already taken place? Or was it but a glimpse of
what might be?
He fought to clear his thoughts.
"Necanicum—"
"What matters is the Immortal One found his way,
as all children must. So that when next he came to a fork in life's path, the
choice was his to make."
Torin was about to ask anoth'er question, then
hesitated. It seemed the longer this went on, the more perplexed he was
becoming.
"The Immortal One left then," the witch bade
in her husky voice, turning away, "and the young sisters with him."
"What?" He blinked. "But you haven't
told us—"
"They hurried, while the way was clear, for the
heavens did open up to them, and the youthful gnats had been warned to leave
them be."
The old woman looked to be storing the unused portions
of his blood, pouring them from the mortar and into a wooden phial. An unused
pinch of his hair followed.
"Mother Necanicum," Dyanne interrupted,
sensing Torin's frustration. "Is there any more you can tell us? Which way
should we go?"
"The sisters were right to guide him through Necanicum's
woods, though it did not change the course the
Immortal One had to take."
Dyanne turned toward him like an interpreter.
"Our course is the same as it was?"
Necanicum nodded. "They left her quickly, for
they did not wish to delay Necanicum in her journey. Down the tunnel,"
she added, indicating with a deformed finger the corridor through which they
had entered, "and into the night."
There seemed little point in pressing for more.
Necanicum had started humming again, the same tune she had used to shut them
out during the hike between their camp and her abode. And even if they were to
get something else out of her, it was likely to be more of the same nonsensical
rubbish as before.
It certainly wasn't worth challenging the witch's
intent that they depart—about the only thing that had been made clear. His
guides seemed to agree.
"Thank you, Mother," Dyanne said with a
courteous bow.
"Thank you, Mother," echoed Holly.
Necanicum did not respond to either woman, leaving
Torin to take one last look around before rolling his eyes and heading for the
exit.
They moved quickly back the way they had come, down
the winding passage crawling with grubs and insects, led by the light of those
that glowed and of the Sword and torches they carried with them. They could not
escape that stifling place quickly enough, Torin decided. The witch's words
haunted his thoughts—those that he could remember. He wished now that he'd
written them down, then realized that it probably wouldn't have mattered. A
madwoman's ravings; that's all they were. It would have been easy to become
angry, but best just to be grateful the encounter hadn't cost them any more
than it had.
When they reached the outer threshold of the witch's
giant tree hut, he hesitated. The land without looked different than when they
had entered. The dark clouds had drifted on, setting free the light of moon and
stars, which washed down through blackened limbs. The mist that had trapped
them had dissipated, opening up the forest's lanes. The air remained foul, the shapes
of the trees stark and menacing, but their way appeared clear.
"Just like she said," Holly whispered with
evident wonder.
Torin wasn't so readily convinced, as he peered about
for sign of the tree-demons or anything else that might threaten. "Those creatures
might still be out there. Are you sure you want to chance it?"
"She said they'd been warned," Holly
insisted.
"Either we move on while we can," Dyanne
agreed, "or we wait here. Which would you prefer?"
That settled it. With his guides slipping ahead to
retake the lead, Torin was on the move once more through the witch's domain.
The Nymphs set a mean pace this time, one that Torin—practiced though he was at
racing through woods— found difficult to match. He ran with the Sword in hand,
drawing upon its endless reserve of strength and stamina, its pulse at rhythm
with the beating of his own heart. Dyanne and Holly, he noticed, kept guard as
well, each with a blade in one hand and a torch in the other, casting wary
glances every which way. Torin smirked to see that even they had their doubts.
Those doubts proved well founded when, more than once,
one or the other of them caught sight of Necanicum's "gnats" leering
at them from amid the trees. After a time, the things became easier to spot,
and appeared more and more frequently. But the creatures threatened only from
afar, swiping at the air, hissing silently, and making death's faces at them as
they passed. Nor did the company hold up, refusing the demons the opportunity
to mass. They jogged on, sprinting occasionally, sometimes slowing to a walk,
but always moving forward.
The night waned. When the torches burned low, new ones
were found. They headed north, with the tacit understanding that for now, at
least, nothing had changed. A visit with Lord Loire remained their primary
objective. While Torin placed no faith in the witch's riddles, even these
seemed to suggest that it was the overlord of Yawacor who held the key to his
search. Perhaps that would change come morning, and they would recognize the need
for a fresh plan.
Assuming, of course, that a new day ever arrived.
Their stumbles grew more frequent as the hours wore
on. Enemies both real and imagined closed in. But the company endured, by turns
hurtling or staggering through the near-dark, scanning the wooded labyrinth and
using their blades and torches to keep the more sinister shadows at bay. After
a time, their diligence was rewarded, as, leaf by leaf, needle by needle, life
returned to the forest. Trees straightened, scars healed, mold and rot shrank
and withdrew. The underbrush burgeoned about them, thick and hearty, filled
with the rus-ding of nocturnal animals. The air smelled fresh and clean once
more.
At the sound of a night owl, the guiding Fenwa slowed
their pace, and Torin followed them to a lurching halt. They looked about, at
their surroundings and at one another, chests heaving in welcome relief.
Dyanne was the first to speak. "I think we're
safe," she observed.
Torin nodded, though his thoughts were not yet ready
to move on. "So, can anyone tell me what we learned back there?"
Dyanne looked at Holly, and the pair of them shook
their heads.
"Likely nothing you haven't already determined
for yourself," the smaller Nymph said.
Torin stared at the flames swirling within the depths
of the Sword. "So it all comes back to Lorre."
"It was worth the effort," Dyanne
maintained. "I for one feel better about this trek than I did
before."
Holly nodded. "As do I."
A host of antagonistic responses came to mind, as
Torin returned the looks aimed his way. They viewed him differently now than
before; that much was obvious. As to why— or how it might affect their
journey—was much less clear.
"Simple for you to say," he huffed finally.
"I see no cuts On you that won't easily heal."
"We should clean that," Dyanne suggested,
glancing at the bandage wrapped about his left wrist. "Before it has a
chance to sicken and fester."
She sheathed her dagger and handed her torch to Holly.
A slight chill swept through him as she approached.
"Sit down," she said.
Torin did so, sheathing his own weapon and settling
against a massive fir. While Holly built them a small camp-fire, Dyanne removed
his blood-soaked wrap and set about washing it with a clean cloth and some of
that sweetened water. She was firm and gentle at the same time, scrubbing when
necessary, dabbing at the more sensitive regions. Torin winced once or twice,
but withheld any complaint. Though for the most part he watched her work, he
couldn't help but sneak an occasional glance at her studious face, so smooth
and focused. He kept waiting for her maple eyes to find him, but they never
did.
When satisfied with the cleansing, the woman prepared
a quick poultice of herbs and wrapped it in place over the jagged lacerations.
Its prickling coolness sent a fresh shiver through Torin's body.
"Keep that in place," she instructed,
"until I tell you to remove it."
Torin nodded as the Nymph rose, still without looking
at him. "Thank you," he said, as she turned away.
Dyanne stopped in her tracks to peer back at him. For
a brief moment, she frisked suddenly in place, rocking back and forth as if in
tune with a frolicsome melody only she could hear. Her hair swished with the
movement, and an unabashed smile lit her face. "The pleasure was mine,
Immortal One," she teased.
She stepped away from him then, to where Holly had
arranged her blankets by the fire. Torin was left behind, momentarily
breathless. He couldn't shake the image, so unexpected, so revealing, a mere
peek at the depthless, freedom-loving spirit this girl possessed. His eyes flew
after her, hungry for another glimpse, but Dyanne was already curled up in her
bed of moss, with night's curtain come between them.
"I'll take first watch," Holly offered.
Torin nodded, though he should have refused. It should
have been he who had taken that watch. For despite the
long hours and the many trials of that day, he found himself refreshed,
invigorated, unable to close his eyes and even pretend at sleep. Whenever he
did, Dyanne was there to greet him with that smile ... that dance ... A vision
he could not have dispelled had he wanted to.
*****
Necanicum sighed as she fit the lid to its jar and
tied it in place. It had taken her some time to wipe clean each Tongue of the
Teldara. So many grooves within their hard-shelled bodies. So many jointed
legs. She hadn't even needed them for the telling, for on this matter, the
Teldara spoke willingly. But in order to draw his blood, she'd had to play at
performing the ritual of forced communion.
Do not forget the phial, they told her,
those who lived within.
She looked at.it, the
tiny container she had filled with his blood. Preserved by the necessary
incantation. Stoppered and secured for the journey that lay ahead. Such a
little item, upon which rested the fates of so many.
Hurry, they urged.
"Don't rush me," she muttered back.
"There is still time."
But none to waste. The Leviathan stirs. We must act
before He does.
They were right, of course. They always were. She had
learned that lesson long ago, though not a day went by that they didn't remind
her of it. Still, better to take her time, check her inventories, ensure that
nothing that would be needed was forgotten.
If the Immortal One learns what he is up against, he
might simply turn away.
"I should think so. But we didn't tell him now,
did we?"
That cannot happen.
"It most certainly can," she warned,
"if what you've told me is correct." And she knew that it was.
That must not happen, they
amended.
"I suspect it won't."
Did you see the way he looked at her?
"I'm not blind," she mumbled.
"Sometimes I think I see these things more clearly than you."
She couldn't remember now how it had happened, whether
they had chosen her or she had chosen them. It no longer seemed to matter.
Regardless, the time they had long predicted had come, and she would not let
it be for naught.
Hurry.
She gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to snap back
at them. She almost wished she could leave them behind. It might have made this
entire trek more palatable.
Before long, she had gathered up her things. She
didn't require much. A few horns, skins, and pouches. An extra fur. And of
course the phial, tied to a string and hung around her neck, so that it lay
against her breast. Where she could almost feel his heartbeat against hers.
Are we ready, then?
Necanicum nodded, more to herself than to them, and
picked up her light globe. She would refill it on the way out, though even that
would not last her long. Once beyond the borders of her woods, these woods to
which she had given such magnificent life, she would have to find another
source. She had no doubts but that they would help her do so.
When she reached the exit to her home, she stopped to
peer up at the dawning sky. The sun had not yet risen, but she could taste its
yearning, and smell her destiny in the wind.
You know the way, do you not?
"You'll not let me forget, I'm sure," she
griped, her chin digging at her shoulder.
For once, they remained silent, and she did nothing to
discourage them. They could sense it as well as she, the significance of what
she must do. A mystical moment, setting forth, like that in which she had given
birth to the first of her forest children. They would recall it as she did. And
in the end, if no one else remembered, they would.
That when the Immortal One walked her woods, and this
world as they knew it hung in the balance, Necanicum answered.
She hesitated a moment longer, drawing a deep breath
to absorb what she could, then stepped off her gnarled stoop and took her first
strides toward the mountains along the narrow path. She moved quickly, but
comfortably, refusing to rush. The road before her was long indeed, and these
but the initial steps. She would carry on as well as her old bones would let
her, and trust that it would be enough.
Limping along, hunched and crooked, Necanicum settled
in on her great journey to the north.
CHAPTER THIRTY Back Table of Contents Next
When Torin finally slept, he dreamt of
Marisha.
She spun toward him out of the darkness in a pale
azure gown—the one she'd been wearing when he had'asked her to be his queen. He
did so again now, to which the woman responded with a kind laugh. Smiling, she
welcomed him into her arms, where she pursed her lips as if to grant him a
kiss. When he closed his eyes to receive it, however, she laughed
again—differently this time, sharp and rasping. He looked to find not her face,
but Necanicum's, mere inches from his own. He recoiled, and she danced away in
a whirl of nimble grace, Marisha once more. Rather than give chase, he waited
for her to stop. Only, she never did, trapped in an endless spin that carried
her farther and farther away...
He awoke to a shaft of sunlight that knifed its way
through the canopy of trees. For a moment, he knew not where he was. Home, it
would seem, in the woods outside of Diln. A comforting revelation, to learn
that all of his trials and travails were but ghosts of his imagination. He
leaned up, casting about, eager to confirm his suspicions.
He found instead Holly's slumbering form beside the
coals of their fire. Farther off, on a stump overlooking the game trail that
cut through their little glade, sat Dyanne, her back to her companions as she
filed her dagger against an oiled whetstone. In a flood of imagery, Torin
recalled where he was and why. Only, for some reason, he felt no real
disappointment upon learning the truth.
Sensing his movement, Dyanne turned, greeting him with
a polite smile. "Sleep well, did you?"
Her sly tone suggested she already knew the answer to
that question, so he chose to ignore it, glancing again toward the brightness
of the midmorning sky. "You didn't wake me for my watch."
Dyanne's blade rasped down the length of the sharpening
stone. "You've been thrashing about all night. I checked on you once or
twice and decided you needed the rest."
Torin rubbed his aching neck. No use in denying it. He
felt as if he hadn't slept at all.
"How is anyone supposed to rest,"
Holly groused suddenly, "with all of the chattering around here?"
Torin shifted back to the smaller of his two guides.
"Why should you complain?" Dyanne
asked her. "You've been awake for hoursl" "Precisely," Holly muttered,
sitting up with a groan. Her sleek, sable hair was littered with moss and
leaves, which she brushed at irritably.
Dyanne, Torin noted, appeared exactly as she had the
evening before, her carefree beauty undiminished by their late-night run
through Necanicum's woods, or her few hours of sleep. Her face actually seemed
to shine in the unexpected light of this new day as she put away her dagger and
stone and sprang to her feet. "Shall we be on our way, then?"
They prepared a quick meal, cleaned up their campsite,
and exited to the north. There was little discussion, and nothing at all
regarding their encounters of the previous night. Torin wondered if that was
because the girls had made as little sense as he of what they had seen and
heard in the witch's burrow. He came near to asking more than once, but preferred
not to relive any part of it. Whether or not the girls had learned anything
that might help their status back home, he had gained nothing but nightmares
from the experience. To speak of it out loud could only make them more real.
Except for the cuts and bruises that proved otherwise,
it seemed as if the entire episode might never have happened. For there was no
hint of a survival bond between him and his guides. Once under way, they
traveled as they had when first setting out from the Nest, with Dyanne and
Holly locked in persistent chatter between themselves while Torin trailed
behind like a child forgotten by his parents. Despite what the three of them
had been through, the Nymphs did not seem any more inclined than before to
include him in their conversations. Put to it, he might never have convinced a
casual observer that he had faced death with these women, and won.
Of course, that was looking at it from an outsider's
perspective. From his vantage, things were decidedly different. Most notable
was the way in which he saw Dyanne. There was no denying he was smitten with
her; her little jig following last night's escape had erased any doubt of
that. But that didn't mean it was anything he intended to act upon. Left alone,
such feelings were certain to wither away.
To encourage them along that path, he worked as before
at keeping Marisha in the forefront of his mind. It was easy to do at first,
troubled as he was by the dream from which he had awakened that morning. But it
wasn't long before that image faded, replaced by more pleasant thoughts and
memories. And these, unfortunately, had a way of turning on him. For whenever
his fondness caused him to lower his guard, he found his eyes and thoughts
returned to the woman before him, rather than she who was an ocean away.
Perhaps his response was only natural, but he wasn't going to allow himself
that excuse. For how might he feel if Marisha were to do the same to him?
Nevertheless, time and again, he had to chide himself
for his wandering gaze and force himself to look away. While Dyanne and Holly
enjoyed each other's company, Torin brooded silently, welcoming an onslaught of
darker contemplations, which seemed the surest way to keep all others in
check. He thought of Darinor, the Illysp, and his own headstrong foolishness.
He thought of those who had perished in the War of the Demon Queen, and of how
many of them might have been saved had he made better decisions. He thought of
the wizard, Soric, and wondered if it would not have been better to leave the
kingdom to his elder brother while seeking his own purpose elsewhere.
Most=especially, he thought of Arn and Ashwin and Cor-
dan, who had died for him already on this trek, and of
what little their sacrifices would mean should he fail to accomplish his
objective. It left him to wonder how many others might be asked to lay down
their lives before his task was finished.
Such grim reflections made fertile ground for the
return of Necanicum—and return she did. Though he tried to brush them aside,
the witch's riddles refused to go away: the mention of his fall, of finding
less than what he needed, of the loss of his friends. What confused him as much
as anything was how much she seemed to have known about him—or thought she
did—even before her supposed divination. Either way, it was foolish to be
troubled, for nothing of what she'd told him could be translated into a course
of action. Short of that, he would be just as wise to dismiss the old woman's
cryptic comments as elements of her own imaginary world.
He was still trying to convince himself of this when
they emerged from the northern stretches of the Widowwood and onto the highland
prairie of central Yawacor. The
They traveled no road, but over a plain of rugged
boulders and windswept grasses. Wild orchards grew here and there, stripped of
their summer fruit. But there were no signs of human settlement-—no farms, no
crops, no cattle grazing in the fields. Some of that lay farther west, his
guides told him, but most of it to the north—from what they'd been taught.
Having been born and raised in the Fenwood, neither Dyanne nor Holly had ever
been this far out herself. It was as much an adventure for them now as for him.
A few hours later, they reached a river labeled on
their maps as the Tanir. Here they spotted what looked to be a small cluster of
nomadic tradesmen, although they didn't get close enough to learn for certain.
Instead, they veered eastward, upriver and closer to the edge of the mountains,
searching for a shallows over which to cross.
They found it in a wide bend where the river flattened
out over a distance of nearly a mile, diminishing its rush. The girls seemed to
have no problem wading across the bed of slick stones, their breeches rolled to
their knees and their soft leather boots in hand. Trailing behind them, Torin
slipped more than once, but managed to keep his balance and stay relatively
dry. He wasn't sure why he bothered, for he desperately needed a bath, and now,
while the sun was up, seemed a good time. Once across, his companions agreed,
and made their way along the shore to an area pooled deep enough for that
purpose. Neither seemed to care if he should want to bathe with them, but Torin
didn't feel right about doing so, and so sat ashore with his back to them, with
a warning from Dyanne that he not be foolish enough to attempt to run
off. .
When the girls had finished, he took his turn at
scrubbing away the grime and weariness from his journey, taking special care
to wash the various cuts and scrapes suffered in his battles to get this far.
The waters were numbingly cold, but that only served to invigorate him further.
He took his time, so that when finally he emerged, he could scarcely stop, his
teeth from chattering.
Even so, he felt much better than before, until he
climbed the secluded bank to where the girls should have been waiting, and
found them missing.
He glanced around. Had they decided to abandon him
after all? Not likely. Not without saying something, or attempting to take his
talismans. Might some unforeseen ill have befallen them then? His stomach
knotted at the thought, leading him into the tall grasses in search of signs.
He'd gone a dozen paces without seeing any indication
of flight or struggle before it occurred to him that the girls might be playing
some kind of game Perhaps they were hidden somewhere nearby, observing him,
waiting to see how he would react. It seemed a strange thing to do, and rather
purposeless, but he knew well enough already not to put anything past them.
Best that he turn around and head back to await their return.
He was about to do so when he heard a rustling in the
grasses just ahead, from an area of massive boulders
that must have tumbled down out of the mountains, but still seemed out of place
in this grassy field. His pulse quickened, and he reached slowly for the
Sword, drawing it quietly from its sheath. With a hunter's steps, he crept
toward the disturbance indirectly along a peripheral line, so that he could
approach the desired spot without setting off an alarm.
He had taken just a few strides with that plan in mind
when there was a sudden flurry of motion to either side of the area he'd been
focused on. The two movements converged in the center of the target zone, like
a pair of predators working together to take down a larger prey. There was a
grunt of surprise, a clash of arms, and a sound like a sack of grain being
slammed to the earth.
Torin lunged ahead, forgoing any thought of stealth as
he whipped past sawing blades of grass. Whatever the struggle, he didn't want
to arrive too late to affect its outcome.
He should have known that where his guides were concerned,
he would find things well in hand. Neither Dyanne nor Holly had been taken
hostage; rather, it was they who had brought down the intruder. He couldn't see
the other's face, for it was blocked by Dyanne's back as she sat upon the
unfortunate man's chest, in an aggressive posture Torin recognized all too
well. Holly, meanwhile, had kicked wide the victim's legs, and crouched now
between them with one of her throwing knives in hand, its tip digging at the
man's groin.
Holly glanced back at Torin's approach, her fierce
grin seeming to mock his concern. For a moment he stayed where he was,
listening to the labored breathing and muttered oaths of the apprehended
trespasser. Then the victim seemed to gather himself, and the last sound Torin
expected to hear carried above that of the nearby river, borne up by the
afternoon wind. . The sound of laughter.
"I don't have me much time for this now,
ladies," the man snickered. "But if you can hold the thought, I might
be able to oblige you later."
Dyanne leaned forward. "Speak again without
leave, and you'll lose such desires forever, my friend."
A prick from Holly's blade further dampened the
other's amusement, cutting short his lingering chuckle. Torin, however,
stepped forward curiously, coming around for a better view.
"Gavrin?"
The man was in a poor position to respond, what with
Dyanne's blade at his throat, but managed to turn his head toward the sound of
Torin's voice. When his eyes found the other, they squinted, then widened in
surprise.
"Torin, was it? Shades of mercy. If that's you,
my mother was a gnome."
Torin grunted. "It wouldn't surprise me."
Dyanne glanced up as he strode near. "You know
this smelly lout?"
Torin nodded. "He was my guide through the Cleft,
before I stumbled into your forest." '
The woman eyed the rogue beneath her distastefully.
"He can be trusted, then?"
"That depends. What are you doing here,
Gavrin?"
"Moss," the big man reminded him, a
marveling gaze fixed upon the blade of the Sword. "You still owe me for
that day of travel, by the way."
"We'll see about that," Torin allowed.
"Just now, I'm trying to decide whether or not to have my friend here
slit your throat."
Moss chuckled, until he realized no one else was going
to do so with him. "I heard noises," he said, "someone in the
river. I'm guessing now it was you. I came to check it out."
"Slithering about like a snake in the
grass?"
"Can't be too careful," Moss replied, with
an obvious effort to hide the strain in his voice. "Thought you might be
one of
"
"Have you not heard? Neak-Thur is fallen. The
Bastion is his."
"What?" Dyanne balked, her alarm evident.
"When?"
"More than a week ago, turns out. Even before I
met our mutual friend here."
Dyanne looked again to Torin, her features grim.
Torin was also frowning, but gave a slight nod to one
side. "Let him up."
"Actually, my friend," Moss offered,
"it's grown quite comfortable down here all of a sudden."
It wasn't hard to imagine why. Dyanne had pinned the
rogue's arms with her knees, so that her thighs all but cradled his neck. Once
again, the Nymph leaned close, shifting her weight so that it pressed down upon
the dagger gripped in her left hand..
"Just so you know, I don't need his permission
to drain your filthy throat," she hissed.
She gave the man a chilling smile, teasing her blade
across his flesh, then sprang up in a single lithe motion. Holly followed with
another prick, drawing a stifled shout, before joining her kinmate. Both kept
their weapons at the ready.
Moss sat up carefully, massaging the back of his head.
"Ah, well, some other time then."
Torin shook his own weapon as it hung at his side—just
enough to draw back the other's attention. "You haven't finished
explaining yourself."
"Have I not?" the big man asked, rising
slowly to his feet.
"What it is you're doing out here," Torin
prompted, "other than lurking about."
"Ah, that," the other said, continuing to
stare at the Sword as he brushed himself off. "Well, after the guilt of
losing you in the mountains, I headed on to Sydwahr. There I heard about
Neak-Thur from the garrison general himself. The man is in rally mode. He's
taken on the role of prime commander of the so-called Southern Liberation
Force. Offering a handsome sum to any who should survive the retaking of the
keep."
"You signed on as a soldier?" Torin asked,
his skepticism plain. "If that's so, where's your army?"
Moss shook his head. "Me? A soldier? Why, I'd
have to be dumber than my old mule." He looked to the Nymphs, trying
another grin on them. "Signed on as a flank scout. The army is to the
west. A waste of my talents, to be honest. Ain't much chance Lorre intends to
send a force farther south anytime soon. Makes far more sense to await our attack
at Neak-Thur."
Torin glanced at the girls to gauge their reaction,
then back to his former guide. It irritated him that Moss should be giving
Dyanne such attentions. "Then why not serve at least as a point scout? Or
didn't this general trust you?"
Moss seemed unfazed by the jab, returning Torin's
sneer with a wily smirk. "I didn't wait to find out. Volunteered, you see.
The share is less, but I've a much better chance of living to see it."
"And this army," Dyanne verified. "It's
marching on Neak-Thur now?"
Moss bowed in what looked to Torin a pathetic attempt
at chivalry. "As we speak. Aim is to lay siege before the warlord has a
chance to entrench himself too deeply. Strike should come within a few days, no
later than the outset of the new week." "How many of you are
there?" the woman pressed. "Twelve thousand, give or take—mostly
what's left of the city garrison. Plus whatever General Chamaar can roust along
the way."
Again Torin searched the faces of his Nymph companions,
wondering at the consequences these events might have regarding their quest.
"You're not by any chance still meaning to visit
with the man," Moss prodded.
"Not that it's your business any longer, but yes,
that's precisely where I'm headed."
Moss snorted and shook his head. "So that tumble
down the mountain didn't knock any sense into you."
Torin glared at the rogue but soon turned back to
Dyanne. He was no longer interested in what the other had to offer.
"If that's the case," Moss continued,
"why not join up with the Resistance? General Chamaar ain't being picky.
And even if he was, I'll wager he'd love to have that there blade of yours on
our side." The rogue grinned at Torin's suspi-
cious frown. "With any luck, by battle's end,
Lorre will be our prisoner, and you can ask of him whatever you wish."
Torin hesitated, waiting for either Dyanne or Holly to
reject the offer. Neither did.
"And what would be your stake in it?"
"Same as before. I lead you on for a fee—"
"I have the only guides I need," Torin said
flatly. He looked to the girls for confirmation. "Unless they'd rather
part ways with me here."
Dyanne shook her head. "Dynara would not approve.
Nor do Holly and I have yet what we came here for."
"Are you their charge, or their prisoner?"
Moss murmured.
Torin ignored him. "You prefer his plan,
then?"
Dyanne and Holly shared one of their long, knowing
looks, in which an entire debate seemed to pass between them in complete
silence. When finished, Dyanne turned back to him.
"The rogue is right. You'll have a much better
chance of getting from Lorre what you need if he is your prisoner,
rather than the other way around. Besides, the Southland may not get another
opportunity like this. If this siege should fail, and Lorre is allowed to fortify
himself any further, the war will have all but ended."
Torin did not mistake the fire in her eyes, the
burning desire she had to affect this straggle, rather than merely fall victim
to it. It had been her primary goal all along.
"But we can get you to Neak-Thur," she
insisted. "In fact, I have every intention of visiting the city myself, so
that I can put together a firsthand account to deliver to my clan—should it not
prove too late to convince them to join the Resistance. His help,"
she said, nodding toward Moss, "we don't need."
"Let me at least guide you back to the main
force," Moss urged. "I can do so quickly, and introduce you to the
general. It would entitle me to a bonus, should we not all end up dead."
Torin studied the big man. Greedy as ever, but making
no secret of it. It was difficult to mistrust him in the face of such shameless
honesty.
"Four is safer than three," the rogue added,
leering openly at Dyanne. •'.
Not necessarily, Torin thought.
Nevertheless, in this case, the scoundrel was probably right. Although he had
no doubt his current guides could deliver him safely, they had admittedly
traveled beyond their principal element. Nor did he see any real risk. Whatever
else Moss might be, he was no threat to the three of them.
But it was the girls' decision to make, even if he
might like to pretend otherwise. He turned to Dyanne with a look that said as
much.
"He's proven already how incapable he is,"
Dyanne observed bluntly, staring the rogue down. "At the same time, I don't
suppose we can stop him from following us, unless you agree to let us empty his
sails here and now."
The candid manner in which she uttered the threat
stole a measure of the color from Moss's cheeks. Torin pretended to consider,
sure that Dyanne was bluffing, but enjoying watching the rogue squirm.
"No," he said finally, sheathing the Sword.
"Let's give him a chance to prove mat my mishap in the mountains wasn't
his fault. If he fails to convince me, you ladies can do with him what you
will."
Moss chuckled, though he couldn't hide the sweat
thickening upon his brow.
Holly sighed before, sheathing her blade. Dyanne, however,
brandished hers in final, unmistakable warning.
"Very well," the Nymph Hunter agreed.
"But if he so much as coughs in my direction, I'll be taking his most
prized parts back to my clan as a personal trophy."
Torin nodded. "You heard the woman," he said
to Moss.
The rogue laughed, nervously this time, while rubbing
his throat: "Well then, if you'll all follow me?"
"We should rewrap that first," Dyanne said,
directing a look at Torin's wrist, which had started to bleed through its
bandages.
When that was done, the three gathered their few
belongings and fell into step behind the affable rogue, who had begun already
to soothe his rattled nerves with a giant wad
of tobacco grounds. Sluicing and spitting, he led them
north, across the rolling plain, ambling now toward war.
*****
Night fell swift and steady on the plains of northern
Partha, closing round the little company come to camp at the edge of
His gaze shifted to find Darinor, who sat between him
and Marisha upon this lakeside ridge selected by the Entient as theirs for the
night. Like those haunting storm clouds, the petulant mystic had put a damper
on this entire journey— even more so, Allion decided, for the weather had been
just as foul in the days in which Marisha and he had been alone, and yet hadn't
bothered him. With Darinor around, however, he couldn't help but be sour, his
enthusiasm for this trek shrouded as surely as the moon and stars on this
shadowy night.
Marisha appeared no less glum. Strange, given that
this was what she had asked for in the beginning. But she, too, seemed
perturbed by her father's behavior-gruff and irritable throughout the day,
grown worse with the setting of the sun. The man spoke only when forced to, and
then in a tone bitter and sharp. What had begun as an opportunity for hunter
and healer to deepen their friendship had become like a blossoming tree felled
too soon, with Darinor the wedge that had been driven through.
Allion did not believe for a moment that it was
accidental either. Since daybreak, the Entient had shown a complete disinterest
in partaking of the pair's camaraderie. Yet whenever he and Marisha happened
to show signs of closeness, whether with words or physical contact, Darinor had
been there to intervene. No matter how innocent the sentiment or gesture, the
Entient acted as though it were his duty to see that nothing improper was
shared between they who had sworn to protect each other. Once he had found a
way to separate them, he would drop back once more, recusing himself from their
ongoing conversations, only to continue eyeing them like a hawk.
This above all else frustrated Allion, for it made him
feel as though he had done something wrong. Thinking back, he was sure he
hadn't. And anyway, what business was it of Darinor's? As best Allion could
tell, the man had no right, after all these years, to swoop in and start
playing the' role of protective father.
After watching her sulk more and more as the hours had
worn, on, Allion wondered if Marisha did not feel the same. Likely, it was his
own imagination at work, but in some ways she seemed more annoyed by the
interruptions than he. This suspicion was confirmed, he thought, when she
looked back from the deepening night, turning upon her father with features
angry and set.
"Tell me, Father," she demanded, shattering
the leaden silence. "Tell me when it was you decided to accept your
calling. At what point did it become clear to you that you had to abandon my
mother? I've asked you before, and you've refused to answer. I've waited long
enough."
For a long moment, Darinor still did not answer,
choosing instead to stare down at the sweep of open grassland leading up to their
camp. With the lake to their backs and nothing taller than a shrub within fifty
paces, they had a clear view of anything that might approach. In addition,
Darinor's mount had been hobbled at the bottom of the rise, to serve as unwilling
sentry. Allion kept his bow close, even though he had spent his last arrow in
the fight against the goblin Illychar. He gripped it now in anticipation of the
mystic's response.
"Most are born," Darinor said finally,
"with their life's scroll unwritten. For those, the future is filled with
naught but possibility. Circumstances vary, of course, due to birth and
condition. But as history has shown us, with the proper application of luck and
determination, even the bastard son of a pauper can make himself into a king,
the lowest-born daughter into whatever she wishes to be.
"That was not the case for me," he confided
wistfully, peering beyond their present surroundings. "My future was
set. I didn't know it at first, for I, like many
children, was encouraged by my father not to limit my dreams, but to follow
them, to accomplish whatever in my heart was the greatest of things. Nor was
there anyone else to discourage me. We lived in isolation on the tiny island
that Algorath had settled centuries before. Raemes, it was called, a crumb of
earth surrounded by ocean far to the southeast. I was given to understand that
it was my own private staging ground, that one day I would rejoin the larger
world, in whatever manner I might choose."
A howl sounded, miles away, low and mournful. Darinor
waited for it to die out before proceeding.
"I was eighteen before I learned the truth, the
history of my family and its function through the ages. At long last, it was
revealed to me: the manner in which
"It was too much. I had no intention of spending
my entire life as a recluse. I had long before cultivated a desire to live
among others, to experience that which I learned about from my father in tales
and books. Though I had no practical basis for my yearnings, I'd grown weary
of my sedentary life, consumed with the need to know companionship, shared
laughter, love."
Allion's shoulder itched, but he refused to scratch
it. He hesitated even to breathe, so scared was he of interrupting the man's
reverie. Not because it spoke to him, or that he even found it interesting. But
Marisha was hanging on every word, her stern features softening with that
heartfelt empathy only she could feel, and he would not disturb her.
"So I rebelled. I refused the fate my father had
determined for me and sailed from his island in order to make my own. For
twelve years I explored the lands of this world, coming at last to these
shores, where I met your mother. We settled in this very
The mystic turned his head now to regard Marisha,
whose eyes glistened. "You were my greatest achievement, the purpose I had
long been seeking. One with whom to share my own knowledge and experience, with
the freedom of choice that for me had been a lie. I had no regrets, and have none
now."
He held her gaze for a moment, then looked away.
"But my father's fate would not be so easy to escape. Six years after your
birth, he found me, having spent a decade tracking me down. He was dying, and
needed to bequeath to me the Pendant of Asahiel. Though I fought against it,
his visit triggered in me a sense of responsibility—not necessarily to continue
the legacy of my forebears, but to at least preserve that which they had
accomplished over their long lives. I now had a reason, you see, to care about
the fate of this world and its inhabitants, a need to see it remain safe, so
that my daughter might know the joy and peace it seemed I was destined to be
denied."
The man paused again. When he resumed, it was with a
heavy sigh.
"I confessed all I had hidden of myself to your
mother, who, as I've explained already, decided she could not bear to wither
before my eyes while I should remain young and vital. After leaving the Pendant
to you, I spent another year wandering these lands, seeing all that I had not
yet seen, visiting remote regions like the village Diln, where it seems I
first influenced your young husband-to-be."
The Entient turned eye to Allion as he said this—as if
the hunter had forgotten even for a moment what Torin and Marisha had agreed
to. He scowled, but bit his tongue, waiting for the other to move on.
"When my travels were completed, I boarded a ship
that
would drop me off where I had begun, a prodigal son returned
home to preserve that which Algorath had started."
"And what was that, exactly?" Allion asked.
His irritation and impatience was such that he could keep still no longer.
"Learning," the mystic snapped. "An
exploration of life as you know it, and in ways you could scarcely comprehend.
All in an effort to keep headstrong mortals like yourself from destroying one
another. The curse of all Entients, since the inception of that order. Except
that my studies have been as Algorath's, unfettered by the collective decisions
of a guiding council, answering to none save my private curiosities. Which is
why I'm not accustomed to the countless questions and demands you and others
seem intent on badgering me with."
Allion shrank back on Marisha's look, which seemed to
plead with him not to start an argument now. He realized then what it was that
had him so agitated. It was not Darinor at all, but the story of the mystic's
past and the unspoken implications it held for Marisha. Was she not his
daughter? The child of an Entient? Entitled to a life span of centuries? Forced
to bear the burden, perhaps, that Darinor himself had been cursed with?
They were matters that Marisha herself had been wrestling
with for weeks, he now realized, ever since her father's return. He understood
now that her private issues went far beyond those of abandonment—first by her
father, and more recently by Torin. The despair and loneliness reflected in her
eyes ran deeper than that. He wished suddenly that he might do something to
help her find the answers she needed, but he did not even know which questions to
ask.
A sense of hopelessness overcame him then, an inner
wave so terrible and unrelenting that for a moment, he thought it might crush
him where he sat. He really was in over his head. All of them were. He had
failed to recognize the previous night's encounter for what it was: a
foreshadowing not just of the conflict that lay ahead, but of the doom awaiting
them all.
Perhaps they should simply flee now, while they could.
Abandon these shores to its demons and head out across the seas, to make their
home on some secluded isle as Algorath had done—and for all they knew, Torin as
well.
The thought spawned another question, forcing him to
regain control of his swollen tongue. "You've said before that many among
the Finlorians wanted to flee across the oceans during the first Illysp
invasion, and that the Illychar seemed content to let them go. Why is
that?"
Darinor ignored him for quite some time, looking to
Mari-sha instead. Allion couldn't tell if the other was dodging that question
in particular, or had simply tired of the hunter's inquiries. Eventually,
Marisha nodded, indicating that she, too, would have an answer.
"It is unknown for certain," Darinor
grumbled, withdrawing into his cloak against a sudden gust of wind, "but
some believe that water contains qualities that are anathema to the Illysp,
whether in spirit or physical form. It does not harm them, mind you, in any
obvious sense. But on an instinctual level, they show signs of wishing to avoid
it."
Allion frowned, an internal sense of his own ringing a
discordant tone. It was a feeling he got whenever one of his younger siblings
attempted to lie to him. "Is that why you were so intent on reaching the
lake before stopping for the evening?"
Darinor snorted. "If it were that simple, we
would all of us have nothing to worry about, would we? A simple rain shower,
and our trials would be ended." He shook his head. "No, my young man,
this lake will not protect us. But neither is there an Illychar out there that
would mistake this pathetic body for the great sea that cradles this land. It
is this our enemies seem to fear—its vastness, perhaps, or its stormy
unpredictability. What is it you really wish to know?"
"Can we escape them?" Marisha asked for him.
"If we had to, could we simply vanish overseas?"
Again the scarecrow figure shook his head. "I
don't know," he replied, and this time, Allion did not sense any
dissembling. "Let us hope it doesn't come to that. For even if all the
peoples of these lands' were able to run as you suggest, we've no guarantee
that the Illysp lack the will—or means—to follow."
It was a grim assessment, and suspicions aside, Allion
was disheartened further. For if true, then the only hope for them was indeed
to lock the Illysp away from this world as they once had been. Otherwise, they
might as well be searching for a way for man to escape death itself.
"I don't understand," the hunter admitted
dolefully, "how creatures as mindless as those that attacked us last night
can possibly act with reason and intelligence, as you continue to
suggest."
"They possess more cunning than you can
imagine." A familiar refrain—one that the mystic had been exhorting from
the beginning. "They have been trapped for millennia. One does not endure
such a fate without learning patience and subtlety."
"Or madness," Allion claimed, taking in the
other's gaze as the night's rains began to fall.
Like the man himself, Darinor's smile was mostly wild,
and a little sad. "Perhaps a bit of both."
CHAPTER THIRTY-0NE Back Table of Contents Next
The
rains returned during the night, blowing out of the west. Dyanne had
predicted as much, and thus sought a stand of tightly packed evergreens in
which to settle until morning. As Torin stirred from a fitful slumber, awakened
by the patter of rainfall and Gavrin's beastly snore, he was glad that she had
succeeded.
His gaze slipped to where he had last seen the Nymph
the previous evening. She lay there still, eyes closed, face calm. Her smooth
hands were tucked beneath her head, as she rested sideways on a pillow of moss.
An unidentifiable pang gripped him as he silently observed the rhythm of her
breathing. Such fire and determination within, masked by such graceful beauty
without. A rare combination. He might never forget the way she had first
greeted him, her dagger to his throat. But neither could he dismiss her
dazzling, carefree smile, or the tenderness she had shown in nursing his
wounds. In the morning twilight, he decided there was little he wouldn't give
simply to know her thoughts, that he might share in the serenity of her dreams.
He considered his own dreams, including those of
Mari-sha, and was warmed within by a flush of guilt. The disorientation of a
new day, he assured himself. That's all it was. Though it might seem otherwise
in that waking moment, his was a harmless fascination, one that he remained
convinced would pass. And yet, as he sat there in the crook of a twisting root
formation, knowing that he should wake the others and be on his way, a second
glance at Dyanne's
tranquil form told him that he would sooner disturb a
nest of infant doves.
Moss's continued snoring, however, knew no such restraint,
eventually drawing a disgruntled Holly from her sentry position. Torin turned
at her approach from the camp's fringe, and watched her place a sharp kick in
the slumbering rogue's ribs. The big man lurched, but his scowl was no match
for Holly's glare. Muttering about the subtlety of women with a barrage of
grunts and heavy sighs, the guide-turned-scout rolled himself from the damp
floor of the sheltered grove and set about making ready to leave.
Torin merely smiled.
They were on the road again shortly thereafter,
following a series of bumpy trails and obscure paths across the rain-drenched
wilds of northern Wylddeor. They traversed rugged foothills and wooded dells,
passing over barren rangelands and windswept meadows. Moss led, jovial despite
his rude awakening, and garrulous even when it was clear no one was listening.
Torin followed, with the girls behind keeping a close eye. From time to time,
he tried to eavesdrop on what it was Dyanne and Holly kept laughing about, but
spent most of the morning, as he had the previous afternoon, dodging further questions
from Moss about himself and his "wizard's" blade. He went as far as
sharing with the rogue some of the ancient legends of the Swords of Asahiel,
but refrained from elaborating on how he had come upon this particular
talisman. The man seemed to believe little of what he was told anyway, scoffing
occasionally and interrupting often. Though surprised that one so widely
traveled was not already familiar with the myths of these weapons being used in
the world's creation, Torin had little patience for the other's mockery, and
lacked both the energy and the desire to overcome the rogue's pagan beliefs.
Around midmorning, their company was intercepted by a
pair of mounted sentries riding the eastern perimeter of Moss's Southern
Liberation Force. The patrolmen were stern in appearance and gruff in manner,
suspicious of Moss—despite the token he carried that proclaimed his
position—and mistrustful of those who accompanied him. In the end, the more
senior of the two determined it best that he and his partner escort them
personally along the last mile separating them from the main force.
They covered that distance swifdy, despite the winds
that gusted against them and the intermittent showers that muddied the earth
beneath their feet. When at last they came upon the army, they found it just
then making preparations to break camp. It had marched throughout much of the
night, the younger of their two escorts divulged, having wasted too much time
in the west coast town of Myniah, updating the people there as to the state of
affairs and fighting a mostly vain effort to rally more to their cause. A
thousand or so had agreed—less than a tenth of the population. The rest had
elected to wait out the storm, or else to gather their possessions and retreat
farther south.
The elder patrolman interrupted his partner at that
point, yet wary of revealing too much to this group of strangers.
It was not until they were delivered to the eastern
checkpoint, where one of the registry clerks was able to confirm Moss's
position within the army, that the senior sentry relaxed, grunting in farewell
and leading his companion out once more.
Torin marked their departure through layered curtains
of swirling mist. By the time the pair had disappeared entirely, Moss had
secured authorization for the four of them that remained to enter the main
encampment.
They followed the rogue down artificial lanes of
trampled earth, weaving their way through a sea of men and artillery stores and
supply wagons. Although it appeared to possess all of the requisite
ingredients, this was not an army as Torin had come to understand them. The
formations between regiments were too loose, lacking structure and discipline.
Armor and weaponry and uniforms—among those who possessed them—did not match.
Men jostled about, bumping and shoving one against the other. Arguments echoed
from every direction, a few of which even came to blows. Commanders called for
order, but fellow observers seemed as apt to encourage the combatants as
wrestle them apart.
Surrounded by such chaos, Torin wondered what it was
he
had agreed to join. These were not soldiers, but a
mass gathering of wild frontiersmen. If they could not co-exist among
themselves or break camp in an orderly fashion, how in the Abyss did they
expect to be able to storm a warlord's keep?
His assessment was made even less generous by the number
of whistles and stares and lewd growls aimed by these mercenaries toward the
pair of Nymphs who followed him. Torin found himself clenching his jaw and
keeping a hand on the Sword's hilt, almost anxious for one of them to make a
grab. Dyanne and Holly were taking it in stride, neither rejecting nor
encouraging the many propositions come their way. But that didn't stop Torin
from feeling embarrassed and protective.
"Ah, here we are," Moss said, glancing back
to make sure his companions were still with him as he turned toward one of the
few tents visible amid the army's sprawl. A black pennon, little more than a
rag, snapped atop its central pole, the only potential marker Torin could see.
Yet Moss hastened his pace, pushing past a swarm of rogues milling about in
apparent confusion.
They were turned away, however, by first one, and then
a trio of guardsmen posted among others outside the tent. General Chamaar was
in council within, the sentinels reported, once they had confirmed Moss's rank
and identification. Should he wish to visit with the prime commander, he would
have to file a request; otherwise, he should deliver his report to the master
of scouts, and his charges to the master of recruits. Moss haggled with the
unit's commander, by turns companionable and bullying, but was denied in the
end. When finally Torin's company turned away, with Dyanne and Holly declining
an invitation to remain behind, Moss left the flock of guardsmen with a snide
remark that turned one of them red with anger.
"I think you offended him," Torin observed,
looking back as the young officer's commander dismissed the affront and herded
the members of his group back to their stations.
Moss shrugged. "So?"
"Have you no concern about upsetting folks?"
Holly asked.
"Only if they're bigger than me," Moss
answered with a wink.
His shameless pride intact, the rogue led them to
another nearby tent. Here, a lone sentry barely glanced at the token Moss wore
before nodding the scout and his companions through.
Inside, amid cots and stores stacked beneath a canvas
cover so riddled with leaks that Torin wondered why they had bothered to erect
it, sat a folding chair and table. Towering over the latter was a balding man
in leather armor, who looked to be all limbs and no torso. Lanky arms supported
his spare weight as he leaned over a set of maps. In the chair to one side sat
a red-haired scribe, who sketched and scribbled upon a parchment while a third
man, his back to the tent opening, murmured gruffly.
All but the scribe glanced up as Moss entered, their
furrowed brows smoothing with recognition. Moss, however, hesitated.
"Ah, Lieutenant Bohwens, I see you're busy. I'll
come back."
The balding man waved a stick-thin arm. "Come.
Just verifying a report. We're finished, are we not?"
He looked to the third man for confirmation, a rogue
dressed much like Moss in layers of fur crisscrossed by leather belts and
pouches. This man, too, had a retreating hairline, though his bushy eyebrows
more than made up for it. As if to further compensate, he was heavily bearded,
so much so that only his eyes and nose were visible amid the tangled thicket
sprouted from chin and cheeks. The man glanced at Bohwens, and nodded.
The lieutenant turned his attention to the new
arrivals. "What do you have for me?"
"The eastern flank is clear," Moss reported,
returning a nod of familiarity from his fellow scout before casting upon Torin
what seemed a nervous eye.
"Then why have you returned before
schedule?"
"Found me some friends of the Resistance. Thought
Chamaar might put 'em to good use."
The bearded stranger gave a snort, but bowed politely
to the girls as he headed past them on his way out.
"If they're recruits, why bring them to me?"
the lieutenant asked.
"Just checking in, sir. I only meant—"
"Hargenfeld," Bohwens called, stopping the
other at the tent flaps. "Show Gavrin here to the master of recruits, if
you would."
Again Moss looked to Torin expectantly, though the
young king knew not why. He frowned, though, suspicious of his guide's behavior
as he tried to recall where he had heard this other's name before.
"Friends call me Rags," me crusty old scout
grunted. His gleaming eyes were fixed on Holly and Dyanne.
That triggered Torin's memory, and his gaze snapped
around to Moss, who responded with a sheepish grin.
"I've heard tell of you," Torin remarked.
"Rumor has it you were buried last winter."
"Bah! Some might wish." He, too, glared at
Moss.
The big man did his best to look innocent.
"This way," Rags grumbled in a resonant
voice. "Just delivered a team there myself."
Following a string of inquiries, Torin's party arrived
at an area marked off for battle drills. On the edge of this training field,
they were introduced to yet another team of clerks, who were busy poring over a
sheaf of troop registries. After waiting in line behind a half-dozen fellow
candidates who looked to Torin more like outlaws, they came at last to speak
with a grizzled scribe charged with recording their qualifications—to be used
in determining their assignments.
"Name?" the veteran droned, without looking
up from his table.
'Torin."
"Fighter, scout, laborer, or craftsman?"
"Fighter."
"Veteran or novice?"
"Veteran."
"Weapon of choice?"
"Sword."
"Have you your own blade?"
"Yes."
"Command experience?"
"Some."
"Any special skills? Riding, healing,
blacksmithing?"
"I can ride well enough. And fire a bow, if need
be."
"Recruited by?"
Moss stepped forward. "Moss. Flank scout."
While finishing his notes, the scribe reached into a
box and handed Torin a wooden token. "Keep this until given your
commission. Next."
Torin moved aside, somewhat befuddled, making way for
Dyanne.
"Name?"
"Dyanne."
Whether drawn by the name itself, or the silky sound
of her voice, the clerk looked up, revealing a face squinted sharply on one
side, as if trapped in a paralyzed grimace. The good half smirked, taking
measure of the woman from head to toe. "Cook or nurse?"
"Fighter."
The scribe chuckled. "Now, miss, don't know if
you've heard, but this force is headed into battle."
"And by the looks of it, needs every blade it can
muster."
The scribe looked to Moss. "These yours
too?"
Moss nodded. "Badgers, they are."
"So's me missus, but that don't mean she's cut
out for combat."
"Says the man sitting behind a desk," Dyanne
observed.
The clerk's lopsided grin vanished. "I've killed
more men than you've winked at, lassie."
"I should hope so."
"Now, now," Moss intervened, "let's not
get ourselves all flushed and agitated." Though it was the scribe who had
lost his composure, the big man leered at Dyanne as he said this. "Perhaps
we should leave it for the commander to decide."
As if on cue, a group of soldiers approached from the
drilling field, their rain-streaked faces bathed with sweat. They were speaking
to one another, and thus had not yet seen those at the scribe's table. Torin,
however, did a dou-
ble take when he recognized the squat, muscled
mercenary among them.
"Arn!" he shouted, overcome with disbelief.
The stubble-cheeked warrior with the pale blue eyes
and neck covered in blond curls glanced around until he had found the source of
the voice. When he did, he gaped before excusing himself from his comrades and
hastening over with a broad grin to clasp Torin's hand.
"Shades of mercy, but I never thought to see you
again," Arn greeted, gripping his shoulder.
"Me?" Torin replied. "I thought you
dead!"
"Captain Jorkin was kind enough to fish me out of
the swells. He might have gone after you, too, were the Folly in any
condition to do so."
"The ship survived, then?"
Arn nodded. "Took a couple of days to get moving
again, and we were limping along for awhile after that. Were it any other
vessel, or any other crew, I might still be out there, if alive at all."
"What of Bull and my companions?"
'They debated for some time as to what to do. When we
ran across a supply ship sailing east, they took it as a sign to hitch a ride
home to tell what had transpired. If conditions were bad, they might only now
be reaching Pentanian shores."
"What about you?" Torin asked. "I was
only delayed a few days. How did you manage to get ahead of me?"
Arn shrugged. "Favorable winds, I guess. Put in
at Razor-port within a week of our attack. By that time, I'd decided I'd had
quite enough seafaring for awhile. Marched straight through the Cleft ahead of
an advancing snowstorm. Ran into this here army in Sydwahr, and accepted an
appointment as master of recruits. General Chamaar and I go back a ways."
Torin scarcely bothered to follow the account. All he
knew was that this man who had saved him back in Gam-melost was alive and well.
Left for dead by Red Raven and his pirate crew, Arn had yet managed to
survive—as had the remainder of those who had followed the young king from
Krynwall. For Torin, it was a tremendous relief—both from the guilt he'd been
carrying, and to know that not all of those he might find himself fighting
alongside in the coming days would be complete and untrustworthy strangers.
"Master of recruits, huh?" he registered
finally. "Is it true you're not accepting soldiers of the female
variety?" He nodded over his shoulder toward Dyanne and Holly.
Arn frowned, but seemed at the same time to look past
the soft skin and pretty faces to the way the pair held themselves and the
weapons they carried. "A soldier must be strong enough for those around
him. Would you entrust your life to them?" "I already have,"
Torin replied earnestly. Arn considered him a moment, as if waiting for him to
back down from that claim. At last his sneering grin returned. "If they're
willing and able, we'll take them."
Torin matched that grin, and both men looked to the
girls for their approval. Holly's eyes glittered, and Dyanne folded her arms
across her chest. Neither uttered a word.
"But tell me," Arn said, forcing Torin's
gaze back to his. "How did you escape those pirates? And what brings you
to join our war against the North? As I recall, yours was a much different
objective."
"I've been led to believe the two go hand in
hand," Torin answered, then looked to those around him: at Moss, Dyanne
and Holly, and Hargenfeld, standing silent to one side. Finally, he came back
to Arn. "Besides, it seems everyone I've met or heard tell of recently has
found their way here. I'd hate to be the only one to miss out."
Arn clapped him again on the shoulder. "Hah! Come
then, and introduce me to your companions. Let us learn whether any among us is
not merely a fool."
With a nervous smile at that remark, Torin fell into
step beside his friend. Dyanne and Holly followed. Moss remained behind to
make sure the scribe made record of his referrals, while Hargenfeld gave
another of his gruff nods and went on his way. Little had changed, Torin warned
himself, but it was hard not to feel heartened by this string of unlikely
reunions.
He could only hope that it was a sign of better
fortunes to come.
*****
Bullrum, of the Legion of the Sword, better known as
Bull, felt his anger rise as he delivered his report. Despite the passing days
and having already done everything he could, he had yet to come to terms with
the loss of his king—a loss for which he held himself directly accountable.
Recounting it now, and thus reliving the experience, had the sting of salt in
fresh wounds.
The surviving members of his expedition team stood
alongside him on the floor of Krynwall's throne room, respectfully silent
beneath the grim gazes of those before whom he testified. Strange as it was to
see Thaddreus sitting the throne, and with none but Captain Evhan at his side,
Bull had agreed to their request that his story be shared first with them
alone. No reason to risk widespread panic with the ill tidings they had come to
share.
"And you've no idea how our king fares now?"
Thaddreus asked, when the tale of Torin's abduction at sea had been
concluded. "None, lord
regent."
"This is fell news, soldier."
Bull lowered his head in silent admission, eyes
scraping the floor. The granite tiles, polished recently to a brilliant shine
in expectation of his lord's wedding ceremony, mirrored his shame.
"If it would please my lord regent," he
offered finally, "I request permission to organize a search party and set
forth at once."
Thaddreus's wrinkled face twisted. Word was, it was
their return that had dragged the ailing regent out of bed that morning, the
first any but Captain Evhan had seen of him in three days. Judging by the
sallowness of his skin, the former speaker of the Circle was yet in need of
rest.
"Search how?"
"We could commission a vessel, and sail back out
again. A fleet of vessels, if necessary. If we were to follow the course and
heading taken by the pirates after our encounter, we might be able to—"
"A fleet of vessels? At this time of year?"
"They're pirates. If we can offer them ransom,
chances are they'll set him free."
"Chances are just as good they might refuse. And that's
assuming we had the coin to offer, which we don't. Or to purchase the fleet you
would require."
Bull scowled. "Surely you don't mean to abandon
him."
Evhan bent to whisper in Thaddreus's ear, but the old
man brushed him off like a bothersome fly. "I've seen the ocean that
surrounds our lands. A thousand ships might search forever and still come up
empty. It's much to risk, especially when you cannot even assure me that His
Majesty still lives."
Bull held back his response. In truth, he had known
all of these arguments going in. He and his men had discussed their predicament
at length before ever boarding the ship headed for home. Slim as it was, this
had been their best hope, to return to Krynwall with the news, in hopes of
mustering a fully equipped rescue force. The reaction he was receiving was
about what he had expected.
Still, it grated at the proud soldier to have to
accept the truth of his failure. He glanced at his companions, at Ulric to his
left, and the brothers Silas and Kallen to his right, the latter of whom now
wore a patch over one eye. The loss of that eye, along with the deaths of
Ashwin and Cordan, had been for nothing. The voyage had been an utter loss.
"Perhaps we should consult the Circle," Bull
ventured in a last-ditch effort. "One of the Elders might think of another
way."
But Thaddreus was already shaking his head, his silver
mane rustling. "We have no choice, I think, but to await the return of he
who suggested this course. Perhaps when Dari-nor is with us, or Allion, they will
see things differently."
Bull shook his own head in protest. "That could
take days, and he's been gone a fortnight already."
"You have done all you could," the regent
offered. "You men should not feel guilty for the misfortune that befell
you."
"But—"
"This kingdom is indebted to you for your loyal
duty. However, the best for all concerned is mat you should be returned or
reassigned, each of you, to a position within the City Shield. Let us turn our
eyes and efforts forward, to the defense of this city and nation, rather than
looking back on those who chose to forsake it."
Bull glared, but gritted his teeth, not wishing to say
something he might later regret.
Thaddreus rose. "See to it, Captain," he
said to Evhan, then looked down again upon the others. "Dismissed."
Bullrum was still fuming as he marched down the length
of castle corridor, matching strides with the young captain of the City Shield.
It was just the two of them now. The others already had positions within the
Shield, to which Evhan had bade them return. He alone needed special attention,
given that his regiment, his commanders, his entire legion were stationed some
fifty leagues to the south, camped at the border of another's lands.
Bull didn't like it. He didn't like that Allion,
Rogun, and the army were gone, leaving only the Shield behind. He didn't like
that old man Thaddreus sat a throne to which he didn't belong—a throne that
even Torin had eschewed until such time as he should be crowned. And while the
arguments made sense, he didn't like how quickly the regent had dismissed the
notion of a rescue.
All in all, the brief meeting had left a foul taste in
his mouth. Though its outcome was not unexpected, he hadn't been prepared for
the complete lack of concern exhibited by the city leaders. Perhaps he would be
better off consulting one or more members of the Circle behind Thaddreus's
back.
He glanced over at Evhan. Might he find in the younger
man an ally to his cause? Or would the captain betray him to Thaddreus? With so
much time piling up against them, would it even matter?
The entire affair dwelled like a sickness in his
stomach.
There was something more going on here; of that he
felt certain. And yet there were too many issues to which he was blind, too
many holes sapping his judgment, for him to unravel the truth. Besides, a
soldier's task was to execute his assignments without question, and Bull had
built himself a nice reputation doing just that. But never before had he been
placed in a situation such as this, in which—for whatever reason—he did not
feel he could trust those whose orders he was meant to follow.
"This way," Evhan said with a gesture as
they came to a forked landing. As a matter of habit, Bull had started to climb
the stairs toward the offices of the legion's staff commanders, which also
housed those of the City Shield. The Fason, however, was bidding him follow to
the lower wing. The soldier grunted in apology and altered his course.
Had he not been so preoccupied with his thoughts, he
might have paid closer attention to where they were headed. Down past the
armory and training grounds they veered, marching right on by the fitting
rooms, ammunition closets, and strategy chambers. It was not until they
reached and turned down a hall that led to the inner dungeons that he fell back
with hesitation.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked.
Evhan stopped and cast about furtively, as if wary of
being overheard. "You want to help the king, don't you?"
Bull felt his own forehead crease with suspicion.
"What are you talking about?"
"Much has happened since you left, my friend. If
you wish to survive, you'll come with me."
Bull wasn't sure if the words constituted a threat or
a warning, but when Evhan hastened forward without him, he decided there was
only one way to find out.
When they reached the dungeons, Evhan borrowed a torch
from its sconce and proceeded down to the lower levels. Bull tried once more to
question the secretive captain, but the younger man only signaled for silence.
At last they came upon a storeroom at the very end of
the lowermost hall, well past the last of the cells, where the walls were no
longer of blocks shaped square and smooth, but of
packed earth and bedrock. Here, Bull accepted Evhan's
torch while the captain fished a key from a string tied round his neck. The
latch released, the door opened, and with his heart beginning to drum, the big
soldier followed the Fason through.
Despite the light of the torch, it took a moment for
his eyes to adjust, so thickly layered were the shadows about the room. Crates
and barrels filled it, along with lengths of chain, clamps and pins, tools of
iron, and various other dungeon materials. Dust and webs lay thick over much
of it, revealing those contents that had gone too long without use.
"You've heard of the tunnels beneath the city,
have you not?" Evhan whispered.
Bull nodded. "Who hasn't?"
The captain did not answer, but moved toward the far
wall, which was lined with wooden boards. Taking the torch with him, he knelt
for a moment in the corner, groping along the hidden edge of an iron cask.
There was a quiet click before a section of the boarded wall swung away,
creaking softly on oiled hinges.
Bull approached it at once, crouching low to peer
through the opening. A stale breeze, smelling faintly of mold and sulfur, blew
inward against his bearded cheeks.
"This is but one of many passages throughout the
palace grounds," Evhan revealed. "Follow the correct path, and it'll
take you safely from the city."
"What's down this one?"
"Salvation."
Bull heard the rasp of a blade over the flickering of
the torch and spun at once. Or tried to. Coming up too fast, he caught the back
of his head on the crown of the secret doorway. It slowed him only momentarily,
but in that moment, he felt the explosive thrust of a dagger plunging deep
into his back.
He gave a howl, arching sharply, but still managed to
stand and turn around. Evhan's expression was one of disbelief as Bull threw a
punch that cracked against the traitor's jaw and sent the young captain flying.
He then reached for the dagger, but brushing against its handle with his
fingers only sent With a roar, he threw himself instead upon his assailant,
fists pummeling. The movements set his back afire, but he overcame it with
sheer fury. Beneath his onslaught, Evhan thrashed defensively.
So intent was he on smashing the other into pulp that
Bull did not hear the creak of hinges until it was too late. A cord wrapped
round his throat, then yanked him to his feet. Hands of iron clamped about his
wrists, pinning his arms behind him. A kick to his ribs dropped him to his
knees.
A face came into view, blackened and shriveled, as if
stricken with rot. It was a face not quite human, but rather gaunt and angular,
like something out of legend.
Evhan was rising then, spitting blood and something
more as he drew his rapier.
The Fason looked as though he was about to speak, then
lunged without a word. His blade bit deep, clear into Bull's heart. The soldier
growled and gritted his teeth, refusing this time to cry out. Then Evhan's
blade yanked free, and a pulsing spray emptied out down the front of his
leather vest.
Bull's last thought was to wonder if it would not have
been better to join Ashwin and Cordan in death on the high seas.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TW0 Back Table of Contents Next
The walls of Atharvan were etched with
scars the adorning banners could not hide, pitted and worn by wind and time,
mottled in patches and along crooked seams where the stone facing had been
mended or rebuilt. Sprouting from the western foothills of me inimitable
Despite its sometimes cobbled appearance, Allion was
by no means unimpressed with the largest city he had ever witnessed. By any
measure, the Parthan capital was among the greatest cities in all of Pentania.
Not quite as old or as battle-hardened as Souaris, nor home to as many citizens
or artificial wonders as Morethil had once been. But Allion had not yet seen
either of those renowned cities, and though he'd heard both Marisha and Torin
speak endlessly of each, it was difficult to imagine a more awesome array of
towers and courtyards and roadways than that which climbed the broken slopes
before him.
And this from his distant view well west of the outer
wall.
They had been working their way for hours now along
the switchback road that fronted the city's main entrance, caught in a crush of
citizenry begging entry. Showing no concern for whom he might waylay or offend,
Darinor had shoved forward through the grinding throng, fighting for headway
like a fish climbing upriver to spawn. He had left their mount behind, knowing
that at this juncture, the large animal would only slow them down. Still, the
highway was hemmed in on all sides by ridges and escarpments, boulders and
fault lines, fences and fortifications both natural and man-made. Even for the
towering Entient, from whom the angriest and most imposing strangers fell away with
scarcely a complaint, travel was slow and arduous.
Holding Marisha's hand protectively, Allion followed
as best he could, offering apologies with every step. These crowds had a
moblike quality to them, rife with bitterness and resentment and fear. Most had
been dispossessed, either by Spithaera's minions or the same unnatural hosts
that had been hunting Alson's countryside these past few weeks. Deprived of
the most basic human needs—food, shelter, and a sense of security—they had come
to demand it of he who ruled them.
Worse, it became clear to Allion from the threats and
slurs and altercations all around him that there were
Menzoans—-"Menzoes" as they were less affectionately known—intermingled
among the Parthan masses. Although the recent war against the Demon Queen had
brought a halt to the age-old dispute between eastern nations north and south
by severely gashing both sides, the pity and tolerance extended by the Parthans
toward their northern neighbors—who'd been much harder hit—remained tenuous at
best. Forcing a path through this volatile mix felt like marching through a
giant tinderbox with a dripping torch to light the way.
Nevertheless, most simply grumbled or hurled epithets
after the overbearing stranger, which Darinor disregarded. Only as they neared
the heavily guarded city gates did the Entient's brusque behavior result in the
hiss of drawn steel. Allion whirled instinctively, to find an old man whose
cart of fruit jams had been toppled, with several of the small jars shattering
upon impact.
"Where d'ya think you're going?" the elderly
vendor snapped, reaching out to grab Marisha's wrist.
Darinor glared, and Marisha struggled, but the old man
held her fast. It was likely not the first indignity the codger had suffered,
but he appeared determined to make it the last.
" 'Less you pay for these," he snarled,
"I'll be taking one of her pretty fingers for each."
Allion searched for a way to appease the man, but
couldn't hear himself think over the encouraging roar of the crowds. One woman
gasped in fright, but the rest seemed incited toward reparations of their own.
As his pulse quickened, the hunter looked to Darinor in desperation.
The Entient, however, was staring heatedly at the old
man's dagger. In the gray light of overcast skies, his sapphire eyes seemed to
glow.
All of a sudden, the old man shrieked and dropped his
blade, its handle as red as a flaming poker. He let go of Marisha as well,
coiling around his scorched hand. The surging throngs fell back, repelled by
the stench of burned flesh and the discarded weapon that hissed and steamed
upon the roadway of crushed gravel.
No one else tried to stop them as Darinor shouldered
on and Allion and Marisha hurried in pursuit. Leaving behind a string of oaths
and a common murmur of protest, they came at last to a line of clerks in
official city regalia who, along .with a phalanx of soldiers, were sorting
through those seeking entry to the city beyond.
"Next," called a droopy-eyed youth near the
center of the barricade.
Darinor breezed past the tradesman who had started forward,
slipping between a pair of guardsmen who were otherwise engaged.
"Name and business," the clerk prompted,
eyes rooted to a piece of parchment weighted by stones upon his drawing table.
"The name is Darinor," the Entient growled.
"My business is with your king."
The young clerk was not intimidated. "Have you a
writ of appearance?"
"A what?"
"General hearings for persons seeking admittance
to the royal court have been restricted to those bearing a writ of appearance
from their local governor or liege lord. Until you obtain such a writ, you'll
have to take your petition elsewhere. Next."
Allion glanced up at the chipped outer wall, drawn by
its looming mass and the roar of activity that resonated from within. His
attention snapped back as Darinor gave a disgusted snort and started forward,
triggering a rush of sentries even before the spurned clerk had shouted,
"Guards!"
With a hedge of halberds and spears encircling them,
Darinor came to another halt.
"Who is your commander?" he snapped,
considering the pack of soldiers with disdain.
"Sir," one of them replied from beneath his
studded helm, "you have not been permitted entry. If you insist upon your
present course, I will be forced to take you into custody."
"Then be quick about it," Darinor spat.
"I care not where I meet with your king, be it throne room or dungeon. But
I've not come this far to be detained by feckless grunts such as
yourself."
The ferocity of the Entient's retort put the guardsman
on his heels. "Sir, His Majesty does not see anyone unannounced. If you
wish to—"
"Then send word, confound it. Bear with you my
name and that of Allion, regent of Krynwall. Assemble an armed escort, if you
must. Just put an end to this delay!"
The guardsman hesitated, his face a batdeground for
what might have been a standoff between duty and self-preservation. "Have
you a seal or signet to present?"
They didn't. Allion had left all of that behind with
Thad-dreus. He'd been in such a hurry to depart that he hadn't even considered
having the Circle draw them up an official notice of their intent to meet with
the Parthan king.
"I am known to Chief General Corathel," the
hunter offered instead, "and to many of his commanding officers. If you
wish, they can confirm my identity."
To Allion's surprise, the guardsman nodded, then
excused himself for a whispered word with his senior officer. After a
brief council between the two, a herald was
dispatched, and an escort assembled. Within moments, they were headed beneath
the shadowed enclave of the gatehouse.
On the other side, avenues wide and narrow were jammed
with more of those they had left behind. Allion was grateful for the army
escort, for it allowed them to pass unchallenged through the agitated swarm.
After awhile, everything began to look the same to the
visiting hunter: an endless procession of walls and bridges and cramped
alleyways, filled with the stink of man and his endeavors. At the base of
towers and buildings piled one atop the other, there was no telling which way to
turn. For Allion, it was a disconcerting feeling. Were he abandoned in the
middle of the darkest wood or deepest jungle, he would yet be able to read the
natural signs and follow them clear. Here, he was at the complete mercy of
those who led him.
By his estimate, another hour had passed before they
came at last to the palace, a sprawling compound raised upon a broad, jutting
plateau, and whose area looked to be at least twice that of Krynwall's. In a
region so prone to earthquake, it made sense, Allion supposed, to build out
instead of up, thus mitigating the potential for a catastrophic collapse.
Once cleared by the gate guard, their company
proceeded through a thick and heavily buttressed curtain wall topped with
patrolling soldiers. On the other side, they attracted a second ring of
guardsmen, forming now a double wall on all sides. Archers and crossbowmen
tracked them from the rooftops, weapons ready.
Except for the wide, ornately sculpted grounds that
fronted it, the squat building into which they were finally ushered bore little
resemblance to the royal castles Allion had heard tell of. For a moment, he
worried that they were indeed being led into a dungeon holding area, there to
await their audience on the king's whim. But after another whispered conference
and a series of stern looks aimed their way, Allion and his companions were
given over to a fresh flock of soldiers prepped for their arrival, whose
uniforms bore the falcon sigil of the Parthan royal family.
Through vaulted halls they marched, with Allion and
Marisha stealing glances at many of the ornamental displays that decked the
polished walls. For all of its crude, patchwork exterior, Atharvan was not
without its comforts after all. Of the three newcomers, only Darinor appeared
unmoved by the many tapestries, engravings, relief sculptures, and other
adornments that brought warmth and majesty to an otherwise stark and weathered
granite bunker.
Their trek ended belowground at an arched doorway—its
keystone chiseled into the shape of a now-familiar falcon. Once again, word of
their coming must have preceded them, for a steward awaited them, flanked by
another pair of royal guard. The steward took a long, careful look at Darinor
before turning to Allion.
"You are Allion?"
The hunter nodded.
'The same Allion who helped to slay
Killangrathor?"
Allion was surprised, then emboldened to be granted
such acclaim. Everywhere he went, people spoke of Torin and his Crimson Sword.
Far fewer seemed to appreciate or even believe the critical role he had played
alongside Kylac in bringing down the father of the dragonspawn.
"Yes, yes," Darinor grumbled impatiently.
"Has your lord agreed to meet with us?"
The steward turned a slow eye back to the Entient.
"I am to relieve you of your weapons and bid you take comfort within. His
Majesty shall join you presently."
Allion watched the Entient's reaction guardedly. It
was better than they might have hoped for, he wanted to say, but knew that his
words would have no sway upon the other's outlook.
"I am unarmed," Darinor declared, then, much
to Allion's amazement, lifted his arms in the air, inviting the steward's men
to check for themselves.
When that was finished, the three of them were allowed
inside what turned out to be a cozy sitting room, complete with food and drink.
Half a dozen guardsmen kept watch within, while an equal measure remained
posted without. The steward took his leave to notify King Galdric of their
arrival.
Thankfully, they were not kept waiting long, else
Darinor, Allion was sure, would have stormed the inner keep and in the process
gotten them all killed. Allion was just beginning to feel the soothing effects
of the strongest wine he had ever tasted when the steward reappeared with a
pair of men surrounded by yet another ring of royal guard. One, he recognized.
"General Maltyk," he greeted, rising to his
feet.
The lieutenant general looked much as Allion remembered
him, with a knavish gleam to his eyes and a cropped, cornsilk beard.
"Master Allion," he said, striding forward
to clasp the hunter's hand. "I imagined you taller by now, what with the
tales that accompany your name." He turned to Marisha. "You, my lady,
appear radiant as ever."
The woman blushed as he took her fingers in hand and
placed them to his lips.
"I'm happy to see you, General," she
replied. "And to see that your knee has healed properly."
"With much thanks to you, my lady," Maltyk
said, smirking at his own forced propriety. The general turned then, giving a
nod to the other who had accompanied him. "My lord, I present to you Allion
and Marisha. This other," he added with an eye toward Darinor, "I'm
afraid I cannot confirm."
"No need, General," King Galdric replied.
"If he travels with the dragon-slayer, we shall count him a friend."
The king who had ruled Partha for more than thirty
years stood proud and tall, as a monarch should. Stories held him to be a
powerful man, a hunter and gamesman, said to have wrestled wild animals in his
youth. By the looks of it, those days were behind him, but Allion saw plenty of
evidence to suggest the rumors might be true. Although grown soft about the
middle, his arms and torso remained as thick as trunks. His skin was worn and
scarred in a healthy way, bearing testament to a life lived outdoors in a
conquering fashion. In bearing and appearance, he had the aura of a man who
had climbed every mountain, swum every river, bested every enemy that had dared
rise before him—and rather than wage a senseless struggle against time, had
learned in these later years to settle comfortably and be content with his past
achievements.
He stepped forward, flocked by his personal guard, who
mimicked his every move like a school of fish in flight. "Welcome to
Atharvan," he said. His measured tone was smooth, yet forceful. "It's
good to finally meet you in person."
Allion was about to drop to one knee when Galdric extended
a hand. The king's warm eyes and encouraging smile convinced him to take it.
"You honor me, Your Majesty."
"You've earned it," Galdric assured him.
"Were it not for the deeds of you and your friends, I would not have a
kingdom today." The hunter bowed graciously. "The same goes for you,
my lady. Your reputation precedes you. As my general suggests, your very
presence warms these halls."
"Have we finished with the pleasantries?"
Darinor snapped.
"Darinor," the king acknowledged, though his
voice seemed to tighten. "The prophet come to us in our hour of need. What
brings you to Atharvan?"
The Entient scoffed. "A wiser man would not have
to ask."
Allion cringed. He had dared hope the mystic might show
a little more tact in dealing with Galdric than he had toward others.
Apparently, that would not be the case.
But if the king felt slighted, he did nothing to show
it, offering instead a nod and a smile. "Quite right. Clumsy of me to ask.
You've come in response to my message, have you not?"
Darinor grunted.
"I can assume, then, that you do not care for my
decision, and have come to persuade me to alter course."
"If you would save your people," the Entient
agreed, "you will do as instructed. I believe our initial message made
that clear."
Again the king showed remarkable restraint. "Have
you had yourself a drink?" he asked.
The Entient declined with a shake of his head. Allion
and Marisha nodded politely, showing the man their goblets. Galdric drifted toward
the serving table, guardsmen darting
out of his way, where he hefted and then drained a
small flagon.
"A fine vintage," Galdric proclaimed,
"although better when it has been decanted."
"As long as your soldiers engage the enemy in
scattered groups, me Illychar will continue to fight that way," Darinor
pressed while the other wiped his mouth. "Assemble, and they will have
little choice but to come after the main army in search of the warrior coils
their Illysp brethren crave."
"Your strategy is clear," the king assured
him. "Curious, but then these are curious times. Do not mistake my hesitation
for a misunderstanding of the circumstances."
The man's tone was steady, his conviction
unmistakable. Allion's early sense was that Galdric was every bit a match for
Darinor. Despite having come, in part, to lend his voice in support of their
common cause, the hunter found himself wanting to hear out the dissenting
king's arguments.
"What other reason could you have for being
foolish enough to stand alone in this?" Darinor demanded.
The king settled into a chair across the room, taking
with him another flagon. "As I'm sure you're aware, we lost more than
two-thirds of our West Legion in this war against the so-called dragonspawn—a
third of my forces overall. My people are starving, and driven to terror by the
bands of savage races now ravaging our lands. On top of that, I've got
Menzoes—whom I'm doing my best to help and not grind beneath my boot—accusing
me of cavorting with demons. In short, my plate is full."
Allion had heard the whispers on his way in, how it
was strange that Atharvan should be one of but a handful of eastern cities
that had managed to escape the wrath of the Demon Queen, making its rulers the
target of unfair rumor as to what sort of foul pact they had signed in order to
be spared.
"I've been listening to the same arguments, in
one form or another, ever since my arrival," Darinor countered, glaring at
Allion.
"I'm sure you have," Galdric granted.
"And to you, I must sound an old fool making excuses. But as I attempted
to explain in my response, it is too late for us. The struggle you hope to
avoid in the west has already begun here in the east. For every murderous elf
or goblin your citizens have seen, my people have encountered tenfold. Can you
imagine the outcry were I to send away the only protection they have?"
"Small indeed," Darinor argued,
"compared to what you shall hear when all have been made into Illychar
themselves."
The king shook his head dismissively. "We have
long lived beneath a cloud of such threats. Our enemies may defeat us, but
they will never intimidate us. Were it otherwise, we would have surrendered to
Killangrathor's unholy spawn, I'm sure."
He took a deep drink, stopping short of draining the
flagon as he had before. Aliion looked to his own cup and managed another sip.
"Understand," Galdric continued, as Darinor
stewed silently across from him, "that this has not been a unilateral
decision. I've consulted heavily with my generals. As a matter of
self-defense, we cannot give ourselves over to your proposed course."
Allion glanced at Maltyk, standing over his king's
shoulder, then back to Galdric. It wasn't hard to appreciate their position.
After all, his own people—himself included—had not been easily convinced, and
they had yet to face anything approaching an open assault. Calm as he appeared,
the king of Partha had to still be reeling from his war of survival against the
Demon Queen. He was down to a single legion, units of the East having been fed
into the decimated West, so that what had once been an army of twin halves was
now a unified whole. Despite being short-manned, it had taken an act of great
faith and mercy to let fall the northern front against those with whom his
people had been waging a civil war off and on for centuries. Galdric had done
so even before this new threat had emerged, giving ear to the entreaties of
fellow rulers like Torin who had urged forbearance, when he might as easily
have put a swift end to the Menzo rebellion once and for all. Clearly, the man
was not unreasonable. Was it fair to ask more of these people than they already
had?
But they had to, Allion knew. The course they had
elected
did not allow for exceptions. If Darinor was to be
believed— and it still seemed they had little choice—then the hunter was going
to have to help find a way to make these others agree.
"Is that General Corathel's position, then?"
he asked.
A faint sparkle lit the corners of the king's eyes,
while his lips compressed as if holding back a congratulatory smile. Only then
did it occur to Allion that Galdric might be taking their measure, given the
calculated manner in which this interview was unfolding.
"Therein lies much of the problem," the king
confessed. "You say we must gather the entire legion, is that not
so?" He glanced at Darinor, who looked ready to explode. "But we
cannot do so, even if we wished it. One of my divisions is missing."
Allion blinked. "Missing?"
'The Second Division, led by Lieutenant General Jasyn
and Chief General Corathel himself. Upon last report, they were driving south
into
Allion could not make himself believe what he was hearing.
The Second Division, foremost among those of the newly unified Parthan Legion.
The First no longer existed, except in memorial to those who had fought and
given their lives, to a man, in the battle against me dragonspawn at Bane Draw
and Kraagen Keep. Of the five active divisions, the Second was the head,
comprised of the best and the brightest among Partha's soldiers. A fifth of the
army in terms of raw numbers, but of even greater value as the unit that set
the example and paved the course the others followed.
Galdric swished the wine remaining in his flagon.
"I have already ordered their withdrawal, but that order goes unheeded.
Since your plan requires that all our forces unite— and because I cannot afford
to sacrifice an entire combat division—the Third is even now being prepped to
go after the Second. If successful, perhaps we shall reconsider committing our
armies to yours."
He hefted the flagon to his lips and chugged down the
remainder of its contents. While he did so, Allion looked to Maltyk, searching
for some sign of what the other might be feeling. From Corathel on down, the
surviving commanders of the former West Legion had been rewarded for their
efforts against the Demon Queen by retaining their positions—granted
preference over their counterparts from the East—when the two legions were
rolled together. Thus, Maltyk, as lieutenant general of the Third Division,
would be the one to carry out the task the king had just described. Knowing
this caused Allion to wonder what choice, if any, his friends had really been
given in accepting their new appointments.
But that thought was swiftly eclipsed by the more
ominous issue at hand. The entire Second Division. Some ten thousand soldiers.
Guided by a pair of generals who had survived no fewer than four major battles
against Spithaera's dragon-spawn. How might they have simply disappeared? Even
if they had been wiped out, signs would have remained, and word sent home. The
matter as it stood suggested any number of foul possibilities mat Allion
didn't dare consider.
He felt Marisha take his hand, then looked past her to
where her father brooded like a thunderhead.
"I don't like it," the Entient rumbled, as
Galdric passed the empty flagon off to one of his guardsmen and signaled for
another. "This is exactly what the Illysp want, to suck our forces into
combat in an area where superior numbers are all but meaningless."
"That may be," the king admitted, twisting
at the braids of a yellow beard flecked with gray. "But if so, then they
already have what they want."
"Sending in another division is not the answer.
You would only feed their ranks."
"Easy it is to find flaw in another's
thinking," Galdric conceded. "Harder by far to conceive a plan of
one's own."
Darinor grunted, grinding his jaw as if testing a sore
tooth. "Let me go," he said finally.
The king nearly dropped the flagon delivered by his
guardsman. "Go where?"
"Into
"If might were the answer, I should think that
ten thousand Parthan soldiers, with a legion commander at the helm, would have
matters well in hand."
The king was squinting now, as if trying to see in
Darinor something he had overlooked before. "It may just be that our enemy
is picking off my messengers, and that the battalions themselves are fine. If
that's the case, a sizable regiment would be much better suited to the
task."
"A force of any size would only slow me down.
Besides, I have experience in dealing with these creatures," the Entient
maintained, with a brief turn toward Allion and Marisha. "How to avoid
mem, or do battle if I must."
"And what of our natural enemies? The jungle
itself and the savages who live there?"
The Mookla'ayans, Allion thought,
and shuddered. "The least of our concerns," Darinor assured them all.
"What I must know is this: If I am able to find and return your division
to you, will you agree to my plan to add your army to those assembled just
south of the Gaperon?"
The king took another long drink, then climbed from
his chair and to his feet. Given the quantity of wine the man had consumed,
Allion half expected him to keel over then and there. But if the drink were to
hold any influence, it had yet to take effect.
"I'll grant you mis," Galdric countered.
"Should you manage to locate General Corathel and convince him that yours
is the course we must follow, I'll issue no order to the contrary."
Darinor considered the king's terms, then dipped his
head in acknowledgment. "So be it."
A red sunset lit the westernmost room among those in
which Allion had been left to wait while Darinor discussed with King Galdric
the route he would be taking on the morrow. Though no one had said so, the
hunter supposed this suite of chambers would belong to him and Marisha for some
time—at least until the Entient returned from his foray into Vosges in order to
guide his daughter safely home to Kryn-wall. It went without saying that he did
not trust Allion to do so. And while the other was away, this was likely the
safest place they could be.
None of which was of any consolation to Marisha. As
soon as the assigned chamberlain had shown them their quarters and closed the
outer door behind him, she had begun fuming at the unfairness of it all—that
her father should run off alone, once again, while leaving her behind. He
wouldn't be happy, it seemed, until he got himself killed, while she lay tucked
away like some doll in a cupboard.
To make matters worse, there was no one to whom she
could think to carry her appeal, no one who might understand her predicament
and prevail upon Galdric—and in turn, her father—that they were mistaken to
keep her stored away. For that, she needed someone with both clout and a
woman's sensibility. But the king was unmarried-had been ever since his wife
had died years earlier. And she had borne him only sons, which meant the only
women to be found in the royal household were those she saw carrying scrub rags
and feather dusters, food trays and watering spouts, fresh candles and soiled
linens—none of whom looked likely to have the king's ear.
Allion had been quick to point out that he was not any
happier about the situation than she. He had come, he reminded her, in part
because he was tired of being shackled to a palace's grounds. Though the rooms
Galdric had accorded them were nicer than his own back home, it didn't mean he
would be comfortable occupying them.
When finished venting helplessly, they had gone their
separate ways, Marisha to her quarters in the east, Allion to his in the west.
If nothing else, the hunter was grateful for the ensuing silence, as he stood
near the bank of open windows and watched the sun make its first appearance of
the day—just in time to bleed away in a crimson streak across me evening sky.
It had been too long, he thought, since he had experienced a moment of such
simple peace.
Then the outer door to their suite opened. Allion
turned to face his doorway, and spotted Marisha across the way in hers, as
muffled steps dragged across the common room located between the two. By the
frown on the woman's face, Allion knew who had come even before the lean shadow
fell into view.
Darinor glanced at each of them before entering the
hunter's room. Marisha followed hard upon his heels, her determined features
set. Allion steeled himself, preparing for a repeat of all the arguments he'd
so recently finished listening to.
Instead, a moment passed in which the three of them
simply stared at one another—Darinor at Allion, Marisha at Da-rinor, and
Allion alternating between the two.
"I've asked Galdric to provide mounts and
supplies for the three of us," the Entient announced finally. "We
journey south at first light."
Marisha's harsh expression crumbled at her surprise.
"You don't intend to leave me behind?"
"And entrust your safety to Galdric?"
Darinor huffed. "I think not. Not when it would mean leaving you here
alone."
"I could stay with her," Allion offered
hurriedly.
The Entient's stare seemed to burn through him, even
as a rare smirk reshaped the corner of his mouth. "Except that I have need
of you. From what my daughter has shared with me, you have traveled this jungle
before—even encountered the natives who live there. That experience may prove
useful."
Allion's mind raced, desperate for an excuse. A trek
into
"In any case," Darinor continued, "I
must also persuade Corathel to reverse course, once we find him. For that, I
need someone to whom he might respond favorably, since I'm told my demeanor
does not necessarily agree with everyone."
An actual jape, Allion thought. The first he had heard
the man utter. Its humor was lost on him, however, buried by the truth of his
helplessness.
"We'll be ready," Marisha assured her
father.
Allion looked to the woman, at her expression grown
eager and solemn. It was for the best, he supposed. As perilous as this
journey promised to be, it might be safer than leaving him and Marisha here
alone.
The weight of her father's gaze caused him to break
short his study. In marking the other's scowl, it occurred to him that this
might have been yet another reason for taking them along, to avoid having to
trust them on their own. If so, the man wasn't saying.
"At first light," Darinor reminded them.
Allion nodded, then watched the others leave his room.
When alone, he blew forth a long, slow breath before turning toward the fallen
sun.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE Back Table of Contents Next
The promise of battle chilled the air.
They were less than a day out from Neak-Thur, and if
Torin had harbored any delusions as to where they were headed, there was no
denying it now. The musk of the army surrounded him—of wood and leather, of
grease and oils, of men and horses and the earth tilled up by their tramping
feet. Amazingly, the rogues that comprised its ranks continued to laugh and
jest, each with his neighbors, as if marching to a festival rather than to war.
But Torin would not be fooled. He felt
the truth in his bones, enveloped by a biting cold within and without that not
even the Sword could fully dispel.
They were not yet ready for this. That much had seemed
obvious from the start. But time was working against them. The longer they took
to muster a response to
Torin had been introduced to the prime commander the
night before, after a full day's march. By that time, Arn had already recounted
for the man a loose recitation of the out-lander's background. The master of
recruits must have embellished quite a bit, Torin decided, for one of the
first things the general had done was to ask that he assume command of one of
the forward regiments—a company of some two hundred men. The young king had
balked at the request, explaining that he lacked the tactical experience to
maneuver a unit of that size. But Chamaar had insisted, reassuring him that
what maneuvering might be required after the initial positioning would be
determined and executed at the wedge and battalion levels. All he need do was
charge in the direction indicated, redirect when commanded, and see to it that
his men followed.
It remained a terrible responsibility in Torin's mind.
He had led men to their deaths before, and was loath to do so again.
Nevertheless, as he stood there matching the general's challenging stare, he
had recognized the deep, inexplicable faith with which the other regarded him,
as if seeing in him some quality of which Torin himself was unaware. A
general's special talent, perhaps, to compel a man to believe in himself and
take action he normally would not consider. Whatever, Torin found himself
overwhelmed with the urge to show this Chamaar exactly what he was capable of.
Once that had been decided, he was introduced to each
of the general's wedge commanders—Gilden, Jaik, and Bardik. Of the three, only
Gilden made a significant first impression, wrapped in bands of muscle that put
even Arn's to shame. Jaik was taller, and leaner, greeting Torin with a squared
jaw and a look that suggested an intolerance toward foolishness. Smaller than
either of the others, Bardik had grinned almost sheepishly from beneath an
overgrown mop of mud-colored curls.
They had shared dinner there in the command tent,
Chamaar and his chief lieutenants along with Arn, Torin, and the pair of Fenwa
with whom he traveled. Torin had cringed when the general acknowledged the
Nymph Hunters as "the women who would do battle alongside men,"
expecting Dy-anne to introduce herself properly. Instead, she had surprised him
by offering only a sardonic smile and a promise to stay out of the way.
Before daybreak, Torin was rousted by Commander
Gilden—or "Lancer," as he seemed better known—and presented to his
unit. Soon after, the entire army was assembled and driving north once more
across a rainswept plain. Torin marched at the head of his regiment as he had
all that day.
This placed him near the center of the overall
formation, in the company of Chamaar and the three wedge commanders, which he
quickly came to recognize as both a blessing and a curse. For while it meant
that his troops held their lines and kept silent any murmurings against his
freshly issued authority, it also made it more difficult to keep track of
Dyanne and Holly, who time and again grew bored with the measured pace and
ventured forth on their own, knowing where to find him upon their return.
Though he understood better than to worry for their safety, the mere separation
caused in him an unexpected anxiety, which he dared not confess.
Perhaps it was this and not the specter of looming
battle that had so jangled his nerves. Wherever the pair went, stares followed,
including his own. He felt as if he'd been made to share a treasure that should
have remained his own—which was ridiculous, of course, for though he might wish
otherwise, neither Dyanne nor her kinmate were his to protect.
Not that their movements or the attentions drawn
should matter to him, regardless. Whatever his feelings, he could ill afford
such a dangerous distraction.
But telling himself this did nothing to help,
particularly as he watched Dyanne marching ahead of him, laughing and hanging
on the every word of a lumbering Jaik—as she seemed far too inclined to do.
While Torin received endless instruction from those around him, the commander
of the East Wedge had taken it upon himself to see that Dyanne and her
companion were properly entertained. An innocent courtesy, perhaps. But to
Torin, there was nothing innocent about the way in which Dyanne held the other
captive in her radiant gaze. The implications, subtle and unfounded as they
were, left him feeling raw and irritable.
"They always take a fancy to those in
uniform," a familiar voice moaned wistfully.
Torin turned, startled to find Moss at his elbow. Just
a moment before, one of the other sergeants of his wedge had been teaching him
the terms given to a series of formations and commands likely to be employed in
the upcoming battle. So obsessed was he with Dyanne's responses toward Jaik
that he hadn't even noticed the sergeant's departure or Moss's approach. A
pointed reminder, it seemed, as to what could happen should he fail to keep his
focus.
"Well," Torin said, "if it isn't my
reliable mountain guide."
Moss grinned through his tobacco-stained teeth.
"Been meaning to apologize about that. You must admit, it wasn't entirely
my fault. Anyway, I left you in good hands, did I not?" The rogue winked,
then nodded toward Dyanne.
Torin pretended not to notice, clenching his jaw as Dyanne
gave another lilting laugh in response to something Jaik had said. He wondered
what it was about the wedge commander she found so amusing. His awkward gait,
perhaps, or his oversized head.
Moss leaned close, nudging him with an elbow.
"What I wouldn't pay to stoke her fire, eh?"
Torin's sudden urge was to knock the brute senseless
and grind his lewd smile into the earth. However he might choose to classify
his own fascination, base desire wasn't it. Dyanne seemed too special, too
unique, to be considered in such a manner. That Moss of all people would
suggest otherwise put a sour taste in his mouth.
"How is it you charmed these Nymphs,
anyway?" the big man pressed, oblivious to his offense. "Anything you
can tell me that might help me win their favor?"
Recognizing that it was misdirected, Torin forced
himself to swallow his fury. Still, he wished the rogue had the sense to back
off.
"Why should I help you with anything?" he
grumbled finally. "You lied to me."
"Lied?"
"About Hargenfeld."
Moss snorted, his hot breath clouding the air before
his ruddy cheeks. "That? Come now. Rags was already out here, west of the
Cleft, likely for the season. You never would have agreed to await his return.
I did you a favor by offering to take his place."
"A favor that left me for dead in an
avalanche," Torin recalled dryly.
The rogue shrugged, blowing into his hands in an
effort to warm them. "Couldn't have been much colder than this."
Torin glanced at the roiling heavens. "Aren't you
supposed to be scouting our flank?"
"We're reporting every six hours now. Just came
in to'see how you and your friends were getting along."
"How very noble of you," Torin mumbled.
"I assure you we'll be fine."
"So long as those clouds hold," Moss
allowed, turning eye toward the blackened skies. "Let's just hope this
blows over before tomorrow."
With that, the rogue clapped him on the shoulder before
swaggering off as suddenly as he had appeared. Torin glared after him a moment,
then resumed his vigil over Jaik and Dyanne, his bitter thoughts echoing darkly
Moss's sentiment.
Indeed.
Throughout the remainder of the afternoon and evening,
his routine was the same, an endless string of mobile briefings with various
colonels, lieutenants, and sergeants bearing impact upon his command. Between
these and during, he did his best to mark Dyanne's whereabouts, to follow her
comings and goings amid the army throng. When she was away, his gaze stole through
the surrounding crowds in furtive search. When near, he fixated upon her,
suffering a pang of envy for every word or smile aimed another's way. He felt
ridiculous for doing so, but could not make himself stop.
Then, about the same time the sun had surrendered its
vain attempt to ward off the night and a freezing sleet had begun to fall,
Hargenfeld returned from the point. Once his report had been delivered to
Chamaar, a ripple passed through the ranks as the entire army ground to a halt,
with orders to settle in for what was sure to be a restless night.
"Nearly two to one against us," Chamaar
shared with the rest of them some time later.
They were gathered in a loose circle in the command
tent, the general and an assortment of officers. Torin wasn't certain that he
should be there, given the number of those who outranked him who were not. But
Dyanne and Holly had entered at Jaik's invitation, and Torin wasn't about to
let them do so without him. So far, none had questioned his presence.
"From what the scouts could discern, a good many
of these were orcs," the general amended, "so the disparity is not so
great as it may seem."
This drew a harsh chuckle from the collective
assembly, but caused Torin's stomach to squirm. He had never seen an orc.
Except for the Mookla'ayans, the elves of
But even if it were, and he were set to fighting
monsters on the morrow, could any monster be more horrifying than those he had
faced during the War of the Demon Queen?
"It gets better," Chamaar assured them, kindling
the anxious fire seen burning in the eyes of his listeners. "It appears
he means to guard the city with his troops, rather than the other way around.
Only a token garrison, maybe one in ten, hunkers within." He looked to
Hargenfeld as he said this, and received the other's confirming nod.
A few of the rogues present began to grumble.
"So to him, men are more expendable than
mortar," said one.
"I'll wager the warlord himself is one of those
sheltering within," hissed another.
Chamaar raised his hands to quiet them. For the first
time, Torin noticed the many scars that crisscrossed the general's meaty
fingers. He looked like an old bear, hunched in the shoulders, but possessed of
an intelligence and ferocity that seethed beneath the surface of his gleaming
eyes. His shape and movements suggested aches and pains too numerous to count,
and a strength that had long ago been used up. But as with that trundling old
bear, Torin sensed that this was a deception. If nothing else, he could tell by
the way others reacted that he would not want this man barreling down on him in
the heat of a battle.
"Since it's to be a battle upon the plains, he'll
be expecting us, with our smaller force, to hit him as far to the east as possible.
He'll expect us to go straight for the city gate, where we would have the
protection of the curtain wall at our backs as we seek to force his
flank."
Torin nearly scoffed at the notion of
"protecting" themselves by placing their backs to an enemy wall and
its accompanying siege defenses. But given his limited knowledge of this
particular city, he opted to hold his tongue for now.
"Knowing this, our adversary will position his
strongest troops to defend against this course. Our next best option, then,
would be to force instead the western flank. It would mean fighting through his
entire army to reach our ultimate goal, but it would enable us to use the sea
as our rear guard."
Several of the officers were nodding, although Torin
wasn't one of them. He was busy watching Dyanne as she observed Jaik, while the
stone-faced wedge commander rubbed his beardless chin in thought.
"Thus," Chamaar said, crouching down to
point and sketch with a dagger in the dirt, "we can expect to find the
second-strongest enemy contingent here, to the west. If he keeps his back to
the Bastion, and we fail to flank him, we cannot win."
Torin was still concentrating on Dyanne when, without
warning, her gaze whipped about to catch his uninvited stare. Before he could
think to look away, the woman grinned so that a warm flush eddied through him,
then turned her attentions aside. Too late, his own eyes shifted, only to find
those of Chamaar.
"So then," the general asked, "where do
we strike?"
A test, Torin realized. There was no reason to believe
that it wasn't. The old bear had surprised him, and this after he'd been
blinded as though by a cresting sun.
For a moment, he froze. He could feel the eyes of
those assembled burning into him. He wondered if Dyanne's were among them, but
was afraid to look.
His gaze slipped to the crude drawing in the center of
their layered huddle. He could barely see it from his place amid the shadows,
then recognized that he didn't need to.
"We hit them where their ranks are weakest, and
the matchup favors us. We hit them where they least expect it."
Though he feared his voice might crack, it held
strong, even under the general's appraising stare.
"And where is that?"
Torin wasn't entirely sure that he was on the right
track, but it was too late to back down now. "In the center of their
force."
A host of murmurs followed, some agreeable, others
much less so.
"Then we save
"Outlanders," another muttered.
But Lancer was nodding approvingly, the shaved sides
of his head reflecting the lamplight. And at the corner of Chamaar's mouth,
beneath the overhanging end of his iron-gray moustache, Torin thought that he
detected a smile.
"When striking an armored opponent, you aim for
the weakest link," the general agreed, speaking again to all assembled. "We
find and force the most likely seam. As our enemies surge ahead to flank us, we
drive north until we hit the wall of me Bastion, displacing Lorre's troops with
our own. We then veer east along its southern face toward the city gate,
cutting our swath among his reserve units and supply stores. If we can do so
quickly, his strongest troops, positioned out front and to either side, will
not have a chance to engage us until it is too late."
Some of the men continued to express doubt as they
studied the L-shaped path traced in the mud before them. It was a long shot,
at best. At worst, suicide. So much depended on the speed and depth at which
they were able to drive the initial wedge. If they were to stall, there in the
middle of the enemy multitude, they would be hewn down from either side like
stalks in a farmer's field.
"Lorre knows we're coming," Jaik reminded
them all, his voice deep and contemplative. "His scouts are probably
watching us even now. How do we position ourselves to execute this strike without
revealing too soon our exact intentions?"
"Carefully," Chamaar admitted. "We'll
make it appear that we mean to drive straight for the city by folding the
Central Wedge alongside that of the East. The West will serve as our fishhook,
so that it appears we mean to hold them off on that flank. At the last moment,
Gilden's wedge will split off to lead the charge through the center. Bardik and
the West will follow in order to help fill the gash. The true test will be in
holding the thickness of our lines. We must not be severed. At the same
time—Lancer, Bardik," he said, looking at each of the wedge commanders in
turn, "we cannot afford to waste time engaging fronts east and west, but
must focus on driving north until we hit the Bastion. Is that understood?"
The pair nodded, their youthful faces anxious, yet solemn.
"North to the wall, then east to the gate,"
the general reiterated. "Those pouring in from behind will prevent those
in front from getting squeezed. Meanwhile, Jaik and I will keep the forward
units on the eastern side engaged, so that they cannot double back to help with
the rear. If all goes to plan, Lancer will complete his circle to meet back up
with me, forming a ring around the eastern segment—from which we can choke the
life while holding off the western counter-assault."
And if all doesn't go to
plan ? Torin wanted to ask. Instead, he watched the brows of those
harboring doubts straighten with grim resolve, their thinking coming into line
with that of their general.
"Torin," Chamaar added suddenly. "I'd
like your company to spearhead our assault alongside Lancer. From what Arn
tells me, you're just the man we need."
In other words, Torin thought, his mercenary friend
had told the prime commander of what had happened in their battle at sea
against the Raven's Squall—what always seemed to happen when he wielded
the Sword against an enemy. How he had charged ahead, unstoppable, yet caught
up in his own euphoria, mindless as to the strategy and limitations of those
around him. Driven by emotion. A reckless fool.
Exactly what was needed here.
He didn't trust himself to speak, and so nodded
instead. After all, he wanted to be near the front, among the first to find
The council disbanded soon after, with runners sent
out to relay orders to the various regiments. There was no second-guessing, no
study of the many pitfalls in the course laid out before them. They hadn't come
this far just to dither over their chances of success. These men trusted in
their leaders, who in turn trusted their troops to execute their assignments.
At this point, that mutual trust was all they had.
Torin only wished he could say the same. The general
he did not doubt. Chamaar had shown too much confidence in him to be denied the
same courtesy. But as he exited the command tent, he could not deny a deep and
troubling concern about the others—those who continued to behave as if unaware
that tomorrow's dawn might be their last. In comparing this army to those of
Partha, Kuuria, and even Krynwall, he could not imagine they had the discipline
to pull off such a dangerous maneuver. Many were here only for the money,
fighting not as a nation, but as individuals who—if successful—might go back to
cheating and fighting one another before the week was out. More likely, he
could expect them to collapse and flee at the first sign of turmoil, leaving
him trapped in the middle of a hornet's nest that they had stirred up.
"Troubled thoughts?"
Torin spun, surprised and delighted to see that Dyanne
and Holly had followed him from the assembly. "Where's Jaik?" he
asked, casting about.
Holly smirked. "Why, did you need to speak with
him?"
Torin felt himself redden. Though he tried, he could
think of nothing more to say.
But Dyanne did not acknowledge his embarrassment.
"It looks to be a good plan," she assured him.
"They always do," Torin grunted, "when
scribbled in the dirt ahead of time."
"You don't believe it will work?"
No. But what else was he to do? Sneak ahead in
the dead
of night and ask the armies encamped at the city
doorstep to deliver him to their lord? Odds were, it would then be
"At some point," Dyanne allowed, "it
becomes only natural to question those who would guide us."
"Like you and Dynara?"
Dyanne considered him closely, maple eyes glinting.
"If you truly disagree with the general's plan, you should do so openly,
here and now, rather than risk following a course you don't believe in."
Torin shook his head. "It's not the plan I don't
believe in. It's the ability of these mercenaries to carry it out."
Dyanne glanced at Holly, who nodded. "If you
hadn't noticed, we spent a good deal of time today working our way among those
we're set to battle alongside. This general and his commanders, they're
dedicated men—if there is such a thing. And these fighters, though not quite
soldiers, are wild and headstrong. They will not be easily repelled."
Torin wondered how they could possibly have determined
such a thing by simply passing from one conversation to the next; yet the
bigger mystery was what she wanted out of this. A reassurance, it seemed, that
he was up to the task. That when the time came, he would lay aside his doubts
and do what he must. Hadn't he always?
"You won't see me back down," he promised
her.
"Good. Although, just to be sure, we'll be at
your side the entire time. If these rogues can't see you to victory, we will."
It was an absurd statement, outlandish in its
boldness. And yet, Dyanne's smile was so wondrous, the gleam in her eye so
reassuring, that the worries were wiped clean from Torin's mind, while a surge
of confidence filled his chest.
A smile of his own warmed his face. But then a voice
called his name, and Arn muscled past a cluster of rogues and into view.
"Lancer is looking for you," the man said,
with a polite nod to the pair of Nymphs. "He says we've much to
discuss."
Torin's smile faded as Dyanne and Holly stepped aside
and went their own way, the latter with one of her mischievous winks. His
sense of assurance followed, like sand drawn out by a retreating wave, leaving
the sharp edges of his buried doubts exposed once more. Only this time, he
felt no foreboding, only a curious sense of resignation. No matter whose
instincts proved out—his or Dyanne's—they would suffer the consequences
together. One way or another, they would have their answer on the morrow.
Resisting the urge to look to see where Dyanne was
headed, he turned instead to follow Arn, glancing skyward in surprise as a
drizzle of snowflakes began to fall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-F0UR Back Table of Contents Next
The snow fell throughout the night. By
daybreak, the land was covered, and men awoke within their blankets and
lean-tos beneath an icy crust. Torin emerged, clinging to the Sword for warmth,
to gaze upon the world with fresh wonder.
"Going to be rough footing in this," Moss
grumbled.
Torin glanced back to find the big rogue huffing in
the early dawn. "Moss," he greeted, genuinely comforted to see the
other's face. It had not been a pleasant night. He put out his hand as if to
catch a few of the windblown flakes. "I thought you said I'd never see it
snow down here beneath the mountains."
Moss shrugged. "Looks like I was wrong. Won't be
the last time I'm caught in a lie."
Torin's lips tightened with his amusement. Under
better circumstances, he might have grinned.
"Where are the girls?" Moss asked.
"They were wise enough to accept the hospitality
of Commander Jaik's tent," Torin muttered.
"The same offer wasn't extended to you, eh?"
"Arn offered to make room. I figured I could set
a bettei example by roughing it alongside the men of my unit."
Moss came to a stop beside him. "I hear you're
going tc be out front."
Torin nodded, then turned back to look over the
stirring encampment. "Come to say good-bye then, did you?"
"Thought maybe I could wrangle an embrace from
those companions of yours."
This time, Torin could not help but laugh and shake
his head. "I suppose you'll have to settle for one from me."
"Won't be necessary," Moss said hurriedly.
"Are you sure? You might not get another
chance."
"I'll make do," the big man assured him.
"How about this, then?" Torin said, picking
at the strings that held his coin purse and handing it over to the rogue.
"What's this?"
"Your payment. For seeing me as far along as you
did."
Moss hefted the small sack. "There's more in here
than we agreed on."
"If I survive this, you can pay back what you
don't deserve."
The rogue gave a broad smile as he tucked the bag
away. "If that's the measure, then you've not paid me enough by
half."
Torin laughed again and clasped the big man's hand.
"Farewell, Gavrin. Good luck to you, whatever happens today."
"If you get the chance, spit in old
Torin nodded, endured a hearty clap on his shoulder,
then watched the other flash a final grin and swagger on his way.
Though sorely tempted to seek out his Nymph companions,
Torin turned his mind instead toward the preparations of his company, meeting
with each of his platoon commanders to gauge their readiness. Most, it seemed,
were prepped and eager for the day's fighting to begin. Fools all, Torin
thought.
A light breakfast was consumed, cold and quick, after
which Torin was summoned to a final briefing with the army's principal
commanders. The reports brought in by Moss, Hargenfeld, and the other scouts
had done nothing to change the day's strategy. They would go forward as
planned.
En route back to his regiment, he finally caught brief
sight of Dyanne and Holly. He might have asked how comfortably they had slept,
but did not get a chance. Just as well, he decided, since he wasn't sure he
wanted to know.
And then they were off, the entire force, one unit
after the other. They left their tents and food stores and other nonessential
supplies behind, carrying with them only what they
would need in battle. A horse would have been nice,
Torin thought, as he waded through snowdrifts that in some areas came clear to
his knee. Marching at the head of his company, at the left hand of Lancer and
the Central Wedge, he and those alongside were to forge the trail that others
would follow. Of the mounts they had, most were toward the rear, hauling wagons
of siege tools and carts for bearing off the wounded. The rest had been
assigned to the runners and lookouts. In any case, as long as he was relegated
to wishing for things he couldn't have, he could do much better than a mere
steed.
A stinging wind lashed their faces, blowing from the
northwest and bearing with it the scents of salt and sea. They were nearing
the ocean, Torin realized, that of Yawacor's western shore, opposite the coast
on which he had landed and farthest from his own home. Snowfall continued to
blanket the region—even the beaches, the outriders reported. Something not seen
in nearly twenty years. A good omen, the men whispered, though Torin couldn't
see how.
It wasn't long before the smell of the ocean was
followed by its sound—a deep, restless roar that underscored the wailing wind
and seemed to Torin to resonate within him. He looked for the source, but
caught only occasional glimpses through the fog and trees as the army proceeded
north along a craggy shoreline. Limestone cliffs held it at bay, and even atop
those bluffs, he could not see over their westward rise.
But as the land began to slope downward, and the line
of. trees tacked eastward, Torin's view to the west opened up, revealing a
mist-shrouded vista of rocky beaches and churning waves, wheeling gulls and
diving herons. A palette washed of color and detail, but which laid claim to
the horizon and beyond. In gazing out over that expanse, Torin lost himself in
its boundlessness, and before he knew it, he had reached his goal: the city of
The scene appeared suddenly before him, on the other
side of a small ascent. Nearly a mile distant, at the eastern edge of a
snowswept coastal plain, lay that which they had come to reclaim. Neak-Thur had
been described as a sprawling assortment of streets and buildings, erected in a
northerly line upon the west-facing slopes of a series of foothills belonging
to the
Until now.
While Torin recognized easily enough the city's layout
as it had been mapped out for him, his attention was drawn more to those who
now inhabited it. Through increasingly thick curtains of windblown snow, he
peered down not upon a formation of towers and walls, but upon a dark mass of
enemy soldiers perhaps twenty thousand strong. The earth was alive with them,
like a hill swarming with ants. Torin could not discern which were human, but
given their superior numbers and entrenched position it did not seem to matter.
Whether stationed upon the hillside walls and rooftops of the city proper, or
carpeting the southern plain with their backs to the Bastion, the armies of
Lord Lorre had infested the Southland's only defensive fortress, and, from
Torin's view, would not be relinquishing it anytime soon.
But if any he traveled with were daunted by the sight,
they did nothing to show it. Looking from side to side, Torin heard nary a
complaint as men shifted from their marching lines and into battle formation.
Personal judgments aside, he admired their courage. Though they be cutthroats
and vagabonds, there was an undeniable spirit that drove them. In that moment,
Torin felt a part of something much larger than himself, and he welcomed the
sensation.
He glanced up to find Lancer pacing the front lines.
When he reached Torin's position, the commander of the Central
Wedge stopped, regarding the outlander with a devious
yet congenial smile clinging to his young face.
"Nervous?" Lancer asked him.
Strangely, he was not. Despite their untenable
position, he was more curious than afraid. "I've seen battle before,"
he reminded the other.
"But never quite like this," Lancer
promised, before grinning fiercely and heading on down the line.
While his troops continued their final preparations,
and those far below rustled about as if doing the same, Torin revisited in his
mind the strategy they would use. The initial feint on the eastern edge was
crucial in hiding their true intent. Once the Central Wedge broke free of the
main force, its charge would have to be fast and relentless. Chamaar and Jaik
would keep the eastern edge of the south front occupied while the other
battalions stretched after to widen the central breach. Most importantly, they
could not allow the ring they formed to be broken.
The demands were hefty; the odds mounted against them.
But success was conceivable if they executed properly and with unwavering
savagery.
He could see now why Chamaar was not greatly concerned
by the defenses of the city's curtain wall, which was not nearly as well
equipped as the Bastion. It made sense, Torin supposed. The only anticipated
threat of significant strength was that posed by
And yet, if the first phase of their plan worked and
they were able to scatter the larger force set down as battlefield fodder,
they would still have to storm the city. From what Torin could see, that would
be no simple task. For the outer wall, which looked to have been reconstructed
several times to accommodate the city's haphazard expansion, was breached by
only a single gate on its western side. This south-facing portal was set in a
curving corridor formed by an exterior branch that ran alongside the curtain
wall, so that one's approach to the city began with a westward march into this
forbidding passageway, looped north through the gate, then continued to loop
east and into the city. Not only were the battlements on either side of this
corridor well defensed, but its walls formed a vicious bottleneck.
The rogue to his left nudged him with an elbow.
"It ain't too late to run and hide, if that's what you're thinking."
Torin glanced up at the man, a beefy brute with a sly
smile and a mouthful of crooked teeth. "I was just wondering how long it
took Lorre to ram the city gate."
"He didn't," came the smooth female
response.
Torin whirled to find Dyanne and Holly striding toward
him, with Dyanne speaking as though she had been at his side the entire time.
"Commander Jaik says that he used ropes and
scaling ladders to swarm the walls, and a team of giants to force the gate
from within."
Torin managed to hide his smile. He had begun to
wonder if the girls had changed their minds about joining him. "And are we
to do the same?"
"One thing at a time," Dyanne said, taking
up a position to his left. Holly did likewise, shoving aside the leering rogue
that had addressed Torin a moment before.
"Are you sure you want to go through with
this?" he asked them.
"Are you?" Holly piped.
Torin smirked, and questioned them no more.
As their army stood there, jostling with a final
inspection of blades and buckles, Torin closed his eyes. The wind intensified,
whistling in shrill tones that overlaid the lamenting groans of an implacable
sea. The air was singing, a mournful symphony that seemed to warn of
destruction.
Then came the drums.
They began slowly, a soft, steady pulse buried beneath
nature's tune. For just a moment, Torin thought he
might be imagining them. But he could feel them as well, shuddering through
the earth—individual beats that struck upon his heart before ebbing slowly, as
if to sap him of strength after pounding him into submission.
Lancer came marching back then, wheeling into place at
the head of his wedge. That put him on Torin's right, so that they stood
shoulder to shoulder.
"Bastards think they can intimidate us," the
commander said, grimacing with excitement.
Torin nodded. The sinister cadence echoed ominously on
the wind. But to a reckless band such as this, the dreadful beat was merely
fuel for their madness. A passion began to build within Torin as he tightened
his grip on the hilt of the Sword. If death awaited him, then death he would
greet, snarling and fighting, raving with the dauntless savagery of a man
possessed.
"Tell me, why do they call you Lancer?"
The warrior did not look at him, his busy eyes darting
across the battlefield as if memorizing every drop and rise. "Folks will
tell you that a few years back, when I was only nineteen, I slew a giant with a
single throw of a spear."
Torin considered the man, whose bulbous arms and rippled
torso bulged beneath the seams of a black leather tunic. "Is it
true?"
"No," the commander admitted. Finishing his
survey, he glanced over, snow clinging to the sun-bleached tuft atop his
otherwise shaven head. "I was seventeen."
The call to ready arms echoed down the lines. Most had
already done so. Torin himself waited. Not yet.
The pace of the drums quickened—a piercing rhythm of
three staccato beats pounded home by a longer, more menacing one. Torin felt it
like a flurry of war hammers, a pummeling assault that left just enough time to
draw breath before the next series was driven home. Shields and weapons rattled
to the rhythm. Heels tamped the earth in time. Nerves throbbed with
anticipation, screaming for release.
A frightful roar resounded from the east. Torin turned
to find a horse and rider barreling along the front lines from that direction,
waving apennant and hollering a bestial cry. Behind him, Chamaar and his troops
had begun the charge, shouting as they streamed down along the plain, an avalanche
beginning its descent.
The signal rider swept past Torin's position, and the
dam broke. Lancer led, bellowing a cry taken up by the thousands who followed.
Torin jogged alongside, gritting his teeth. He did not look for Dyanne and
Holly; he could feel them there beside him, their fire as radiant as that which
burned at his fingertips. The Sword remained sheathed, his hand clenching its
leather-wrapped hilt. Its strength coursed through him, billowing in waves.
The winds gusted, and the snowfall quickened. Torin
squinted against the giant flakes that stung his eyes, focused on his
assignment. Though strung out in a westerly line, the entire army was bearing
northeast, where Chamaar had promised they would find the heaviest
concentration of Lorre's troops. As Torin peered ahead, he saw that there was
indeed a thicker assemblage in that area—thickening by the moment as the enemy
re-formed to meet their attack. A grim smile etched its way across his
features, his heaving chest warmed by a secret sense of triumph.
They had covered perhaps three-quarters of the distance
when Lancer gave a whoop and broke suddenly off course, veering northwest into
the very throat of the enemy. A chorus of barbaric howls rent the air as the
entire Central Wedge peeled off in pursuit. Torin was among the first to
follow, but soon found that he could not match the commander's sprinting pace.
Lancer, his massive legs churning, was quickly outdistancing them all.
Out came the Crimson Sword from its sheath, the glow
from its inner flames as bright as Torin had ever seen. The heat of their divine
power flushed through him in a cascade, causing his muscles to swell with
energy.
Even so, he could not match Lancer's unlikely blend of
strength and speed. Ahead, the dark forms of the enemy threatened to devour the
reckless soldier, but Torin could do nothing to slow him. All he could do was
give chase, watching the wedge commander thunder like a madman toward his
goal—the wet leather and metal scales of his armor
glistening, exposed knots of muscle flexing, his body in perfect balance with
the smoothness of his stride as he raised his shield, steadied his spear and...
Crack!
With the ear-wrenching crunch of a splitting tree,
Lancer launched himself into and through the enemy phalanx set to receive him.
Their wall crumpled as his spear punched through two of the tightly packed
bodies and drew blood from a third. By then, his broadsword was free, hacking
and thrusting, while his shield swept aside the tips of the pole-arms aimed his
way. Bodies convulsed, enemies coughed blood from beneath plate armor visors,
and the screams of the wounded blared like a trumpet.
In the next moment, Torin was there, sweeping through
the ranks that had begun already to close about the driving Lancer, who
continued to push forward into the enemy swarm. At his back came Dyanne and
Holly and a deluge of frenzied rogues. He could sense them clearly, his
awareness heightened by the waves of power emanating through him. Crimson
flames ripped through the darkness that sought to devour them, lighting the
way.
On they poured like a gushing river, flooding the
breach. An eddy amid the wash, Torin twisted and swirled with uncanny
instinct, giving himself over to the Sword's guidance and euphoria. The
invincible blade arced and jabbed, angling flawlessly and without wasted motion.
His foes scattered before him; squealing their inhuman cries.
For his enemies were not in fact human. As helms worn
by the forward troops went flying, and as he dug past the more heavily armored
front lines, Torin found that most of those arrayed before him bore the
salamanderlike features attributed to a creature said to have long since been
driven from his own shores: the orc. Though these were the first he had ever
encountered, he recognized from the renderings of artists and storytellers the
bulging eyes, froglike mouths, and slime-coated skins. An amphibious race, it
was said, shorter than the average man, and lacking in tenacity. More at home
in swamps and marshlands than anywhere else, most had nevertheless been forced
to retreat over the years into pool-filled caverns and subterranean grottos,
else risk being hunted to extinction by man.
How many of these, Torin wondered, might gladly return
there now?
He had finally caught up with Lancer, around whom enemies
continued to crumple. Many, it seemed, had already lost their zeal for this
battle, falling back among their own. With each swipe, the Sword cleaved armor
and flesh alike, its flames burning brightly against any stain. And as Torin
pressed his advantage, fighting forward with Lancer on one side and the pair of
Nymph Hunters on the other, he made room for even more of his allies to funnel
after.
A moment later, he had taken the lead, driving ahead
at his commander's urging. General Chamaar had been right. There would be no
need for further maneuvering. He need only remember their plan. Cut north until
he reached the Bastion, then turn east and carve his swath along its bulwark
toward the city. He knew the goal, and by extension, so did the Sword. Nothing
could oppose their singular will.
He had expected he might have to worry for Dyanne and
Holly. At this point, he should have known better. The duo battled as they had
in Necanicum's wood, like a pair of dancers whose routine had been honed to
perfection. Holly slashed with her knives at the seams in her opponents'
armor, severing veins and tendons, and when forced to throw one, she seldom
missed her mark. Dyanne fought with a rapier in her left hand and a dagger in
her right, while using various tumbling techniques to great effect. Back to
back and side by side, so close that at times they seemed intertwined, it
looked as if the girls were in no danger of falling behind.
So he forged ahead, tireless, a font of calculated
rage. It was as if, at long last, he had found a release for all of the pain and
fear and doubt he had suffered over the past weeks. That the enemies before him
weren't the cause of that pain didn't matter. They had made themselves an easy
target, and he would see them destroyed.
The cries of his company spurred him on. Glancing back,
Torin was exhilarated by their success. With scarcely
an effort, they had shredded the line of armor-shelled orcs set down as a
blockade and sent the lighter, more mobile units behind them stumbling in
retreat. His opponents were giving him a widening berth, and the shadow of the
Bastion was looming ever nearer. Ghastly work, but thus far, child's play.
The thought lodged unexpectedly in Torin's mind.
Indeed, up till now it had been too easy, almost as if they were being
encouraged along this course. But Torin dismissed the notion and its
unsettling implications. It was nothing more than their strategy fulfilled. As
intended, they had struck along a vein of weaker troops, where Lorre would have
least expected. For once, all was going according to plan.
Except for the trolls.
They appeared suddenly, revealed by the waves of
enemies that parted before Torin and his companions, exposed like boulders
beneath a retreating surf. Like those of the orc, the purported features of
this legendary creature were unmistakable. Their hunchbacked bodies were
dominated by massive, knotted shoulders and powerful, lengthy arms. Their heads
were little more than protruding bumps, their faces a tight gathering of eyes,
nostrils, and mouth over a low-slung jaw.
Unlike the orc, they did not give way, but held their
line as Torin charged to meet them. On average, they were of human height, but
of much thicker build. Their waists were like tree trunks, their legs like
gnarled logs. Their skin was mottled, and hardened beyond the need for heavy
armor. They wielded blunt weapons for the most part—hammers and clubs and
cudgels—which were better suited to their slow, lumbering swipes.
But what struck Torin the most was what they would be
doing here, positioned within the middle of the horde. He'd been told that
given their strength and their impassive nature, trolls made for an excellent
bulwark. Likely, they would be found among Lorre's most sensitive areas—east or
west— and almost assuredly out front. To encounter them now, at this critical
juncture, was something his commanders hadn't anticipated.
But Torin and his allies had come too far. Should they
slow their charge or attempt to withdraw, their foes would close on either side
and grind them into gruel.
The first of the trolls fell with an emotionless
grunt, the fires of the Sword reflecting in its beady eyes. Before its body
toppled, a spiked club wielded by its companion came whipping about in
roundhouse fashion. Torin ducked the blow and came up with a strike that
severed the second creature's arm. Rather than stand aside to let him pass, the
remaining trolls pressed in.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he had made a
mistake. But then Lancer was there, spattered in blood, using his shield to ram
aside two of the beasts at a time. With the wedge commander at his back, Torin
concentrated on sweeping clear the opposite flank, so that those coming behind
could pour on through.
To his horror, Dyanne and Holly were the first to do
so, and Torin nearly took a club to the head as he cried out for them to wait.
Once again, he needn't have worried. While Dyanne feinted high, Holly slid
beneath the squat legs of their assailant, using her knives to slash at knees
and ankles. When the brute leaned forward to reach after her, Dyanne dropped
low, and using the troll's weight against it, somehow sent it into a forward
roll until it ended up on its back. A thrust to its throat by one of the
trailing rogues put an end to its surprise.
It was rough going, for the unit of trolls was stacked
almost as deep as it was wide. But after they'd hacked through a dozen lines,
the path opened up once again, troll ranks giving way to those of humans, who
seemed only too happy to part formation and allow the stream of maddened rogues
through.
Directly into a wall of giants.
Torin spied them through a thickening veil of mist and
snow, which lent a dreamlike quality to their shadowy forms. But there was no
blinking away their sudden appearance. Though proportioned like humans, these
savages ranged closer to ten feet in height, making them stronger and faster
than their lesser cousins. Much like the trolls,
they wore only patchwork armor, revealing a coarse,
fur-covered hide shaggy around the calves and forearms. Their teeth were more
like tusks, and their eyes, set deep above their bearded faces, burned bright
and cold with advanced intelligence.
Torin's stomach lurched, and his mind reeled.
According to Chamaar and his lieutenants, giants were the rarest and most
prized of Lorre's soldiers—used predominantly as battlefield commanders,
stationed in only the most vital areas. Only if Torin were extremely unlucky
would he stumble across more than one at a time. Before him stood seven.
A barbed greatsword came at Torin in a rush. Somehow,
he met its strike with one of his own. Flames gushed from the Crimson Sword as
it cut the monstrous blade in half. Ducking and spinning, he took the giant's
leg at the knee, dropping it with a howl that wracked the smaller man's bones.
. Even as he fought, the truth sounded like a great
brass bell in his head. Chamaar had been betrayed. Sold out by one of the
scouts, perhaps. Hargenfeld maybe, or—Torin's gut tightened—Moss. It was the
most likely explanation, far more feasible than the idea that Loire had been
able to guess and prepare for this strategy. To lure them into the heart of his
force before clamping down like an iron trap.
Whichever, the trap was now sprung. The trolls had
slowed them, but the giants had brought their progress to a sluggish, grinding
halt. Lancer was doing his best to trade blows, but in this case even the
mighty wedge commander was outmatched, and only his quickness and battered
shield were keeping him alive. Dyanne and Holly were doing well just to keep
clear, their weapons almost useless against these creatures. Meanwhile, enemy
forces all around were closing from the sides—even the squalid orcs, become
suddenly courageous.
Torin worked frantically to turn the rising tide. But
the giants were simply too swift and too powerful, wading among them and
slaughtering his troops in droves. And with its momentum stalled, their
burrowing wedge had lost its only advantage.
His gaze slipped to the east, toward the foothills and
the city nestled upon them. He wondered if the East Wedge fared any better.
Perhaps with the defense set as it was, Commander Jaik and General Chamaar had
been able to do more than merely occupy the attentions of those warding the
city gate. But the stretch of ground between them was too great for him to
tell. He could see nothing beyond the curtains of snowfall and the flaring
wall of his adversary—the spray of blood, the snarling visages, the glint of a
descending axe...
Torin leapt to the side just in time to avoid its
deadly arc. But doing so put him in line with a second giant's charge. Instinct
saved him, as he was somehow able to tuck and roll to avoid a wicked spear,
then plant his free hand so that he was able to spin back with the Sword and
score a deep gash along the giant's hip.
And yet, he found himself cornered, sandwiched between
a wall of enemies at his back and another giant—the axe-wieldep—looming over
him. He might have been finished were it not for the pair of throwing knives
that careened off the side of the giant's face. Though they did not stick, they
distracted the beast long enough for Torin to regain his balance and sweep
aside those converging on him from the rear. When he came back around, the
giant was on one knee, Dyanne's dagger protruding from the back of the other.
As she wrenched it free, the giant looked up, eyes wide as the Crimson Sword
lopped off its head.
Torin cursed the poor creature, drawing Dyanne and
Holly back the other way. He cursed the sky above for its brooding
indifference. He cursed the land, slick with ice and blood. Most of all, he
cursed the overlord, smug in his tower far above the melee, no doubt laughing
as he watched his brutish forces throttle the enemy that had so foolishly
entered his trap.
There was time for one more curse, and he saved it for
the giant whose jarring blow caused Lancer's knees to buckle and sent the
commander's weapon skidding from his grasp. Torin lunged ahead, ignoring the
scrapes drawn from a pair of orc blades in passing. But he knew already there
was noth-
ing anyone could do. Kicking aside the fallen man's shield,
the menacing giant arced its sword high.
Lancer, however, was not as helpless as he appeared,
prying from its shallow bed a frozen stone that fit square in the palm of his
hand. As the giant's blade fell, the wedge commander gathered his great legs beneath
him and, with a furious grunt, launched himself to his feet, coming up inside
the blade's arc and using the rock to deliver a crushing blow to the center of
his opponent's face. The giant toppled over backward, dead before it hit the
ground.
With Torin warding his back, Lancer cast aside the
lucky stone and reclaimed his sword and shield. The pair then turned as one,
Torin looking to repay the orcs who had gouged his flesh. He found one
twitching, the other gurgling, the first with punctured eye sockets, and the
second with a flayed throat.
Dyanne winked at him while using her blades as a
shield so that Holly could retrieve her knives. Or perhaps she was merely
clearing grit from her eye. Torin hadn't the chance to decide before the next
group of enemies was upon them.
Lancer barked and shouted, fighting to rally his men.
Three giants were down, while a fourth was mortally wounded. Torin was able to
spill the entrails from another as it honed in on the wedge commander. That
left only two, one of which wisely backed away and sent the lesser troops
around it to die in its stead. Slowly, painstakingly, the wedge began to crawl
forward once more.
But the enemy crush was cutting their trailing line
into segments. While the head of their force inched northward, Torin and his
companions found themselves racing back now and again to help shore up the
collapsing walls. They remained together for the most part, an effective
quartet—Dyanne and Holly weaving and slashing, Lancer bashing and cleaving, and
Torin bearing the unquenchable flame that had quickly come to inspire them all.
Time lost all meaning, save for its withering effect
upon the vigor and morale of those he battled alongside. Though the power of
the Sword fueled him, the same could not be said for those who followed. Its
aura aided them, but to a much lesser degree. That they continued to carry on
as well as they did inspired him in turn.
Then again, they had no choice. They were fighting for
their lives now, their line deteriorated to the point that in some places,
there was nothing more than a chaotic mingling of friend and foe. Wherever
possible, allies clung to one another in desperate pockets, but did so as
helpless eddies in a raging torrent, at the mercy of the current's flow.
Or so Torin believed before a pair of familiar faces
came crashing through a knot of soldiers from behind: Arn and Bardik, of the
West Wedge. He did not dare question how they had made it all this way—past a
Central Wedge buffer of some four thousand men. All he knew, all that truly
mattered, was that they brought with them a renewal of the indomitable spirit
that had begun to wane.
"To the wall!" Arn bellowed, pointing up at
the looming hulk of the Bastion as if to remind Torin of their goal.
Though pressed from the east, Torin shifted focus as
Arn barreled northward, hurling his hammer ahead of him and into the face of an
openmouthed troll. The blow caved in its already blunt features, preempting its
own strike. But its nearest comrade came stepping around without hesitation.
Hefting a crude mallet of its own, it braced itself to intercept a now
weaponless Arn.
That didn't slow the former swordhand and now master
of recruits. He continued forward with a growl, legs pumping, to hurl himself
at his newest challenger before it could draw a proper bead. With a thunderous
crack, his helmeted head struck the troll square in its mammoth chest, after
which both fighters collapsed in a heap.
Torin was unable to break away to go to the fallen
man's aid. But Bardik was already there, wearing studded bucklers and wielding
a pair of shortswords. He fought like a wrestler, low to the ground, virtually
on all fours as he swept the earth of enemies around Arn's body. The enemy's
thrusting assaults appeared clumsy and misdirected as the agile wedge
commander scrambled and twisted, deflecting blows with his arm shields and
lashing out like a serpent with his dual blades.
In a moment, a wall of rogues had helped to surround
their embattled leader. Disengaging from his own front, Torin moved to check on
Arn, who, after a slap from Bardik, was shaking his head. Though clearly dazed,
the stout mercenary looked as if he would recover. The same could not be said
of the fallen troll.
As Bardik helped Arn to his feet, Torin handed him his
hammer. The mercenary considered it with a look of momentary confusion, then
tightened his grip and brushed his comrades away.
"Fetch me a giant," he sneered.
Rejuvenated, those serving in the vanguard chopped and
smashed and angled forward through the resisting hordes. Emboldened by the
various feats of their commanders, rogues poured through in reckless waves, mad
with a lust only battle could foster. They had nearly reached the Bastion.
There they could spread out, putting the wall to their backs and turning their
attentions to a single front. Depending on how well Chamaar and the East Wedge
had held up after all this time, the day might yet be won.
But just as it appeared they had attained their first
goal, Lorre's forces opened wide, revealing a bank of ballistae set in place
before the giant wall. Bardik had to fall flat to avoid being riddled with
missiles, while Torin found himself ducking behind Lancer's shield. From high
atop the battlement, enemies rained down additional stones and arrows, into
the face of the attackers. It was a full-scale barrage, and completely
unexpected. Torin knew that if they did not react quickly, it would be the end
of them.
As dozens fell, Torin yelled and gestured, ordering
the men to fan out. While it meant abandoning their precious lines and
dissolving further into chaotic melee, the only way to escape this new
onslaught was to take cover among the enemy. Lancer and Bardik must have
agreed, for they echoed his command swiftly among those pouring in behind
them.
Within moments, the hailfire from above slowed to a
trickle, and then ceased altogether. Hacking almost randomly now amid a
milling throng, Torin clenched his jaw in bitter determination. It would take
more than a few carefully concealed armaments to stop them.
But the surprise counter hadn't needed to stop them,
only blunt their assault and shatter their formation. To that end, it had been
a masterful success. Separated from his companions, alone amid a sea of
thrashing bodies, he could do little more than raise his weapon in personal
defense. And though scores had fallen before him, individual exploits were not
going to win them this battle.
Casting about for Dyanne and Holly, he caught sight of
Lancer, and began working his way toward the man. Perhaps if they could take
out those who operated the ballistae, they might yet make their eastern rush
along the Bastion, raising some form of cover from the archers stationed above.
Even as he considered this, another pack of giants
came thundering into the fray, more than twice as many as he had encountered
before. Torin blanched at the prospect, yet roared in to meet them. But before
he could engage, the troop split, one half edging south of the other. Each
group then planted itself in the shape of a ravelin, pointed westward, so as to
further split and divide the attacking force.
The coordination of these movements struck Torin as
rather extraordinary until he caught sight of the individual directing them. A
human, given his size and shape, though his body was shrouded in black plate
and his face masked by a sinister visor. Torin was unable to pause long enough
to make a full study, but the more he saw of this man and the movements of
those around him, the more convinced he became of his role in orchestrating the
defense.
Lancer must have recognized this as well, for the tenacious
wedge commander, bruised and sweating, was making a concerted charge in that
direction. Acknowledging the threat, the man in black immediately sent forth a
giant to dispatch him.
"Torin!" Lancer yelled, grimacing as his
blade and the giant's clashed. "Lorre's general! Take him out!"
Torin whirled, disemboweling another foe in the
process. Leaving the breathless Lancer to his private struggle, the
young outlander did as ordered, taking aim at the
enemy commander.
Orc and troll, human and giant—all rose to impede his
progress, and all were cut down. With fresh focus and a divine strength
undiminished by pain or fatigue, he barely broke stride. The Sword's power
gushed through him, as if sensing that, yes, here was an undertaking that
mattered, that might at last make a difference.
And yet, as he came upon his goal, a conflicting
thought took root. Despite the efforts of those around him, his aim was not
necessarily to eradicate this army, but to secure an audience with Lord Lorre.
What better way than to hold the warlord's chief commander hostage? They were
losing this battle—if they hadn't already. Perhaps taking the man alive would
give them all something to bargain with.
These thoughts ripped through him in a flash of
inspiration as his blade carved a flame-spitting arc through the general's
sword. His opponent then lunged at him with a spiked shield, but Torin was so
much swifter, hacking off the spike with a ready swipe while stepping aside and
reaching out a foot to trip the man to the earth. A backs wing swept through
the midsection of a charging bodyguard, after which Torin turned to find the
enemy commander on his back, clinging helplessly to but a shattered sword and a
severed shield.
In desperation, the general tossed aside his blunted
blade and tore a dagger from his boot. Torin smirked in warning as he placed
the tip of the Sword against the other's chest.
In that same moment, in the corner of his eye, he saw
Dyanne go down.
His reaction was instinctive. Like a whirlwind
redirected by gusting winds, he abandoned the fallen general and bounded toward
the woman. She had only slipped, it now appeared, and though sorely pressed,
was holding her own— she and Holly—against a pair of snarling swordsmen twice
their size. In a moment, the girls might have regained the upper hand. But
Torin wasn't taking the chance. He ripped through both enemies with a single
swipe, turning their torsos into bloody fountains before either could even turn
at his approach.
He stood over them for a moment, heaving with fury,
while beside him Holly pulled Dyanne to her feet.
"Our savior," Holly quipped.
Torin turned to look at them. Despite her wry comment,
Holly nodded, as close to a show of gratitude, he suspected, as she might ever
come. Their limbs were starting to droop, their faces streaked with dirt and
blood. Even they were near the end of their strength.
His focus shifted back to the general, who had
regained his feet with a swell of bodyguards closing ranks around him. Torin
understood clearly the opposing leader's gestures, and, despite the din, could
not mistake the ringing command: "Bring me that sword!"
All of a sudden, the ravelin-forming giants came at
him in a stampede. Torin marked their approach, noting at the same time that
Lancer had broken free and was mustering another charge at the general. The
young king made a swift decision.
"Stay with Lancer," he begged his Nymph
companions, then dove back into the fray.
Fearing that he might have already squandered their
best opportunity to decapitate their enemy, he headed south, away from the
Bastion. The best he could do now was to run a misdirection attack. Perhaps he
could draw enough of the enemy to allow Lancer the chance to finish what he
could not. He only hoped the commander would capture rather than kill the
general, for the more he considered it, the more he believed that to be their
best chance of escaping this bloodbath.
Many saw him coming and did their best to simply clear
out of his way. Even so, he could not outrun the thundering giants. Sooner than
he would have liked, he was forced to turn and confront them.
An image of Kylac Kronus flashed through his mind, the
boy warrior who had seen him through in his quest to reclaim the Sword of
Asahiel. Wielding a broadsword instead of those slender blades carried by the
youth, and lacking the years of training, Torin could not begin to match the
other's fighting style. But he did his best, lunging
forward and back, ducking from side to side, letting the Sword take command.
The giants quickly surrounded him, working together to bring him down. But the
Sword tore through even the thickest and strongest of their weapons, leaving
them with stubs and hafts. Some hurled these at him, only to strike one of
their companions across the way. One opponent, overcome with frustration, dove
at his back, thinking to simply tackle and smother him, and instead lost its
own head. With the divine energy and awareness granted him by the Crimson
Sword, Torin was as elusive as smoke, and would not be contained.
From beyond the circle of giant bodies, his situation
must have appeared dire indeed. For he could hear Arn bellowing, rallying a
pack of rogues to his defense. The boulder-shaped mercenary came rolling in a
moment later, his war hammer crushing a giant's hip. Through the breach poured
Bardik, slashing and skittering, and behind him, a dozen of his troops, howling
as if possessed.
"Go!" Arn shouted to him, intercepting a
giant's cudgel and knocking it aside with a growl. "Lancer needs
you!"
Torin almost refused, fearing that Arn and his rescue
party would be crushed in his stead. But Arn knew as well as he that if they
did not secure the opposing general, they were all doomed.
Snarling, Torin cut his way free, leaving the rest to
his companions. He trudged north once more, dripping sweat and the blood of his
enemies, eviscerating any who came near. The ring of guards around the general
was twice as thick as when he'd left it, but those in his direct path fell to
either side like chaff. Within moments, he had cleared their ranks and come
upon the center region, where a smattering of rogues fought a losing struggle,
while Lancer and a handful of others were already on their knees, yielding to
those holding blades to their throats.
Torin's blood boiled. He cast about for the general,
but couldn't seem to find him. He turned toward the group holding Lancer when
a booming voice stole his attention.
"Surrender or she dies!"
The outlander's head whipped around. There stood the
general, flanked by towering giants, clenching Dyanne's hair in a gauntleted
fist, raising her chin with his dagger in the other.
Torin did not pause to consider his options. The Sword
fell from his hand with a sucking splash to the slushy earth, where its internal
flames sprouted forth to lick the muck from its gleaming surface.
A trio of giants came forward. Torin continued to
stare at Dyanne—at the hair matted against her forehead, at the fierce defiance
flashing in her eyes. When the giants reached him, one of the brutish creatures
claimed the Sword, while the other two pricked his rib cage with a blade from
either side.
With a signal from the general, archers atop the
Bastion began targeting anyone that approached the outside of his guard circle,
friend and foe alike. The enemy commander would risk no further rushes on his
position, Torin realized. Trapped in that protective pocket, Torin could do
nothing but scowl as the giant delivered the Sword to its general, trading the
weapon for Dyanne. As soon as she was handed over, the Nymph elbowed the
creature in its stomach, but the giant didn't flinch, and the surrounding
soldiers merely laughed.
For a moment, the general stood frozen, staring at the
Sword, no doubt awed by the power pulsing at his fingertips.
"Offer them quarter," he commanded finally.
As criers and standard-bearers began to relay the
order across the battlefield, the general surprised Torin by removing his
helmet. A murmur of respect passed through the attending troops, several of
whom dropped to one knee. Torin himself was further taken aback by the man's
appearance— by chiseled, age-worn features; by white hair that clung with
receding interest to a weathered brow; and, as the general came before him, by
a pair of empty eyes the color of dull steel.
The general hefted the Sword, bathing Torin in its
glow. "Your name."
Torin glared. The flanking giants pricked him deeper
with their blades. "Torin," he grimaced.
The general's rugged face was an inscrutable mask.
Amid the clangor of waning battle, the ocean roared.
"Mine is Lorre," the general replied
finally. "And you, Torin, should have killed me when you had the
chance."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Back Table of Contents Next
Allion peered ahead through the tangled
growth and saw only endless stretches of the same. Insects hummed, surrounding
him in stinging swarms. The jungle was dark and sweaty, rife with foul scents
and threatening shadows.
Just as he remembered it.
Even now, in the dead of winter, Vosges was a muggy
place best left to the flies and spiders, serpents and bats, toads and leeches,
and whatever other loathsome creatures made it their home. More than two
hundred years ago, it had been recognized formally as one of the five realms of
Pentania, set aside along with its native population as a kind of historical
preserve by the now-defunct League of Man. Informally, the peoples of
Pentania—then and now—had no use for either the savages or their uninhabitable
lands.
That included Allion, who'd had more than his fill of
the stinking marshlands when he had journeyed south previously with Torin and
Kylac, in search of a Mookla'ayan guide who might lead them to the ruins of
Thrak-Symbos—the fabled resting place of the last known Sword of Asahiel. He
remembered having hoped to never again set foot within its borders. Alas, never
had come far too soon.
It had taken them two days to reach the
a scourge from which these lands had only scarcely
begun to heal; and of the annihilation of Feverroot, the Lewellyn community
that had for so long been Marisha's home. Others were a continuation of
present concerns: the mysterious disappearance of the Parthan Legion's Second
Division, for which they had come in search; the brooding presence of Darinor,
who continued to exhibit signs of disapproval toward the slightest
interactions between Allion and Marisha; and, of course, the constant threat of
Illychar.
They had been lucky on the last count, at least.
Though they had spied parties of Illysp-possessed creatures on more than one
occasion, they had thus far been able to avoid attack. Most of those spotted
had been elves—which stood to reason, since the Finlorians had been the
prominent race upon these shores at the time of the Illysp's initial emergence.
Once, however, Darinor had pointed out that of an ogre, a lumbering, misshapen
monstrosity that looked more like a wandering hillock, lumpish and ragged and
standing— even stooped—at over twelve feet. That sighting alone had been enough
to remind Allion to keep his feet quiet and his head low.
If there was any good news, it was that the trail of
the Second Division had been an easy one to follow. Never had a force this size
traveled this far south into Mookla'ayan territory. While Partha had been
trying for centuries to eradicate the cannibalistic natives, war to the north
against the secessionist Menzoes had long prevented them from launching a full-scale
onslaught. But that distraction no longer existed, and with most of the
Illychar attacks having come from the Kalmira, Partha had been lured southward
in full force. That much, King Galdric had admitted. What he hadn't told them
was what Allion could now see for himself, that the Parthans' goal seemed to be
to lay waste the entire region, if necessary, in order to drive forth their
unwanted neighbors—the Mookla'ayans, along with the Illysp—once and for all.
Still, the terrain itself favored the smaller,
scattered, more mobile parties in which the Mookla'ayans preferred to hunt and
fight. The same held true for the Illychar. From what Allion could see, the
grinding path of nearly ten thousand men had indeed cut a crude swath through
the forest and beyond, but had come no closer to accomplishing that which hundreds
of smaller incursions had failed to achieve in the past. Fortunately, he and
his companions had not come for conquest, only to find Chief General Corathel
and persuade him to turn around and go home.
Then again, Corathel's position, at last report, had
been leagues to the north of where Allion marched now, still within the
confines of the Kalmira. He had hoped they would find the general and his
troops in that vicinity and not have to set foot within the southern
jungles. That hope, like so many others, had proven futile.
And so he carried on alongside the lovely Marisha and
her overbearing father. Though focused on the land and its foreign signs, the
hunter had lost count of the many stolen glances he and Marisha had shared.
Each time she had caught his lingering gaze, he had felt a tiny shock, followed
by a warm flush through his veins. He had tried to stop, but found that he was
addicted to the feeling.
He was more impressed with her now than ever. He had
always admired her grit and compassion—and having learned of her longtime
possession of the Pendant of Asahiel, he understood better now how she had
persevered, surviving the horrors of enslavement at the hands of the
dragonspawn when no other members of her village had. Yet here she was, no
longer blessed with the talisman's strength, pressing on as if she were. It
seemed to Allion that once accustomed to such power, a person might be unable
to function without it. But not Marisha. Though he could only imagine what it
must have been like—losing her lungs, perhaps, or her still-beating heart—he
was humbled by her fortitude.
A forbidding presence loomed suddenly over
him—Dari-nor, come to interrupt his wayward thoughts, as if triggered to do so
where Marisha was concerned. Too late, the hunter withdrew his furtive gaze
from the woman beside him and braced for the inevitable reprimand.
"Keep moving," the Entient whispered
instead. "But stay close. We've eyes upon us."
An inner chill washed away all feelings of warmth. In
a heartbeat, Allion flashed back to that moment months ago, during his prior
expedition, when Kylac had admitted to them that the A'awari, the more barbaric
of the Mookla'ayan clans, were shadowing them. If he lived for a hundred years,
the hunter would never forget how that encounter had ended. And he had no
desire to relive it.
A cold sweat broke along his forehead. He pricked his
ears, but could hear little over the snap and rustle of their movements through
the brush—just the patter of afternoon rain streaming through the mesh of vines
and branches and leaves. Before he even realized it, he was nervously thumbing
the bowstring slung tight against his chest. His eyes swept back and forth,
seeing nothing but the glistening greenery.
Somehow, he managed to edge forward despite his fears.
If the danger was that great, he assured himself, Darinor would let them know.
Then, through the tapered edges of his vision, he
detected movement, a subtle shifting of shadows that confirmed they were not
alone. His stomach knotted. He had no way of knowing who tracked them, be it
Illychar or Mookla'ayans—or both. But he feared that the longer they waited,
the tighter the noose would become.
He hefted his quiver of arrows, hoping the simple movement
might give his enemies pause. While it would be foolish to suggest an outright
threat, he did not want to appear helpless. All of a sudden, Galdric's plan of
sending the entire Third Division to rescue the Second seemed not such a bad
idea.
He wished again that Kylac were here—he who knew the
ways of the Mookla'ayans, and could speak with them if necessary. That the
youth had not heard tell of the land's most recent plague and returned to his
friends in their time of need troubled Allion more than he cared to admit. It
caused him to wonder just where Kylac had gone, and what the lad might have
gotten himself into.
"Halt and declare!"
Marisha gasped, while Allion did well not to jump from
his skin. His hand was on the hilt of his hunting knife when he spied the
speaker, camouflaged in a wrap of vines and leaves that made him all but
invisible against the jungle backdrop. From there, the hunter's eyes narrowed
upon the loaded crossbow the stranger carried, cranked and ready to fire.
A sharp rustle announced the emergence of a team of archers
from the screen of foliage to either side, stepping forth with longbows drawn.
"Allion," the hunter managed before his
voice croaked. "Of Alson. You are Parthan, are you not?"
"What business have you in these lands?" the
leader demanded.
"We come from Atharvan, at the bidding of King
Galdric himself."
"I see no messenger's sash."
Allion reached for a scroll tube hanging from his
shoulder, then thought better of it as the surrounding bows flexed and
tightened. "I carry a signed order," he said, his irritation lending
him strength, "granting an audience with Chief General Corathel, legion
commander. If you know where he is, we are to be taken to him, by writ of your
king."
The leader seemed to consider, then snapped his
fingers. One of the flanking bowmen came forward, and, though camouflaged like
the rest of his team, was immediately recognizable as a Parthan soldier. Rear
guardsmen, Allion realized, and relaxed considerably.
Still, he scowled as the other broke the leather thong
by which the scroll tube was fastened and carried it to the squad commander.
The corporal put away his crossbow in order to read the message. When he had
finished, however, the man's frown only deepened. Again he signaled. The
members of his unit put away their bows, only to draw their swords, filing down
out of the brush to assume the stance and formation of a prisoner escort.
The corporal tucked away Galdric's note and produced
again his crossbow. "If you are who you claim," he said, gesturing
with the loaded weapon, "come with me."
*****
By the time they reached the main encampment an hour
later, Allion was furious. Furious at being herded south
under armed guard like a common criminal. Furious at
the corporal's refusal to permit them either questions or answers. When the
hunter had tried, the corporal had threatened to have him bound and gagged.
Ordinarily understanding of another's fears and suspicions, Allion was growing
weary of such undeserved treatment—more for Marisha's sake than his own. He
kept-wondering why Darinor was tolerating it, almost wishing that the renegade
Entient would summon one of his lightning streams and spare them this insult.
His best guess was that the petulant mystic was taking
some form of grim pleasure in the hunter's frustrations.
The division was just now making camp at the edge of a
bog, upon ground wet and spongy and alive with crawling things. The soldiers
were everywhere—thousands of them—stowing their equipment carts, building
fires, clearing the area of deadwood and brush in order to erect their tents
and canvases for the night. To Allion, it didn't make sense. The men he passed,
though wearing stern faces caked with mud, did not appear to be under duress.
The division was well, it seemed. So why hadn't at least some of Galdric's
messengers gotten through?
Their party continued on, drawing only minor attention
from those it passed. They stopped occasionally to allow the corporal to confer
with a sentry, then moved on. Their path skirted the slurping ground of the
bog's rim. Beyond that, shrouded in mist, was a lake mat reminded Allion of the
one Torin had swum across, back when his friend went by the name of Jarom—just
one in a series of challenges that seemed now a lifetime removed.
Eventually,
they came upon the tent the corporal had been seeking—that of a high-ranking
officer, judging by the number of guardsmen posted out front. The corporal
moved ahead to deliver his hushed report, handing over Allion's message and
gesturing back at the hunter and his companions. Leaving mem to the guardsmen,
the corporal and his soldiers marched away without a word of apology.
Allion, meanwhile, was ushered along with Marisha and
Darinor inside the tent, where they were allowed to seat themselves under the
watchful eye of a pair of sentinels.
Before leaving, the commander of the guard unit encouraged
them to relax. The general, he said, would be with them presently.
Though the hunter tried, he Could coax not a word from
the stone-faced sentinels. When he looked to Darinor for help, he found the
Entient resting comfortably, eyes closed.
Another hour had passed before they next received visitors.
Even then, it was not quite whom Allion had expected. For the trio who entered
was led not by the legion commander, Chief General Corathel, but by the
division commander, Lieutenant General Jasyn.
Allion was on his feet the moment they passed through
the tent flap, and though this caused the sentinels to raise their crossbows,
Jasyn motioned quickly for them to be put away.
"Allion, Marisha," the general said, turning
back to his guests. "What a pleasant surprise."
He was clutching the note from Galdric, Allion
noticed, shifting it to his left hand in order to extend the other in proper
greeting.
Allion returned the gesture, and his frustration
melted away. The Second General was not a large man, but his grip was fierce
and strong. More than that, he exuded the most welcoming demeanor one could
imagine. With but an arm-clasp and his crooked smile, he made it seem as though
he were greeting his dearest friend in all the world. He might have been a
jester as easily as a soldier, so filled was he with an irrepressible love of
life.
When finished with Allion, he moved to accept
Marisha's embrace.
"Now that's what I call a welcome," he said
suggestively.
Marisha laughed and released his armored,
mud-spattered frame. "You look well."
"As do you," Jasyn said, eyeing them over
again. His dark hair was tousled, his cheeks lightly freckled, lending him a
boyish charm. That look faded somewhat when he regarded the rising Darinor.
"You are General Corathel?" the Entient
asked in his resonating voice.
"Jasyn," the other corrected,
"lieutenant general, Second Division." He glanced down at the
parchment rolled up in his left fist. "You must be Darinor."
"Where is Corathel?" the Entient asked,
looking past the aides and sentinels and toward the tent flap.
Jasyn's features tightened—a little too quickly,
Allion thought. "The chief general is not with us, at the moment. But if
you will allow me, I'm certain I can be of some assistance to you in his
stead."
Darinor tucked his chin into his beard, making what
sounded like a low grumble, but kept his tongue to himself.
"You must forgive the rough treatment,"
Jasyn apologized, turning back to Marisha and then Allion. "We have
learned the hard way that given the nature of our enemy, our trust cannot be
afforded lightly."
His gaze shifted again to Darinor, who nodded.
"The Illy sp infest your ranks."
"More than once, our dead have risen against
us," Jasyn confirmed, then seemed to realize the pall he had cast upon
their proceedings. "But we need not talk of such things just now.
Soldier," he said, speaking over his shoulder to one of his attendants,
"bring supper, for myself and for my friends." Then to Allion,
"Tell me instead, what brings you here?"
"The issues are one and the same, I'm
afraid," Allion replied, his gaze trailing after the departing attendant.
"I see," Jasyn said, and seemed to lose a
good measure of his enthusiasm toward this reunion. "In that case, if you
would pardon me for but a moment?"
The general signaled to his remaining attendant, who
stepped forward to unbuckle a spiked pauldron covering the general's left
shoulder—an injury, Allion recalled, suffered in the Battle of Kraagen Keep.
Without a trace of self-consciousness, Jasyn allowed the attendant to remove
also his armored leather jerkin and the shirt beneath, revealing the thick wrap
of bandages helping to keep that shoulder in its proper position, and more
scars than Allion could count. Once those bandages had been removed, Jasyn
flexed and stretched muscles and joints while the assisting soldier brought
forth a basin of water and, with a soiled rag, began helping the general to
wash himself down.
About halfway through this process, the general
motioned to Allion to begin his account. The hunter obeyed, keeping silent his
suspicion that Jasyn had been using this time for something more than making
himself comfortable. Cordial reception aside, the general was contemplating matters
of his own, as if trying to decide what he could—or could not— share with his
unexpected guests.
Allion tried not to be troubled by these suspicions as
he related the story of his visit to Atharvan and the concerns of King Galdric
over the lack of communications from the legion's foremost division. When the
lieutenant general did not respond right away, he went on to divulge their
intent to speak with Corathel and persuade him to abandon this course for that
which Darinor insisted they must take in order that all might survive this
unnatural plague.
Once he had concluded, Jasyn considered them carefully—Darinor
in particular—before tendering a reply.
"We have in fact been receiving messages from His
Majesty, King Galdric," the general confessed, "the last not two
days ago."
"And his order to withdraw?" Darinor asked
pointedly.
Jasyn stared at the other, his eyes piercing.
"Yes."
"Then why haven't you done so?" the Entient
demanded.
"On my order," the commander declared,
suddenly combative, "we've ignored these summonses and offered no response."
"Why would you do that?" Marisha asked.
Unlike her father's, her voice held no accusation, merely gentle concern and a
desire to understand.
Jasyn blew out a long, slow breath. He glared briefly
at Darinor before turning back to Marisha. "We entered the Kalmira a
little more than two weeks ago. At that point, General Corathel began leading
an expeditionary force with which to chase down scattered groups of Illychar. A
week later, they failed to return from one of their forays. Evidence suggests
they were captured by the jungle savages."
Allion gulped. He had known that the Mookla'ayans
would come into play here eventually. Though he'd been
befriended by one of their kind, in many ways, he still feared them worse than
he did the Illychar. Perhaps because he knew that death at their hands promised
to be slower—and far more painful—than at the hands of some raving ogre or
goblin.
"The division has continued to push southward
ever since," Jasyn added, "while I myself have been spearheading a
forward detachment in pursuit of the chief general, following the trail of him
and his men."
"So why not report this to Galdric?" Allion
asked. "Why leave him to guess as to the fate of an entire division?"
Jasyn shook his head. "His Majesty will not
permit one man's disappearance to serve as an excuse not to return—not even
Corathel's. He has replaced chief generals before; he will not hesitate to do
so again." The commander leaned forward, eyes glittering in the light of
candles used to illuminate the interior of the tent. "But I refuse to
leave the man in the hands of those savages, to see him devoured like some wild
animal. I will see him freed, or else slain with dignity—by my own hand, if
necessary."
Allion wasn't sure whether to admire the commander for
his loyalty, or be repulsed by the man's obvious hatred of the Mookla'ayan
people—a feeling he knew to be born mostly of fear and misunderstanding. In
this case, the hunter thought, both were understandable.
Darinor, however, did not seem to appreciate—or did
not care about—the other's dilemma. "Are you not sworn to obey your
king?" he challenged.
"I am not some lowly conscript," Jasyn
argued. "As a lieutenant general, I am entitled—by oath—to use personal
judgment where it concerns the lives of those I lead. I have consulted my
battalion and company commanders, and they in turn have consulted their troops.
All agree. Chief General Corathel will not be left behind."
Allion decided then to forgive the man his prejudices,
and view this instead as an act of supreme devotion. After all, were the chief
general to be abandoned, Jasyn himself might be next in line for the man's
position. Yet here he was, risking his life and his professional future by
shunning the orders of his supreme commander and electing instead to do what he
could to save a personal friend. That the entire division had voted to support
him in this spoke volumes as to their respect and admiration for the
missing chief general. Given his own experience in fighting for the man, Allion
was not about to suggest that they had made the wrong choice.
"So we find and rescue Corathel first," the
hunter allowed, ignoring Darinor's heated stare. "How long can that
take?"
Jasyn was quiet while seeming to take measure of
Al-lion's sincerity. "Longer than I had hoped. The division moves slower
every day as this cursed jungle gives way to wretched swampland. But sending
smaller, advance patrols too far out from the main force makes them easy
targets for the more nimble savages—and the Illychar skulking throughout this
region. My own detachment numbers more than a hundred, and returns every night
to the security of the division body. Each day we set out ahead, hoping to find
and return Corathel to us. Each day we have failed."
Marisha-reached out to the commander, but before she
could say something that might comfort him, he spoke again through gritted
teeth.
"But I swear to you this: We will press on for as
long as it takes, forcing our enemy into the sea, if necessary, before tucking
tail and turning for home."
Allion looked at Marisha, seeing in her ardent
expression that she had already sided with the lieutenant general. He glanced
then at Darinor, who fumed, but seemed to understand that in this situation,
there wasn't much he could do. If ten thousand soldiers were willing to defy
their own king, they sure as blazes weren't going to heed the wishes of a mad
stranger.
"Your determination is well and good,"
Allion remarked finally. "Except that by the time we reach the ocean, it
may be too late to save Corathel."
"What would you have us do?" Jasyn asked.
Allion didn't know. They might try to venture on
ahead— just he and Marisha and Darinor—as they had in coming this far. But he
wasn't sure the Entient would go for it, or that it
even resembled a good idea. For up until now, they had
been trying only to avoid their many enemies. In this instance, the goal would
be to confront them.
"How many are we up against?" the hunter
asked.
"It's difficult to tell. Our trackers' best guess
is that the party we follow numbers more than forty. If they are making any
attempt to hide their numbers, it might be twice that."
Allion's stomach plummeted. "Are they A'awari, or
Powaii?"
The Second General's brow furrowed.
"Clan names," Allion explained. "To
which do these belong?"
Jasyn spat. "Does it make any difference?"
Allion could only hope that it did. Based on his
limited experience, they had a far better chance of bartering with the more
peaceful Powaii than with the truly savage A'awari.
"Maybe not," he said. "But I am known
to the chieftain of the Powaii clan."
The Second General raised an eyebrow, suggesting that
this was a part of Allion's story he hadn't heard before—and mat he did not
necessarily approve of, "I couldn't tell you," he said finally,
shaking his head. "But perhaps you can tell for yourself. For we are
holding one of their party captive."
Allion nearly leapt from his seat. "A
Mookla'ayan? Why didn't you say so?"
Just then, the missing attendant reappeared at the
tent entrance, with a line of soldiers bearing trays of food. Jasyn considered
the savory platters, but had taken note of the hunter's anxious stance.
Grudgingly, he rose to his feet, signaling for his other aide to fetch him a
fresh shirt.
"Perhaps because I did not want to spoil my
supper," he muttered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX Back Table of Contents Next
Upon the crest of an endlessly
shifting wave, Torin rolled through the undulating darkness. Reality had
abandoned him, leaving him adrift within a sea of images—haunting vestiges of a
life he had once known. Faces swam before him, of allies, enemies, and those
who would ask of him the impossible. But he could no longer seem to separate
past from present, nor friend from foe.
A shrill grating echoed in his ears. All at once, the
clouds of confusion parted, and though the darkness remained, his vision drew
sharply into focus. Even so, it took him a moment to recognize where he was,
and to recall how he had arrived there. His understanding did nothing to ease
his concerns.
He was staring at the vague outline of an ironwood
door, set securely in a stone wall. At the top was a tiny viewing window filled
with rusted metal bars. Beyond lay a long, dark tunnel smelling of mold and
brine. Though underground, he felt at times like he could still hear the
ocean's roar.
The light of a lantern bobbed nearer, stinging in its
brightness as it flooded the corridor and spilled through the barred opening
in his prison door. Torin shied away, turning his gaze to the darkened corner
where a chamber bucket lay. At the far end of the tunnel, the sharp squeal that
had awakened him sounded again as the outer door to these dungeons slammed shut
on rusted hinges.
Heavy footsteps scraped across the rough
stone—sandaled and thick-bodied. He'd known few other sounds in this dank
emptiness, and so recognized this one immediately.
Trolls.
One of them thrust its flat, shoulder-sunken face into
view through the window bars, eclipsing much of the light. Torin glanced up out
of the corner of one eye as its own beady orbs flicked about in study. A moment
later, an iron locking bar slid free, and the door pushed open.
A pair of the brutes entered. They might have been the
same ones that had checked on him before, but Torin couldn't tell for certain.
One hefted its knotted club while the other inspected the cuffs by which he was
chained to the back wall of the cell. When satisfied that he had done nothing
to compromise the integrity of his shackles, the trolls filed out and ushered
the third member of their party forward.
It was the girl, Saena.
She had first come to him shortly after he'd been led
down here, deep within the city, following the fight for Neak-Thur. While
acclimating himself to the darkness and wondering why all his battles seemed to
end with him in irons, Torin had been surprised by her smiling introduction. As
his prison attendant, she had announced, it would be both her duty and pleasure
to see to his needs. If there was anything he required, so long as it was
within her limited power to grant, he need but ask. Torin hadn't known what to make of her then,
and wasn't sure what to make of her now. She seemed far too cheerful to be
trusted, given the situation. Friendly though she appeared, he wasn't going to
fall victim to her charms.
And yet, for three days now, she had been his only
human contact. Though he continued to anticipate an interrogation of some sort
at the hands of Lord Loire, thus far he had been left waiting. That isolation
was beginning to exact its toll. Day by day, hour by hour, his moments of
madness grew a shade deeper and lingered a little longer. In that regard, Saena
had become a life-giving sun, visiting him regularly, bringing food and
conversation—tending to his comforts, such as they were. It was quickly getting
to be that he depended upon her more than he might care to admit.
"Hungry?" she asked, hefting her tray of
meat and potatoes, bread and fruit.
"Any word of my friends?" Torin asked in
turn, sidestepping as always even the most innocent of her questions.
Saena set the fray down upon the edge of the sleeping
pallet on which he sat. She was near enough that he might have lashed out and
caught her up in his chains, then threatened to strangle her unless her troll
escort set him free. But would the impassive brutes even care? Would Lorre?
Undoubtedly, the overlord's halls were filled with slave girls. One would not
be missed. More than that, Torin lacked the will to harm the only companion he
had—least of all a young woman who had treated him with such kindness. In all
likelihood, Lorre knew this, and had selected her for just that reason.
"The girls are well," Saena assured him,
having learned by now that it was Dyanne and Holly for whom he was most
concerned. "I believe His Lordship means to decide what will become of you
before he determines the fate of any of the others who attacked him."
Torin didn't know if this was good news or bad. He
wanted to remind her that it was Lorre who had invaded Neak-Thur first.
Instead, he glared at the open cell door, beyond which the trolls had taken
post.
"They're not so bad," Saena said, "once
you get used to the smell."
Torin scowled at her perpetual smile. No matter how
surly his disposition, he could not seem to shake her unflappable good cheer.
"I don't suppose you could dim that light," he grumbled.
The smile remained as she dropped lightly to the
floor, seating herself cross-legged and setting the lantern behind her back.
"How's that?"
"Better," Torin admitted, chewing already on
a mouthful of food. He was no longer surprised by how warm his meals were, or
how tasteful.
"Good," she said, practically beaming.
Torin examined her with a suspicious eye in the
diminished light of the lantern's halo. Under better circumstances, he might
have found her attractive, with reddish cheeks full and round, eyes bright and
inquisitive, and a billowing fountain of long, black curls. Drab leather attire
nevertheless revealed
her womanly curves, though never did he get the
feeling that she was trying to draw that kind of attention. In fact, she seemed
not to even realize how pretty she really was.
She was his age, he had decided, or near enough to it.
He wouldn't bring himself to ask, to show the slightest interest that might
spark a friendship. Maddeningly enough, this, too, did not seem to bother her.
A grunt here or there was usually enough to keep her talking throughout his
entire meal, which generally determined the length of her stay.
"How are you feeling today?" she asked.
Torin's frown deepened. "How do you think?"
Saena ignored his barbed tone. "Those melons
there, they came all the way from Billak Mar."
Billak Mar. The northern city nearest her home region.
It was her favorite topic. With Torin's reluctance to contribute to their
one-sided discussions, Saena had taken it upon herself to share with him
longing memories of the fields and orchards to which she'd been born, the
friends she had left behind, and her fear that she might never again see either.
"Delicious," Torin mumbled.
Saena's smile broadened with delight. He rarely made
such concessions. But while he tried to hide it, he did feel sympathy for this
girl whose life had been uprooted, become a pawn in the games of a tyrannical
overlord and his dreams of conquest. She didn't speak of Lorre that way; she
didn't speak of him much at all. Probably because she dared not. Mostly she
shared childhood tales of happiness and whimsy—a shield, Torin supposed,
against the realities of her life.
For a moment, she seemed to be waiting, as if
believing she had cracked his shell and expecting him to say something more.
When he didn't, she started in on one of her stories, this one having to do
with the time she'd caught a cousin stealing melons from her father's patch in
a misguided effort to win first prize atthe local fair for the region's
best-tasting jam.
But halfway through the meaningless reverie, while he
sat there listening to the clank of his shackles as he ate, Torin decided that
he could take no more of her unabashedly pleasant humor.
"How can you be so merry?" he growled,
slapping his spoon against his plate and drawing a momentary look of interest
from his troll guards.
"I'm alive, aren't I?"
"You're a slave," Torin said. "That
isn't living."
Saena appeared confused. "I'm not a slave."
Torin hesitated. "You're not? But I
thought—"
"My father was conscripted as a sergeant in His
Lordship's army. Had I let him go alone, I might never have seen him again. So
I asked for a position as well, and His Lordship granted my request."
"Allowing you to haul food and empty chamber
buckets," Torin muttered dryly.
Saena shrugged. "Among other things. Better that
than being shipped off to live with my uncle in Kasseri. Besides, this way, I
get to meet interesting people like you."
Interesting? Torin coughed on a
piece of bread. "You know nothing about me," he reminded her.
"I know more than you think," she said, and
for just a moment her smile became mischievous.
Torin washed the food from his mouth with a swig of
juice. "Like what?"
"I know that you do not belong here, fighting
alongside rogues. I know that you are not just an outlander, but a king. Torin
of Alson, the young man who braved the ruins of an ancient city to reclaim the
legendary Sword of Asahiel. How's that?"
Torin simply stared, speechless. By the time he
thought to deny her claim, it was too late.
"We of Lorrehaim are not as uncivilized as those
you may have encountered in Wylddeor," she continued, flashing again that
damnable smile. "Your story is well known— though I must admit, difficult
to believe. I wasn't sure that
I did, until I heard what had taken place on the
battlefield. By that account, at least some of what I've heard about you must
be true."
Again she gave him the chance to acknowledge or reject
her declarations. Unsure which—if either—might benefit him, Torin kept to his
silence.
"What remains unclear is what you would be doing
here, taking part in a civil war so far from your own home."
Torin cleared his throat. He was going to have to say
something, he realized. There was no point in trying to make himself invisible
if so much about him was already known— or at least suspected. Better to
divulge the truth before potentially disastrous assumptions were made.
Still, he wasn't sure what he could say that might
paint him in a more favorable light. "I did not come to take part in any
war."
"The soldiers say you had His Lordship himself at
the tip of your blade. Is that not so?"
Torin tensed. All of a sudden, Saena seemed to him far
more than an innocent servant girl. Then again, perhaps he could use that to
his advantage, pleading his case to one who might be more willing than Lorre to
hear him out.
But before he could prepare a response, Saena
continued.
"They say you could have killed him," she
said, "but stayed your hand. Why is that?"
"I didn't know who he was," Torin admitted.
"And had you known?"
"It would not have affected my decision. As I
said, I did not come here to slay the man."
"Then what did you come here for?"
Torin took a deep breath. "I came here to speak
with him."
Saena laughed. "Strange way to seek an
audience."
"I was given to believe that should I knock on
his front door, I might end up in irons." He hefted his manacles.
"Fine job you did avoiding that fate," she
replied with a smirk.
Torin glowered. He was quickly beginning to wish that
he hadn't opened up to her.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I only thought
to make you smile. Your face looks as though it could use one."
Torin shook his head and scraped up another mouthful.
What cause did she think he might have to smile?
"Tell me," she begged, leaning forward over
her crossed legs. "What did you mean to speak with him about?"
Torin made her wait while he finished his food, though
he had already decided to grant her request. "I came to speak with him
about elves."
"Elves?"
"The Finlorians, specifically. I was told that if
they still exist, Lorre might know where they are."
"Why would His Lordship know anything about
elves?"
"Word is he has a fondness for butchery,
especially when it comes to the older races—that he slaughters those who refuse
to serve him." He nodded toward the troll sentries in emphasis.
"Perhaps it is the same with the elves."
Saena's features tightened defensively. "What
you've heard is only partly true. From what I've seen, His Lordship does not
slaughter for slaughter's sake, but to protect his subjects from the often
bestial urges of these animal races."
"A matter of perspective, perhaps," Torin
allowed. "To be honest, I'm in no position to judge. Whichever, I'm at the
end of my trail. If Lorre knows nothing of the Finlorians, then it may be true
that no one does."
"And why must you find these Finlorians?"
"Because it would seem that in desecrating their
city, I unearthed an evil best left buried—an evil that only they may
vanquish."
He did not know that he could say it any plainer than
that. Nor, he hoped, would he have to try. He stared at the woman, trying to
impress upon her his shame and his need, hoping that she would accept the truth
as he understood it.
By the look on her face, it seemed to be working. Her
smile had been replaced by a thoughtful frown. "You make it sound so
dire," she remarked, trying out a chuckle.
Torin continued to stare until her attempt at
merriment had faded.
"In that case, I wish you luck. Rest assured, His
Lordship
will wish to speak with you about this and other
matters." She got to her feet, taking from him the empty food tray.
"I'll see you at supper," she promised, before snatching up her
lantern and exiting through the doorway.
Torin watched her go, his only connection to the
outside world, until the cell door was shut and the locking bar thrown into
place. He tried to catch sight of her again through the window, but the bodies
of the trolls—blocky and hunchbacked to the point of near
headlessness—obscured her from view.
With her went the light and his meager hopes, and when
the outer door had closed, he was left with nothing.
Almost nothing, he amended silently. He felt the Pendant,
hanging from its chain, warm against his chest. Lorre's guards had been
careless when stripping him of his weapons, and had not bothered to take it.
Even so, he'd found the talisman to be of little solace, for he failed to see
in it any short-term value. At best, it was a ward against his festering
despair.
And a poor one at that. For the Stone could not guard
against his own dark thoughts. Though he might try to deny it, this scene
remained eerily similar to when he had wallowed in the Demon Queen's dungeons
at Kraagen Keep. He was Lorre's prisoner and plaything, spared for reasons
known only to the warlord. And without Kylac Kronus to spring him from this
cell, his destiny seemed now in another's hands.
The sudden darkness blinded him. Since it made no difference,
Torin closed his eyes, wondering how long he had before madness set in.
*****
Saena never returned with supper. When next the trolls
came for him, they came alone. With scarcely a grunt, they removed his shackles
and seized him on either side by the meat of his arms, squeezing in
unmistakable warning.
They hauled him from his cell and out from the
dungeons, following a twisted line of halls and corridors. Torches lit the way,
along with the occasional window through which the smothered light of moon and
stars shone. Torin blinked and squinted while struggling to keep his bearings.
From outside, he heard clearly the relentless thunder of rain.
For some time, they proceeded upward through the keep,
climbing stairwells that traced the rise of the mountain ground. Despite his
efforts, Torin was soon lost. Were he to manage to break loose, he still would
not know which way to turn in order to find his freedom. Then again, he had no
intention of leaving without first securing the Sword and his friends, making
flight at this juncture a poor choice.
Doorways marched past with military precision, evenly
spaced on either side of a featureless limestone corridor. When that passage
intersected another, the trolls turned him to the left, through an empty
doorway, and into the chamber beyond.
An audience hall, Torin decided, dominated by rows of
benches facing a platform at the front of the room to his right. Probably used
for the briefing of officers, since the wall above that platform was all but
concealed behind scrolls and easels that held maps and military diagrams. The
side wall straight ahead was lined with rain-streaked windows through which a
training yard was visible, framed in the distance by another wing of the keep.
At the back of the room where he had entered, to his left, sat a great table in
front of a bank of cupboards built into the wall.
Like the rest of what Torin had seen of the keep, all
was stark and unembellished, with an eye toward function and little else. The
ceiling was high and flat, the floor tiles cracked and scraped and in need of
polishing. Despite several brightly burning torches, the place had a martial
feel to it, cold and rigid and thoroughly uninviting.
His troll escorts released him beside the table at the
back of the room. They turned then, and lumbered from view.
Torin was momentarily at a loss. The trolls did not
close the door behind them. Nor did they take up guard posts— he could still
hear the reverberations of their heavy departure. Had they set him free? It
seemed a strange place to do so. More than likely, someone was watching,
awaiting his reaction.
So he waited in turn, savoring the non-darkness. He
searched the chamber again, but saw no one and no place anyone might hide. As
his gaze circled around to the entryway, it snagged upon a spiked club mounted
above the lintel. The weapon was old and weathered, with a leather-wrapped haft
and a dark stain of what was undoubtedly blood. An odd ornament, given the
complete lack of decoration elsewhere throughout the room.
"That once belonged to an orc chieftain,"
said a crisp voice, and Torin whirled. Striding toward him from the front of
the chamber, from a doorway hidden by a rack of giant maps, was Lord Lorre.
"I find it a useful reminder that helps to keep their officers in
line."
Torin held still as the overlord approached. Suddenly,
the temperature in the room seemed to drop, and a burrowing dread writhed in
the pit of his stomach. His feeling was that he was not worthy of this man's
presence, a feeling brought on by the warlord's austere bearing.
"An unsightly trophy," Torin observed,
refusing to be intimidated. "I can only imagine those that adorn your own
walls back home." .
Lorre stopped less than a pace away, staring down at
him with a stern visage. The man seemed taller indoors, perhaps because he was
no longer surrounded by giants. He was dressed in a black tunic and breeches,
with a ruggedly athletic build and an air both imperial and indignant. By all
appearances, he was unarmed.
"This is my home," the warlord said.
"And for the time being, my new seat of power. Is that something you wish
to challenge?"
Torin considered the man's face—its high, rigid cheekbones
and pale, leathery skin, wrinkled with age and scarred with the wounds of
battles untold. But it was the eyes that fascinated him, those hollow,
steel-colored orbs that bored into Torin and left him feeling empty within.
Finally, he shook his head. "I only want to know
what you intend to do with my friends."
"If by friends you mean that lawless rabble with
which you assaulted this city, rest assured, they will be granted the same
choice afforded all those who oppose me."
Torin frowned. "Which is?"
"To take up their arms in my service, or not at
all."
"Then you would make them into slaves."
Lorre crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You
have no doubt heard much about me, most of it ill-favored, else you would not
have joined these rogues in their attack."
"You lead monsters in the slaughter of men,"
Torin accused.
"I find that the two are often inseparable, don't
you? The fact remains, you are not of this land, and its struggles are not your
concern. My interrogator tells me that you have come in search of something. Is
this not so?"
Interrogator? Saena, Torin
realized. Despite his earlier suspicions concerning the girl, the extent of her
role surprised him.
"Skilled, is she not?" Lorre teased.
"And with a memory like a spider's web. I know every word you have spoken
to her. What I want to know now is which were truth, and which were lies."
The man stepped closer, bending near with,those
soulless eyes and his cropped white hair. His breath was like a mead hall
hearth in need of sweeping, and Torin had to fight the urge to recoil.
"All I told her is true," Torin said.
"If I am not allowed to find the Finlorians, a dark force will claim my
lands, and may soon spread to yours."
Lorre waved the possibility aside. "I fear not
whatever ghosts you unearthed in those elven tombs. But I, too, have interest
in their descendants, they of the once-mighty Finlor-ian Empire."
"And why is that?"
"Because, long ago, they stole something from me,
and if possible, I would have it back."
The glass-filled windows rattled. Outside, the rain
fell in horizontal sheets, bent sideways by a strafing wind. Torin bit back his
next retort, sensing it better to hear the man out.
"Few know what I am about to tell you. I was once
married to one, you see—a Finlorian. In our selfishness, we gave birth to a
daughter. A cruelty, I now understand, for nowhere were we accepted, among my
wife's people, or mine."
Torin remained silent, stunned by what he was hearing.
At the same time, his mind raced, trying to figure out what sort of game Lorre
might be playing.
"We made our home as best we could," the
warlord continued, "traveling from place to place. But there was no escaping
man's intolerance, which finally took from me my wife."
Torin saw already where this was headed, and
understood now the emptiness in the warlord's eyes. It was not pain, exactly,
for that had long ago been buried beneath an avalanche of hate and vengeance.
Feelings such as fear and compassion and remorse had since been stripped away.
All that remained was a warrior's defiance, the need to fight because fighting
was all he knew.
"I was not born a warrior," Lorre stated in
the same clipped and measured tones. "But I became one to defend my
daughter from a similar fate. My first recruits were fellow outcasts, those
branded for one reason or another as undesirable to society. By virtue of our
creed, we began to attract the scattered dregs of the older races, who knew
better than most what it meant to suffer man's bigotry. Together, we began to
fight back against any who would deny us our basic freedoms."
"By denying the freedoms of others."
"By securing for my daughter and my followers a
region of our own, free from prejudice and ridicule, with strength enough to
deter any who might take it from us."
Torin saw an opening for continued debate, but decided
to ignore it. "And the Finlorians?"
The warlord's face darkened. "The Finlorians, who
could have protected my wife but chose instead to view her marriage to me as
an abomination, had the audacity to come to me with a proposal for peace. At
the time, I had no intention of invading their domain or any other. But they
feared the very possibility. For the wild region we had settled continued to
grow, simply because more and more came to us, seeking to join our community.
Up until then, we had shown no hostility beyond that required to defend
ourselves. But our neighbors saw only our swelling ranks, and so began appreaching
us with their various entreaties. War did not begin until the Finlorians
betrayed us."
"And what great treasure did they steal from
you?" Torin asked flippantly.
Lorre growled. "My daughter."
Torin flinched in spite of himself. A backward step put
him up against the edge of the table.
"For all my carefully laid defenses, I could not
shield her from her own confusion, that of a young woman torn between two
cultures. One of the Finlorian emissaries, a prince, became enamored with her,
and before I knew it, had used his sorcerous wiles to seduce her, then whisk
her away under my very nose. What's more, she was with child at the time, the
seed of her husband, a human among our camp."
The warlord leaned back, recrossing his arms, which
had slipped out to form fists on either side.
"So began my conquest, to rescue my daughter and
to punish the Finlorians for their treachery. Instead of giving her up, or even
fighting to save their lands, they elected to run and hide, sheltering her and
the traitorous prince in a way refused my wife and me."
"You were unable to find them?" Torin asked,
taking care this time to sound appropriately sympathetic.
"My hunt lasted only so long. As soon as my
armies moved against the Finlorians, the human kingdoms of the north— fearing
that they were next—moved against me. Foolishly so, for my anger at that time
was such that I was desperate to exact vengeance upon someone—anyone—for what
had befallen me. Unable to engage the Finlorians, I granted the humans their
war. For I'd come to understand that those who practice cruelty know no other
language. To ensure peace, I first had to establish a universal order—a cause
to which I chose to dedicate my life. Since then, I have tamed or killed any
who stood against me, be they orc or elf, dwarf or troll, man or giant—or
something in between."
Torin shook his head. It should not have surprised him
that even one as ruthless as Lorre should have his reasons. Nevertheless, he
could not seem to reconcile the man's motives
with the results. "It seems to me you've become
the very thing you are so impassioned against."
"Oh? And what is that?"
"One who would bend the wills of others to his
own," Torin answered, choosing his words carefully.
"A tyrant."
Torin clamped down on a useless denial.
"Call it what you will. I care not what you think
of me. You see me as a leader of monsters. I say that I harbor not the blind
prejudices by which men have driven such mighty creatures as the giant from
your own land. You see them as slaves. I say that they follow me because I
offer them conquest, the ultimate freedom from subjugation, a place in this
world they would not otherwise have."
The man's demeanor was so proud and commanding, his
words so brisk and authoritative, that Torin saw little room to argue.
"And what would you have of me?"
Lorre regarded him silently for a moment, then stepped
back and clapped his hands twice. "Only that you complete the quest you
came here to fulfill, that you find the missing Finlorians. When you do, you
will lead me to them."
A recollection flashed through Torin's mind—a phrase
spoken by the witch Necanicum with regard to Lorre and his quest. Something to
do with him leading the overlord, rather than the overlord leading him.
He had only a moment to dwell on it, however, before a giant emerged from the
same hidden doorway through which the warlord had entered. The beast strode
forward, its shaggy head brushing the chamber's ceiling, cradling within its
massive hands the Crimson Sword.
When the giant reached them, it offered the talisman
to Lorre with bowed head. The warlord took it, studied it briefly, then
extended it to Torin hilt first.
Torin resisted his urge to snatch it from the man's
grasp. "You're returning this to me?"
"It is an elven talisman, is it not? Were it not
the key to your quest, you would not have brought it."
Torin scowled. While he was loath to admit it, the
warlord was right. He accepted the weapon, only briefly entertaining the idea
of forcing Lorre to his knees. "With this, you would be the most powerful
man in Yawacor."
"I am that already," the warlord said
dismissively. He gestured to his giant, which took its leave, ducking through
the nearest exit.
Torin continued to frown as he considered the blade.
The weapon itself was genuine; he wasn't sure he could say the same for
"Good. Nor should you mistake this as such. It so
happens I want something that I believe only you might provide."
"And what makes you think I will find them where
you could not?"
"For nearly two decades,"
Torin forced himself to meet the man's gaze.
"I've come to enlist their aid, not bring them war."
Lorre shook his head in resignation. Not even when on
his back on the battlefield, pinned by the tip of the Sword, had the man exuded
such a defeated air. "It has been nineteen years. It is likely too much
to hope that my daughter or grandchild could be returned to me. Nor would I
force it upon them. But I would know whether they are safe and content. I would
know that if they live still among the elves, they do so of their own choice,
and not under some faerie enchantment. That is all I ask."
Torin failed to hide his skepticism. "You said
that you would have back what they stole from you."
"If held against their will, then yes, I would
stop at nothing to set them free. Nor would you, I think, were we speaking of
those most precious to you." The warlord paused, his steel eyes glinting
in the firelight, and somehow Torin knew he was speaking of Dyanne.
"Either way, I will not ask that you make that determination, nor assist
in any way their rescue, should it come to that. Those I send with you will be
assigned that task."
Torin snickered. "I'd wager that a brigade of
trolls or giants wearing your insignia would hardly increase my chances of being
welcomed into a Finlorian village."
"You'll need a guide, one who can lead you along
their former trails, near enough for you to sniff out their current haunts.
That is why you came to me, is it not?"
It was, and Torin saw no cause to deny it. "My
companions go with me," he said instead.
Maybe so, Torin thought.
Then again, he still had the Pendant. And as long as he—or Lorre—held on to
it, Darinor might eventually find him. "Be that as it may, those are my
terms. My companions join me, or I go nowhere."
"You mean the girls," Lorre said, and a
cruel smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"And the rest go free, General Chamaar and his
men."
"The rest will be used to bolster my ranks,
taking the place of those they killed."
"The commanders, at least—"
"Will be treated fairly. Those who please me most
will be granted their choice of rank and region."
Torin had not finished his protest, but the warlord
raised a hand to stop him.
"Two of your companions shall accompany you, and
you shall take also two of mine. A just offer. If you wish to barter further,
then bring me back something more to barter with."
Torin glowered. As much as he hated the thought of
leaving behind Chamaar, Arn, Lancer, Bardik, and whichever other of his known
comrades had survived, he understood well enough the precarious ground he stood
upon. That Lorre would grant him both the Sword and Dyanne—which the shrewd
warlord knew well to be his two most valuable bargaining chips—was already more
than the young out-lander had any right to hope for.
"And the peoples of Wylddeor," Torin added
finally. "What will happen to them?"
"Your assault has set those plans back a
bit," the warlord replied candidly. "I have a kingdom up north to
maintain. I'll not likely make a decision on the Southland before the
spring."
"But in the end, you will impose your rule over
all, will you not?"
Lorre stared at him, slow to answer. "I will
offer them my protection. I cannot help those who refuse."
Once again, Torin considered slaying the warlord where
he stood. Surely, Dyanne would want him to. For the sake of her homeland. For
the future of her people. As he peered into the warlord's hollow eyes, he
wondered if the man would even care.
"Come," Lorre suggested in that commanding
way of his, "I will see you to your companions."
Though less excited, perhaps, than he should have
been, Torin turned with the man, only to spy again the bloodied club hanging
above the door. The sight gave him pause.
"If your men follow you so freely," he
questioned, "what need have you for tokens such as this?"
Lorre grunted as he eyed the club. "More so than
the other races, an ore's first loyalty is to its own fear. To balance those
scales, it helps to impress upon them repeatedly that my retribution will be
every bit as swift and painful as an enemy's blade."
"I would think a creature that cowardly would
make a rather ineffective soldier."
"Even cowardice has its uses when staging troops,
as you yourself recently learned."
The warlord was mocking him, but Torin let it go as he
recalled their charge through the center of Lorre's force—a charge meant to
divide and scatter those ranks. He remembered how weak the central
front—comprised almost entirely of orcs—had seemed, and how quickly it had
folded, luring them in. Suddenly, one of the many questions that had been
haunting him for three long days rose to the fore.
"Tell me, who betrayed our assault plans to
you?"
Lorre scoffed at the notion. "Young man, I've
fought more battles than you've even heard tell of. I need no informants to
tell me how to prepare a battlefield."
The man might have been lying, Torin knew. Yet he de-
cided not to press the issue. It was the first piece
of news since his capture that he truly felt good about—that Moss, a man he had
befriended, had not betrayed him.
The warlord sneered. "If someone had sold
you to me— you and the lives of your friends—would you not want revenge?"
"I might," Torin admitted, "if I
understood better what purpose that revenge would serve."
"Perhaps one day you will," Lorre said, then
flashed him a haunting look. "May that day never come."
CHAPTER-THIRTY-SEVEN Back Table of Contents Next
"Through here, sir," the soldier
beckoned.
Allion followed, a step behind Jasyn as their small
company pursued the young guardsman through the nighttime jungle. The path
they traveled wasn't much of one, just a twisted game trail covered over by
endless varieties of weeds and brush. With the sun down, the air had turned
cold and clammy. The hunter barely noticed, his thoughts on what lay
ahead.
He turned where indicated, ducking beneath the toppled
ruin of a splintered trunk before climbing over a mesh of gnarled roots. Leaves
slapped at him, some filled with nettles and thorns, and he took care not to
send them flinging back at Marisha. Behind her, a scowling Darinor matched
pace.
Their guide cut sharply once more, veering left of a
hidden streambed. A giant tree came into view, straddling the earth atop a
sprawl of massive roots, leaving its underbelly exposed. A sentry stood post at
its base, beside a curtain of hairlike vines that dangled from a high, crooked
arch.
After trading signals with the outer sentry, the young
guide stopped and pulled aside that curtain. Both soldiers held salute as first
the lieutenant general and then Allion slipped past.
Inside, another pair of guardsmen snapped to
attention.
"The prisoner?" Jasyn asked.
One of the guards pointed. Even then, it took Allion a
moment to find the captive elf, so well did he blend in with the night. He was
sitting upright, bound with his wrists behind
him and his knees to his chest. His olive skin,
clothed in leathery vines and painted with curling, decorative tattoos, made
him virtually invisible against the shadowed foliage that crept up against the
inner wall of roots beneath the leviathan tree. Animal eyes gleamed in the
darkness.
Despite the ferocious glare leveled from those eyes,
Allion felt a shock of relief. The native was Powaii.
"Did you send for Kae?" Jasyn asked of the
guiding soldier, who shuffled in after Marisha and Darinor.
"Yes, sir. She should be here any moment."
Jasyn marched forward with torch in hand. Its light
caused the defiant elf to recoil. "Well?" the lieutenant general
asked of Allion.
The hunter nodded, his eyes on the Mookla'ayan.
"We may be in luck."
He moved a step a closer, ahead of Jasyn. The elf grimaced
fiercely, freezing him where he stood.
"So far, we've been unable to communicate with
him," Jasyn admitted. "I've had a team of translators working on it,
but they tell me that their speech patterns must be wrong. For the wretch does
not appear to understand their words or gestures, and his own have come across
as gibberish." He glanced over at the hunter. "They've confessed that
their study of the savage tongue comes mostly from books, and not from actual
conversation."
Seeing Allion's misgivings, the commander advanced to
within spitting distance of the bound captive. He crouched down, bringing the
torch close to the other's face.
"I suspect, however, that this is not the
problem," Jasyn added, sneering as the elf looked past him to focus on
some distant point across the enclosure. "I believe he understands well
enough, but is simply refusing to answer their questions."
"Let me try," Allion said, willing himself
forward until he had crouched down beside the general. The native's eyes came
back to him. "Does he have a name?"
"Not that I'm aware of. Ask him."
Allion hesitated, making a quick study of the other's
face. Like all Powaii, he was completely hairless, and the oil of his skin
shone in the torchlight. Small, horn-shaped wood chips hung from his earlobes,
and another, slightly larger, from his lower lip. Had he been standing, he
would have been perhaps a head taller than Allion. Despite his brave mask, he
did not look comfortable.
"Allion," the hunter said, prodding at his
own chest. "And you are?" He reached toward the Powaii native, who
snarled.
Before anyone could stop him, Jasyn belted the elf
across the cheek. "Answer his questions, you filthy spoor."
Allion put a hand on the general's arm. "It's
okay. Just, please, give me a moment."
The commander jerked free, flashing his teeth at the
native in warning.
"Sir, the translators are here." Jasyn
turned. "Let them in."
Allion glanced back as a trio of soldiers—who had the
look of anything but—filed past the curtain of root tendrils to join them under
the natural canopy. His gaze lingered as it found Marisha's, then swung around
to the cornered elf.
"Allion," he said again, and though the
native refused to look at him, he thought he saw this time a curious twitch in
the other's brow. "Cwingen U'uyen," he pressed, trying the name of
the Powaii chieftain, and knew the elf had understood him when eye contact was
made. With a surge of adrenaline, he continued. "Kylac Kronus.
Thrak-Symbos.
Asahiel."
The elf's face shot forward, bulging eyes fixed on Allion.
It happened so swiftly that both hunter and general rolled back on their heels.
All of a sudden, the imprisoned Mookla'ayan was raving like a madman, letting
fly in a language coarse and guttural. Jasyn snapped his fingers, while the
scrambling translators tripped all over one another, fumbling the scrolls and
tablets and etching tools carried with them. In the shadow of the archway, the
sentries drew their weapons, awaiting their general's command.
"Wait!" Jasyn barked. "Guards, as you
were. Kae, get your scribes in order. Allion, have him slow down." The
hunter patted the air between him and the native,
with no real idea of how the elf might interpret that
placating gesture. Having recovered from their panic, the Parthan translators
garnered round, taking their individual stations and organizing their
materials.
"Unbind his hands," one of them shouted—a
woman, Allion now noticed. Off the general's incredulous look, she explained,
"We need to see his hand movements."
Jasyn reached out with a dagger and sawed through the
ropes that bound the elf's wrists. As he withdrew, he kept the weapon between
them. But the native did not even glance at him. Still tied at the ankles, and
with ropes securing his legs to his chest, the Mookla'ayan was not going
anywhere. He continued to focus his rant on Allion, chirping and grunting,
hands weaving before him.
The team of translators could barely keep up. Their
leader—the woman—listened intently to every utterance, while watching closely a
flurry of gesticulations quick and harsh. Every now and then, she would say
something to one or the other of her companions, who scribbled frantically in
an effort to mark it all down.
Caught in the middle, Allion could only gape at the
wild Mookla'ayan in helpless bewilderment. Though he wanted to step aside and
let those who might make sense of this take over, he didn't dare, afraid that
doing so might break the narration. He did not move—and only barely
breathed—while for several moments, the elf stared at him, neck craning, the
horn on his lip bobbing up and down as he spoke.
When at last it ended, the native slumped back, an
accusing look marring his face. In the sudden silence, Allion could hear
sounds from the division encampment filtering through the forest tangle.
It was Darinor's voice that broke the stillness.
"What did he say?"
Allion blinked. The translators were already in a
huddle, poring over their notes and referring every so often to a sheaf of
pages that seemed to contain some sort of word key.
"Little of this makes sense," the woman
replied, shaking her head. "He speaks of evil in their jungles, of the
walking dead. We think he means the Illychar. After that, it seems to be no
more than superstitious ravings."
"Concerning what, exactly?" Allion prodded.
The woman, Kae, was having a whispered argument with
one of her partners, who kept pointing insistently to something on his tablet.
Finally, she slapped his hand away.
"He mentions repeatedly the name 'Jarom.' It has
been said that Jarom unleashed this evil, but that he would return to cleanse
it. A veil of darkness, he speaks of, followed by some sort of light. His sense
of time is muddled. Past, present, future—it's all intertwined. But I think
he's telling of a prophecy, long held by their people—a prophecy that he
believes has or will soon come to pass."
Allion matched stares with Marisha and then Darinor.
To them, he could tell, it all made sense enough.
"What's his name?" the hunter asked, turning
back to their captive.
Kae turned with him. She cleared her throat before
hacking up a sharp clucking sound, accompanied by a quick hand gesture.
The native remained silent for a moment before
glancing in her direction and giving a reply. Though Allion could not begin to
match the elf's pronunciation, it sounded something like "
"Wyevesces," she said. "Jaquith
Wyevesces."
Allion frowned. "Wivva... ?"
"We'll call him Weave," Jasyn declared
impatiently. "What about Corathel?"
Kae wet her lips and once again cleared her throat.
Her speech this time was longer and more animated, and to Al-lion's ears, only
vaguely resembled the Mookla'ayan tongue. To make up for it, she spoke slowly,
carefully. In contrast, Weave's blistering response seemed to express twice as
much in half the time.
"He says mostly the same thing," Kae
translated, after yet another hurried conference.with her fellow interpreters.
"More about swarms of the walking dead that must be made to lie down
again. And he calls them something else—intruders, I think—that must be turned
away."
"I want to know about the chief general,"
Jasyn growled, brandishing his dagger. "Tell him that if he doesn't start
making sense, I'm going to feed his eyeballs to a swamp worm."
"Hold on," Allion begged, reaching out again
to restrain the agitated commander. "Try this first. Tell him that I've
come to lead both the Parthan armies and the Illysp far away from Mookla'ayan
lands, but in order to do so, we must first have our men and our leader
returned to us. Tell him that."
Kae looked to Jasyn, who scowled.
"Please, just try it," Allion urged.
Jasyn nodded, and the woman did as she was asked.
Another lengthy and challenging dialogue ensued. Allion glanced back and forth
between the speakers, trying in Vain to follow along, to gain a sense from
pitch or body language as to the elf's mood and tone. In the midst of it all, a
single word jumped out at him, chilling his blood: A'awari.
He forced himself to wait until the round of
conversation had ended before leaping to any conclusions.
"All right," Kae said slowly. "If I
understand correctly, our friend here says that he does not belong with those
who took the chief general's unit hostage."
"Of course not." Jasyn snorted.
"He claims to belong to a separate clan, the
Powaii. Those who took the general were A' awari, a clan with which his own is
at war. He says he is a scout and nothing more, that he was tracking the
enemy's movements through Powaii territory when he was set upon and taken
captive by our soldiers."
Allion closed his eyes as his hopes fell. It seemed
this rescue would not be so easy after all.
Jasyn leaned into him. "We're no longer in luck,
are we?"
The hunter shook his head, blowing a long, weary
breath. "Ask him if Cwingen U' uyen can help us."
"Who?" Kae asked.
"The chieftain of his clan. Ask him if Cwingen
U'uyen might help us assemble a rescue party."
After a few jumbled attempts, the question was
delivered and an answer received. This time, Allion did not have to wait for
the translation to know that it was not good. "This U'uyen is far away to
the southeast, leading their people and directing forays against the Illychar.
Wyevesces says that he is too far removed to help us."
"Then we go it alone," Jasyn determined
swiftly. "Ask him if he will agree to lead a unit of my men in pursuit.
Tell him that when the chief general and his soldiers are returned
to us, he goes free."
When the question had been asked, the elf looked
to-Al-lion. The hunter met that feral gaze, and nodded.
"He is not concerned for his own safety,"
Kae said a moment later, interpreting the native's response. "But for the
sake of his people, and in tribute to he who fought alongside Cwingen U'uyen in
the basilisk's lair, he will do his best to guide us in the pursuit of our
captured chieftain."
Allion was surprised by the reference to his own
heroism within the ruins of Thrak-Symbos, and was further moved by the
respectful manner in which the elf stared at him while the words were being
relayed. That his name had found a place of such honor in Mookla'ayan lore was
humbling.
As might have been expected, Darinor was quick to
spoil the moment. "This could be an Illysp trap." "How so?"
the hunter asked.
"How do we know the Mookla'ayans holding your precious
general are not Illychar themselves?" the Entient asked, fixing him with a
hawkish gaze. "To catch up to them, even with a guide, you will have to
split off as a much smaller group. It might be that they are goading you into
doing just
that."
Jasyn shrugged. "A chance I have to take."
"And when your lieutenants come after youl They, too, will
be picked off, one by one." "It's the only option we have."
"It is foolishness," Darinor snapped.
"Corathel's to begin with, now yours to follow."
Allion's own gaze narrowed. "Or perhaps there is
another option, one you've not shared with us." The Entient turned to
him. "Such as?" "Legends say the Entients can view men and their
dealings from afar. Can you not do so here?"
"If I possessed such a skill, do you not think I
would have made use of it before now?"
Allion's frown betrayed his doubts.
"That power belonged only to the original
Ha'Rasha," the mystic explained, shaking his head gruffly. "The fools
inside Whitlock have managed to approximate it to some extent, but only with a
complex array of magical devices."
"And there's truly no way to exercise the ability
without this equipment?"
Darinor scoffed. "If I were to strip you of your
weapons, could you fell a wild boar with your will alone?"
Catching Marisha's look, the hunter decided to let the
matter go.
"If that's the case," he said instead,
"then it would seem we're stuck. To turn this army around, we must rescue
Co-rathel. And to rescue Corathel, we must set forth with a group small
enough—and swift enough—to make up the ground we've already lost. If anyone can
follow a Mookla'ayan trail, it's another Mookla'ayan," he added, gesturing
toward their prisoner.
He glanced around beneath the base of that giant tree,
regarding each of those in attendance—the elf and his translators, Jasyn and
his soldiers, Marisha and her father. All seemed to be waiting for him, so he
took a deep breath to steady himself.
"I suggest we get to it."
*****
Torin stood beneath the shadowed arch of the Bastion's
solitary gatehouse, judging with suspicion the man before him. The fierce gaze
and battered armor were those of a seasoned soldier, albeit one clinging
desperately to a waning prime. His coal-black hair was scratched with gray, his
large frame gone pudgy at its center. The pouches beneath his eyes were deep
and sagging, while the orbs themselves were flat and cold. Nothing in the
man's face suggested that he had ever known mirth.
"Warrlun," Lorre introduced. The overlord of
Yawacor was standing a few paces back, ringed by giants. "Been with me
from the beginning. Has even saved my life a few times."
Torin glanced in
"He knows everything there is to know," the
warlord added. "His strength and experience will serve you well."
Torin swallowed his reservations and nodded. He wasn't
comfortable with this arrangement, and Warrlun's presence did not put him any
more at ease. Still, once they were out on the road, it would be easy enough to
change matters. Best that he hide his true feelings for now.
He looked again to the warlord, waiting to see who
else from among the man's entourage would be given over to theirs. He was quite
certain it would be one of the attending giants. Not only would the
formidability of these creatures dissuade against the double-cross Torin was
already considering, but as natural mountain dwellers, they would be the most
familiar with the distant reaches into which some believed the Finlorians had
fled.
Instead, upon Lorre's gesture, it was Saena who
stepped forward from amid the guard circle.
"This one, you already know," the warlord
intoned. Torin's grunt was more surprise than acknowledgment. His comely prison
attendant—and, as he had later learned, one of Lorre's interrogators. What was
the warlord thinking?
In the next breath, he was silently congratulating the
man on his clever selection. The young girl was a perfect choice—not only
because of her matchless memory, but as one whom Torin would be far less likely
to kill or leave stranded on the open road.
Saena bowed in greeting—first to Torin, then to Dyanne
and Holly. Torin turned with her, glancing back at the pair of Nymph Hunters
and finding fresh comfort in the fact that they had decided to join him. After
all, he'd had no real assurance that they would. He had bought them their
freedom to do with as they chose. They had undertaken this mission at its
outset to guide him, yes, to determine whether he was who he claimed to be and
to punish him if he was lying. But
more than that, they had come to see for themselves
what progress Lorre was making in his conquest of the Southland, and to do what
they could to thwart his advance. With the way things had ended up, Torin would
not have blamed them had they elected to race home to warn their fellow Fenwa
of the gathering storm.
But Dyanne had assured him that news of Neak-Thur's
fall and of the rogues' devastating failure to recapture the city would find
its way to the Nest soon enough. Though their family and friends might think
them enslaved, tortured, or dead by now, both Hunters had agreed that they had
invested too much in this quest to turn away from it now. He was no longer
their hostage, and they could no longer force their company upon him. But if
the choice was truly theirs, then they chose to see him through.
Looking at them now caused him to wonder if they already
regretted that decision. Holly barely glanced at Saena. The smaller Nymph was
too busy glaring at Lorre as if calculating the odds of getting one of her
throwing knives past his retinue of giants. Dyanne managed a polite nod, her
emotions locked away behind a dispassionate front.
He had felt strange at first, seeing her again. Though
he'd had plenty of empty hours in which to ponder, he still wasn't certain what
his hasty surrender on the battlefield said about him and his feelings for the
woman—or Marisha, for that matter. For when the latter had been threatened in a
similar fashion, he had refused to yield, willing to sacrifice even her life,
if absolutely necessary, for the greater good. With Dyanne, he had submitted
before such conflict could even manifest.
Regardless, all that mattered now was that he felt
safer knowing she and Holly would still be with him.
The grooms arrived then, leading a team of horses
fully outfitted. As each animal was assigned to a member of the party, Warrlun
turned to confer privately with Lorre one last time. Torin marked their
conversation with a persistent wariness. Though no longer certain Lorre was
the monster he'd imagined, he remained unconvinced of the warlord's objective.
Were they to find the Finlorians and meet up with the man's wayward progeny,
would learning how they fared provide satisfaction enough? Or did the old warrior
have a more sinister plan for retribution in mind?
Torin turned back to his mount, bending to check
straps and fittings. It was too soon to tell. And without a guide, he would be
lost, his hopes of locating the elusive Finlorians all but dashed. For the time
being, he would have to trust the self-proclaimed overlord, and hope that the
man's designs would not interfere with his own. Blazes, he had trusted Raven, a
rampaging pirate, hadn't he? Was this so different?
"Your first stop will be Vagarbound," Lorre
explained, while Warrlun moved away and climbed into the saddle of a sorrel
gelding. "A two-day ride at most. From there, may fate cut you a favorable
course."
Torin nodded as his left foot reached for the stirrup.
A moment later, he sat astride the roan mare, which tossed its head and
whickered, as if sharing his misgivings.
He looked ahead, peering northward as a massive
portcullis was raised. The doors beyond had already been opened, revealing
another unknown horizon awash in early shades of gray. The snow had melted,
exposing windswept fields of trampled sword grass on either side of a wide and
rutted highway. Farther west, the ocean raged against its rocky shore.
He tried to focus on this—the road ahead—and not the
battlefield behind him, which after four days still stank of death and
disappointment. Crews piled and sorted, while the smoke from communal pyres
stung his eyes. It would be months, Torin thought, before evidence of battle
was completely hidden. It would take much longer than that for the scars to
heal.
Despite his best efforts, he found his gaze drifting
back toward the city and the countless comrades still imprisoned there. They
deserved better, Torin knew. And given the chance, he would make sure they
received it.
"Should we meet again," Lorre offered,
"may it be under better circumstances."
Torin considered the warlord and his ring of giants,
and
nodded once more. Then he kicked his heels, urging his
steed forward alongside those of his company. Dyanne and Holly were to his
right. To his left rode Warrlun and Saena, the handpicked agents of Lord Lorre.
His latest companions, for better or worse.
With a mix of hope and apprehension inspired by each,
Torin trotted past the open gate and into the rain-drenched morn.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT Back Table of Contents Next
Allion thumbed the fletching of the arrow
nocked loosely to his bowstring as he peered intently through the misty gloom.
He cast his gaze this way and that, but could determine little, enshrouded as
he was by jungle. Ears cocked, he strained for some further sign of that which
had alerted him.
Second General Jasyn gave another signal, and the soldiers
accompanying them fanned to either side of the hunter in spread formation.
Allion crept forward at the point, hoping the warning he had just called
wasn't merely another false alarm—before swiftly changing his mind and praying
that it was.
To one side, the brush rustled. The hunter whipped
about, nerves drawing as taut as his bowstring as he raised the
weapon and took aim.
A swampiadger poked its masked face through the shiny
foliage, eyes glittering as it took in the scene, then ducked away.
Jasyn motioned for his soldiers to stand down.
"That's two now," he said, chuckling at Allion's expense. "On
edge,
are we?"
Allion just shook his head as he relaxed his bow.
Better to deal with the embarrassment than be caught with his guard
down.
Jasyn glanced at the lowered weapon as he moved forward
to retake the point. "You know, in Partha, only those too weak or craven
for close-quarter combat become bowmen." He clapped his friend on the
shoulder. "Perhaps you just haven't the stomach."
"Until you've stared down a dragon, Commander,
you don't know what craven is."
The general chuckled companionably and nodded in due
deference. He then gritted his teeth and signaled to the soldier he'd put in
charge of handling their guide. The brutish lad came forward, prodding the
Powaii native dubbed "Weave" at the end of his leash. The elf uttered
no complaint. Jasyn had made it quite clear before setting out that morning
that should the savage attempt to escape or seek to betray them in any way, his
armies would not stop until they had exterminated the entire Powaii clan.
But Allion had sensed that it wasn't the general's
threats or handlers that would keep the elf in line, as much as the native's
own word. He sensed it again as Weave loped past him now with those long, lean
strides, eyes darting briefly in the hunter's direction. Once more, Allion felt
a stab of shame to see the proud Mookla'ayan forced to endure such treatment,
and wished there was something he could do.
He found Marisha, whose gaze was also trailing after
the elf. No doubt, the kindhearted woman was having similar thoughts.
Darinor followed behind her, a long and sinister
shadow, and, as always, Allion was forced to redirect quickly to avoid the
Entient's glare. With twirling fingers, he returned his arrow to its quiver
before shouldering his bow. He then fell into line among those of his company,
resuming the southern march.
Despite their fears and skepticism, they had commenced
before the sunrise, determined to overtake Corathel's abductors before it was
too late. It was possible, Weave claimed through his team of translators.
Unburdened, the Mookla'ayans they meant to catch would have long escaped them
by now. But this same patrol, which according to Weave was comprised of roughly
threescore A'awari, had been slowed by the unwieldy contingent of Parthan
prisoners numbering an additional score—just half of those who had accompanied
the chief general to begin with, Jasyn had noted bitterly. All signs suggested
their enemy was not concerned with any pursuit numbering less than a hundred,
and had pushed their pace accordingly.
Both good news and bad, given that Allion's party numbered
only thirteen. With such a small group, and with Weave leading, they stood a
reasonable chance of finding their quarry within a day or so. But subduing or
even escaping that quarry would be another challenge altogether. Even if Jasyn
and his men were able to free their comrades—and even if those comrades were in
any condition to fight—their force would number half that of the elven captors.
Having seen these A'awari in combat before, Allion would have shuddered to face
those odds on an open battlefield, let alone here amid the tangled terrain of
the natives' homeland.
But as he himself had agreed, it was their best—if not
their only—chance to reunite the Parthan Legion and, ultimately, to fulfill
Darinor's envisioned defense plan against the Illysp. Were it otherwise, Allion
was certain the Entient would not have agreed to come.
The hunter could only hope that having the mystic with
them would offset the enemy's advantage. It would have to, he reminded himself,
for of their thirteen, only a portion were prepared to do any real fighting.
Jasyn had refused to trust Weave with a weapon, and the soldier assigned to the
elf as a handler would likely be too busy with that to contribute in any
meaningful way. Marisha, though capable of defending herself, was no warrior,
and neither, Allion suspected, was Kae. The division's lead interpreter—the
only member of her team to join this mission—was becoming more confident, more
adept, with her Mookla'ayan language skills as they went along. But the fact
that she carried only a dagger and shortsword—while her fellow soldiers were
strapped with weapons head to toe—suggested to Allion that she'd been brought
along for the sole purpose of communication. As critical as that purpose was,
the hunter doubted her words would be strong enough to save her from a
Mookla'ayan spear.
That left only himself and Darinor in addition to
Jasyn and a half-dozen handpicked soldiers. And while it wasn't Allion's place
to doubt the skills of these elite fighters, each
would have to prove the equal of Kylac Kronus himself
before the hunter would believe that six could overcome sixty.
Of course, such thoughts did little to inspire confidence
in an already dubious venture. So Allion fought instead to give full focus to
his eyes and ears in an ongoing effort to attune himself to the unfamiliar
jungle. It may have been that all he had detected this time was a harmless
badger. But he took heart in that he, at least, had sensed the creature when it
seemed no one else had.
Hours slipped past at a sluggish pace, matching that
of the drifting trailers of fog. Their own was much more hurried. As foolish as
it seemed to go crashing and splashing with abandon through the trees and
marshes, there was no other way to make up time. They paused only when
necessary for Weave to double-check the signs. The farther south they went, the
softer the ground became. In many areas, this made tracking easy—not so much
the barefoot A'awari as the Parthans, whose heavy boots left deep prints in the
mud. But in other areas, the prints were swallowed up entirely by stagnant
groundwater pooled up from below. When that happened, the native relied on
marks Allion could see—broken reeds, bent sedges, torn leaves—-and others he
could not begin to discern: scents beyond human detection, subtle currents in
the listless air, and, more than anything, an innate familiarity with the
Mookla'ayans and their ways.
On such occasions, when unable to trust his own eyes
or those of his men, Jasyn made certain to grumble his displeasure and
reiterate his threats, ever fearful that the savage might simply be leading
them around by a noose. And indeed, whenever he heard the call of a bird or
animal he did not recognize, Allion half expected a band of Weave's own
clansmen to come leaping out of the brush and put a swift end to this reckless
pursuit.
Miles became leagues, and despite the arduous progression
of time, the hours eventually formed a day. Misleading, Allion knew. For in
the tightly woven jungle, dusk came early, stealing upon them with the swift
assurance of a master thief. Nor was the close of their day to be marked by
the theft of the sun. The members of the party simply drew in closer to avoid
becoming separated in the dark. They lit no torch, but trusted once again in
Weave, whose Mookla'ayan eyes functioned as well in darkness as in the light.
Blinded and weary, they pressed on.
Nevertheless, at the onslaught of
Then they heard the scream.
It belted suddenly through the darkness, laced with
terror and powered by agony—the bloodcurdling howl of a man who knew it to be
the last sound he would ever make. In the trees above, birds scattered from
their nests, while Allion looked to Jasyn with an expression of sudden horror.
The others froze in place, sitting or leaning upon various stumps and logs,
afraid to move.
The sound itself lasted but a moment before melting
away. But its aftershocks were still in Allion's blood when the next sounded,
this time shrill and quick before the issuer was able to clamp down and defy an
unspeakable pain.
Crouched low beside the general and hunter, Weave gestured
to Kae, whose words were but an unnecessary echo of Allion's thoughts.
"We had best hurry."
With their next breaths, they were tearing again
through the jungle, thrashing and weaving headlong through a twisted, sucking,
overgrown landscape. A continuing chain of screams ushered their progress, like
whips against their backs. Though no one said it, they knew it was their men
who were dying—those they had come looking for. Without regard for their own
safety, forgoing any pretense at stealth, they barreled onward.
Before long, a glow arose to the south, red and angry
like the morning sun. But dawn was yet hours away, and this glow smelled of
smoke and burning flesh. It lit the sky ahead, growing brighter, built upon the
flow of human screams.
There were other cries now, too, a sequence of yelps
and
squalls to which Allion soon detected an undeniable
rhythm. A deep hum underscored the noise, a low rumble like that of the earth
itself.
When at last Weave brought them all to a skidding
halt, it became clear what had happened. Their quarry had come to a stop—hours
ago, as the trail suggested. Long enough to prepare for the ceremony even now
taking place. A ceremony that took the breath from Allion's lungs and filled
them with dismay.
He stood with his companions atop the forested ridge
of a wide and deep depression. The muddy hollow had been cleared of its larger
brush and vegetation, all of it scraped and piled into the middle to form a
central rise beside an earthen spur. The mound had then been set ablaze. Its
flames roared skyward into the night, illuminating the figures of not just
sixty, but hundreds of A'awari—an entire village of men, women, and
children—all of whom danced and circled and chanted beneath the eruptive halo
of bloody light.
Near the center of it all, a Parthan soldier was
brought forth from a rapidly dwindling herd, trussed to a pole. The soldier
tugged and squirmed against his bindings, but, like those before him, could
only wail as his captors hurled him from the top of the jutting spur and into
the deadly conflagration. A'awari viewers yelped with delight as the man
shrieked his torment, glowing and thrashing until he blackened and lay still.
Feeding upon his flesh, the flames drew higher.
Allion recoiled from the wash of heat emanating from
those flames. In all that commotion, it appeared their arrival had gone
unnoticed. Standing uninvited upon the hollow's rim, he had a clear and
unmolested view of the continuing slaughter.
Another prisoner was hauled forward, hefted by a pair
of A'awari by the pole to which he was slung and carried like his companion to
the top of the spur. Behind him, only seven were left. This one held bravely,
clenched with anticipation. But he, too, arched and howled when his body hit
the blaze.
Jasyn drew his sword. The sharp rasp woke Allion from
his horrified trance. Reactipg instinctively, he reached forth to restrain the
maddened general.
His grip alone- would not have been enough to stop the
man. But others were there to help, grabbing the division commander about the
arms and waist, holding him back.
"Fool!" Darinor hissed, standing aback of
their gathering. "Would you give us all away?"
Jasyn whirled, reddened eyes flashing. "That's
Corathel and his men out there!"
"Which makes you the only commander these other
men have—those who might still be saved."
Jasyn growled and heaved, fighting to break free.
"Are you blind?" Darinor pressed. "You
cannot kill them all."
"Watch me!" the lieutenant general snapped.
Allion felt himself tearing inside. Darinor was right.
But there had to be some other way.
"Weave," the hunter asked, turning to their
guide. "What can we do to make them stop?"
Kae forced her gaze from the terrible scene long
enough to translate. As she finished, another scream ripped through the night.
Weave spoke hurriedly. Twice, Kae had to stop him and
have him repeat something. When she turned to Allion, her face was sweaty and
ashen.
"They are seeking to appease the Mookla'ayan
deities," she said, "in hopes that the gods will see fit to lift this
scourge from their lands."
Allion's mind raced. "If we can convince them
that those prayers have been answered, might they let the rest go?"
Kae shook her head. "I don't—"
"Ask him!"
She did. While the two spoke, Jasyn seemed ready to explode.
Another prisoner was sacrificed, leaving only five. They could riot even tell,
Allion realized, if Corathel was still among them.
"Either that, or they will kill us all," Kae
answered.
At that moment, they were finally spotted. A
disinterested youngster standing toward the back—who was unable to
view much over the heads of the elven throng—yanked on
his mother's arm, pointing them out. The woman ignored the child at first, but
when at last she turned, her reaction was immediate. Allion watched it with a
feeling of impending dread, as if watching a dragon draw a deep breath. Even as
it occurred to him to warn the others, A'awari began to swing about, one by
one, in response to the elf-woman's cries.
The alarm spread faster than the hunter had imagined,
given the frenzy in which the A'awari were engulfed. What began with a few
curious stares passed quickly through the rear ranks and toward the center.
Before he could even appreciate the sudden danger in which he found himself,
Allion was staring down at wave upon wave of angry Mookla'ayan warriors, all
rushing toward his position.
He came to a decision in that instant—a decision born
of instinct more than any rational thought. While those around him gasped or
fumbled for their weapons or prepared to flee, the hunter stepped to the fore.
"Follow my lead," he said.
Useless as it would have been, he should have had them
scatter into the woods. Instead, he strode down the hollow's embankment,
reaching up to cross his wrists over his head, just as he remembered Kylac
doing. The Mookla'ayans came at him in a swarming crush, but he forced himself
to continue on.
A soldier ran past him, one of Jasyn's. Sword high,
the bearded man thundered toward the enemy. Before he came within a dozen
strides, he hit the earth—nerveless, Allion knew, from the poison contained in
the many darts sticking from his body.
Still Allion moved toward that oncoming tide, using
every ounce of will he could muster not to cower or close his eyes. His body
went rigid with fear as the A'awari closed round, chirping and shrieking,
brandishing their blowguns and spears and half-moon knives. They leapt and
circled and clicked their teeth, baring wicked piercings and flashing cruel
tattoos of barbed and serrated design. But for the moment, at least, it would
appear they did not intend him harm.
Their countless numbers blocked the way forward, forcing
him to a stop. Allion risked a backward glance. His comrades, he was relieved
to find, were mimicking his movements rather than those of the
unfortunate soldier ahead of him. Darinor, he could see, was furious. And
Jasyn, he feared, might bite back at any moment against those gnashing all
around him. Neither understood yet what Allion intended. And in truth, Allion
himself was not yet sure. Their surrender had bought them time, nothing more.
He looked to the center of the clearing, where the
fifth of those who remained of Corathel's company was being held up at the lip
of the spur, his bearers just waiting to toss him over. Whatever the hunter was
to do, he had only moments in which to do it, else that soldier—and all of the
rest of them— would soon become casualties of the ongoing sacrifice.
From that forward direction, the crowds began to part.
With obvious reluctance, A'awari viewers fell aside, making way for a string of
ceremonial guardsmen driving toward the disturbance in arrow formation. With
his attention focused along that course, Allion didn't notice what was going
on behind him until he heard the unmistakable rumble of Darinor's voice.
"If you have some miracle to summon, you had best
do so before I summon mine."
Allion spun. His companions had been ushered forward
so that all stood now within the same pocket of thrashing natives. Darinor was
considering some form of attack, one that he did not appear to have much faith
in. Nor did Allion, should he allow it to come to that.
But the mystic's words gave shape to the vague idea
that had been swirling in his head—and a shred of hope where none had lain
before.
"Wait," he said. "Not yet."
The line of forward guardsmen reached them at last,
their hairless flesh painted and scarred, their bodies riddled with bone
piercings. Each wielded a spear much taller than himself, and wore upon his
shoulders a mantle of tanned skin. Allion tried not to guess at what manner of
animal such smooth skin might once have belonged to.
The warriors quickly formed a circle around the
intruders, shoving aside the eager onlookers to surround the hunter and his
companions three-deep. Though his arms were already growing heavy, Allion
forced himself to keep them overhead, and his gaze fixed to the south, toward
the fire and whoever led this grim service.
The crowds began to quiet expectantly.
"Kae," Allion dared, "tell them I will
speak with their shaman."
The woman's voice was a tremulous squeak.
"Shaman?"
"You know what I mean. Whatever they call the leader
here. Have Weave explain it to them."
When one of the towering warriors stepped forward to
glare down at Allion, Kae found her nerve, and began to relay to him—without
the benefit of hand gestures—the hunter's intent. She had only barely begun
when Weave brushed past her and came to stand beside Allion, croaking some
demand of his own. The hunter could only hope it was the same message he
intended. He thought about asking Kae, but the guardsman before him was so
close now that he couldn't turnaround.
When the Powaii finished speaking, that same
guardsman, perhaps their leader, snarled before turning on a bare heel and
opening his arms to the crowds that had closed behind him. His clansmen parted
once more, clearing a path to the heart of the ravaged dell and that awful
inferno. Prodded by the iron ring of A'awari spearmen, Allion and his companions
followed.
His march was like that of a condemned man through an
angry mob of those he had offended. He tried not to notice the looks of hatred
and bloodlust, but it was impossible not to. Even with his eyes closed, he
could feel their menacing stares, as surely as the intensifying waves of heat
from the sacrificial blaze. It seemed as if their wrath alone might melt the
skin from his bones.
His party was led to the base of the rise from which
Co-rathel's men were being tossed—even the soldier who had been paralyzed, his
limp form carried by a pair of A'awari guardsmen. The chief general, Allion
noticed, was indeed there, last in line, bound in ritualistic fashion. The
general and the three beside him gazed with incredulous stares as they saw who
it was that had come.
Allion's attention, however, was drawn to the left of
the Parthan captives, where the A'awari guard ring opened to reveal another of
their clansmen, who wore an elaborate headdress made of elven skulls. He might
have been a chieftain—the A'awari counterpart of Cwingen U'uyen. Or he might
have been a priest of some sort, a shaman. Perhaps both. To Allion, it didn't
matter, beyond the simple fact that this was the one he needed to address.
Weave did so first, lowering his arms and prostrating
himself before the skull-wearer. Allion contemplated doing the same, but
decided against it.
His recalcitrance drew an angry murmur from the crowd,
and an even sterner grimace from Skull-wearer. The shaman—if that's what he
was—pointed, and the leader of the guards raised his spear, aiming it down as
if to skewer Allion where he stood.
The hunter held his breath, but managed not to flinch.
He glared back at the warrior as he said, "Kae, tell Weave to stand
up."
Kae stammered for a moment before collecting herself.
When she had delivered the message, Weave glanced at Allion before bowing even
deeper to Skull.
"I said get up!" Allion shouted, with a kick
to Weave's ribs.
At the same time, the hunter uncrossed his wrists and
lowered his hands. A gasp ran through the surrounding press. Both Skull and
Spear wore looks of stunned incredulity. Before that disbelief could translate
into punishment for his insult, Allion rushed to explain.
"Kae, tell them that we accept their humble
sacrifice."
"What?"
Spear barked to his shaman, then drew back, preparing
to throw.
"Tell them!"
Kae blurted something that might have been gibberish,
but it was enough that Skull raised a hand to restrain his cap-
tain of the guard from punching a hole through the
insolent hunter.
Spear protested—angrily. So, too, did a trio of lesser
priests huddled beside their leader. When that huddle broke, the shaman spoke.
"He would know who we are to desecrate these
proceedings," Kae said.
Allion looked to the fifth surviving member of
Corathel's company, still held atop the ridge. The man's heart could not
possibly be beating any faster than his own. "Tell them that I am he who
unleashed the evil that plagues them. Tell them that I've come now in answer to
their summons, guided by one who has heard their prayers."
The hunter watched carefully the expressions of his
listeners as Kae translated his words to them. All around, the crowds had gone
silent, straining to hear over the roar of flames. The features of those near
enough to make out the woman's claim tightened with increased suspicion.
All this time, a confused Weave had continued to
kneel, halfway between the bold stance Allion suggested and the posture of
submission demanded by their enemies. As Kae finished, the hunter reached down
to grasp the Powaii native by the arm and haul him boldly to his feet.
Again the crowds gasped and murmured, and the lead
spearman grumbled. The attending priests conferred with one another, pointing
often at Weave, then passed their judgment on to the shaman. When the shaman
spoke, all listened.
"We are bearers of filth," Kae interpreted,
using her hands now to gesture as needed. The others, Allion noticed, continued
to hold theirs overhead. "Who among us is capable of hearing their sacred
prayers?"
Without turning, the hunter addressed the only member
of their group who at this point could help him. "Darinor?"
The Entient, it seemed, had been awaiting his cue.
With a terrible swoosh, the flames of the A'awari bonfire doubled in height.
Great streamers spewed forth, erupting skyward to form a blazing canopy that
spanned the entire hollow. Hundreds of Mookla'ayans cried out. While warriors
dropped to a crouch and mothers shielded their young, these streamers became
arrows of fire that drew aim upon the base of the rise where Skull and the rest
of them stood. The shaman remained erect as he stared down that barrage, while
those around him began to cower nervously. The missiles came on.
Just when Allion began to fear that Darinor truly
meant to impale them all, the fiery bolts veered in flight, screaming
overhead, shrinking and coming together, forming a giant ball that coalesced
directly above their startled faces. The Entient garnered that ball before him,
drawing it into his outstretched arms. He then split it in two—one for each
hand—where the flames of each twisted and swirled above cupped palms like a
swarm of bees.
Allion worked hard to maintain the strict, authoritative
grimace marking his own features. He had hoped for a display of thunder and
lightning that would rattle the very heavens. What Darinor had given him was
even better.
With the sound of those ready fireballs crackling in
his ears, the hunter felt his confidence swell. "As their prophecy states,
he who brought this pestilence upon them shall be the one to remove it. Grant
me these remaining offerings," he said, gesturing toward Corathel,
"and I will use their stink to draw the evil ones from these lands."
In the awed hush, his voice carried clearly. So too
did Kae's translation, drowning out all but the continuing rumble of flames.
Breathless, Allion awaited his enemies' response.
For a moment, he wasn't sure that his ruse—truthful as
it was to some extent—would work. The lead guardsman lowered his spear, but
snarled while the priests deliberated. Skull simply stared at him, glancing
every so often toward Darinor and those still-churning fireballs. Allion
dripped sweaty beads, roasting in the bonfire's warmth, fighting to appear
confident.
Then, without clear cause or warning, the forward rows
of onlookers began bowing flat against the earth. The movement swept back
among their clustered lines, until the whole of the lower congregation was on
its knees. Their hums and whispers sent a shiver through Allion despite the
intense heat.
The priests took pause, by all appearances as
surprised
by the reaction as he. When their conversation
resumed, it seemed to Allion that its pace had quickened.
At last, their discussion concluded. Hoping for the
best, Allion braced for the worst.
"The human vermin go free," Kae translated.
The relief was evident in her voice, as it was in the
grunts and sighs of Jasyn and his men. Following the Second General's lead,
the rest of them finally lowered their arms, glancing cautiously at the
surrounding A'awari guardsmen.
Skull signaled, and another set of guards carried
Corathel and his men over to join them—-including a much relieved soldier
draped from his pole at the top of the spur. Throughout it all, Allion matched
the shaman's gaze without a hint of gratitude, to make it seem as though this
result was precisely what he had expected.
At the same time, something in the shaman's look tempered
the hunter's barely bridled elation. The Mookla'ayan was releasing them, yes,
but not necessarily because he'd been convinced by Allion's act or Darinor's
display. The elf's eyes smoldered with mistrust, deep and feral. His granting
of their request, the hunter suspected, had more to do with appeasing his
superstitious followers than anything else.
With Corathel and his men cut free and leaning upon
Jasyn and his comrades for support, Allion nodded to the shaman and his priests
in stern acknowledgment. He turned to go when the shaman spoke again.
"One must remain," Kae said, and Allion's
senses screamed an alarm.
He looked back to Skull, who smirked cruelly before
thrusting his hands to the heavens and crying out in a voice loud and shrill.
It was a yell meant to be heard by all. And it was. Throughout
the hollow, bowing natives leapt to their feet, shouting praises.
Allion turned to Kae.
"To glorify those above for answering their
call."
Skull's smirk became a grin so savage it made Allion's
toes curl. For their freedom, the barbarian meant to exact a price.
"And what is to become of he who remains?"
the hunter asked darkly.
Kae relayed the question. The shaman answered and
clicked his teeth. At his response, the roar of the congregation grew tenfold.
Allion looked to his translator, but the woman could only shake her head.
"Grindaya" she said. "A
ritual of some sort. I don't know the word."
Together, both she and Allion turned to Weave. The
Pow-aii native wore a haunted look.
As the cheers of the crowd settled into a single,
frenzied chant, one of several acolytes brought forth a ceremonial spear. From
the tip of this spear hung beaded strings—-teeth, Allion saw, strung together
on leather thongs. Bidding this acolyte forward, Skull turned a wicked eye in
turn to each member of the hunter's party. When that eye found Marisha, the
crooked smile slipped free, and a long, gnarled finger was leveled toward her.
"Grindaya," he said again.
The Mookla'ayan multitudes shrieked and bellowed,
voicing their savage pleasure as the acolyte dangled and then shook the strings
of teeth over Marisha's head.
Allion's heart plummeted, his eyes locking with those
of his startled friend.
"No," he said, then whirled upon Skull.
"No!"
The shaman pretended not to hear him. Or perhaps the
elf really couldn't, given the tumult surrounding them.
He stalked right up to the shaman then—or would have,
had Spear and another guardsman not intercepted him, using their weapons to
block his path. The sudden and threatening movement brought a stunned hush to
the unruly throng.
"Not her!" Allion yelled at Skull over
crossed spear hafts. He then spun around to seize hold of the one dangling its
tooth strings over Marisha's head. With a yank, he forced it away, screaming at
the acolyte bearing it. "Not her!"
The spectators gasped. Skull's gaze narrowed. The shaman
spat what sounded like a curse.
"Very well," Kae said. "You
decide."
The acolyte pulled away, glaring at the hunter with
hate-
filled eyes. The pit in Allion's stomach only
deepened. He turned to Marisha with a feeling of panic.
"It's okay," she said bravely. "I'll
stay."
"You will not," Darinor growled immediately.
He hefted one of his still-crackling fireballs. "Nor will I."
Allion looked away from them to the others. Despite
his many trials in recent months, he could not recall having ever felt such
despair. To cope with the death of a friend was one thing. To be the one to
pass that sentence was not something he thought he could live with.
But his choice was plain. Either he condemned one of
them, or he condemned them all. He considered each of his companions in utter
helplessness. One of Corathel's soldiers, perhaps? Or Jasyn's? Any one of them
might be willing to make the sacrifice in order to set the others free. And
yet, he knew that neither commander would allow one of his men to die in his
stead. When the arguments.concluded, it would be Corathel who stayed behind,
ordering Jasyn to depart. Even if the lieutenant general were to obey that
order, they would be giving up what they had come here to accomplish.
All of which, Allion decided, was mostly irrelevant.
The simple truth was that he could not ask any of those who had put their faith
in him—not even those who were relative strangers—to now lay down their lives
for him.
The multitudes were fast becoming restless. The hunter
could hear and feel their growing agitation.
"I will stay," he said, forcing the words
past a lump in his throat.
It was Marisha's turn to gasp, but Allion ignored her
and turned back to Skull. Nothing happened. When he realized that Kae hadn't
spoken, he moved again toward the acolyte bearing the ceremonial spear, to
stand beneath its grisly strings.
He pointed to himself and repeated,
"Grindaya."
The shaman's expression became devious.
"How can this be," Kae interpreted a moment
later, "if you are truly the one meant to save us all?"
Many among the gathered masses were grumbling with
renewed suspicion. Allion gulped as he realized his mistake. And yet he
couldn't think of what else to do.
As the restive murmurings began to spread, Weave
stepped toward him and bowed. Allion realized the native's intent even before
Kae untangled the words.
"He asks that you permit him to make this
sacrifice."
"Kae, no. I can't allow that."
Weave spoke again before the woman could even
translate the obvious refusal.
"He says it is the only way. They will take one
of us, or they will take us all. He is grateful that you would sacrifice your
life before his. But it is you who will help to drive away the greater darkness
from among his people."
By now, their friends had pressed close—Jasyn and
Co-rathel, Marisha and Darinor—to take part, if necessary, in the whispered
debate. Anion's gaze flew to the Entient.
"Can't you do something?"
"This is your plan, not mine. Would you risk
unraveling it now?"
"It is the only way," Kae repeated.
"Please. He says it will make his journey in the afterlife a short
one."
The native knelt before him, but raised his head. The
look he gave was of such courage and comfort that Allion had to fight back
tears.'He faced Marisha, unable to speak, yet pleading for help.
Her eyes glazing with tears of her own, Marisha
grabbed him by the arm and pulled him aside.
Weave stood beneath the symbolic spear, and made a gesture
of supplication to Skull and his priests. The viewing hordes raised a cheer.
The shaman gauged his people's ongoing reaction before
coming to a decision. He strode forward, flanked by his retainers. Glancing
warily at Darinor, he spoke again to Allion.
"He would send with us a blessing," Kae
said.
Had he been thinking clearly, the hunter might have
flinched as Skull reached out with one hand to grip his forehead. As it was,
he paid it no mind, his eyes turned toward Weave as he searched frantically for
another solution.
The crowds quieted. The shaman muttered for a time
with
bowed head, keeping his hand in place. Whatever he had
to say, he did so quickly. By the time the A'awari withdrew his touch, Allion's
mind was as barren and useless as before.
Skull gestured. The guard circle around the hunter and
his company tightened. They were being dismissed. Allion resisted at first, as
another set of guards closed about Weave. But the elf nodded to him
encouragingly. Trapped in a daze, the hunter allowed Marisha and the others to
pull him away.
Darinor led them this time, still bearing those
swirling balls of fire. Escorted by the ring of warriors, they cut northward,
back across the clearing through the gathered hosts. Some of the elves bowed or
called to them, while others surged past without a glance, fighting anxiously
toward the center. Every so often, Allion craned his neck, peering back with
shock and worry, trying to catch a glimpse of the one he was leaving behind.
When deposited at the outer edge of the hollow, Allion
followed his companions in climbing the embankment to reach the jungle fringe.
There he stopped and spun about, refusing to be led farther, needing to see for
himself what was to become of their Powaii guide.
From that elevated vantage, he gazed past the heads of
his escorts, who were melting already back through the crowd. It took only a
moment to discern what was happening. While those particular guards had been
guiding him away, others had gone to work on the poles previously used to
secure Corathel and his men. The poles had been lashed together, forming a triangular
mesh to which Weave was bound with his arms and legs spread wide. The entire
assembly was now being carried to the top of the spur, where it was planted
like a standard into the ground.
The Grindaya spear was tied on so that the tooth
strings hung over the doomed elf's head.
As Allion looked on from afar, the shaman called out
to his congregation, working his way through a rhythmic invocation. A
ceremonial knife was brought forward—a hatchet, really, with one of those
Mookla'ayan half-moon blades. Skull took it, and with a line of acolytes
standing by with torches, raised its glinting head high. His stroke removed one
of Weave's feet at the ankle. The Powaii elf wailed, calling out for strength,
perhaps. Marisha threw her arms- about Allion's neck, burying her face in his
shoulder. The hunter wanted to do the same, but forced himself to watch.
Before Weave's cry had ended, acolytes rushed forward
to close his wound with their fires. The shaman, meanwhile, retrieved the foot
and cast it to another pack of attendants, who quickly carved it up with their
own knives and began distributing the slices to a violent press of their
clansmen.
The recipients devoured those slices raw.
The ritual seemed to last forever. Piece by piece,
Jaquith Wyevesces was cut apart, his wounds closed to keep him alive, his
severed scraps consumed by the bloodthirsty natives. Those farther out urged
their clansmen on with lusty howls, singing cruel praises, delighted by the
torture of a hated rival. For as long as he had strength, Weave continued to
call out to the unmerciful heavens—cries that resounded in Allion's ears far
louder than those of the vicious hordes.
Though the hunter's companions begged him to depart,
he remained transfixed upon the heart of that hollow until Weave's head sagged
and his body grew still. There wasn't much left of the elf by then—little more
than a ruined torso. But the process continued, and Allion could not make himself
avert his gaze.
"Come," he heard Darinor say.
Reality crept back slowly. In the brush behind him,
Kae was sobbing. Marisha clung to him as if otherwise unable to stand. He could
sense the others—Corathel, Jasyn, and their men—standing frozen with awe and
reverence, like sentinels at post upon consecrated ground.
Corathel was the first to respond. With military
stoicism, the chief general had his soldiers light torches from the flames
Darinor still carried. When that was done, he sent them northward in pairs,
side by side into a jungle dark and chill.
A moment later, Allion felt a hand upon his shoulder.
It was Jasyn, still with him at the hollow's rim. The Second General wore a
pallid expression that shone red and yellow
in the fiery light. His eyes were those of a man beset
by ghosts.
Without a word, me pair of them turned together, drawing
Marisha with them. They followed Corathel, leaving Darinor to take up the rear.
The Entient did so, releasing one of his fireballs into the ether, while
bearing the other as a lantern at his daughter's back.
Spurred by the ringing clamor of hundreds of
bloodthirsty A'awari, they pressed ahead through the darkness, while, behind
them, smoke and fire and savage screams filled the night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE Back Table of Contents Next
Torin rocked gently in his saddle,
listening to the rain as it drummed relentlessly upon the sodden earth. As he
had on the previous day, he rode behind the others, where he could keep watch
on those in his company.
Where none would interrupt his thoughts and
suspicions.
They plagued him now as before—as always. He had hoped
that once removed from Neak-Thur, he would find a measure of peace. But the
fresh air of the open road had done little to alleviate a host of nagging concerns.
Nor would it, he now realized, as long as those who were the cause of his
concerns rode with him.
They carried on as he did, bundled tightly unto
themselves. Conversation thus far had been limited and lifeless—and not simply
because of the disagreeable climate. Undoubtedly, his companions were as
troubled as he by the nature of their forced camaraderie, wary of how this
unlikely quest might unfold.
The tension began with Warrlun, Lorre's appointed captain.
Riding atop his overburdened gelding, the old soldier had positioned himself
well ahead of the rest of them, leading them along the bemired roadways of
northern Yawacor at a distance that did not invite discussion. He had uttered
barely a word since their departure, even when all had camped together the
night before. Such aloofness did not necessarily make the man untrustworthy;
and yet Torin could not deny the doubts that clawed within his stomach like a
pack of rats. There was something in the old soldier's air, a dangerous in-
tensity in his eyes, that unnerved him. The man had
accepted this mission for personal reasons, and whatever those were, Torin
could not make himself believe that they coincided with his own.
Despite these reservations, it was Saena who concerned
him more. For as innocent as the young woman seemed, she was the one, he was
sure, who had been sent to memorize the path to the hidden Finlorians—should
they be able to find it—so that she might lead Lorre's armies to it later. Whatever
else came about as a result of this search, Torin had no desire to bring harm
upon those whose support he had come to beg. But how might he accomplish the
one without risking the other?
As a matter of reflex, he had sought solace from such
fears in the company of Dyanne. But the young Nymph posed perhaps the most
discomfiting dilemma of all. For reasons he didn't dare examine too closely, he
had found himself feeling less and less comfortable around her. Surely by now,
he might safely consider her a friend. Why, then, did she cause him to feel so unsettled
and inadequate? She did nothing to demean him; yet he felt like a child in her
presence, unworthy of her attentions, awkward and fascinated all at the same
time.
More and more, he wondered what she thought of him— as
if it should matter. He thought constantly of asking her, of making some
attempt to confess to her his uncertain feelings. Perhaps her reaction,
whatever it was, might help him to better understand his own irrational state.
But he could not bring himself to do so. He could no longer even speak to her
without fighting a lump in his throat and a nervous pounding in his chest. The
very notion of approaching her on such a topic made him dizzy with fear.
He did his best not to dwell on the matter. As with
his reservations toward Warrlun and Saena, his inability to confront Dyanne
had no tangible basis, and might have no relevance at all beyond the wilds of
his own imagination. Perhaps he had merely grown weary from his trials. Perhaps
he needed a crutch, yet understood that it was not fair of him to use her so.
Perhaps he simply cared for her enough as a friend that he did not wish to say
anything that might upset her.
Or perhaps he cared for her too much already.
As always, he shielded himself against that
possibility with recollections of Marisha. But even these had taken on an
increasingly darker cast. For he could no longer think of his betrothed except
in relation to the Nymph Hunter, arousing feelings of both shame and
guilt—particularly because those comparisons seldom favored the woman he had
offered to wed. Physically, Dyanne held an unfair advantage in that she was
here before him while Marisha was an ocean away. But appearances were less
important than the way each made him feel. And in that regard, the Hunter was
once again the clear winner. For thoughts of Dyanne and her kin generally
inspired dreams for a hopeful future, while thoughts of Marisha invariably
reminded him of a bitter, strife-ridden past.
Perhaps because, as difficult as it had been, his time
here in Yawacor had been marked by one unexpected discovery after another,
whereas so much of his time with Marisha had been marked by war. Whatever the
reason, such associations were clearly unjust. But one did not feel differently
simply by willing himself to do so.
A gust of wind ripped through him, carrying with it a
sharp and sudden chill. It really didn't matter. He had sworn an oath, to
himself if no one else. He needed no ceremony to make it official. He was
pledged to Marisha, and as long as she felt the same toward him, he would do
nothing to jeopardize their eventual union.
As he was making himself this promise, Saena pulled on
her reins to fall back alongside him. Just as she had the day before, he noted,
when she had started up front with Warrlun before dropping back among the
girls, and now finally to him. She greeted him with a smile.
"You look lonely back here."
Torin shrugged and grunted. Though he would have
preferred she left him alone, he couldn't bring himself to say so.
"Warrlun says that we should reach Vagarbound by
Torin made himself nod.
"It'll be good to sleep tonight in a real
bed."
Torin's jaw clenched. Either she couldn't see or
didn't care that he was trying to ignore her. He still didn't trust her, not
after the way in which she had played herself off as an innocent prison
attendant while he had suffered in Lorre's dungeons. Better that he keep his
distance. If there was any chance she served again some secret agenda, he would
rather not play into it.
And yet, her disposition beneath the gray and sodden
skies of Lorrehaim was as carefree and disarming as it had been within the
bowels of the overlord's newest city. Despite his evident lack of interest, she
plied him with another of her one-sided conversations, carrying on about anything
and everything and nothing. Try as he might, Torin could not be so rude as to
disregard her completely.
"I think I know why
Saena's eyes shifted toward the front of their column,
where the old soldier rode as if oblivious to those who followed.
"I know little about him," she replied.
"Only that he is one of His Lordship's most trusted lieutenants."
"Isn't it your job to find out about
people?" he asked, somewhat pointedly.
"Well, look at you, for instance. I've already
spent more time in your company than I ever have in Warrlun's. Other than the
stories concerning your reclamation of the Sword of Asahiel, and aside from the
nature of your quest as you related it to me, what do I really know about
you?"
"There's nothing more to know," he assured
her.
Saena laughed. "There's everything to
know. What is it that makes you smile? Do you have a favorite color? A favorite
food? Who are your friends and family? Is there a queen of Alson?"
Torin's eyes flicked toward hers. All of a sudden, he
felt a flush of embarrassment, fearing that somehow, the personal questions
with which he wrestled had been exposed to her all along. "The answers to
such trifles are hardly relevant to what we mean to accomplish here."
"Perhaps you're right," she agreed. "I
use them merely as examples. A person is defined by many things—tastes and
fears and passions—characteristics that are ever evolving. It takes a lifetime
and more to truly get to know a person. We're lucky if we ever even get to know
ourselves."
Torin couldn't help but chuckle. "Is that why you
carry on the way you do?"
Saena gaped as if wounded.
"I only mean, you seem as if you intend to share
everything there is to know about you with any who will listen."
"If others would share more, perhaps I wouldn't
have to reveal so much."
He thought he might finally have succeeded in
offending her, until he turned to find her grinning. "Well, you might
consider doing us all a favor by starting with that friend of yours up
there," he suggested, nodding to indicate their guide ahead.
"A badger would be more agreeable." She
huffed. "I much prefer your company to his."
She smiled again. Torin could only shake his head.
He reverted to silence after that, grunting now and
then as she rambled on. Whatever plans Lorre's chosen pair might be harboring,
trying to uncover their plot now was clearly a waste of time. Especially when
he could not even decide who was the more troublesome of the two.
While lending one ear to his companion's nattering, he
went back to his own concerns, worrying now about distant friends—Allion in
particular—as well as those nearer to him, like Moss, Arn, and Lancer. It
disturbed him to have left one after another as he had. When all of this was
ended, would he be able to make things right?
At
giant wall of sharpened stakes, gave the city a
bristling and hostile look.
They reined to a halt outside the gates, awaiting
their turn with the outer guard. Ahead of them, inspectors examined the cargo
carried by a small wagon caravan. When at last that team was cleared to enter,
Warrlun spurred himself forward at the head of their column.
Torin was surprised not to be waved right on through.
The city captain straightened noticeably upon viewing Warrlun's token of rank,
but even then asked them to declare the nature of their business. Warrlun did
so, presenting a small scroll bearing the seal of Lord Lorre himself. A series
of follow-up questions was asked, and signals exchanged. All the while, a
scribe took notes on his tablet, marking down names, anticipated length of
stay, and more. As part of this interview, the guard asked them to present any
weapons for inspection. Once again, Torin looked to his company's leader, as if
to ask if this was truly necessary. But Warrlun himself complied with the
request, and nodded gruffly at the outlander's hesitation.
Though reluctant to make himself and his belongings a
matter of public record, Torin saw no reasonable way to refuse. Not
surprisingly, the Crimson Sword drew openmouthed stares from both the guard and
his scribe. They remembered their duty, though, and withheld comment, moving on
to make note of the various blades carried by the others. When finished, the
guard saluted Warrlun once more.
"If we can be of any service, Commander, let us
know," he offered, motioning them on.
"I will, Captain," Warrlun assured him, then
urged his mount forward through the wide-flung gates.
"A bit overzealous, aren't they?" Torin
muttered as they left the patrol behind.
"This isn't the Southland," Warrlun scoffed.
"His Lordship likes to maintain the peace, and the best way for a city to
do so is to regulate who and what passes through its gates."
"And that doesn't bother you?" Torin asked,
returning the stare of a gap-toothed street patron.
"I've nothing to hide," the soldier replied,
facing forward again with a haughty air.
Torin left it at that, falling back among his more
civil companions. Though it felt now as if the eye of every citizen were
focused on him, it was too late to change matters. He could only hope that come
nightfall, the list to which their names had just been added was not sold to a
band of thieves—or worse.
From what he could see, calling Vagarbound a city made
generous use of the term. As with most of the communities he had visited here
in Yawacor, it was more an outpost, a collection of shops and homes and
services catering to a wild rabble of huntsmen, tradesmen, and prospectors that
roamed this northern region. The streets were unpaved, covered over with wood
shavings in a vain attempt to help travelers against the mud. Buildings lined
the rutted avenues, beaten by the near-ceaseless downpour. Despite the weather,
activity abounded, with vendors hawking foods and garments and tools to an
organized throng of haggling patrons. Wheels creaked, mules brayed, mud sloshed
under hoof and foot. Soldiers wearing the insignia of Lord Loire were everywhere,
keeping watch.
The assorted smells caused Torin to grimace. But he
kept his discomfort to himself, hunkering in his saddle, hood lowered against
the rain. He considered asking Warrlun how exactly the old soldier intended to
gather the information they had come here to collect, but decided he could
wait to find out.
They ventured for a time down die principal roadway,
paying no attention to those who stepped forth from booth and stall and
storefront stoop to bid them look closer at various wares. The banners and
signs were garish enough, fighting for prominence like forest trees in search
of the sun. Torin quickly lost interest in them, for they all seemed to offer
the same things—none of which he had come here to find.
Their first stop was at a small shack wedged back
between a pair of competing taverns. After a quick survey, Warrlun bade his
companions wait where they were, then hitched his steed and went marching down
the narrow boardwalk.
Only after careful search did Torin find the pricing
board that suggested this to be the headquarters of an expedition-
ary outfit. The place looked abandoned, but when
Warrlun knocked, the door opened, and the old soldier disappeared inside.
"Don't worry about us," Holly quipped.
"We'll just sit here and keep our saddles dry."
Torin snorted in agreement, looking to Dyanne to see
if she might glance his way. She didn't.
Their guide left them mounted in the rain for several
minutes. Torin was about to propose that they tether the horses and duck
inside one of the taverns for a warm drink when the old soldier reappeared. The
commander stood framed by the doorway a moment longer, shaking hands with
whoever it was on the other side before making his way back to them.
He offered no apology. He did not even look at them as
he climbed atop his horse, huffing with the effort.
"We're to find our man at the Giant's Tongue.
This way."
The ordeal finally ceased after following a nearby
crossroad up a steep hill and arriving at an angular, two-story building
jutting forth at yet another intersection. White paint peeled in tiny strips
from the outer walls, one of which held a plaque of wood with branded
lettering: the giant's tongue.
Yet another inn and tavern, Torin decided, though
judging by the smells wafting through the open doorway, this one was more
meathouse man alehouse. His stomach growled, stirred by the aroma of roasted
steaks, seasoned stews, and fresh-baked breads.
When all had dismounted, Warrlun handed Torin his
reins. "Tether the horses on the north side," the soldier instructed.
Without waiting for a reply, he then climbed the inn's stoop and strode into
the murky depths beyond.
Torin had half a mind to abandon their guide then and
there. Instead, he swallowed his pride and followed orders, leading his
companions around to where a long line of steeds had been picketed beneath a
sagging awning, watched over by a pair of young grooms. Torin balked at the
requested holding fee, particularly since he was now penniless. But Saena came
to his aid before he could cause a stir, with funds provided her by Lord Lorre.
After paying for each of their mounts—including Warrlun's—the company shuffled
quickly out of the rain.
They paused upon entering, allowing their eyes to
adjust to the dim lighting and for their bodies to shudder through a series of
escaping chills. Water dripped and pooled from their cloaks and onto the thick
animal rug laid down across the entry. Directly ahead, a long serving bar split
the lodge down its center, leading back toward the kitchens. Booths and tables
filled the open areas to either side, along with staircases climbing to the
upper levels. Antlers and pelts and other hunting trophies hung upon the walls,
as well as from every rafter and corner and crude chandelier.
A serving girl strolled forward to greet them.
"Need help finding a seat?"
Torin only barely acknowledged the woman, his gaze
shifting about in search of Warrlun. "We're supposed to be meeting
someone."
"Well, ya ain't likely to find him stood here.
Come on in; take a look around. There's a cloakroom behind ya, should ya
choose. Give a holler when you're ready for me.".
Her suggestive tone finally drew his full attention—
though by that time, he was able to catch just a sly smirk and a twitch of her
hips as she spun about and headed off with a drink tray toward one of the
nearby tables.
Saena started around the opposite side of the bar,
giving him a nudge in that direction. Torin forgot about the serving girl and
scooted after his companion, only to soon find himself again in the lead. With
the girls on his heels, he proceeded deeper into the Tongue's smoky bowels,
edging past stools and tables crammed with noontime patrons. Few bothered to
take notice of him, involved as they were in their own affairs. Whistles rang
out, but might as easily have been calls to the various serving girls as
invitations to the lovely ladies who followed him.
At last he spotted Warrlun, down at the end of the
bar, standing head and shoulders above those around him. The soldier was
conversing with one of the barkeeps, who was pointing farther back toward a
distant table. By the time
Torin came upon them, the barkeep had gone back to
work and Warrlun was starting off in the direction indicated.
"Secure that booth," the commander ordered.
Weary of being bossed around like some grunt in the
other's army, Torin nevertheless did as instructed, veering toward a secluded
corner in which server visibility gave way to customer privacy. As he did so,
their guide strode toward the table pointed out by the barkeep, a table
fighting to withstand a riotous brood in the midst of what appeared to be some
manner of game. Six burly men were taking turns pounding their lidded tankards
upon the table's surface. Suddenly, all stopped and bellowed in laughter
before drinking heartily. The last to finish tossed a coin onto a growing pile
in the center of the table, amid the jeers of his fellows. A server stood by
with a cask, used to fill the empty mugs. The pounding began again.
Torin continued to watch as the girls slid into the
bench seats of their own booth. Warrlun, he noticed, had stopped to observe
from a distance, focusing on a dark-haired man who sat among the others but did
not appear to be participating in their revelry. When another round had ended,
the commander stepped forward, tapping this individual on the shoulder.
The stranger glanced at him, seeming more concerned
with the mound of coins. A moment later, his head whipped back, eyes wide in
startled recognition. The eyes narrowed, then widened again, and a greasy smirk
slid forth. Warrlun said something, though Torin could not begin to hear the
man's words over the surrounding clamor. Whatever it was caused the dark-haired
stranger to excuse himself from the others and rise to his feet. Following the
sweep of Warrlun's arm, he made his way over to the newcomers' booth.
For a moment, the stranger's gaze found Torin's. His
expression was that of a man who had not only lost his way, but no longer
recalled what he was looking for. Then he caught sight of the women—Saena and
the pair of Nymphs. All of a sudden, he seemed to remember himself, and that
greasy smirk widened into a cunning, almost predatory smile.
"These yours?" the stranger asked, turning
to Warrlun as the soldier came up behind him.
"Have a seat."
The stranger bowed to Dyanne and Holly, who occupied
one side of the booth. "With the ladies' leave?"
Before either could respond, he slid in next to
them—putting Holly in the middle. Across the table, Torin found himself in
much the same position, scooting closer to Saena to make room for Warrlun
beside him.
"I'm surprised to see you here again, my
friend," the stranger began, focusing on the broad-backed soldier across
from him. "How many years has it been?"
Despite his obvious bravado, he seemed to Torin shifty
and tentative. His dark eyes were hollow and red-rimmed, and darted continually
to the open side of the booth—as if me man himself were contemplating escape.
Warrlun's presence here had unnerved him, whatever else he would have them
think.
"You look well, Traver," the old soldier
responded.
Fitter than the commander, anyway, Torin agreed
silently. This Traver's size and shape was not all that different from his own,
though the man's age was no doubt much closer to Warrlun's.
"Mountain air," Traver said, winking at
Saena. "Keeps a man young."
Warrlun leaned forward. "Ethric tells me you're
heading up the hunts these days."
Again, that hint of buried nervousness from Traver. He
was trying to determine, Torin thought, if Warrlun's visit here meant trouble
for him. If that was the case, then it was reasonable to assume he had
something to hide.
At that moment, one of the servers found them—the girl
who had greeted them, Torin saw.
"What'll it be?"
Traver appeared much relieved by the interruption.
"A rack of Jaecy would be delicious, right about now."
"Hands to yourself, Traver," the woman
snapped, "else the next hide you tan will be your own."
Traver shrank back in apology. "Forgive me, my
lady. I am not myself when enraptured by your beauty."
Jaecy scoffed. She would have been pretty, Torin
decided, had she not looked as if she'd lived her entire life in this frontier
environment. Her hair was brightly colored, yet dirty and tousled. Her skin was
fair, though pitted in areas with rashlike scars. Her tavern rags and serving
apron were patched and stained, though her body beneath was shapely enough.
"What'll you have, stranger?" she asked,
fixing Torin with
a judging eye.
Torin was embarrassed to have been caught scrutinizing
her so carefully. "I don't... What's good?"
Jaecy scoffed again, though with more amusement than
disgust this time. "Outlander, ain't ya? Place ain't named the Goblin's
Ears, ya know."
"Lamb and potatoes for all," Warrlun
resolved impatiently. "Ale to wash it down."
"You his father?" Jaecy asked.
"And some privacy," the soldier replied
sternly.
Jaecy scowled, but managed another smile for Torin before
striding away in her tight leather breeches. Traver stared after her before
turning back, seeming now a little more at
ease.
" 'Round here, a man doesn't buy another a meal
unless he wants something." He sat back, trying to judge Warrlun's
response. "So, to what do I owe this kindness?"
"If you're leading Ethric's team, that makes you
His Lordship's foremost bounty hunter, does it not?"
Traver snickered. "Whatever keeps me out of the
army."
"I need to know what you've seen."
"The Finlorians? Come, my friend, it's been twenty
years. The elves are long gone, and His Lordship would do better to accept
that."
"Mind your tongue, rogue."
"No disrespect intended," Traver assured the
other. "I only mean, seems to me like a waste of good coin to keep funding
our excursions."
"And yet you continue to accept those
funds," Warrlun reminded him. "Time now to report."
Jaecy returned then, bearing a tray of mugs and a
pitcher of ale. Torin managed to avoid her gaze as she filled those cups,
catching only a sidelong glance as she spun the empty tray on her fingers and
slipped away.
Traver was the first to drink. "Reports are what
they have been for the past two decades. Not a sign. Not one that can be
followed, anyway."
Warrlun studied the other carefully, as if measuring
the veracity of his claim. "We mean to go up."
Traver nearly spat a mouthful of ale. "Bit late
in the season, ain't it? After all this time, why the sudden urgency?"
"Ask this one here," Warrlun said, giving
Torin a shove.
Traver's eyes narrowed. "Who is he?"
"Name's Torin," Warrlun replied before the
young king could speak for himself.
"The Torin?"
Traver asked, his interest piqued.
"You've heard of him?" Warrlun did not seem
surprised.
"Of course. Been a favorite tale in the taverns
of late. Figured it was just one of them meant to help while away the
winter."
Torin didn't care for the way in which Traver was
eyeing him. He was about to say so when the bounty hunter turned back to
Warrlun.
"And what's he got to do with the elves?"
"It's a long story. But that talisman he
recovered, the Sword of Asahiel, was once theirs. His Lordship believes it just
might be the key we need to draw them forth."
Traver went back to staring at Torin, thoughts
whirring behind those darkened eyes. Finally, he shook his head. "My
friend, we had us some good hunts. But there ain't nothing to find up there. As
long as His Lordship's payments keep coming, rest assured, I'll keep working
toward that big score. But me and Ethric, we've got a legitimate business to
run as trappers and furriers. I can't be spending every waking moment in the
pursuit of ghosts."
Warrlun leaned in toward the center of the table,
bearing down upon the shifty bounty hunter. "You speak as if you have a
choice. I'm not some soft-skinned desk clerk asking to join one of your leisure
excursions. I've come on behalf of His Lordship to commission your services, in
collection of a debt."
Traver looked again as if he might flee. His smooth
features showed neither fear nor anger, but Torin sensed it nonetheless. He
might have trusted the stranger more, in fact, were he to display some sign of
hostility or offense. Instead, the man just sat there, smooth as a lake at
sunrise, taking it all in.
"Commission, you say?"
"Has cost ever been an object with regard to this
venture?"
The bounty hunter took another drink. "Very well,
you shall have your expedition—though I'll not have you say I didn't warn you.
When were you thinking of leaving?"
"Today."
Traver laughed. "Come, my friend. It would
normally take me three days to prepare my team for a trip into the Dragon-tails
this time of year."
"We don't need your team," Warrlun argued.
"Just you. A pair of stout hands, if you must, to help carry supplies. But
no more."
"And am I to assume the ladies will be joining
us?"
"This is our company," Warrlun confirmed.
"Approved by His Lordship."
Traver's smirk slipped free. "You leave a man
little room to bargain. But I do have one condition. Tonight, the city holds a
dance to begin its celebration of the winter harvest. I would have the ladies
attend as my guests." He gave them all a princely grin.
Torin looked immediately for Dyanne's reaction, but as
usual could read nothing of what she might be feeling. Beside her, Holly
scowled with suspicion.
"We do not have time for festivities,"
Warrlun grumbled.
"Oh but we do," Traver assured him.
"I'll have Ethric begin preparations. But it'll take at least the rest of
the day to make things ready for the morrow. An evening of merriment is all I
ask. If that's too much, then you can drag me back to His Lordship in
chains."
Torin could not have been more skeptical of what he
was hearing. To his thinking, this bounty hunter had agreed to Warrlun's
request far too easily. And to make use of the girls as some kind of bargaining
chip set his teeth on edge. What was the man truly after?
"We leave at dawn," Warrlun insisted.
"So long as everyone can agree to that, I care not how this evening is
spent."
Torin wasn't so ready to concur. "I don't
think—"
"The entire city will be there," Traver
pressed, speaking only to the girls. "It will be great fun—perhaps the
last you'll have for some time."
Holly turned to Dyanne, and Torin was horrified to see
that they were actually considering the charlatan's proposal.
"Sure," die smaller Nymph said. "What
can it hurt?"
Traver looked to Saena, who shrugged sheepishly.
"Then it's settled," he declared, slithering from the boom and rising
to his feet. "If you'll forgive me, I will see to all necessary
arrangements at once. Warrlun, my friend, I thank you for the drink and the offer
of food, but in truth, I have already eaten. I trust you'll have no great
difficulty disposing of my portion. To the lovely ladies, I bid a good
afternoon. I'll see you all tonight."
He bowed low, then spun away with a flourish, only to
turn back with a neglected thought. "Pardon my haste. This dance tends to
be a fancy occasion. If it should please you ladies, I will have a word with a
tailor friend of mine, to see what he can do about fitting each of you with
gowns for this evening."
Holly glanced at the other two women at the table, her
own mischievous smile brightening her face. "Thank you, sir. That would be
lovely."
Traver's grin nearly swallowed his ears, and he bowed
again. "Name is Hopper. On the corner of Pick and Cam-merlin. Just tell
him I sent you."
"Go, knave," Warrlun growled. "See to
it you don't forget the real business at hand."
Traver winked, glanced briefly back at the drinking
brood he had been observing earlier, then sauntered toward the exit.
Torin watched him go, seething with mistrust.
"What in the Abyss was that?"
Warrlun regarded him in annoyance. "Is there a
problem?"
"You tell him we're hunting elves, he agrees, and
we're off just like that? How do you know we can trust him?"
"Watch your tone, boy. As I said before, this
isn't the Southland. Up here, we have ways of weeding out undesirables."
"So your lord explained to me," Torin
sneered, refusing to back down. "Somehow, mat doesn't put me at
ease."
"I'm not interested in your sense of ease. If it
helps, I've known Traver a long time. Bit of a rascal, but we'll not find a
better guide. I'd sooner leave you behind than him."
Torin had by no measure finished his objection, but
stopped short when he caught sight of Dyanne shaking her head. There was no
need for this argument, she seemed to be saying. And she was right. It suddenly
occurred to him why she might have agreed to attend this ridiculous festival.
Just as she had spent time before among Commander Jaik and the other rogues
with whom they had eventually done battle at Neak-Thur, so too would she take
advantage of mis opportunity to learn what she could of this Traver by more
subtle means. At least, he hoped that was why she had agreed.
Even so, he might have said something more, but Jaecy
chose that moment to reappear with six steaming platters.
"Lose one, did ya?"
Warrlun grunted, taking two helpings for himself and
handing the woman a few coins, which she tucked into the pocket of her apron.
This time, Torin was too agitated to be bothered by the undue attentions she
lavished upon him.
"Just let me know if ya need anything else,"
she added. "Anything at all."
Warrlun dismissed her with another grunt, digging
already into his first plate of food. Torin stowed his complaints and did
likewise.
As he ate, however, he continued to reflect upon this
newest addition to their troop. In all honesty, he had no reason to think any
less of Traver man he did Warrlun. But at least Warrlun—whatever his
secrets—made no pretense at being anything other than the gruff soldier that he
was. Traver, on the other hand, was hiding something behind his genteel
manners. And though uncertain of what that might be, Torin was troubled to
think he might be the only one to sense it.
Despite his double portion, Warrlun was the first to
finish both food and drink.. Upon draining his mug, he shoved aside the empty
platters and lurched to his feet.
"I'll secure us a set of rooms for the
night." Glaring at Torin, he added, "Fetch our gear before it drowns
out there."
Once again, he turned away before Torin could protest,
leaving the disgruntled king of Alson to gnaw silently on a bitter retort.
CHAPTER F0RTY Back Table of Contents Next
He could not escape the screams.
Even now, hours later, surrounded by the bustle of the
Par-than Legion's Second Division, they were with him. Those of Corathel's men
whom he had arrived too late to save. Those of the A'awari clansmen who had
cheered the bloodshed. But most of all, those of Jaquith Wyevesces, the Powaii
native who had surrendered his life bit by bit so that Allion wouldn't be made
to forfeit his.
He had told himself that what he saw had not been
real. None had spoken of it the night before, as they made their way northward
from the Mookla'ayan gathering. When they were far enough removed that a
pursuit seemed unlikely, Corathel had posted a guard and ordered the rest of
them to sleep while they could. But whenever Allion closed his eyes, the echo
of screams had intensified, and he saw in his mind Wyevesces, staked to that
triangular mesh, thrashing and wailing against a torment the hunter—even after
serving witness—could scarcely imagine.
He'd been almost thankful when it was realized that
few others were sleeping either, and thus the whole company roused to continue
its trek. Still, its members kept silent, as if by avoiding the topic they
might pretend the ordeal had never taken place.
Eventually, however, Allion had come to understand the
unfairness of doing so—to himself and to Weave. To simply bury the memory
would be to dishonor the elf's sacrifice. And even if he were successful,
hiding his pain deep within could only mean that it would be there to haunt him
forever.
Instead, he had begun efforts to deal with it
properly. While still en route through the jungle, he had sidled up to Kae,
Mookla'ayan scholar and interpreter—she who stood the best chance of helping
him to make sense of it all. He'd soon found that she was as scarred by the
events as he. They had spoken in hushed and solemn tones for more than an hour,
tentatively at first, before trusting one another with their deeper thoughts
and feelings. Others, like Jasyn, had soon joined them. Even the embittered
Second General was forced to admit that he no longer knew what to think of
these Mookla'ayans, so wild and barbaric on the one hand, yet capable of such
noble sacrifice on the other.
Among Allion's many questions to Kae was that regarding
Weave's plea—specifically the part about making the native's afterlife journey
a short one. Kae, who by then had seemed more angered than saddened by the
entire affair, had been kind enough to explain what the Powaii had meant.
According to elven beliefs, when one died, he undertook a quest in death to
undo the evil he had committed in life. Only after rectifying all of his
misdeeds would the deceased find peace. Thus, the better he lived, the quicker
and easier his afterlife's trial would be.
Superstitious nonsense, Kae had added with a huff,
sniffing back tears. But Allion was not so certain. He was beginning to
understand, he thought, Kylac's keen interest in this race—how the youth could
claim that the better one got to know them, the less savage they seemed.
Since speaking of it helped, Kae went on to highlight
some of the variations held with regard to this elven belief. To the ancient
Finlorians, for instance, burial and preservation of the body had been very
important, so that the individual would have strength for his posthumous
journey. To others, like the Mookla'ayans, the strength granted the individual
was that maintained by the living who consumed his flesh. Thus, as horridly
sadistic as Wyevesces's fate had seemed, it was also an honor, for in devouring
his flesh, his
enemies had made certain that he would not lack for
this much-needed strength.
Fire, on the other hand, while often used to cleanse
impurities, was considered an insult to the dead, for it laid waste to the
body and therefore hindered the departed's ability to complete his quest for
redemption in the afterlife. While Weave's death seemed to expose certain
inconsistencies, there could be no mistaking what the A'awari felt toward the
Parthan soldiers they had condemned.
On past
By midafternoon, they had finally reunited with the
Second Division, which had been beating its way steadily southward after
Jasyn's advance patrol. Though subdued by the decimation of Corathel's personal
regiment, the Parthans hailed the lieutenant general's success and the legion
commander's safe return. Against the murdering savages, they would soon have
their revenge.
But that had yet to be decided. Despite Darinor's
insistence, Corathel had flatly refused to discuss the Entient's proposed
withdrawal to Atharvan—and from there, the redeployment of the entire legion
to Kuuria—while straggling northward with their decimated band. The chief
general had listened to the other's arguments, but would not be drawn into a
debate without his more senior advisors, whom they would find along with the
rest of the Second Division. Their council could wait until then.
And so it had, although not a moment longer. Once they
had reached their main force, a halt was called to the division's southward
march, and talks convened. While Darinor ducked into a tent with Jasyn,
Corathel, and a select few others, Allion had slipped off to be by himself,
alone with his torment.
Well, not completely—for Marisha had yet to leave his
side. Nor had he asked her to. Even now, he only barely registered her
presence, lost as he was to the chorus of continuing screams.
"You cannot go on blaming yourself," she
said, imploring with both words and gaze. One arm hugged his shoulders as he
sat against a moss-covered trunk. With the other, she used a finger to gently
stroke his stubbled jawline.
"Words, Marisha," he replied, staring down
at the nest of leaves and roots in which he was cradled. "Speaking them
doesn't make them true."
"No," she agreed. "You must believe
them. And that is what I need you to do."
He did not respond, refusing to be placated.
"Weave's sacrifice was just that: his sacrifice.
To assume responsibility is to take from him that which he freely gave."
This time, Allion struck the woman with a withering
scowl. When he tried to look away again, she caught his chin and held his face
to hers.
"Let us do him justice instead, by embracing what
he did for us. Let us remember him for his devotion to a cause much greater
than himself—a cause that you and I must continue to fight for."
"I can't get his cries out of my head,"
Allion confessed. Indeed, it seemed as though they would never end.
"Nor should you try. Like so many others we have
loved and lost, Weave will live onthrough our memories. In time, the pain and
guilt will lessen, and we will find better ways in which to remember him. I,
for one, am reminded of him simply by looking at you."
"Because I let him die."
"Because I saw in him a person of staunch and
selfless dedication. Because I imagine he was one who found joy in simple
pleasures, and in simple goals. Some live their entire lives in search of
grandiose dreams, forsaking any and all who cannot carry on alongside. Then,
there are those like you and Weave, who are content to play their part, however
minuscule it might seem. I may be confused about many things, but I've come to
believe that that is where true nobility lies."
Something in her voice, an underlying sullenness,
caused a strange flutter in Allion's chest. All at once, he had the impression
that she was speaking with a specific person in
mind.
"Simple goals, huh?" he muttered dryly.
"Is that what drew
you to Torin?"
His pulse quickened. Despite his offhanded tone, deep
down, he knew it to be a question he should not have asked. Marisha stiffened
and withdrew, confirming his fears and telling him that he had struck the right
nerve.
"Looking back, I think it was events, more than
anything, that bound us," she said finally. "That and the Pendant. I
was so desperate to understand. With his yearning for the Sword, it just seemed
... I don't know. That there had to be a reason."
Though looking away now, she fell back into him,
laying her head atop his chest. Allion swallowed, feeling her heart as it beat
against his side. "He hasn't abandoned us, you know. He's coming back."
She peered up at him, and Allion was surprised by the intensity in her eyes.
"More and more, I wonder if it would be so bad if he didn't."
Allion gaped in astonishment. "Marisha!"
Before he could say anything further, her lips were on his. Worse, he was
kissing her in return. He knew he should break it off; his thoughts begged him
to. But he couldn't make his body respond.
He knew not how long it lasted. He knew nothing beyond
her taste, her scent, and the intense heat that washed through him in waves.
She shifted in front of him. Her hands were on his face. His were in her hair.
Nothing else mattered to him. Only that he had found his escape—from the sorrow
and from the pain—and, in its place, a bliss that was frightening.
Too late, he heard the rustle of nearby brush. He
forced himself to pull free, to separate his mouth from hers. Opening his
eyes, he gazed past her to see who had come.
Framed in backdrop by the stark and looming branches
of a disease-stricken swamp elm, was Darinor.
Allion froze, the risen warmth gushing from his veins.
He felt Marisha turn, and heard her startled gasp.
For a long moment, the Entient stood his ground,
glaring down on them, caught somewhere between fury and resignation. When at
last he moved to cross his arms, Allion flinched, as certain as he'd ever been
that his death was upon him.
"Corathel has agreed," the mystic rumbled.
"We make for Atharvan within the hour."
"Father..." Marisha began.
But Darinor simply spun about and stormed off through
the jungle brume, leaving them to the chill of a smothered passion.
*****
Torin had just about fallen asleep when there came a
knock at his room's door.
Uncertain of his bearings, he waited for it to sound
again. When it did, he rolled up from the lumpy mattress on which he lay and
padded toward the disturbance. Before he could think to be more cautious, he
threw back the latch and swung the door wide.
There in the hallway of the inn's upper level stood
Saena.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Were you
happing?"
"I wish," he replied. Beset by his
relentless doubts, he had spent most of the last hour or so simply staring at
the ceiling.
"Where's Warrlun?" she asked, peering
within.
"Making arrangements, I'd guess."
"May I come in?"
Torin yawned, but opened the door wider to allow her
entry.
Saena sniffed. "Your room smells as good as
ours."
Torin shrugged, only half closing the door behind
them. The cramped chamber stank of must and mildew. But they had been lucky to
acquire rooms at all. The innkeeper of the Giant's Tongue had laughed, at first,
when Warrlun had inquired about space at this or any other inn in town. Only
after acknowledging the commander's rank and accepting a good deal of extra
coin had the man agreed to relocate a couple of parties to the common room in
order to free up these—one for the men, and one for the girls.
"Shouldn't you be visiting Traver's tailor friend
right about now?" Torin asked.
Saena did not miss the enmity in his tone.
"You're not still worrying about him, are you?"
"Among other things," he confessed.
"Dyanne and Holly don't seem too concerned."
"From what I've seen, Dyanne and Holly aren't
concerned by much of anything."
"Nevertheless," Saena argued, "in this
case, I'd have to agree! Of what harm can he be to the five of us?"
Train's count was a bit different, since he wasn't
exactly considering Saena and Warrlun to be on his side. But he saw no benefit
in admitting that just now. "I don't know," he said instead. "I
guess I've grown weary of putting my faith in complete strangers."
"Perhaps you just need an opportunity to ease
your mind," she suggested. She shifted from foot to foot, eyes wandering.
Torin regarded the woman suspiciously. She seemed unusually
nervous. "Meaning what?"
"Would it trouble you to accompany me to that
festival-opening dance tonight?"
Her gaze pinned his at last. Torin's thoughts switched
suddenly to those of escape. "I'm fairly certain Traver's invite was for
you girls alone."
"Nonsense. The whole region is invited, which
would include you."
"I'm not exactly in a celebratory mood," he
told her.
"Which is why you should go. It'll give you a
chance to set your cares aside."
"Some sleep would do better."
"You tried that already, remember?"
He shook his head. "Saena—"
"Please? If not for yourself, do it for me. I
don't wish to attend alone. Dyanne and Holly have each other. Without a
companion, I fear I might seem to Traver like easy prey."
Torin fiddled with the door pull while peering into
Saena's pleading brown eyes. The last thing he felt like doing was cavorting
with a bunch of rowdy strangers. Then again, it might be better that he stay
close in order to keep an eye on Traver, to make sure the ruffian didn't try
anything untoward with any of his companions. Though quite sure each could take
care of herself, how would he feel if something happened that he might have
prevented?
He looked away, then back to Saena's anxious face.
Holding back a sigh of defeat, he forced instead a meager smile.
"All right."
"Terrific," she replied, her familiar beam
restored. "I'm off to the tailor, then. The festival is set to begin at
dusk, so I'll meet you back here in a few hours. If you must, try to find your
sleep between now and then."
Torin nodded, opening and then shutting the door behind
her.
Once she had gone, he shuffled back to his feather-stuffed
mattress and fell heavily upon it, wishing now that he had simply ignored the
young woman's knock.
CHAPTER F0RTY-0NE Back Table of Contents Next
The next
time Saena came rapping at his door, when the last of the meager daylight had
faded, Torin was sorely tempted not to respond. Though wide awake, standing
beside a poorly sealed window overlooking the rains outside, he continued to
have second thoughts about what he had agreed to.
"Torin? Torin, are you in there?"
He closed his eyes. He had already told the woman yes.
It was too late to ignore her now.
He moved to the door, and with a deep breath pulled it
open. Saena looked radiant in a gown of black and red, woven of a thick
material that hugged her frame. She appeared far too elegant, Torin
immediately determined, to be accompanied by the likes of him, who had scarcely
taken the tirrie to bathe and shave before donning a clean tunic and breeches.
"You look lovely," he managed, and saw her
eyes sparkle. "Are you sure you want to be seen with me?"
She curtsied before him. "I would be honored,
milord."
For some reason, the gesture made him uncomfortable,
and he found himself glancing back and forth down the hall.
"Where are Dyanne and Holly?" he asked,
noting well their absence.
"Traver escorted them on ahead. We're to meet
them at the pavilion, wherever that is."
Torin gritted his teeth before grabbing his cloak from
a nearby hook and handing it to her. "It's still wet out there," he
muttered.
Together, they made their way down to the street,
taking advantage of a rear exit so as to avoid any jeers or stares from the
tavern patrons below. From there, they simply followed the masses. Small wonder
this frontier city had seemed so busy earlier. By the look and sound of it,
everyone within a dozen leagues had come to take part in the celebration.
A light rain dripped from blackened skies, but could
not dampen the spirit that had swept over the people of this city—resident and
visitor alike. Fire hissed atop lampposts and torches and in the hands of
juggling street performers, who sent it spinning and twirling to the delight of
onlookers. Food and drink were everywhere, while music and laughter enlivened
an already festive air.
Saena slowed continually, drawn to one happening or another
with childlike enthusiasm. Torin, however, kept them moving along, anxious to
catch up with his Nymph comrades. He wondered if he might run into Warrlun
anywhere, and hoped that he didn't.
The crowds thickened as they neared an open-walled
stage covered by a wooden roof erected high overhead. The structure was
enormous, with risers and balconies built along the edges. Beneath the
permanent awning, hundreds were in attendance, milling on and around a boarded
dance floor, waiting for the festivities to begin in earnest. Minstrels sang
and played in the background, but as of yet there was more talk than laughter,
more eating than drinking, more mingling than dancing. Activity here was louder
and more heavily concentrated than it had been in the streets, causing Torin to
yearn for the quiet and privacy of his room.
His fears concerning his humble dress, at least,
appeared unfounded. While most of the women wore gowns and jewelry, few of the
men looked any more regal than he, with as many outfitted in tunics and jerkins
as vests and doublets. More importantly, many were wearing their blades as ornamentation.
A great relief, since he wasn't about to let the Sword—even masked by its
leather wrappings—out of his sight. All in all, he felt he blended in nicely.
With any luck, he would escape this insufferable night without notice.
A youthful attendant intercepted them, begging to hold
the lady's cloak for a mere copper. Saena accepted his
offer with one of her smiles, only barely remembering to check with Torin,
whose cloak it really was. He shrugged. It was just a cloak. If lost, he could
find another.
After that, with Saena clinging to his arm, he mounted
a pair of steps to reach the pavilion floor, feeling as though he were wading
into a churning ocean.
"Now what?" he asked of his companion.
"We meet people," Saena exclaimed,
enraptured by the sights and sounds of merriment all around her.
He should have known. Alighting upon one conversation
after another, the woman proceeded to make happy acquaintances of any who
would have her. In a matter of moments, she had introduced him to no fewer than
a dozen strangers, most of whom greeted him with an eager smile and a ready
handclasp. Torin was hard-pressed to see a point to it all. It would be a
miracle if, after tonight, he were to ever encounter any of these people
again. If this quest had taught him nothing else, it was that he was liable to
lose any friends that he made. So why seek to gain any here?
Still, he nodded politely and answered when spoken to,
trying and for the most part failing to remember the names of those with whom
he came in contact. He spent the majority of his time standing around
awkwardly, searching for some sign of Dyanne, wondering how he was to ever find
her amid this throng.
Saena, meanwhile, was never satisfied to remain in one
place for long, always venturing off to engage someone new. At times, she would
seem to simply disappear, abandoning him at the side of one he had only just
met in order to greet another. Thus far, she had always returned. He wasn't
sure what he might do if she didn't.
It was during one of these absences that he found
himself looking abruptly at a familiar face.
"Hello, outlander," the woman greeted.
Jaecy, he. recalled. From the Giant's Tongue. Only
prettier than he remembered her, with braided hair, rouged cheeks, and a
deep-cut dress that exposed more flesh than Torin was comfortable seeing.
"Having fun?" she asked, twisting her hair
into curls with a restless finger.
As he searched for a response, his ears keyed to the
music, which had grown much louder—generated now by a full orchestral troupe.
"The tunes are lively enough," he replied.
Her smile turned lascivious. "You like this ballad,
do you?"
Torin turned his attention to the bawdy lyrics. Too
late, he wondered what he had gotten himself into.
"It has a fair melody," he answered finally.
"A fine rhythm to dance to," Jaecy agreed,
moving close.
"There you are," a voice interrupted.
Torin turned as Saena reached up to seize him by the
arm. With a brittle smile for the local serving girl, his companion pulled at
him with a firm, energetic grasp. He glanced back to Jaecy with a look of
helpless apology, but made no attempt to resist as Saena whisked him away
through the writhing crowd.
"I think we're safe," he observed after
several moments of pushing their way into the throng. The song had ended, and
the dancers were applauding. A perfect time to make their next escape.
He turned to find the nearest egress when Saena spun
him about and cast her arms about his neck. All around them, other dancers were
pairing up, as musical pipes started off what promised to be a tender ballad.
Torin resisted, at first, as Saena began swaying to the slow, smooth tempo,
then finally relented, setting his arms loosely about her waist. It was
pleasant enough, he had to admit, to feel a woman's embrace again—even if they
were only forced together by circumstance.
She drew closer, and he fought the instinct to push
away. Instead, he allowed his gaze to drift over her shoulder in survey of
those around him.
Where he finally caught sight of Dyanne.
He was startled by the reaction just seeing her in
that moment triggered: a warm rush deep in his breast that rolled quickly over
his shoulders and down his spine. The Nymph was breathtaking in a woolen dress
of similar style
to Saena's—tight upon her torso and billowing slightly
over her legs, where it ended several inches above her ankles. Its frills and
highlights were the color of the emerald, set upon a background of deepest
night. Its fit was less than perfect in certain areas—such as the plunging
neckline that revealed more than it should have of the corset beneath. But that
was to be expected of a garment for which she had been fitted at the last
minute. And in a way, such tiny flaws served only to accentuate her own,
natural beauty.
In turning with the music, he was about to lose her,
and so he shifted his head, angling for a better view. Weaving couples clogged
the dance floor between them—a distance of ten or more paces—but now that he
had spied her, he was determined not to let her out of Ms sight.
With her, of course, was Holly, and Torin had never
been so grateful for the pair's camaraderie. For even together, they faced no
small task in warding off the packs of suitors surrounding them. Torin's jaw
clenched when he saw Traver among those that circled like vultures. The man was
hanging back, feigning aloofness as he spoke with another group of ladies, but
his shifty gaze never strayed from Dyanne and Holly for long. That the girls
appeared to be ignoring the scoundrel was Torin's only consolation.
He determined that he would make his way over to her
just as soon as this dance with Saena ended. Even as the idea entered his head,
however, he was struck by a sobering thought What would be his reason for doing
so—just to say hello? Perhaps he, too, might invite Dyanne to dance. But would
she welcome him? Or would she turn him down as she had the rest?
That was it, he realized, the truth behind his
inability to approach her over the past few days. He was afraid. Afraid of
being rejected. Afraid of losing what bond they had. As small and
inconsequential as their friendship must seem to her, it was already more than
he was willing to risk.
The song came to a close. Partners bowed to one
another and withdrew, or else moved off together in search of drink or rest or
any number of social pursuits. As others took their place, Torin merely stood
there in the center of the floor, paralyzed with indecision and self-doubt.
"Thank you," Saena said.
Torin nodded, but could not quite manage a return
smile.
The music turned lively again, and Saena was off to
mingle with the crowds. Torin followed her for a time, climbing the steps of
an elevated'platform at the pavilion's edge. There he stopped to lean against
the railing—a comfortable position from which to keep his eye on Dyanne.
The entertainment lasted well into the night. Revelers
came and went, singing and dancing and, partaking of the festive atmosphere
with all manner of mindless amusements. As much as possible, Torin kept to the
side—like one of the city watchmen there to keep the peace. As tempted as he
was at times, he could not bring himself to let go and join the excitement—not
even when it seemed that Dyanne and Holly had chdsen to do so. Throughout the
hours he watched them as they frolicked from place to place upon the pavilion
floor, offering pleasant smiles and good cheer to all while somehow evading
the more serious overtures that surely came their way. They were like
butterflies amid the throng, capturing attention wherever they flew, but never
constrained to any single area—or any one person—for long.
For a time, Traver followed them everywhere they went.
But even he, Torin noted, eventually moved on in search of those more likely to
fall victim to his charms. Witnessing this brought a smile to the young king's
face. And yet, as he watched Dyanne spurn the advances of one swain after
another, he had to wonder just what a man might do to win her affections.
Every now and then, Saena would return to him,
introducing him to another newfound friend, engaging him in conversation, or
drawing him out for another dance. He tried to' accommodate her, but he was
never more content than when she let him be, allowing him to observe rather
than participate, leaving him alone with his reflections.
Dyanne and Holly remained inseparable. On rare occasion,
Torin caught one or the other's playful smile. Whenever he did, he felt that
familiar tug, the need to confront Dyanne with his feelings—or at the very
least, to engage in some lighthearted activity that might open a dialogue be-
tween them. But time and again, he failed to make himself
do so. He could not take that chance without having at least some assurance
that her reaction would be a positive one. And while he knew not what it might
take to impress her, he felt certain it was something more than he possessed.
Even the most obvious opportunities passed him by,
such as when Dyanne herself began swaying from side to side while skipping
through the crowd to a fast-paced rhythm. Holly followed directly behind,
clinging to Dyanne's hips, mimicking her friend's every lean and shift. Together,
they pranced through the gathered masses as if they owned the entire floor.
Others soon joined the chain, latching onto Holly in the same manner. Within
moments, a string of no fewer than a dozen people was worming its way across
the pavilion, a laughing procession that drew additional members with each
winding pass.
More than once, the string of dancers slipped by
Torin's position. Each time that it did, he had to resist the urge to grab on.
It would be so easy, he told himself, to reach out, to free himself of all
senseless concerns and to join the celebration. Yet with Dyanne at the head,
he dared not, fearing that the string might break beneath his uninvited weight.
The best he could do was to stand aside and admire the woman's cheerful inventiveness,
basking in the delight she so easily brought to those around her.
Indeed, all but he appeared to be enjoying themselves—
and even he no longer wished for the festivities to end. For he might never
again be given a chance such as this, to study the more whimsical side of this
woman he had come to hold in such high esteem. He followed her motions whenever
possible, feeling as if he could watch her forever. There was something
lyrical about her beauty—made all the more stunning by the joyfulness that
went with it. Everything about her was compelling: her hair, strands so
delicate they could only have been woven by Olirian hands; her skin, so bright
and smooth in the gleaming lamplight; her smile, like the lustrous sparkle of a
priceless gemstone ...
Torin forced himself to look away. He did not know
which was more absurd: his thoughts, or his helplessness to properly express
them. The entire issue was ridiculous. He would simply march up to her and
confess what he was feeling. If she cared for him in any measure, she would
flash him that dazzling smile and admit as much. If not, he would continue on
his way, remifiding himself that it was her choice to make.
He had just about summoned the courage to do so when
he saw Jaecy once more. The serving girl was clinging to some fashionable rogue
out on the dance floor, doing nothing to discourage his hands as they slipped
lower and lower about her waist. But unless Torin was mistaken, she was staring
right past her partner, fixing her eyes on him. When she caught Torin
looking at her, she sent him a wink.
His resolve crumbled—not because he was enticed by
Jaecy's interest, but because it occurred to him that he might do all a favor
by accepting his limitations, settling for someone who clearly fancied him, rather
than pining for someone like Dyanne, whose matchless perfection would seem to
place her forever beyond his undeserving reach.
At that moment, a bell mounted in a tower above the pavilion
sounded the midnight hour. Almost at once, the music tapered off. Many in
attendance groaned with disappointment.
"What's happening?" Torin asked of a
stranger beside him at the rail.
"Curfew," the other replied, turning already
for the exit.
Just like that, the evening had come to an end. City
guardsmen stepped forward, urging the revelers to depart. Many seemed only too
eager to comply, to head back to their inns and homes for sleep or else other,
wilder forms of entertainment. Torin, however, felt his heart sink. Though he
hadn't even wanted to attend, he felt cheated by the abrupt conclusion.
As the crowds began to disperse, he looked for his
friends. Saena had left him only moments earlier, but might have been anywhere.
He thought to stay at the rail so that she could find him, until
an overzealous soldier prodded him along.
He was filing out with all the rest, head bowed with
regret and frustration, when someone grabbed him unexpectedly
by the arm. He glanced over, certain to find either
Saena or Jaecy peering up at him.
It was Dyanne.
He blinked, so surprised that he nearly swooned. He
looked down to where she held his arm, which tingled with the warmth of her
touch. She glanced back and forth at the masses around them, then led him aside
into the shadow of one of the pavilion's supports.
"What is it?" he asked. It was all he could
squeeze past the lump in his throat.
She pulled him close, facing him squarely. "Did
you learn anything tonight?"
Their escorts, Torin recalled with an effort. He shook
his head. "Nothing useful. What about Traver?"
"A harmless lecher, from what I've gathered.
Spent half the night trying to look down my bodice."
Torin could not tell if she was flattered by the
notion, or embarrassed. All he could think of was how marvelous this woman was,
how blessed he felt to be here and now the center of her attention. Even among
so many people, it seemed to him that they were alone in all the world.
His stomach tightened. He could deny the truth no longer.
Despite his quest, despite Marisha, he had to know what Dyanne might feel for
him. Nor could he imagine a better opportunity to find out. The magic of this
moment was unmistakable, like that in which he had first drawn the Sword of
Asahiel.
"Where's Holly?" he asked, buying time as he
fought for the right words.
Dyanne huffed. "Traver's trying to convince her
to let him show her a truly good time."
"What's wrong? Are you feeling left out?" he
remarked, and immediately cursed the day he'd been born. The words had been a
reflex, laced with jealousy and sarcasm, born of the secret fear that, indeed, it
was Traver's affection she desired. Regardless, that was not the message he
had hoped to convey.
Dyanne scoffed, and punched him playfully, giving him
a chance, perhaps, to redeem himself. Yet any other words he might offer were
buried beneath their own weight. He couldn't simply blurt out how utterly
enthralling he found her. He had to find a way to soften the blow.
In the meantime, he knew that he should at least apologize.
But before he could even do that much, Saena found them.
"Are we ready?"
Torin thought to excuse himself and Dyanne for a
moment longer, yet wasn't sure how to do so. When Holly and Traver sidled up to
them, he knew his moment had passed.
"We're not spending the night out here, are
we?" the smaller Nymph demanded. Though Traver hovered over her, it
appeared clear that she had spurned his offer.
She continued past, dark threads of hair draped upon
her tiny shoulders. Perhaps it was the energy of the night that lent such a
bold spring to her step. Dyanne turned to follow. Saena led Torin after.
They paused in a long line of others to retrieve their
cloaks, then huddled one last time beneath the pavilion awning.
"I suppose I'll see you all tomorrow, then,"
Traver said.
"Bright and early," Dyanne assured him.
The rogue spoke vaguely to Torin. "I trust you
will see the ladies safely back to the Giant's Tongue?"
Torin glared in response. Traver wasn't even looking
at him; rather, he was glancing about as the dregs of the crowd filtered past,
no doubt searching for one who might yet accept his evening's proposal.
Damn you, was Torin's only
manageable thought.
His curse was not directed toward Traver.
CHAPTER F0RTY TW0 Back Table of Contents Next
He was still berating himself, the next
morning, when he awoke to realize that the previous night had been more than
just a dream. In a way, he was grateful, for it meant that the many images he
had captured in the shadow of that central pavilion—images he had recounted
time and again throughout his sleeping hours—were in fact real moments that he
might cherish forever. By the same token, it meant the conclusion to that
evening—that which had caused him such bittersweet torment—could not now be simply
blinked away.
It seemed almost impossible that he could be so
foolish. For all he knew, his quiet moment with Dyanne had been the only one
she would ever offer him. And he had wasted it. Throughout the hours of
restless slumber that had followed, he had fought to change the words that had
escaped his mouth—those he had spoken to her when it would have been better to
say nothing at all. Alas, only the darkness had been there to listen.
He closed his eyes with a silent groan, unsure which
he should be more ashamed of: his inability to express his true feelings, or
the fact that he should even want to do so, given his betrothal to Marisha.
He'd been so quick to judge Traver, when he himself was no better than a
faithless rogue. For what would he do if he were to discover that Dyanne cared
for him? Would he be able to ignore her as he had Jaecy? Or would he forsake
his private vows and betray the young Lewellyn who but a short time ago had
been the measure of his entire world?
Bile filled Torin's mouth as a wave of self-loathing
washed over him. Regardless of the answer, how could he continue to indulge
this obsession? He had far too many pressing concerns to make matters of the
heart a priority. He had a task to complete, and as soon as that goal was
achieved, he would be leaving this land and all of its inhabitants behind.
And that was exactly as he wanted it.
He forced his eyes open again, waving aside the demons
that picked like ravens at his heart. Predawn shadows blanketed the room's
contents, like dust-covered linens draped over abandoned stores. His gaze
shifted to the bed that lay empty beside his own. Its sheets remained tucked
and folded, unused during the night. Warrlun had never returned, having opted
to remain with Ethrie, most likely, after their long evening of outfitting and
preparation. While the history between Traver and Warrlun went way back, Torin
had learned that it was old man Ethric, Traver's senior partner, who had led
those Finlorian-hunting expeditions of long ago. No doubt, Lorre's chief
commander and former lead bounty hunter had much about which to reminisce.
As if summoned by his musings, there came the scrape
of a key in the outer door lock. The inner latch was already lifted free, left
open in case Warrlun should decide to return in the middle of the night.
Beneath his covers, Torin reached for the Crimson Sword, which lay sheathed on
the mattress beside him.
As expected, it was Warrlun who shoved his way into
the room. He appeared almost disappointed to find that Torin was already awake.
"Up," the old soldier barked. "It'll be
daylight soon."
"Just getting my bearings," Torin grumbled.
"Wake the girls and meet me out back by the
horses. We're on our way before the sun hits its first mark."
With one hand on the scabbard and the other on the
hilt, Torin was fully prepared to draw his blade and run the commander through
if it would appease his own simmering frustrations. But before he could even
complete the thought, the old soldier turned and stomped away, leaving his key
in the lock and the door open wide.
*****
Time did not permit for breakfast, so they packed it
for the road, adding fruits and cheeses and fresh-baked breads from the Giant's
Tongue to the stores of nuts and vegetables and dried meats that would sustain
the members of their company in the days ahead. The task was assigned to
Saena, while Torin worked alongside Dyanne and Holly to saddle the horses.
Warrlun stood by, contributing now and then with a snide comment or stern
command. For once, however, Torin was grateful for the soldier's presence, as
it provided a ready excuse for his own gruff silence as he fought to keep his
eyes from Dyanne.
When all had been made ready, the five from Neak-Thur
led their mounts to a set of stables attached to the rear of the tiny
expeditioner's storefront at which they had first stopped on their way into
town. There, they were greeted by a leering Traver, whose red-rimmed eyes had
darkened from lack of sleep. They stood around for only a few moments while
Warrlun and the wispy-haired Ethric engaged in private conference—barely long
enough to be introduced to the pair of Traver's men who would be accompanying
them. Trackers both, it was said, and accomplished mountain rangers. Torin
forgot their names as soon as they were given, as disinterested in them as
they seemed to be in him.
They set off together, picking their way down muddied
streets toward Vagarbound's central gates. Dawn's rays had yet to break over
the steep ridge of the Dragontails to the east, its arrival naught but a muted
glow through drizzly skies. Nevertheless, the town was already astir. Last
night had been just the beginning, Traver informed them, riding beside the
girls. Starting today, the weeklong festival would commence in earnest, with
events and contests and prizes that promised laughs and excitement for all. A
pity, he claimed, that they could not remain but a few more days. For once,
Torin did not completely disagree with the man. Perhaps if they were to stay
even a little longer, he might find a chance to relive— and rewrite the ending
to—-last night's episode.
The gates had only just been opened when Torin's
company reached them. Once again, they were compelled to wait in line while
teams of clerks and watchmen cleared those coming and going. There were a great
many more seeking entry than exit, Torin noted—thankfully so, as now that he
could see the open road, he felt anxious to be upon it.
"Good speed, Commander," the gate guard bade
Warrlun as the approval to leave was given.
The old soldier grunted, returning the other's salute
as he spurred his mount out onto the downward-sloping roadway. Traver followed,
accepting a nod from the guardsman that seemed to the suspicious Torin a little
too familiar. The girls went next, with Torin on their heels and Traver's
hounds trailing.
They had to ride west a fair ways before the road
turned north again, skirting the line of the mountains. All the while, they
rode in silence—except Traver, whose mouth never stopped moving. Torin's brow
soon ached from glaring so hard. He had expected that once he was free of the
city and the false sense of calm generated by its merrymakers, his wayward
thoughts would be swept aside by a renewed urgency. But while the relative
solitude did indeed sharpen his focus with regard to his quest, not even the
chill northern winds could smother the coals glowing deep within his breast.
Envy and longing burned constantly, as mile after mile, league after league, he
watched Dyanne laugh and smile and respond with wonder to the various jests and
compliments and tales with which Traver kept himself and the others
entertained. She couldn't possibly be as amused as she pretended to be, but
that didn't matter to Torin. All that mattered was that she should allow one
such as Traver the enduring pleasure of her conversation, while he himself was
left trailing behind like some baggage handler in a royal train.
Of course, that was more his fault than hers. Were he
not so craven, he too might share her company, rather than merely serve witness
to it. Dyanne had always seemed confident, fully content with just Holly's
companionship. But nevei had she truly behaved in a manner he might brand
haughty or disdainful. In essence, it was not she who was keeping this
distance between them.
But moments of such clarity visited him seldom, and
even then were quickly buried beneath irrational fears. He could deny it if he
wished, but the truth was, Dyanne was developing an attachment to this
rogue—moment by moment, hour by hour—leaving Torin at a loss to explain why.
Traver was a tall man with thick bones and an athletic build. But he wasn't
what Torin would allow as handsome, and was much too old for her in any case.
His gracious smirk might have been wiped away by a wind gust. Perhaps it was
the man's false charm, his invasive gaze, or the fact that his head, much like
Wedge Commander Jaik's, appeared too large when compared to his body. Whichever
trait she found so endearing, Torin wished that he could borrow it for but a
little while, just long enough to see if she might take a similar fancy to him.
Instead, he was forced to carry on behind the woman as
he had from the beginning, an unnoticed observer, with no choice but to remind
himself that despite all they'd been through, he barely knew her. Certainly her
attentions were none of his affair.
"Are you feeling all right?" Saena asked
him, and only then did he realize how unusually quiet she had been all day.
"Well enough," he muttered, watching his
breath cloud the air. "Just looking forward to finishing mis business."
Saena nodded, then slipped back into silence. All of a
sudden, Torin felt a pang of guilt that had nothing to do with his heart's
betrayal of Marisha. For it occurred to him in that moment just how much he had
come to rely upon Saena's presence—and how he continued to take it for granted.
His thankless manner should have driven her away long ago. Yet for some reason,
she insisted on being the friend that he so desperately needed here in this
strange land. Perhaps it was time to lay his suspicions to rest and do more to
express his appreciation.
But he said nothing, turning both his gaze and his
roiling thoughts back to Dyanne.
They spent the night in the shadow of the mountains,
at the base of the pass known as Goblin Reach. Snow dusted the trail as it
climbed into the rocks ahead, providing a glimpse of that which they could
expect to find amid the higher elevations. Barring ill fortune, they would be
through the pass in a day or two, beyond which lay the Splinterwood. While many
of the signs discovered years ago suggested that the Finlorians had fled into
the highest reaches of the Trollslay and Wyvern Spur Mountains, Traver was
among those who believed that the elven folk would have eventually made their
way down into what was commonly known as the Forgotten Forest, a vast stretch
of ancient wilderness grown up between those twin prongs of the northern
Dragontails. It was there that the search would begin.
Never mind that trackers and hunters and frontiersmen
of every variety—himself included—had been scouring that forest for decades,
Traver snickered, and found no traceable sign.
Torin kept waiting for Warrlun to order the rogue to
be silent, but he never did. Instead, Traver prattled on while Torin consumed
a relatively tasteless dinner without interest. Despite his best efforts to
disappear within himself, he could not help but sneak an occasional glance in
Dyanne's direction, hoping that she might acknowledge him in even the tiniest
way. But she seemed to be genuinely absorbed in the rogue's blather,
encouraging him with her ready responses and pressing for more with her many
questions. Holly was no help, as she was behaving much the same. Torin wanted
to suggest that if they were to stop feigning interest, the rogue might
actually stop, but he did not want the kind of attention such an outburst might
bring.
So he chewed his food and kept his tongue,
ignoring—and for the most part ignored by—his companions. Once or twice he felt
compelled to grunt or shrug in response to an aside from Saena, but in general,
even she let him be. At last, with Traver's voice echoing in his ears, Torin
crawled beneath his lean-to, burrowed into his bedroll, and bade silent
riddance to the grueling day.
He awoke among a bed of misty tendrils sprouted forth
from the sodden land. Once again, he had scarcely slept, haunted by fears and
suspicions and desires and regrets too numerous to recount. Most troubling of
all, perhaps, was the
understanding that this might continue for weeks or
months. Until they were able to drive the Finlorians from hiding, or until his
current comrades tired of the search, he could expect to endure an intolerable
string of days like the last.
His chest ached at the prospect.
He found no time to sulk, however, as Warrlun beat
them all from their tents and into action before the break of dawn. As before,
Saena was put in charge of breakfast, while Torin and the Nymphs and Traver's
hounds—Brolin and Kifur— broke camp. Warrlun and Traver kept to one side,
discussing the day's plans.
They started out beneath another light rain; by now,
Torin was simply grateful that it was not a heavy one. He was far less pleased
with their travel formation, which remained as before—with him stuck near the
rear, watching Traver carry along beside bis companions from the Fenwood. By
mid-morning, he was seething over Dyanne's refusal to simply dismiss Traver as
the charlatan that he was. The man's tales had become ever more grandiose—and,
to Torin's ears, increasingly absurd. But the girls, especially Dyanne, seemed
to hang upon the charming rogue's every word, forcing Torin to swallow his
skepticism and say nothing.
He was beginning to wonder if the problem lay with
Traver at all. For all his scathing reservations, he alone seemed unable to
trust the man. Saena had expressed empathy, at least, but that wasn't the same
as having worries of her own. Might it be that only his fierce and senseless
jealousy was fostering his mistrust?
But no allowances could lay his feelings to rest. Nor
did it seem to matter that it was best he should keep his distance from Dyanne
for the sake of Marisha. Despite a heavy cloak of guilt, his envy was a blade
that would not be turned aside.
It continued to cut at him as the snow cover thickened
and the temperatures dropped. They were well up into the mountains by now,
surrounded by ice and rock and gusting winds. Torin was readily reminded of his
trek through the Dragonscale Cleft much farther to the south, and followed
carefully the path forged by his guides. His eyes drifted from peak to peak,
searching for anything that might result in a rockfall or avalanche.
Even then, his overall focus remained on Dyanne. Foolish
as it was, he could not seem to stop. He told himself that he was hoping for
too much, yearning for something he could, never have. A mortal did not ask for
the hand of a goddess. But with the majesty of her presence shining
consistently before him, it was too much to prevent himself from dreaming.
The thought had no sooner entered his head than she
looked back at him suddenly. Her eyes gleamed mischievously, and that dazzling
smile broke upon her lips. His entire body flushed with an unexpected warmth,
and he forced himself to turn away in chagrin. Could it be that she suspected
how he felt? His emotions had become so strong, it seemed entirely possible
that they had taken tangible form. Had she felt the heat of their brush? Surely
she had noticed by now his stares of obsessed admiration. Had she recognized
them as such? If so, what did she think of him? Would she ever reveal to him
her private feelings?
His eyes settled on Saena, who offered him a
reassuring smile. He might have looked away again, but forced himself to return
that smile instead, determined to avoid Dyanne's knowing gaze. Once again, he
took comfort in she who kept nearest his side. Perhaps she did so because that
had been the assignment given her by Lord Lorre. But Torin was no longer so
sure. By all appearances, her friendship was genuine, and not merely that of a
servant fulfilling her sworn duty. Or perhaps that was what she wanted him to
believe. He dragged his eyes back to the road, tortured by his restless
emotions and the doubts they fostered within him. His suspicions had become
all-consuming. If only he could settle matters with Dyanne, he believed, then
all the rest might lose their edge. But when and how was he to do so?
It wasn't long thereafter that Warrlun signaled Traver
to the head of their column. The trail had begun to break apart, branching into
a sudden maze of draws and defiles. The wrong path might lead to a dead end or
worse. The time had come for Traver to stow his tongue and take the lead.
For a moment, Torin feared that Dyanne meant to ride
ahead with him. But she did not, declining his princely invitation in order to
stay back with Holly. Traver's bow could not mask his disappointment, causing
Torin to sneer with satisfaction.
Now was his chance, Torin realized as they continued
on. All he need do was sidle on ahead to where Traver had been. He doubted that
anyone other than Holly would pay any attention to what he might have to say
to Dyanne. And while it would in fact be nerve-wracking to have the smaller
Nymph listening in, better that than waiting for a moment in which the two were
apart.
But once again, he held his reins and himself in
check. As frightened as he was of what the sardonic Holly's response might be,
he still feared Dyanne herself more. Confessing himself to her would be like
stepping out over one of the blind ledges that surrounded them. He could
readily imagine the lifesaving thrill he would experience should he find solid
footing on the other side. But if there was nothing mere, how severe would be
his fall?
Brisk winds swirled and gusted around them, bearing
light flurries of snow that dusted their cloaks and piled atop the
ever-deepening drifts that covered the trails. But their icy murmurings were
nothing compared to the tempest that continued to build in Torin's heart. It
was fast reaching the point where he would do anything to silence his own inner
voice, even if it meant leaping—in fact—from the nearest mountain ridge.
The sun made a brief appearance, but failed to
penetrate me leaden shield of the skies. Traver kept them moving at a steady
pace, selecting from among the meandering pathways mat snaked over and among
various shelves and corridors of shattered stone. Dyanne and Holly followed
behind Warrlun, just ahead of Torin and Saena. Brolin and Kifur remained at the
rear, hauling the pack horses and keeping close watch on the many dangerous
overhangs of ice and snow.
Come
More than once, Torin detected flashes of movement
among the rocks and deadwood and other mountain debris. Birds and other small
animals, it seemed, venturing forth from their nests and dens to mark the
passing of this strange company through these stark, windswept halls. Though it
occurred to him that any number of larger, more dangerous creatures might have
fashioned homes up here, he was too distracted to grant the matter more than a
passing concern.
Up ahead, Warrlun mumbled something to Traver that
Torin couldn't hear, casting about as if wondering where they were. Traver
responded with a confident gesture and some words of assurance, then kicked his
heels, urging his steed onward into the mouth of a slender defile. Lorre's
chief commander glanced once more at the empty ridgelines, then followed the
other in.
The last of their train had entered when the first
missile struck, driving into the snow at the head of their column almost
before its whistle had sounded. Traver's horse reared, and the clutching rogue
was nearly dumped from his saddle. Warrlun reached for the sword strapped
across his back.
"Ambush!"
Torin's own horse was rearing and stamping, startled
by the sudden commotion. He, too, might have reached for his weapon, but it was
all he could do to cling to his reins. While he wrestled with his mount, shadows
emerged, springing forth from the crags and hollows all around. He saw now the
pair perched on either side atop the cliffs that formed the defile into which
Traver had guided them, and felt the rush of those who closed at each end to
seal the members of his company within.
His thoughts raced. Brigands? Since starting through
the passes that morning, they had encountered not another living soul. What
fool of a brigand would attempt to earn his living up here in the dead of
winter?
A moment later, the truth was revealed.
"Don't be foolish, my friend. Put the blade
away."
Torin whirled toward the sound of Traver's voice, as
he finally brought his edgy mount under control. Their guide had done the
same, flanked now by a pair of frontiersmen armed with loaded crossbows. The
attention of these ruffians, Torin noticed, was aimed not at Traver, but at
Warrlun, farther in.
"What is this, Traver?" the commander
hissed, like a cornered viper.
"Come now, don't ask as if surprised. You can't
expect a man to make any real coin hunting something that doesn't exist."
"His Lordship pays—"
"Food and supplies," Traver responded
dismissively, "little more."
Torin's arm itched, urging him to reach for his blade.
But he dared not. Not with Brolin and Kifur glaring at him, their own swords
already drawn. With them were two others, emerged from some cave or outcropping
that he had overlooked on his way into this tight gulch. Up above, the two
crossbowmen held aim squarely upon Warrlun, but from their elevated position,
it would be a small matter to turn sight and bury a bolt or two in the
outlander's hide. Nine against five, by his tally—and that was counting Warrlun
and Saena as allies. Either way, their enemy held every advantage.
"And your fur trade?" Warrlun pressed.
"Why risk that over a few stolen riches?"
The commander was stalling, Torin realized, which
meant that he, too, understood the severity of their position.
Traver laughed. "I'll still be a furrier when
this day is done—only a much wealthier one."
A few of his men snickered, their breath clouding in
the frigid air. In that moment, Torin felt certain that he and his company were
not the first to fall victim to this band.
Warrlun grunted in response. "His Lordship will
have you hanging from a gallows before week's end. Mark my words."
"My dear friend, how is His Lordship to
know?"
Torin continued to search for an escape. No matter how
he looked at it, he and his friends remained trapped within this corridor of
rock, pinched from above and on either side. At the same time, he felt a
growing fury building within—not just at his captors, but himself as well. For
if he hadn't been so self-absorbed, he might have sensed his enemies' presence
before now.
Now that it was too late.
"Ethric," Warrlun declared, issuing the
man's name in low warning. "Ethric will send word, once he learns what became
of us."
Traver's smug grin slipped somewhat, his expression become
almost pitying. "Who do you think sent my companions on ahead?"
That was why Traver had invited them to
attend last night's festivities, Torin realized. The ruffian hadn't done so
merely to ogle the women, but to give the rest of his band the chance to set
the stage for this assault.
Warrlun was slow to respond. A crimson rage colored
his cheeks, while his gloved fingers tightened about his sword hilt. Torin half
expected him to simply explode.
"If that's true," the commander finally
growled, "then why haven't you killed us already?"
"Because I'd rather not kill all of you,"
Traver admitted, glancing at the women. "Not at first, anyway. Nor do I
wish to have to drag your carcass to where it won't be found. So I'll make you
an offer: Surrender your arms and come with us, and I'll do what I can to make
your death as painless as possible."
Warrlun looked around, marking again the positions
held by Traver's men. "You leave a man little room to bargain," he
said, echoing the rogue's earlier words from back at the' Giant's Tongue.
"But I do have one condition."
Traver's brow arched with amusement before curling in
suspicion. "Drop your sword, and I'll consider your request."
The old soldier obeyed, letting his heavy blade fall
to the earth, where it landed with a muffled crunch in the crusty snow. Torin
shrieked a silent oath as the commander reached slowly to place his hands behind
his head. What was the fool thinking?
"Well then, what shall it be, my friend?"
Traver asked, dark eyes gleaming with triumph. "An amusement with one of
the ladies, perhaps?"
A dreadful smile came to Warrlun's lips, the first
that Torin had seen the man give. "Only that you and your vermin die
first."
Even as the words registered, the soldier's hands
whipped out from behind his head with a pair of concealed daggers. The blades
went flying, hurtling end over end toward the crossbowmen perched atop the
ridge. Neither hit its mark, but came near enough that both enemies missed
theirs. One hastily fired bolt clattered against stone while the other struck
the commander's saddle—empty now as Warrlun rolled to the ground to retrieve
his sword.
That was all Torin saw before he, too, threw himself
aside, using his horse as a shield. The Sword was in hand by the time his feet
struck, and its power engulfed him as his passion was unleashed.
His first thrust took Kifur through the chest,
spilling a wash of blood that set the horses to screaming. Brolin fell next,
followed by one of the nameless brigands at his back. Torin spun then to guard
against the chaos behind him. One of those above was using heavy coat and
shield to fend off Holly's throwing knives, while his partner reloaded. Dyanne
couldn't reach either, and so was dashing toward the front on Warrlun's heels.
She, too, had forsaken her steed, which bucked feverishly but couldn't find the
room to turn around.
The forward crossbowmen flanking Traver held their
ground and took level aim. Warrlun barreled toward them with a growl. By that
time, Torin was reengaged with the lone ruffian still in place at the rear of
the passageway. He would have already brought the man down, but the horses
continued to panic and scream, and his every instinct was required to dodge
their flailing hooves.
He dipped a shoulder without knowing why—until a
crossbow quarrel tore across his cloak and splintered against the mountain
face. He spun and ducked, then fell in a loose tangle as Saena was thrown from
her mount. After bracing her fall, he found himself charging toward the front,
hurdling the tumbled body of one of the perched bowmen. Warrlun, he now
realized, had killed one of the forward marauders and taken up the man's crossbow.
It was his bolt that had felled the one from above.
Dyanne was even now finishing off the other that had
stood beside Traver. Torin fought through another scramble of unknown limbs,
turning himself around once more. He did so just in time to slice through the
descending blade of the last remaining rear guardsman. There was a clutch and a
scuffle, then a shriek from overhead. A crossbow landed at his feet, followed
by a body with the handle of a throwing knife sticking from its eye.
His own horse shoved past, charging after those that
had managed to clear out—either forward or to the rear. He tucked back against
the rock to avoid its charge, only to be pinned there by the crushing bulk of
his remaining adversary. The man took hold of his wrists, fighting to keep him
from bringing the Sword to bear.
Up high the two went, with the larger man smashing
Tor-in's hands against the stone, struggling to break his grip. Eyeing a dagger
in the other's belt, Torin wrested his left hand free, leaving only his right
to maintain hold of the Sword. While his opponent sneered in anticipation of
taking the fiery blade for himself, Torin tore the man's dagger from its sheath
and shoved it deep into the other's gut. The ruffian stiffened, thrashed in
defiance, then fell back with a shove from Torin, staggering on unsteady feet.
Sensing no other immediate threat, Torin pushed
himself away from the wall and tightened his grip upon the Sword. The stubborn
marauder actually plucked the dagger from his own belly and snarled. But before
Torin could finish the job, a crossbow bolt lanced through the rogue's neck,
dropping him to his knees and then flat to the earth.
Torin knew without taking stock that all had been accounted
for.
All but one.
"As you were, Your Highness."
He turned slowly toward the mouth of the defile as the
last of the horses bolted through. Somehow in the confusion,
Traver had managed to worm his way from one end to the
other, past the knot of thrashing limbs and heaving bodies, dodging blades and
quarrels, to reach the opening. There he stood with bloodied mouth and crazed
eyes, clutching tight a human shield.
Saena.
"It's over, Traver," Warrlun spat, fitting
another bolt to his stolen crossbow. He seemed not to notice that he had a pair
of the shafts sticking from his shoulder, with another buried in his side.
"I'll gladly kill her to get to you."
"You might find that difficult to explain to your
precious Lordship."
Warrlun took aim. Traver's eyes widened.
"No!" Dyanne yelled, pushing aside the
commander's weapon.
The old soldier looked like he might just swing around
to put the bolt through Dyanne's face instead, until the tip of the Nymph's
rapier snapped up between them to prick his chin.
Traver laughed, his smug smile making a triumphant return.
"Well, then, it seems we have a dispute as to how we're to haridle
this."
"He's right," Torin said. "You can't
escape us, Traver."
"I can if you wish to preserve the life of this
young lady," the ruffian argued, teasing his knife against Saena's throat.
His cheek was all but flush against hers, but he managed to press closer as he
sniffed the veil of her hair.
"And where will you run?" Warrlun demanded,
his finger still on the trigger of the lowered crossbow.
Traver shrugged. 'The Southland is yet filled with men
of opportunity." One of his fallen comrades gave a dying moan. "Might
be some time before His Lordship lays claim to it all."
The commander shook his head. "A cutthroat like
you would find a knife in his back ere seeing his first dawn. So why not save
us both the trouble? Should you beg, I might even make it quick."
Torin looked to Saena, taking measure of the courage
and fear that warred within her eyes, seeking some sign as to what she would
have him do.
"Or perhaps instead I shall ransom this pretty
thing back to Lord Lorre. Hmm?"
The rogue was desperate, Torin could tell. Despite his
bluster, he had never imagined the odds could turn against him so quickly. And
yet, desperate men were the hardest to bargain with, for a man with nothing
more to lose could not be relied upon to make rational decisions.
"What about a trade?" Torin asked.
Traver snaked a glance in his direction. "A
trade?"
"You know what this is, don't you?" Torin
replied, shaking the Sword in emphasis. "I'll wager you asked your
friends working the city gate if I carried it, and they gave you a good
description. It's what you and your men came for, is it not?"
Traver's greedy eyes turned back to Warrlun, too late
to hide the truth.
"You'll have it," Torin assured him,
"if you agree to turn her loose."
Traver snorted. "So that our commander there can
put an arrow through my back the moment I turn around?"
"You can take me instead," Torin offered.
"My companions will make certain he doesn't harm you."
He wasn't sure the plan made sense. All he was looking
for was a way to break the present stalemate, to remove Saena from harm's
way—even though it required every ounce of willpower he could summon not to
rush the brigand here and now. Which was more important: his quest, or the life
of this lone woman?
Then again, his quest seemed hopeless. Without Traver
to steer mem, they'd be lucky to escape this maze their guide had led them
down. His mission had failed, so why not salvage what he could?
His enemy, he could tell, was making his own
calculations. The others awaited Traver's response with bated breath—all but
Warrlun, who continued to huff and snort like a rampaging bull.
"Toss the blade over here," the outlaw
commanded. His scowl suggested that he was not yet convinced of Torin's plan;
but evidently he had decided to play it through.
Torin recalled again his face-off in Spithaera's lair,
and that with Lorre on the battlefield of Neak-Thur. In both instances, luck
had rewarded him: once for his defiance, and once for his willingness to admit
defeat. He wondered suddenly how many times he would be forced to endure this
scenario, and how much longer his luck could hold out.
Though it pained him to even imagine Traver's oily
hands taking hold of the divine talisman, Torin capitulated. He did not toss
the Sword, as Traver had asked, but thrust it like a battle standard into the
earth. Crimson flames bubbled up like springwater as they enveloped the buried
portion of the blade, melting the snow and causing the bedrock to glow.
"Step back," Traver snarled.,
Again Torin paused, wondering if this was the right
course. He could assume that his friends would not honor his hasty offer of
safe passage. But even if he could rely on them not to permit Traver's escape,
killing the rogue would become much more difficult once the man had taken
possession of the Sword.
He took a reverse stride, comforted by the warmth of
the Pendant, even as he ached at leaving the Sword behind.
Traver's wary eyes narrowed in warning, and he
tightened his grip on Saena's throat. Her terror looked to be melting beneath
the heat of a rising anger, leaving Torin to pray that she was not
contemplating something foolish.
Despite all of his careful reasoning, what happened
next was not something Torin could have foreseen. As Traver waited for him to
continue his retreat, there came a sharp and violent crack from the mouth of
the defile. The ruffian stood straight up, arched at the back, while Saena was
thrown forward by a sudden momentum. Traver's clinching arm slipped from her
like a length of loose rope, while at the same time, his dagger fell from his
other hand, barely nicking the woman's throat as she pitched to her hands and
knees.
Torin lunged ahead to catch her, snatching up the
Sword as he went. Traver never moved. He simply stood there, eyes wide, mouth
agape, as if mounted on a pole. A moment later, a stream of blood spilled over
his tongue and teeth, and his body slapped down face-first at Torin's feet. The
young king looked up from the wicked gash that appeared to have severed the
dead man's spine, and spied immediately the shadowy figure standing over
him—holding an axe that dripped a line of fresh blood from its gleaming edge.
CHAPTER F0RTY-THREE Back Table of Contents Next
Bloody axe or no, there was something odd
about the figure standing there now in the mouth of the narrow defile, something
more than his startling appearance and inexplicable actions. He had the height
of a middling child, but with his broad shoulders and heavy coat seemed almost
as square. In truth, Torin could not even confirm yet that it was a he—or
even human—as the shadows of the mountain cleft prevented him from seeing into
the depths of the other's cowl.
Torin held perfectly still, one knee upon the earth as
he crouched over Saena, sword arm ready. It was too early to know if the
stranger was a friend come to save them, or merely a rival come to claim
Traver's unsecured spoils.
"Get her up, ya fool," the stranger rumbled
in a husky voice. "She ain't got the skin to be lying in the snow."
Torin rose slowly to his feet, pulling Saena up with
him. Together, they stood to one side of the defile. Her eyes went to Traver's
corpse, while his remained fixed on the new arrival.
"We're indebted to you," Torin offered.
The stranger gave a snort. "You be the man who
belongs to that blade?"
Torin glanced at the Sword before granting a wary nod.
"Torin, I'm guessing. Of Pentania."
The outlander's suspicions deepened. "And what do
we call you?"
The stranger shifted, as if taking stock of those
farther down the trail. He had yet to lower his axe. His squat form and bold
stance reminded Torin suddenly of Arn—except that he was a good head or two
shorter than that, even.
At last, their mysterious savior seemed to arrive at a
decision. With one hand still gripping the handle of his weapon, the other
reached up over the top of his head, pushing back his concealing hood.
Saena gasped, though she moved quickly to stifle it.
Torin felt his own eyes widen. Before either could react further, Dyanne made a
sound of indignation as Warrlun slapped her rapier away and, ignoring the line
of blood drawn on his own chin, raised his crossbow, taking aim once again at
the far mouth of the defile.
"What are you doing?" Holly demanded,
crouched halfway between Dyanne and Warrlun at one end, and Torin and Saena at
the other.
But Warrlun wasn't listening, his gaze squeezed in
focus upon his target. "Clear aside!" he shouted to his companions.
"Wait!" Saena managed, overcoming her own
surprise to step farther out into the shot's path.
Torin wasn't sure what to do; neither were his friends
of the Fenwood. Holly was glaring at Warrlun, but Dyanne was casting back and
forth between the soldier and the stranger, as if uncertain whom' she should
trust.
"Commander, I beg you," Saena implored, her
hand raised as a shield. She then turned her plea upon Torin. "Don't let
him shoot."
That was enough for Torin, though it took a moment for
him to find his tongue. "Dyanne."
The Nymph was back on Warrlun in an instant. He tried
to fend her off, but she ducked his swatting arm and seized hold of the
crossbow quarrel buried in his side. With a twist of the shaft that made him
cry out, she slid in close, positioning her blade this time below his belly.
"It'll hurt a good deal more if you pull that
trigger," she promised.
Warrlun grimaced, but refused to drop his weapon.
"Daft wenches. Can you not see he's a dwarf?"
Dwarf. That would explain it. The
unnatural build, squar-
ish and stout. The gravelly voice, like pebbles
rolling downhill. The spiky beard, erupting outward like a tangle of roots.
And the bony protuberances that covered his face and skull, like a cluster of
bulbous mushroom caps seeking to sprout through his skin. Torin had never seen
a dwarf before, but the descriptions he'd read as a child fit this individual
like woven mittens.
"Bah, let him shoot," the dwarf gruffed.
"Them darts ain't gonna hurt this skull." He tapped the flat of his
axe blade against his forehead for emphasis, striking one of the spurs grown up
like a blister on his brow.
"Dwarf or no, he saved my life," Saena
reminded Warrlun.
"Yet hasn't told us why," the commander
growled.
"You've not given him a chance," Holly
snorted.
"Then let him do so now, the filthy mole, before
I take the wind from his throat."
"You must be Warrlun," the stranger drawled.
"
"You seem to know all about us, friend,"
Torin intervened. "Have you a name you would share?"
The dwarf seemed to grind his teeth. He looked to
Torin, one eye pinched in judgment. He then lowered his axe, leaning forward
upon its upended haft. "Call me Crag, if ya like."
"And to what do we owe the fortune of your visit,
Crag?"
"Looked like the lady could use some help."
Warrlun was incensed. "Are we to stand here
questioning him all afternoon? He's stalling. Probably waiting for his pack to
catch up so that they can trap us all over again."
Torin took note of Crag's simmering reaction, even as
he fought back against his own exasperation. "And what would you propose,
Commander?"
"That you quench that fiery blade of yours in his
belly so we can round up the horses and make our way out of here."
"Hardly a proper show of gratitude," Holly
observed.
"Why should we be grateful?" Warrlun huffed.
"How do we know he's not in league with Traver?"
Torin glanced down at the body of the ruffian leader,
cooling upon the earth. To his own surprise, he felt little satisfaction in
the other's demise. "A strange way to treat one's comrade."
'Treachery is what dwarves do best," the
commander warned.
Crag bristled. But while Torin's overall sympathies remained
with Saena and this stranger who had rescued her, he knew that Warrlun raised
some valid concerns.
"Your timing would indeed appear
Olirian-blessed."
The dwarf shrugged. "I might've shown sooner, but
I saw no reason to trap myself with the rest of ya."
'Then you knew about the ambush?" Torin scowled.
"Why not warn us?"
"I told you," Warrlun spat. "Ain't none
more treacherous than a dwarf."
Crag's voice became a low growl. " 'Cept for them
that slaughtered 'em."
"Enough!" Torin shouted. "Dyanne, if
our good commander speaks again, take his tongue." He looked then upon
Crag with a heavy sigh. "This would go faster, friend, if I didn't have to
beg your every word. So I'll ask once more: How is it you've come to be
here?"
Crag continued to glare at Warrlun for a moment,
before turning his stony gaze back to Torin. Even then, he seemed to be keeping
watch upon the other out of the corner of his eye, as if anything less would be
unwise.
"These here are my trails," the dwarf
said finally. "Anything passes through, I know about it."
There came a huff from Warrlun, but Dyanne's ready response
with the tip of her blade discouraged anything more.
"Go on," Torin urged.
"Last night, a handful of your friends spent the
night in one of my caves." The dwarf gestured disdainfully at a couple of
the bandits' bodies. "Spent hours wagging their tongues, flapping 'mong
their selves 'bout the trap they'd come to lay. Spoke of a king from Pentania,
man named Torin, rumored to wield a sword of elven myth. Said he done teamed up
with Warrlun, chief commander to the villainous Lorre—that together, they was
in search of the elves what went missing decades ago. Need I go on?"
"You learned of us from Traver's men," Torin
repeated, making sure that he understood. "Meaning, .again, that you could
have warned us earlier."
Crag's huff might have been a laugh. "And which
of ya would've believed me?" His eyes flicked round to the others. Even
Saena, Torin noticed, was uncomfortable meeting his gaze.
"Seems clear your kind is not! well liked here in
the north," Torin acknowledged. "So why risk mixing in our business
at all?"
"Got wax in your ears, lad? This is my land,
and it's all I got. Whatever takes place here ain't just your business, but
mine."
For a gruff old fellow, he seemed to Torin
particularly sensitive. "What I mean is, why take part in our struggle,
knowing this would be the thanks you'd receive?"
The dwarf seemed suddenly uncertain of himself.
"I figured to stay clear, just keep an eye on things—-till it came
evident none of the rest of ya were gonna help the lass."
His disapproving frown softened, somewhat, as he
looked to Saena. Torin, however, saw only that the dwarf had evaded the more
obvious truth. As charitable as he might claim to be, Crag wanted something. It
was the only reasonable explanation.
"Well, then," Torin decided, "perhaps
it would be best for all if you were to accept our gratitude and allow us to be
on our way." He took hold of Saena's arm, pulling her back as he gave a
polite bow.
"And where do ya think you'll be headed?"
"As you heard, I came here in search of elves.
Until I find them, my search continues." He turned away, marching back
toward Holly and the others.
"Is it any o'l elf you're looking for? Or did ya
come seeking the Vandari?" Torin spun, breathless. "What did you
say?"
"Did I misspeak the name?"
"You said Vandari."
"Ah, then ya did hear me."
"What do you know of them?"
"I knows my history, is all. Said to be the
guardians of the talisman you now bear. That not right?"
"What do you want?" Torin asked.
"We ain't talking 'bout what I want. We're
talking 'bout what you want."
"You know where theyare."
Crag lifted a hand from the butt of his axe, holding
it up as if to slow things down. "Don't be putting your words in another's
mouth, lad. I ain't said any such thing. I'm only trying to draw bead on what
it is you're doing here."
Judging by their continued silence, Torin's
companions— even Warrlun—were as stunned as he by this odd turn of events. It
was difficult to think clearly, here amid the rocks and the snow and the
carnage. The sickly sweet smell of blood filled his nose, an odor to which he'd
not yet become inured.
"Well why else would a man wielding a Sword of
Asa-hiel be carrying out such a desperate search?" Crag pressed.
"Hoping they can tell ya how to use it, I'm guessing. Or are ya merely
looking to return it to its rightful owners?"
Torin frowned at the mockery in the other's tone.
"Whatever it takes to warn them of the peril that came with it."
This time, Crag's laugh seemed forced. "Got a
ghost story to tell, do ya, lad?"
"Let's see how good your history really is,"
Torin challenged. "Ever heard of the Illysp?"
The dwarf's brow furrowed. "Can't says I
have."
"You soon will. You and those you care about. For
when they're finished conquering my shores, I've no doubt they'll come to
conquer yours."
Crag's smirk vanished, and his squint deepened.
"You humans finally chased the wrong animal up the wrong tree, did
ya?"
"The Illysp are not natural creatures,"
Torin continued, "but parasites from beyond this world. I won't claim to
fully understand, as I've never actually seen one. But I'm told it was the
Finlorians who first woke them, and that if we're to seal them away again, it
won't be without the Finlorians' help."
"Then this threat is to all of
Pentania?"
Torin nodded wearily. "Without prejudice."
The dwarf looked as if he were chewing on his
thoughts— and didn't like the taste. "If this be true, what cause have ya
to be traveling with one like him?" He nodded toward Warrlun, who clenched
his jaw but remained still.
"An Unfortunate encounter with the armies of Lord
Lorre," Torin confessed. "But he knows this country better than I do.
Without him, we're lost."
"And yet he'd have ya rely on one like
this," Crag noted, kicking Traver's motionless foot. "Looks to me
like you'd be better off without him."
"You know someone else who can help us,
then?"
Again, Crag's expression soured. "Lorre and his
kind chased off them Finlorians long ago. Ya know that, right?"
Torin nodded. "I've been told. I've also been
told that the last of the dwarves were wiped out soon after."
Crag spat. "Ain't far from the truth, I'm afraid.
Thanks to that one's master."
Torin winced and checked again on Warrlun. He wished
the dwarf would stop testing the other's patience.
"We've not come for bloodshed," Saena
promised. "I, too, come from His Lordship, merely to bear a message to his
daughter and grandchild, whom he believes are being harbored by the same
people Torin seeks."
This time, Crag's laugh was genuine. "I'll shave
my beard and be a web-footed orc 'fore I believe that one, lassie."
"Either way, you can't refuse Torin for our sake.
If you can help him, you must do so."
"Must I, now?" the dwarf asked, raising his
brow. "Was it him saved one of mine, rather than the other
way 'round?"
Saena pouted, but crossed her arms in defiance.
"We've told you what it is we want," Torin
reminded the dwarf. "So tell me now, what is it we can do for you?"
For a moment, he thought the other meant to deny any
such need or desire. Were he to do so, Torin had every intention of walking
away, for it would be an obvious lie.
"I can tell you this," the dwarf offered.
"It wasn't word of this elven talisman that piqued my interest, but
mention of you and your homeland, a royal outlander from far-off Pen-tania. Not
many of those come 'round here."
Torin nodded slowly, trying to guess where this was
headed, but as of yet uncertain.
"My great-grandfather used to speak of your
land—back when it was still called Tritos. Used to fill my head with the many
wonders of the great dwarven nation of Hroth-gar settled there. Himself lived
upon one of the lesser isles, among the Tuthari dwarves, distant cousins to the
proud Hrothgari."
Risking offense, Torin snuck a glance back toward
Dyanne and Warrlun, just to make sure the Nymph still had things well in hand.
To his surprise, the commander had lowered his crossbow, though his fierce
scowl—and Dyanne's ready blade—remained.
"Sailed 'cross the great sea, he did," Crag
continued. "No place for a dwarf, I tell ya, out there 'mid the wind and
waves, where nothing is permanent and all is motion. But he did so, him and a
few hearty clansmen, to help settle this virgin land and sow the seeds of a new
nation of dwarves that would not be confined by the smallness of the isle upon
which his forefathers had long lived."
A ragged gust whistled through the slanted walls of
the narrow defile. Holly shivered. They had tarried for too long, Torin
thought. They needed to be on the move again, and soon, before the skies
soured. Of course, they also needed to know where to go.
The dwarf went on, oblivious to such concerns.
"They were not alone. Other races came, to join those already here. The
land was plentiful, but unforgiving, and competition fierce. Still, we dwarves
are tougher than most, steadfast and determined. It took centuries of struggle,
but in our own way, the Tuthari flourished."
"Until the coming of Lorre," Torin presumed.
"Until the coming of Lorre," Crag echoed.
"His reign marked the end of ours. When my people would not stoop to his
will, he sent forth his army of misfits to break our backs. Not only that, but
he turned our other neighbors against us, trolls and giants. We was branded
traitors and thieves and
slaughtered without cause. Them Finlorians, they were
the smart ones. They ran. Us Tuthari fought, and paid the price.
"Too late, we fled southward, those of us able to
escape the noose Lorre had laid. Still he hunted, and so still we ran, down
through northern Yawacor and into the southern wilds. His armies drove us from
all but the most uninhabitable reaches, and even then, would not let us
be."
The fire in the dwarf's eye was unmistakable.
"You need not fear ambush from my friends, for I'm all there is—the last
of the Tuthari of Yawacor. The last anywhere, from what I know, as it wasn't
but a generation after my great-grandfather's voyage that our original ground
south of Tritos was overrun by the endless waves of marauding humans come to
claim the Finlorian Isles. Let your commander there kill me, and indeed the
dwarves of this land will be no more."
Torin still wasn't certain what this dwarf—this
Tuthari— was looking for. If it was pity, then he had found it, at least among
the women, who had turned their collective glare upon an unapologetic Warrlun.
But Torin didn't think that Crag was interested in their pity. Pity would not
bring to life his loved ones. Pity would not reunite him with—
Torin caught himself. His gaze locked with that of the
dwarf in sudden understanding.
"Might be that I'm able to help you," Crag
said. "Might be that in return, you can help me leave this land behind and
set sail for your own, so's I might live again with my own kind."
But Torin was already shaking his head. "The
Proclamation of Man was ratified nearly four hundred years ago. Any dwarves
living upon Pentanian shores disappeared even before then."
"Not the Hrothgari," Crag maintained stubbornly.
"From what my great-grandfather used to tell me, had man driven-them out,
struggle would've been such that the whole world would know of it."
"Perhaps your great-grandfather was merely
telling stories. For I'm advising you now, in fair warning, that there are no
more dwarves living upon Pentanian shores."
Crag scoffed. "Precisely what the Hrothgari would
have you humans believe."
Torin glanced helplessly at Saena. "So be it. If
you're so certain, why not set sail on your own? What do you need me for?"
The dwarf eyed him with great disgust. "What am I
to do, lash together a few limbs and just float away at the mercy of the waves?
Think, lad. Ain't but a few out there what wouldn't run screaming at the mere
sight of me—fewer still what wouldn't sell me to those who'd like to mount my
head as a trophy. I'm trapped, make no mistake. Doomed to wander these trails
as I begin my second century, my best hope that I can outlive the hatred what's
claimed these lands.
"But you could help me now. I heard the awe with
what these others spoke your name. Seeing for myself the blade you carry, I
think I understand why. And a king, no less. Man like you got influence. With
your protection, just might be I'm able to cross the sea safely and find a
place 'mong my cousins to the east."
Torin was sorely tempted to laugh. If he had such sway
as the dwarf suggested, would he be allowing a complete stranger to dictate to
him the terms of their potential accord? Or perhaps he could relate to the
other the truth of his own recent journey, so much of which had been spent at
the mercy of others. He was lucky, certainly. But considering how far he had
stretched that luck already, he doubted it would hold out for two.
He said nothing of that to Crag, however, biting back
the threat of laughter. It would not help his cause to weaken himself in the
dwarf's eyes.
"I'd be happy to serve as your guardian escort on
such a voyage," he agreed instead, "though I'll not be held responsible
for who or what you might find when we arrive. But the fact remains, I'll be
going nowhere until I've accomplished what I came here to achieve."
With that, the pressure was shifted squarely onto
Crag's knotted shoulders. Though Torin's promise would no doubt prove easier to
give than to keep, it was the best he could offer at this time. The dwarf
scowled as if realizing this, as
if weighing its worth against that which he was being
asked to give.
Torin found himself holding his breath. By the sour
look on the other's face, it wasn't going to be enough. Despite whatever
soul-searching and effort had brought the dwarf to them in the first place, he
was clearly having second thoughts about the entire affair.
"Just yourself," the Tuthari reasoned
finally. "None of these others need go."
Holly cleared her throat. "Where he goes, we
go."
Torin looked to the Nymph, then farther back to her
kin-mate. When Dyanne nodded, he found it hard not to smile.
Crag squinted sharply. "That how it is?"
"They're Wylddean," Torin replied.
"Fenwa. You try telling them no." "
"Nymphs," Crag snorted. "I heard of
'em." His smirk—if that's what it was—vanished as he turned eye to Saena.
"And Lorre's lackeys? Now would seem a good time to be rid of'em."
Saena looked at Torin plaintively.
"Rid how?" the young king asked.
"That'd be up to them. For the lass's sake, I'd
say turn 'em loose, provided they foot it out in the opposite direction.
Should they insist on following, might have to tie 'em up—though with the
wolves 'round here, might be kinder to give 'em the blade of my axe."
"I told you," Saena insisted, "I bear a
message, nothing more: The only knife I carry is for cooking."
"Shame ?bout that," Crag replied,
his gaze slipping briefly to regard Traver's bleeding carcass. "Meat of it
is, I serve them Finlorians as lookout, gatekeeper to their lands. It would be
a betrayal of their trust to guide one such as him"—his eyes narrowed
reflexively as they shifted toward Warrlun—"to their front doorstep."
So that was it, Torin realized, the reason for the
dwarf's pained hesitation. The risks in all of this to his own life were easy
enough to accept. Those to the safety of his friends were much harder to
assume.
"I'm sworn to His Lordship to serve as guardian
to the girl," Warrlun growled, breaking his long silence. "You'll
have to kill me if you expect me to forsake my oath."
"Wolves will be pleased to hear it," Crag
replied icily.
"What if we blindfolded him?" Torin
suggested.
The Tuthari grunted—another harsh laugh. "You'll all
be bound and blinded," he agreed. "Ain't no other way of
it."
Torin swallowed against his own misgivings. "And
if we can agree to that, what's the danger?"
"The worst there is," Crag snapped.
"That which ain't readily seen. The Finlorians, they don't believe in
fighting. Abolished all weapons years ago when they ran from Lorre. Don't have
as much as a hunting bow among them, since they feed only on what the soil can
grow. Should a fight find 'em, they have naught but cooking knives with which
to defend themselves"—he looked purposefully at Saena—"and even so,
would refuse to raise 'em."
"But you'll be there to watch over him,"
Torin reminded the leery dwarf. "As will I."
"You willing to vouch for him, then?"
Torin considered the old soldier, Warrlun, who glared
back with a gaze full of fire. The man refused to be cowed, and had revealed
himself already as a formidable opponent. While it was tempting indeed to leave
him to the rats and the wolves, the commander had done nothing as of yet to
deserve such a death sentence. So long as he was kept under close watch, and unable
to mark the path by which Lorre might return with an army, what could be the
harm?
"I'm willing to promise that if he threatens
anyone in any way, I'll kill him myself," Torin answered finally, keeping
his eyes locked on Warrlun's as he made this oath.
By the gnarled look on his face, the dwarf was nowhere
near agreeing. But it would seem he'd run dry of alternatives. "As close
as we'll come, I reckon, to a fair pact."
He stepped forward then, reaching out a gloved hand
riddled with spurs and growths. Torin shook it firmly, though he nearly cried
out within the crush of the other's grip. Crag stared him in the eye, then spat
and shook his head, as if disgusted with himself for accepting the-terms they
had set.
"Fools," Warrlun snarled. "He'll kill
us all in our sleep."
A legitimate possibility, Torin knew. But if Crag had
wanted them dead, why would he have helped them against Traver? The dwarf was
too blunt-spoken to strike Torin as the liar Warrlun claimed him to be. Either
way, when the truth boiled free, the young king was willing to team with this
stranger—as he had
"Crag will have to show the same trust later
on," Torin observed, "if he is to give himself over to my protection."
"If you make it that far," Warrlun
snapped.
"A concern that needn't worry you," Crag
retorted, finally releasing Torin's hand, "unless ya rest your tongue long
enough to tend to those wounds."
Warrlun glanced down at the array of crossbow bolts that
had pierced his leather armor to become lodged in his flesh. While the damage
to his shoulder appeared largely superficial, blood seeped from the one in his
side.
"My wounds will keep," he decided.
"I'll not trust any here to tend them—least of all some pox-ridden
dwarf."
Torin wasn't going to waste time arguing. "We'll
need to round up the horses."
"You'll just have to turn 'em loose again,"
Crag reasoned. "They ain't gonna be able to follow where we're
going."
"What of our food and supplies?" asked Saena.
"Got plenty 'nough for the day or so we'll
need."
Torin looked to each of his companions before turning
back to Crag. "Well, then, how do you want to do this?"
The dwarf hefted his axe so that it leaned against his
shoulder. "Come," he bade them. "We'll fetch some rope."
CHAPTER F0RTY-F0UR Back Table of Contents Next
For Torin, it was like marching through a
dream—scuffing along that dark and twisted trail to nowhere. The air was dank
and stifling and stank of minerals. Water dripped, not from leaves and tree
limbs, but from dagger-tipped rock formations. These drops echoed as they
fell, slapping often into invisible pools, or else atop sister formations grown
up beneath. There was the skitter of insects, the flap of bat wings, and the
scrape of an occasional rodent. But mostly, there was only the huff of their
own breathing, the pull of the ropes that bound them, and the insufferable
repetition of stepping forward with a blind and trusting stride.
While backtracking through the defile in which
Traver's company had ambushed them—leaving the bodies of the brigands as
carrion for scavengers—Torin had expected Crag to lead them down some other
trail. Instead, after blindfolding them as promised and tethering them
together in a single line, the dwarf had guided them almost immediately down
the gullet of some cave. Saena had quickly voiced Torin's own surprise that
their trek should begin underground, but Crag refused them the slightest
explanation.
For hours they had carried on, with no choice but to
trust in the motives and competence of their guide. Only Warrlun gave
protest—muttered warnings to his companions as to the foolishness of this
course. Once Crag had threatened to gag him, even the commander's tongue grew
still.
When according to their guide night had fallen
outside, the Tuthari had removed their blindfolds, revealing a won-
drous cavern. Its natural formations were like nothing
Torin had ever seen—not even during his trek beneath the
They had slept in their tether line, hands bound by a
length of rope to the waist of the person in front. Torin had been placed near
the rear, aback of Holly, Dyanne, and Saena, with only Warrlun behind him. If
there was a method to the order Crag had chosen, Torin wasn't sure what it was.
They had suffered through just a few hours' rest
before moving on again, their footing challenged at every step by the often
jagged flooring. Though Crag served as the front of their tether, kicking aside
loose stones and sending back warning of any trouble spots, they had spent a
good amount of time tripping and stumbling over various humps and jags in the
Stone path. Oftentimes, a single member's fall had threatened to drag down the
entire company—save for Crag at the head, whose strong and stocky body seemed
capable of bearing the weight of all who followed with scarcely a grunt.
It was daybreak when they had stopped for another
meal—though once again, Torin had only his guide's word to go by in this
sunless underworld. During this respite, they had suggested again to Warrlun
that the soldier allow them to treat his wounds—at the very least, to remove the
crossbow bolts still buried in his flesh. But the commander had gritted his
teeth and flatly refused any such proposals. Stubborn fool, Crag had grumbled.
If that was what he wanted, so be it. It would serve the dolt right if he bled
to death.
Continuing on, they had passed through a stretch of
tunnels so tight that at times, the walls scraped at them from either side.
Torin had felt as if he marched through a thicket of brambles, with sharp rocks
tearing at him like thorns. How Warrlun was able to manage it—with his thicker
body and those snagging quarrels—remained a mystery.
On occasion, Crag had removed their blindfolds, when
necessary to prevent one of them from falling into a subterranean chasm, when
climbing over boulder mounds, or when otherwise the terrain became simply too
treacherous to navigate blindly. Though brief, these periods had afforded them
continued glimpses of the territory through which they trekked, a stunning maze
of channels and pockets hidden deep within the mountain core, full of sparkling
deposits of minerals and gemstones seldom viewed by human eyes. That such a
world could exist beyond that which he knew filled Torin with a humbling sense
of awe.
A sharp pull from behind brought him back to the present,
scrambling for balance as the rope cinched about his waist and threatened to
haul him down. Warrlun had stumbled again. Turning sideways, Torin reached out
with bound hands to help the other to his feet. They had only heartbeats in
which to get moving again before the ropes tightened farther up the line and
Crag became aware of the difficulty they were having. More than once, the dwarf
had threatened to leave the headstrong soldier behind. For as the hours passed,
weariness had aggravated the hunger and blood loss that the commander continued
to suffer, making it ever more difficult for him to keep up.
Surprisingly, Warrlun found and then took his hands,
struggling mightily to his feet. The length of rope between Torin and Saena
drew taut, and she gasped worriedly. But the old soldier was up and moving
again, and this time did not even snarl at Torin for helping him. Perhaps the
man was truly waning toward death. This journey had taken its toll on all of
them, but none more so than Warrlun. While much of this was indeed the warrior's
own fault, Torin could not help but admire the man's tenacity, and hoped now
that it would not prove his undoing.
"Everything all right?" Crag asked, his
gruff voice echoing amid the cavern gloom.
"Is this the easiest way to get there?"
Torin called forward in response, hoping to deflect the dwarf's attention.
Crag did not respond right away, but muttered finally,
"It's the only way."
Not long after, the blindfolds were removed again as
they passed through a wide cavern torn apart by bottomless fissures. Torin
snuck a glance back at Warrlun to find the other's face pallid and dripping
with sweat. Even in the feeble light of Crag's torch, there was no denying the
commander's ragged state.
Torin said nothing about it, however, other than to
offer the man some water, which, despite a scowl, he drank readily. They kept
moving, winding around the many pitfalls and keeping a wary eye on the shadows
that painted the cavern walls. Though it seemed unlikely—given the lack of
sizable prey to sustain it—Torin kept expecting to run across some ogre or
dragon living within these caves and tunnels. Maybe even a demon from another
world, such as Spithaera. For however improbable such an encounter might seem,
he need only look ahead to the dwarf leading their column to be reminded that
anything was possible.
When they had cleared the splintered cavern, Torin
fully expected that Crag would stop them in order to replace their blindfolds.
Instead, the Tuthari delved without breaking stride into a tight-fitting corridor
of dank stone, leaving the rest to plunge after. Perhaps their guide realized
that at this point, after a day and a half of travel, there was no conceivable
way that they could have memorized this path. Or perhaps another unnavigable
stretch lay just ahead. Whichever, Torin wasn't about to offer a reminder.
As they continued down this most recent tunnel, there
came a murmuring from somewhere ahead. Torin was only vaguely aware of it at
first. But the sound grew, in volume and intensity, until its roar filled his
ears, deep and resonant and unrelenting. By that time, he could feel it as
well, beneath his feet and in his chest. The air in the tunnel became damp,
and the walls slick, soaked by a thickening layer of mist. Footing became
treacherous as the companions struggled onward over stones and depressions in
pursuit of their guide.
The tunnel brightened, filling with natural light.
Crag extinguished his torch, stuffing it into a sack along with the others
he'd brought. As they rounded a bend, the light grew tenfold, forcing Torin and
his friends—so accustomed to the darkness—to squint against the sudden glare.
Ahead lay the end of the tunnel, its mouth covered by
a churning waterfall and the clouds of mist stirred up beneath. Despite the
sting of afternoon daylight, the companions slipped anxiously forward, more
than ready to leave the suffocating blindness of the inner earth behind them.
Before they could step free, however, their guide
turned back, gathering them together at the edge of the cave mouth.
Over the din of the cascading waters, he shouted to
them.
"This is it. The Finlorian dell lies just beyond
this threshold. Aefengaard, they calls it." His eyebrows knotted sternly.
"One false step from any of ya, I'll be carving ya up like a festival bird.
Hear?"
Torin nodded solemnly, then turned toward Warrlun just
in time to see the big man sway unsteadily. Before he could lend assistance,
the commander crumpled, legs gone slack beneath him.
The soldier lay there for a moment, slumped against
the algae-coated walls, as the others looked on.
"Go on," he managed between breaths.
"I'll wait here."
Torin's gaze shifted from Warrlun to Crag.
"This some kind of game, Lorre's man?" the
dwarf asked.
But it was clear that it wasn't. Warrlun's face had
taken on the pasty gleam of candle wax. His breathing was shallow and labored,
wheezing in and out. Peering down at the crossbow shaft in his side, they found
his leathers soaked in blood. Though much of it had clotted, there was no
telling how things looked on the inside.
"He's my guardian," Saena said.
"I'll stay and look after him."
"Better would be to tote him 'long and let the
Finlorians tend to him," Crag observed.
At that, Warrlun tensed, glaring up at them with
bloodshot orbs. "I'll not be pawed by some greasy elf, any sooner than a
filthy dwarf." He settled back, coughing from his exertion. "Go.
Deliver His Lordship's message. By the time you've returned, I'll have regained
my strength."
The companions glanced at one another, each waiting
for someone else to speak the truth.
It was Crag who finally did so. "More likely,
we'll find you dead."
"Better here than in an elven wood," Warrlun
spat.
Harsh manner notwithstanding, Torin looked upon the
soldier with a measure of compassion, wishing that such grit were not so
misplaced.
"If that's your choice," Crag huffed,
shaking his head. He bent forward, drawing a dagger with which he cut the
tether line between Torin and Warrlun. Once severed, the extra length was used
to truss the soldier's feet in a manner to match his wrists. It seemed a cruel
thing to do, as it was obvious the man wasn't going anywhere. But Crag would
take no chances, and Torin wasn't willing to fault him his precautions.
When satisfied, the dwarf unstoppered Saena's
waterskin and offered the dying man a drink. Warrlun reluctantly accepted.
Unfortunately, he appeared all but unable to swallow, leaving the majority of
the water to wash down his chin.
Haying made every effort, Crag snorted, looking upon
the man with what seemed a cross between pity and disdain. He then shouldered
the bundle containing the companions' weapons, making certain not to leave a
single blade behind. Turning his back upon the doomed warrior, he stepped beyond
the mouth of the tunnel, guiding the rest ahead.
From where they stood, the trail snaked out to the
left of the plummeting waters, skirting the edge of the mountain bluff. The
river into which the falls emptied lay far below— several hundred feet, by
Torin's estimation. Rather than stare down that dizzying height, he forced his
eyes back to the narrow path upon which he trod, shuffling dutifully after his
companions at the end of their rope train.
After awhile, the cross slope became less precipitous,
allowing the trail to widen and draw back from the edge of the cliff. When it
did, Torin's gaze slipped out to the walls of the valley—emerald mountains
striped with silver ribbons of meltwater runoff. It was a relatively small
dale, not more than a couple of leagues running north and south, and perhaps
half that in width. The sheer, towering peaks that surrounded it did indeed
appear impassable save by flight, making somewhat more believable Crag's claim
that the valley's only entrance was that which lay behind them.
There wasn't much to see below. If any had settled there,
then they had done so beneath the forest canopy—a dense ceiling unbroken by
glade or clearing. Even the river vanished as it entered that unforgiving
thicket. Torin searched in vain for signs of humanoid life. Except for the
colorful flash of birds winging from treetop to treetop, alighting carefully
upon the surface, it appeared nothing that entered ever came out again.
Eventually, they too were swallowed by the lush
tangle. More jungle than forest, Torin now realized, overgrown with varieties
of trees and plants that even he, raised in a wood, had never seen before. As
wild as it all seemed, however, he began to wonder if much of it wasn't
cultivated. For it struck him that in an area so densely grown, there was precious
little deadwood. Competition should have been fierce, for water and for
sunlight; indeed, even the largest trunks were sheathed in smothering ivy. Yet
all appeared healthy and verdant, as if woven together by a singular, guiding
hand that had worked to ensure a cooperative and harmonious existence.
The more he saw, the more certain he became. There was
magic at work here, a vivacity in the air. Everything around them was a perfect
profusion of color and song. A watering rain trickled in glistening streams
down trunks and stems to lie in pools that fed the earth. Butterflies flitted
upon a gentle breeze, dancing overhead as if inviting him to play. Stranger
still, Torin found himself wishing he could join them, that he
and his friends might laugh away the remainder of this
day while scampering through the forest in spirited delight.
At the same time, he was horrified by the thought. For
his very presence seemed a blight upon this land. Marching along the narrow
animal trails, they could not help but leave their mark upon this pristine wilderness.
Every torn leaf was an insult; every boot print a scar upon the earth. He was
ashamed to so defile this mystical region, and knew that the sooner they were
away, the better.
But Crag led them onward, pushing past flowering
shrubs and bushes laden with berries—now, in the dead of winter. . They spied
birds and insects, rabbits and deer, each of which, again, seemed at perfect
ease among the others with whom it coexisted. And yet, no matter How hard he
looked, there was still no sign of those Torin had come to find.
"Where are the Finlorians?" he asked
finally. "You said this dell was their home."
Crag snickered. "All around us, lad. Safely out
of sight. Or did ya expect 'em to come running out to shake your hand?"
Torin glanced about self-consciously. He hadn't known what
to expect, though this would not have been it. Not after what he had
glimpsed of the splendors and marvels that had marked Finlorian society at the
height of their civilization.
When finally they came to a halt, they did so unexpectedly,
beside no discernible marker. And yet it appeared they had reached at least a
temporary destination, for Crag untied the rope that had tethered the Tuthari
to his charges, and let it drop to the earth.
"Stay here," he ordered them, then wagged a
crooked finger for emphasis. "Remember my warning."
With that, he trundled off around the base of an
enormous tree, carrying their weapons with him. Torin's gaze shifted
reflexively, climbing upward through the nest of boughs. He wondered if it was
up inside the trees that the Finlorians had concealed their homes. But all he
saw were dagger-shaped leaves and great, peeling strips of bark that hung down
like withered vines. If anything lay therein, then it was well concealed from
his wandering eye.
They waited in silence, listening carefully for any
change in the forest's mellifluous sound. Despite the magnificence of his
surroundings, Torin was soon distracted by Dyanne. Though he tried not to be
obvious, he could not help but study her profile whenever he felt it safe to do
so. In full thrall to whatever enchantment graced this land, he found her to be
xnore radiant than ever. For too long now, his in-teractions with her had been
limited to longing, unnoticed stares. He ached to know her thoughts, but could
not bring himself to ask. Whatever she might be feeling—toward him and toward
their current venture—remained a mystery.
It seemed almost cruel when Crag finally returned to
them, reappearing from around the base of that giant tree. He did not look
happy, his hanging expression like that of a scolded child. But then, Torin had
absolutely no notion of what the dwarf might look like when pleased.
"Come," the Tuthari growled, taking up their
tether line like a horse's lead rope.
The companions did not ask where he was taking them;
they simply obeyed. Together, still bound and in single file, they started
around the tree. A smile of amazement slowly gripped Torin's cheeks when he
realized that the tree's roots formed a sort of staircase, spiraling downward
as they rounded the great trunk. Had there been any question before about
whether the Finlorians had manipulated this land through some magical means,
there was no denying it now. '
With each step, Torin's excitement grew. This was it,
the culmination of a journey spanning weeks and events he could scarcely
recall. From the moment he had bid farewell to his friends and passed through
Krynwall's gates, this had been his sole objective: to find and meet with the
last remnants of the elves of ancient Finloria. Even throughout all of the
secondary conflicts—his escape from Soric, his battle against
Marisha—he had never completely lost focus of what it
was he had come to do. And though it seemed as unlikely now as before, he felt
certain that his quest was about to come to a fruitful end.
For if a people could tell a tree how to grow, then
surely they possessed magic enough to help thwart the Illysp scourge.
They stopped again when the staircase of roots leveled
out, barely more than a quarter-turn around the mammoth tree. There, among the
gnarled folds of the tree's bark, lay a narrow cleft, veiled by a curtain of
ivy. Alone, Torin might never have seen it. Even after Crag had drawn back the
dangling strands, he doubted it could be the opening they sought.
"Watch your step," the dwarf said, then
disappeared within.
The cleft turned out to be much bigger than it looked,
carved at an angle so as to disguise its width. No, Torin amended quickly, not
carved, but shaped smoothly by natural—or supernatural—means. It opened not
into a central hollow, but a corridor that sloped gently downward, spiraling
deeper beneath the earth. Keeping step behind their guide, the companions
followed it—a path illuminated not by fire or sunlight, but by hairlike roots
dug down through the ceiling that glowed with a dim radiance.
"What causes them to shine like that?" Saena
asked, unable to contain her wonder.
Crag glanced back as if to reprimand her, but answered
instead. "Tree filters it down from leaves overhead. An elven trick."
"Magic?" she replied, speaking the word on
everyone's mind.
The dwarf shrugged. "Something like that."
The tunnel wound on until leveling out at last within
a large chamber—a foyer. Openings branched off in multiple directions, doorways
to reaches unknown. Flowers grew in the center of the floor, beneath a heavier
concentration of light from the glowing root tendrils. Other roots dripped
water that had seeped from above, directing it into a spring pooled up from
below and hemmed in by a wall of shale.
Streams fed out from this pool by way of slender
troughs dug along the walls, carrying water, Torin imagined, throughout the
complex.
He was given little time to investigate further. Crag
marched them ahead, around the central garden and to the left of the corner
pool. They passed through one of the doorways and down a short hall. This one
opened into a second chamber, larger than the first, and colored by a familiar
red aura.
Only then did Torin realize that Crag no longer toted
the fur wrap in which their weapons had been bundled. He found it instead lying
against the wall, just inside the doorway of this second room. The covering lay
open, but Torin barely glanced at its exposed contents. For he knew already
that the one artifact that concerned him was no longer there.
He looked instead for the source of the red aura. A
woman stood sideways in the center of the room, staring with wonder into the
flaming depths of the Sword of Asahiel, held before her. The wrappings used to
disguise the hilt hung from one arm, and she was even now stroking the naked
heartstones with a mother's caress.
A moment passed before, she could force herself to
break away, and even then, she only scarcely considered them before turning
back to the blade.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm afraid I
did not believe Crag without taking a look for myself."
Her voice had a songlike quality to it, so that even
these simple words sounded smooth and lyrical. Torin waited anxiously for her to
say something more.
Again her gaze shifted to them, and this time,
something made it stick. A scowl sharpened her already angled features.
"I should think you could unbind them,
Crag."
The dwarf grunted. "I doubt that would please
Eolin."
"Too late to worry about that now, isn't
it?"
Crag huffed, but within moments, the companions were
rubbing at the angry red welts raised upon their wrists.
"Seat yourselves," the woman bade them—a
demand, not a request.
She gestured toward the circle of furniture that
adorned
the room, each piece woven from reeds and branches and
tied together with strips of bark. Dyanne and Holly were the first to obey,
stepping forward across a carpet of moss. Saena soon followed, and finally Torin.
Of their party, only Crag still stood, planted in the chamber doorway with arms
crossed.
Their host remained standing as well, facing the open
circle of her guests. She held the Sword absently now, one hand on its hilt,
the other near the blade's tip. "Which of you carries the message from my
father?" she asked.
"You are Laressa?" Saena replied.
"Daughter Of Lorre?"
"I am Laressa Solymir, daughter of Shaundra and
wife to Eolin Solymir—keifer of the elven nation of Finloria. Who are
you?"
Her stern tone, Torin decided, could not mask her
exotic beauty. Though lightly freckled, her skin had just a hint of the olive
tone he had seen in the Mookla'ayans—the elves of his own shores. Cheeks, ears,
eyes—all were prominent and high swept, angled at the outer edges. Her hair was
blond and short, cropped close like her father's and tinged red by the light of
the Sword—though the fact that she had hair was perhaps proof of her
mixed heritage, as none of the Mookla'ayans Torin had met grew any at all.
Yet it wasn't her appearance that captivated him as
much as her voice, her intense gaze, and the supple grace with which she moved.
So delicate she seemed, dressed in a long, sleeveless tunic of pure gossamer.
But that delicacy, Torin suspected, was a ruse, a natural defense against those
who would misjudge her a weak and fragile thing.
"I serve in your father's army," Saena
admitted. "He asked that I come here to apologize on his behalf for any
pain or confusion he may have caused you. He never wished for anything more than
your happiness, and swears to this day that he will do anything to ensure it.
If this is the home you have chosen, for you and your child, then rest assured
for the remainder of your days that he will do nothing to violate it. He wants
only to know that you are well, that you have chosen your own life, and that
none other has chosen it for you."
Torin looked to Laressa, awaiting her reaction. The
woman seemed at a loss for words.
"That's all?" she asked finally.
"His Lordship wasn't certain what else he might
say, except that you are the one triumph he is truly proud of, a tribute to
your mother—the only woman he has ever loved."
Laressa's eyes gleamed. Torin wanted to believe that
she had been moved by Saena's words, but couldn't tell for sure.
"Then he did not send you in an effort to renew
his hunt of my Finlorian brothers and sisters?" Laressa asked evenly,
glancing in Crag's direction.
"Only if you were to ask that he do so,"
Saena revealed. "On his oath to your mother, he will sunder the earth if that's
what it takes to deliver you from captivity."
Torin continued to study Laressa, even as a great
weight lifted from his own shoulders. Saena's words reflected almost exactly
what Lorre had expressed during his own interrogation. All this time, he had
worried that the overlord was not being honest, that surely his agents—Saena
and Warrlun—were the bearers of some secret plot against the Finlorian people,
making Torin an unwilling facilitator of their designs. But now that Saena's
story matched up with Lorre's own, it would seem he could finally lay his suspicions
toward both the woman and her ruler to rest.
Laressa smiled sadly. "Captivity. He still
assumes me to be the victim of an elf's enchantment, then, does he?"
Saena did not respond, allowing the elven woman to
draw her own conclusions.
"My father never did understand," Laressa
continued, her pointed gaze seeming to peer past her uninvited guests. "He
never understood why his acceptance—and that which he would force others to
share—wasn't enough."
"Acceptance?" Saena asked, bent forward in
her seat by that natural curiosity of hers. "You were already married,
were you not? And with child?"
"To a man my father selected—a man I did not
love. Though it is true I carried his seed, theirs was not a culture to which I
wanted that child to be born. I feared that she might feel as I did, like an
outcast amid the human race."
"She. You bore a
daughter, then?"
Laressa's countenance hardened in warning.
Saena pressed on anyway, though with a tone of
carefully measured respect. "Except, with a human father and a half-elven
mother, was she not likely to look more human than elf?"
"It was more than physical appearances that
concerned me," Laressa confessed. "Her looks, like mine, might have
made her an easy target for insensitive fools of both races. But a fool's
ridicule is not all that hard to endure." Her fingers began to rub idly
against the Sword's polished blade. "No, my concern had more to do with
culture and ideologies. My features may be predominantly elven, but it was more
the beliefs and mannerisms of the Finlorians that I found so appealing. In a
way, my father is right to believe that I was bespelled. For when Eolin
welcomed me into their world, my own rapture made me helpless to refuse."
"You must have known it would mean war with your
father," Torin interjected before he could think to check himself.
Laressa's gaze snapped around to find his.
"War was his choice, not ours. To avoid
it, we left all that we knew behind. Eolin's fattier, keifer at the time, did
so at his son's urging, refusing to fight out of respect for me and my
father."
"And would you do so again?" It was Dyanne
who spoke up now. "At what point would you take a stand to defend what is
yours?"
There was a hint of frustration in the Nymph's tone—or
indignation, perhaps. She was trying to be polite, Torin thought, to refrain
from passing judgment. And yet this was the very question that had driven such
a rift between her and her twin sister, Dynara.
"A home can be made anywhere," Laressa argued,
"and is easily replaced. Lives are not.*'
"It doesn't bother you, then, to have been chased
underground like animals?" Torin asked, thinking to defend Dyanne and
her reasoning.
"How would you have us live?" Laressa asked
sharply.
Torin glanced toward Dyanne, but saw no help coming
from either her or Holly. "I only mean, it's a far cry from what I saw
while trekking through the ruins of Thrak-Symbos."
Laressa laughed. "Thrak-Symbos? That was what,
three thousand years ago?" Her gaze slipped briefly to the talisman in
her hands. "Every people must evolve, both the individual and their
society. Some whisper that it was the arrogance of our forebears in embracing
material glories such as those you may have witnessed that led to our eventual
downfall. Although I might argue that we are better off now than we ever were.
Certainly, we are less obtrusive to those who would hunt us."
It was a useless debate, Torin saw. As long as the
Finlori-ans were happy with their chosen existence—and judging by Laressa, it
seemed clear they were—then he had no business trying to interfere.
He nodded gently, then lowered his eyes so that they
fixed upon the Sword. "A people's choice, as you say. But as you know,
those who find themselves in a position of authority have a responsibility to
protect the lives of others as best they can. As Crag surely mentioned, that is
why I've come to you."
Laressa shook her head. "I know not what to tell
you in regard to your quest. Crag mentioned the Illysp—a term I've never
heard—and the Vandari, who are but legend. I gather this enemy of yours is
something you unleashed with the reclamation of this Sword. I understand as
well that you feel my Finlorian ancestors are somewhat to blame. But I know not
what you expect my people to do about it."
Torin gaped, then stiffened in denial. She had to be
bluffing. He hadn't come all this way only to fail now.
Before he could articulate a better reply, they were
interrupted by the snort of surprise Crag gave as another—an elf—entered the
room from behind the dwarf, an arrival marked otherwise by not the slightest
whisper of sound.
"Noi mi, Eolin," Laressa
greeted. "Grin mat derrota anh Crag."
—
"So I see," the newcomer grumbled. "A
blind gnome could follow the trail they left." Tall and slender, he, too,
wore a long and lightweight tunic of some shimmering weave, cinched at the
waist with a silken rope. "Hym na decress a'i?"
"Ti thar Asahiel, noi mi, ugremme ti terrec Thrak-Symbos."
Eolin's bright eyes narrowed. "By whom?"
Laressa gestured smoothly in Torin's direction.
"Torin, by name. A ruler of one of the human kingdoms occupying the isle
of Tritos."
Eolin glanced back and forth between Torin and the
Sword, with what looked to be a flurry of emotions vying for control.
"Laressa, my sweet, perhaps our guests are ready for some fresh air."
"Dehta?"
"We'shall talk later," Eolin reassured her.
Scowling at Crag, he added, "All of us. For now, I would speak with this
Torin. Alone."
Laressa looked as though she might refuse, then bowed
her head instead. "As you will, my love."
Without a word to anyone else, she rounded up the others.
Torin stood, but remained behind as his companions were herded toward the exit,
his feet kept rooted by Eolin's giare. Laressa passed her husband the Sword on
her way out.
At the chamber doorway, Saena turned back, a look of
concern painting her features. But Crag put a rugged hand to her back, moving
her along.
For several moments thereafter, Torin stood silent,
taut with anticipation while Eolin studied the Sword as his wife had earlier.
Finally, the young man could wait no longer.
"What is it you would say to me, sir?" he
asked.
Eolin's eyes lifted from the blade, his expression of
awe becoming one of cruel mockery. "It is not what I have to say to you,
but what you have to say to me."
Torin frowned, uncertain of the game being played.
"You have come to beg my audience, have you not?
For I am Eolin Solymir, keifer of Finloria."
Torin was fast growing weary of the other's smug
smile. "It is not necessarily your people's ruler with whom I came to
confer."
"No," Eolin agreed. "You came to meet
with the last of the Vandari."
CHAPTER F0RTY-FIVE Back Table of Contents Next
"How do you know I seek the Vandari?"
Torin asked. Unless he was mistaken, neither Crag nor Laressa had had a chance
to relay that information to the elf standing before him.
Eolin's grim smirk tightened. "Because as keeper
of their trust, I know full well the consequences befallen anyone fool enough
to draw this key from the lock in which it was placed." He hefted the
Sword—the key—for emphasis.
"The Illysp," Torin replied. His mind raced,
struggling to keep step with that of the critical elf.
"A name you could not possibly know," Eolin
countered, "unless given you by another."
"Darinor, scion of Algorath, gatekeeper of the
Illysp seal. He told me—"
"He told you of the Vandari, they who created the
seal and the only ones who might be able to do so again. He sent you to beg our
aid in doing just that."
Torin wanted badly to correct the elf, to say
something that might put a crack in the other's smug confidence. But, thus far,
Eolin's assumptions had been completely accurate.
"Do you wish to hear my story?" he asked
instead.
"On how and why you stole this talisman? For what
purpose? So you can offer up excuse as to your actions?"
Torin's frown deepened.
"I care not whether you are an ignorant fool or a
vain one. The truth will not change matters now, will it?"
"Perhaps not. But if we're to agree on a course
of action against this enemy, we must consider—"
"We?"
"Those of us,who must unite in order to thwart
the Illysp rising."
"And pray tell," Eolin urged, seeming
amused, "why should that include me?"
Torin was dumbfounded. "Are you not sworn to
uphold the integrity of the barrier constructed by those of your order?"
"I am sworn to no such thing," Eolin
claimed. "It was Algorath who agreed to keep watch over that which my
forebears set in place. The Vandari have always served as keepers of the
Swords. But that obligation ended when the last of the talismans was
buried."
"It has now been unearthed," Torin reminded
the other with a low growl.
"Through no fault of mine," Eolin snapped.
"And as I will not be implicated in the Sword's removal, nor will I accept
the burden of responsibility you seem so eager to displace."
"You are responsible for the lives of your
people, are you not?"
"My people are safe enough," the elf
asserted. Before Torin could object, he added, "That was the response your
people gave when we Vandari sought their aid during the original Illysp War. I
see no reason to sally forth to your rescue now that the tables have turned."
"That was different," Torin stammered in
protest.
"Indeed it was. For my people had not
hunted yours to near extinction. And yet they were refused anyway."
Torin recognized clearly now the morbid satisfaction
that the elf was taking from all of this. It was a reaction he had not
foreseen, and one he wasn't sure how to combat.
"I'm told it was your people, the Finlorians, who
first unleashed this scourge."
"And we paid our price," Eolin remarked
bitterly. "Now, it seems, it is your turn."
"How can that be your response?"
"You expect sympathy? I've watched my kind be
butchered and harried for far too long to feel any pity for humans. Let mankind
suffer the consequences of his own invasiveness— first, in having unleashed the
Illysp, and second, in having
eliminated those who might have been able to do
something about it."
Torin's hands clenched into fists as he fought back
the desperate fury rising within. It was not difficult to see the irony to
which Eolin referred. But to take delight in it, to willfully stand back and
watch a people fall victim to their own nearsightedness, was not something he
was prepared to allow.
"Are you telling me you will do nothing to
help?" "What would you have me do? We are trapped, my people and I,
here in this valley—by the armies of man. Were I to venture forth, I would be
killed before given the chance to explain my purpose."
Torin leapt at the opening. "Lorre has made an
offer of reconciliation to your wife. You need not fear his reprisals."
The elf's hairless brow lifted in surprise, but fell just as swiftly, weighted
with distrust. "Only a fool would take that butcher or any who serve him
at their word. And even if the warlord's offer were genuine, would he then send
his armies to defend against the legions of huntsmen who would slay an elf
merely for sport?" Eolin shook his head. "What you suggest is a
preposterous risk no Finlorian would take." - "Yet no greater than
the risk taken by Algorath in defying the will of his order to come to your
aid." Eolin scowled.
"Remember?" Torin pressed. "The
Entients may have refused the Vandari, but Algorath did not. He delivered to
them the Sword—the very talisman you now hold—even wielding it in their behalf.
In doing so he risked his life—against the Illysp and against his own brethren—and
sacrificed forever his position in their order, sentencing himself and his progeny
to eternal exile." "The Entients—"
"Are today as they were then," Torin
finished, "blinded by an agenda the rest of us cannot comprehend. Nor
should we care to try. That is their business. Ours should be doing what we
feel is right, for ourselves and for those we care about. Do not ignore, as
they did, a danger so easily seen."
Perhaps it was the Pendant, still hidden against his
breast, that gave Torin the confidence to speak so boldly. Or perhaps it was
the sheer magnitude of what was at stake. Either way, he was not about to
relent.
"Let not the fate of your people—and mine—be
determined by the many grudges you rightfully hold. What is past cannot be
helped. So let us put that aside and give full attention to the future."
Eolin gazed momentarily into the fires of the Sword.
But as Torin braved a step toward him, the proud elf raised his bald head in
continued defiance.
"The animosity that mankind has shown—to my race,
as well as others—is not merely a thing of the past. My people have accepted
that, even buried the arms we would use against him. But he has done nothing to
earn our forgiveness. Nor is he entitled to the kind of sacrifice you would ask
us to make."
"Then consider not the faceless masses,"
Torin urged, "only, repay the kindness that Algorath showed you."
The elf's brow smoothed, his expression becoming impassive—an
indication, perhaps, that Torin's words were making a difference. Nevertheless,
the young king held his breath as he awaited the other's response.
"All your fancy pleas cannot change the truth of
things,"-Eolin replied at last. "The Vandari and their powers are no
more. What little knowledge I have would be of no use to you."
Torin took another step forward. "Tell me."
"And waste more time recounting what this Darinor
has no doubt shared with you already?" The elf frowned reprovingly.
"I know not how long you have traveled in search of my advice. Regardless,
the best I can give is this: If you wish to defend your people, I would
recommend you hurry home and do so."
*****
"Ravenmoon lily," Laressa said, stopping to
point out yet another rare and spectacular bloorn.
The one called Saena bent close with admiration.
"Smells of lavender," she said, smiling pleasantly. She stepped
back then, affording her companions a better view.
"But tell me, even with all of this around you, do you never feel
trapped?"
Laressa withheld a sigh, already weary of the woman's
relentless questioning. "Shelter and clothing, food and medicines—whatever
we need, the land provides. Why should we desire to venture forth beyond the
walls of this valley?"
"I was raised the daughter of farmers,"
Saena replied. "I know something about living off the land. But even the
land has. its limitations."
"The land supports us as long as we support
it," Laressa argued. She gestured at the lush foliage surrounding her and
her uninvited guests. "As you can see, this valley is well tended."
"But as your numbers grow—"
"Every child born is but another caretaker,
devoted to the health of that which sustains us."
Saena swept their surroundings with a wondering gaze.
"You make it sound so easy."
Laressa smiled. Though irritated at being asked to
keep these others occupied while her husband questioned Torin privately within,
she did feel a certain sense of gratification at their continued appreciation
for her homeland. She had been suspicious of it, at first, but was fast coming
to believe their interest genuine.
"Nothing worthwhile comes easy. But when you
follow your passion, it often seems that way."
She turned down another trail, her movements a whisper
as she passed through the undergrowth. The three women behind her followed
respectfully, strolling along as gently as they could. The pair farther
back—the Southlanders—had said not a word since emerging from Laressa's home.
Saena, on the other hand—her father's messenger—seemed unable to sate her
curiosity.
"Why do your people continue to hide from us? Can
they not tell we pose them no threat?"
"You must understand what a shock it is for Crag
to have brought you here," Laressa replied, glancing back at the surly
dwarf who kept watch from the rear of their party. "It was his people, the
Tuthari, who helped us to locate this valley. Aside from them, you are the
first outsiders to visit Aefen-gaard since we settled it."
"Crag did everything possible to hide from us the
route that brought us here," Saena assured her.
"So he told me. And I believe him. Nevertheless,
my husband and I will have a fair amount of explaining to do on his
behalf—especially once our people learn that you are emissaries sent by my
father."
"Just her," came the reminder from the
smaller of the two Southlanders.
Laressa paused again, this time to study Saena
intently. "Indeed. The greatest surprise of all, I must say—that'my father
should entrust the safety of his messenger to a band of Southland
strangers."
A confused look came over Saena's face. "He
didn't. One of his most trusted lieutenants came as my guide."
Laressa turned a questioning gaze to Crag, coming up
from behind the others.
"Left him bound at the cave mouth behind the
Veil," the dwarf responded.
"And why is that?" Laressa asked him.
"Man could barely stand, much less hike any
farther. Dolt was wounded back in the mountains, and refused treatment."
Laressa frowned. "Why did you not mention this
earlier?"
"Ya hadn't finished scolding me 'bout these
others I told ya was waiting outside."
Laressa's frown deepened. She started to say something
more, but decided it would only prolong the argument. Instead, she spun about,
setting course through the forest garden.
"Where are we going?" Saena asked, hurrying
to keep pace.
'To help this man, of course. We can't just leave him
to die."
"His choice," Crag huffed. "Not mine.
Man has the head of a mule."
Laressa glared back at him. "Most do."
Though pained by the sound of whipping vines and tearing
leaves resulting from the movements of those who followed, she continued to
push ahead quickly. No good could come from any of this, she was certain. She
was happy for Crag, hopeful that the bargain her friend had struck would indeed
lead him back to Tritos and the kin he believed still resided there. And
indeed, should the danger this Torin spoke of prove real, then the dwarf had
done the right thing in trying to help.
But at what cost? It was not logic she wrestled with,
but a feeling, deep in her heart and lungs. After twenty years, her people's
haven had been breached by the outside world. As innocent as that might seem,
she could not help but fear this intrusion to be the beginning of a larger
series of events set to change her life forever. Even the greatest catastrophe
grew from the smallest of seeds—like pebbles before a rockslide or raindrops
before a flood.
She did her best to shake the feeling. Hopefully,
Eolin would be able to tell the outsider what he needed to know and send him
swiftly on his way. Hopefully, this unexpected visit need not have any effect
upon her people after today. Though easier to hope than to believe, perhaps her
worry was unfounded.
The roar of the Veil grew louder as they made their
way up the path alongside the mountain precipice. Laressa seldom traveled the
route. In all the years, she had found little cause to visit the caves serving
as threshold to Aefengaard. Though it provided a decent view of the dell below,
there were other trails leading up into the encircling bluffs that were just as
wonderful. Her daughter was more the hiker than she, and more adventuresome.
While Laressa was not as old as she sometimes felt, she had already seen more
than her fill.
As they neared the stretch of waters that poured over
the cave mouth and gave the falls their name, Crag hustled forward, taking the
lead. It hadn't yet occurred to Laressa that this man they were about to visit
might be dangerous—left bound and on the verge of death. No doubt her Tuthari
friend was merely being cautious.
Then the dwarf halted abruptly, stooping to inspect a
small depression in the rocky trail. The mark didn't seem like much to Laressa,
but, whatever it was, Crag didn't like it. He half turned, muttering beneath
his breath, though she couldn't hear him over the falls. Before she could ask
him what was wrong, he drew his axe and dashed ahead.
The water-slicked path had become narrow and treacherous,
but that didn't stop Laressa and the others from rushing after. A moment
later, they stood together just inside the cave, where Crag glanced about in
confusion. From what Laressa could see, mist alone filled the empty tunnel.
The dread feeling that had been bothering her
tightened, constricting in her chest. Something was wrong. Braced upon his axe,
Crag knelt to one side of the tunnel wall, there to inspect what appeared to be
a set of torn bindings. She saw then that there was blood on the ropes and on
the rocks upon which they lay.
The Tuthari reached down to pick up something else,
and Laressa and the others leaned close to view what he had found.
A bloody quarrel.
Saena gasped. "Is that—"
"Clever rogue," the dwarf snarled. He
snapped the bolt in disgust.
"Does this rogue have a name?" Laressa
asked, struggling for breath. Deep down, she already knew.
"Warrlun, they called him," Crag grumbled,
rising to his feet. . -
Laressa did not look to the girls for confirmation.
She simply spun toward the trail, a sudden and certain panic chilling her to
the core.
CHAPTER F0RTYSIX Back Table of Contents Next
Torin clamped down against an impulsive
flurry of brash denials. Though he could not afford to accept Eolin's response
any more than he had Laressa's, it would do him little good to turn this into a
confrontation.
Nevertheless, he had to find some means of convincing
the elven king to reveal what he felt certain the other was hiding.
"And the Sword?" he asked, keeping his eyes
level with those of his host.
Eolin considered the blade glowing brightly in his
hands, mesmerized by the eternal dance of its inner flames.
"Take it," the elf said finally. He turned
it around, laying it along his arm and presenting it to Torin hilt first.
"You are certain to need it."
Torin continued to look only at the elf—he who claimed
to be the last of the Vandari. "Is that not a violation of your oath? To
entrust the last of the Swords of Asahiel to a fool human?"
"Do you not want it?" Eolin asked.
"I should think it would be better that you
accompany me as its rightful wielder."
Eolin's stern expression relaxed finally into a cold
smile. "A valiant effort. But I have sworn a greater oath. An oath of
peace. A life free of hostility. I will not break that pledge in order to serve
one my forefathers made ages ago—not even to a talisman as sacred as
this."
"So why not keep the blade here with you? You
would then be serving both vows."
Eolin's smile vanished. "Because while I will not
be made to serve your kind, neither will I actively condemn them. This is your
doing, and I will take no hand in it, one way or another."
Again he hefted the blade, urging Torin to take it.
But Torin refused. Reaching for it now would be to admit defeat, to accept that
no help was forthcoming. He couldn't do that. For the sake of his friends, he
could not allow this elf to prove more stubborn than him.
"I am asking you to leave," Eolin said
bluntly. "You may do so with or without the Sword. But do not think that
you can bend my will in this. Doubtless, the Illysp grow stronger with every
moment that you waste."
"You cannot hide from them forever," Torin
agreed.
"Perhaps not. If that is the will of the
Ceilhigh, so be it."
Torin clenched his fists in helpless anger. Easy
enough to talk of peace when removed from any direct threat. He wondered,
momentarily, what the elf might do were he to strike out at him. Would he stay
true to his vow of pacifism? Or would he obey the more natural urge and use the
Sword to defend himself?
But Torin abandoned such reckless thoughts almost at
once. Becoming belligerent would only reinforce Eolin's judgments about him and
his race. Nor would defeating the elf—itself a dubious proposition—guarantee
the results he needed.
No, he decided, trying to coerce this people to join
his fight was not the answer. For if they accompanied him under duress, how
could he be assured of their loyalty when it mattered most? If they were to
help him, they would have to do so willingly, eagerly even, with a strength of
passion to see them through the worst—surely yet to come.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. Perhaps
he would give the Finlorian time alone to think about it. Could another week or
two make that much difference? Persistence, he believed, was a key to unlock
almost any door.
Torin glanced down at the Sword. When he looked up
again, he did so with one hand offered in parting.
"I am sorry," he said, "for any
distress we may have caused you or your people."
The scowling Eolin returned his nod, but declined his
outstretched hand. "May you reap a bountiful harvest of that which you
have sown."
Torin bowed, as graciously as he could manage. As he
came up, he reached for the Sword. Instead of taking it, however, he caught
his breath, as a thick-framed figure suddenly filled the doorway at Eolin's
back.
"Warrlun," he stammered. "What are
you—"
The commander raised one arm. Too late, Torin realized
what the man intended. As Eolin turned about, that arm came whipping forward,
flinging a piece of shale taken from the pond they had passed in the foyer. The
elf king spun just in time to catch the sharpened piece of stone square in the
face.
Eolin fell back, blood spurting. Torin caught him, and
both went stumbling. The Sword fell, bouncing off the arm of a wicker chair to
lie upon the moss-covered floor.
When finally Torin regained his balance, he was in a
low squat, with an unconscious Eolin cradled against him. The elf king's face
was gashed deeply across the center. His nose was surely broken, his left eye a
puddle of blood. The skin of his cheek was a loose flap beneath which blood
pulsed in waves.
Torin didn't know where to begin. Nor was he given the
chance. In the doorway, Warrlun had snatched up his broadsword from where it
lay amid the loose bundle Crag had leaned against the wall.
"What have you done?" Torin demanded.
Warrlun regarded the fallen elf with a murderous rage.
"Is he dead?"
"Near enough," Torin replied, eyeing the
other's ready blade. He noticed then that the crossbow bolts that had punctured
the commander's side and shoulder were no longer there.
Warrlun growled. "Then stand aside."
The soldier started forward, and there was no
mistaking his intent. Torin had little choice but to drop the wounded elf and
launch himself forward to meet the other's charge. He did so at the last
possible moment, as Warrlun drew back that heavy blade, so that he could dive
inside its arc. He heard the man grant as he planted his shoulder in the
commander's midsection, then kept his legs driving, snarling for added
strength. Together, the pair surged across the floor, until Torin was able to
slip his arms around the other's legs and trip them both to the earth.
A gloved fist cuffed him behind the ear, and his
entire head started ringing. He pushed himself away, just in time to avoid the
clumsy swipe of that giant broadsword. He staggered backward in a crouch,
heart pumping, putting a hand to the side of his face, which felt afire.
Before he could do anything else, Warrlun was back to
one knee, huffing for breath, pointing out with his free hand.
"This isn't your fight," the commander
hissed. "Don't make it otherwise."
Torin looked to his own hand, but couldn't tell whose
blood it was he found there. "Why are you doing this?" was all he
could think to ask.
"To punish a traitor," Warrlun said.
"To reclaim what was mine."
Torin's thoughts cleared with understanding—a realization
that should never have eluded him. "You. You were La-ressa's husband. The
father of Lorre's grandchild."
"He stole them both," Warrlun spat, eyes
going to the downed elf. "But after today, they'll be his no longer."
The soldier rose to his feet. Though not as helpless
as he had made himself appear back at the valley entrance, he was still pale
from hunger and blood loss. Indeed, it seemed as if his hatred alone gave him
the will to stand.
"Is that why Lorre sent you?" Torin asked,
disgusted with himself for not recognizing the truth much sooner.
Warrlun grimaced. "I don't need His Lordship's
commission to settle this score. He'll thank me readily enough when I return
with his daughter and grandchild. Now stand aside."
Torin might have mentioned the unlikelihood of any of
them now being allowed to leave—let alone finding their way back through the
maze of Crag's. tunnels—but was too busy casting about for a weapon. His gaze
fell quickly upon
the Sword, yet in order to reach it he would have to
surrender his place between Eolin and the man come to slay him. By then, it
would be too late.
"I won't warn you again," Warrlun snarled.
Torin retreated another step, staggering as if
dizzied. The commander started ahead in a slow rush. Torin baited him a moment longer,
then flung a wicker chair at the oncoming soldier. Warrlun reacted swiftly to
swat it away, its willow frame cracking beneath the weight of his blade. But it
was all the time Torin needed to scramble sideways and retrieve the Sword from
where it lay upon a blood-spattered floor. As Warrlun kicked away the last of
the chair's debris, he found Torin crouched and ready.
"I'm afraid I can't allow this, Commander. Drop
your blade."
Warrlun stopped, but made no move to obey. The
soldier's eyes narrowed, and a low growl emitted from his throat.
Torin refused to back down. He was going to have to
kill this man, he realized, if he wished to save Eolin—if the elf wasn't dead
already. He might have checked, but didn't dare take his eyes off his
adversary.
As if in response, there came a moan from behind him.
Any thoughts Warrlun might have been having about leaving off—or at least
pretending to—vanished in an instant. Both hands gripped tighter about the hilt
of his broadsword, held before him.
"You can't defeat me," Torin stated boldly.
"Lay down your sword before I cut it from your hand."
The man responded by sidestepping to Torin's left.
Torin shifted with him, maintaining his defensive posture. Warrlun surprised
him then by backing toward the doorway. His hopes for a trace, however,
vanished when the commander stooped just long enough to fish one of his long
daggers from the weapons bundle.
"Of what worth is he to you?" Warrlun
demanded, brandishing both sword and dagger. "From what I heard, he would
refuse your request. Perhaps with his death, the others of his clan will be
better motivated to serve your cause."
To Torin, the soldier's voice barely sounded human.
"I cannot force an army across the seas," he replied.
"Then you shall have one of mine. A legion, if
that's what it takes, under my personal command. A small price to pay for one
dead elf."
Torin shook his head. "I did not come to enlist
men-at-arms, but for the secrets of Finlorian magic-users."
"So take them. One tongue at a time, if
necessary. I can show you—"
"Drop your weapons, Commander, and I'll see to it
that you are delivered back to your lordship for judgment rather than
burial."
Warrlun's gaze narrowed dangerously. "I've waited
too long to be denied my vengeance by a whelp like you. For the last time,
stand aside!"
Torin knew that he should simply run the commander
through. The longer he stood there, trading words, the more likely it was that
Warrlun would get what he had come for. Eolin continued to moan, trying now to
rise. Warrlun's fingers shifted about the hilts of his weapons, adjusting
grip.
The soldier's lunge came much faster than before, his
devastating broadsword sweeping down from overhead along an angled arc. Torin
rushed to meet it, focusing on his opponent's wrist. Surely the loss of a hand
would temper the man's bloodlust.
Warrlun howled as the flaming blade tore through
leather and skin and bone: But he came on, spinning behind his dagger. The
sword-strike, Torin realized suddenly, had been a feint. Overcommitted to
thwarting it, he had opened his flank to the dagger's bite. He recognized it in
a heartbeat, and pivoted instinctively, spinning sideways to evade the slashing
tip.
He came about to reengage, but Warrlun did not.
Seizing his opening, the commander dove toward Eolin, who had managed to sit
up. Dagger leading, he threw himself upon the hated elf, smothering him.
Torin dashed toward the pair, and this time had no
other choice. As Warrlun reared back upon his knees, bolt upright, Torin
struck. The cut was so swift and clean that for an in-
stant, nothing happened. Then blood began to spill
from a ring around Warrlun's neck, and the severed head fell free.
The body slumped forward, but Torin gripped it by the
shoulder and flung it to one side, so that it would not crush the elf beneath.
In a near panic, he searched Eolin for fresh wounds. The Finlorian king was
hunched forward upon the ground, his one good eye wide, his blood-filled mouth
groping for air. His hands clutched desperately at his clenched stomach— Only
to grasp the protruding hilt of a buried dagger. Torin bent to him at once,
setting the Sword down beside him. "Don't touch it," he said, pushing
past the dread that he felt. "Lie still."
Eolin coughed and sputtered, but lay back as commanded
to gape at the ceiling. Torin pried the other's hands away so that he could
take a closer look. Doing so caused him to feel as if the blade were buried in
his own stomach. He might have cried out for help, but doubted anyone would
hear him this far beneath the earth. Nor would that do anything to reassure
Eolin. And yet he knew at once that he could not treat the elf alone.
"I'm going to remove the blade," he said in
warning. Eolin nodded, blood still pulsing from the flap of his torn cheek.
Torin took a deep breath and gripped the dagger's
handle. He hesitated when he heard the frantic patter of running footsteps.
Still holding the dagger, he turned as Laressa came racing through.
The half-elven woman froze as she took in the scene:
Warrlun's broadsword, still clutched by his dismembered hand; the headless
body, seeping blood upon her chamber floor; her husband, lying amid the
carnage, with Torin's hands upon the blade thrust deep within his gut.
Torin was too relieved to worry about how things must
have looked, or to attempt an explanation. "Help me," he pleaded.
Laressa rushed forward with a wail. Torin felt certain
she meant to strike him, but she skidded to a halt upon Eolin's opposite side
instead, turning her back to Warrlun's remains as she settled in next to them.
She moved at once to cradle her husband's head, gasping again upon inspection
of his face.
"Laressa?" Eolin groaned.
"Heh va, noi mi" she
cried, dabbing at his cheek. "Heh va." She lashed suddenly at
Torin. "Get away!"
Torin let go the dagger and leaned back. "The
blade must come free."
Dyanne and Holly were in the doorway then, splitting
up as they entered the room.
"You did this!"
Laressa shouted. "All of you!"
Though wracked with guilt, Torin wasn't going to let
that stop him from trying to save Eolin's life. He leaned forward again, and
before Laressa could free herself to stop him, tore the dagger from the elf's
stomach. Eolin grunted, but clenched his jaw and kept from screaming.
With that same weapon, Torin cut a strip from the
elf's tunic and folded it over the wound, trying vainly to stanch the flow of
blood. Laressa watched him for a moment, then let go her husband's head in
order to shove Torin away.
"Leave him be!" she yelled.
A winded Crag came stumping in at that point, followed
by a sweat-streaked Saena. The dwarf looked ready for battle, but after seeing
that the battle had already taken place, his face turned ashen. Lowering his
axe, he rushed forward.
"Stay where you are!" Laressa demanded,
though her glare alone might have stopped the-Tuthari in his tracks. "Do
you see what you have done?" she cried, and this time, there were tears
amid her fury. "Do you see?"
Crag stood motionless. "Laressa ..."
"Take your murdering band and go. I want never to
look upon your bearded face again."
"I didn't know—"
"Go!" Laressa wept, one hand tight over
Eolin's stomach, the other reaching back again to support his neck.
"Let us help tend his wounds, at least,"
Torin begged.
"You have done enough!" Laressa spat.
She leaned over her husband's chest then, and began to
sob gently. Eolin lay still—dead already, perhaps, or
else slipped back into unconsciousness.
"We didn't mean for this to happen," Torin
offered uselessly.
Laressa looked up at him with a blood-smeared cheek
and stricken eyes. "Then leave, Torin of Alson. Leave and make certain
that none set foot within this valley again." She aimed a final glare in
Crag's direction, a clear expression of agony and betrayal.
The dwarf bit his lip. Then his shoulders crumpled,
bowing forward with helpless resignation. "Come," he said, his voice
husky. "As soon as his wounds have been tended," Torin maintained
stubbornly.
"Now!" Crag barked. "Else you'll lie
down beside him." The dwarf hefted his axe, and Torin knew this wasn't a
threat he wished to test. With leaden legs and a heavy heart, he reached almost
absently for the Sword of Asahiel. For a moment, he considered leaving it as
restitution for what had happened. At the same time, he understood what an
insult that would be. Most likely, it would serve Laressa and her people only
as a dark reminder of this day.
So he closed his fingers around its hilt, searching
still for some further way to express his remorse. It was his fault,
after all. This was all his fault. If only there were some way for him to set
things aright. He would willingly give his own life, if necessary, to save
Eolin's. Perhaps if he wished hard enough...
His blood began to tingle at the prospect. But before
he could carry out the thought, Crag snorted gruffly. Dyanne and Holly, Torin
saw, had already retrieved their weapons, and stood ready beside a stunned and
heartsick Saena. All were waiting for him.
None had any words, and Torin understood how foolish he'd have to be to seek the right
ones. With a stinging sense of
shame, he backed toward his companions, his eyes still locked on the nightmarish scene. Crag followed him, pushing him
along, though the Tuthari stopped and turned upon reaching the exit. "On
my oath, Laressa, your father will pay for this day's treachery."
Laressa lifted her head from Eolin's chest, though she
did not even glance their way. "Look first to your own, dwarf, if you
think blood will be washed away by blood."
She lowered her head, and her sobs resumed. Torin
thought again to go to her, to see if anything might yet be done for the
husband she was so quick to mourn. But the look Crag gave him caused him to
turn and follow after the others.
They emerged moments later through the cleft in the
base of that great tree. Torin was still replaying the events below in his
mind, exploring the many ways in which he might have acted differently, when he
heard Saena's gasp.
He looked up, startled to find a growing mob of
Finlorians forming up around them. Their appearance should not have surprised
him. Doubtless, the elven people had been observing the intruders carefully
ever since their arrival. Perhaps an alarm had been sounded—maybe that which
had sent Laressa racing back to check on him. Or perhaps word of what had
happened to their keifer had somehow been passed up through the tree's roots
the way light was passed down below. Torin wasn't in any mood to concern
himself over how they'd been summoned, or why. If they had assembled now to
break their vow of peace, they would certainly be justified in doing so.
But as he searched their stern faces, he found no
signs of animosity. Fear and confusion, yes, alongside sorrow and resentment.
But none carried weapons. None growled or snarled or otherwise suggested an
overt threat. Only the looks remained, an army of brows pinched in accusation,
cold stares from elves young and old that pierced Torin's heart.
In that moment, it seemed punishment enough. "If
ya hurry," Crag muttered, "he might still be saved." The elf to
which he had spoken responded only with a bitter glare.
So began their retreat from the valley known as
Aefen-gaard, their route of departure marked by row upon row of Finlorians
emerged from the surrounding wood, come to cast
silent judgment. Crag bore the brunt of it, having
taken the lead to show the rest of them the way out. In response, there was
nothing the companions could do. Had it been permitted, Torin might have
stopped and apologized to every single one of those he had frightened or
offended. But his apologies were useless. So he kept his eyes on the path
ahead, accepting the stares that riddled him like a volley of arrows, knowing
each strike was well deserved.
Even when they had climbed free of the forest, Torin
could feel their silent barbs like whips upon his back, and he dared not turn
around. Not when he reached the falls. Not when he entered the caves. Not when
he was engulfed by the welcoming darkness beyond.
*****
Only moments after the intruders had left, Laressa
looked up, drawn by the quiet rustle of those in a rush to lend aid.
"Neren mi, thre tahlo huum." The priests
have come, my lady.
Laressa sniffed, turning toward the others who filed
then into the room, barely recognizing them through her tears.
"Please, my lady, stand aside now."
But Laressa refused. She knew there was nothing the
priests could do. And she would not look on from afar while her beloved husband
took his last breath.
"My lady, you must—"
Eolin coughed, grimacing and then clutching his
stomach as blood pumped and spasms ripped across torn muscles. "Mind your
tongue," he grunted harshly. "That is your queen you speak to."
"My lord, she must give us a chance—"
"Leave us," Eolin hissed.
"My lord?"
"I've only so many breaths to spare, and I would
share them with my wife."
"But... my lord—"
"He is your keifer!" Laressa snapped.
"Do as he says!"
The priests and their attendants hesitated a moment
longer, then bowed and stole swiftly from the room.
"Have they gone?" Eolin asked, staring
blindly at the ceiling.
Laressa bent to kiss his forehead. "Yes, my love.
There is no one here but you and I."
"Torin?"
Laressa stiffened. "I sent him away, my love. All
of them."
Eolin's spirits seemed to sag. His eye closed and his
head settled deeper into her lap.
"My love? My love!" She shook him gently.
One hand closed about his.
"Forgive me, sweet Laressa."
"Hush, my love. I am the one to beg
forgiveness-—for not asking Crag to dispose of the intruders the moment I
learned of them."
The dying elf squeezed her hand. "I have erred,
my sweet. I have been unfaithful to my charge. And swift indeed has been my
punishment for doing so."
Laressa shook her head. "You have done nothing
but good in your life. You have been a kind husband, and a noble servant to
your people. Long will they praise your name."
He tensed suddenly, his entire body seized by
convulsion. When it passed, he spoke with a renewed sense of urgency, and a
weakened voice.
"Quiet now, my sweet, for mere are things I must
tell you, things you must know before I go. I know not if they will be of any
use. Nor would I make diem your burden. Should you find yourself unwilling—or
unable—to act upon them, let the fault lie with me."
Laressa frowned. "What is this you speak of, my
love? Has it anyming to do with this ... this Torin?"
"Not Torin," he whispered with increasingly
shallow breams, "but the talisman he carries. The history behind it. The
legacy of those sworn to carry the truth, lest it be forgotten by all."
A sudden cold crept into the pit of Laressa's stomach,
chilling the heat of her anguish. "The Vandari."
Eolin nodded. "A secret I should have shared with
you long before now. For I am all that is left. All that stands between us and
the great evil about which we have been warned."
The cold became a shiver that ran the length of
Laressa's spine. "Evil," she repeated, and searched her memory for
the name it had been given. "The Illysp?"
Her husband suffered another constricting spasm. But
he gritted his teeth, and afterward his strength seemed to surge. "I
should not have refused him, my sweet. I should have made certain he
understood."
"Shall I send for him?"
"Listen first to what I have to say, as we may
not have time for both. Listen, my sweet, and know the truth of how the
Finlorian Empire crumbled."
CHAPTER F0RTY-SEVEN Back Table of Contents Next
As the darkness of the deepening tunnel
closed round, Crag lurched to a stop and whipped out his axe. Torin and the
others held back, giving the dwarf room to bring that heavy blade down upon a
knee-high rock that lay against the cavern wall. Crag roared, and sparks flew
as the axe struck, cleaving the stone down its center.
For a moment thereafter, the Tuthari huffed quietly,
one arm raised against his eyes as he leaned his forehead upon the wall, the
other hand clenched about the butt of his lowered weapon.
The others left him to his pain and his fury,
respectfully silent as they wrestled with feelings of their own. Torin had not
the heart to look at the dwarf, or anyone else. He kept his gaze upon the floor,
listening to the pounding sheets of the falls outside, searching within himself
for a hole in which to bury his sorrow and his guilt.
"What now?" Holly asked finally.
Crag shoved free of the cavern wall. His face was
sullen, though his eyes remained full of fire. "I care not," he said,
"as long as we get moving."
"Did you learn what you needed?" Dyanne
asked.
Torin looked to the sound of her voice, and found that
her question was directed toward him. As their gazes met, an uncertain pang
gripped him. "I have my answers," he mumbled, "though they are
not what I'd hoped."
"I suppose you'll be heading home, then."
All at once, the source of his pang became clear. She
was
right. His quest had ended. The time had come to
return to his own land as quickly as possible, to deliver unto Darinor the ill
tidings he had found.
The time had come to say farewell to Dyanne.
He looked quickly to the others, half hoping one of
them might have a better idea. Holly's dark eyes were inquisitive; Saena's were
red and puffy. Doleful beneath his gnarled brow, even Crag kept silent,
awaiting his response.
"Yes," Torin agreed. He turned his attention
to the wall as he spoke, finding that to be much easier than facing Dyanne.
"I suppose I must."
"You promised Crag," Holly reminded him, as
if his hesitation were obvious.
"Do you still wish to accompany me?" Torin
asked the dwarf.
Judging by his expression, the glum Tuthari would
rather be dead. "I'm no longer needed here," he said. "Laressa
made that much clear."
A yes, Torin decided, regardless of the other's
grim tone.
"The sooner the better, I imagine," Dyanne
added.
Torin made a quick study of the woman's face, his
heart wringing in his chest. But he could not bring himself to refute her
words.
"What of Lorre?" Saena demanded, and it
struck Torin that this was the first time she had mentioned the warlord by
name. "Is he to go unpunished?"
Torin shook his head. "From what I understood,
Warrlun acted alone, not under orders from Lorre."
"If I'd known who he was ..." Crag muttered,
but when the others looked to him, it was clear he was speaking only to
himself.
"Perhaps Holly and I will pay
"You mean to head south then?" Torin asked,
as evenly as he could manage.
"We've done as my sister asked," Dyanne
reminded him, "and seen you to the end of your road."
She turned to Holly, who nodded in agreement.
"Much has happened that our sisters should be made aware of."
"You've held true to the story you shared with us
in the beginning," Dyanne added, "so I see no reason to drag you with
us back to the Nest."
She grinned as she said this. The best Torin could do
was wince.
"You're welcome to accompany us," Holly
offered, addressing Saena, "if you're interested in an escort on the
southern road."
But Saena was studying Torin as if considering
something else altogether. "How do you intend to get home?" she asked
him.
Torin shrugged. "I'll need a ship,
obviously." For some reason, she continued to stare at him. "Why?
What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking that my uncle in Kasseri might be
able to help with that."
"Kasseri," Torin echoed, thinking aloud.
"That's up here to the north, right?"
"On the eastern coast," Saena confirmed.
"Through the passes of Serpent Reach."
Torin frowned. By his recollection, Autumn and the
pirate Karulos had advised against that route. "I was led to believe those
passes are snowbound this time of year."
"Probably so," Saena acknowledged, biting
her cheek. "But our only other options would be a long sail around the southern
horn, or else marching south as your friends suggest."
A tiny hope began to push aside some of the hollowness
Torin had been feeling. Perhaps his time with Dyanne was not yet concluded
after all.
"Serpent Reach?" Crag snorted, as if only
now catching up to what they had been saying. "I can get us through
that."
Both Torin and Saena asked at once. "How?"
"Passes are closed above ground, not
below."
"You could lead us there from here?" Saena
pressed. Torin could not tell if she sounded hopeful or skeptical.
"Direct route, more or less," the Tuthari
assured her.
Saena looked back to Torin. "Well, then, perhaps
we should do that."
Torin turned immediately to Dyanne. "We can't
just abandon you here. You'd never escape these caves."
"They can come with us," Saena proposed.
"Theirs would be a quick and easy sail down the coast."
"Except we'd then be bypassing Neak-Thur,"
Dyanne reminded them both. She shifted to share with Holly one of those silent
conferences in which each appeared to read the other's mind. "I really
think it best that we travel once more that way, to see what our good overlord
is planning now that he has secured his position there. Besides, neither of us
has sailed before."
"I'm sure you'd love it," Torin said,
ignoring Crag's con-' trarian grunt.
"Whichever, we stick together for now," the
dwarf grumbled decisively. "There's a course from here what will take us
all down into the Splinterwood. The pass you'd need," he continued,
nodding to Dyanne and Holly, "lies en route to the one we'd be taking.
"I don't like it," Torin blurted.
"Then argue it on the go," Crag gruffed,
shouldering his axe. "Either way, we've a long track to follow, and I'm
not for sullying this place any more than we have already. My friend down there
asked us to leave, and it seems that's the least we're owing her."
The strain in his voice, as much as his words, put an
end to any further discussion. As horrible as Torin felt about what had taken
place in the valley below, he could scarcely imagine the sharpness of guilt
Crag was feeling. While the dwarf retrieved the bundle of torches and
foodstuffs left behind in the tunnel upon their arrival earlier, Torin looked
to his remaining comrades, searching for any words of hope or comfort they
might share. They ended up only shaking their heads.
Crag paid them no notice, but gathered his
possessions, struck flame to torch, and trundled off into the cavern gloom.
They went this time without ropes and blindfolds.
Torin thought it odd that the protective Crag had not even tried to insist
otherwise. Granted, there were several possible reasons for the dwarf's
decision, based in varying degrees on trust and logistics. But one likelihood
in particular kept returning to haunt Torin: The damage had already been done.
They marched throughout the evening and much of the
night, wishing to put as much distance as possible between themselves and
Aefengaard before settling down with the nightmares sure to follow. Despite
Crag's earlier invitation, they did not speak further of their course. All knew
their options, and seemed accepting enough of what had already been decided.
From what Torin could tell, he alone was unsettled by the prospect of parting
company with Dyanne and Holly and leaving them to continue south on their
own—the true reason for which was best suited to private debate.
So he, too, kept his mouth shut, head bowed in somber
reflection of what had gone and what was yet to come. He didn't know which
should trouble him more: the lasting harm his visit had brought upon the
Finlorian people, or the fact that he was returning to Darinor empty-handed.
Either way, it seemed ridiculous that all he could
think about was what would soon be left behind.
Yet he couldn't help it. The dim light of those
subterranean caverns might mask her look, her movements, the hypnotic swish of
her hair, but it did nothing to diminish her strength of spirit, the ease with
which she found comfort and laughter in what seemed to him a dark and humorless
world. How liberating might it feel if he could learn to share her outlook?
Knowing that his time with her was swiftly coining to an end, he found it
difficult to contemplate anything else.
It was well after
He awoke before the others, but did nothing to disturb
their tranquil slumber. In the dawn's quiet, he could yet imagine that time
might freeze this very moment. The daylight might never come, and he might
spend an eternity free of death and demons, free of weakness and wrong choices,
free to do nothing more than gaze upon Dyanne's beauty and experience the
fullness of peace and passion that her mere presence somehow fostered within
him.
But the day did break, of course, rays of sunlight
spilling through the sieve of woodland boughs to eat away at blankets of
shadow and tickle the flesh of those beneath. Before Torin could find a way to
stop it, the girls were awakened, Crag stumped down from his bed of, stone, and
the five of them were on their way once more.
They, covered ground much more swiftly out in the
open, better able to navigate the trails and pathways of the forest than the
cramped and jagged tunnels of the mountain underground. Torin, however, saw
this as more of a curse than a blessing. With each step, hope gave way to
inevitability. Not even the fires of Asahiel were able to comfort him, burning
low within both Sword and Pendant, as if dampened by his despair.
He had fought for reassurance on several fronts.
First, despite the lack of support to come from the Vandari, at least he knew
now with cold certainty what he was up against. There would be no restoring of
the Illysp seal, only a long and brutal war that somehow, he and Darinor would
have to find a more conventional way to win. But by exhausting one of their
primary options, they could now unite their focus in a single, concerted effort
to find that answer, rather than spreading themselves and their resources
across the breadth and span of two entirely separate lands.
Second, learning what little the Finlorians had to
offer did not have to be considered a failure. By finding them at all, he had
done what was asked of him, once again achieving something few thought
possible. Having accomplished that, he had to believe that ultimate victory
against the Illysp, however unlikely, was a goal that would prove similarly attainable.
And third, he was headed home. Rather than concentrate on what he stood to
lose, he need only focus on what he would soon regain: Marisha and Allion, his
friends and his castle, the land of his birth. That was how it should be, he
told himself. It was what he had wanted all along.
Truthfully, however, he felt not the slightest sense
of joy or expectation at the notion of his impending homecoming. Nor were his
greatest concerns those stemming from the knowledge that he was on his own
against the Illysp. No, despite all his pressing concerns, what worried him
most was leaving a land he had never wanted to visit in the first place.
He measured his steps carefully, and with them, the
passing of time. Yet it came as a complete shock when he found that the
minutes had all disappeared. Ahead, Crag had come to a stop at what appeared to
Torin little more than a game trail, which wound southward into the mountain foothills.
"This here will carry ya to the southern arm of
Goblin Reach. For anyone heading south, this is the road ya want."
"Then this is where we say our good-byes,"
Dyanne agreed, peering down the narrow path.
"Are you sure about this?" Torin asked. When
both Nymphs looked at him, he found himself rushing to explain. "We could
accompany you south and just sail up from Razorport—especially if you've still
a mind to report back to Lorre."
"We don't know for sure that Warrlun acted
alone," Dyanne reminded him. "For you to" pass through
Neak-Thur with the Sword would seem a foolish risk."
"Then let us at least see you beyond the pass, so
that we'll know you made it through safely."
"All they gots to do is stick to the main
roadway," Crag insisted. He shook a finger at the Nymphs. "Don't go
veering off as ya did with that rogue coming through."
Dyanne must have caught the glare that Torin let slip
the dwarf's way, for she moved quickly to reassure him.
"Time for you is critical," she said.
"We'll be fine."
"The fewer guard posts you have to pass through
with Crag, the better," Holly added. "If you can make for the coast
from here, you should do so."
Torin wished now that he had gone ahead and forced
this discussion earlier, when he would have had more time to reason through and
thus better present his arguments.
"Is it safe to begin heading up this close to
dusk?" he asked, fighting to keep me desperation from his voice. "We
could all camp here and set out fresh in the morning."
Heads turned to regard the position of die sun in the
sky— the brightness of which mocked the squall that wracked him from within.
"It's barely midafternoon," Holly observed.
"We've several hours of daylight yet to take advantage of."
"If we're going to split up," Crag grumbled,
"we may as well do so now. Ain't much sense in one group or the other
traveling half a day or more in the wrong direction."
Torin could not remove his gaze from Dyanne, his eyes
drawn to the delicate strands of hair that flapped and swirled, tossed by
woodland breezes. How could he admit to her the truth of his hesitation? How
could he tell her that the only real reason for his protests was that he did
not know how to say good-bye?
His chest tightened. His breathing quickened. He would
tell her because he must. This was the moment he had long been waiting for—the
moment in which he would confess all and beg for the honor of catering to her
every need and desire. It had to be. For it might well be the last time he
would ever see her.
"We'll be seeing you again, won't we?" she
asked him, as if able to follow die torrent of his thoughts.
Her words raked his spine like a flash of lightning.
The notion had not yet occurred to him. All along, he had assumed the only
decision he might make was whether to leave her in the first place. In that
regard, it seemed he had precious little choice. Was it possible that he might
somehow, when this war was won, find his way back to her?
"I'd like that," he managed, his voice
hoarse.
After that, he could only gape at the cherished face
before him, veins pulsing to the frantic drumming of his heart. Though he
searched, there seemed no words to properly convey his sudden sense of
devotion. He wanted so badly to express a deeper commitment, to promise her
that yes, she would see him again, no matter what that required of him. But he
feared if he were to say anything more, the dam would burst, and he would be
unable to control the sudden flood.
"Should anyone ask," Holly added, "I'll
tell them we had quite the adventure." Torin turned to her, almost
grateful for the interruption. "But it's clear you no longer need us.
Seems as good a time as any to thank us and be on your way."
Torin swallowed the deeper feelings risen to his
throat. "Thank you," he said. "I'd never have made it without you."
He bowed to the pair of them. When he came up, Dy-anne
was glancing at her kinmate with one of those knowing smirks. But when his
eyes met hers, she flashed him a smile—that dazzling smile!—and nodded in
return. "Good luck," she offered. "We'll look forward to your
return, Torin ofAlson."
She gazed at him a moment longer, but he had nothing
more to say. So the Nymphs bade their farewells to Crag and Saena, offering
their apologies to the dwarf, and asking if the girl had any messages to be
delivered to her lord and ruler. Only that she would report back herself, Saena
had replied bitterly, just as soon as she had seen Torin on his way.
Then they turned, the two from the Fenwood, starting
up the trail. They walked with the same confident gait with which they had
first strolled into Torin's life, and did not look back. He stared after them,
but the path took a sudden bend, and their forms were eclipsed all too swiftly
by a shallow ridge.
Wait! Torin shouted, but the word went
unspoken, unheard, unknown, echoing only within his mind.
Where all he had left were memories.
"They'll be fine," he heard Crag say.
"Come."
Torin gulped, peering a moment longer down that empty
trail. Then Saena tugged gently on his arm, and together they resumed their
hike through the sun-filled wood.
CHAPTER F0RTY-EIGHT Back Table of Contents Next
Allion closed his eyes and let the warmth
of the water seep in, doing his best to dismiss all of the pain and tension
carried with him throughout his journey. He hadn't bathed since setting forth
from Atharvan nearly a fortnight ago—the latter half of which had been spent in
slow, steady march alongside Chief General Corathel and the rest of the Second
Division as it made its return. Though proud to have helped free the legion
commander from the A'awari and turn the division homeward, he had done so at
great cost—to himself and to others. Burdened for days by the weight of
emotions too confusing and shameful to sort through, he was finding it
difficult, even now, to grant them full release.
"More oil, milord?"
The hunter opened his eyes and looked to where one of
his bath attendants—the king's own—stood beside the ornate tub, a pitcher upraised.
"No, thank you," he replied. The scent was
strong enough as it was. "Some more petals, perhaps."
The girl obliged him, setting aside the pitcher and
fetching a basket of rose petals, which she sprinkled liberally atop the
water's surface. The other attendant stood behind him, arranging an assortment
of rags and brushes. Except as a babe, Allion had never before been bathed by
another, and he felt perfectly foolish now—especially with but a thin layer of
oil and lye and petals to shield his nakedness. He had tried to refuse, of
course, but a grateful Galdric had insisted, saying that it was the least the
king owed him for returning to the Parthan people their army.
"That should do," he said, when the coverage
of petals was thick enough to conceal him from any wandering eyes.
The girl set down her basket and came round to where
Al-lion leaned back against the wall of the tub. He tensed as she began to rub
his shoulders.
"Do my hands offend, milord?"
"No, no," Allion answered, having no desire
to insult the girl or the king she served. "I'm not accustomed to such
royal treatment, is all."
"His Majesty tells us you are well deserving,
milord. Just relax."
Easily suggested, Allion thought. Not so easily done.
For he was not so naive as to believe that the concerns troubling his heart
would be washed away as readily as the dirt and grime that now clouded his
bathwaters. What he needed was some time to himself, an opportunity to sort
through the many emotions now warring within. He had expected that once he returned
here, to Atharvan, that he would finally be able to break away from Marisha,
Darinor, and all others who would disturb and muddle his thoughts. Alas, it
seemed he would have to wait a little while longer.
The hunter could not remember a time in which he had
felt so conflicted. Duty and respect had long been the tenets by which he
defined his life. Seldom had personal dreams and desires been in opposition to
the expectations of his elders, and, when so, had been easy enough to put
aside. Certainly, he had never wanted anything so badly that he would consider
defying king and country—or worse, betraying the trust of his closest friend.
One kiss had changed all that.
It was this that gnawed at him more than anything
else— more than his ongoing fears concerning the Illysp, and more than his
lingering guilt over the death of Jaquith Wyevesces. He'd even been unable to
take heart in a report relayed by King Galdric that Evhan, captain of the City
Shield, was once again in charge of Krynwall's home defenses, having escaped
abduction by a gang of thieves within the city. No,
Allion was much more concerned by what had happened between
him and Marisha there in those southern jungles, and what it might mean—to all
of them—in the weeks ahead.
He never should have allowed their relationship to
progress as it had. He should have guarded his hidden feelings much more
closely, for surely Marisha had sensed the truth of his heart and been lured
accordingly. At the very least, he should never have returned her kiss, but
should instead have made it clear right away that there could be nothing of
that between them—not behind Torin's back, and not while so much of greater
import lay at stake.
But it was too late. He could not put a stop to what
had already happened. And in truth, he wasn't sure that he would even if it
were within his power to do so. Riddled as he was with guilt, half his time was
spent thinking not of how he might have avoided those brief moments in the
jungle, but how he might continue them. The urgency of Marisha's kiss had
filled him with a euphoria he had never before imagined. At times, he could
think of nothing he wouldn't do to recapture that feeling and make it last
forever.
Regardless, with everything else going on around him,
this was a personal struggle he didn't need.
"This is supposed to ease your tensions,
not increase them."
Recognizing the voice, Allion nearly jumped from the
tub. As it was, he spun about, pulling away from the hands that gripped his
shoulders, and sloshing water and rose petals onto the floor. He glanced toward
the doorway as the king's bath attendants slipped from view, then turned a
horrified gaze upon the woman before him.
"Marisha, what are you doing here?"
"The same thing those girls were doing," she
responded, reaching again for his shoulders. "Why? Do you prefer them to
me?"
Allion pushed himself beyond her reach, aghast at how
quietly and effectively she had been able to dismiss the king's servants and
take their place.
"This is hardly proper," he remarked,
working to rearrange those petals that had been disturbed by his frantic
movements.
"It might be too late to concern ourselves with
propriety."
Allion disagreed. They had been extremely careful during
their northward march not to exhibit obvious displays of their newfound
affection. Aside from Darinor, who had happened upon them, no one else, Allion
believed, had cause to suspect that anything untoward had taken place between
Alson's queen-to-be and her sworn protector.
"The last thing I want is for Torin to hear about
us from some rumormonger," he said, watching her carefully.
"That's if he, even returns to us."
Allion gave her a sour look.
"I wish him to, of course. I don't mean
otherwise. But how long must we be expected to wait?"
Once again, Allion wasn't certain what to feel. On the
one hand, he was thrilled by the suggestion that she viewed their kiss not as a
mistake, but as the birth of something more between them. On the other hand ...
"What about your father?" he asked.
"What about him?"
"I doubt he would be pleased to find you
here."
Marisha scowled. "My father walked freely from my
life more than a dozen years ago. He hasn't the right to tell me how—or with
whom—I should live it."
Allion gaped, both elated and terrified by the
prospect her words conveyed.
"Nevertheless, I think you should send the girls
back in before they—and I—have to explain to Galdric why they were
dismissed."
"A wise choice," a thunderous voice echoed
from the doorway.
Allion cringed, but forced his gaze to meet Darinor's
as the Entient strode forward.
Marisha, though frozen for a moment, turned bravely to
confront him. "Father, I thought you in council."
"The council proved brief," Darinor grunted.
"This Galdric, it seems, is a man of his word. General Corathel gave his
voice in support of our plan, and the king accepted it."
Our plan, Allion echoed derisively. The one to
unite all major military forces in a single region of Pentania in an
effort to draw forth the Illysp hungering for the
bodies of soldiers. The one that would leave the majority of the civilian
populace relatively defenseless. As if anyone other than Darinor-—including
they who had accepted his proposed course—truly believed it to be a good idea.
"We'll be departing soon, then?" Marisha
asked.
Darinor's brow furrowed sharply. "Not before I
have a word with our good regent," he said, turning his glare upon Allion.
"It's my fault, Father, not his."
"Go," the Entient commanded her.
"You'll not harm him," she declared
stubbornly.
The look he gave made no such promise, but she must
have taken some reassurance, for she finally acquiesced, stepping quietly.from
the chamber.
For a long moment after, Allion soaked silently while
Darinor continued to glower.
"You do not approve of us," the hunter dared
when the grim hush became unbearable.
"Is she not betrothed to your king?" the
Entient asked.
"A man you sent away," Allion
reminded him, "on a mission from which she fears he may never
return."
"So you seek to comfort her in his stead."
Allion sulked. He wasn't sure whether he should defend
himself, or take up a whip and have a hand in his own flogging.
"I wish for her to find happiness," he said
at last. "As her father, I should think you would want the same."
"Happiness," Darinor snorted. "And have
you no concern for that of your friend?"
Allion's gaze dipped helplessly to the waters beneath
which he hid. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I only—"
"Spare me your excuses," the Entient
rumbled. "I care not how you ply your fickle human emotions. Nor she hers.
For if she is to embrace her legacy, she will outlive both of you by
centuries."
Allion raised a confounded expression. "Then what
do you care about?"
"I care about the potential for distraction and
infighting at a time when we can ill afford either," Darinor growled.
"I care about losing focus and inviting further disaster to join us."
The hunter met the other's stare, but had no response.
"Try to remember that," Darinor added,
"as you take your rest in the coming days."
"Rest? Are we not returning to Krynwall?"
"I intend to wait and march forth when the legion
is ready. I will not risk leaving those here to change their minds while we are
away."
"How long?"
"That is for the army to determine. The sooner
the better, obviously. In the meantime, whatever peace and solitude you might
find is well deserved. Just bear in mind," Darinor pressed, upon catching
Allion's look of surprise, "that your decisions, and those of my daughter,
could have a far greater impact than either of you may have yet realized. If she
cannot see that, I'm trusting you will."
It made sense then, Allion thought, that the Entient
should come to him. No doubt, Darinor would have this talk with his daughter as
well—if he hadn't already. But the Entient had likely learned by now that of
the two, Marisha was the more bold and willful, while Allion ...
The hunter exhaled slowly. Allion did as he was told,
not as he wished.
Somehow, he managed to nod his understanding, hoping
that Darinor would not demand of him some form of ironclad guarantee. For if
that were the case, he had none to give.
Thankfully, his simple acknowledgment was enough.
Darinor considered him a moment longer, then turned for the exit. As soon as he
had left, the king's bath attendants reentered.
"Are you ready now, milord?"
Allion nodded absently, thinking of the prospect that
his first kiss with Marisha might have been their last.
The attendants took up their rags and brushes. This
time, the hunter offered no outward resistance—while, within, the war against
his sense of duty raged on.
*****
Torin gazed out upon a windswept sea, bereft of the
joy and freedom that had so enraptured him when first he had felt the ocean's
caress. He stood not at the bow of the ship, but its stern, peering back at the
forested bluffs marking Yawacor's northern shoreline—all but hidden by the
closing curtains of mist. Overhead, midday skies held off the threat of rain,
much as he refused to let slip what he was feeling inside.
He had said his last good-byes a short time ago,
bidding thanks and farewell to Saena and her uncle, Braegen, who had been kind
enough to arrange passage for both Torin and Crag upon one of his merchant
vessels. So delighted was the man by the surprise visit from his niece that he
had shown no distaste whatsoever toward Torin or his dwarven companion, and,
much like Captain Jorkin during Torin's journey west, had bridled well his
curiosity. He'd even gone so far as to push ahead the ship's scheduled launch
by more than a week, in order to send them home as quickly as possible.
It had all seemed to Torin rather sudden, and he was
not necessarily pleased. As important as it was that he hurry back to his own
lands, it felt now as though he'd been denied the opportunity for a proper
farewell. It had taken Saena's uncle less than two days to ready for their
departure, and now, just like that, Yawacor was gone.
It hadn't really struck him until the ship had lurched
away from the docks, leaving him to wave back at Saena and to wonder at the
curious intensity with which she had wished him a safe journey. He could still
feel the warmth of her parting embrace, the way she had looked at him as if
aware of his inner torment. Both awkward and reassuring, she'd behaved as
though she knew and understood his secret thoughts. In that final moment, he
had considered opening up to her, so great was his need to express himself to someone.
Instead, he had simply thanked the woman for all that she had done,
apologized for not having done more of the same, and wished her well.
Of all those he had met, she was the only one with
whom he had shared a heartfelt good-bye. With so many of the others—Dynara and
the Fenwa, Arn and Moss, General Chamaar and his wedge commanders—he had
simply slipped on to new horizons, like a cloud with no one to observe its
passing.
The separation that pained him most, of course, was
Dy-anne's. In fact, he suspected that it was the grief he felt at leaving her
behind that caused him to feel so strongly about the land and its inhabitants.
Each and every person he had encountered was a part of his experience here,
and, by extension, a reminder of she who had come to mean so much to him. Even
Lorre, a onetime adversary, seemed now but another with whom he had unfinished
business, another to whom he must find a way to return.
"Still stewing about Lorre?" grumbled a
voice from behind. Torin only half turned as Crag sauntered up to join him at
the aft rail. He then looked past the Tuthari, glaring back at those whose
scowls followed his companion. Though given strict orders by their employer that
no harm was to come to either of their passengers, neither the ship's captain
nor his crew had bothered to hide their displeasure at being accompanied on
this voyage by a dwarf.
"I was, actually," Torin replied, finding
that response to be honest enough. As of yet, he saw no reason to trouble his
gnarled companion—or anyone else, for that matter—with the full truth of his
anguish.
"Ya should let it go," Crag muttered.
"That's what Laressa would want."
"Are those words meant to convince me, or yourself!"
The dwarf did not respond right away. Clearly, the treachery he had
brought upon Laressa and Eolin was still eating at him. He had been friends
with both for such a long time, the Tuthari had admitted during the trek to
Kasseri—close enough that Laressa had shared with him years ago the story of
how and why she had fled her father's kingdom to be with Eolin and the
Finlorian people. But never had she mentioned Warrlun, her former husband, by
name. Nevertheless, Crag was furious with himself for not having figured it out
on his own," fearing that he'd been blinded by his own selfishness,
insisting that he should have known.
With Saena's help, Torin had done everything he could
to absolve the dwarf of such guilt. At the same time, he held himself every bit
as responsible, and for the same reason. He, too, had been told the story—by
Lorre—without names. He, too, had realized the truth only too late, when, had
he stopped to think about it, he might have guessed. Had either of them done
so, Warrlun would likely have perished much sooner, and Eolin's death been
averted. While each had forgiven the other, neither could forgive
himself.
"We agreed," Crag muttered finally.
"That's behind us now. At least until we settle matters on your own
shores."
"I'm sorry I can't be more encouraging about
that," Torin offered. During the past few days, he had finished relaying
to the Tuthari everything he knew about the war that awaited them. Even if
Crag's Hrothgari cousins were to be found, it was highly likely that they, too,
would be hard-pressed at this point by the Illysp-bred swarm. Given Darinor's
portrayal of the creatures, and the length of time that Torin had been away, it
was quite possible that neither human nor dwarf would find much of a home to
return to.
"Bah, perhaps we'll get lucky and get ourselves
killed by pirates 'fore we ever set ground. If the waves don't swallow
us, that is."
Torin nearly smirked at the thought, wondering
suddenly about Red Raven—Karulos—and his love, the enigmatic Autumn of the
Rain. An unusual pair, those two. On the surface, they had no business being
together. Remembering them now, Torin would have thought that Autumn might be
better suited living among a people such as the Finlorians than storming the
seas with a gang of rampaging pirates. She was like a princess; Raven, a common
brigand. And yet that hadn't stopped them from forming a bond of adoration the
likes of which Torin had seldom seen.
The sense of whimsy stealing over him vanished
abruptly. Had he lost his own chance for such happiness by failing to tell
Dyanne how he felt? Clearly, he was unworthy of her. Whenever he had seen or
even thought of her, of how perfect she seemed, he'd been reminded of his own
inadequacies. But could the same not have been said of Karulos? Might it be that
the only thing separating him from the contentment the pirate now enjoyed was a
willingness to confess his desires?
Of course not, he reminded himself quickly. Even if
he'd had the other man's courage, he still had Marisha's feelings to consider.
Given that, his decision not to say anything had been for the best.
So why was he continuing to torture himself over it?
"Either way, ain't much use in fussing,"
Crag said, looking to his taller companion.
Torin grunted, hoping that would be enough to send the
other on his way. He wasn't trying to be rude; he just wasn't in a mood for
company.
But Crag remained at his side, staring with him out
upon that ocean. There weren't too many other places he could go, Torin
realized. The ship upon which they sailed was about half the size of Jorkin's.
And none of the crewmen wanted anything to do with the loathsome dwarf.
"Sailors—" Torin remarked finally, "a
superstitious lot. If we do encounter any misfortune, they're as liable as not
to blame you."
"And right they may be, the flat-faced dullards.
Though they'll keep their distance if they want to keep their limbs."
Torin turned again to regard those who were at work
nearby, whispering among themselves and casting guarded glances his way.
"Doesn't appear we'll have much of a problem there."
Crag snorted, and Torin forced a smile. Perhaps he
should be grateful for the Tuthari's company after all. For while it was Crag
who traveled under his protection, having the dwarf beside him was
probably the best way to maintain his privacy on what promised to be a long
voyage home.
If only that was where he wished to be heading.
He closed his eyes, then, against his own wistfulness.
The dwarf was right. Yawacor was behind them now, and there was nothing to do
but let it go. If he wished for Crag to find peace, to begin looking forward
rather than back, then perhaps he should do the same.
Even so, he was not yet ready. Not while he could
still see those shores, faint as they might be. When they had faded,
so, too, would his memories, and with them, he
promised himself, the foolish reflections to which he so childishly clung.
Until then, he owed it to himself and to those whose
lives he had affected, for better or worse, to remember, granting each of them
the farewell they deserved.
With Crag grown silent at his side, Torin fixed his
gaze upon the retreating horizon, and continued to wonder what might have been.
CHAPTER F0RTY-NINE Back Table of Contents Next
Rain fell and winds gusted, prompting
Allion to pull the folds of his cloak tight about him. The day had started out
promising enough. Then gray skies had closed about the sun, paving the way for
thunderheads and frigid temperatures, and mocking the hopes of those who had
been too quick to welcome the reprieve.
Much like their march from Atharvan had begun, Allion
recalled grimly. After nearly two weeks of endless preparation, some fifty
thousand soldiers—almost the whole of the Parthan Legion—had set forth from
that capital city with the sun on their backs and a fire in their hearts.
Though many within the ranks still doubted the wisdom of their course, it
hadn't felt like that at the time. With dawn's crimson rays unfurled across the
land like a royal carpet, with oiled blades and polished armor glinting, with
the cheers of those who waved kerchiefs and blew kisses, the procession had
felt more like a tournament parade than a march to war.
Allion was so anxious by then to be gone from that
city that it hadn't even bothered him. Though first in line to volunteer for
any task that needed doing, he'd found it hard to keep busy enough to prevent
himself from spending time alone with Marisha. And even when he had been
able to maintain proper distance, he'd been utterly helpless against the
constant anguish of his thoughts. More than once, he had considered throwing
decorum to the wind and surrendering to his passions. Darinor had ceased
keeping an eye on them, after all. Having given his warnings, the Entient had
left them to their own will. Together, hunter and
healer had just barely managed to preserve the legitimate nature of their
friendship.
Shortly after they had set out, however, the skies had
blackened and storms had wrapped the world in a mantle of darkness. Spirits had
swiftly dissolved beneath an onslaught of sleet and hail that had raged
unabated for several days. More and more, men began to grumble, wondering why
they had forsaken warm barracks for the open plain. Their commanding officers
seldom had an answer to give.
Allion, too, had grown heartsick and weary. More than
once, he had suggested to Darinor that they ride on ahead to Krynwall and leave
the legion to its course. But Darinor, well aware of the soldiers' discontent, remained
hesitant to do so. The men of Partha were as loyal as any to their leaders;
that much had already been proven. But in this case, even their leaders needed
constant reassurances as to the necessity of abandoning their homes in order to
lure their enemy to a ground of their choosing. As it was, Corathel was keeping
a closer eye on the train of scouts that followed than on the road ahead,
fully prepared to turn back at the first report of trouble. The Entient was
unwilling to risk that they would hold course should he who had set it be the
first to stray.
Where the mystic was now was anyone's guess. Allion
lifted his head in quick survey. Before him, the army stretched out along its
various lines and formations, marching rhythmically to an unbroken cadence.
Most often, Darinor kept alongside Corathel, who made a point of riding back
and forth among his troops. Better for morale, Allion supposed; although with
the Entient in tow casting a stern pall wherever they went, the hunter could
not help but think that in this case, Corathel would have been better advised
to keep himself—and Darinor—out of sight.
Allion, meanwhile, marched beside Marisha near the
rear of the procession, back among the loaded supply wagons that were most
responsible for the legion's sluggish pace. It would not do to run ahead,
though, for provisions were stretched thin in the lands to which they traveled.
Nor would it pay to leave the wagons behind with a lesser guard and trust that
they would not fall under Illychar attack.
Friend or foe, the army had encountered few travelers
upon the road. Most of the former had long ago taken shelter within the nearest
city or holdfast. Most of the latter were keeping their distance. There had
been a few skirmishes along the outer edges, but nothing of high intensity or
sustained duration. Exploratory strikes, Darinor had explained. The Illysp
were tempted, and were urging their brethren forth to probe for weaknesses in
the legion's iron shell—like wary scavengers come to pick at a dying body.
A positive sign that their plan was working.
None had yet struck deep enough for Allion to see. He
could sense them, though, the heated stares that marked his every movement with
feral hunger. Not only the Illychar, but the Illysp as well. From the corners
of his mind, they would whisper to him—vague threats and wordless promises,
haunting sensations without voice. Not quite there, and yet impossible to
dispel.
So he endured them as best he could, just as he did
the wet and the chill, keeping his imagination in check when the morning mists
rose up about his feet like ghosts from the grave, or when a midnight howl
struck a chord like that of the keening dead. He steeled his mind against their
brush as he had so many other wayward thoughts, and focused mostly on the muddy
path ahead, doing his best to trust where it might take him.
His only real solace was that this particular road was
set soon to end. The northern mouth of the Gaperon yawned before them, that
massive breach between the
He glanced surreptitiously at Marisha. Despite the
many words they had shared over the past several days, they had carefully
avoided any talk of where they stood in terms of their feelings for one
another. Each knew how the other felt, yet both understood that it was not
something they could pursue at the present time. Marisha had made her preference
plain that day in Galdric's bathchamber. Whether or not Darinor had spoken to
her as he had Allion, she knew well enough to leave it at that. The hunter
could only hope that when circumstances changed, her heart would remain the
same.
With the hood of her travel cloak covering her face,
she did not see him admiring her. Before she could turn and do so, Allion
redirected his gaze upward along the sloping arm of the nearest mountain.
Forested tufts clung to its rugged hide, sprouting amid crags and defiles and
slides of loose stone. Halfway up, he spotted a lone sapling that had been all
but buried by the scree tumbled down around it. While battered, it nevertheless
reached forth with its broken limbs, straining for both water and sunlight,
waging a stubborn war against its slow and certain death.
So intent was he on the sapling's struggle that he did
not even see the horse and rider that stood upon a jutting overlook until the
animal gave a whicker and started toward him. At about the same time, Marisha
grabbed at him and pointed.
Darinor.
"Something has happened," Marisha presumed.
To Allion, her father's face appeared as grave and
intractable as ever.
"Torin returns," the Entient declared.
Though he heard well the words, it took Allion a moment
to grasp them. When he did, his eyes fell at once to the length of silver chain
cupped in the Entient's open palm. A nervous shock flashed through his veins, and
he felt his eyes go wide.
"Now?" the hunter rasped. "Where?"
"To the northwest. If he has not yet reached our
shores, he will soon."
Allion looked again to Marisha. This time, her eyes
found his, and she reached out to clasp his hand.
"I go now to meet him," Darinor said.
"Of... of course," Allion stammered.
"Let us fetch some horses."
But as the hunter began casting about, Darinor raised
a hand to stop him. "I go alone."
"What?" both Allion and Marisha echoed at
once.
"No," Marisha added. "We're going with
you."
"Are you so eager to confess to him your new
association?" her father asked, staring pointedly at their clasped hands.
Marisha let go, but would not back down. "We
travel together, remember?"
Darinor shook his head. "Not this time. I need
you to remain with Corathel, to make sure he stays the course."
"We're only a day from the main force,"
Allion protested. "They won't turn around now."
"From there," Darinor pressed, as if the
hunter had never spoken, "I want the pair of you to continue on to Souaris,
there to await our arrival."
Marisha frowned. "You'll bring him to us?"
The Entient nodded.
"What about Krynwall?" Allion asked. "I
thought our plan was to go back and see how she fares."
"You have the courier reports. Matters there are
well in hand."
"But—"
"It is reasonable to assume that that is where
Torin will head first. And it just may be that that is where I'll meet him. In
any case, your city's soldiers are here, to the south. The greater danger is
that which will come against them—against all of us—here."
Marisha glowered. "I won't be left behind,
Father. I believe I made that clear."
"You also made clear an oath to obey me, should I
permit you to continue on in my company. Would you put lives at risk by defying
me again?"
The woman bit down on her next retort, her features
both angry and sullen.
"This army we have assembled is our shield,"
the Entient went on, more softly this time. "I would have you stay behind
it. I can escort Torin more swiftly—and quietly—if I travel alone."
"What if he brings with him another army?"
Allion demanded. "Will that not attract attention? What if you are
overmatched?"
"In that event, there is still precious little
the two of you might do to favor us. The best you can do is to make sure our
forces to the south are properly arrayed. Let me worry about Torin and any
others that may be added to them."
Allion didn't like it, and it was plain that Marisha
didn't either. But neither had forgotten their fight with the goblin Illychar,
nor how that conflict would have ended had Darinor not been there to rescue
them. Perhaps it was indeed best that they respect the man's wishes, and do as
he said.
"Can you not tell if he bears some new power that
might aid us?" the hunter asked.
Again Darinor shook his head, then drew his cowl as if
warding off more than just the weather. "We will know where we stand soon
enough."
Allion stared at the Entient, who in turn stared at
his daughter.
"Do I have your oath that I will find you at
Souaris?" Darinor asked.
Marisha reached out again to grip Allion's hand, then
raised her head to face her father squarely. "Do not be gone long."
The Entient locked stares once more with each of them,
as if to ensure himself of their compliance. "See to Corathel, then.
Remind him, if you must, that only a fool mistrusts all of that which he does
not understand."
With a slap of his reins, Darinor started north,
weaving his way through the last of the supply wagons still rolling and
creaking along, ignoring the many stray looks that followed. Behind him, Allion
gave Marisha's hand a squeeze, feeling every bit her father's fool.
*****
"I reckon this is it," Crag grunted.
With the lead rope tight in one hand, Torin reached up
to rub his mount's forehead. "Are you sure you won't come with me?"
They had been over this already. With more than two
weeks at sea, they'd had plenty of time to plot the paths they would take once
they reached Pentanian shores. Much had depended on the state of affairs upon
landing, of course— namely, to what extent Alson and her neighbors had been
overrun. Even so, there were only so many options available, and their
respective paths seemed clear.
Still, it was dnly courteous to ask.
"You've got your road," Crag said.
"I've got mine."
Aside from the occasional squall, those weeks at sea
had been largely uneventful. There had been no mishaps, no pirates, no
sightings of any monsters of the deep. In fact, so consumed was he with other
matters that they had been nearly halfway home before Torin even remembered the
terrible leviathan encountered during his voyage west. By that time, Crag had
begun to recover from a nasty seasickness—enough so that he'd been able to stay
with Torin above deck and, little by little, redirect the young king's focus.
As a result, Torin had finally put aside his lingering grief, and turned his
eye to the future.
They had reached land just a few short hours ago. Amid
shouts and furling sails and mooring ropes that sliced through the haze, they
had docked along a pier very near to that from which the Pirate's Folly had
set sail all those weeks previous. With its wharf side bustle and brume-filled
streets, the town of
town, from tavern to meathouse to livery stable,
gathering news and supplies along the way. While word varied as to the state of
the kingdoms and the nature of the enemy all faced, given what he already knew,
Torin was able to sift through much of the baseless gossip and piece together
what he thought might be an accurate portrayal of events since his departure.
Both surprised and relieved to learn that the lands' armies were still
positioning themselves for the greater war yet to begin, he had quickly
resigned himself to what he must do.
"We don't have to part just yet," he
maintained, standing now at the eastern edge of the seaport town. "We
might share the road a while longer."
But Crag shook his head, a rustle within the shadow of
his rainswept cowl. "Ya didn't spend the last of Braegen's coin on that
beast only to tote it 'long foot beside ya. And I'll be sailing as Gorum's
first mate 'fore ya have me sitting astride it."
The dwarf left little room for argument. Riding hard
along the main roads, Torin might reach Krynwall by dusk on the morrow, and
that was indeed his goal. Crag, on the other hand, was in no such hurry, and in
fact meant to pick his way east through the thickest, most rugged wilderness
stretches he could find, in hopes of avoiding any human inhabitants along the
way. In any case, he'd made it plain that as far as he was concerned, the only
good use for a horse was as a meal.
"It's a long hike to the Skullmars," Torin
observed.
"I've got strong legs."
Indeed, misshapen as they appeared, the Tuthari's
stout limbs could likely carry him up and down the slopes of
"Ya done what ya promised," Crag reminded
him, "and I ain't meaning to forget it. Time now to tend to your own
business."
"You're sure you can find your people?"
Torin asked, his skepticism no less than it had been when they'd started out.
"I'll find 'em. And when I do, I'll see if we
can't do anything to help ya."
"And the same for you," Torin offered, as he
had before. "If there's anything your people need, and it's within my
power to grant, you need but ask."
Crag peered up at him with that discerning look of
his, one eye pinched tight. He offered his hand, and Torin took it.
"I've a notion to return," Crag admitted,
holding Torin fast within his crushing grip.
"To Yawacor?"
"To make things right. My people should be
avenged, and a dwarven nation reestablished. And I owe it to Eolin and Laressa
to see that the safety of their kind is guaranteed—
forever."
"When this is done," Torin presumed.
"When this is done," Crag agreed, still staring at him as if in
expectation. "Call on me before you do," Torin said. Crag nodded and
pumped his fist, and Torin knew that that was what the dwarf had been searching
for. "Until then, don't be giving up your fire."
Qnly after Torin returned the other's nod did Crag let
go. As the dwarf hefted his pack of belongings, Torin realized what it was that
so troubled him about this moment. This was it, the final separation. With
Crag's departure, the last physical tie would be severed, and Yawacor would
belong only to his past.
But there was no stopping it. Were it otherwise, he
would have done so before saying good-bye to Dyanne. So he kept quiet as Crag
considered his horse with a look of disgust, offered a grunt, and turned away,
his back to the road as he headed south across the coastal plain.
For a long moment, Torin watched him go, thoughts of
Dyanne coming unbidden. We '11 look forward to your return, she had
said. Perhaps. Until then, the mere hope—along with his memories—would have to
sustain him.
His horse whickered and pawed at the earth, as if it,
too, were anxious to be away. Torin did not keep it waiting, giving it one
more pat before climbing into the saddle. After all,
before he could give honest thought to any future
involving distant lands, he knew that he must first confront and lay to rest
the demons he had unleashed here.
With a kick of his heels, Torin started forward along
the highway. He looked to Crag, who glanced back, and offered the dwarf a final
wave. He then leaned over the head of his mount, riding west toward a break in
the clouds and its gentle wash of
Allion's head ached as he rode alongside Corathel at
the head of the Parthan Legion. While passing through the Gap-eron, hemmed on
both sides by mountains, the clamor of the army had grown tenfold. The creak of
wheel and traces, the rattle of armor and weaponry, the thunder of booted
feet—all had echoed so that now they seemed to throb from within his very
skull.
Marisha, sensing his discomfort, had offered to brew
him a tea that would deaden the pain, but Allion had politely refused. He
would be well enough, he had assured her, once they cleared the pass and left
the bulk of the army behind.
Their escort to Souaris was already being arranged.
Last night, hours after Darinor had left, a pair of Kuurian heralds had ridden
forth in welcome. Commander Troy himself would do so on the morrow, they had
said. In the meantime, they'd been sent to inquire as to any particular needs
or plans; As soon as Corathel had finished debriefing them, Allion had pulled
one aside and asked about the condition of the western highway. The road to
Souaris was well patrolled, the herald had assured him. But just to be safe,
most were traveling by caravan, and accompanied by military escorts. If he
should like, a special convoy would be prepared and awaiting their arrival.
At long last, that time was drawing near. The
midmorning sun was just now cresting the eastern wall of the Aspandels, to shed
light upon the highland range south of the Gaperon. The stretch they traveled
was broken and boulder-strewn, the road lined by bluffs and freestanding rock
formations that blocked his view. But already Allion thought he could hear the
restless murmur of those who lay ahead, an allied force of close to eighty
thousand, more than half again the number who trooped along behind him. Likely,
his head would hurt worse before it felt better. He was distracted from its
pounding, however, when finally the armies below came into view. Beside him,
Marisha gasped, as awestruck as he to see so many assembled in one place. Their
dark stain blanketed the land below like a quilt, each patch that of a
different regiment. The whole of the Imperial Army, with garrisons from
Souaris, Stralk, and every city in between—even the remnants of those from
Morethil, the once-glorious capital that had been so ravaged during the War of
the Demon Queen. And among them, somewhere, the armies of Alson, siphoned from
their homeland per Da-rinor's instruction.
And now, Allion realized, the final piece of the
Entient's puzzle: the Parthan Legion, come to fulfill Darinor's vision of a
body united in Pentania's defense—a body the Illysp would be unable to resist.
Seeing it here,, for the first time, Allion could not deny the magnitude of
what Darinor had managed to accomplish, summoning perhaps the greatest alliance
of forces the land had ever known. A gathering of nations that had long
regarded one another with cold shoulders and suspicious eyes, come together in
common cause. Having played no small role in making it happen, Allion swelled
with pride.
He was pulling forward thenrthe mount he'd
been given keeping step with Corathel's as the chief general trotted ahead. A
large welcoming contingent was riding northward to greet them, bearing a
variety of standards. From behind, commands rang out for the legion to halt,
allowing.the parties space to confer.
As the delegations reached one another, Allion braced
for another tedious session of overtures and formalities. Instead, the leader
of the welcoming party, a tall man with hair so blond it might have been white,
leapt from his mount and strode forward with helmet in hand. Corathel did so in
turn, rushing ahead to clasp the other's arm and accept his embrace.
"Well met, General," the stranger greeted.
"And you, my friend," Corathel replied.
"It does me good to see you"
"Circumstances might be better. But then, if all
the world were at peace, we soldiers would find little respect, eh?"
Corathel smiled. "Never mind the respect. I just
wouldn't want my men to grow bored." He turned back, then, to his line of
lieutenant generals. "Some of them, I believe you already know."
But before the introductions could go forward, the
other's eyes went to Marisha, whom he greeted with a deep bow. "On the
front lines again, my lady?"
"To see that you bloody rapscallions keep your
foolishness under control," she said.
The Kuurian smirked. "Just be careful, please. I
doubt your lord would forgive me if you disappeared a second time while under
my wing."
"Not to worry, Commander," Marisha replied.
"I travel this time with a personal protector. You may have heard of
him—Allion, by name."
The commander nodded. "The dragon-slayer. My
herald made mention." He stepped forward. "An honor it is to finally
meet you. I am
Allion, looking down from his mount, gripped the
other's hand. "
"And is it true that the bearer of the Crimson
Sword makes his return?" the commander asked.
Transfixed by the man's piercing eyes and shrewd
smile, Allion fought back a twinge of guilt, silently reminding himself that
there was no way
"Fair news to a beleaguered regent, I'm
sure."
Allion swallowed and nodded. "To all of us."
It took some time to finish introducing everyone, and
to formalize the welcome of the Parthan Legion into Kuurian lands. King Thelin
of Souaris, acting head of the Imperial Council, would have liked to have been
here to do it himself,
Once all of the reunions and forced pleasantries had
been exchanged, Corathel sent his lieutenants back to their posts to finish
herding the legion southward. The chief general himself rode ahead with
But the Souari commander surprised Allion by turning
first to him and Marisha.
"Your escort is waiting,"
"Is that not a shade excessive?" Marisha
asked.
The commander turned to him, and Allion shook his
head. "Of course not. Before we ride for Souaris, though, I suppose I
should check in with General Rogun."
"General Rogun?"
"Chief commander of Alson's forces, sent from
Krynwall,"
Allion replied.
He'd been a little surprised that Rogun had not been
among those to welcome their arrival. Perhaps he hadn't been invited. Or
perhaps he had refused. Allion hoped that the general, ever the malcontent, was
not proving troublesome to the other leaders of the coalition.
"General Rogun is not among us, sir."
"What? How do you mean?"
"Alsonian riders report that he remains at
Krynwall."
Allion looked to Marisha, his stomach beginning to
roil. "That's nonsense. He marched forth with both our legions more than a
month ago."
Marisha, and Corathel stopped alongside him. One of
"A single company from Krynwall arrived some six
weeks ago, as you say,"
"I don't understand," Marisha said. "If
they're not here, then where are they?"
"We thought it odd,"
"But we received word he had arrived here on
schedule," Marisha insisted, turning to Allion with a look of fear.
The last of Allion's headache was replaced by a savage
dread welling up from within. Rogun had never liked Dari-nor. In fact, the
general had been opposed to this entire plan from the first. Allion recalled
the surprise he had felt upon learning that Rogun had complied with the
Circle's orders. Less surprising would be if the general had not obeyed
those orders after all.
"Shall I arrange word with the Alsonian company
commander?"
Allion's thoughts continued to race, mind aswirl with
cruel possibilities. How could Rogun have manipulated the lines of
communication running both north to Krynwall and south to the Gaperon? Most of
Alson's southern couriers were in service to Drakmar, the barony of Nevik. To
have taken control of the entire network meant one of two things: Either Nevik
was somehow in collusion with the renegade general, or Drakmar had fallen.
The hunter's blood churned. He wasn't sure which notion
angered him more. Either way, if Rogun had been bold enough to commit such open
treachery against the will of the crown, it meant that Krynwall was next.
Both Darinor and Torin were riding into a trap.
Allion stared at Marisha, who gaped back in horror,
having evidently arrived at the same conclusion.
"Father," she whispered. "Your company commander—"
'That's very kind of you, Commander," Allion
said, "but we haven't a moment to delay."
"You'll need fresh horses,"
Allion looked again to Marisha. "So be it. Have
your men bring our remounts/They'll find us along the main road."
"Before the Illychar, I hope," Corathel grunted. The hunter nodded,
already wrenching on his reins to turn his steed about. "Send a team to
Drakmar, as well, if you can spare them," Allion begged. "On full
guard. Find out if Baron Nevik still lives."
"Go,"
Allion put heel to flank to chase after Marisha, who
charged northward as if meaning to split the trailing Parthan Legion in two.
They were assuming the worst, the hunter knew, but if correct, then he could
take little comfort in
CHAPTER FIFTY Back Table of Contents Next
Despite his heavy heart, Torin could not
deny the twinge of anticipation that began to build as he rode north across the
land. His land. The land of Allioh and Kylac, Baron Nevik and Chief
General Corathel. The
When he reached Krynwall, however, that feeling fast
began to dissipate, bullied aside by a sense of uneasiness. He wasn't certain
from where it stemmed, but it prompted him to ride a distant circuit around the
city before closing to a forested hillside a hundred yards to the northwest.
He and his mount hid there for some time, studying the sparse traffic that
filtered in and out through one of the rear gates. A storm brewed overhead,
shrouding the dusky sky and threatening to break at any moment. Every now and
then, an advance drop would strike his brow, but Torin only blinked these away,
eyes locked on the walls before him.
Had he known where to go, he might have tried making
his way in via the secret tunnels leading through the undercity to the palace
proper. But it had been Allion who, as Fason, had acquainted himself best with
those passages. Though Torin knew where a couple of the openings lay within, he
knew not where to find the exit doors, or how to trigger them from
the outside.
Finally, when it became clear that this distant vigil
would do nothing to justify or refute his stubborn anxiety, the king of Alson
slipped from his cover and led his mount down to the roadway. There he waited a
while longer, until spotting a desirable position between two merchant wagons.
Ordinarily, the watchmen and tariff collectors were more interested in
companies bearing goods than lone travelers appearing empty-handed. From what
Torin had witnessed so far, that much hadn't changed.
His hope proved true. As the inspectors closed in on
the pair of wagons, one of the weary watchmen, clearly anxious for his shift
to end, waved Torin onward with a grunt. Hood drawn against the impending rain,
Torin nodded, and marched through.
He continued for a while on foot, keeping his gait
casual and doing nothing to attract unwanted attention. At the same time, his
eyes swept the buildings and streets, searching for some sign of that which
haunted him. Throughout his trek, he'd heard nothing to suggest that Krynwall
had been overrun. There were conflicting reports about the whereabouts of her
armies, but nothing to suggest that they had been eradicated. Then again,
information of any kind on the road from Gammelost had been scarce. Times being
what they were, most of the land's populace had made for the nearest holdfast,
abandoning winter plots and hunting grounds for the safety of wall and parapet.
Few were those brave enough to be wandering the open range—fewer still who
claimed to have wandered far.
Certainly, the dearth of patrolmen suggested that the
army had been deployed elsewhere—perhaps to Kuuria, as most had said. While he
found it alarming that Krynwall stood virtually undefended, she obviously
still stood. Doubtless, Darinor and the Circle had had their reasons, and if
the city could stand alone, then surely Torin had nothing to fear.
But he knew better than to dismiss his nervousness out
of hand. Likely, it was nothing more than the unfamiliarity of a
place from which he'd been gone for so long. It might
even have something to do with his reluctance to have returned at all. But
until he heard for himself a trustworthy account of all that had transpired in
his absence, he could not be too careful.
Though anxious to reach the palace and his friends, he
took a circuitous route through the city's districts, on guard against any
spying eyes. Whenever he reached one of the more crowded plazas, he paused to
listen to snatches of conversation, but stopped short of asking the kinds of
questions that might draw notice.
The more he saw and heard, however, the more he knew
his fears to be unfounded. As he neared the palace, his pace quickened. The
sooner he carried through with this, the sooner he would find,peace.
He hesitated again, though, when the gates of the
palace grounds came into view, and he quickly turned off down a side avenue.
Aside from a smattering of guildhouses, the surrounding area was reserved for
gardens and shade trees, a poorly tended ground for picnics and the like.
Picking his way through the overgrown tangle, glancing back constantly to check
for pursuit, he pressed forward. When at last he reached a wall of bushes
through which his horse could not pass, he tethered the animal to a nearby
trunk, and proceeded alone.
His flesh
itched by the time he reached the encircling iron fence, where he hunkered for
several moments, peering inward upon the castle. All appeared as it should.
And yet his entire body was taut with anticipation, his neck and shoulders
tied up in knots. He took a deep breath, reconsidering his course. But where
else was he to go?
He drew the Sword, and with a few effortless swipes,
made a hole in the fence large enough to slip through.
Ducked low, he circled the grounds twice before
finding his opening. Several of the entrances were warded by only a single
guardsman, rather than the usual two. As luck would have it, he caught the lone
man back by the kitchens taking pity on an overburdened scullery maid, and
moving off with her toward the midden heaps. Before Torin could reassess the
wisdom of his own actions, he dashed forward from the opposite direction,
scooped up an empty barrel lying outside, and, trying to appear like any other
servant, hauled it within.
He all but held his breath after that, his heart
pounding as if a thief in his own castle. He wished, in fact, that he were a
thief, so that he might know better what he was doing. As it was, he but
scurried along as best he could, ducking aside whenever he heard voices,
slinking from shadow to shadow.
His confidence grew as he found his way at last to the
royal wing and set track for Allion's study. He hoped to find his friend before
having to explain himself to any guardsmen—even though he'd heard rumor that
Thaddreus, and not Allion, was now serving as regent. His next best hope was
for a member of his inner circle—someone he knew he could trust. The odds of
that were slim, but the closer he got to his former household, the better off
he would be.
No sooner had he told himself this than his luck ran
out. Turning a corner, he nearly trampled someone emerging from a side chamber.
Torin tried to grumble an apology and continue on without allowing his face to
be seen, but a voice called after him.
"My lord? My lord, is that you?" Torin
considered the voice before turning about. "My lord!" Pagus
exclaimed.
"Shh!" Torin hissed, drawing the young
herald back into the chamber. It was a small storeroom, filled with racks of
candles and holders. Pagus, he noticed, was clutching a bundle of each. Since
there was no door, Torin pressed the boy quickly into the nearest corner,
snorting against the smells of wax and tallow.
The youth's eyes were wide. "My lord, you're
back!"
"Something I don't wish to proclaim just
yet."
"Is something wrong, my lord?" "You
tell me. Is the city safe?"
"Safe enough, my lord, from what I'm told. The
battle is to take place in the south."
"
"Against the reavers, my lord."
"Reavers? You mean the Illysp?"
"Aye, my lord. 'Reavers' is what most of the
common folk are calling them."
Torin remembered now having heard the term once or
twice over the last few days. But he had thought the speakers to be talking of
human brigands, not flesh-thieving spirits.
He leaned close. "Marisha—is she here?"
The spiky-haired Pagus shook his head. "She is
with Lord Allion, my lord. At last report, they were marching with the Parthan
Legion to Kuuria."
"And the Circle commands Krynwall?"
"Aye, my lord."
"What of Darinor? Is he—"
He cut short his own question at the sound of
slippered feet rasping near, followed a moment later by a new voice.
"Master Pagus?" the voice called.
Torin searched, but saw no place to hide amid the
narrow wall racks. Hurriedly, he tried to send Pagus out to answer the call.
But it was too late for that, as the caller had
already reached the open doorway.
"Master Pagus, how long must you take to
fetch—"
The speaker froze as he caught sight of them, jaw
hanging open. Torin, however, felt a flood of relief at seeing his loyal
seneschal, Stephan.
"Ceilhigh be praised," the steward
whispered. "My lord, is it really you?"
Torin waved the man forward. When his shock had subsided,
Stephan obeyed, charging the pair as if he meant to crush his lord in a
feverish embrace. Thankfully, he remembered himself at the last moment, and
bowed instead.
"My lord, I cannot say how greatly it pleases me
to see you!"
"Enough, my friend. Quiet now. You'll stir the
entire household."
"But, my lord, why weren't you announced?"
Torin patted his hands in the air to slow things down.
"Because I do not wish to be. Not without knowing how matters
stand." He managed a smile for the sake of his friend, whose features had
twisted worriedly. "And you are just the person to tell me."
"Of course, my lord. I understand fully."
"Can you secure a more private chamber
nearby?"
"Certainly, my lord."
"What about me?" Pagus asked.
"The chamberlains still need their candles,"
Stephan noted.
The boy looked to Torin in protest. "But—"
"Do as he says," Torin interrupted. "I
don't wish to draw a crowd. The best thing you can do is return to your current
tasks."
The youth frowned.
"I'll consult further with you later, I
promise," Torin added. "In the meantime, I'll need you to make excuse
for our chief seneschal here, in case anyone is to inquire."
Pagus continued to scowl, making clear that he would
not be so easily pacified. Nevertheless, after glaring at his king a moment
longer, he hung his head in defeat and, with his bundles in tow, marched toward
the exit.
"And Pagus," Torin whispered after him,
"be sure to tell no one else of my arrival."
The youth's head lifted, his eyes narrowing. But he
gave a nod, and was gone.
"Is there not enough news to relay within the castle
that you have him performing common chores?" Torin asked.
"He is worse now than before you left,"
Stephan replied. "Always underfoot, trying to take on some other
task."
"The shadow of someone else I know, then."
The seneschal stiffened defensively. "My lord,
you are well aware—"
"Indeed I am. Come, let us speak of things the
other might not already
know."
"Bring him in," Zain commanded, cinching a
belt about his breeches.
His lieutenant nodded, opening the door and signaling
to
those outside. A second soldier appeared, this one
escorting the young rat, Pagus.
Zain snapped his fingers. The door was closed, and his
lieutenants took up post on either side of the boy, hands on their sword hilts.
"Well, then," Zain began, crossing his arms
over his bare chest, "what have you brought for me, boy?"
The young rat was not looking at him, but staring into
the candlelit room beyond, mouth agape. Zain followed that gaze to the pair of
wenches lying in his bed.
"Cover yourselves, for mercy's sake."
The wenches smiled and made eyes at the boy, but did
as the commander bade, pulling the blankets up about them.
"I'll ask again," Zain said. "For what
purpose have you disturbed my rest this evening?"
Pagus blinked and cleared his throat. "I've
brought news, Commander."
"Of course you have. Why else does a rat come
calling?" He leaned forward. "What is it?"
The boy shifted nervously. "I'd like my payment now,
sir."
Though he tried to bridle his surprise, Zain felt one
of his eyebrows lift in response. "What's that, you say?"
"A gildron, sir."
One of his lieutenants snickered. Zain silenced the
man with a scowl.
"Remember yourself, boy. This is not some
hog-poke armorer you're reporting to now."
Pagus gulped, but matched his gaze. "I
understand, sir. It's just that.. .I've been cheated before, sir."
Zain considered the youth a moment longer. "So be
it." He turned to his snickering lieutenant. "Pay the rat."
The soldier did not protest, reaching at once to
loosen the strings of his own purse.
"This had better be good, boy," Zain warned.
"Else I'll be taking back that coin along with the hand that grips
it."
Pagus gulped again as the coin was given. He examined
it briefly before pocketing it. When he looked up, his smile took in his ears.
"King Torin has returned, sir."
"What? When?"
"Just now, sir. In secret. He wishes no one to
know."
Zain frowned. "Does he suspect danger,
then?"
"He is wary of something, sir. What, I
cannot say."
The commander-in-waiting of Krynwall's army reached up
to trace his thin, jawline beard. "Are you certain about this?"
"Quite certain, sir. I intercepted him as he
stole through the palace."
"And where did you leave him?"
"With Master Stephan, sir."
Zain controlled himself well enough to hide his smile.
He'd had a hunch that taking on Faldron's palace informant as his own might
prove worthwhile. But never had he expected to yield a windfall such as this.
"Fair enough," he replied finally. "You
may keep your gil-dron—and your hand—for now. But say nothing of this to anyone
else." He uncrossed his arms and bent close. "No one. Do you hear,
rat?"
"I understand, sir. Is there to be a coup,
sir?"
Zain was already turning to locate his boots, but spun
back swiftly. "Another question such as that, and you'll be found in the
sewers where you belong. Now go."
The boy opened his mouth, then closed it again, and
twisted toward the door. Zain nodded, and the lieutenants set him free.
A clever boy, the commander thought. In need of some
hard-fought experience, sure. But he might make a decent officer one day. Provided,
of course, that he lived to see it.
When he had gone, the door was shut behind him.
"What now, sir?" one of his lieutenants
asked.
Indeed. A question his troops had been asking
themselves for weeks, ever since squirreling themselves away—one squad at a
time—in and around the city. Only the general knew for sure. But Zain had his
hunches. And his feeling in this case was that the time was fast coming to
emerge from the stinking hole he'd too long been hiding in.
Not that it had been all bad, he reminded himself,
glanc-
ing back at the wenches still warming his bedsheets.
But the time had come for some fresh air.
"Relay word to General Rogun," he answered
finally. "Let him know that our king is returned."
*****
"I've maintained your chambers precisely as you
left them," Stephan whispered as he shuffled down the corridor. "I
even kept them guarded—until the army left and we no longer had the man to
spare."
Torin nodded, unconcerned by the soft echo of the
other's voice. Stephan had already made a sweep of these upper halls to ensure
they were empty. Aside from that, it no longer seemed to matter should he be
discovered. After his briefing with the seneschal, it appeared indeed that his
intuition was mistuned, Krynwall secure. In the morning, he would meet with the
Circle and announce his presence to the city. Following that, he would send
messengers to Kuuria in search of Darinor, Allion, and Marisha, or else ride
south himself.
As of now, the only thing at stake was a decent
night's rest.
Still, his master chamberlain seemed determined that
he get it. They lit no torches, moving by way of Stephan's solitary candle.
Shadows clung to them like damp cloaks, cold and eerie. Torin could not
remember a time in which he had walked this route without encountering any
number of guards or servants or couriers. Rarely had he found such stillness to
be so unsettling.
When they reached the door to his suite, Stephan drew
a cord hung round his neck and selected from among a set of keys. Torin glanced
back and forth down the hall as the chamberlain worked, feeling as if unwelcome
eyes were upon him. When the door opened, he shook his head at his own
paranoia, and followed his steward through.
His sitting chamber was as dark as the hall outside,
its windows shuttered. As he crossed the threshold, Torin felt a pang of
disappointment, rather than the thrill he had expected upon finally returning
to his own room. It was like walking into a tomb, the stale air chill and
oppressive. While Stephan stooped to light a second candle, Torin pushed ahead
through the inky pool, searching for the far wall and the latch that would
release the shutters.
"Would you care for a fire, my lord?"
"I'm liable to freeze to my sheets, otherwise," Torin agreed,
tripping over the edge of a central rug.
Dodging a table and chair, he found his way at last to
the window. After fumbling for a moment, he managed to release the catch and
free the shutters. An eager breeze carried fresh air into the room, following a
wash of cloudy starlight. Torin took a deep breath—in an effort to force the
strange knot from his stomach—before turning to assist Stephan in building a
fire.
The steward had set his candle down beside the hearth.
In that very moment, the candle erupted, spewing forth a stream of flame into
the depths of the fireplace. Stephan yelped and stumbled backward, while Torin
himself jumped nearly out the window. His hand went to the hilt of the Sword,
but by then the seasoned wood set already in the hearth had caught flame. As it
did, the torrent of fire from the candle withdrew, to dance once more at the
tip of the wick.
Torin searched the corners of the now brightly lit
room. Crouched in a high-backed chair that appeared much too small for him, sat
Darinor.
When Stephan gasped, Torin knew that the seneschal had
seen him too. Still seated on the floor, his robes in disarray, the wide-eyed
steward struggled to respond. "My lord ... my lord, I didn't know ... I
didn't know he was here."
"Easy, Master Stephan," Torin said, waving a
placating hand while still gripping his sheathed weapon with the other. "I
doubt anyone does."
His gaze remained fixed on the not-so-unexpected intruder.
The renegade Entient looked almost exactly as Torin remembered him, with his
smoldering blue eyes, cadaverous skin, and craggy black beard tucked sharply
against his dark robes.
"Welcome home," the Entient rumbled. When
neither of his guests responded, he asked, "Where are your
retainers?"
"They do not yet know I am here," Torin
replied.
The flames in the hearth crackled.
"My lord," Stephan managed, "shall I
fetch the Shield?"
Torin considered, his eyes still locked with those of
Darinor. "That won't be necessary. I shall speak with our guest
alone."
This certainly wasn't the way he had envisioned it. He
had imagined for some reason revealing to Darinor that which he had learned
before a council of others—the Circle, most likely, or at the very least, with
Allion and Marisha present. But if this was what the Entient had in mind, so be
it.
"But, my lord—"
"I require nothing else at this time, my friend.
Please, leave me to my visitor."
Even now, he refused to shift his gaze, trusting that
his steward would do as asked. It took another moment, but finally Stephan
picked himself up off the floor, straightened his robes, and reached carefully
for his volatile candle.
"I shall be waiting outside, should you need
me."
"You shall return to your duties," Torin
corrected. "You've spent too much time with me this evening already. I do
not wish to raise suspicion." At last he risked a glance in the other's
direction. "Agreed?"
Stephan glared at Darinor, looking perfectly
miserable.
"Master Stephan?" Torin snapped.
"Yes, my lord. I shall see you in the morning,
then?"
"Before dawn," Torin granted. "Please,
go now."
He did so slowly, frowning all the way. When at last
he shut the door behind him, Torin's head whipped back to Darinor.
"I heard that you were en route to Kuuria."
"I was," the Entient admitted.
"And the others?"
"Your friends?" Darinor asked, and there
seemed a hint of cruel amusement in his tone. "They are well. At Souaris,
by now. Or else tomorrow."
Torin forced himself to release his grip on the Sword.
"And you," the Entient pressed. "You
travel alone, I see. Did you not find those I told you we must?"
His cold eyes, steeped in shadow, glinted in anticipation.
All of a sudden, Torin realized just how unprepared he was to answer the
questions Darinor had come to ask. He should not have returned, he recognized,
not before he had better fulfilled his charge. He had told himself that he had
done all he could, having learned the fate of the Vandari. But the scion of the
renegade Entient Algorath had not dispatched him to Yawacor in search of
hopeless truths.
"I found them," Torin said, his throat dry.
An expression of surprise flashed across the other's
grim face, before raked brows restored to him a more demanding look. "So
tell me, what did you learn?"
*****
Rogun looked sternly upon the officer stood before
him. "This word comes direct from Commander Zain?"
"Yes, sir. From our line of palace runners,
sir."
The general reached up to scratch at the itch crawling
upon his neck, but of course could not reach it, so deep beneath the skin.
"Have we word of movement on any other fronts?"
"Just this one, sir. All else appears calm."
"Appears," Rogun snorted.
He glanced up to the trapdoor of the cellar in which
he and his personal regiment were stationed, not far from Krynwall's main
gates. The waiting had been gnawing at him for some time, just as it had the
rest of the men in this safe house and others throughout the city. It had taken
weeks to smuggle his troops into position, but even afterward, there had been
endless days left over in which to second-guess this course. Though none of his
officers had dared to do so, Rogun himself had wondered constantly if this was
the right move, and what the consequences might be once they executed it.
Perhaps the time had come to find out.
"Awake all eyes," he commanded, "and
send forth full alert. Whistlers and standard-bearers to their ready positions.
I want all troops standing by to attack on my signal."
His chief intelligence officer snapped a sharp salute.
"Yes, sir."
CHAPTER FIFTY- ONE Back Table of Contents Next
The fire in the hearth hissed and crackled,
its logs fast crumbling into embers.
"And that is all he would reveal?" Darinor
asked, leaning
forward in his chair.
"He refused to discuss with me that which you
already know," Torin admitted, still standing before the Entient.
"Then we have learned nothing."
Torin's gaze slipped to the fireplace, in search of an
answer, in search of escape. It had taken some time to relate to Darinor the
events of his journey, even though much of it, thankfully, the Entient had
hurried him through. In fact, there had seemed only two items in which the
mystic held any interest: his encounter with the strange, ocean-dwelling
leviathan; and his discussion with the Finlorian king, Eolin, the last of the
Vandari. But after poring over each in great detail, an already weary Torin had
become heartsick and exhausted, lacking the will with which to defend himself
against Darinor's response.
"We've learned that the Vandari are no
more," the young king said finally, "and that the once-proud
Finlorians are powerless. We've learned that we can expect no aid against
the Illysp."
The Entient's brow knitted sternly. "You would
not seek to deceive me, would you, king of Alson? There is nothing more you may
have forgotten to tell me?"
Torin might have laughed. If anyone was keeping
secrets, it was Darinor. "What cause would I have to do so?" he asked
instead.
The mystic glared at him a moment longer, those great
eyes unblinking. "Very well," he decided, rising ominously to his
feet. "Take some rest. On the morrow, we set forth for Kuuria to meet up
with your comrades."
Torin scowled. Though that was exactly what he had
wished for, he hadn't expected Darinor to grant it. "That is all you have
to say?"
"You must give me time to think on this,"
the Entient said while brushing past him toward the open window. "On what
comes next. If we are truly alone in this, as you suggest, we may have to
rethink our current strategy."
A chill crept along Torin's spine. For some reason, it
bothered him that Darinor did not seem more angry with him. He had anticipated
many things: fury, scorn—disappointment, at the very least. But not this stoic
resignation, this odd sense that in some way, the Entient was almost relieved.
A violent wind gust filled the room, causing the
flames in the hearth to rip and sputter. As Torin spun reflexively toward
them, a scintillating light erupted behind him, accompanied by a deafening
thunderclap. He dropped to a crouch, hand on hilt, and wheeled back to find
Darinor facing out the window.
"What was that?" he asked the Entient.
Darinor shook his head. "Seems our brewing storm
has decided to break at last."
Sure enough, as the peal of thunder rolled outward,
rain began to fall in torrents. While Torin braced for another blast of
lightning, Darinor reached up to close the room's shutters.
When the mystic turned around, he seemed almost surprised
to find Torin still standing there. "Your efforts are not unappreciated.
But there is nothing more you can do this night. Sleep now, while you can. I
will see to your fire."
Torin continued to hesitate, still waiting for a reply
to that initial thunderclap, before accepting that the Entient was right. He
was doing himself no good by continuing to stand here, doubting everyone and
everything going on around him. Perhaps the morning—and a fresh
perspective—would give him something better to work with.
Suppressing the irrational urge not to, he turned
toward his bedchamber. As he reached the inner doorway, however, there came a
frantic pounding of footsteps from the hallway outside, a moment before the
outer door burst open.
A breathless Allion came running through, dragging
Ma-risha by the hand. Torin felt a rush of excitement. The hunter cast about,
seeing Darinor first. When his eyes found Torin's, they widened as if caught
unawares. He let go of Marisha, who rushed toward the hearth without a second
glance.
"Father!" she cried. "You're
alive!"
"What are you doing here?" Darinor snapped.
"I told
you—"
"My lord," heaved Stephan, having chased
down the new arrivals. He gripped the edge of the doorframe, bent over his
candle, fighting for breath. "They asked where Master Darinor was to be
found. I tried to make them wait."
Torin's gaze swept back and forth, struggling to take
it all in. Marisha looked around and spotted him at last, gasping with
surprise. Allion continued to stare, but seemed frozen in place. Stephan
appeared as if he might faint from exertion.
"Allion, my friend," Torin welcomed.
"Help Stephan,
would you?"
The hunter was slow to react, but when he did, seemed
grateful for the distraction. Though Stephan tried feebly to brush him off,
Allion helped him to the nearest chair. Torin, meanwhile, moved toward the
outer door.
"Torin," Marisha said, "no one told us
you were here." "You didn't give me a chance," Stephan reminded
her. "I only recently arrived," Torin replied. "What's
wrong?" "Rogun," Allion said, finding his tongue at last.
"We must flee the city at once."
"What?" Darinor asked. "Explain this
madness." Marisha spun back to him. "He wasn't in Kuuria, Father.
The general, and Krynwall's armies, they have broken
tether."
"We rode with all haste under Souari
escort," Allion added. "Riders have been sent in search of any sign.
Until then, I think it best that we leave, lest we be trapped."
"Trapped?" Torin asked. "You think
Rogun means to invade his own city?"
"I'm surprised to find that he hasn't
already," Allion answered. "So it may be we're wrong. But he has
defied orders and intentionally deceived the Circle. He is waging his own
campaign now, and that can't bode well for the rest of us."
"An ambush," Darinor stated plainly.
Marisha nodded. "Against you, and against
Torin—his only voices of opposition."
The wind outside beat against the shutters, while the
flames in the hearth flared suddenly, licking hungrily at the blackened walls
of their stone cage.
"But no one knows that either of us is
here," Torin argued.
"Which would make it that much easier to dispose
of you," Allion observed. "Besides, if he has set a trap, the
man would have spies. It may be that—"
"Enough!" Darinor roared, and again the
flames jumped. He seemed much more disturbed by this news than he had by
Torin's. "You do us no favor by whipping all into a panic. I will go and
learn what I can. The rest of you wait here."
"Should we not alert the Shield?" Stephan
asked.
"Why?" the Entient barked, and Stephan
recoiled. "To send an even clearer signal to our general that something is
amiss?" He loomed over the trembling seneschal like a bird of prey threatening
to descend. "Remain here," he said. "Keep quiet until I
return."
He swooped past a pallid Stephan then, veering toward
the door. As Torin opened it, Darinor glared down at him.
"Open this for no man but me," the Entient
commanded, then swept out into the darkened corridor.
Once again, Torin shut the door, this time bolting it
from the inside.
As he placed his back to the portal, he looked again
upon his dearest friends, Allion and Marisha. He found them glancing at each
other—nervously, it seemed. When discovered, they swiftly turned their
attention elsewhere. The hunter bent to check on Stephan. Marisha, after
avoiding Torin's gaze, forced herself to meet it.
"Your voyage was a success, then?" she asked
him.
Torin studied her, a peculiar feeling stirring in his
gut. It struck him as odd that neither of his friends had yet rushed to welcome
him. Then again, he wasn't exactly compelled to rush toward them, either. Not
quite the reunion he had envisioned.
"It might have gone better."
"You've returned to us—alive. It might have gone
worse."
Torin saw no reason to argue. "Which reminds me,
I believe I have something that belongs to you."
He stepped forward, removing the Pendant of Asahiel
and holding it up to her. For a moment, Marisha considered the talisman with
clear hesitation. When Torin's expression became puzzled, she offered a wan
smile and bowed her head, allowing him to drape the chain around her neck.
"Thank you," she said, tucking the
heartstone down into the folds of her shirt.
Torin nodded. This was fast becoming awkward. Though
his eyes were on Marisha, his heart and mind felt a thousand leagues away. The
ensuing silence throbbed in his ears.
"I'm relieved to find you safe," he offered
finally. "Both of you," he added, shifting toward Allion, who still
knelt over Stephan. "You kept your oaths to each other, then." Stephan was breathing easier now, but
regarded the three of them with a frown, as if sensing that something was
wrong.
"From what our chief seneschal tells me, it could
not have been easy," Torin pressed, afraid to let the conversation die.
"He claims to have received word of a journey into
"General Corathel got himself into a bit of an
entanglement with the natives," Marisha replied. "Allion helped to
set him free."
"Don't," Allion said. His head twisted back
to address her, but stopped halfway, his eyes on the floor.
"Don't what?" she asked him.
"Don't speak of me as some kind of hero."
Viewing the exchange, Torin felt even more uncomfortable.
"Allion, is something else troubling you?"
It was a ridiculous question at this point. Clearly,
there was much for the three of them-to sort through. Were it left to him, they
would do so at some other time, reacquaint-
ing themselves with one another when there wasn't so
much going on around them, and once all had had a chance to rest. But he
couldn't very well stand here and allow whatever wedge had come between them to
deepen.
The hunter turned from Stephan to face the others at
last, opening his mouth only to close it again. He shook his head, brushing
aside whatever it was he'd been about to say, and asked instead, "What did
you find in Yawacor?"
This time, it was Torin who was unsure how to respond.
"A dead end," he muttered after a moment's thought.
An invisible pall thickened around them. Outside, the
storm intensified, wind and rain rattling the shutters. Torin, his back to the
hearth, looked mostly at Stephan, unsure what he could say to dispel this
unnerving silence.
"My lord," Stephan offered, coming to his
rescue, "perhaps we should—"
The blare of a horn cut him short, somewhere outside,
but close. The senescEaTf face formed an expression of shock and fright.
No one moved, listening again for the call of the
horn. Just when Torin believed they must have been mistaken, it sounded again,
clear and mournful. This time, the signal was taken up by others, and carried
on through the palace grounds.
Torin dashed to the window, a step ahead of Allion. He
threw back the shutters, and was slapped in the face by the gusting rains. From
far below, in one of the royal courtyards, he heard the shouts of men and. the
clangor of arms.
He was still angling for a better look when the door
to his chambers burst open, the cradle that held the locking bar torn from its
housing. Torin spun, reaching for his weapon.
"We must go," Darinor ordered.
"Now."
"What's happening?" Stephan demanded.
"An uprising," said Darinor, "here amid
the palace grounds."
"Rogun?" Marisha asked.
"I don't know. I didn't ask to see their
colors."
"Perhaps we should go and find out," Torin
suggested, fingering the jeweled hilt of the Sword.
"Perhaps we should do as our regent first
proposed and take flight while we can," Darinor snapped. " Tis seldom
wise to examine a loaded trap from inside its teeth."
"Our escort awaits us," Marisha reminded
them all.
But her father shook his head. "Anyone who saw
you ride in will expect us to ride out the same way. It may be that your
cavalrymen are already under attack."
"What would you suggest?" Torin asked.
"I would suggest not rushing out the front
door and headlong into an ambush," came the Entient's retort. He turned
to Allion. "What of the egress tunnels you spoke of in council? The ones
beneath the city?"
"We'll have to hurry," the hunter said,
"if the palace is already
under siege."
"Then let us waste no more words here,"
Darinor replied, stepping
out into the hall.
Marisha glanced back at Allion, who stood beside Torin
at the window, before hurrying after. The hunter then passed that look on to
Torin, as if deferring to his friend and king. But Torin motioned for the other
to proceed, and, doing his best to shrug aside these curious interactions,
peered out the window once more before shuttering it anew and giving
chase to his friends.
In the hall outsjde, Allion finished lighting a torch.
"Follow me."
Torin, however, took only a pair of steps before realizing
that Stephan was hanging back, making no move to carry on.
"Stephan!" he hissed. "What is
it?"
The seneschal stood there, gripping his candle by its
holder, a sour look upon his face. "Go, my lord. I'll only slow you down."
"You will indeed if you continue standing
there," Torin replied.
"Come."
"Better that I stay here, my lord, where I can
help to throw off any
pursuit." "Stephan—" "Let him stay, if that is
his-wish," Darinor snarled. "We have no time to argue."
"It can't be that I'm in any real danger, my
lord. I am a steward, nothing more."
Torin opened his mouth to protest, but Darinor cut him
off.
"Go now, or give me the Sword. I'll not have you
risk it a moment longer."
"I shall remain with the castle, my lord,"
Stephan assured him, "and keep her safe until your return."
"Whoever is coming," Allion spat back at
them, "must do so now." The hunter reached out toward Marisha,
seizing her hand as he had before. With his torch and the woman in tow, he sped
off down the hall.
Torin's gaze whipped back to his chief seneschal, only
to be blocked by Darinor, whose billowing robes seemed to fill the narrow
corridor like a windblown curtain. Lest he be wrapped in their folds, Torin
retreated a few steps, still straining for a final glimpse of the city's
faithful steward. When finally he craned his neck at the right angle to find
it, he caught sight of the other's determined nod.
Turning forward at last, he ran after his friends,
leaving Stephan and his candle to hold back the encroaching darkness.
*****
Rogun's blood felt afire as he leapt into the saddle
of his tamping stallion. All around him, his soldiers raced through the
streets, spilling free of their bunkers and safe houses and forming up into
battle companies. Horns wailed, bells rang, and whistles blew, spreading the
call to arms. Tattered cloaks and beggars' rags were tossed aside, revealing
the polish of armor and weapons hidden beneath. The very air crackled with tension
and excitement.
There were others, as well—civilians darting this way
and that, or standing gape-mouthed along gutters and walks. Many wanted nothing
more than to clear a path. Others had emerged specifically to view the tumult
unfolding around them. Some of his soldiers worked to beat them away, using
loud voices and heavy clubs to send them scurrying back to their dens and
hovels. But Rogun let them look. It had come time to free this people from
incompetent rule. It had come time to prove himself, to demonstrate that he,
and not Torin, Allion, or some misbegotten council, should be in command of the
city. If ever he meant to stake such a claim, now was his chance, and he would
not be denied.
"To the walls!" he shouted to a brigade of
soldiers searching vainly for the rest of its unit.
He pointed with his sword, and the men raced on ahead,
booted feet thundering against broken cobblestones. Beneath him, his horse
bounced, anxious to follow. But Rogun continued to hold the animal in check,
continued to make a spectacle of himself in that crowded plaza. When at last
the number of civilian onlookers outnumbered those of his own regiment, the
general put spurs to flanks and shot forth like an arrow through the street.
Wind and rain lashed at his open visor, but Rogun welcomed
them as he had the latest reports—sneering in proud defiance. He could not have
asked for a better opportunity. Unfortunate that Krynwall's citizens and
collection of refugees should be made to feel threatened like this. But if this
was what was required in order to make them see, so be it. By morning, the city
would be his, secured from within, and he would see to it that all who opposed
him—even Torin— fell to their knees to beseech his favor. While some
might insist on vilifying the general for his deceit, or denouncing his brutal
efficiency, the fact remained that without him, the city was headed for a fall.
And it was his duty to prevent it.
He slowed as he neared the closest rendezvous point,
in a courtyard aback of the main gate. As he surveyed the ramparts, he could
see that the feeble effort of the City Shield to resist his control was already
crumbling. They understood the truth, he saw. Good of them to quickly accept
it.
"Lord General, sir!" one of his aides
shouted, signaling him as he churned to a halt. "Word from Commander Zain!"
"Let's have it, then," Rogun barked, flush
with anticipation.
"He wishes to know, sir, if you require
reinforcement." The general shook his head. "Commander Zain's orders remain the same. He is to secure
the palace. Tear down the gates, if necessary. I want none to leave the city
this night. None!"
"Yes, sir."
"Relay at once, Lieutenant."
The officer obeyed, and was gone by the time Rogun dismounted.
Handing his reins off to a wide-eyed groom, the general ran ahead and climbed
the steps of the battlement, his personal guard in tow. Soldiers cleared aside,
offering salute, which Rogun heartily returned.
When at last he reached the top of the wall, he gazed
out upon his city, both within and without. For a moment, his chest tightened
at what he saw. But it was too late for regrets or alternatives. His trap had
been sprung. The only way to finish this was to follow through completely.
Having concealed the bulk of his forces within the city walls, he was in good
position to carry out his objective. Either way, he was determined to take back
what was his—in such dominating fashion as to leave no doubt.
"Primary divisions are assembled and ready,
sir," prompted the colonel at his side.
General Rogun smiled grimly. "Frontal sweep on my
command. Inverse arch."
"Sir, the archers—"
"Are to provide cover only. Commence ground
assault. This city will be liberated before dawn."
CHAPTER FIFTY-TW0 Back Table of Contents Next
They raced onward in a ragged line—Allion,
Marisha, and Torin, with Darinor to usher them along. The flame of the hunter's
torch whipped and guttered, riled by the bearer's swift and sudden movements.
Its thrashing light cleaved the shadows of darkened hallways, sending them away
like black spirits into the Abyss.
Though the maze of corridors bore Torin and his
friends ever deeper within the royal complex, he could still hear the alarms
echoing from outside the castle grounds. Before long, those calls had carried
into the palace itself, reverberating throughout chambers and corridors,
coming from every direction.
Before long, the route they followed filled with
servants, courtiers, guardsmen, and others, all rushing in a mad panic to one
place or another. Torin thought it a chance to learn more about the chaos
erupting all around them, but Darinor ordered the members of their company to
keep their hoods drawn and their heads low. In this case, the Entient was probably
right. Most of these people likely knew even less than they. The safest thing
to do was escape while they could, then examine matters from afar. <
The notion did not sit well with Torin, given the
numbers of those he felt he was being asked to abandon. But he knew
better than to argue, considering how long he'd been
away. As unsettling as it might feel, he was no longer in charge here, and he
did not want to endanger even more lives by trying to make some meaningless
heroic stand.
Still, it became harder and harder not to draw the
Sword as the resounding clamor continued to swell around them. But the
talisman's telltale glow would surely give them all away. They had reached the
ground level, and were shoving along an exterior wall, swimming upstream
against a river of fleeing bodies. Through the adjacent windows poured the
sounds of pitched battle in the courtyard beyond. But all was a writhing mass
of moonlit shadow—black silhouettes of men and weapons come together in a
grinding crush. He could match no faces to the horrid screams.
Allion cut suddenly down a stair to their right. The
hall beyond was almost empty. At the next intersection, the hunter veered
left, pausing briefly to bar the door behind them. The sounds of battle became
muted and distant. Though his heart hammered in its cage, Torin felt his
muscles begin to relax.
They tensed anew when he turned a corner and Marisha
gave a startled shout. Bodies collided as his company ground to an abrupt halt,
with Allion catching that of a frantic guardsman. The soldier looked up at
them with haunted eyes.
"My lords!"
"Kien!" Torin responded, moving forward to
greet the man who had often served as his private sentinel.
The young guardsman recoiled at first, forcing Torin
to grip him about the arms.
"Kien, what has happened?"
The stricken soldier, a bearer of the City Shield,
glanced from face to face. His own was sweat-streaked and smeared with blood.
"My lord, we must escape! There are traitors, my lord, here within the
castle!"
"Who are they?" Torin asked, still trying to
calm the man.
"They turned against us in the armory, my lord.
They—" He stopped and twisted at the sound of pursuit—the heavy footfalls
of a sizable company coming apace. Immediately, he began to thrash and squirm
in an effort to pull away. "My lord, we must flee!"
"We'll go around," Allion determined, and
began pushing them all back the way they had come.
But he did not do so swiftly enough. A snout resonated
from behind as they were spotted, a mad cry taken up by others. The pursuers'
pace quickened, boots hammering against the stone floor, their stride
lengthening. As he turned the corner, Torin looked back.
And froze.
"Bull?"
Sure enough, leading the charge of perhaps a dozen
City Shield was Bullrum, the unofficial leader of his original expedition team
to Yawacor. The man he'd met as a sparring partner—at that time a soldier in
the Legion of the Sword— was clearly recognizable, despite his new uniform,
sallow skin, and the hateful grimace upon his face.
That grimace changed somewhat as the soldier's eyes
found those of his king, taut features loosening in surprise. His step slowed,
and with it, those who accompanied him. All carried drawn weapons, Torin noted,
including Bullrum, whose greatsword was stained with blood.
"Bull, what is this madness?" Torin asked.
He knew not whether he should seek to embrace his old friend—whom he had
assumed dead or lost at sea—or else draw his own blade.
Bullrum, too, seemed torn with indecision. His glare
shifted to Darinor, who hovered over Torin's shoulder, and immediately his gaze
narrowed.
Then Kien came back around the corner, just enough to
peek at what was happening. "My lord, it's them!"
Bullrum's hesitation vanished. With a snarl, the
brown-bearded soldier hefted his weapon and charged. Like boulders in a
rockslide, the others came after.
Torin barely had time to free the Sword from its
sheath. He might not have, were it not for the sudden whirlwind that formed in
front of him and went shrieking down the corridor, blowing dust and grit into
the faces of his enemies and forcing them all to cower in momentary surprise.
"Run!" Darinor commanded.
But it was too late for that. Already, the temporary
gust
summoned by the Entient was dying. Bullrum and his cohorts
pressed forward, weapons weaving. Torin met mem head-on. His intent was not to
kill, but to frighten and disarm, hoping that the fury of the Sword would be
enough to chase his city's former protectors away.
But their lust for battle was far greater man he could
have expected. After severing a pair of blades nearly to the hilt, and men
clearing a pocket with a great, spinning
swipe, his opponents pressed in. A sword tip nicked his shoulder, while another
slashed across his thigh. Torin was forced to maim three men in quick
succession to even find room to breathe. Two lost their hands, the other his
leg at the knee.
None backed away.
In the crowded corridor, there was nowhere for Torin
to hide. Fortunately, his enemies were so reckless that they did as much damage
to one another as to him. Blood spurted, painting the walls and the floor. Some
wounds were so grievous that Torin could not believe the man who had sustained
it was still standing. Nevertheless, not one of his adversaries surrendered the
fight.
An arrow shot out of nowhere, whizzing over Torin's
ducked head and lancing through the ear of one who stood over him. The man
dropped his sword, and Torin made certain that he could not pick it up again,
cutting him in half at the waist. The young king was out of options. If he did
not kill these men, they would kill him.
Another arched stiffly as an arrowhead tore through
his side and poked free, dripping blood and fluid from some vital organ. As
desperate as Torin's situation felt, it must have looked even worse, for
Allion to risk such shots. Putting the wounded man to his back, Torin whirled
to stave off a more serious threat, then lowered his shoulder and twisted round
to face yet another.
At that point, Kien charged in, taking up a fallen
blade and adding his howl to the chorus of those that filled the hall. Torin
continued to hack and dodge, his movements guiding—and at times guided by—the
Sword. The weapon flared, its inner flames barely able to withdraw after one strike
before being called upon for another. The press around him was starting to
slacken, as the number of dead and mutil|ted began to mount. And still his
remaining foes did not relent.
All of a sudden, he was free, having carved through
the knot of guardsmen to the other side. He was down on one knee, arms
extended, weapon thrust upward through the heart of his latest victim. There
was very little blood, for while embedded in the other's chest, the Sword kept
burning. Torin felt a flutter from the man's heart as it convulsed around the
blade—-as if suddenly brought to life. The old soldier gaped at him, lips
curling in stubborn refusal, still struggling to bring his weapon to bear. But
the man's muscles had stopped responding. For a moment longer, Torin peered
into a pair of wild eyes, then tore free and let the man fall.
He spun about to check on the others. Kien was locked
with what looked to be the last of their assailants. His blade was shoved deep
through the front of the man's throat, but the fool continued to sputter,
refusing to die. Despite a wash of blood, none of it seemed to be pulsing. The
man grappled, clawing uselessly, but Kien held on.
Just as the enemy guardsman began failing at last,
sliding down against the wall, one of the others who had appeared to be
defeated rose up suddenly beside him. Bullrum, Torin realized. But before the
young king could react, his onetime companion skewered poor Kien through the
side with the length of that greatsword. Too late, an arrow struck him.
Growling, Bullrum turned toward Allion and charged, driving Kien's openmouthed
body before him like a shield. The hunter fired a second shot, which flew past
Kien to catch Bullrum through the shoulder.
It drew no more than a grunt.
Torin launched himself in pursuit, knowing at once
that he wouldn't reach the others in time. Bullrum barreled onward, gaining
momentum. At the last moment, he threw Kien aside and unsheathed a dagger.
Without the time he needed to nock another arrow, Allion reared back with his
bow, as if meaning to whip the other across the face. ,
In the instant before that happened, Darinor stepped
forward, seizing the crazed Bullrum about the neck. The dagger plunged upward,
striking flesh somewhere within
the folds of Darinor's robes. Ignoring the blow, the
Entient gave a violent twist, spinning Bull's head halfway around on his
shoulders. Bones shattered, and the soldier crumpled, facing backward, his
limbs jerking uncontrollably. In a matter of heartbeats, the spasms ceased, and
his body grew still.
Torin knelt at once beside Kien, examining me massive
blade still buried through his side. The guardsman, slumped against me wall
with blood bubbling from his mouth, offered a meager smile as their gazes
locked. Then his eyes glazed, and his head sagged forward against his chest.
Torin looked to the others. Darinor was gritting his
teeth, bent over as if ill. A moment later, he gave a yank, and cast aside
Bullrum's bloody dagger.
Marisha gasped. "Father, you're hurt!"
She went to him without delay, bearing the torch that
Allion must have handed to her. But Darinor straightened and swatted her away.
"Leave me be," he snarled.
Marisha fell back, her expression wounded. Torin studied
her for only a moment before his eyes found Bullrum's ghastly stare.
"I've a feeling these weren't Rogun's," he
declared.
Darinor nodded. "The Illychar have found
us."
"And is that who we're fighting up there?"
Torin gestured with the Sword toward the upper levels of the castle, less
certain than ever mat they should be fleeing mis chaos rather man confronting
it.
"Would you go and have a closer look after what
you've seen here?" the Entient growled. "Come, let us away before
others discover us."
He started down the hall, past the pile of twitching corpses.
"Come!" he urged again when it became clear
that no one was following. "We shall sort it out later. Or do you intend
that we surrender ourselves to the enemy?"
A sudden and violent pounding within the tunnels
behind mem emphasized me danger. The door, Torin realized—the one they had
barred. Though oblivious as to who was fighting whom, he recognized well enough
that the noose was tightening around them.
He glanced at Allion, who, after looking over his
shoulder at the sound, grabbed the torch and Marisha and shuffled on to retake
the lead.
Torin closed the lids to Kien's eyes before rising to
his feet and hastening after.
They raced first past the open doors of the armory,
through which Torin caught a glimpse of the massacre td which Kien had
referred. A line of training grounds came next, complete with various closets
and chambers used for outfitting, storage, and planning. Most lay dark and
open, leaving Torin to wonder if anyone—friend or foe—hid within. He ran now with
the Sword in hand, numb to his wounds, fully alert for any sudden attack.
They scampered through halls and down flights of
stairs, slowing only when forced to fling aside doors of wood or iron. There
was little point in closing the portals, as most were not meant to be opened
from the inside. They had reached one of the central dungeons—built to house
criminals of noble standing, or whose offenses otherwise drew royal notice.
Though filled to capacity by Torin's father, King Sorl, they stood empty now.
It was in these prisons that Torin had found and pardoned Stephan and all
others who had displeased the prior king—and in whom he had found no fault. Of
course, it was also where the wizard Soric had kept Rogun while seeking to
transform the general into a loyal follower.
Looking back, perhaps Torin should have let that one
rot.
He tried not to think of it, nor to breathe too deeply
of the foul and stagnant air. If ever there had been a time to main- tain
focus, it was now.
At long last, they reached the end of their road—and
in some sense, its beginning. Before them stood a nondescript door at the end
of a hall lined with cells, beyond which lay an abandoned storeroom and the
secret entrance to the tunnel they sought.
Allion patted himself about the neck. "I don't
have the key!" he exclaimed. "I gave it to Evhan when I made him
Fason!"
The hunter looked to Darinor as if expecting the
Entient to do something. But Torin pushed his friend aside, hefting the Sword.
A moment later, a blackened gash had appeared at the edge of the jamb, and the
door swung open.
They piled inside in a rush. While Allion moved at
once to find the latch hidden behind an iron cask, Torin and the others shut
the door and began stacking crates and barrels behind it.
"I've got it!" the hunter shouted.
Torin turned. A hinged section of the far wall hung
open, revealing the dark crawl space beyond. "Lead the way," he said,
huffing as he rolled another barrel into place.
At the same time, Darinor dropped a crate, then fell
to one knee upon the floor beside it.
"Father!" Marisha cried. "Are you all
right?"
The Entient put his back to the makeshift blockade,
wincing as his daughter tried to search him for wounds. "I told you to
leave me be!" he snarled, shoving her away as he had before.
"Father, you must let me have a look!"
"You have no time for that, and no time to be
waiting on me. Go."
"Father—"
"Go! I will safeguard your retreat."
Torin glanced between the woman and her father, pained
by her injured look. '7 will stay," he offered instead. When the Entient
glared at him, he held his ground. "You are the one who must lead us in
this war. No one else has the knowledge to do so. I will stay, and fight as
long as I must to give you the chance to get away."
"Don't be a fool," Allion chimed in at once.
"The Sword cannot stay here, and without it, you may as well be weaponless.
I'll stay."
"Give me your bow, then," Torin said as the
hunter began to slip it off his shoulder. "Take the Sword and carry
on."
But Allion shook his head. "If you think I'm
leaving you to—"
"Silence!" Darinor roared, though it caused
him to flinch and bend over his side. "My daughter is not staying here to
die. If each of you insists on being the fool hero, / will take her and the
Sword and leave you both behind."
The Entient turned to Marisha, who crossed her arms in
refusal.
"Then again, I know not how long I can
continue," said Darinor, his face and his tone softening, "and I
would not risk leaving her alone. Moreover, neither of us knows the route
through these tunnels. At least one of you must agree to guide her. The other
can abandon her and risk death here alongside me, if he likes."
Torin looked to Allion. Together, they shifted their
gazes to Marisha.
"No," she said. A crash resounded from back
in the dungeons as an iron door was slammed wide. "No!"
Again she tried to go to the Entient, and again he
fended her off with one hand while clutching his hidden wound with the other.
This time, Torin and Allion both helped to restrain her.
"You must," Darinor said, "or you
condemn us all—not just the four of us, but the rest of your kind throughout
the land, maybe even the world entire."
"I don't care," Marisha replied, and began
to sob. "I don't care!"
Torin felt the woman shudder, and was taken aback by
the intensity of her passion. Never had he seen her like this—not even when he
and Kylac had whisked her away from the slave pits of Kraagen Keep, leaving
hundreds of others to their suffering. At that time, the young assassin had
been able to appeal to her sense of greater good. It seemed they would not be
able to do so here.
"I won't leave you, Father! I won't!"
And then it struck him. This wasn't the Marisha he
knew. This was Marisha at six years of age, on the verge of losing the most
important man in her life—again. Only, this time might be forever, and she
wasn't prepared to let that happen.
"You will, my daughter, as I left you. For a time
only- because you must." The man reached out with one hand to take hold of
hers. "'Tis the natural order of things, for parent and child to say
good-bye. We who are descended of the Ha'Rasha are no exception."
Marisha wept, gripping his hand and kissing it and
washing it with her tears. She knew it had to be this way, Torin realized,
else she would not have been so distraught.
"That it should happen now," Darinor added
softly, "so soon after being given this second chance, pains me more than
you know. But you have a legacy to carry on, and if I go to my grave this
night, I do so knowing that it is a greater legacy by far for having you as its
bearer."
"Father..."
"Go now," he pressed, and his tone hardened.
"Do not dishonor your mother by lending greater weight to my passing than
to hers. You bid her farewell. You must do so now to me."
He looked purposefully to Torin, then to Allion, and
withdrew his hand. Marisha shook her head and tried to follow, but they held
her by the arms, allowing Darinor to pull free.
"I love you, Father," she cried, sagging in
their hands. "I love you."
The Entient turned his eye to Allion. "When you
get clear, do not stop, but hurry south to Kuuria. If I can, I will meet you
there. Otherwise, follow the plan we have set forth."
Allion nodded dumbly. The clamor of pursuit had
reached the hall outside. Torin barely had time to meet the mystic's gaze one
last time before their assault on the storeroom door began.
"Away!" Darinor snapped, rising boldly to
his feet and putting his back to them.
"Father," Marisha whimpered. When Torin and
Allion began dragging her toward the tunnel entrance, she wailed, "Father!"
Torin worried that they might have to render her unconscious
in order to get her through the crawl space, to say nothing of hauling her
through the secret maze of passes and trapdoors. But then Allion shook her arm,
still holding their torch in his other, and forced her gaze to meet his.
"We'll see him again," the hunter assured
her. "We'll see him again soon. Come now."
Torin couldn't tell what it was that finally persuaded
her, but Marisha composed herself and nodded. Choking back tears, she shrugged
free of their grasp and ducked through the opening before them. Allion
followed, and, with a lingering glance back at Darinor and the pile of stores
meant to barricade the door, Torin slipped through on the hunter's heels.
He shut the panel behind them, muffling the sounds of
their enemies' assault, and leaving the renegade Entient to his fate.
He turned forward then, to find his friends. For their
own fate lay somewhere in the darkness ahead.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE Back Table of Contents Next
Torin had learned as a child to dislike
tight space, Once, when playing at moles and vipers, he had hidden in a burrow
that had partially collapsed, leaving him trapped for hours until his friends
had found him and been able to dig him free. Since then, he'd been prone to the
occasional nightmare in which he was being buried alive or else forced to
squeeze and writhe through a dark and twisted landscape while some vile creature—be
it man or beast—hunted him from behind.
It felt like that now, and deep within, some voice
kept urging him to stop struggling and simply wake up. But this was no dream,
and the only way to escape would be to keep moving.
Yet the going was slow. The route they followed was
not some singular access tunnel, but a patchwork string of chambers and
passages—some used, others abandoned-stitched together by various false walls
and secret openings. Part of a web, it was said, laid among the lower levels
of the city. None knew its true origins, nor how widespread the entire network
might be. There were maps to certain segments, but due to its secretive nature,
most were left uncharted or incomplete. Most likely, it had come into being
gradually, built in bits and pieces by smugglers and fugitives. From what
Stephan had told him, this particular course had not been designed so much as
discovered, one link at a time. At some point in history, when one of Torin's
ancestors had decided he needed a bolt-hole from the city, he had evidently
opted to save time and effort by simply tapping into what was already
here.
A decision that might cost his progeny dear, Torin
thought, choking on the dust-filled air beneath die floorboards of what was
rumored to be a deserted charnel house. Time was slipping away from them. When
they should have been running, they were instead forced to duck and crawl and
search for hidden levers. Then again, for all he knew, their enemy was already
outside, waiting for them to emerge—-making this entire retreat a wasted
endeavor.
But it did him no good to think like that. Better to
take heart in the progress they had made. The most suffocating stretch was that
which they navigated right now, and already, Allion was near the far end,
triggering the panel that would allow them to spill free. From there, if Torin
recalled correctly, it was in and out through a pair of false crates hidden
in a cluttered cellar, and back into tunnels in which they could at least
stand. They would be moving faster then, hoping that faster would be enough.
He watched his friends carefully—especially Marisha.
She seemed to be holding up well. Every now and then, she would freeze
momentarily at an unknown sound. No doubt, she continued to pray that her
father might change his mind and manage somehow to catch up to them. The
likelihood seemed unquestionably remote. But for her sake, if none other, Torin
hoped she was right.
His memory proved true concerning the cellar and the
tunnel beyond, though he'd forgotten there was yet another storeroom to duck
into by way of secret opening before they could access the next set of
corridors required. Fortunately, Allion remembered the path better than he. The
city's former Fason led them without hesitation, moving urgently from marker
to marker. Marisha followed close, clutching Allion's arm at times. Torin, wary
of enemies, kept guard at their backs, eyes sweeping from side to side in the
crimson glow of the Sword.
They exited the final storeroom through its main door,
which placed them in a hall belonging to a metal foundry. Once again, they
discovered all to be dark and quiet.
If only that meant they were safe.
Allion cut left, leading them to a metal door embedded
in the rock wall. As he hauled open the heavy portal, a wash of heat swept
inward, so intense mat the air shimmered. With noses rankled by a sulfurous
stench, they pressed through.
Despite the fiendish conditions, Torin felt a measure
of relief. They had reached the smelter, the last major checkpoint of their
journey. From here, they had but a few mine tunnels to run down, a cave to
crawl through, and an air shaft to climb. A short jaunt through a private tract
of woodland would bring them to a horse ranch whose possessor had long ago been
friends with his royal grandfather, King Sirrus— and later with Torin's mother,
Ellebe.
They were almost clear.
And yet, rather than hastening forward, Allion stopped
suddenly to look around, clearly troubled.
"What is it?" Torin asked.
.
Already, however, he could see for himself. Blast furnaces
scraped the cavern ceiling, belching smoke and gases through natural chimneys,
doors wide to reveal the flames inside. Tools lay scattered—tongs cast aside,
shovels left lying atop mounds of crushed ore and limestone. Molten slag flowed
through troughs and piping, slowly filling a giant vat to Torin's left. The
smelter was alive, yet there was not a single worker to tend it.
Allion turned to Torih with a telling look. Wherever
these workers had fled, they had done so in a hurry.
"Suppose our tunnel is clear?" Torin asked,
considering the several passages open before them. Though any number would
carry mem from the smelter, only one would do so beyond the city walls.
"We won't know until we try it."
"Then why are we lingering?" Marisha
snapped. "Father might already be waiting."
Torin looked again to Allion, who slipped free of his
bow. Handing Marisha their torch, he nocked an arrow to the string.
"I'll go first" Torin said.
They maintained their course, following a railway used
to transport ore and other minerals in heavy carts. Torin set pace at a
cautious jog, sweat pooling upon his brow, skin itching as invisible claws
raked his neck.
The tunnel quickly swallowed the fiery glow of the
smelter, leaving the aura of the Sword to stave off the darkness rushing
headlong to meet them. But as they turned a bend, they were startled to find
new light in the form of a lantern, gripped casually by a young soldier who
carried an old scar upon his cheek.
"Evhan!" Allion exclaimed.
Torin drew up short, and placed a restraining hand on
his friend's shoulder.
"Making our escape, are we?" Evhan asked,
leaning against the cavern wall.
Torin held position at the front of their group,
hackles raised in alarm. "What are you doing here, Captain?"
"Waiting for Your Majesty, of course. You
promised to spar with us again, did you not?"
Allion tensed. "Evhan—"
"Now is hardly the time," Torin cut in,
still gripping his friend's shoulder.
The Fason laughed. "Now may be the only chance we
get."
There was a hint of movement from behind the young
captain. Faces emerged from the shadows—haunting masks of shriveled skin and
angled features. Faces that should have been dead.
But weren't.
"You've made us wait for quite some time,"
Evhan noted. "We were beginning to wonder if you meant to keep your
promise."
"My promise was to a young man who is no longer
with us," Torin replied, his gaze darting from face to face. They were
elves, Finlorians, and seeing them immediately brought to mind his slow retreat
from the
"Oh, he is with us," the Illychar purred.
"I can feel hirn stirring. My guess is, he wants this as badly as I
do."
"Then you are both fools," Torin replied,
placing two
hands upon the Sword as Allion fell back beside him.
"His partners are gone, and this is no practice weapon I wield."
"He has acquired new partners, as you can see. Or
do you think you can defeat us all?"
Torin wasn't sure. Not without knowing how many
he faced. There were fewer than had
accompanied Bull; that much he could sense. Of course, these were elves, who he
knew from experience were swifter than humans—though perhaps weaker man...
The thought trailed off as the almost soundless
move- ments of the elven Illychar
gave way to a deep huffing and the shuffle of lumbering footfalls. It resumed
as a giant, lumpish head hove into view.
... an ogre.
The beast muscled past the puny Finlorians, stopping
only when Evhan raised his hand. Its skin was as tough and wrinkled as a
walnut, with knotted strands of black hair hang- ing about in seemingly random
patches. It gave a snort at being restrained, blowing mucus from its bulbous,
growth-encrusted snout. When rearing back, its head nearly scraped the ceiling,
at more than twice the height of the average man.
He had not yet finished taking in the sheer bulk of
the brute when a second shoved in beside the first, tipping a mine cart as though it were a wooden cup
and fully block- ing the way forward.
Its vacant eyes fixed upon the talisman
clutched in Torin's hands.
"The Sword will be ours," Evhan assured him,
"one way or another. I can make it much less painful should you agree to
simply hand it over."
"I'd sooner give it to one of them," Torin
remarked, with a second glance at the ogres.
The Fason's eyes narrowed. He knew, Torin thought,
that the surest way to survive this conflict—and to make certain he was
the one to lay claim to the blade—was to resolve it without a fight.
"What if I were to guarantee your companions'
freedom?" the villain offered.
It was the king's turn to snort—with mirthless
laughter. "You would let them go?"
"In exchange for the Sword, yes."
Torin's thoughts raced. "Allow me to see them
safely away, and I might consider it."
A quick motion from behind and to the side caused the
pack before him to tense. Even without their reaction, Torin had felt that
motion enough times to know exactly what it signaled.
"That's not going to happen," Allion
declared, bow flexing.
Evhan turned to him with a cold smirk. "Loyalty,
I suppose."
"I wouldn't expect your kind to understand,"
came the hunter's retort.
The Illychar's smirk broadened. "Perhaps you can
explain it to us. Perhaps, while you do so, you'd care to share with your
friend the secret you're hiding from him."
Allion scoffed. "Secret?"
"Is there more than one? Or perhaps you feel it
is the lady's place to tell him."
Torin frowned, but kept his gaze upon his enemies.
"What are you talking about?"
"They know what I speak
of," Evhan hissed. "And unless they are blind, they will recognize
this as an opportunity to take what they truly want—while at the same time
protecting their friend from the harmful truth."
The ensuing silence fast grew uncomfortable.
"I've a better offer," Torin countered;
"Make way, and you'll keep for now these mortal coils. Else you'll soon be
yielding them to new hosts."
One of the ogres groaned restlessly, while the elves
around it shifted with anticipation. Evhan held wide his lantern to rein them
in. When next he spoke, his smirk had slipped.
"You cannot escape," he said. "Even
now, a host of my kind lay siege to your walls..With but the pitiful few left
here to guard your gates, they will soon be overrun. The greatest mercy would
be to end this quickly."
"Done," Allion agreed.
His arrow ripped through the air, and Evhan, though he
tried to dodge, caught it through the throat. His lantern crashed to the floor,
and the tide of Illychar was unleashed.
"Run!" Marisha screamed.
Neither man had to ask where, or check to see if the
other would follow. They spun together and bolted after her, back toward the
smelter. Better that than trying to force their way past this knot of
enemies—hoping there weren't more waiting behind. At least in the cavern, they
would be able to see what they were up against.
The elves were the first to catch up to them. With the
Sword in hand, Torin sensed where they were, though he hadn't turned to look.
Thinking him unaware, they lunged at his back. Down swept the Sword, severing a
leg. Torin then stopped and spun, slicing overhead to catch one that had
scampered up and off the wall. As its blackened torso fell away, he pressed up
close to the rock, making himself thin enough to escape the sweep of another's
blade. The elf hissed in fury, but by the time it came back around, it was
missing its sword arm.
Its head rolled after.
The others gave Torin a bit of room at that point, and
he took it, sprinting out through the mouth of the tunnel. By then, the first
of the ogres was nearly atop him, swatting aside one hesitant elf and grinding
another between its foot and the iron rails upon the floor. It thundered on,
moving not so much like a limbed creature as a rolling pile of boulders, great
lumps of armored muscle looking for something to crush.
Torin veered suddenly as a fist came down—so hard that
the ground cracked and rolled beneath his feet. He lost his balance and had to
stoop to recover, losing precious seconds. Then came a familiar twang,
followed by a sound like snapping twigs, as Allion's arrows ricocheted off the
beast's bonelike skin. Still, it drew the ogre's attention, giving Torin the
opening he needed.
He pivoted in reverse, coming back around the
creature's flank. By the time the dimwitted brute had located the pesky archer,
Torin had severed the tendon of one of its ankles and opened a gash in the back
of its knee, eliciting a howl that seemed to shake the cavern walls.
He could do no further damage, however, for the elf es
were on him once more, springing out from around the'massive ogre like fleas.
They greeted him with withered faces and rictus grins, blades flashing with
such speed and precision that he could barely track their movements.
Fortunately, he didn't have to. Given the Sword, he knew instinctively which
thrusts were feints and which posed real harm. Ignoring the former, he
concentrated on the latter, chopping weapons and their wielders into pieces
without a single wasted motion.
A good thing, since the elves didn't need to kill him,
only pin him in place long enough for one of the ogres to finish the job. Too late, he felt the searing heat
from one of the giant blast furnaces at
his back. And while the first ogre was
limping in place upon its wounded leg, the second was even now roaring in, the elves at its flanks.
Torin held his ground, backed up as close to the furnace as he could
stand. At the last moment, he dove forward, slipping just inside the
creature's lumbering reach. His momentum carried him directly between the
ogre's legs, where he slid forward on his back, tearing at the skin beneath his
jerkin. The fleet-footed elves would have finished him then and there except for two things. One
was the arrowhead that tore through the
cheek of the first to reach him. The other was the smelting furnace into which
the ogre had crashed— the Same furnace before which he'd stood a moment
earlier. Possessed of a savage fury, the beast had simply ripped it from its
struts and seating, tearing it from the wall and flinging it down upon the
floor in a twisted mash 6f iron and Fire and metal tubing.
It may have been grace alone that saved him then. For
as flaming debris spilled across the floor, crushing and burning and sending
black smoke everywhere, Torin was miraculously unscathed—save for a rivulet of
molten slag that swiftly burned a hole through the heel of his boot. He cried
out and scampered away, still upon his back, thrashing with , feet and elbows,
until finally he was able to roll over and rise once more.
Most of his enemies were not so fortunate. Several of
the elves had been squashed or set aflame. Those that had evaded more serious
injury, like he, had done so more through luck than reaction or intent. The
ogre that had caused the mess was clawing at its own face, having blinded
itself, it would appear, with the blast of gaseous air released from the furnace
upon separating from its chimney.
The same creature howled with fresh rage as its foot
splashed down in a puddle of melted iron. That sight, along with the bum upon
his own foot, gave Torin an idea as both he and his enemies began to regroup.
Sprinting from the wreckage, he looked first for his
friends. He found them to one side, their backs together as they fended off a
pair of elves. Marisha was doing so with torch and dagger, Allion with bow and
hunting knife. At such close quarters, the archer's range weapon was no better
than a lightweight staff. Neither, Torin feared, could hold out for long.
But then he spotted Evhan, emerging from the tunnel.
The arrow had been broken and pulled from his throat, and though blood washed
his chest, he appeared very much alive. Torin couldn't hear him over the
crackle of flames and the keening of the wounded ogres, but saw well enough
that he was trying to redirect his remaining troops in one last, concerted
rush.
Torin resisted the urge to fly to his friends' aid,
since doing so would only draw more enemies to them. Instead, he counted up
those that had yet to be slain. There were more than he would have expected,
given the gravity of the wounds that many bore. But as Darinor had warned, it
took more than a ruptured lung or bleeding heart to convince an Illychar that
it was dead.
Yet he could destroy them all, Torin reassured
himself. He could make their bodies unusable and thus leave them no choice. He
told himself this as he took his bearings without seeming to do so, and then
faced his enemies squarely, daring them forward. They came on, many limping,
some crawling—determined to finish him, lay claim to the Sword, and thus end
this war before it truly began.
As they neared, Torin backed away slowly, letting them
close rank, letting them tighten their own noos|. They were taking no chances
this time. The mad rush had (Failed. Now, they would cinch around him until he
had nowhere to go.
He stopped at the edge of the trench, a sunken track
along which wheeled crucibles were used to cart away molten materials. He
didn't know that his plan would work, of course. If he was to miscalculate on
any number of levels, he might very well be sealing the fate of all. But at
this point, he was desperate enough to try.
"Are you ready to end this, then?" Evhan
rasped, gurgling blood as he pushed to the fore of his ring.
Torin glanced back toward Allion and Marisha, but
couldn't find them. Smoke and gases from the overturned furnace stung his eyes.
"You want the Sword?" Torin coughed, glaring
from face to face. He was stalling, waiting for the second ogre to hobble near
on its melted stump. The first, the one he had crippled, hovered over him,
huffing its fetid breath.
Then Marisha cried out, and Torin knew his time was
up.
"Let's see which of you wants it most."
He dropped his weapon then, into the spill trench—used
to catch any overflow from the slag-bearing crucibles or the vat that supplied
them. For a moment, no one moved, except to eye him with suspicion. But that
suspicion was soon passed on to one another, as each of the illychar came to
realize that the Sword was its for the taking.
Like a pack of wolves, they descended, jostling one another
to be the first to reach the discarded; talisman. A crucible blocked the path
of some, but was swatted clear by the ogre. As it crashed away, Torin sprang
back to the other side of the trench, all but forgotten by his enemies. Evhan
tried to call out a warning, but was ignored. He was too late, anyway. In the
time it took for the Fason to realize what was about to happen, Train tore free
the safety pin and yanked down on the release chain, tipping the giant vat upon
its hinges and letting its contents pour forth from its grooved lip.
An intense heat erupted over him, scalding his face
and hands, but Torin held on, refusing to let the vat tip back. Al-
ready overfilled from having been abandoned for too
long, the molten slag poured out like the runoff from a waterwheel,
disintegrating anything it touched.
Piled together in a crush at the bottom of that
trench, only a couple of the Illychar saw it coming—and still had no chance to
escape. Even those upon the fringes let loose terrible wails as the slag
rained down in gushing torrents, melting faces and flesh and bones. The ogre
lasted the longest, but was soon eaten away down the center, falling in among
the others and leaving only its burning limbs to poke free of the fiery river.
When those, too, had slipped beneath, Torin let go the
pull ring and allowed the empty vat to settle back, wincing at the pain of his
blistered hands. Covering his mouth against a horrid stench, he watched the
molten flow as it drained off toward a recovery basin. Almost all of the
Illychar were gone. Those that still lived had been reduced to flaming stumps,
and were of no threat. Evhan was among the most whole, his body intact from the
waist up, while his hips and legs had been melted away. Other than that, Torin
saw only the blinded, footless ogre, which thrashed about near the center of
the cavern, struggling to find its way.
He turned then, remembering his friends. He found them
quickly this time, though the smoke had thickened and his eyes still burned.
Marisha had not been hurt, as he'd feared. Her cry had been for Allion, held
prostrate on the ground by a lone surviving elf. A curved blade of Finlorian
design was pressed against the back of the hunter's neck, while his head was
arched back sharply, hair gripped in the elf's fist.
All three stared in Torin's direction, as if frozen by
the spectacle he had just produced. Marisha was the first to react, snatching
up her fallen torch. The Illychar looked over in time to catch the flaming
brand square in the face. With a terrible screech, it fell back, dropping its
blade. Allion seized the weapon, and with Marisha's help, swiftly made sure the
creature would never rise again.
As its hisses and screams died away, Torin looked back
to the trench in which he had cast the Sword, a flutter of anxiety in his
chest. But as the last of the slag drained free along the designated spill
route, the blade was revealed, pure and pristine, unscarred by the superheated
materials that had washed over it.
Torin smiled in spite of himself, though he waited a
moment longer before retrieving the talisman with a pair of tongs from a
nearby worktable. He inspected it for both residue and heat, but found no need
to wipe it down or cool it off. The weapon had protected itself fully, as he'd
hoped, and was as flawless as ever.
Armed once more, he found it but a small matter to
finish off the handful of mutilated Illychar that remained. Even the blinded
ogre fell swiftly. One on one, its sluggish movements and hardened skin were no
match for the Sword; though, given its plaintive wails, Torin almost pitied the
creature while putting it down.
Finally, he returned to Evhan, upon whom Allion was
looking down with understandable sadness.
"Help me finish him," the hunter bade.
Torin nodded, and together, they carried the Fason's
remains to the nearest furnace. Marisha moved on ahead, opening the door to
the fire chamber used to preheat the blast air. Alerted, perhaps, by the
grating of iron, the roaring of flames, or his imminent demise, Evhan jerked
awake at the last moment, blinking unsteadily. Startled by his sudden
movements, both men let go and fell back.
"This changes nothing," the Illychar
sputtered, lying on the floor where they had dropped him. "You cannot stop
what is already in motion. My kind will be free."
"As will Evhan," Allion growled. "Go
now, and let him find peace."
The hunter moved forward, knife in hand. The legless
Illychar reached out feebly to stop him, but could not prevent Allion from
plunging that blade through his eye socket and digging around in his brain.
After a moment of convulsions, his struggles ceased.
When finished, Allion withdrew slowly, wiping his
blade on the other's runic. Torin awaited his friend's signal, then bent to
help him once more. This time, the ruined torso offered no resistance as they
heaved it into the flames.
After watching it blacken and crumble, Marisha closed
the door, leaving the three of them to gaze upon one another's soot-smeared
faces.
"May we leave now?" she asked of Allion.
The hunter did not respond, so Torin placed a hand on
his shoulder.
"Come," the king urged. "Let's go and
see if any of what he told us is true."
At last, the hunter nodded, and the three of them
turned away. Weapons in hand, they
pushed on through the thicken-ing haze, seeking their tunnel and an escape into
the night.
CHAPTER FIFTY-F0UR Back Table of Contents Next
Side by side, the trio of friends staggered
into the exit tunnel, stepping over and around the bodies of Illychar slain in
the initial rush. Inside, the air cleared somewhat, while the temperatures
cooled. Torin welcomed the change, taking a deeper breath and reaching up to
wipe the sweat from his brow.
"Was that how it felt for you and Kylac in
Killangrathor's lair?" he asked Allion.
The hunter ignored him at first, then stopped suddenly
to
stare at him strangely.
"What is it?"
Before answering, Allion peered back toward the
cavern, a den of ash and smoke and unchecked blazes—complete with a river of
molten stone. "The shaman," he whispered.
"The what?"
The hunter was not really speaking to him, but seemed
to be wrestling with something in his own mind.
"What's wrong?" Marisha inquired with
concern.
"The A'awari shaman," Allion repeated.
"The one who slew Wyevesces. He told me I would know my enemy when I
returned to the dragon's lair."
Torin could only look on helplessly as his closest
friends faced each other, struggling to find meaning in a riddle he knew
nothing about. Clearly, it had something to do with the foray into
"A prophecy?" the king asked.
Allion frowned. "A warning, I think."
"Well, it's behind us now," Torin offered
reassuringly. 'Time to move on." He took a couple of steps, but stopped
when he realized that his friends had not followed. "Come," he urged
again. "Those fires back there are still singeing my skin."
Marisha gave a gentle tug, and Allion started forward,
a look of frustration creasing his brow.
Then, all of a sudden, as his gaze took in the
emptiness of the path ahead, that look changed, overcome by an expression of
absolute horror. Once again, the hunter stopped in his tracks.
"Allion," Marisha said, "you're
worrying me."
The hunter seized the woman's shoulders, putting his
face close to hers. "Darinor. The Illychar trapped him underground, did
they not? When he went to check on the seal?"
Marisha stared back, eyes affright. "That's how
he tells it. But why—"
"What would he have used to defend himself in
those catacombs? Fire? Lightning?"
"Why not?"
The hunter shook her, trying to make her see.
"Because he doesn't just conjure those elements. He summons them from the
world around him. And if he had no source ..."
"Allion," Marisha said, searching his face
as if he were a stranger. "What are you saying?"
Torin's stomach writhed as a fresh dread seeped in
like poison. It seemed quite obvious what his friend was suggesting. If
weaponless, had the renegade Entient really escaped?
But the terrible consequences of that possibility,
along with the utter dismay in Marisha's face, caused him to search for an
alternative. "He would have carried a torch, would he not? A candle's
flame was enough to set my hearth afire."
Allion glanced at him. "Maybe. Though I've never
seen him use one."
"How can we know?"
"Stop this, both of you!" Marisha demanded.
"My father is even now risking his life to save yours, while you stand
here suggesting him to be some sort of villain!"
Torin's gaze drifted back toward the tunnel mouth, his
thoughts returned to the slain Illychar. "Did he mean to save us, or
deliver us?"
"My father is not a monster!"
"Marisha," Allion said, trying to make her
meet his gaze. "The shaman spoke of betrayal."
"Of Evhan, then, if you must believe in such
things. Evhan is the one who betrayed us."
The hunter did not respond right away, as if urging
her to think it through. "If that is so," he said softly, "then
tell me, how did Evhan know about us? Who could have possibly
told him?"
The word us echoed in Torin's thoughts, and
once again, he felt like an outsider. Only, this time, that which he was
hearing sounded clear enough. He thought back to the secret Evhan had
mentioned, and an odd warmth billowed through
his veins.
Marisha glanced in his direction, and his suspicions
were confirmed. Denial and understanding collided within, spawning emotions too
confusing to sort through. -
"Torin," he heard her say, from what seemed a great distance.
"Torin, listen, we—"
"We have to go," Allion said. "We have
to warn Galdric
and Thelin—"
But his words, too, were cut short suddenly,
though not because someone else's had trampled them. Rather, it appeared the
hunter had simply run out of breath. His mouth was still moving, but it made no
sound, like a fish groping for
food.
"Allion?" Marisha asked. Then, as he dropped
to his knees,
she shrieked, "Allion!"
Torin sprang forward. At the same time, he felt a rush
of heat from the Sword, gripped in his hand, and noted a deep glow from where
the Pendant hung around Marisha's neck. He paid neither more than an instant's
consideration, however, for Allion's face was red, veins standing out beneath
his flesh. His chest heaved, and his throat strained, but still
he made no sound. His eyes widened grotesquely a
moment before the convulsions ceased and he fell back against the rough stone
of the tunnel floor.
"Allion!" Marisha wailed again, cradling his
neck and bending her ear to his mouth. His flesh was purple, his chest still.
She began at once an attempt to revive him.
"He has overspoken himself, it seems."
They looked together toward the sound of the new
voice. All at once, a shadow appeared. Though backlit by the red glow of the
tunnel mouth, it had been invisible but a moment before. It came ahead now,
growing in size and definition.
"Father," Marisha whispered, tears in her
eyes.
"You already returned the Pendant to her, I
see," Darinor grumbled, eyes ablaze as they fixed upon Torin. "You
leave me no choice but to do this in crude fashion."
Before Torin could manage a response, there came a
great swoosh and crackle. A torrent of flames gushed in from behind the
renegaderEntient, composed of molten materials summoned from the burning
smelter. As the torrent neared, it split off into separate streams, each of
which alighted upon one of Darinor's outstretched hands in the form of a
swirling
fireball.
Blazes in hand, the Entient took another step forward.
But so did Torin, brandishing the Sword as he stood
over his friends. "What, no more ruse, then?" the king snarled.
"It would be wasted now, would it not?"
Darinor growled in response. "In any case, I am out of patience. I had
hoped this little snare sufficient to end matters between us, but it would
appear I underestimated you. I will not do so again."
Torin's thoughts whirred, struggling to put the pieces
in place. That was what the Entient had been doing when he'd left them there in
the king's chambers, just before their retreat. He had set forth not to check
on things, but to arrange Evhan's ambush.
"If you meant to kill us, why not help Bull
finish us before?"
"Because I did not wish to give myself away by
fighting openly against you. Bullrum's was a chance encounter, though I
allowed him his opportunity. He failed."
"And those who came after? In the dungeons? Why
send us on ahead?"
"Those were not mine, but yours—soldiers
answering to General Rogun." The Entient grimaced with savage defiance,
teeth flashing amid the crags of his beard. "They will make fine
Illychar."
"Then you were not as wounded as you appeared,"
Torin observed darkly. He glanced at Marisha, but the healer did not seem to be
listening, too busy was she pumping on Al-lion's chest as if he were some sort
of bellows.
In that moment of distraction, the first of the
fireballs was unleashed. When Torin looked up, it was already upon him, leaving
him no time but to raise his blade instinctively. As contact was made, crimson
flames leapt forth to meet and then consume the offensive magic—though the
intense heat of the blast caused the air to ripple around him.
"You must know your powers cannot harm me,"
Torin retorted, sounding much braver than he felt.
The remaining fireball split and spilled over into the
En-tient's empty hand, so that both were alight once more. "Not directly,
perhaps. But how long can you afford to stand here while my armies surround
you?"
"How long can you," Torin snapped,
"knowing that Rogun's soldiers may find us first?"
The Entient's scowl deepened. "Whatever your
general has come here to do, he is too late. Already, your dearest friend rots
beneath you."
Torin had to clench his jaw to keep his lip from
quivering. Beside him, Marisha began pounding Allion's chest, weeping in
denial. She then kissed him, on the forehead and on the mouth, with tears and
with passion. When Torin looked to her, another fireball came roaring. This one
was not aimed at him, however, but went sailing past to strike the tunnel wall,
hot enough to melt the very stone.
"You cannot save him," Darinor warned.
"The only way to do so is to raise him as an Illychar."
"Never!" Marisha hissed, looking up at last.
Her next ut-' terance was a yell. "Never!"
Torin raised an arm to block her, but she brushed
right
past. With murder in her eyes, she lunged toward her
father. Torin sprang after, but could not reach them before Darinor
intercepted her with a backhand across the face. At the moment of contact, a
burst of flames from the Pendant consumed those upon the Entient's hand and
drew from him a sharp cry. Yet the blow itself sent her reeling. As Torin
reached them, Darinor hurriedly stepped aside, keeping his distance from the
Sword, while Marisha sprawled into a jag upon the wall, beneath which she
crumpled.
Rather than chase after his enemy, Torin stopped to
check on his friend. The Entient's flames had done no damage to her skin. But
there was a gash from where she had struck her head, and she did not stir at
his touch.
"You would destroy your own daughter, as
well?" Torin demanded, feeling for a pulse.
"She is a coil," the Illychar corrected,
shaking his hand as if stung by the Pendant's defenses. "Nothing
more."
Torin rose from his crouch, his rage boiling.
"And what is she to you but a faithless
harlot?"
"My friend," Torin snarled, starting forward
slowly.
The Entient did not back off, but rather shifted to one
side. He did so in the blink of an eye, so quick that he seemed to simply
vanish and reappear. A third fireball was launched, once again skimming Torin's
shoulder before blasting against the tunnel wall.
Startled by the sudden movement, Torin ceased his approach
and instead stepped round the other way, keeping his adversary in front of him,
measuring carefully the distance between them. It seemed Darinor was doing the
same. Mirroring each other's pace and stride, the pair began to circle like
cats at bay.
"Tonight would have been much easier without her
interference," Darinor lamented, hurling yet another fireball. This one
ignited a mine cart farther down the tunnel, filling the air with even more
smoke and heat. "I would have taken the Sword as you slept. By the time
you awoke, you would have done so as an Illychar."
"The Sword could have been yours from the very
beginning," Torin reminded him. "If it's the blade yoa covet, why did
you refuse it when it was offered?"
"Because I did not care to repeat the same
strategy that failed my kind before," Darinor admitted, flinging a
fireball that landed at Torin's feet. "Remember Sabaoth? What would your
Sword have won me if the Vandari were to return with another, or an army, or a
way to restore the seal? Your quest was not a lie. Securing your trust seemed a
far better way to achieve control of whatever forces and talismans you—or
they—happened to return with."
Torin tried closing the gap between them, but again
his enemy flickered and speed-stepped, leaving only a fireball in the king's
path.
"You could have made the journey yourself,"
he observed. "You could have found the Finlorians and pretended to befriend
them as you did me. What if I had lost the blade?"
"Had you lost the blade, then it would have posed
no threat to me. The more likely danger was that it would fall into another's
hands, which is why you were given the Pendant to carry along with it,
remember?"
Reacting to each other's movements, they continued to
circle, back and forth between the tunnel walls. All the while, Darinor threw
his molten balls of fire—haphazardly, it seemed—as Torin searched for a hole in
the Entient's defenses.
"There were risks involved, to be sure,"
Darinor allowed. "But necessary that I might have the opportunity to carry
out my designs here, where the real battle will now take place. In truth, you
succeeded too soon for me to complete my web. Had I anticipated that, or
believed for a moment you might succeed without carrying the Sword, I
might have sent you on your errand with the Pendant alone."
Though the answer made some sense, it didn't feel
right to Torin. Not a lie, exactly, but an incomplete truth. Either way,
Darinor had used him. His quest had been little more than an elaborate scheme
to steal or subvert for the Illychar, any powers or plans that might be used
against them. An unwitting pawn, he had done just that, playing the game as the
renegade Entient had designed it.
So that in the end, the Illysp would possess all.
"But there are no additional armies," Torin
said. "No more talismans, no other forces of magic for you to seize as
your own. You have nothing save that which you started with."
"I have enough," the Illychar argued.
"And without fear of retribution, I will now take the Sword, and move on
to the next phase of conquest."
That was why the Entient had seemed almost relieved,
Torin thought, upon listening to the king's report. And the lightning bolt—the
one that had rocked his tower without spawning any others—that had been a
signal to the Illychar troops. He still didn't know for sure where Rogun fit
in, but was now willing to believe that the general had sprung his trap upon
realizing that the Illychar were springing theirs. It was the most reasonable
way to explain why Darinor had sent them off into the tunnels, away from a
madness he could not fully control, and into an ambush that he did.
"For all your cunning, your traps have
failed," Torin said. "The city is not yet yours, and never will you
have the Sword."
Even as he extended this challenge, he felt a scalding
heat beneath his foot. Glancing down in pain and shock, he saw that the toes of
his boot had come in contact with a stream of molten rock, left in the wake of
one of the Entient's fire blasts. He moved away quickly, looking up in time to
drive his approaching adversary back a step.
Darinor gritted his teeth—a menacing smile.
To his sudden horror, Torin recognized what the
Entient intended in prolonging this confrontation. While the fires themselves
were shaped by a magic the Sword could dispel, the resulting damage—while
difficult to fathom—was natural enough. All around, holes in the walls and
floor sizzled, stone and minerals dripping to form rivers and pools. Farther
back, the flaming mine cart had melted and crumbled into a molten slag like
that he'd used against Evhan. Smoke and fumes and searing heat permeated the
tunnel air.
"It can still end well for you," Darinor
offered. "Surrender the Sword, and I will grant you a painless death and
long life as an Illychar. Together, you and your friends can be reborn.
Otherwise, I will burn your corpses, and let that be
the end of you."
Torin growled and pressed the attack, desperate now to
find an opening. But the Entient continued to stall, moving about,
quick-shifting every now and then and throwing those fireballs to keep him off
balance. Worse, Torin was forced to monitor the ground almost as closely as he
did his enemy, in order to avoid contact with any of the melted areas laid as
traps beneath his feet. There were holes in the ceiling now, as well, raining
drops upon the floor. Little by little, he was being hemmed in, while Darinor,
with his ability to flash from one spot of clear ground to the next, seemed
able to avoid the flaming pitfalls with relative ease.
As despair closed round, Torin checked on his friends.
Neither was yet threatened by the ring of fire, but both would be soon.
Allion remained motionless, eyes wide, mouth agape, his color already fading.
Marisha, on the other hand, was now stirring, moaning softly as she struggled
for consciousness.
Torin looked away from her in a hurry, hoping that
Darinor hadn't noticed. But the Entient had. No doubt sensing the young king's
concern, he hefted one of his fireballs as if to take aim at the near-helpless
woman.
"Burn them," Torin bluffed. "Burn them
both. I'd rather say good-bye now than see them become agents in your service."
The Entient hesitated, his expression of savage
delight slipping.
"Go on," Torin urged, stepping back deeper
into the tunnel. "Destroy them now, and save me the trouble later. I can
do nothing more to save them, as you say. But the path to my freedom lies open,
and I mean to take it. Only, know that I'll be coming for you, Darinor, when
and where you least expect it."
The Entient scoffed, though his eyes narrowed as Torin
continued to retreat. Withdrawing step by step through the curtains of smoke
and waves of heat, striding carefully around the puddles and rivulets of molten
rock, the young king was steadily drawing the Illychar's attention away from
Marisha. Whether or not he could actually make himself
flee with the Sword to fight another day, he meant to buy the healer time to
make her own escape.
"Until then," he added, jumping back over the
last of the lava streams, "know that I'll be thinking of nothing more than
how I shall take vengeance against you."
Darinor glanced back at Marisha, who was shaking her
head, having risen to her knees. Torin gambled, at that point, by spinning
suddenly and bolting for the exit, praying that his sudden movement would force
the Entient to follow.
It did.
With a rabid growl, Darinor sprang after. Torin raced
on without turning, trusting the Sword to mark for him the other's approach.
But in this instance, it was difficult to do so. The Entient came forward in
zigzag flashes of quicksilver movement. To his right, to his left, and
suddenly, on top of him. Torin whirled in time to catch the enraged Illy char,
but not before the other had dispelled his now-useless fireballs and seized the
king's wrists in a ferocious grip.
From side to side they wrestled, with Torin twisting
and grunting, struggling to free himself for a strike. The mystic's hands,
however, were like iron cuffs, and would not be made to release. Though Torin
battled with all the strength he could summon, Darinor was by far the taller
and stronger, and in a matter of heartbeats, it was his own grip that weakened.
He continued to strain, gritting his teeth, refusing
to let go. The Illychar bore down on him, reeking of decay and torment. From
behind, Torin could feel the growing rush of heat as their bitter scuffle
carried them along the railway toward the melted mine cart. In desperation, he
tried to redirect their course, to drag his foe aside or to turn him the other
way. But the Entient had found his target, and was pressing relentlessly toward
that goal.
Torin let loose a howl and dropped to the ground, seeking
to use the Entient's own momentum against him. But Darinor only bent over, a
smothering shroud. Torin knew in that moment that he was finished, that there
was no more denying his own end.
Then came the sound of a bowstring, and the thwack as
an arrow struck flesh. A bloody tip popped free through Dari-nor's stomach. The
Entient snarled, but otherwise ignored it. He then doubled his efforts,
pinching at the nerves in Torin's wrists, trying to force the king's hands to
open.
His frail hope renewed, Torin cried out and held on.
Another arrow went flying, but missed, skittering off
a nearby wall. Torin felt his hopes sag, and his grip upon the Sword failed.
A third arrow sang, and this one struck home. Darinor
stiffened, spitting blood from a punctured lung, yet still made a lunge for the
Sword. As soon as the other's hands let go his wrists, Torin reached up to
snatch the Entient by his collar. At the same time, he tucked his knees in
close. When the weight of Darinor's body shifted forward, Torin yanked down and
kicked out, forcing his opponent into an overhead roll.
The Entient's hand brushed the gem-studded hilt a moment
before he splashed down in the molten slag of the melted mine cart. His back
arched sharply, but it was too late. He only barely had a chance to scream
before the heat worked its course, engulfing his robes and then his body in
metallic flame.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE Back Table of Contents Next
Torin looked on until it was finished,
mesmerized by the horrific display. After a moment, the bulk of Darinor's body
had been reduced to nothing more than a black stain in the center of the slag
pool, with flaming limbs sprawled out upon the edges. The renegade Entient—and
his Illysp parasite—were gone.
Nevertheless, Torin had to force himself to look away,
to turn his head and redirect his gaze back toward the mouth of the tunnel.
Through smoke-filled air and veils of shimmering heat, he spied Marisha,
standing over Allion, the hunter's bow in her hand. She stared back at him—past
him really— as if peering down the tunnel's throat at something only she could
see. Her weapon lowered, and her body sagged, as though it were about to fall.
Torin barely remembered to retrieve the Sword in his
haste to reach her. Regardless, she dropped before he could catch her, settling
to her knees beside the fallen Allion, dangerously close to a puddle of molten
rock. Though the puddle simmered and steamed, she hung her head, and did not
seem to notice.
The young king slowed as he came upon her, fearful of
doing anything to interrupt her grieving. He was not yet certain of his own
feelings. The fire of battle still pumped through his veins, allowing little
room for reflection. There was still so much to be done. They were not yet
safe.
He reached out slowly, but hesitated and withdrew as
she began to sob. She bent low, closing Allion's eyes and kissing him once
more. If there was cause to be angry, Torin did not feel it. On the contrary,
recognizing that she hat found with his friend something that he himself had
been unable to give her filled him with a prevailing sense of peace. Aside from
that, who was he to denounce either when, deep down, he had already given his
heart to another?
She stopped to lookup at him, tears of anguish
streaming down her face. "I'm sorry," she said. "You should know
that it was I who ... He never meant—"
"Shh," Torin quieted, crouching beside her.
His hand found her shoulder, and beneath his touch, she shook and sobbed anew.
As he tried to think of what else to say, his eyes went again to the
slow-moving rivulets of lava closing round. "Can you help me carry
him?"
Marisha let loose a little wail.
"Marisha, we must move. Will you help me?"
With a noticeable effort, the woman toughened.
"Where?"
Torin cast about. There was no way they'd be able to
carry the hunter with them up through the exit shaft. But he wasn't going to
simply leave his friend's body here, nor dispose of it without the proper
rites.
"Back through the tunnel," he decided.
He sheathed the Sword and, with some gentle
promptings, helped Marisha to gather her legs beneath her. Together, they
hoisted the body of their friend up onto their shoulders, with an arm around
the neck of each. Leaning forward so that the hunter's feet didn't drag, and
with Torin supporting most of the weight, the pair began a return journey
toward the tunnel mouth.
Between the two of them, they were able to maintain
balance as they stepped over and around the various flaming pitfalls, few of
which showed any sign yet of beginning to cool. They coughed and grunted,
choking on the poisoned air and struggling with the weight of their burden.
Marisha continued to cry, and Torin wished that he, would, that he might
wash away some of the ash and grit clawing at his eyes.
Back through the smelter they bore their friend,
assailed by
smoke and heat, sweat dripping from their limbs and
faces. Marisha, Torin noticed, was having particular difficulty, slowing and
staggering with every step, and his concern for her grew. As they neared the
iron door through which they had first entered the cavern, she finally
collapsed. Lowering Allion to the ground, he bent to check on her. Her
breathing was ragged and shallow, her skin blistering to the touch.
He moved quickly to open the door. Smoke from the cavern
spilled into the corridor beyond. There was no help for it. As swiftly as he
could manage, he hoisted Marisha and then Allion through, then shut the door
behind him.
He drew the Sword again for light, then leaned back
against the stone wall, sucking breath and closing his eyes against his
dizziness. He couldn't risk just waiting here to be found, for it might be
their enemies that did so first. He had to keep going, had to get help.
But as his eyes opened upon the limp forms laid out
before him, his resolve crumbled. What did he hope to accomplish with all this
struggle? As Darinor had said, he was too late. The battle was over. No matter
how hard he fought, his best friend was dead.
Reality fell like a crushing wave upon his chest, and
Torin felt himself slumping, then sliding to his seat. His eyes seemed to.swell
as they fixed upon the hunter's face, filling with sorrow and
desolation—emotions that even now could find no release. Their sweeping
torrents assailed him from within, and Torin succumbed to the assault.
The games were ended. Darinor was slain, the truth
known. At long last, there would be no more lies. But none of that made a
difference. None of that could fill the terrible void that had opened within
him. Split wide like a fissure in the earth, he would never find meaning enough
to make him whole.
He tried to deny it. That's what he'd been doing
before, was it not? Throughout his confrontation with Darinor, he'd believed
that somehow he could win this struggle as he had so many others. Dispose of
his enemy, then see to his friend. Now he had, only to discover that all the
denial in the world could not reroute this flood of truth. Its waters continued
to pummel him, driving the breath from his lungs, the blood from his veins, the
very life from his being. He could not blink. He could not cry. He could only
sit there, waiting to be swept away.
Why him? It was not Allion who had unleashed
this scourge. Nor was it Allion who had so readily run off to carry out
Darinor's deception. How much better would everything be had Torin even once
listened to the advice of his friend? If anyone deserved to die as a result of
these failures, it was Torin, who had committed them, not he whose only crime
was standing faithful to the end.
Shame wrenched Torin's stomach and would not let go:
The inevitability of this moment should have been clear from the first. Even as
children, Allion had been his protector. While both had had grandiose dreams,
Allion had been the steady one, the one to temper those aspirations with the reality
of his limitations. Torin had always refused such boundaries, pressing on
despite any warnings and consequences. And yet, no matter how foolish the
venture, Allion would insist on carrying on alongside, to see that no harm came
to him. He should have known that eventually, his recklessness would catch up
with him, and that when it did, Allion would be there to shield him—that Allion
would pay the price, not he.
In the crimson dark of that near lightless corridor,
Torin cried out. He did so without words or voice, but need alone. The need to
put things right. The need to free himself of this despair. He had seen too
many suffer already as a result of his choices. Time and again, he had
accepted those sufferings because there was nothing to do but soldier on. But
he could not accept this. He could not accept that after all they had been
through together, after all the trials they had faced as one, that Allion
should be made to forfeit his life, while here sat Torin, so much less worthy.
Please, he begged, a prayer without
destination. Please. He would give whatever was required—the Sword, his
life, every feeling of warmth and contentment he had ever known. Should it cost
him all of this and more, he would see his friend's life restored. The Ceilhigh
could take it all back—
every pleasant sensation, every sweet sound, every
dazzling image to have touched his heart. If need be, he would forget forever
his journey to Yawacor: Dyanne's smile, Saena's friendship, Autumn's voice—
If ever you have need, of anything, call upon me, and
I shall see it granted.
The words shot like sparks from a smith's anvil, and
for a moment, Torin knew not where they might have come from. Then came a
memory, gliding forth from his past—an image of the sea, a ship, and a striking
young maiden's curious farewell.
Autumn.
Anything you wish...
Her words. Her promise.
... I am but a longing away.
Torin's blood began to tingle—as it had before, he recalled,
back in Aefengaard, when he had wondered if it might be possible to save Eolin.
Like then, he had nothing more than an impossible wish. But if he were to wish
hard enough...
Without quite knowing why, he narrowed his focus, sending
his pleas out to one who could not possibly hear them, to mat captivating
woman, Autumn of the Rain. Never mind that he had left her weeks ago, and an
ocean away. Never mind that when first meeting her, he had wondered if she
might be some kind of simpleton, incapable of understanding the world around
her. He knew only what she had offered, and that he had never felt such dire
need.
Help me, Autumn. Please.
It occurred to him that he might be giving way to madness,
but it didn't seem to matter. Somehow, he found the strength to crawl forward.
Setting the Sword down beside him, he knelt over the body of his friend. His
lungs tightened, his chest burned, and still he called forth, beseeching the
woman's aid, imploring the heavens to carry to her his silent voice.
His head grew light, and the world began to spin. He
shut his eyes—not to ground himself, but to let himself be carried away. Be it
a maelstrom of insanity or death, he would gladly relent if only it would strip
him of his pain.
The darkness deepened, engulfing him. Around and
around he went, a form without shape or mass, a consciousness caught in an
endless vortex. He lost all senses—sight and smell, hearing and touch. He
forgot who ne was, and where he'd been. He clung to one thing only: his need
for Autumn to hear him.
Then, amid the darkness, he perceived a light. A
sliver of glory, it beckoned him. Strength, rapture, love—it promised all of
these things, a whisper in the night to usher the passing of nightmare. He need
but grasp it, catch hold of its majesty, and his horrors would be dispelled,
his fears forgotten.
Torin stretched forth.
Responding to his need, the light continued to grow. A
welcome warmth spread through him as its brightness intensified. It spread
outward and around, chasing away the shadows, then drew near enough to coddle
him, enfolding him with the softness of a cloud.
"Torin," a voice sang. "Open your
eyes."
Though delicate in tone, never had a more compelling
sound been uttered. Torin immediately obeyed, and found himself surrounded by a
radiance greater than any he had ever imagined. Somehow, its brilliant
intensity soothed rather than pierced his eyes, shining through to fill his
heart with bliss. Gone was the chiseled stone of the corridor. Gone was the
smoky air. All that remained was the light and the woman standing before him.
"Am I dead?" he asked her.
Autumn's eyes sparkled, glinting with their hint of amethyst.
"If among the dead, what would I be doing here?"
"Then I'm dreaming."
"Oh? Am I the one you dream about now?" Her
brow arched, and her mouth twisted, smiling as she had before— as if
considering some private jape.
Torin wavered, not knowing what else to say. If he had
found her strangely captivating before, then she was utterly enthralling now.
Stunned by her mere presence, he couldn't seem to recall what she was doing
here.
Her gaze dipped, and Torin's slipped after. He gasped
then, his heart lurching. For he was not alone after all, but
had been accompanied, as always, by his dearest
friend—or in this case, the man's breathless body.
His nightmare had been real.
He cast about, finding nothing and no one else. It was
just the two of them, as if they had passed together to some other realm. But
nothing had changed. Allion was dead.
He looked back to Autumn, whose expression of amusement
seemed to soften. "Your friend fought bravely. A shame it is to see his
light dim so soon."
"It should have been me," Torin said.
"It is not for the children to decide such
things," Autumn replied, smiling sadly.
Torin peered up at her from where he knelt amid the
brightness. "Who are you?"
"If you know not who I am, what cause have you to
believe that I can help you?"
He studied her face, her gaze, in search of hope.
"Because there is no one else," he said finally, and his head fell.
Autumn kept silent for a moment before responding. In
the interim, Torin thought he heard the distant crashing of waves. "Over
the course of my life, I have been thought a witch crawled forth from the sea.
Others have deemed me a star fallen from the heavens before fully matured. Were
I to describe myself, you would not understand. You must provide the
terms that to your mind would have meaning. So tell me, who am I?"
Torin looked up, and stared into her eyes.
"Ha'Rasha," he whispered breathlessly. "An avatar—a true
avatar—of the Ceilhigh."
The woman's hair glimmered, its colors dancing in the
wash of light. "As fair a description as any. Cianellen, I am known, to
those you speak of, those born of the Maelstrom to preside over all creation.
Charged alongside my brothers and sisters with the care of this world and its
inhabitants."
"But that was ages ago. After all this time, how
is it possible that—"
"Few of us remain," the woman acknowledged.
"Those who do have lived for countless lives of men, fortunate enough to
have avoided the struggles of gods, avatars, and mortals alike—savoring life,
rather than seeking to dictate it."
Torin's gaze fell again upon his friend. So peaceful
the hunter seemed, the struggle and anguish sapped from his face. Torin, on the
other hand, was beginning to feel something new, the stirrings of a bitter
frustration.
"Is that not your duty?" he asked, looking
upon her with a measure of accusation. "To have a hand in shaping this
world? To look after those who reside within?"
Again she offered him a sad smile, as if pitying his
inability to understand. Torin's frustration grew.
"We—each of us—see to our duties in our own way.
'Tis easy to second-guess that which is past, but senseless to do so. Do you
not regret some of the decisions of your own life? And if so, what has that
regret won you?" The pointedness of her gaze cut down his defiance before
it could take root. "I live my life from one fancy to the next, ignoring
as best I can the various conflicts by which this world is governed. I prefer
to spend my time alone, surrounded by birds and animals—the most innocent
creations of the Ceilhigh. Only occasionally do I take interest in the lives of
those who deal most often in death and strife."
As he continued to look upon her, he remembered thinking
of her as a child, though one for whom the entire world was a toy. An
impossible dichotomy, but one which now might be explained.
"So why me?" he asked. "Why should my
life interest you?"
"More than three thousand years have passed since
anyone wielded a Sword of Asahiel. Not so great a time to some of us, but long
enough that even I had supposed the talismans forever gone. You proved me
wrong. I wished to congratulate you, in my own way, while taking a firsthand
look at the Sword itself."
"You chose a strange guise in which to do
so," Torin dared.
Cianellen's smile became mischievous. "Not so
simple a matter as you might think. Foresight can be an inconstant trickster,
and there were plenty of opportunities for my plan
to go awry. I first had to draw to my shores the
pirate that would be recruited to abduct you, and convince him to take me
aboard. I then had to ensure that we were in port when Soric's mercenary
captain came calling. When Karulos refused the assignment, I had to allow
myself to be kidnapped, in order to convince him to do your brother's bidding.
After that, I had to wait and trust that you would arrive safely."
"A lot of trouble," Torin agreed. "Why
not simply appear to me? Or come upon me as a beggar in the street?"
"Would a beggar have seen you or the Sword under
duress? Would a beggar have been witness to—or able to lend assistance in—your
struggle against the wizard? Would you have listened to a beggar who told you
to seek Lord Lorre in regard to the missing Finlorians?"
It made sense now, Torin thought—not all of it, but
much that hadn't before. Her rare blend of innocence and wisdom; her scream
after Soric had been carried away—which he now believed had closed the
breakaway rift the wizard had left open; her prior knowledge of his quest...
"If you meant to help," he replied, his
bitterness rising once more, "why not do so outright?"
The warmth of her expression never slipped, as if immune
to his prodding. "The way of the Ha'Rasha is not to do things for the
children of the Ceilhigh. Nor has it ever been. Though it may seem otherwise,
all are bound—even our creators—by rules and consequences, only some of which a
mortal would understand."
Torin scowled. "You sound like the
Entients."
"Do not be too critical of your people's
shepherds. The Entients have done much good, given their limitations."
"They used me. As Darinor used me. As you used
me."
The real reason for his bitterness, he realized. For
once again, it seemed he had been little more than an unwitting pawn in
another's grand scheme.
"You underestimate the value of your own
efforts."
"Do I? What difference do they make, if I am
forever acting under the influence of another?"
"Are we not all affected by those around us? Do
we not affect these others in turn? I may do so to a greater degree, for that
is my power and my calling. But that does not make you a helpless victim, nor
excuse you of the responsibility for your own choices."
"Then let me pay the price for it,"
he said, gripping his friend's cold hand. "Let not others suffer die
consequences of my deeds."
"Is it your friend who suffers? Or you?"
But Torin would not be misdirected again.
"Anything I wish, you told me. You know what it is I ask for. Will you
grant it?"
A deepening sadness seemed to shade some of the luster
upon Cianellen's face. "Death will not be cheated. Know you what is
required?"
Torin's stomach tightened, but he kept his gaze
steady. "Yes."
"And are you certain this to be your one and
final desire? To turn these tables? To leave it to your friend and others to
suffer the pain of your passing as you have suffered his?"
As she said this, he immediately thought of Marisha,
of the anguish she had shown upon Allion's death. It led him to wonder if she
would truly grieve for him as she had for the other. She would be saddened, he
was sure. But if given a choice, this was what she would want. And he alone
could give it to her.
"I would not deny them whatever happiness they
have found."
"Even though that happiness was once yours?"
Torin nodded. Even so. Without reservation.
"And when you are gone, who will lead your people
in the fight against your enemies?"
Torin looked purposefully upon Allion. "Someone
who has already proven more capable than I."
It was not a burden he passed on lightly. But all
would have to make concessions, it seemed, in order to gain what they most
desired. Regardless, none could afford any more mistakes of the kind Torin had
already made. He had rid the Illysp of their champion. Now seemed as good a
time as any to bequeath the Sword and its responsibility to someone else.
"Very well, Torin of Alson," Cianellen
agreed softly. "As this is your fervent longing, I will see it done, in
payment of the favor you granted me. When your friends awake, they will
remember not that Allion was slain, only rendered unconscious. Your own fall
will be attributed to smoke in the tunnels. None will have any memory of this
journey you have made. None but I will know the truth."
Again Torin nodded, and, as he did so, Cianellen
stepped forward with enchanting grace, bending to kiss his forehead. When she
pulled away, he found her beaming. Once again, they were going to wed and have
a thousand children.
"So," he said, smiling back, "how do we
do this?"
The woman knelt and kissed Allion's forehead as she
had his own. When finished, she reached up to brush Torin's cheek. "My
dear child, it is already done."
As she stepped away, a warm rush began to spread
throughout Torin's body. The sensation did not frighten him, for it felt very
much like the power of the Sword. And yet, while the Sword's strength often
surged and roiled until given release, Cianellen's remained tranquil and
soothing, lulling him quickly to sleep. The weight upon his eyelids increased,
and he found the brilliant light receding. The sound of ocean waves grew louder
as, little by little, he was wrapped in gossamer layers of darkness. As dreams
of blissful serenity permeated his soul, a pair of amethyst eyes flashed once,
the radiance disappeared, and Torin felt himself drifting ...
... fading ...
... into the ever black.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX Back Table of Contents Next
The sun slipped slow and sullen from the
bedding of night, dismissing predawn shadows and illuminating the sky with a
dull reddish hue. Allion felt it upon his shoulder, its delicate warmth like a
gentle nudge. A new day was breaking, and it was time to carry on.
Nevertheless, he remained where he was, knelt at the
side of Torin's deathbed, paralyzed with inconsolable grief. For hours he had
sat there, ever since he had awakened and demanded of his attendants a
recounting of all that had happened. Ever since he had come to know the
agonizing truth.
They had told him first of the assault upon the city
by a horde of Illychar, its members arisen from both within and without. The
fighting had been contained, however, due to the equally stunning emergence of
General Rogun and his legions, scattered in secret throughout the city. While battle
yet raged upon the slopes beyond their battlements, it appeared Krynwall
itself had been made safe.
They had explained then how the hunter and his friends
had been discovered in a smoke-filled corridor far from the palace, by a
contingent of soldiers led by Commander Zain in a sweep of the city's
underbelly. He, the Lady Mari-sha, and His Majesty, King Torin, had been found
together, sooty and sweat-streaked, their breathing challenged by thef poisoned
air. They had been carried back to the castle and treated at once. The lady had
yet to regain consciousness, but was alive.
His Majesty had been found dead, and would not be revived.
Allion had refused to believe it, and, despite the
protests of his nurses and physicians, had set forth at once. After stopping
by to check on Marisha, he had hastened on to Torin's chambers in order to
reassure these fools that the king was very much alive, only resting,
recovering from his wounds and his weariness, mustering his inner strength for
the battle that lay ahead.
But the hunter had learned all too soon that the
rumors were true. He had seen it in the stance of the guards posted outside the
king's door. He had seen it in the somber faces of the healers and attendants
that he shoved aside. After pushing past a tearful Stephan and seeing for
himself his friend's calm and bloodless countenance, Allion could deny it no
longer.
Torin was dead.
He had fallen to his knees beside the other, shaking
off all who came to him, ordering them to leave. When alone, he had gripped his
friend's hand—pulling it from the hilt around which both were clasped—and wept.
For some time, his vigil had gone undisturbed, during
which he had wrestled with emotions of sorrow, fury, and disbelief. Where one
ended, another began, repeating in what promised to be an endless cycle. Unable
to even recall how it had happened, he knew only that it did not seem real.
At some point during the night, Marisha had come to
him, and together, they had begun the process anew. Even then, they could make
no sense of it. There was too much they did not remember, too much that had
gone unseen. The last thing Allion could recall, following the deaths of Evhan
and his Illychar brood, was recognizing the truth about Darinor and then
finding himself unable to breathe. Her father, Marisha had explained, had used
magic to steal his breath until he had fainted. She was able to add to that
certain details of Torin's ensuing battle. She herself had assisted by taking
up the archer's bow. Unable to wake him afterward, she had helped Torin to
carry him away from the burning battleground, during which point, she, too,
had blacked out. That Torin was the only one to perish from the air they had
all breathed did not seem likely, but that was the account both had been
given.
In the end, such reflections had provided no sense of
closure. All they really did was add fuel to the fire, reminding them that not
only Torin, but Darinor had been lost. In addition to the feelings of
devastation wrought upon Marisha as a result, came the terrible understanding
that everything the Entient had urged them to do had been meant to serve the
enemy's goals, and not their own.
Somehow remembering his duty, Allion had called for a
courier, dispatching him to Kuuria with all haste. Commander Troy was to be
advised to disband their gathered forces, to send them home to their women and
children—who now sat alone in unguarded cities. If the attack on Krynwall was
any indication, it was reasonable to assume that Darinor's true plan had been
to siphon off their defenders in order to gain a stranglehold upon their homes
and loved ones—if not to make them into Illychar, then to make sure the lands'
men-at-arms didn't dare resist.
Merely a guess, of course, and likely only the
beginning of what Darinor had planned. They couldn't know, for if the mystic
had revealed his intentions, or the reasons behind his various machinations,
neither Allion nor Marisha had been conscious at the time. But they had too
much to worry about going forward to waste time on revisiting what was past. If
they meant to undo the Entient's treachery, they had to act fast.
Save for that initial message, however, Allion knew
not what to do. Nor did he have the heart to try and figure it out. Let Pentania's
kings and councils decide. For him, so much of this struggle had lost meaning
with the passing of his friend.
Marisha had stayed with him as long as she could, but
after a fit of coughing caused her to relapse into unconsciousness, he'd seen
to it that her attendants carried her away again, with orders to keep her
bedridden at least until morning.
He had turned his attention back to Torin, then,
thinking that together, they might yet awake from this nightmare. He
still could not understand how he was better off than
both Torin, wielder of the Sword, and Marisha, who possessed the
Pendant. Granted, laboring upright, where the air was thickest, would have
caused them to inhale more of the harmful smoke than had found its way into his
own lungs. And by the sound of it, Torin had done more of that than Marisha.
But could lying low in a comatose state truly have made all the difference?
Perhaps someone or something else had been involved.
Might Zain and his patrolmen have found the young king unconscious and decided
to finish him off? It was a sinister suspicion, darker, perhaps, than the
commander deserved. But Zain was Rogun's man, and Rogun wished to be king. And
yet, had he resorted to such treachery, would it not have been safer to smother
all three of them? What good would it have done the general and his designs to
leave Allion and Marisha alive?
These questions and others tore through his mind as
part of a relentless whirlwind. If only he could find a few answers, then
perhaps he could assign to all of this madness some sort of meaning. Perhaps,
if he understood how and why, he could accept that his childhood friend was
gone, and discover strength and reason enough within himself to go on.
But the answers did not come. Only memories, in a long
and unbroken string—even the most meaningless of which had become suddenly
sacred in light of Torin's unexpected demise. Until recently, they had never
been apart. It seemed impossible that the Ceilhigh should separate them now.
Hence the reason he could not bring himself to begin
this day. To do so would be to allow his nightmares into the light and admit
that they were real. To do so would be to accept that his life must continue,
while his best friend's would not.
The outer door opened, and Allion cringed. He thought
to turn and yell at whoever had been admitted to leave him be, but held his
tongue, knowing already who it was. Sure enough, the door closed quietly, and
Marisha's scent filled the room as she padded near on slippered feet.
He spoke without turning. "I told them you were
to stay abed."
"And I told them to step aside and let me
be." She paused, holding still and silent, allowing the air between them
to soften. "Have you slept?"
"No."
She came forward then, though refrained from kneeling.
"I've spoken to Commander Zain."
Allion turned.
"I asked him to explain himself—his intentions. I
was trying to figure out if he had anything to do with..." She trailed
off, her gaze slipping toward Torin.
"And?"
"He insists that General Rogun disobeyed orders
for the good of Alson—as this night proves. They used Drakmar, as you
suspected, as a base for their operations. I know not whether Nevik was coerced,
but Zain swears that he has come to no harm."
"We'll know soon enough," Allion muttered,
having decided that he preferred coercion to the idea that Nevik had willingly
betrayed them.
"The baron must have had his reasons,"
Marisha added, as if reading his thoughts. "For it was he who ordered his
couriers to ferry false reports on Rogun's whereabouts between Krynwall and
the Gaperon, leading each to believe that our armies were stationed with the
other."
"And providing cover for our general to begin
smuggling his troops back into the city."
Marisha nodded. "A secret defense against what he
and others saw as my father's foolishness." She hesitated, lowering her
eyes. "I've not told anyone the truth. Regardless, it seems they were
right."
While loath to admit it, Allion was thinking along
similar lines, having already surmised much of what Marisha had sought to
confirm with Zain. For the moment, at least, it would seem he had misjudged his
land's highest-ranking general. Though right about the trap the other had set,
he'd been wrong about the man's reasons for doing so.
Not that any of it mattered now. Rogun, Zain, Nevik—
there were questions everywhere as to who could be
trusted. And that was without taking into account those such as Bull-rum,
Evhan, Darinor—the scores who had fallen prey to II-lysp possession. With Torin
gone, and no one to turn to for help, this seemed a war already near its bitter
end.
"You believe his story, then?" Allion asked,
and was forced to choke back tears. "About how he found us?"
"I don't believe he had any reason to see Torin
eliminated. He could have killed us all and taken the Sword for himself or for
Rogun, yet did not. Had he done so, he might have even been allowed to keep
it."
It was something Allion had not yet considered: the
fate of the Crimson Sword. The royal will stated that it should be bequeathed
to Marisha, should the king become unable to wield it. Allion was listed behind
her. After that, Torin had desired that it belong to whomever the Circle of City
Elders should select as Krynwall's new king. With all three of them gone, Rogun
might indeed have been the ultimate beneficiary.
The hunter lifted his gaze to regard the divine
talisman resting upon his friend's body, where its radiance had dimmed. "He
can have it, for all I care."
"Don't say that," Marisha said, and dropped
to her knees beside him. She turned his shoulders, forcing him to look into her
glimmering eyes. "Don't you do this to me. I need you now, more than ever.
We all do. Don't ask me to carry on this fight alone."
"The fight is over, Marisha. All is lost. Can't
you see?"
"All is not lost, unless you throw away
what remains to us. Our city is safe. He who led our enemy is slain. We have
each other, and the Sword. But you suggested it yourself when you sent your
message to Commander Troy: If we are to recover from what has happened here, we
must attempt to do so swiftly."
He tried to look away, but she seized his chin and
kissed him hard on the mouth.
"I need you to take up that blade," she
said. "I need you to do as Torin would have wanted, and lead us forward
where he cannot."
The hunter looked again at the weapon, but shook his
head. "It's too soon, Marisha. How can you even ask that I—"
"I ask because your grief and mine are a luxury we
cannot afford. I ask because we are either moving forward or falling behind.
I'm not certain where these events leave us—any more than you are. I know only
mat we cannot sit around and wait to find out."
He had no answer for that, and so just stared at her,
at this remarkable woman who had lost not only the man who might have been her
husband, but her father as well. Knowing that, how could he possibly
deny her this urgent request?
He was still marveling at her strength of will when a
knock sounded and the outer door to Torin's suite cracked open.
"Pardon the intrusion, my lord. You've a young
herald here with a message from the Circle."
Allion stiffened, compelled to dismiss the guardsman
under threat of torture should he permit any more callers. But as he turned to
do so, Marisha's magnificent blue orbs fixed upon him, their yearning plain.
"You may admit him, Sergeant."
The door opened wider, and a somber Pagus stepped
through. "I'm sorry to disturb you, my lord, my lady," he said,
nodding to each in acknowledgment. He then looked upon the bed where Torin lay,
his young eyes red and puffy.
"What news do you bear, Pagus?"
"My lord, General Rogun has returned. The enemy
has been sent away in full retreat. The general has demanded that the Circle
convene, mat he might address the city's leadership."
Allion shared another look with Marisha. He should
have expected nothing less. Rogun's ambush had saved them all this night. But
for what purpose going forward remained to be seen.
"Has Elder Thaddreus agreed?"
"He has, my lord. He wishes that you would
attend, to shed light on .,. on other matters, my lord. Provided you are well
enough."
Allion turned away, from both the young herald and
Marisha, back to Torin.
"What message shall I bear him, my lord?"
The hunter did not respond right away, but gripped his friend's cold hand once
more. He then set it back atop the other, lifting both long enough to grab the
Crimson Sword and pull it free. With the talisman's warmth gushing through his
veins, he drew his cramped legs beneath him and rose slowly to his feet.
"Never mind, my young friend," he said,
looking past the Sword to Marisha as she stood beside him. "I shall
deliver it myself."
Look, they told her. Do you see?
Necanicum dug her chin into her shoulder, ready with
her retort, but stopped as the red rim of the sun cleared the wooded horizon,
spilling blood through the trees.
It has happened.
"I'm not a fool," she muttered. "I know
what it means."
Then why do you tarry?
She had seen them before, these blood-suns. But never
one like this. With a mother's instinct, her hand went to the phial hung around
her neck, its inner heart beating to the rhythm of her own.
Have you forgotten what we are doing out here?
"I've forgotten nothing," she snapped, so
suddenly that she felt a crick in her neck. "The only surprise would have
been if it didn 't happen, remember?"
But so soon. The Leviathan's hunger grows, and we
still have a long way to go.
"Yes, we do. And if you quit pestering me, I
could finish my breakfast, and we could be on our way."
To her surprise, the Teldara did not respond. Their
silence alarmed her, momentarily. So seldom did they allow her the final word.
She could almost feel their awe, and it was not like them to be awed by
anything. It did not bode well.
"Oh, have it your way, then," she said,
emptying her small bowl of mashed roots-and-berries in disgust. "I'm not
all that hungry anyway."
You will need your strength.
"I have all that I need, and more, and never you
forget it," she grumbled, gathering up her things. "You'd just better
be right about this."
But of course, they always were.
They could have reminded her, but didn't, as she shouldered
her skins and pouches and stamped upon the ground where she had slept,
muttering a cleansing rite. When that was finished, she wasted no time, but
shuffled onward, north through the trees.
While from the east, the dawning sun rained blood upon
her back.
APPENDICES Back Table of Contents Next
Contents:
Characters Back Table of Contents Next
A'awari - Cannibalistic
Mookla'ayan tribe at war with the Powaii.
Achthium - In Hrothgari
mythology, the Great Smithy, creator of the earth and its inhabitants.
Adwan - A Hrothgari dwarf;
father of Alfrigg.
Alfrigg - A Hrothgari dwarf;
bairn of Adwan.
Alganov - An Entient of
Whitlock.
Algorath - A renegade
Entient; ancestor to Darinor.
Allion - A hunter and
woodsman of the village Diln. [Highlight]: Later captain (Fason) of the City
Shield of Krynwall; serves as regent in the absence of the king.
Amber - A Nymph jailor;
kinmate to Mirren.
Arn - A mercenary from the
Ashwin - A soldier of the
City Shield of Krynwall; member of an expedition to Yawacor.
Augelot - A lord of Palladur.
Autumn of the Rain - A
castaway and later companion to the pirate captain Red Raven.
Banon - Eighth Elder of the
village Diln.
Bardik - A freedom fighter
and West Wedge commander of the Southern Liberation Force of Wylddeor.
Barwn - An Entient of
Whitlock.
"Black Spar" -
Pirate and first mate of the Raven's Squall.
Bohwens - A lieutenant and
master of scouts for the Southern Liberation Force of Wylddeor.
"Brack" - A pirate
and boatswain of the Raven's Squall.
Braegen - A merchant master
of Kasseri; uncle to Saena.
Brand - A ship's boy aboard
the Pirate's Folly.
Brolin - A mountain ranger
and member of Traver's expeditionary troop from Vagarbound.
Bullrum ("Bull") -
A soldier in Krynwall's Legion of the Sword; member of an expedition to
Yawacor.
Carrus - A royal guardsman of
Krynwall.
Caruth - Great-grandfather to
Rogun.
Ceilhigh - A pantheon of gods
recognized by the Finlorian elves and later the human kingdoms of Pentania.
Chamaar - General of the
Rogues' Garrison at Neak-Thur and later prime commander of the Southern
Liberation Force of Wylddeor.
Cheel - A demon minion of
Spithaera, leech-like in form.
Cianellen - Lady of the
Valley. A presumed avatar of the Ceilhigh.
Circle of Elders - Governing
council of the village Diln. (See Banon, Esaias, Hidee, Leuk, Olenn, Rigdon,
Taya, Vahl).
Circle of City Elders of
Krynwall - Governing council of the city Krynwall, established by King Torin.
City Shield of Krynwall - See
Fasor.
Clave - Master swordhand
aboard the Pirate's Folly.
"Conger" - A pirate
of the Raven's Squall.
Corathel - Chief General,
Parthan West Legion, garrisoned at Crylag. [Highlight]: Later chief general of
the unified Parthan Legion.
Cordan - A bearer (Third
Rank) of the City Shield of Krynwall; member of an expedition to Yawacor.
Council of Rogues - Governing
body at Neak-Thur; responsible for the defense of Wylddeor against Lord Lorre.
Coy - A child resident of the
village Diln.
Council of Lords - The
council of ruling noblemen of the barony of Palladur. (See Satallion).
Craggenbrun
("Crag") - A Tuthari dwarf; bairn of Ragglesband.
Culmaril - The royal family
of Souaris. (See Thelin, Loisse, Garett, and Elwonyssa).
Cwingen Grawl - Former
chieftain of the native Powaii; grandfather of Cwingen U'uyen.
Cwingen U'uyen - Chieftain of
the native Powaii; grandson of Cwingen Grawl.
Dahl - An oafish slave
trader.
Darinor - Storyteller who
shares with young Jarom a history of the Dragon Wars and of the Swords of
Asahiel. [Highlight]: Seventh great-grandson of the renegade Entient, Algorath.
Father of Marisha and gatekeeper of the Illysp seal.
Demon Queen - See Spithaera.
Demons - The children of
Spithaera. (See Cheel, Gravlith, Lobac, Mitzb, Raxxth, Rwom.)
Derreg - Emperor of Kuuria.
Father (architect and ruler) of the city Morethil.
Deven - First Son (crown
prince) of Morethil. Eldest surviving son of Emperor Derreg and heir to the
empire of Kuuria.
Dragonspawn - Humanoid
dragons spawned by Killangrathor and enlisted by Spithaera as militia.
Duke of Kord - Baleth,
younger brother of King Sirrus; uncle to Sorl.
Durin - A Hrothgari dwarf;
bairn of Nethrim.
Dyanne - A Nymph Hunter;
kinmate to Holly; sister of Dynara.
Dynara - Granmarch (clan
leader) of the Fenwa (Nymphs); kinmate to Naia; sister of Dyanne.
Eames - Captain of the
Drakmar military.
Eitri - A Hrothgari dwarf;
bairn of Yarro.
Ellebe - Queen of Alson;
mother of Soric and Torin.
Elwonyssa ("Lyssa")
Culmaril - Young princess of Souaris; daughter of Thelin and Loisse.
Entients - Order of human
avatars, set upon the earth to observe and chronicle the affairs of man for the
gods they serve. (See Alganov, Barwn, Htomah, Jedua, Maventhrowe, Merreseth,
Oreshand, Prather, Quinlan, Ranunculus, Sovenson, Uthan, Wislome)
Eolin Solymir - [Highlight]:
Keifer of the Finlorian elves; husband of Laressa; last of the Vandari.
Esaias - First Elder of the
village Diln; Jarom's adoptive father.
Ethric - A trapper, furrier,
and mountain guide; onetime lead bounty hunter in service to Lord Lorre; senior
partner to Traver.
Evhan - A lieutenant (First
Rank) of the City Shield of Krynwall. Later promoted to captain (Fason).
Faldron - A renowned armorer
of Krynwall, rumored to specialize in palace intrigues.
Farron - A stablemaster of
Earthwyn.
Fasor (City Shield of
Krynwall) - Guardians and protectors of Krynwall; captained by a single Fason.
Fawn - A Nymph Hunter;
kinmate to Jess.
Fenwa ("Nymphs") -
A band of female rangers of Wylddeor. Dubbed "Nymphs" by the rogues
of the Southland.
Finlorians - A nation of
elves.
"Flambard" - A pirate
and marauder of the Raven's Squall.
Galdric - King of Partha.
Garm - A traveling merchant.
Garett ("Rett")
Culmaril - Young prince of Souaris; son of Thelin and Loisse.
Garungum - A Hrothgari dwarf;
father of Tyrungrum.
Gavrin ("Moss") - A
rogue of Wylddeor; trapper, hunter, trader, guide, scout.
Gilden ("Lancer") -
A freedom fighter and Central Wedge commander of the Southern Liberation Force
of Wylddeor.
Gorum - Merchant captain
employed by Saena's uncle, Braegen.
Gravlith - A demon minion of
Spithaera; golem-like in form. Serves as general of her dragonborn armies.
Grimm (Vagrimmel) - A
watchman of the city Krynwall.
Haakon - Ancient king of
Menzos who staved off the invasion of Partha's King Iskin at Bane Draw (Iskin's
Bane).
Hargenfeld ("Rags")
- Renowned trapper and mountain guide of Yawacor.
Heman - A lieutenant of the
Drakmar military.
Hidee - Fifth Elder of the
village Diln.
Hocker - Helmsman aboard the
Pirate's Folly.
Holly - A Nymph Hunter;
kinmate to Dyanne.
Hopper - A tailor in the
outpost city of
Hrothgari - A nation of
dwarves.
Htomah - An Entient of
Whitlock.
Iigo - Master boatswain
aboard the Pirate's Folly.
Illysp - A race of
flesh-stealing demon spirits.
Illychar - An Illysp that has
taken physical form through possession of a mortal coil.
Iskin - Ancient king of
Partha who failed to conquer Kraagen Keep; defeated at Bane Draw (Iskin's
Bane).
Jaecy - A serving girl at the
Giant's Tongue, in the outpost city of
Jaik - A freedom fighter and
East Wedge commander of the Southern Liberation Force of Wylddeor.
Jaquith Wyevesces
("Weave") - A Powaii scout.
Jarom - Fason of the village
Diln; son of Esaias.
Jasyn - Lieutenant General,
Second Division, Parthan West Legion. [Highlight]: Later lieutenant general
(Second Division) of the unified Parthan Legion.
Jedua - An Entient of
Whitlock.
Jess - A Nymph Hunter;
kinmate to Fawn.
"Jib" - A pirate of
the Raven's Squall.
Jorkin - Merchant captain of
the Pirate's Folly.
Jovanek - A lieutenant (First
Rank) of the City Shield of Krynwall.
Kae (Karrelae) - A lead
interpreter of the Parthan army, specializing in the Mookla'ayan tongue.
Kallen - A soldier of the
City Shield of Krynwall; member of an expedition to Yawacor; brother to Silas.
"Keel Haul" (Kell)
- A pirate of the Raven's Squall.
Kien - A city guardsman of
Krynwall.
Kifur - A mountain ranger and
member of Traver's expeditionary troop from Vagarbound.
Killangrathor - Black dragon
said to live in the bowels of
Kylac Kronus - Former assassin
turned sojourner.
Lar - Lieutenant General,
Fourth Division, Parthan West Legion.
Laressa Solymir -
[Highlight]: Half-elven daughter of Lord Lorre; wife of Eolin.
Ledryk - Lieutenant General,
First Division, Parthan West Legion.
Lemm - A liveryman of Earthwyn.
Leuk - Seventh Elder of the
village Diln.
Lewellyns - Society of men
and women dedicated to a study of the healing arts. (See Marisha, Nimbrus).
Lobac - A demon minion of
Spithaera, wolf-like in form.
Loisse Culmaril - Queen of
Souaris; wife of Thelin; mother of Garett and Elwonyssa.
Lorre - Self-proclaimed
overlord of Yawacor.
Lorron - High Guardian of the
city Morethil.
"Mackerel" - Pirate
and second mate of the Raven's Squall; serves as helmsman.
Madrach - Captain of Soric's
mercenary guardsmen on the isle of Shattercove; brother to Red Raven.
Maltyk - Lieutenant General,
Third Division, Parthan West Legion. [Highlight]: Later lieutenant general
(Third Division) of the unified Parthan Legion.
Malus - A tavern patron
encountered in the seaport town of
Marisha Valour - A Lewellyn
apprentice. [Highlight]: Later Marisha Lewellyn, in memory of her former
people; daughter of Darinor.
Maventhrowe - High Entient of
Whitlock.
Merreseth - An Entient of
Whitlock.
Mirren - A Nymph jailor;
kinmate to Amber.
Mitzb - A demon minion of
Spithaera, bat-like in form.
Mookla'ayans - An ancient
race of elves native to the lands of Pentania.
Naia - A Nymph leader;
kinmate to Dynara.
Necanicum - A witch and
necromancer of the Widowwood.
Nethrim - A Hrothgari dwarf;
father of Durin.
Nevik - Heir to the barony of
Drakmar; son of Nohr.
Nieten, the - Giant
salamander-like creature living in a swampland lake deep within the jungles of
Nimbrus - Master of the
Lewellyn sect residing in Feverroot.
Nohr - Baron of Drakmar;
father of Nevik. Rival of Satallion for the throne of Alson.
"Nymphs" - See
Fenwa.
Olenn - Sixth Elder of the
village Diln.
Oreshand - An Entient of
Whitlock.
Orru - Innkeeper of the
Queen's Hive, in the city of
Pagus - Chief herald of the
royal
Paladius - Royal escort to
Garett and Elwonyssa Culmaril.
"Pike" - A pirate
of the Raven's Squall.
Powaii - Kinder, more
civilized Mookla'ayan tribe at war with the A'awari.
Prather - An Entient of
Whitlock.
Quinlan - An Entient of
Whitlock.
Raegak - A Hrothgari dwarf;
bairn of Raethor.
Raethor - A Hrothgari dwarf;
father of Raegak.
Ranunculus - An Entient of
Whitlock.
Ravar - An ocean-dwelling
leviathan.
Raxxth - A demon minion of
Spithaera, and the most savage of her brood.
"Red Raven"
(Karulos) - Pirate and captain of the Raven's Squall.
Rigdon - Second Elder of the
village Diln.
Rogun - General and chief
commander of the armies of Alson, garrisoned at Krynwall.
Rwom - A demon minion of
Spithaera, worm-like in form.
Rynar - Lieutenant General,
Fifth Division, Parthan West Legion.
Sabaoth - High King of Tritos
and the Finlorian Empire; ruler of Thrak-Symbos.
Saena - A prison attendant in
the service of Lord Lorre.
Satallion - High Lord of
Palladur. Rival of Nohr for the throne of Alson.
Shaundra - Wife of Lord
Lorre, now deceased; mother to Laressa.
Silas - A soldier of the City
Shield of Krynwall; member of an expedition to Yawacor; brother to Kallen.
Sirrus - A former king of
Alson; father of Sorl.
"Sloop" - A pirate
of the Raven's Squall.
Soric - Crown prince of
Alson; son of Sorl; elder brother to Torin.
Sorl - King of Alson; son of
Sirrus; father of Soric and Torin.
Southern Liberation Force -
An army of rogues recruited by General Chamaar to reclaim the city of
Sovenson - An Entient of
Whitlock.
Spithaera (Demon Queen) - A
demon avatar.
Stephan - Chief seneschal of
Krynwall.
Tahnos - A tavern patron of
the Gilded Tankard.
Tam - A shop boy and hopeful
apprentice to Faldron.
Taya - Fourth Elder of the
village Diln.
Tehmin - A royal guardsman of
Krynwall.
Teldara - Spirits of
divination called upon in ancient orcish tradition.
Thaddreus - First Elder and
speaker of the Circle of City Elders of Krynwall.
Thelin Culmaril - King of
Souaris; husband of Loisse; father of Garett and Elwonyssa.
Torin - Lesser prince of
Alson; son of Sorl; younger brother to Soric. [Highlight]: Later, king of
Alson.
Trask - Senior commander of
the wizard's mercenary forces at Krynwall.
Traver - A trapper, furrier,
and mountain guide; serves also as bounty hunter in service to Lord Lorre;
junior partner to Ethric.
Tuthari - A nation of
dwarves; cousins to the Hrothgari.
Tyrungrum ("Grum")
- A Hrothgari dwarf; bairn of Garungum.
Ulric - A soldier of the City
Shield of Krynwall; member of an expedition to Yawacor; native of the seaport
town of
Uthan - An Entient of
Whitlock.
Vahl - Third Elder of the
village Diln.
Vandari - A warrior sect of
Finlorian elves who were the first mortal wielders of the Crimson Swords.
Later, a descendent Finlorian sect dedicated to the preservation of the Crimson
Swords, and responsible for the secrets of the Illysp War.
Warrlun - A commander of Lord
Lorre's armies.
Wislome - An Entient of
Whitlock.
Wylddeans - ("Wild Ones")
A name used to identify the independent, free-roving peoples of southern
Yawacor.
Xarius Talyzar - An assassin.
Yarro - A Hrothgari dwarf;
father of Eitri.
Zain - Commander-in-waiting
of Krynwall's armies; right hand to General Rogun.
Locations Back Table of Contents Next
Aefengaard - A valley located
in the Splinterwood.
Alson - Western nation of
Pentania. Rich and fertile land diminished by the exploits of a hedonistic
king.
Atharvan - Capital city of
Bane Draw ("Iskin's
Bane") - Draw south of Kraagen Keep, named for the defeat of King Iskin of
Partha.
Bastion - Giant battlement
that serves as gateway between lands north (Lorrehaim) and south (Wylddeor) on
the continent of Yawacor.
Battlemont - A military outpost
located in southern Partha at the edge of the
Billak Mar - A city of
Conthur Keep - A city of
Crylag - A major city of
Diln - A forest village in
Alson. Home of Jarom and Allion.
Dirrk - A city located in
central Partha, south of Crylag.
Dragonscale Cleft - Pass that
cuts through a southern stretch of the Dragontails.
Dragonwood ("Rogues'
Drakmar - A barony of
south-central Alson. Rival to Palladur.
Durthur Keep - A city of
Earthwyn - An unwalled city
of
Fenwood - {See Widowwood}
Feverroot - A small community
of healers, located in the
Fields of Ravacost - A
war-torn region that serves as the primary battlefront between the armies of
Menzos and Partha.
Gammelost - A bustling
seaport on the western
Gaperon - Pass that cuts
between the Tenstrock and Aspandel mountain ranges, forming the primary gateway
between the
Glendon - A city of
Goblin Reach - Pass that
marks the boundary between the Dragontail and the Trollslay mountain ranges.
Haakon's Arch - Finger of
land which spans Dagger Canyon and offers passage to Kraagen
Keep via Bane Draw.
Kalgren Fork - The eastern
fork of Alson's
Kasseri - A shipbuilding town
of
Kord - A city of northern
Alson, home to Duke Baleth, Sorl's uncle.
Kraagen Keep - Capital city
of
Krynwall - Capital city of
Kuuria - Southern nation of
Pentania. Oldest and largest of the human kingdoms.
Latymir - A town of
Laulk - Sister city to
Leaven, located on the western slopes of the
Leaven - A bustling city on
the border between three nations, Alson, Partha, and Menzos. Dubbed "Queen
of the East".
Lorrehaim
("Northland") - Northern realm of Yawacor; domain of Lord Lorre.
Menzos - Northeastern
Morethil - Present-day
capital of Kuuria. The largest, newest and cleanest of the human cities.
Morganthur - Former capital
city of
Morjal - A major city of
Mount Krakken - Volcanic king
of the Skullmar range. Much taller and larger than any other peak. Home to the
dragon Killangrathor.
Myniah - A town of northern
Wylddeor on the western coast.
Neak-Thur - Fortified city
that marks the boundary between lands north (Lorrehaim) and south (Wylddeor) on
the continent of Yawacor.
Nest - A settlement located
in the Widowwood. Home to the Fenwa (Nymphs).
Nivvia -
Palladur - A barony of
southwestern Alson. Rival to Drakmar.
Partha - Southeastern nation
of Pentania that once consisted of the entire eastern half of the continent,
but has long been fighting to quell the insurrection of its northern neighbor,
Menzos.
Pentania - Name given to the
island continent of Tritos nearly 400 years ago, after the fall of the
Finlorian elves (3,000 years ago) and the rise of the human nations.
Razorport - Small seaport on
the eastern coast of
Sekulon - Nesting lands of
humankind, from which man sailed forth to settle other lands, such as Tritos.
Continent upon which Spithaera first emerged 1,000 years prior to re-emergence
on Pentania.
Serpent Reach - Pass that
marks the boundary between the Dragontail and the Wyvern Spur mountain ranges.
Shattercove - An uncharted
isle off the eastern coast of
Shimmeril - Valley home to Cianellen.
Shiro - A city of central
Kuuria.
Souaris - First human city on
Tritos. Known for its mining trade and for its impervious defenses. Dubbed the
"City of
Splinterwood ("
Stralk - A city of
Sydwahr - A town of northern
Wylddeor, on the shores of
Thrak-Symbos - Capitol of
Tritos in the time of the Finlorian elves. Now a buried city in the southern
coastal regions of the
Tresc Thor - A city of
Tritos - Original name for
the island continent of Pentania. Tritos was the largest of the ancient
Finlorian Isles, inhabited by the Finlorian elves from 10,000 to 3,000 years
ago.
Vagarbound - A town of
Whisperwood - A forest of
western Alson, south of the
Whitlock - Secret stronghold
buried high on the eastern slopes of the
Widowwood ("Nymphs'
Wingport - A mighty seaport
on the southern
Witchwood ("
Wylddeor
("Southland") - Southern realm of Yawacor;
Wyvern Spur - Range that
forms the northeastern fork of the Dragontails.
Yawacor - A frontier land of
warlords and cutthroats, found west of Pentania across the
Artifacts Back Table of Contents Next
Carafix of Life - A
representation of the universal energies by which all life is composed, used in
the study of magic.
Dragon Orb - A mystical
talisman of great power and origin, set to serve as the "lock" upon
the Illysp seal.
Kronus Blades - A set of
blades discovered by Kylac Kronus in a cove in the northern Skullmars. Of
unknown origin, they are razor sharp, and virtually invincible.
Pendant of Asahiel - A secret
artifact, said to be fashioned from one of the heartstones of a Sword of
Asahiel.
Swords of Asahiel - Mythical
blades said to have been used in the forging of the earth.
Eldon Thompson
Biography Back Table of Contents Next
Weaned on the likes of The
Lord of the Rings and Star Wars, Eldon took to writing fantasy adventure, it
seems, almost as soon as he learned to read. By the time he hit grade school,
he was writing 30-page stories in lieu of the two or three pages expected of
all students on a monthly basis. When at age nine he read Terry Brooks's The
Elfstones of Shannara, his goal of becoming a fantasy novelist went from
child's ambition to hopeless obsession.
Yet writing was to be a
hobby. Even his parents stressed the importance of a "safe" career
path. So when the time came, Eldon accepted a scholarship and went off to
college, where among his English, writing, and mythology courses, he studied
computers, the health sciences, and worked hard to play football. What he
really wanted to be was a quarterback. The NFL off-season, he thought, was long
enough in which to write books.
However, after knee surgery,
a dislocated throwing shoulder (literally dozens of times), and years of daily
chiropractic care, he found himself on the outside looking in. Upon graduation
from college, he finally accepted that his chances of entering dental school
were far greater than those of ever being invited to an NFL combine.
Only, he didn't really want
to do that, either. Other than play football, the only thing he'd ever really
wanted to do was write—and he had several thousand pages of unpublished work to
prove it. Still, it was unpublished for a reason. He hadn't tried, but he had
no doubt as to what the result would have been if he had.
Employed as a technical writer,
he spent the next few years composing and discarding works of dubious value. He
had completed no fewer than six novels, as well as countless stories, premises,
and unfinished works—but nothing of publishable quality. Eventually he decided
that the fantasy genre was something to which he had nothing new to offer—at
least, not in novel form. So he moved to
Three years later, Peter
Jackson's The Lord of the Rings hit theaters—a project Eldon had absolutely
nothing to do with, and which many have called an unmatchable achievement, the
cinematic triumph of the new century.
So much for making a fresh
mark.
It so happened, though, that
during this time, Eldon began attending the Maui Writers Retreat and
Conference, where, among bestselling novelists such as John Saul and Elizabeth
George, he had a chance to study with his lifelong idol, Terry Brooks. Terry
was most gracious in his encouragement. Rather than leave Eldon to the wolves,
Terry allowed him to redo assignments until they were more or less on track.
Though it might not have shown early on, Eldon was taking good notes and even
learning a thing or two.
But the best advice Eldon
received, he believes, was to stop trying to invent something so original that
it would redefine the cosmos. There's no such thing as a truly original story.
And if there were, by definition, no reader would be able to relate to it. If
what he wanted to write was a coming-of-age adventure story, then he was to go
and do it, and trust in his own voice to make it fresh and exciting.
Somewhat skeptical, Eldon
went home with the opening chapters of a work that had been voted a finalist
for the Rupert Hughes Writing Award. It was an ancient effort, originally
started back in junior high school. But it fit the bill of a coming-of-age
fantasy adventure. Maybe, just maybe, there was something to be salvaged from
it. Disregarding all else, including employment for a year, he took to
re-envisioning this story from page one. The typical fantasy, or so it would
seem. But what if, along the way, he were to tweak a couple of the most common
conceits of the genre? What if our hero of destiny found out that he wasn't
necessarily? What if the power of the talisman he were to uncover proved not to
be his at all? What if he was just an ordinary person swept up by extraordinary
circumstances, who learns too late that there is nothing to suggest he is
adequate to the task? How might he respond?
Those questions became the
backbone of The Crimson Sword, a story in which Eldon makes repeated efforts to
take time-honored conventions and turn them lovingly on their ear. Instead of
the elderly wizard as mentor, how about a youthful assassin? Instead of a
power-hungry wizard, how about one with a legitimate claim? And so forth. A
story in which nothing is quite what it originally seems, and which sets the
stage for even darker twists to come.
In the fall of 2003, Eldon's
efforts paid off in the form of a three-book deal with HarperCollins (Eos) for
his Legend of Asahiel trilogy. The hardcover edition of The Crimson Sword
launched in May 2005. Its sequel, The Obsidian Key, followed in July 2006. The
concluding volume in the trilogy, The Divine Talisman, is slated for release in
the summer of 2008.
In the meantime, Eldon is
also making strides in the screenwriting arena. In early 2007, after years of
focused effort and months of negotiations, he inked an option agreement with
Warner Bros Pictures for his screenplay adaptation of Terry Brooks's The
Elfstones of Shannara. Though little in
With this and other projects
vying for his attention, Eldon spends most of his time these days chained to
his writing desk. If found away from his keyboard, he is most likely doing one
of two things: lifting weights, or fantasizing about becoming an NFL
quarterback.
Favorites Back Table of Contents Next
Wonder what makes Eldon tick?
The following is a completely random and most likely meaningless sampling of
his tastes. Want to know something that isn't listed? Send him an email and
the answer will be posted here.
Athletics
Sport: Football
Sports
Personality: Steve Spurrier
Sports Team:
NFL Team:
MLB Team:
Exercise: Power
Cleans
Film
Movie:
Braveheart (1995)
Actor: Liam
Neeson
Director: Mel
Gibson
Literature
Author: Terry
Brooks
Book: The
Elfstones of Shannara (1982)
Character:
Drizzt Do'Urden, first appearing in The Crystal Shard (1988) – R. A. Salvatore
Series: A Song
of Ice and Fire (1996 - Present) – George R. R. Martin
Music
Band: Slayer
Album: Hate
Campaign (2000) – Dismember
Song:
"One" – Metallica
Workout Song:
"Spit It Out" – Slipknot
Miscellaneous
Color: Black
Food: Barbequed
Pork Chow Don (Chinese)
Ice Cream:
Cookies & Cream
Place:
Quote:
"That which does not kill us makes us stronger." – Friedrich
Nietzsche
Television Show:
"Seinfeld"
Video Game:
Castlevania: Symphony of the Night (Konami 1997)
Video Game
Console: Microsoft Xbox
he author would like to thank
the following individuals for their contributions, encouragement, and support
in helping to make all of this a reality. If your name should be on this list,
and isn't, send an email to let
him know!
Production
Bialer, Matt
- Literary Agent. A man whose job it is to help dreams come true.
Bierhaus, Anna - Assistant to Matt Bialer. For keeping things running smoothly.
Cain, David - Artist. For transforming my sketches into an actual world map.
Dwyer, Deborah - Copy Editor. Whose eagle-eyed analysis caught problems I'd
missed a dozen times over.
Gill, Diana - Senior Editor. Without whom none of this would be happening.
Hacker-Delany, Iva - Designer. For adding some flair and style to the page.
Hinton, Will - Assistant to Diana Gill. For handling the grunt work and more.
Koveck - Artist. For his amazing cover artwork.
Krump, Emily - Assistant to Diana Gill. Who always makes time for my petty
requests.
Serrano, Ervin - For his wonderful jacket design.
And a truckload of
behind-the-scenes folks I haven't yet had the pleasure to meet!
Professional
Colucci, Ryan - Film
producer. For championing my work even before it had found a publisher.
Dabel, Les - Whose
own work never ceases to amaze me.
Domingo, Dominick
- For his marvelous illustration of the Crimson Sword.
Fagundes, Alex - For his
expert contributions to the building and hosting of this website.
Jordan,
Robert - Bestselling author. For his commanding presence, unflinching
strength, and small acts of kindness.
LeGrand, L. Scott - Film producer. Who didn't cringe at the mention of the word
"fantasy".
Martin, George R. R.
- For raising the bar on an entire genre while proving that unconventional is
sometimes best.
Newcomb, Robert -
Author. For his willingness to help another young author find his way.
Rice, Cindi - Manager. For seeking positive opportunities in a
Rodriguez, Tone - Artist. For
delivering in a big way at a moment's notice.
Salvatore, Bob -
Bestselling author. For his hearty congratulations, levelheaded attitude, and
ready advice.
Speakman, Shawn - For
his terrific concepts and invaluable guidance in getting this site off the
ground.
Wilson, Eric Thomas
- Who gave my life purpose just as that and all else was about to go missing.
Family & Friends
Agee, Susan - Writer. Whose
faith and humor are an inspiration.
Anderson, Paul - Screenwriter. For remembering to tell me what I was doing
well.
Antrim, Kathleen -
Author. Who assured me from the beginning this day would come.
Autele, Brian - The fiercest guy I've ever met, but a friend with a heart of
gold.
Biddle, Kelly - My "dream" girl. For giving me something to endlessly
aspire to.
Bizzell, Brandon - Cousin-in-law. For his gracious hospitality.
Bizzell, Heather - Cousin. Who built a life for herself against such terrible
odds.
Blake, Christopher - Cousin-in-law. For his insatiable enthusiasm.
Blake, Rebecca - Cousin. Who has never held my surliness against me.
Browning, Dotty - Who wrote me a letter of such wonderful encouragement when
the doubts were closing in.
Clark, Iain - For his companionable nature and terrific stories—all the better
with that Scottish burr.
Collins, Celine - A
Elbling, Ross - For his eager assistance in the editing and proofreading
department.
Fitzpatrick, Warren - For befriending an unknown author, and sharing such
wonderful work of his own.
Fowler, Dennis - For not sweating the little things that so many others get
riled up about.
Haviland, Christopher
- Writer. Who knows the struggle, but never lets me lose hope.
Hayden, Patricia - For her honest outlook and friendly conversation.
Henderson, Russell - For giving me an opportunity, while yet encouraging me to
pursue my true dream.
Hoach, Rick - The hardest-working man I've ever met.
Holley, Tiffany
- For understanding what I was trying to say when so few others did.
Johnson, Judy - Who made me feel like a valuable member of our team.
Kamberg,
Laviolette, Damian - For being there in the very beginning, and hanging in
there until now.
Laviolette, Dylan - Who has such great tastes in books—and as it turns out,
music, too.
Laviolette, Janice - For being the steady one in a sea of family chaos.
Laviolette, Jean - For both his tireless work ethic and his blunt honesty.
Laviolette, Kelly - Who taught me to smile for the sake of the customer.
Laviolette, Perry - For teaching me physical toughness, even if it didn't
stick.
Laviolette, Shantal - The most fun-loving "bookworm" I've ever met.
Laviolette, Shirley - For making a lowly dockhand feel like an adopted son.
Laviolette, Teah - For being a gracious and energetic hostess—and for keeping
that husband of hers in line.
Ly, Michelle - Among the first to help celebrate this achievement, and for
doing so with such unabashed glee.
Mathiasen, Eric - A
friend for as long as I can remember, and one of the few who never scoffed at
my goals.
Mattingly, Kathryn - Writer. Who is forever giving me way more credit than I
deserve.
May, Kevin - For both his unfailingly good humor and his scathing honesty.
Narkun, Charis - For greeting every conceivable challenge with a smile upon her
face.
Nuttall, R. Kyle
- For his love of life and the written word, not to mention his longtime
friendship.
Oglesby, John - Writer. Always the first in line to help toast a friend's
success.
Olinger, Carrie - Who has achieved more in a few years' honest labor than I
have in a lifetime of daydreaming.
Olinger, Crissy - For putting up with a side of me that few others get to see.
Olinger, Vicky - For acting as though this is all much more exciting than it
really is.
Philpott, Danny - Who convinced me that nothing is unattainable.
Pfister, Sue - For being one of the best "real-world" bosses I ever
had, always leading by example.
Powell, C. Eric - Even though he'd just as soon shoot me in the face.
Raju, Kartik - For his unspoiled optimism in a world of jaded filmmakers.
Richards, Michael - Screenwriter. Who hasn't yet forgotten old classmates like
me.
Rowe, Diana - For showing me how to lighten up and have a good time.
Riley, Jason - For both his hilarious antics, and the driving hunger that fuels
everything he does.
Riley, Susan - For welcoming me into her home at a moment's notice.
Riley, Tom - Who has more stories than any one man deserves, and is willing to
share them with the likes of me.
Schmidt, Brooke - Who, no matter how she may feel, always manages a brave and
ready smile.
Schmidt, Sue - Who hasn't forgotten how to have fun, even in the face of
adversity.
Smith, Jack - Writer. For treating me time and again like one of his own kid
brothers.
Spagnola, Sherise - For always seeing the best in people, even when they may
not deserve it.
Sturdivant, Patrick - Elder brother. Who is forever looking out for the
rest of us.
Sturdivant, Tim - Father. For reminding me to keep an eye on the practical side
of things.
Sturdivant, Toreen - Stepmother. For being as proud as any birth mother could
be.
Tidwell, Janet - For making even the most arduous task seem more like an
enjoyable family gathering.
Tidwell, Vaughn - For teaching me that all it takes is a little bit of vision
and a lot of hard work.
Thompson, Dagne - Mother. For taking such pride in each of the children to whom
she has dedicated her life.
Thompson, Jared - Younger brother #1. For always listening whenever El feels
the need to talk too much.
Thompson, John - Uncle. For
the honest and helpful writing advice he gave a young kid long ago.
Thompson, Neil - Younger brother #2. For always pushing me to make it better.
Thompson, William - Younger brother #3. For treating me as if I were someone to
be looked up to.
Thompson Sr., Eldon J.
- No known relation, but who was kind enough to let me have this URL anyway.
Tostado, Jonathan - Writer. Whose earnest zaniness kept the rest of his
classmates in stitches.
Turner, Cal - Uncle. For working so hard to keep the family together.
Turner, Lainey - For hanging in there amid all the madness, and keeping her eye
on building a positive future.
Turner, Linda - Aunt. For all the little niceties that help me to feel better
about myself.
Turner, Merri Lee - Cousin. For being tougher than any girl her age should have
to be.
Tyrpak, Suzanne - Writer. Whose dedication and willingness to sacrifice has
encouraged me to do the same.
Wilson, Kathy - Who
refuses to settle for anything less than what she really wants.
Wilson, Will - For his willingness to do whatever it takes to get this ball
rolling—for everyone.
And countless others from
whom I'll take a beating for having neglected!
Teachers
Ackerman, Hal - UCLA. For
storytelling insights that are not limited to any particular medium.
Duke, Errol - For challenging me like few others have before or since.
Lucanio, Patrick -
Rand, Thomas -
Thoma, Dave - Because when so many others told me to play it safe, he suggested
I follow my dreams.
West-Gerber, Valerie - UCLA. For her active involvement in making this a better
story than it was before.
Zenor, Cinda - For allowing me to write about whatever I should choose.
And many more I've not yet
mentioned!
Because they are all of the
above—professionals, teachers, and friends—the good folks of the Maui Writers Conference
get a category all to themselves...
Allison, Dorothy -
Award-winning author. Every writer should have a "mama" like her.
Bova, Barbara - Super agent, who yet took the time to congratulate a newcomer
like me.
Bova, Ben - Bestselling
author. For opening my mind to new horizons and unexplored possibilities.
Brooks, Judine - For suffering my shadow-like tendencies with patience and
understanding.
Brooks, Terry -
Bestselling author. Because I don't think I'll ever be able to thank him
enough.
Cratty, Al - For his ready smile and adventuresome spirit.
Engstrom, Elizabeth
- Bestselling author. For rewarding my persistence, rather than chiding me for
it.
George,
Elizabeth - Bestselling author. Who taught me the importance of
preparation.
Horn, Sam - Emcee. Who
exudes warmth and the aloha spirit from the moment you see her.
McCabe, Thomas - The most welcoming man you'll ever meet, who treated me the
same in the beginning as now.
Sack, Mike - Master storyteller. For teaching me how crucial it is to begin
with a reasonable idea.
Saul, John - Bestselling
author. For allowing me to laugh at myself, setting me on track to become a
professional.
Tsukiyama, Gail - Award-winning author. For her kind words, and her insight
into using environment as character.
Tullius, John - Author
and editor. For providing the ground in which writers go from hobbyists to
professionals.
Tullius, Shannon - For
her tireless efforts in helping less experienced writers to realize their
dreams.
Wiggs, Jay - For whom all of this fancy author stuff is ancillary to the latest
round of golf.
Wiggs, Susan - Bestselling
author. For so readily welcoming me into the writers' community.
And to all the staff,
presenters, and my fellow students over the years, my most heartfelt thanks!
