The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (26 page)

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 Diln, 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 stomach 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.

A
LLION’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, stooping 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 there 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.