The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (65 page)

Turning forward at last, he ran after his friends, leaving Stephan and his candle to hold back the encroaching darkness.

R
OGUN’S BLOOD FELT AFIRE
as he leapt into the saddle of his tamping stallion. All around him, his soldiers raced through the streets, spilling free of their bunkers and safe houses and forming up into battle companies. Horns wailed, bells rang, and whistles blew, spreading the call to arms. Tattered cloaks and beggars’ rags were tossed aside, revealing the polish of armor and weapons hidden beneath. The very air crackled with tension and excitement.

There were others, as well—civilians darting this way and that, or standing gape-mouthed along gutters and walks. Many wanted nothing more than to clear a path. Others had emerged specifically to view the tumult unfolding around them. Some of his soldiers worked to beat them away, using loud voices and heavy clubs to send them scurrying back to their dens and hovels. But Rogun let them look. It had come time to free this people from incompetent rule. It had come time to prove himself, to demonstrate that he, and not Torin, Allion, or some misbegotten council, should be in command of the city. If ever he meant to stake such a claim, now was his chance, and he would not be denied.

“To the walls!” he shouted to a brigade of soldiers searching vainly for the rest of its unit.

He pointed with his sword, and the men raced on ahead, booted feet thundering against broken cobblestones. Beneath him, his horse bounced, anxious to follow. But Rogun continued to hold the animal in check, continued to
make a spectacle of himself in that crowded plaza. When at last the number of civilian onlookers outnumbered those of his own regiment, the general put spurs to flanks and shot forth like an arrow through the street.

Wind and rain lashed at his open visor, but Rogun welcomed them as he had the latest reports—sneering in proud defiance. He could not have asked for a better opportunity. Unfortunate that Krynwall’s citizens and collection of refugees should be made to feel threatened like this. But if this was what was required in order to make them see, so be it. By morning, the city would be his, secured from within, and he would see to it that all who opposed him—even Torin—fell to their knees to beseech
his
favor. While some might insist on vilifying the general for his deceit, or denouncing his brutal efficiency, the fact remained that without him, the city was headed for a fall.

And it was his duty to prevent it.

He slowed as he neared the closest rendezvous point, in a courtyard aback of the main gate. As he surveyed the ramparts, he could see that the feeble effort of the City Shield to resist his control was already crumbling. They understood the truth, he saw. Good of them to quickly accept it.

“Lord General, sir!” one of his aides shouted, signaling him as he churned to a halt. “Word from Commander Zain!”

“Let’s have it, then,” Rogun barked, flush with anticipation.

“He wishes to know, sir, if you require reinforcement.”

The general shook his head. “Commander Zain’s orders remain the same. He is to secure the palace. Tear down the gates, if necessary. I want none to leave the city this night. None!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Relay at once, Lieutenant.”

The officer obeyed, and was gone by the time Rogun dismounted. Handing his reins off to a wide-eyed groom, the general ran ahead and climbed the steps of the battlement, his personal guard in tow. Soldiers cleared aside, offering salute, which Rogun heartily returned.

When at last he reached the top of the wall, he gazed out upon his city, both within and without. For a moment, his chest tightened at what he saw. But it was too late for regrets or alternatives. His trap had been sprung. The only way to finish this was to follow through completely. Having concealed the bulk of his forces within the city walls, he was in good position to carry out his objective. Either way, he was determined to take back what was his—in such dominating fashion as to leave no doubt.

“Primary divisions are assembled and ready, sir,” prompted the colonel at his side.

General Rogun smiled grimly. “Frontal sweep on my command. Inverse arch.”

“Sir, the archers—”

“Are to provide cover only. Commence ground assault. This city will be liberated before dawn.”

T
HEY RACED ONWARD IN A RAGGED LINE
—Allion, Marisha, and Torin, with Darinor to usher them along. The flame of the hunter’s torch whipped and guttered, riled by the bearer’s swift and sudden movements. Its thrashing light cleaved the shadows of darkened hallways, sending them away like black spirits into the Abyss.

Though the maze of corridors bore Torin and his friends ever deeper within the royal complex, he could still hear the alarms echoing from outside the castle grounds. Before long, those calls had carried into the palace itself, reverberating throughout chambers and corridors, coming from every direction. Battle had clearly been joined, signaled by the clash of steel and the shouts of men. For the fighting to have breached his walls so quickly gave the young king pause, but hemmed as he was among his companions, he could do little more than run on.

Before long, the route they followed filled with servants, courtiers, guardsmen, and others, all rushing in a mad panic to one place or another. Torin thought it a chance to learn more about the chaos erupting all around them, but Darinor ordered the members of their company to keep their hoods drawn and their heads low. In this case, the Entient was probably right. Most of these people likely knew even less than they. The safest thing to do was escape while they could, then examine matters from afar.

The notion did not sit well with Torin, given the numbers of those he felt he was being asked to abandon. But he knew better than to argue, considering how long he’d been away. As unsettling as it might feel, he was no longer in charge here, and he did not want to endanger even more lives by trying to make some meaningless heroic stand.

Still, it became harder and harder not to draw the Sword as the resounding clamor continued to swell around them. But the talisman’s telltale glow would surely give them all away. They had reached the ground level, and were shoving along an exterior wall, swimming upstream against a river of fleeing bodies. Through the adjacent windows poured the sounds of pitched battle in the courtyard beyond. But all was a writhing mass of moonlit shadow—black silhouettes of men and weapons come together in a grinding crush. He could match no faces to the horrid screams.

Allion cut suddenly down a stair to their right. The hall beyond was al
most empty. At the next intersection, the hunter veered left, pausing briefly to bar the door behind them. The sounds of battle became muted and distant. Though his heart hammered in its cage, Torin felt his muscles begin to relax.

They tensed anew when he turned a corner and Marisha gave a startled shout. Bodies collided as his company ground to an abrupt halt, with Allion catching that of a frantic guardsman. The soldier looked up at them with haunted eyes.

“My lords!”

“Kien!” Torin responded, moving forward to greet the man who had often served as his private sentinel.

The young guardsman recoiled at first, forcing Torin to grip him about the arms.

“Kien, what has happened?”

The stricken soldier, a bearer of the City Shield, glanced from face to face. His own was sweat-streaked and smeared with blood. “My lord, we must escape! There are traitors, my lord, here within the castle!”

“Who are they?” Torin asked, still trying to calm the man.

“They turned against us in the armory, my lord. They—” He stopped and twisted at the sound of pursuit—the heavy footfalls of a sizable company coming apace. Immediately, he began to thrash and squirm in an effort to pull away. “My lord, we must flee!”

“We’ll go around,” Allion determined, and began pushing them all back the way they had come.

But he did not do so swiftly enough. A shout resonated from behind as they were spotted, a mad cry taken up by others. The pursuers’ pace quickened, boots hammering against the stone floor, their stride lengthening. As he turned the corner, Torin looked back.

And froze.

“Bull?”

Sure enough, leading the charge of perhaps a dozen City Shield was Bullrum, the unofficial leader of his original expedition team to Yawacor. The man he’d met as a sparring partner—at that time a soldier in the Legion of the Sword—was clearly recognizable, despite his new uniform, sallow skin, and the hateful grimace upon his face.

That grimace changed somewhat as the soldier’s eyes found those of his king, taut features loosening in surprise. His step slowed, and with it, those who accompanied him. All carried drawn weapons, Torin noted, including Bullrum, whose greatsword was stained with blood.

“Bull, what is this madness?” Torin asked. He knew not whether he should seek to embrace his old friend—whom he had assumed dead or lost at sea—or else draw his own blade.

Bullrum, too, seemed torn with indecision. His glare shifted to Darinor, who hovered over Torin’s shoulder, and immediately his gaze narrowed.

Then Kien came back around the corner, just enough to peek at what was happening. “My lord, it’s them!”

Bullrum’s hesitation vanished. With a snarl, the brown-bearded soldier
hefted his weapon and charged. Like boulders in a rockslide, the others came after.

Torin barely had time to free the Sword from its sheath. He might not have, were it not for the sudden whirlwind that formed in front of him and went shrieking down the corridor, blowing dust and grit into the faces of his enemies and forcing them all to cower in momentary surprise.

“Run!” Darinor commanded.

But it was too late for that. Already, the temporary gust summoned by the Entient was dying. Bullrum and his cohorts pressed forward, weapons weaving. Torin met them head-on. His intent was not to kill, but to frighten and disarm, hoping that the fury of the Sword would be enough to chase his city’s former protectors away.

But their lust for battle was far greater than he could have expected. After severing a pair of blades nearly to the hilt, and then clearing a pocket with a great, spinning swipe, his opponents pressed in. A sword tip nicked his shoulder, while another slashed across his thigh. Torin was forced to maim three men in quick succession to even find room to breathe. Two lost their hands, the other his leg at the knee.

None backed away.

In the crowded corridor, there was nowhere for Torin to hide. Fortunately, his enemies were so reckless that they did as much damage to one another as to him. Blood spurted, painting the walls and the floor. Some wounds were so grievous that Torin could not believe the man who had sustained it was still standing. Nevertheless, not one of his adversaries surrendered the fight.

An arrow shot out of nowhere, whizzing over Torin’s ducked head and lancing through the ear of one who stood over him. The man dropped his sword, and Torin made certain that he could not pick it up again, cutting him in half at the waist. The young king was out of options. If he did not kill these men,
they
would kill
him
.

Another arched stiffly as an arrowhead tore through his side and poked free, dripping blood and fluid from some vital organ. As desperate as Torin’s situation felt, it must have
looked
even worse, for Allion to risk such shots. Putting the wounded man to his back, Torin whirled to stave off a more serious threat, then lowered his shoulder and twisted round to face yet another.

At that point, Kien charged in, taking up a fallen blade and adding his howl to the chorus of those that filled the hall. Torin continued to hack and dodge, his movements guiding—and at times guided by—the Sword. The weapon flared, its inner flames barely able to withdraw after one strike before being called upon for another. The press around him was starting to slacken, as the number of dead and mutilated began to mount. And still his remaining foes did not relent.

All of a sudden, he was free, having carved through the knot of guardsmen to the other side. He was down on one knee, arms extended, weapon thrust upward through the heart of his latest victim. There was very little blood, for while embedded in the other’s chest, the Sword kept burning. Torin felt a
flutter from the man’s heart as it convulsed around the blade—as if suddenly brought to life. The old soldier gaped at him, lips curling in stubborn refusal, still struggling to bring his weapon to bear. But the man’s muscles had stopped responding. For a moment longer, Torin peered into a pair of wild eyes, then tore free and let the man fall.

He spun about to check on the others. Kien was locked with what looked to be the last of their assailants. His blade was shoved deep through the front of the man’s throat, but the fool continued to sputter, refusing to die. Despite a wash of blood, none of it seemed to be pulsing. The man grappled, clawing uselessly, but Kien held on.

Just as the enemy guardsman began failing at last, sliding down against the wall, one of the others who had appeared to be defeated rose up suddenly beside him. Bullrum, Torin realized. But before the young king could react, his onetime companion skewered poor Kien through the side with the length of that greatsword. Too late, an arrow struck him. Growling, Bullrum turned toward Allion and charged, driving Kien’s openmouthed body before him like a shield. The hunter fired a second shot, which flew past Kien to catch Bullrum through the shoulder.

It drew no more than a grunt.

Torin launched himself in pursuit, knowing at once that he wouldn’t reach the others in time. Bullrum barreled onward, gaining momentum. At the last moment, he threw Kien aside and unsheathed a dagger. Without the time he needed to nock another arrow, Allion reared back with his bow, as if meaning to whip the other across the face.

In the instant before that happened, Darinor stepped forward, seizing the crazed Bullrum about the neck. The dagger plunged upward, striking flesh somewhere within the folds of Darinor’s robes. Ignoring the blow, the Entient gave a violent twist, spinning Bull’s head halfway around on his shoulders. Bones shattered, and the soldier crumpled, facing backward, his limbs jerking uncontrollably. In a matter of heartbeats, the spasms ceased, and his body grew still.

Torin knelt at once beside Kien, examining the massive blade still buried through his side. The guardsman, slumped against the wall with blood bubbling from his mouth, offered a meager smile as their gazes locked. Then his eyes glazed, and his head sagged forward against his chest.

Torin looked to the others. Darinor was gritting his teeth, bent over as if ill. A moment later, he gave a yank, and cast aside Bullrum’s bloody dagger.

Marisha gasped. “Father, you’re hurt!”

She went to him without delay, bearing the torch that Allion must have handed to her. But Darinor straightened and swatted her away.

“Leave me be,” he snarled.

Marisha fell back, her expression wounded. Torin studied her for only a moment before his eyes found Bullrum’s ghastly stare.

“I’ve a feeling these weren’t Rogun’s,” he declared.

Darinor nodded. “The Illychar have found us.”

“And is that who we’re fighting up there?” Torin gestured with the Sword
toward the upper levels of the castle, less certain than ever that they should be fleeing this chaos rather than confronting it.

“Would you go and have a closer look after what you’ve seen here?” the Entient growled. “Come, let us away before others discover us.”

He started down the hall, past the pile of twitching corpses.

“Come!” he urged again when it became clear that no one was following. “We shall sort it out later. Or do you intend that we surrender ourselves to the enemy?”

A sudden and violent pounding within the tunnels behind them emphasized the danger. The door, Torin realized—the one they had barred. Though oblivious as to who was fighting whom, he recognized well enough that the noose was tightening around them.

He glanced at Allion, who, after looking over his shoulder at the sound, grabbed the torch and Marisha and shuffled on to retake the lead.

Torin closed the lids to Kien’s eyes before rising to his feet and hastening after.

They raced first past the open doors of the armory, through which Torin caught a glimpse of the massacre to which Kien had referred. A line of training grounds came next, complete with various closets and chambers used for outfitting, storage, and planning. Most lay dark and open, leaving Torin to wonder if anyone—friend or foe—hid within. He ran now with the Sword in hand, numb to his wounds, fully alert for any sudden attack.

They scampered through halls and down flights of stairs, slowing only when forced to fling aside doors of wood or iron. There was little point in closing the portals, as most were not meant to be opened from the inside. They had reached one of the central dungeons—built to house criminals of noble standing, or whose offenses otherwise drew royal notice. Though filled to capacity by Torin’s father, King Sorl, they stood empty now. It was in these prisons that Torin had found and pardoned Stephan and all others who had displeased the prior king—and in whom he had found no fault. Of course, it was also where the wizard Soric had kept Rogun while seeking to transform the general into a loyal follower.

Looking back, perhaps Torin should have let that one rot.

He tried not to think of it, nor to breathe too deeply of the foul and stagnant air. If ever there had been a time to maintain focus, it was now.

At long last, they reached the end of their road—and in some sense, its beginning. Before them stood a nondescript door at the end of a hall lined with cells, beyond which lay an abandoned storeroom and the secret entrance to the tunnel they sought.

Allion patted himself about the neck. “I don’t have the key!” he exclaimed. “I gave it to Evhan when I made him Fason!”

The hunter looked to Darinor as if expecting the Entient to do something. But Torin pushed his friend aside, hefting the Sword. A moment later, a blackened gash had appeared at the edge of the jamb, and the door swung open.

They piled inside in a rush. While Allion moved at once to find the latch
hidden behind an iron cask, Torin and the others shut the door and began stacking crates and barrels behind it.

“I’ve got it!” the hunter shouted.

Torin turned. A hinged section of the far wall hung open, revealing the dark crawl space beyond. “Lead the way,” he said, huffing as he rolled another barrel into place.