The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (33 page)

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 gathering 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 then 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 thing 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 Eldrakkar 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.

C
ATCHING UP WITH THE MADWOMAN
they believed to be Necanicum 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 Dragontail Mountains, when they came upon a great, interwoven stand of trees whose branches dropped forth thick streamers of vines like roots into the earth. Varying in thickness from the tiniest tendril to strands that might have been their own trunks, these shoots formed a series of veils and curtains that reminded Torin of frozen waterfalls spilling out over a series of cliffs.

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?”