The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (3 page)

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 wasting 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 the 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 village of Diln. Despite differences of opinion, it was the members of this council—young and old, male and female—who would come together to shape the lives of all.

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 making 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 Kalgren Forest to live a quiet life of peace and contentment, far from the bustle of the city and the exigencies of the throne. Perhaps they would resurrect Diln, as some of his former villagers were contemplating. But even if they were to do so, they would remain under the thumb of whoever was chosen to rule in his stead. Until he found a person to whom he would willingly entrust the lives and well-being of his dearest loved ones, he would cling to the mantle himself.

“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 hand-maidens. 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 knave.” 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, then 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.