Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (23 page)

“You’re most welcome, friend,” Reap said, focused on his application of the clay-salve.

“Agh! Forget this, it’s not going to work,” Krem whined. A faint glimmer of jade light disappeared from the Vapour’s fingers. He rushed to safety behind Falen.

“It’s a good thing my back isn’t as sensitive as my wings, otherwise we’d all be out of luck,” Falen smiled. Ice pinged, ricocheting off his hard scale-armor.

“I’ve never been more thankful for the hide of a dragon’s backside than now,” Krem said, returning a smile, unable to fight the weather with his Vapoury.

“Why would Tempern not know you were here?” Reap asked.

“I can’t say, it doesn’t make much sense. I’d better get a good explanation,” Krem said. “He should have released his stasis on the area by now, allowed me to draw energy.”

“These mountains are not disposed to offering explanations,” Reap replied.

“Wonderful work—it’s no wonder you lay nearly mortally wounded last night, and now you seem back at full strength. That balm, it is Curatio Salve, is it not?” Krem asked.

“Curatio what?” Falen asked.

“Surely it is. I’m lucky to have had some extra,” Reap replied, putting some underneath his robe where he’d been wounded the day before.

“Don’t worry friend, he’ll be as good as before the hail,” Krem assured Falen, who stood over Adacon, peering down at the lifeless body pressed into the snow.

Reap and Krem huddled behind the scale-hide of Falen, who bore the brunt of the ice storm, as Adacon lay asleep by their feet. Krem put snow on the cuts where Reap’s balm was working. He tried to channel some heat into the slave’s body, but gave up again in disgust.

“You’re a native of these climes—how much longer will this last?” Falen winced, starting to feel the strain of blow after blow.

“Could be hours. There’s nowhere else to go, nothing nearby—it’s at least a thousand paces to the next covered area,” Reap replied.

“Let’s not think of that, shall we? Let me have a moment to think,” Krem said, racking his brain, thinking of what to do—it had been a long time since he’d had to consider a situation without the resource of Vapoury.

*            *             *

Adacon awoke to the quietest moment of his life—there was not a single sound; just an empty, impossible void. Not even did his mind manufacture false noise to blanket the impossibility, as normally happened when the external world silenced itself. This is unreal, Adacon thought: the silence matched perfectly the quiet white carpet of the snow, blanketing everything in sight except the cloudless blue sky, uninterrupted, stretching interminably into the horizon. Rubbing his head, he touched a gooey substance. Quickly checking his fingers, he thought for a second his head had produced a thick reddish-white pus; a moment later his better judgment told him it was an ointment of some kind—from Krem, perhaps? He searched around, his memory returning: the ice-rain had come, then a dash toward the overhang underneath Falen’s outstretched wings.

He was alone. He rubbed his eyes, stood up, surprisingly refreshed though still numb at his feet and hands. No one was anywhere to be seen: not Krem, not Falen, not Reap. There was only a frozen wasteland, implacably pure and white, sharing itself only with the azure of the weatherless firmament. Stepping out from under the thin strip of shelter and back onto the ridge, Adacon looked down the trail, then up it. He saw nothing. A knot grew in his chest, a sense of incredulous knowledge that he was completely and utterly alone. Footprints, Adacon thought, remembering how he’d tracked his own feet in the Solun Desert months ago. It was useless—the snow had concealed all prints, whether coming or going from the overhang. The snow was uniform in every direction, and Krem had left no letter, sign, marking, or instruction. This is it, Adacon thought to himself, there is no help coming. Gazing at the unbroken peace of midday sky and his single staring companion, the golden eye of the heavens, Adacon roared loudly in protest:

“Krem!” He screamed again and again, but there came no answer. Each name he called, and each name in turn was answered as an echo of itself. Finally, in submission, shivering cold, Adacon stoppered his rising anxiety. He took a long, slow step, and began up the trail.

XV: THE GEAR CHAMBER

“Brace yourselves,” Behlas whispered. Chains rattled and the door in front of them swung open. Behlas stood with his knees bent, arms outstretched, poising to unleash some kind of furious Vapoury.

“Hallway empty. Check four complete,” came a mechanical voice, accompanied by whirring. Before Remtall, Ulpo or Behlas could see a figure appear through the door, it closed again. A dim yellow light had glinted briefly with the crack in the door, a shiny blue arm had extended itself robotically, only to withdraw instantly. The heavy steel clanged shut, and the footsteps distanced themselves from the door again.

“Dear Nine Gods of the Sea, what was that?” Remtall whispered.

“Strange,” Behlas said, unflinching, maintaining readiness.

“Parasink’s guards aren’t very thorough, are they?” said Ulpo.

“It appears we have to let them know we’re here,” Remtall fired.

“Wait—this is odd—I wonder if it was more than just me affected by the blink—I wonder if the Gears are thinking for themselves now too?” Behlas wondered in astonishment. “Wait here both of you.” He traded a stern glance with Remtall and then vanished from sight. Where Behlas had stood was now a dull grey wall of granite and limestone. Ulpo heard a low whoosh and wondered if Behlas had become invisible and walked right through the steel door.

“What’s his idea?” asked Remtall, taking a fresh sip from the bronze bottle fastened at his hip.

“Sharing is caring, mis-heighted friend,” Ulpo said, trying for another sip himself. Remtall handed the bottle over only after surveying it for sufficient remaining contents, hesitantly approving.

“He’s spying ahead, a good tactic—coming to his powers again,” Remtall guessed.

“Could be, but when you punched him, didn’t you hear? Sounded like he felt pain the same as us. Perhaps he’s more alive than he realizes.” As Ulpo finished his last sip and handed the bottle back to Remtall, the whooshing came again, and Behlas was standing next to them once more.

“Nobody’s there. They’ve gone off to do checks,” Behlas informed them. “We’ll head to Parasink’s chamber directly. Quick, follow me,” Behlas spoke with urgency. In an instant, he grabbed at the door’s small handle and, with little effort, it flew open. A dim emerald hue filled their vision, accompanied by the soft whir of generators. They stepped past the steel into the Gear Chamber.

“By Gaigas!” Ulpo yelled, too loud.

“Shhh,” Behlas scolded. “Do you want them drawing near, not one like before but one hundred?” Ulpo signed his apology.

Remtall and Ulpo looked around the Gear Chamber in amazement. The room was lit with eerie luminescence by thousands of green bulbs, each producing artificial light that made the room look alien to the northlanders. In the soft jade glow hung limp bodies on hooks—some were encapsulated by reflective glass, filled with jacinth liquid, others were exposed to air. Six long rectangular tables made from granite crowded the center of the chamber, each with an open body on top of it. Wires ran off some of the bodies, down the tables, reaching the floor; others had long spikes ascending directly from their chests into a globular lamp hanging from the ceiling, unusually low. The ceiling unit glowed soft green, the same as the ambient bulbs bracketed to the walls; it emanated the soft whirring of an electrical motor, washing the room in white noise, the sound of a distant droning bee. Several cords ran sideways the length of the wall, dully alive with green light of their own, eventually winding down, snake-like, across the floor in a labyrinth pattern; some cords coiled up, finding the hanging bodies, others wrapped the legs of the tables.

Remtall took several steps forward, ready to explore the chamber. Behlas warned him to halt, but it did no good: he touched one of the wires that hung loose from the ceiling, dangling without a target.

“Whore of Gaigas!” snapped Remtall, jumping back as an emerald spark leapt from the wire to his fingertip, scalding him for his curiosity.

“I warned you, didn’t I?”

“What is that?” asked Ulpo, pointing to the far corner of the wide room.

Between the only other door in the room and a row of hanging half-machine bodies jutted a long block of ornate pine wood. It was as tall as Behlas, extending along the entire length of the far side of the chamber. Engraved in the pine was an intricate spiderweb of copper tubes, delicately cross-hatched, running down through the stone floor itself. Some of the copper tubing snaked its way up along the wall and into the ceiling—several pieces ran to a generator in the middle of the ceiling, others disappeared straight up. What Ulpo had found disturbing was the pink glow of smoke that rose from the corners of the long block, making it appear to be housing some kind of steaming neon substance.

“I’m not sure. It might be the—” Behlas froze. He grabbed Remtall’s arm, which had wandered to touch one of the nearby body’s wires.

“What’s the idea—”

“Shh.”

They listened intently, straining to hear something apart from the soft motor whirring above them. Suddenly, Remtall heard something: voices, coming nearer. He couldn’t tell from where—they seemed to be all around him. Then footsteps. The voices grew louder:

“What a disaster—four slaves gone in as many days. I’ve not had a slave disappear since I first created the mine,” came a thin, wet voice.

“Yes master. It is strange—our meters have detected an anomaly, far away. In Nethvale I think—something with enormous energy. Perhaps that is why your graceful arts have been disturbed,” said a mechanical voice.

“Vapoury you damned fool! I am a noble Vapour, not some fiend!” scolded the slithering voice. A blow repeatedly struck, the sound of bone on metal.

“Get behind there,” Behlas commanded. He zipped across the room, weaving in and out of the experiment tables, finally reaching the left end of the pink-steaming pine vat. Remtall and Ulpo traced the spirit’s steps, soon huddling next to him at the far end of the room, opposite the door they had entered from.

“We’ll see about that. My great purpose will not be ruined by some great bird—as you say it is,” the slimy voice said, louder now. Remtall looked up to a nearby copper hole leading away into the rock wall.

“The voices, they’re coming through pipes! The whole place must be filled with ‘em!” Remtall realized.

“Of course—be quiet,” said Behlas. The footsteps grew louder.

“But master, the reading implied an avian creature—the reading can’t be wrong. It has to be the Sleeping Enox,” said the robot voice.

“An old legend of fools! I’m ashamed to think you’re my own creation.” The wet voice cackled with laughter. Squealing reverberated as the door to the chamber opened. Remtall huddled closer behind Behlas, as did Ulpo, completely concealing themselves from sight of the door. Having come through the side closest to them, Remtall realized that if the strangers walked a bit of the way toward the center of the room, then turned around, they would all be discovered. Nervously, he took his flask from his side; Behlas stayed his hand, trying desperately to keep them quiet.

A stick-like being, adorning a long silver-trimmed robe, walked into the room upon a curved oak staff. He limped toward a dimly lit wall unit Remtall hadn’t noticed before—it glowed the color of the generator on the ceiling, and it mirrored its shape, though smaller.

“What would you ask of me, master?” said the robot voice. Behlas peered out to see a Gear, very similar to the one he’d slain earlier, trailing the thin man to the wall.

“Is not Parasink a just creator, Sevelcore?” asked the slimy voice.

“But of course, of course master…”

“Do I not wield the Rod for the greater good of the world? To better the creations that Gaigas could not perfect herself?” Behlas watched as the man raised his oak staff in triumph; it flashed bright gold, then returned to the color of wood.

“Yes master, yes. The rod was a great blessing to the people of Aaurlind. Without it we could not work so hard, so long.”

“Soon the realms beyond Aaurlind will know such a blessing. They will revere my name as natives here do, and I will be called as I am—Parasink the Creator!”

“Of course, master.”

Behlas watched in awe. Remtall and Ulpo tried hard not to make noise or move, but cramped in the small space they began to fidget. Remtall decided for certain: the man before him was none other than Parasink himself. He didn’t realize what Behlas had; the simple oak staff in the man’s hands was no oaken staff—it was the Rod of the Gorge.

“The new Gear will be just what we need—twice as efficient as the damned ghosts. In mere weeks I’ll have enough power to finally harvest the rest of this land, to finish what nature began.” His voice snaked its way toward the tables, stopping near one at the center. Several large cables entered a body lying atop it, pulsing electric-green current from the glow-motor hanging from the ceiling. The small Gear trailed Parasink to the center of the room; both the necromancer and his organ-laced machine were in plain sight of the hiding party. Remtall watched in fascination as they pored over the body on the center table—he knew that a sudden noise would alert the Gear and the robed man, turning them to easily see their hiding spot in the corner. Remtall nudged Behlas anxiously, wanting a cue for action. Ulpo fidgeted wildly with barely any room to breathe.

“Stand back, Sevelcore,” commanded the viscous drawl of Parasink. In horror, Remtall and the others watched: Parasink held high the Rod; the dull wood turned gold again. The faint green of the room illumined brighter, tinted by an arc of yellow light erupting from the staff. Gold tendrils burst from the tip of the rod, vibrated violently, drove down into the granite table. Sevelcore stepped back, heeding his master’s bidding. The generator on the ceiling whined loudly, its motor under a great deal of strain. The cabling that connected it to the body on the table began to glow white-red; the limp form on the stone bed writhed, sat up, then lay back down.