The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (11 page)

“He ain’t got plans to go all the way to Yawacor, mind you. But sometimes, ships from either land meet to exchange goods halfway. Might be you can hitch a ride that way.”

“I have companions.”

Malus scowled. “I didn’t see any come in with you.”

“They’re out searching, same as me. There would be seven of us altogether.”

“When are you meeting these companions?”

“At dusk. Outside the harbormaster’s office.”

“And what about home? Ain’t you got anyone back in Glendon going to miss you?”

“We’re on our own,” Torin admitted, fighting down a fresh wave of nervousness. Or maybe it was the drink, settling about as smoothly as it had gone down.

“Tell you what. Why don’t we go meet with my friend now, let you have a chat with him? That way, you’ll know better if it’s an option for you and your companions.”

“I’d be most grateful.”

Malus nodded then and drained his bottle. As he rose from his stool, the barkeep came scampering over at last.

“Can I get anything else for you gentlemen?”

“Gentlemen? How do you like that?” said Malus, flashing Torin a conspiratorial grin. “Too late, my good sir. We’re on our way out.”

The fresh air was greeted by Torin with welcome relief; this time, even the fish didn’t smell so bad. A damp gust swept past with a warbling sigh. He paused for a cleansing breath, then went for his horse.

Malus emerged a moment later, clothed in only the leather vest and breeches he’d been wearing at the bar. A brace of knives hung across his torso. He too inhaled deeply of the smokeless air, causing his chest to swell.

“Where’s your cloak?” Torin asked him.

“Didn’t bring one.”

“You’re not cold?”

“Wait’ll you’re at sea, lad, soaked to the gills while she rails at you with her frozen breath. Then you’ll know what cold is.”

Malus had no horse, so Torin followed afoot, guiding his mount by its lead rope. The seaman spoke incessantly as they went, asking all manner of questions. It felt as if the man were fishing for something, though his disarming nature made it all come across as innocent banter. Torin answered as openly as he could, guarding details, but not wanting to seem evasive. Every now and then, he tried to squeeze a question in edgewise, just to stem the tide, but always the focus ended up back on him.

One topic they hadn’t discussed yet was that of money. Or more specifically, what Malus’s cut would be for doing him this favor. This, more than
anything, raised Torin’s suspicions, and kept his free hand resting casually on the disguised hilt of his weapon.

“What manner of trade did you say your friend was involved in?” he asked, mimicking the other’s offhand tone.

“I didn’t,” Malus replied without turning. A sheen of water clung to his bald head, so that it reflected the waning daylight. “The answer is, all kinds. Whatever will fetch a coin. He’s been a merchant, a fisherman, even a pirate, from time to time. Not to worry,” he added, as if sensing Torin’s unease. “He’s no brigand. Just lacking in focus. At the moment, he runs supplies—fresh water and such—to some of the deep-sea fishing vessels. Comes back with some of their catch. Allows them to follow the schools without making any unscheduled stops.”

Torin forced a smile to match the other’s own.

“This way,” Malus beckoned, indicating a narrow, rancid-smelling alley.

Torin eyed the garbage-strewn path with obvious distaste. “How much farther is it?”

“Back door to his place is just around the corner. What’s wrong?”

“The docks are that way.”

“So they are. But my friend doesn’t spend his time on ship when in port. This is his chance to get away, you know?”

“You said he sets sail tomorrow. Should he not be loading his cargo?”

“He has a crew does that for him. This here’s personal time. Spend a few weeks at sea, you’ll understand.”

It made sense, but still Torin didn’t move.

“What’re you afraid of? Strong lad like you has nothing to fear from an old sea dog like me.”

“Perhaps your friend would be willing to meet me out here, where the air is fresher.”

Malus shrugged as if it made no difference to him. “Don’t know why you’d want to stand out in this slop when you could be sitting by a warm hearth, but I’ll ask. Wait here, then.”

He ducked into the alley, disappearing quickly behind a pile of broken crates. Torin waited only a moment longer before shaking his head in private disdain. What
was
he afraid of? The man had done nothing to earn his mistrust. Why offend him with misguided suspicions?

He started down the alley. “Malus?”

He’d taken just a few steps, passing the mound of crates, when his horse whickered and his own senses, heightened by the Sword, screamed in warning. Had the blade been in hand, his assailant would have met with quite a surprise. As it was, Torin was unable to draw before darkness stole his vision.

The scent of burlap smothered him. He kicked and shouted, thrashing against the suffocating hood, but a string drew tight around his throat, further strangling his wind and weakening his protests. Powerful hands pinned his arms behind his back before a knee or elbow shoved him face-first to the ground. A leather thong lashed his wrists.

“Easy, lad,” came the muffled sound of Malus’s voice. “The more you fight, the worse it’ll be.”

The voice came from in front of him, which meant that the odds against him were at least two to one.

“His weapon,” Malus ordered.

Torin gave another stifled shout as the Sword slid free. He bucked, but a booted foot held him down. Aside from his own struggles, an awed silence ensued. Even his horse grew quiet.

“Sweet pearls of the mother sea,” Malus whispered. “This ain’t the blade of a farmer—is it, lad.”

Torin’s stomach churned, but it was all he could do to keep breathing.

“Looks like we snagged ourselves a royal, eh, Dahl? And not just any royal at that.” The voice drew closer. “But what would you be doing so far from the nest, royal?”

“I say he’s a thief,” said the one called Dahl.

Malus snickered. “Which is it, lad? You a thief? Or are you the one they call Torin, one and only wielder of the Crimson Sword, and this land’s very king?”

“Those is just stories,” said Dahl.

“Then how do you explain that blade in your hands?”

The other didn’t have an answer for that.

“Come, let’s have a look,” said Malus.

Although he couldn’t see what was going on, Torin sensed Dahl’s hesitation.

“Dahl, you lumbering oaf. Do you want to stand in this alley all night? Give it here.”

Torin could feel himself edging toward unconsciousness. The reassuring pressure of the Pendant dug into his chest, but he couldn’t see how the talisman would be of any use. His heart fluttered. His mind raced. Despair washed over him.

“Give it…Let go, Dahl. Let go!”

The pair were tugging back and forth. Their scuffle reverberated in Torin’s back, where Dahl’s foot was planted for leverage. He squirmed, trying to throw off his assailant’s balance.

Then came a sickening crunch, and the tussle came to an abrupt end. The pressure on his back released as Dahl pitched over, splintering crates. It sounded as though Malus hit the ground as well.

“Something tells me that doesn’t belong to you.”

Torin’s ears perked at the sound of the new voice. Malus hissed in response, then was heard scampering away. The whoosh of a heavy object hurtled after him, followed by another crunch. A weapon skittered on gravel. A body slapped down on the same. Then silence.

His first thought was that one or more of his companions had found him. But that wouldn’t explain the newcomer’s quiet, measured march down the alley. For a moment, Torin wondered if he’d not been rescued from one set of thieves only to be robbed by another. The footsteps returned, and a presence
loomed over him. A knife rasped from its sheath. Torin’s breathing, rapid and shallow, came to a bracing halt.

Hands worked around his neck. There was a rough sawing motion before the hood came free. Torin rolled to his side for a desperate gulp of air, and came face-to-face with his savior.

The man wore a gray cloak with the hood drawn back. Pale blue eyes softened an otherwise stony visage dotted with sharp fields of stubble. Matching blond hair was trimmed short except at the neck, where a tuft of curls billowed like mist at the base of a falls.

The stranger held up his dagger. “I’ll cut your hands loose, if you’ll hold still.”

Torin blinked, taking in the scene. The Sword lay beside him, next to a spiked war hammer. Blood and hair were matted against the hammer’s uneven surface. Dahl’s body lay twitching, draped over his feet. Down the alley, Malus was a motionless heap.

A series of ragged breaths pumped through Torin’s lungs. Finally he looked again to his rescuer, and nodded.

He rolled back over to show his hands. When the bonds were severed, the stranger helped him to his feet.

“I’m indebted to you, friend.”

“Arn.” The man was short, not much taller than five feet. But his shoulders seemed almost as broad, and his handshake was like a stretched noose. He bent to pick up their weapons. “This your blade?”

Torin resisted the urge to lunge for the Sword, waiting for Arn to hand it to him. The man did, after a moment in which he hefted it in admiration.

“Never seen its like.”

Torin did not sheathe the talisman right away, but held it at the ready. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“I come from Yawacor, to the west.”

“Yawacor?”

“Been in port for the past seven days.”

“You’re not a sailor,” Torin observed, as Arn bent to wipe his hammer on Dahl’s jerkin. He tried not to look too closely at the mashed hole in the back of the fallen man’s head.

“More of a mercenary,” Arn admitted. When finished cleaning his weapon, he hung it from a sling on his belt. “A mercenary with a grudge.”

“Grudge?”

Arn spat upon the lifeless form at their feet. “I don’t care for these kind of men.”

“Thieves?”

“Slavers,” the other replied, as if surprised Torin didn’t know. “Were it not for me, you’d have been shipped overseas and shackled to a trading block within weeks.”

A warm sense of dread flushed down Torin’s throat. “Again, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“That weapon, I think, would even the scales between us.”

Torin felt the remaining color drain from his face.

“I’m jesting,” said Arn. A sneering grin flashed across his face. “You can probably put it away now.”

Torin did so, double-checking the fastenings of the leather wraps around the hilt. His would-be abductors had not had time to remove them, but their struggle had tugged them out of place.

“Blade like that has a story goes along with it. Would go well with a solid meal, no?”

Torin smiled. “Supper and a tale? It’s the least I could do. Though I’ll be surprised if you’ve not heard rumor of it already.”

“Haven’t spent much time at the local watering holes. And like I said, I’m not from around here.”

“Yawacor,” Torin said, regaining focus. “Any chance you’ll be heading back there soon?”

“Tomorrow, actually. Would’ve been today, but one of our primary suppliers was behind schedule. Lucky for you, I’d say.”

“I thought we agreed you were no sailor.”

“Swordhand,” Arn clarified. “Hired guard for a merchant vessel. Not the most exciting work, which is why I’ve been stretching my legs ever since we got into port, hunting thugs like these. Been stalking the big one here for days, waiting to catch him in the act.”

“Any room for a few more? Hired swords, I mean?”

“You looking for work?”

“I’m looking to hitch a ride. And my companions, if possible. Whatever it takes.”

Arn shook his head. “Our roster is full. Though it can’t hurt to talk with the captain. How many in your party?”

“Seven. But I’ll go it alone, if necessary.”

“Running from trouble, are we?”

“Toward it, more likely.”

Arn continued to regard him with a discerning eye. “Let’s talk it over with the captain. With that blade of yours, might be you’ll fetch me a recruiting bonus.”

Torin smiled with newfound hope and relief. He moved out of the alley, giving chase to his restless steed. Arn fell into step beside him, leaving the bodies where they lay.

“What’s the name of your ship?” Torin asked. Even now, it would not hurt to be cautious.

“
Pirate’s Folly.
”

Torin’s pace faltered. “I don’t recall seeing that name on the harbormaster’s list.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Arn snorted. “Captain Jorkin has money and influence. Not to mention common sense.”

Although he hid his frown, Torin’s silence gave voice to his doubts.

“It’s not near as shady as it sounds,” Arn assured him. “Best way to avoid a thief is to hide your business from him altogether.”

“I suppose.”

“Come now,” said Arn, slapping him on the back with a brawny hand. “If I intended you harm, I’d have left you in that alley. You want to meet Jorkin? Then tell me your story.”

It was hard not to be reminded of Kylac. Although he had yet to break a real smile, Arn had that same roguish style, the same unassuming air.

And he
had
saved Torin’s life.

Finally, as they turned toward the docks, Torin relented, and did as he was asked.

W
HEN THE PAIR HAD GONE,
Xarius emerged from the shadows. Perched upon his roost, he watched them trail away through the sordid city streets, his mind clenched around a single notion.

So close.

For a moment there, he’d thought he would have to intervene if he wished to preserve the wizard’s prize. Were it not for this mercenary, Arn, he might have done so, and the whelp would now be in his hands. Soric had been explicit in his commands, but would have forgiven his actions upon learning the circumstances for them.

They were exactly the kind of circumstances for which the assassin had hoped. Despite the wizard’s instructions, he had no intention of allowing Torin to be delivered by any but himself. Perhaps Soric would grant him his release to hunt down his nemesis as promised, once Torin was handed over. Perhaps not. The best way to be sure was to put himself in the position of dictating the terms of the young king’s release.