Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (41 page)

“You know, it was all very productive, before he came and ruined us,” Binn exclaimed.

“How do you mean?” Ulpo said, taking a swig of ale, noticing his flask retained its weight much better with Remtall asleep.

“Well, our machines were used for a great many productive things, we even built a flying horse—of course, it wasn’t as Parasink did—we didn’t mingle machines with living creatures, with flesh,” Binn’s tinny voice replied.

“Amazing—a flying horse you say, built of machines?” Ulpo said, lighting a fresh pipe.

“Yes, Begbotious Grawsfander invented her—it was on the precedence of that invention that Parasink overtook us—did away with machinists, with the whole of our race frankly—transmuted us into Gears,” Binn told.

“Gears?” said Iirevale, creeping into the conversation. Binn explained how Parasink operated; he told Iirevale how the Gears were Parasink’s experiments to replace the spirits,
his diggers.

“Sounds dreadful—I am glad you’ve come away from that place,” Iirevale said.

“And I’m glad to have met an elf,” Binn said excitedly. They talked of elven culture until Terion brought everyone to a halt several miles into the first stretch of the Corlisuen pass.

“Welcome to the Angelyn Range—we will set camp here for several hours of needed rest. These mountains are quite dreary against the good Blue-Greys, I’ll admit,” Terion said, chipper again at having made good speed across the last stretch of the Vashnod Plain. The army quickly transformed into a long row of camp sites, abound with small fires. Soon a meal was had by all, as generous stores of meat and fish were given out. King Terion and Gaiberth had lugged a great store of nourishment across the ocean, even bringing vegetables and fruits, all of which Wiglim had enchanted so as not to spoil.

“I’m worried about Slowin,” Calan said to Adacon as they set their camp site around a crackling fire. A warm scent of fresh-burnt wood rolled past them, and the low-lying pines near the foothills came alive with chirps and howls.

“I’m not worried. It’s strange, the prophecy…I don’t know, but I can’t leave again, I have to stick with you,” he replied, smiling.

“I don’t want you flying off,” she said, managing a half-hearted chuckle.

“What is it?”

“I’m still not used to it—your being a Welsprin,” she said.

“Don’t say it so loud—Falen might overhear and feel, well, not as special anymore,” Adacon laughed.

“Heard that…” growled a hoarse voice somewhere amidst the yellow flames behind them, several rows of camping army back.

“That drake has impossible hearing,” Calan whispered, lying down to gaze up at the emerging stars.

“It was them, you know,” Adacon said.

“What?”

“That star—the one that brought all the fuss in Enoa, and everywhere else.”

“It was who—you mean the strangers?”

“Yea. They were watching us, taking information, reading our thoughts.”

“You’re joking?”

“No. Tempern showed me—he knew they were there.”

“But—I don’t understand. Why didn’t he come with you?” she asked, thinking that they needed another Vapour as powerful as Krem, not realizing that Adacon had far surpassed even Krem’s power.

“He can’t—he can’t interfere directly; he’s attuned too closely with the neutrality of Gaigas,” Adacon explained.

“But,” Calan said, confused, too tired to keep asking questions that would yield no understanding. “I can worry about it all tomorrow. I’m so tired, and so happy your back. You know I was worried, I didn’t know if you’d made it here ahead of me, and I heard the news about Wallstrong.”

“I wish I had been there in time—I can’t begin to think about what I’ll do if Erguile is hurt, or Slowin.”

“And Flaer is there too.”

“Hah!” he laughed hard.

“What?”

“He’s one I do not worry about,” Adacon grinned, lying by the fire. A thin row of sap-filled pines sent their scent through the air, turning his gaze skyward from the earth, mirroring her, looking at the million shimmering specks of starlight.

“Do you think those—aliens—do you think they really know where Slowin is?”

“Maybe. But I’m not worried about it. They may know where he is, they might even have planted him here, a long time ago—but as long as he’s with Flaer, they won’t get him—they won’t even come close,” he said confidently.

“I can’t believe he could be the enchanted metal from the dwarven prophecy after all,” she replied, trying to fathom what that really meant. It changed her perception of the lovable golem she’d grown to know in Erol Drunne as she’d waited three months for Adacon to wake from his coma.

“Sounds quite strange—but then again, it would make sense wouldn’t it? Everyone always talks about how odd he is, how there’s not another golem like him in all the world—even besides the color of his skin—a golem that loves to sleep in trees,” Adacon said, thinking of his first meeting with the shiny giant.

“Look—there’s Yarnhoot. He must be hunting a late-night meal,” Calan pointed up; the black silhouette of the condor flew under the canopy of stars above.

“Ah, good Yarnhoot, and Wester,” Adacon chimed. The second, third, then fourth great condor followed in a line behind Yarnhoot.

“He’s got some friends apparently,” she said lazily, closing her eyes now, succumbing to the warmth of sleep.“I hope Remtall is alright with this, once he wakes up.”

“He’ll be fine, as long as he gets a bit of pipeweed, and let’s not forget—some dwarven ale from Ulpo,” Adacon chortled. “They were incredibly strange, the aliens—Krem couldn’t use his power…” Adacon waited for Calan to respond to his reflection, but she didn’t; he looked at her closed eyes, her black hair falling softly across her forehead, her arm slumped across his chest as if in claim of ownership. She’d fallen asleep. Better do the same, he told himself. Soon he slipped into a world of dreams, pleasantly falling into a peaceful void, dozing to the smell of their snapping fire; one last thought briefly flickered to life in his mind before it died out: Where is the Enox?

XXVIII: LONE WANDERER

“Wake up!” Erguile pushed Peren for the second time, more forcefully than the last. Night had fallen hours ago, but Erguile had been unable to sleep. He elected himself as first watch for the night, guard against Vesleathren and his army while the rest slept. He’d been vigorously alert until a moment ago; somehow, he’d accidentally drifted off. Upon opening his eyes, a single silhouette moved in the distance, trudging along, pacing toward them under starlight.

“Erguile?” Peren peered up.

“Someone’s coming,” Erguile whispered. Peren instantly roused, as if struck by lightning. Together they crept among the sleeping infantry deeper into the narrow valley until they reached the edge of the battalion. Erguile ducked down, bidding Peren to look into the darkness.

“I don’t see any—oh, there,” Peren said, shaking the fog of sleep.

“Who do you think it is? A straggler left in Wallstrong?” asked Erguile.

“Impossible, all of them would be Feral or dead by now—none could make the long route to Corlisuen alive,” he replied, unable to think of who could be marching alone through the mountains at such an hour.

“A mountain native, maybe one of the Reichmar,” Erguile suggested.

“No—too tall and thin,” said Peren, keenly eyeing the wending shadow; it was difficult to discern against the low-ridge converging mountains in the horizon. Peren quieted Erguile before he could continue the discussion of the traveler’s identity. They sat together in silence as several other soldiers awoke, wandering to the front only to have Peren silence them too. Soon, the silhouette had come close enough to be called to, but it seemed it still didn’t know it was being watched: he must see a sleeping army on the floor of the valley before him, yet he’s walking on anyhow, Erguile’s mind raced, deciding that meant it could not be an enemy; surely it would be foolish to cross the Corlisuen if thousands of Hemlin enemies lay in wait, plainly in sight beneath the stars.

“Vesleathren—what if it’s him,” Erguile said, no louder than a whisper—a gasp came from a nearby soldier who watched with them. The stranger stopped, hearing the gasp: He stood motionless, twenty yards away, concealed in shadow.

“Quiet,” said Peren. He tried hard to restrain his emerald-light aura, fluorescing in anticipation of encounter. The man moved again, walking through the shadows of peaks thrown from either side of the valley, moonlight unable to reveal his face or clothes.

“Who traipses late the Corlisuen?” Peren finally called, standing erect.

“What?” croaked a voice.

“Who are you—name yourself, or find an angered legion blocking your way,” Erguile shouted, holding his sword with both hands, erect alongside Peren.

“Your friend, I should think,” cut the tired voice through the darkness; the silhouette started moving again, coming within ten yards. Peren started to channel his jade energy to its full strength, bracing for a charge from the rogue.

“Friend?” returned a Hemlin warrior.

“If you are friends of Flaer Swordhand,” the voice said, deep and raspy. Erguile finally recognized it; he returned his sword to its sheath and ran forth:

“Flaer!” cried Erguile, running out to embrace the mysterious stranger. As they came toward each other, Flaer stepped into moonlight, his face illuminating: recognition spread over Peren’s face, a smile crested in his cheeks. Pieces of singed cloth hung from Flaer’s pants and shirt; his armor had all but disappeared, save for bracers and plate-guards on his shins. Peren eyed the two as they hugged, noticing Flaer’s sheath was still fixed to his belt, yet it was empty.

“The Brigun Autilus?” Peren asked, fearing what Erguile already knew: it had been destroyed at the crater in the Hemlin Hills.

“Shattered—to glassed shards,” glowered Flaer.

“Krem might restore it?” Erguile offered. He let go of Flaer and looked him over: a long series of burns ran the length of his left cheek.

“I don’t think so,” Flaer said, somehow finding the energy to chuckle.

“At least
you
made it back in one piece,” Peren finally said, coming forth,  embracing Flaer as Erguile had.

“Barely…they’ve merged,” Flaer said.

“It’s true then—Zesm and Vesleathren are the same monster?” Erguile said.

“I tried to destroy him in Wallstrong…”

“You what?”

“You fought him alone? With no sword?”

“It didn’t quite work, you see,” Flaer said, walking to the edge of the infantry, taking a seat on stony earth.

“But how?” Erguile asked excitedly.

“I came out of the chasm—buried alive for an hour. Barely made it out. I had to use most of my Vapoury.”

“Slowin?” Erguile interrupted.

Flaer paused. “He’s gone. I saw him in the chasm as I bored up from underground,” he said with fatigue. “Lifeless, there was nothing I could do…he’s buried there now.”

“What of the city—where is
he
now?”

“Wallstrong is a pyre tomb. I entered over the rubble of the gates, he was high above his slithering masses. The Jaigan could not move through the narrow arches in the lower walls…”

“And you went after him?”

“Climbed the nearest tower, called him to me…”

“Called him?” asked Erguile, astonished.

“Yea—wanted to slice him through—I’d taken a blade from a fallen soldier…he saw me, flew over as I bid him to,” Flaer said, his eyes drifting skyward.

“You fought him with a soldier’s sword?”

“Mine was destroyed, would you have had me fight him with my fists?”

Flaer continued, recounting his tale:

*            *             *

“Corrupted waste!” roared Flaer from atop a monolith tower, twenty yards above the walls of the Wallstrong. Below writhed a black and gold mass of fast-moving Feral. “I long to see what true strength your desperation has yielded!”

“Ah,” came a voice, cackling with laughter over the fire-lit sky. Tracing through billows of smoke moved a red-lit film, ascending across the burning madness of the city. The scarlet form of the Unicorporas hovered above Flaer, who stepped atop the parapet of the monolith.

“Still drawing breath I see,” came the slimy voice. “I suppose my greatest adversary shouldn’t be as easy
to destroy as you were upon the hills—yet I am eager to ask, is this your best? A shoddy sliver of metal and dull-witted Vapoury? You slow me down, mortal.”

“You won’t pass the Corlisuen,” Flaer said to the hovering sorcerer, protected by his red shield of light, sparking like the fire that licked the sky below.

“Enough,” said the Unicorporas, angered. A shot a of yellow electricity released from the red shield, steaming along its length, aimed at Flaer’s chest. Flaer rolled back, narrowly avoiding the attack. The Unicorporas had planned it so; another streaking shot was already shooting forth as the first had left, targeting the spot to where Flaer had rolled—scalding energy pierced Flaer’s shoulder, the force toppling him over the opposite parapet. He spun wildly to the ground, many yards below, hurtling into a mass of Feral trolls.

“Fool… All fools
.
This is the greater good,” came the voice of Zesm. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to become ready for—” A tremendous explosion cut Zesm’s voice off: where Flaer had fallen, the stone street erupted into fragments of rubble. Boulder-sized rocks flew in every direction, some pieces rocketing directly up, deflecting off the Unicorporas’s shield. “Where does this strength come from—did I not strip enough of it already?” came the amused sorcerer.

“Finish the job then!” Flaer roared up with the fury of a god, unscathed by his fall. The explosion had been enough to clear the street of Feral beasts; he stood alone on the burning road, surrounded by piles of troll arms and legs, heads and innards. Two Gazaran lay splattered against nearby walls, oozing black pus, the repercussion of Flaer’s wrath.

“A pest,” muttered the Unicorporas. He soared down to the street, landing, his feet aground before Flaer. “I am sorry, Swordhand. You truly are worth my time.” He drew a long, curved sword from underneath his robe. Suddenly, the red film surrounding him disappeared. “Do you know you are mortal?”