Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (13 page)

“Law! You dare call that monster lawful?” replied Crumpet, and the older villagers recalled the alliance Grelion formed with Zesm the Rancor many years ago, in which Zesm stole and sold babies in exchange for rewards: the babies were gifts of slavery to Grelion, and what Zesm had received in return no one ever discovered. One such baby was abducted from Rislind itself, from the home of an old friend named Remtall Olter’Fane.

“I do not contend that it was just law, but now murder is to be expected if you approach an unknown group of savages—the slaves have formed tribes: they roam about, taking no prisoners, and the towns and villages I’ve seen are under violent leadership, disunity—I could not have risked to simply knock on your door—what if you were a loyal faction to Grelion—or worse, a tribal slave town?”

“How dare you suggest we be in league with Grelion Rakewinter, that hate-mongering coward!” cried Miss Brewboil, working herself into a fit.

“If you are a slave, why fear a slave tribe?” asked Doings, feeling more curious than angry. 

“Because the tribes fear all strange newcomers. They associate unknowns with the old leadership of Lord Grelion. They would kill me long before believe I was one of them.”

“I’ve many more questions for you, and we must deliberate on the exact course of justice we will serve you—but in the meantime, we must investigate the vine wall. If it is dispelled, then we are in graver danger than any ghost would have put us in. And it is all the more worrisome if the tidings you bring of the outside countries are true,” Doings said.

“I understand. I am glad to be in your village, despite as a prisoner. Deservedly that condition is cast on me—for some reason, my mind is extremely cloudy, and I feel as though I am still just waking up from a long, painful nightmare,” came the scratchy voice of the thief.

“Taisle, assemble a party,” Doings ordered. “And what is your name, or shall you still be referred to as
the ghost
?”

He looked off into the horizon, as if he had to think very hard about what his own name was. Finally, he twisted his head and looked down.

“You do not know your own name?” Doings recoiled in awe.

“Sorry—I am called Noilerg. As I said, my mind is stormy. I think I have an infection running through me, and I have eaten but scraps for days: whatever carcasses, roots, or berries I’ve been able to find.”

“Though you are a prisoner of Rislind, Noilerg, thief of night, specter of our dementia, you will be cared for—Brewboil, see to it that he is given food and drink, and his ailments are properly treated. He will be a valuable source of information for us, as to the true state of turmoil coursing over the landscapes beyond our peaceful meadow.”

“But he is a liar!”

“A ghost!”

“We don’t believe him!”

“I assure you he is still a prisoner, and will remain shackled until we investigate the vine wall,” Doings coughed in reply to the jeers.

“Sir, I’ll be heading there presently—it should be checked immediately,” said Taisle, ready to trek to the wall of vines atop the western peak.

“Sooth. Go, disqualify this vagrant’s boasts,” Doings smiled, turning to watch the prisoner as Brewboil led him away. Several troll brutes gripped his arms as they left. Noilerg wobbled as if about to faint and the trolls steadied him.

“Come on,” Taisle winked at Pusaiones. She was already ahead of him though, and they set out toward their horses.

*            *             *

Mayor Doings was sitting upright in Deedle’s Tavern, asleep on his stool, drooping over a half-finished mug of Rislind Ale. His pipe dangled, smoldering slowly; every now and then a puff of ash went flying into the air. Several nearby patrons were enjoying an afternoon draught, chatting about the transformation of their ghost into a haggard slave wanderer: some believed the slave’s story of sorrow; others remained skeptical, fearing some kind of dormant evil, believing the ghost planned some malevolent deception. Doings awoke with a fright when Pursaiones walked up, shaking his shoulder.

“It’s true—the wall is dead,” she said. Taisle nodded in confirmation, along with three others who’d journeyed with them.

“We will have to take his words for truth then—something has destroyed the magic. We are vulnerable to intrusion for the first time in I don't know how many years,” Doings trailed off with a hint of panic.

“I think he did it,” replied one of Taisle’s companions. “I think that man—he could be a wizard, a lying wizard.”

“Yes,” Doings said, drowsing again into an unalarmed state, lighting his pipe anew. “But I don’t think so, I didn’t feel that kind of energy in him—he’s too run down.”

“I agree,” chimed in Pursaiones. “We should question him further as soon as possible.”

“Yes, yes indeed,” returned Doings, despondent about their fragile state of seclusion.

“And what of the vine wall?” asked Taisle.

“Yes, I will put you in charge of creating a barrier—it won’t be magical, of course, but you can build something strong, I think, Taisle,” responded Doings. “Speak to Miss Brewboil’s husband, Gesrey, he ought to be able to lend his stoneworking to the task.”

“And the eastern entrance, the enchanted boulder?” asked Pursaiones.

“Well, I hadn’t had time to think of that—oh dear, let’s hope that isn’t gone too?” Doings responded. Taisle and Pursaiones looked at each other, pitying the village for its absent-minded mayor.

“I’ll go at once,” she offered.

“Good, good. Oh dear Gaigas, let us hope this isn’t the end. I haven’t done all I wanted to do yet,” Doings talked into his mug.

“Alright fellows, let’s make quick work of this. I intend to sleep tonight,” Pursaiones commanded. She left the tavern, headed for the eastern peaks; Taisle began his search for Gesrey. Doings was alone again, sipping dreamily his ale. The tender of the tavern walked over to him.

“I couldn’t help but overhear—will you be making a public announcement about the vine wall?” asked the tender.

“Oh, yes of course,” muttered Doings; but a moment later he was asleep, his chin descending, dipping his whiskers into warm brew.

X: THE LAST NIGHT OF PEACE

The dining hall was filled with hundreds of warriors. Nearly every race of Darkin sat together in feast, and a fever of anticipation marked the atmosphere. The conversations were not wide-ranging; most spoke only of the coming morn, when they would at last set out over the Hemlin Hills, driving north to intercept the Feral Brood army. Peren had received new information from druid scouts the day after the council that confirmed the approaching enemy’s path. Anticipation of a hopefully-unsuspected counterattack against the incoming Feral had raised morale. Peren planned to waylay the Feral army on the Rolling Hills, but being uncertain of enemy numbers, some captains of the Wallstrong force were anxious about the maneuver.

“The thrill of combat displaces all fear,” said Erguile between bites of a pungent plate of fresh leaves and bear meat, smothered in a bittersweet sauce, called
Meldsniir
by locals.

“And that is why you're a captain from a slave,” Slowin replied, himself eating hearty Hemlin stew, loaded with more bear.

“Yes, yet it seems we have so little information. Why couldn’t Krem have just flown over the hills, spied down on them, told us exactly what we’re up against?” asked Erguile.

“We don’t know the full arc of their magic, nor do we know how many black mages accompany their march,” Flaer replied, drinking sweet tea-elixir of Wallstrong, known as the restorative
Berryveine
.

“Anyway, I cannot wait to confront their numbers—large or magical,” Erguile said in display of genuine confidence.

“Remember to stick to the plan the generals have laid out, and be mindful of all that Peren has explained,” Slowin reminded.

“What is your idea of the Feral leadership?” he asked Flaer, putting down his knife and stretching, feeling filled and quite tired.

“They are working together, but I can’t quite say how yet.”

“Vesleathren and Zesm, you mean partners? So all the rumors of Vesleathren being overthrown, you ignore them?”

“That line is too simple. You must remember that Vesleathren is the source of Zesm’s power. There is no chance Vesleathren would give Zesm enough strength to become a threat to him,” Flaer answered coldly.

“I still don’t know what to think,” Erguile said, trying to appear unconcerned.

“I know what I think—this battle needs to end the war. We’ve numbers enough, I think, to win outright. And then I can go home at last—return to the Red Forest, to peace, to a good night’s sleep in my tree,” Slowin sighed, smiling in remembrance of his red-leafed friend.

“Well, that wouldn’t be any fun for Remtall or Adacon would it? They’d play no part in the destruction of Darkin’s greatest evil!” Erguile joked.

“They’ve played enough of a part already,” Slowin replied.

“He’s right, I would rather not see Adacon have to fight again, nor our gnome friend—our greatest hope is as Slowin said: a decisive victory tomorrow on the hills.” A wave of silence fell over the dining hall, only for an instant, and then the clamor of conversations promptly resumed. Flaer turned to the door to see the cause: far away, at the opposite end of the great hall, Peren strode in.

“He’s come to eat,” Erguile said. “What about his aura?”

“Hmm?” Slowin replied.

“I saw it grow at times when he was talking, and now it’s there, surrounding him softly. I can see it from here,” he explained.

“You’re very perceptive for a human slave,” Slowin answered him. “Many do not notice the aura; they cannot see it.”

“Really?”

“Slowin’s right. You're attuned to Gaigas, if but by a single degree,” replied Flaer.

“Perhaps I can
become a Vapour some day,” Erguile smiled. “And then my sword will glow too!”

“It is not my Vapoury instilled in the Brigun Autilus, friend: It is by the work of Vesleathren that this sword gained its power,” Flaer explained.

“Vesleathren?” Erguile exclaimed.

“It was in the Five Country Wars, when I fought him—we dueled, I took his sword from him. As you saw when the grip burned Slowin's hand, one cannot harness the sword and bend its will to their own use, lest powers of old Vapoury run deep,” Flaer told.

“You amaze me to no end, Ironhand—I can’t believe you dueled Vesleathren, the very monster we go to destroy!”

“My death was nearly the price. Aulterion’s final blast in that war—I was very close to its eruption—I can’t say if I would have destroyed Vesleathren or not, had I more time. I remember his body knocked to the ground, appearing dead in the aftermath of the explosion. I grabbed the sword where it lay, but a foot from his body.”

“Why didn’t you finish him then?”

“The sword scalded me, a shot of energy rent my body's nerves—I was knocked out as soon as I touched it. When I awoke, I saw Vesleathren’s lifeless body being dragged off. I was sure he was dead: there was a long trail of blood running from where he'd lain. Trolls were binding me, but the Brigun Autilus lay nearby, undisturbed on the ground; no one had dared touch it. At that moment, I summoned more strength than ever before in my life, breaking from the fiends that seized me. I picked up the sword and poured every bit of Vapoury I had into it, balancing the magic of Vesleathren for but an instant.”

“And then what?”

“I slew them all. None lived.”

“And then did you chase after Vesleathren?” Erguile said, hanging onto each word.

“I could not—Aulterion had descended on his wyvern, Holfog, whom you know well.”

“The same we slew in the marsh, that creature Aulterion summoned after swimming off?”

“The same. I saw a look in Aulterion’s eye, as he flew away with the bloody mound of Vesleathren’s remains—he looked down at me, our eyes locked.”

“What was the look?”

“Pure fear.”

“Pure fear?”

“He knew his master’s sword had been claimed; he saw me wield it, unflinchingly. His eyes told dread, as black as his heart—that a mere man might hold the blade and live.”

“How did you continue to hold it?”

“At the start, I could only hold it for minutes at a time before it would begin to sear me. It talked more then.”

“Talked?”

“As you heard on the swamp road,” Slowin reminded him.

“I remember now. I didn’t recognize the voice, but I thought it was you,” Erguile recalled.

“Over time I learned to control the evil within the sword, so it could no longer hurt me, and I was able to use the terrible power for my own purposes—which I did, until I was captured.”

“But you had the sword—how could they ever capture you and take it?” Erguile asked, gripped by Flaer’s uncommon willingness to tell his story. A quick thought streaked through Erguile’s mind: Perhaps he’s telling me all this because he knows we march to our deaths tomorrow.

“Friends,” interrupted a familiar voice from behind. Erguile spun around to see who had spoken; he saw a shimmering trim of gold-green, softly bordering the shoulders and head of Peren Flowerpath, who now stood by them.

“Peren,” Flaer answered. Slowin looked up in reverence and nodded, and Erguile followed Slowin’s lead.

“How do our spirits fare, this night before epic valor calls upon us all?” Peren spoke, exuding the natural leadership that had gained him his role as head general of the entire Hemlin force.

“Very good, I’ll say, for myself anyway—this dish has brightened my spirits tenfold!” Erguile piped, referencing his cleaned plate of bear meat and salad.

“I’m glad you like Hemlin’s food!” Peren smiled.

“Anything new from the druid scouts?” asked Flaer.

“No. We guess the Feral to be the same as we thought before: two-thousand strong, making us only several hundred smaller than them. I do not wish to speak too soon, but with tonight’s arrival of the men from South Shore, we may well match their numbers.”

“We mustn’t depend too readily on our element of surprise—though we may hide well in the hills, Vesleathren is sure to have spies the same as us, knowing our moves before we make them,” replied Flaer, not showing any of the optimism Peren expressed so easily.