Read The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key Online
Authors: Eldon Thompson
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Fantasy, #Epic, #Fantasy Fiction, #Quests (Expeditions), #Kings and Rulers, #Demonology
He’d spent just a short time alone, and already he was raving. He needed to get moving before madness set in.
He decided against further use of the unguent. As of this moment, he’d be lucky to die of infection. And its numbing properties wouldn’t do much more than the snow already had.
Seeing no way around it, he doubled up a length of leather and placed it
in his mouth to guard against further screams. He then unstoppered his scroll tube, set aside the rolled maps of tanned goatskin, and used a diamond-edged dirk to split the hard leather canister down its center. After carving out the base, he had himself the makings of an excellent splint.
Lashing the guard into place was another matter. By his estimation, it took more than fifty drips from Achthium’s Spear, though the great stalactite by which his kinsmen gauged the passing of time was far away from here. Still, he only lost consciousness once, and completed the task with no more than a dozen swallows of mead. When finished, he felt immeasurably better about his prospects.
He fastened his climbing spikes next, to the foot of his good leg. He sure as stone wouldn’t be putting any weight on the injured one. His hammer and anchors hung in a pouch about his waist. The rest of his belongings, those not needed for the actual climb, he left in his pack, to which he measured and tied a long length of rope. He secured the other end to a rear loop in his belt, making sure to leave plenty of slack. He could not have the pack weighing him down, and yet he wanted to be sure he would be able to retrieve it once he’d reached the top.
As a final precaution, he gathered as much loose snow as possible into the center of the chamber, so as to more deeply cushion any fall. After that, he attached his hand spikes, mapped his desired path, and began to climb.
It seemed impossible at first. Just rolling over and levering himself from the floor was a test of will unlike any he could recall. As soon as he stood, the blood began returning to his feet, causing him to swoon with agony. But the mead helped, and the thought of having to start all over again kept him upright. Reaching up, he set his first anchor, buckled tight his safety rope, and, with one leg, lunged for his first mark.
He made it, and clung there for some time, grimacing in pain, wondering how in the world he could make himself do this. It would be so much easier to simply lie down and let the ice take him. Yet he was determined that if Achthium were to come for him, here and now, He would not find him lying down.
It grew easier after that, though his pace was methodical at best. From shelf to shelf he hauled himself, doing most of the work with his hands, while using his good foot as his base. Where there wasn’t a handhold, he used his axe to chip away at the earthen skin. He set his anchors dutifully, at least every third pull. Despite his best efforts to protect it, his wounded leg bounced and swayed, clipping the stone every now and then, causing him to grind his teeth into nubs. But the splint shielded him from the worst of these minor collisions, allowing him to continue.
Hours passed. Hunger and thirst assailed him. Grum ignored these aches as he did all the others, drawing himself ever higher, until at last the doorway to his freedom came within reach.
Perched beneath the lip of the crevasse, he paused to gather his strength. Above the sound of his own labored breathing, he heard what he believed to be more than just the wind. There was that, to be sure, whistling through the
cracks of his ceiling, but there was something else, deeper and angrier, the unmistakable restlessness of the sea. Had he and his team strayed so far?
When ready, he set a final anchor and pulled forth his axe. The daylight was fading, its red glow through the ice dimmed. The sooner he emerged, the better, especially if he wished to find new, suitable shelter before nightfall.
He stopped short, however, before making his first cut. Once again, fear gripped him, the dread possibility that that creature might still be out there, waiting for him. Hack through this blanket of packed snow, and he might bring his own death down upon him.
Grum growled the notion away as he had before. If that was his fate, so be it. He deserved no better than his friends.
The snow was thicker than it appeared, and more solid. Sun melt throughout the day had helped turn it to ice. Grum braced himself as well as he could and continued to chip away, forced to hit harder than he would have liked. After all, he had to be careful not to dislodge the entire pack, for if he were to do so, he might end up right back at the bottom.
As if made manifest by his concern, the wedge of ice and stone gave a shudder before cracking and shearing away. A jagged boulder struck his wrist, and his axe went spinning into the chasm below. Grum closed his eyes and clung to the rock face, doing his best to ride out the sudden storm. Had he glanced up, he might have seen the larger boulder that slipped in after, skidding down from somewhere higher up the escarpment. When it struck him, his world exploded, and amid the telltale song of snapping anchors, he felt himself bouncing, flailing, plummeting once again, down into darkness.
W
HEN CONSCIOUSNESS NEXT GREETED HIM,
Grum knew right away that he was in worse shape than before. His head rang, and his vision would not seem to clear. The snow around his head was colored pink with blood, and the pain in his crushed ankle reached now through both legs, clear to his waist.
He lay this time upon his stomach, his arms sprawled out in pinwheel fashion. When he brought them in and tried to push up, a piercing agony in his lower region left him whimpering. He tried again, having no other choice, and twisted his head around to survey the damage. A boulder had landed atop him, sandwiching both legs, and now held him pinned.
Turning back, he cast about for his axe. A couple of his teeth lay in the bloody snow before him, and a hand went to his swollen jaw. His weapon was nowhere to be seen, buried, in all likelihood, on the other side of the cavern. If only he might have fallen on its edge, so as to end his suffering quickly.
Instead, he kept himself alive for two more days. Foolish hope, perhaps, or sheer stubbornness. He had no right to expect a rescue, and there was no longer any way to set himself free. He ate the snow, though it chilled him from within, while his shelter continued to ward him from the storms that swept overhead. He became ill, and was set upon by delirium, to the point that he was not surprised when the voices of his slain comrades began to call down to him.
“Grum! Grum!”
Grum moaned and stirred, but was unable to escape the haunting echoes.
“Grum, we’re coming for you.”
He dreamt then that they were there, surrounding him. Durin and Alfrigg, even Raegak, with his missing arm, lowered down in a leather sling. They inspected him, and let him sip mead. He mumbled his apologies, but still the wayward spirits would not let him be. They dismissed his concerns and whispered reassurances that all would be well.
The throbbing pain had for the most part died away, but it wracked him anew as the boulder was shifted aside. There was more discussion, and then he felt himself being hoisted skyward, no doubt lifting free of his mortal coil so as to join the bellows winds of the Great Smithy in His everlasting Earth-forge.
The Forge itself was scintillating in its brightness. Grum squinted against its glare as he was brought up from the fissure and hauled from the sling. There was much more jostling than he had imagined might be found in the afterlife. And no release from the pain. He felt himself being set down again in the snow, the way it crunched beneath his weight. But if he was now a spirit…
His eyes flickered open. The glare was gone, blocked by the shadows of his friends, who encircled him. They were all there now, even Eitri, who grinned broadly.
“Thought we might have smelled the last of you,” the red-bearded dwarf said.
Only then, as he heard the other’s voice crisp and clear in the brine-filled wind, did Grum realize the truth. He was not dead, but very much alive. More importantly, so were his friends. Impossible, he knew, but he could no longer deny the physical evidence.
“You’re—” he tried to say, but his voice cracked, lending further proof to his realization. “You’re alive.”
His companions glanced at one another, their smiles cold.
“And so shall you be, my
athair,
” Raegak offered. “So shall you be.”
The others laughed, grunting harshly. Grum’s own mirth began to fade as his gaze shifted from face to face. Something wasn’t right. It was clear his friends all bore the wounds from their final battle. What
wasn’t
clear was how they had survived them. Raegak’s bloody stump was unbound. Alfrigg’s face remained a mangled mask of torn flesh. Durin’s laugh hissed weirdly through shredded vocal cords.
He turned to Eitri, inspecting the other more closely. A great gash was revealed in his side. Grum saw a hint of internal organs. Like those of the others, the open wound did not seem to trouble him.
Grum felt his pulse quicken, yet wondered anew if he might be dreaming.
Then the dagger struck his chest, biting his lung, so that his scream was choked short by a mouthful of blood.
He looked over, gaping first at the familiar bone handle protruding from his chest, then at the gloved hand of he who held it. Raegak smiled and
hissed in his ear, although Grum was no longer certain
who
his friend was speaking to.
“Taste, my
athair
. Taste this realm of flesh.”
I
T WAS A WORLD UNGLIMPSED BY MAN,
a world of mystery and wonder, uninhabitable by his standards of life. Yet there it flourished in the lightless depths, a veritable jungle of exotic plants, animals, and organisms—forms of life that were not troubled by the frigid cold and impossible pressures, or that needed sunlight to thrive. Creatures here milked the earth of its thermal energies, or fed upon those that did. They saw in ways that beings of light could not, and dwelled their entire lives in isolation from the world above—a world as separate and foreign to them as they to it.
Except for him.
He alone among his deep-sea brethren had seen that world and others, he who bore an awareness and experience unmatched by any mortal being. But this was his home now, and he had learned to cherish the isolation of his surroundings, the tranquility of his final resting spot. Untroubled by even the harshest elements of his environment, he had long ago come to terms with his fate, even learned to take comfort in it. It was as good a place as any in which to while away his eternity.
And yet, he could ignore the waking summons no more. After weeks of restlessness, he had at last stirred to life, allowing his barnacle-encrusted eyelid to slide slowly open. After so many centuries, so many mortal ages, it had taken him but a moment to orient himself, lying upon the bottom of the Oloron Sea, countless fathoms below the world above.
A world to which he must soon return.
He shifted his gargantuan body, and the millions of creatures that had made his coral-covered hide their home scattered. The tides themselves recoiled, and beyond, the seeds of quests were sown—those of the witch…the avatar…the one who had unleashed this storm…He could feel their reactions, even if they as yet could not. For nothing so great had ever lived—or ever would again.
Still, even he could not resist the call, that which beckoned him to emerge, to make known his wrath upon the world. So be it. For despite the passing of centuries, it felt as though he had just barely settled down to rest, and his anger was indeed kindled. He would answer the call. He would resume his timeless hunt.
And he would feed.
T
ORIN DUCKED BENEATH THE SWINGING SWORD,
close enough to feel the breeze of its passing against his sweating brow. He followed up with a roundhouse kick, separating himself from his assailant, clearing space in the battleground for the approach of the other two.
They came without hesitation, and he met them head-on. As anticipated, one went low, the other high. Torin spun from the trap, engaging with the fighter on his left so as to guard his flank. Doing so also enabled him to avoid the blade of the first, whose return charge carried him now headlong into his own companions, rather than into Torin’s back.
As they took a moment to disentangle themselves and catch their wind, Torin crouched low, measuring what he had learned so far. Brown-beard was clearly the strongest of the three, but also the slowest, with a fondness for great, cleaving strikes meant to finish an opponent in one fell swoop. Scar-cheek was fast, with rapid thrusts of a rapier whose pricks stung, but had yet to do any real damage. Fish-eyes…Fish-eyes seldom did anything more than parry, as if afraid of taking a hit.
Truth be told, their individual skills complemented one another well—if coordinated properly, they might make a formidable trio. Fortunately for him, it seemed as though this was the first time these ruffians had ever fought side by side.
With a growl, Brown-beard took up the charge, his comrades following. They were determined; Torin would give them that. Heart pounding, he raised his broadsword to meet them.
Lunging past another of Brown-beard’s windmill strikes, he took aim at the smaller Scar-cheek. The larger man was already tiring, and Torin wanted to waste as few swings as necessary clashing with the giant until it was time to bring him down. It was Scar-cheek for whom he had to conserve his energy. That might best be done by getting rid of Fish-eyes, but he first had to goad the mouse into a more offensive stance. Otherwise, he might spend all day railing away at the other’s perfect defenses.
Across the floor they danced in fiercest harmony. Torin slipped around and through their chops and thrusts, dodging or parrying a flurry of blows. He continued to focus on Scar-cheek, pressing the man at every available juncture. At long last, Fish-eyes took the bait. No doubt thinking himself forgot
ten, he made a lunge for Torin’s exposed flank. In an instant, Torin disengaged from Scar-cheek, driving the other’s rapier up high while
he
spun low. Fish-eyes had overextended himself. Torin saw it in the man’s eyes, which widened further in dismay. Hack, slash, twist—just as he’d been taught—and Torin watched the other’s weapon go flying. Another well-placed kick sent the little man himself sailing after.
Torin smirked with satisfaction as he spun back to intercept Scar-cheek’s renewed assault. Brown-beard was huffing heavily now, all but standing aside. The day was Torin’s. One on one, he’d met only a handful who could outduel him. His strength and energy actually increased as he beat his enemy back, driven from within by the sureness of his victory. With his heavier broadsword, he continued to slap the rapier out in ever-widening circles until at last he saw the opening he needed.
But as he was about to deliver the final blow, a burning pain sheared across his back. The hit was accompanied by a mighty crack, and snatched the wind from his lungs. Releasing his sword, Torin crumpled.
He managed to catch himself, but only on hands and knees, where he clenched his teeth in anticipation of the next strike.
“My lord…my lord, I’m sorry,” Fish-eyes offered, bending to help his king.
Torin reached forth an arm to ward the little man off, then at last drew a giant gulp of air into his starving lungs. He rocked back on his heels, grimacing in relief as his breathing was restored and the worst of the pain dispersed.
“My lord, I didn’t mean…”
Fish-eyes didn’t seem to know how to finish, but instead looked at his blunt-edged iron practice weapon and cast it aside as if it had become a snake.
“All part of the training,” Torin wheezed, brushing aside the other’s concern. He glanced to where the discarded weapon clanged upon the arena floor. “What’s your name, soldier?”
“Cordan, my lord. Of the City Shield.”
Even now the lad appeared horrified at what he’d done. Torin gave him a reassuring grin.
“Well played.” He extended a hand so that the other could help him up. Cordan did so, and seemed to finally relax once they were both standing.
Torin turned to Scar-cheek. He always saved the introductions until afterward, preferring to know nothing about his opponents going in. “And you?”
“Evhan. First Rank. Also of the City Shield.”
“Bullrum,” Brown-beard managed between breaths. “Legion of the Sword. Friends call me Bull, Your Majesty.”
“I can see why,” Torin said.
“Shall we again?”
Torin turned. It was Evhan who spoke, still holding his rapier at the ready.
For a moment, he considered granting the bold lad another go. But then he looked to Bull, huffing still, leaning on his greatsword, and to Cordan,
whom he doubted he could convince to cough in his direction, let alone take up arms—even practice ones—once more.
“I think that will be all for today, Lieutenant.” On the young man’s crestfallen look, he added, “We’ll spar again, I grant you.”
It was a promise seldom given. Torin much preferred to exercise with those whose tendencies had to be learned on the spot. But he liked the other’s heart, and the fact that Evhan had yet to address him with any form of royal endearment.
The young lieutenant at last lowered his sword and gave a perfunctory bow. “As you wish,” he said, though neither his voice nor his countenance hid his disappointment.
With the decision made, Pagus came forward from the edge of the chamber to help Torin from his lightly padded leather armor. Upon his promotion to chief herald, Pagus had become more like a personal attendant from whom Torin could seldom escape. He was young, having not yet completed twelve full years. But in the short time Torin had spent here in Krynwall, he’d found none other who could match the boy’s enthusiasm. Besides that, he continued to reserve a special significance for this lad who had hailed Allion and Kylac’s long-awaited return from Mount Krakken, as well as Torin’s own betrothal.
“This is a savage welt, my lord,” Pagus chided.
Torin winced as the boy’s fingers poked at the streak of inflamed skin that he could feel stretched across his naked back.
“Leave it be, then,” he hissed, spinning around to face the spiky-haired youth. The words left his mouth more sharply than he’d intended, and so he chased them away with a laugh.
“Sorry, my lord,” Pagus replied, hanging his head. The leather vest in his other hand drooped toward the floor.
“No harm done,” Torin assured him. “May I have the Sword?”
Pagus grinned before setting down the vest and shrugging out from under Torin’s sword belt, which hung over his small shoulder like a baldric.
The Sword of Asahiel.
The boy presented the divine talisman proudly, his hands low on the scabbard so that Torin could take hold of it by the throat. With his other hand, Torin clutched the weapon’s hilt, that intricately carved crutch of silver with its nine flaming heartstones—those principal, rubylike gems in which swirled the same tendrils of crimson fire found in the blade. At a mere brush, the Sword’s strength coursed through him, dulling the pain and soothing his wounded pride.
While using the weapon in sparring sessions, he’d been able to carve through as many as two dozen men while taking nary a scratch—not only because he had yet to find an armor or weapon the Sword could not slice through like hot butter, and not only because of the endless reserves of stamina it granted him. Mostly, it was due to the miraculous way in which he was able to anticipate attacks before they happened, as though the Sword understood his will and knew better than he how to execute it.
Pagus, as always, beamed at having served as the artifact’s temporary
bearer. And, as always, Torin smiled in understanding. Forged by the Ha’Rasha and made vessel to the power of the Ceilhigh, it was a wondrous weapon from which he seldom parted. But in an effort to avoid becoming too reliant on its divine nature, he exercised most often without it, choosing to test his own burgeoning skills. And while these sessions often ended in painful lessons such as this one—not to underestimate a downed enemy—Torin inevitably felt better for the knowledge and talent gained.
After all, as he watched his fellow fighters Evhan and Bull and Cordan limp from the arena clutching bruises of their own, he could see that he’d administered at least as many hits as he’d received.
“Perhaps you should see Lady Marisha for a salve,” Pagus suggested.
“Ah, let it bruise,” Torin decided, buckling the Sword into place around his waist. “The lady is likely not yet risen.”
With Pagus’s help, he returned his practice gear to the storage racks before donning an open shirt and setting forth from the sanctum of the training hall. Despite the fresh lumps and bruises, he did so with a spring in his step. He always felt invigorated having taken his exercise first thing in the morning; he found it gave him much-needed strength in confronting his duties of the day.
No sooner had he exited the hall and turned the corner than those duties found him.
“King Torin! King Torin, my lord!”
The urge to ignore the voice flared within him, but Torin forced it down. It had been roughly twelve weeks since the death of the Demon Queen, eight since his shattered world had been made whole by the triumphant return of Allion and Kylac and Marisha’s acceptance of his abrupt marriage proposal. In that time, he had made numerous concessions, not the least of which was the adoption of his birth name. He was Jarom of Diln no longer, but Torin, king of Alson.
Not that he relished the title. On the contrary, it had been the cause of more bother than he’d expected—and he’d expected a great deal. But there were too many battles to be waged on too many fronts to allow for continued, futile resistance of rank and moniker.
“Good morning, Master Stephan,” he greeted, turning on his heel to meet the aging steward.
Stephan continued to jog toward him with that strangely feminine gait—knees high, toes pointed, hands gripping his fancy skirts so as to keep from tripping on his own robes. He held his breath in his plump cheeks, so that the only sound was the rasp of his slippers on the stone flooring. When at last he reached a bemused Torin, he let that breath out in a great puff along with small flecks of spittle.
“My lord, General Rogun seeks audience with you.”
Torin resisted the urge to wipe clean his own face, not wishing to offend. Stephan had been chief seneschal of Krynwall since the time of Torin’s father, King Sorl, before falling out of favor with his former lord and ending up in Sorl’s dungeon. A merciful fate, it had turned out, for as a prisoner, he had escaped the wrath of Soric, Torin’s elder brother, during the wizard’s occupation
of the city. For all his hate-driven behavior, Soric had a soft spot, it seemed, for those branded as criminals—perhaps because he had once been branded one himself.
“Can the general not wait until after breakfast?” Torin asked.
Stephan shook his head. With those fatty cheeks and his prominent front teeth, he looked rather like a chipmunk. “My first question as well, my lord. The general felt the matter too urgent to postpone.”
Torin frowned, though he was not surprised. Seldom was the day in which he did not have to face down Rogun on some issue, usually when it was least convenient. The general, he believed, liked to keep him off guard. Just one of the many games his new rank called upon him to play.
“Very well, you may tell the general…”
Torin hesitated. In addition to his many functions and titles, Stephan often served as crier for any matter involving the royal household—a task to which he was ill suited. As the seneschal continued to catch his breath, sweat beaded on his brow and ran down his reddened cheeks, carrying the oils with which he kept his hair dyed black with false youth. Torin hated seeing the man used as a runner. But then, they’d spoken of this before, and it seemed there was no dissuading the proud steward from personally fulfilling each and every one of his self-assumed duties.
“My lord?” Stephan asked, waiting expectantly.
“I was just thinking of where the general might meet with me.”
“Right here should suffice,” came the rugged response.
Torin felt a weary weight settle about his shoulders. The hard clop of boiled-leather boots and the jangle of spurs rang against the stone walls as Rogun himself turned the corner.
“I thought I might catch you at play,” the general announced, having emerged from the passage that led back to Torin’s private sparring arena. “A short session today?”
“Long enough to get the blood flowing,” Torin replied.
“Your wounds aren’t too grievous, I trust?”
Torin bristled at both the assumption and the other’s condescending stare.
“My lord,” Stephan cut in, “shall I have the cooks begin breakfast?”
Torin nodded. “I’ll take it in my chambers. If you would be so kind as to draw my bath?” Among everything else, Stephan was pleased to serve as master chamberlain.
“Of course, my lord,” he replied with a bow.
“Go with him,” Torin said to Pagus.
Stephan scowled, but stopped short of refusing the younger one’s assistance. That also was a conversation they’d already had.
With both seneschal and herald slipping away, Torin turned his full attention back to Rogun. “What can I do for you, General?”
Rogun stepped forward. With the others gone, his imposing bulk filled the narrow corridor. If he was an imperious man, he had every right to be. Tall, powerfully built, he projected rugged manliness in every way. Even in his
face—from the wide jaw to the broad forehead to the thick mustache hanging down over thin and weathered lips—all seemed as durable and unyielding as mountain stone.
But with Rogun, looks did not begin to tell the story. He was a fourth-generation soldier whose great-grandfather, Caruth, it was said, once saved the life of the king in battle. As a reward, Caruth was offered a lordship. Caruth refused, asking instead for a promotion within the ranks of the military. His wish was granted, as he was made a lieutenant general. Both his son and grandson had served likewise, in ceremonial fashion if nothing else.