The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (15 page)

“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 choice 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 had 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 emissaries 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.

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 Cor
dan 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 kingdom of Alson on the island of Pentania. Doubtless, he holds me responsible for his defeat.”

“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?”