The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (13 page)

The Fason did not linger in this fiendish pit, but moved quickly down one
of the large, tunneling exit corridors. Just a little farther and he would begin an ascent into fresh air once more. With sweat dripping down his brow, he looked forward to the cool, refreshing temperatures of the winter night. After that, he would return to the palace by a more direct route, his sweep concluded. He had already logged a false exit from the city gates, so his return by the same would not be questioned.

For a time, his path followed that of a railway track for mine carts. Conscious of his step, he kept his eyes mostly on his feet, wary of tripping on one of the ties. Gravel crunched beneath his hard leather soles, a steady munching sound that—along with his huffing breath—might have been the noise of a predator feasting in its lair.

It was then, as his attention began to slip, that the ambush was sprung. They appeared seemingly out of nowhere, but must have been lurking in the side tunnels and caves. He barely looked up in time to free his blade, but in the process, dropped his torch. It hissed and sparked as it struck the ground, lighting the tip of a sword that flashed across his wrist. He recoiled as if from a snakebite, clutching the wounded member to him, lashing out with his rapier to beat his assailant back.

His enemy retreated, a quick spring back to the edge of the guttering light. Evhan risked a glance at his damaged wrist and wished immediately that he hadn’t. The skin was flayed in a wide arc, and blood spilled forth. He tucked it back again, just as another blow came, this one from his flank. He parried the thrust with a desperate shout, sending the other back as he had the first. This brought the other forward again, as if the pair were on opposite ends of a pendulum’s swing. With himself caught in the middle.

His superior swordcraft kept them both at bay. But for how long? Theirs were exploratory strikes, he could tell, meant more to test his reactions than cause him harm. His opponents were fast and precise. Outnumbered and losing blood with every beat of his racing heart, he knew it was but a matter of time.

He fought anyway, like a caged animal. His shouts echoed down the lengths of these tunnels. Perhaps someone—a stray miner—would hear his pleas and come to his aid. He scarcely had time to hope. He’d not yet even figured out who his enemies were.

To change that, he went to one knee, a dangerous ruse to bring one or both in close. It worked only too well. He slapped one blade aside as the other took him in the shoulder. His scream frightened both off, but not before he saw the face of each.

A chill dread swept his spine, at odds with the warm waves of dizziness that coursed through him. They were not human. They looked like elves—as he’d seen in illustrations and murals and tapestries, anyway. But how could that be? The last of the ancient Finlorians had long since fled these shores, and the Mookla’ayans seldom strayed from their jungles—and never this far. How had one or the other come to this place, here and now?

He knew the answer even before he was forced to fend off another attack. Illychar. Moments ago, it had been some vague, imaginary term. Just another
name for a child’s ghoul. Now, almost too swiftly to comprehend, that nightmare had come to life.

Evhan gritted his teeth. He might have charged, seized the offensive, but could ill afford to leave his diminishing circle of light. His assailants’ eyes glittered. For all he knew, they 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.

T
ORIN 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 every 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 large 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.

F
OR 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 Arn 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 stations. 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 mo
ment, 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.”