Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (45 page)

“But she doesn’t fight—the Enox doesn’t directly inter—” Adacon began, but was cut off:

“Oh no? What is that then?” said Flaer abrasively. To Adacon’s amazement, the great scarlet hawk came into view, flying over a distant peak, soaring straight for the battlefield. “Watch her fury—then, never again, doubt swift judgment of death upon these parasites Vesleathren has created.”

As Flaer predicted, the Enox soared down to the battlefield, and unlike Tempern had told Adacon, the bird, as big as a small mountain itself, began to rake the last line of Feral down with razor talons, sickle claws the size of trees, annihilating row after row with single swipes.

“I don’t believe it…” Adacon said, watching in disbelief as the hawk sounded a furious screech above the din of battle, paining the ears of all who stood alive in the valley of the Corlisuen. The Hemlin force cheered the miraculous arrival of the Enox, save for two: Krem stood aghast, like Adacon, at what he saw happening—Krem had the look on his face, hidden amongst the sea of cheering, smiling soldiers, leaping in victory, that something was terribly wrong; the Enox was not supposed to interfere. Flaer joined in the victory rally, helping clean the field of anything left half-alive, cheering the glory of an impossibly quick victory against the Feral horde. Adacon stood alone as many ran past him.

“Adacon, we did it! They’re destroyed—
he’s
destroyed!
It’s all over!” came Calan, spotting the lone straggler, her love.

“We did,” Adacon said quietly. He saw her warm smile and couldn’t help but join in. Finally he let go of his startling confrontation with Flaer, raised his hand in glory, smiling wide, then took Calan up off the floor of the plains, embracing her hard, kissing her, wiping the hair that stuck to dried blood on her forehead. “We did it!” he affirmed.

Krem stood alone, slapped on the back by many who passed him, many who recognized the brilliant effort he’d put forth in battle—he had, after all, subdued Vesleathren long enough for Behlas to use the Rod, removing the Unicorporas from the battlefield; but somehow Krem wasn’t happy—he felt deeply disturbed. He trained his eyes on the Enox as it flew away north, back over the mountains, not sticking around long enough to be commended by the troops for its swift work on the last of the Feral ranks. The combined forces of the Hemlin army raised their hands high, thanking the red hawk as it soared away, its scarlet feathers glittering under the high sun. Krem lowered his head, closed his eyes, and drew a long, trembling sigh.

XXX: EMMORTAS

A spectrum of Darkin’s races celebrated together the flight of the brilliant hawk, gliding away ominously as the sign of Vesleathren and Zesm’s defeat, the final testament to the power of good over evil; many did not know what the great red bird was, and had been initially frightened at seeing the taloned beast swoop down onto the valley floor—only when it began dismantling the last of the Feral Brood did the Hemlin forces rejoice, losing their fear of some secret attack from Vesleathren. The celebration didn’t last long for Adacon, as Flaer rapped hard on his shoulder while he twirled Calan about, hoisting her high in the air:

“Come—we’ve got to make sure it’s
dead,” Flaer grunted to Adacon, eyeing him severely. Adacon still felt bruised from Flaer’s attack on Tempern, and looked ready to reject Flaer’s orders out of disdain, but a smile of understanding overcame his first thought of anger, and he agreed that they should be sure the corpse of the Unicorporas was found.

“There will be plenty of time for celebration later—especially since this battle hasn’t left you in a coma,” Flaer assured with his familiar charm.

“Alright—that one with the smoke?” asked Adacon, looking out at the mountain in the distance that produced curls of dark grey smoke.

“You’ll be flying us there,” Flaer smiled.

“Of course,” Adacon acknowledged. Suddenly, after telling Calan he’d be right back, Adacon rose into the air, followed by Flaer; they shot out of sight, flying headlong toward the distant peak, faster than Yarnhoot or Falen had ever flown. Krem rushed up beside her as she watched the two small silhouettes disappear from sight.

“They’re going to make sure he’s dead,” Calan said, noticing the bearded hermit walk alongside her.

“I’ve never felt a more powerful blast than what Behlas channeled from the Rod, fair Calan—if he is not dead, I would resign my attachment to the good order of Vapoury,” Krem said.

“He’s changed, Krem—you didn’t tell us much about what he’d be doing out there, but I feel it; it’s as if his spirit has become—visible,” she reflected, unsure how to feel yet about the drastic change that had occurred in Adacon.

“He has changed for the better, don’t forget—he truly is a Welsprin; I suspected as much for a long time. I waited for him, moved into Molto’s Keep, close to his farm, because I sensed it, long before he’d even been born—I knew there would be a Welsprin.”

“What?” she said, unsure if Krem had meant to say what he’d said, given that she didn’t understand what Molto’s Keep was.

“Be assured: he will not lose who he was,” Krem replied. From behind, cheers grew loud; Behlas rushed up, along with Binn, Remtall, Ulpo, and Falen.

“Krem, you foul bastard,” Remtall prodded, taking a victory puff from his pipe and passing it to the hermit, who received it gratefully. “Lady!” Remtall boisterously threw his arms around Calan, overjoyed at their great victory.

“I’ll be wanting a warm den very soon,” Falen informed exhaustedly, but a smile stretched across his snout, revealing rows of white fangs.

“Falen,” came a voice from behind. “Been trying to get to you, let me see that wing.” Reap had charged up, ready to start his healing work on the injured drake.

“Good friend, it is strange what time makes one grateful for: I am glad you hurtled death rocks at us, nearly killing us—if not for that, you wouldn’t have come on this journey,” Falen said, finally over his resentment for the former League of the Mage member.

“Enough talk—hold still,” Reap ordered.

“Now where’s that Gaigas-damned Grelion—I’m ripe to murder him, be it that he was enchanted or not, it doesn’t matter—none can do as he did without consciousness of it,” Remtall spat.

“Wait Remtall,” Ulpo cried, seizing the gnome by the arm, as a row of elves swept by, rushing at a limping Feral troll that had picked up its weapon. The elves quickly laid the troll to final rest, among them Gaiberth; Gaiberth surveyed the congregation of heroes, grinning broadly.

“Where is Adacon? Flaer?” he said, happily forgetting that Vesleathren hadn’t been seen since the beginning of the battle.

“To be sure the Unicorporas has been destroyed,” Krem returned.

“So it really was true—they merged,” Gaiberth said softly, shaking his head.

“Calan!” Iirevale called, running up to embrace his sister. “Did you see that magnificent hawk? What a majestic creature! Could that have really been the legendary Enox?”

“I don’t know—it was beautiful though,” she replied.

“And damned vicious—to kill a hundred with one swipe!” came Binn’s voice, fluctuating rhythmically as if a motor worked in his throat.

“We can thank Remtall—without his effort, and Ulpo’s, we wouldn’t have had the Rod—I wouldn’t have thought it possible to take it from Parasink,” Behlas said, congratulating his friend; the tiny gnome was nowhere in sight.

“Oh dear,” came Iirevale, “There he is—and Ulpo chasing after him—he must be off to kill Grelion—come on!” They watched the big dwarf chase the little gnome through a throng of celebrating troops. Calan ran after Iirevale, and some others followed, hoping to restrain the gnome before he completed his final act of drunken revenge.

“What is it, Krem?” came Behlas, his face serious.

“Oh nothing,” replied Krem, “It’s nothing.”

“We’ve won. You ought not look so dreadful about it,” Behlas replied. “If you’ve gone to thinking that Vesleathren—that the Unicorporas is still alive—forget it! I summoned that blast, you set it up excellently—there is no way it could have survived,” he continued. He’d recovered the Rod and held it firmly in his fingers, mindful of its dormant power.

“That’s not what troubles me.”

“I think I understand, dear friend—you’re thinking of those who are not able to celebrate among us—those we’ve forgotten in the midst of our cheers—the likes of good Slowin,” Gaiberth said.

“You speak truly of my heart, friend,” Krem lied, putting his arm around Gaiberth. He felt sad about Slowin, as the others would too once the glory of victory wore off; the mourning of Slowin would last a long time—but that was not the darkness that riddled Krem’s face and mind.
The Enox cannot interfere
;
the Enox cannot interfere
, Krem thought over and over again. Tempern had been very clear about what would happen if she did—if she did anything more than provide a flight for the agents of good—if she killed, took life. This can’t have happened, Krem’s mind battered itself; around him, Gaiberth, Behlas, and Binn looked on sympathetically.

“We will have a proper procession for your friend—all the world will know of his valor evermore—his name will be writ ageless into the vaults of history, sutured by the veins of legend, a brave hero of Darkin,” Gaiberth proclaimed, and to his happiness Krem seemed comforted; a smile bent his mustache.

“Off him you whore—off him!” roared Remtall violently at Pursaiones, who had been hugging Grelion—Grelion having just told her the tale of his being cursed by Zesm after the Five Country War, how he’d been enchanted by evil, possessed, for many decades, and only now was his right mind coming to the realization of what he’d done since the war—who he’d become.

“Remtall, stand down—you would talk to your friend with that tongue? I hope for your sake, and mine, that it is a momentary spell of madness that grips you, so that I do not have to lay you down!” Taisle defended; he still distrusted Grelion, but after seeing strange magic on the battlefield, he had started to come to some acceptance, and believe that possibly, Grelion was telling the truth—after all, he’d seen himself fly thousands of yards above the planet; he’d witnessed the floating evil menace of the Unicorporas; the blast of the magical Rod of the Gorge, which had destroyed the entire cap of a mountain—if those things were real, why not Grelion’s story? He did not want Pursaiones to love Grelion, but he still wouldn’t allow Remtall to call his closest friend a whore.

“Back off boy, this man murdered my son!” Remtall spat, drawing his dagger, prepared to rip Pursaiones from Grelion if he needed to, ready to fight Taisle if he interfered.

“Remtall, I am your friend!” Pursaiones said tearfully. “How can you do this?” Grelion stepped forward, releasing Pursaiones from him.

“You’ll need to get through me first, old friend—the world has changed you—you’ve become ruthless, primal,” Taisle said sternly, stepping between Grelion and the gnome.

“The world has made me this way so that I can avenge my son’s murder,” Remtall stormed back. Without hesitation, in a fury built of spirits, the gnome bolted forward, thrusting at Grelion’s neck.

“Remtall,” Ulpo boomed, grabbing his friend’s arm from behind, restraining him just in time; Taisle had already drawn his sword and shield in defense.

“I’ve seen him like this before—never so bad, never so far gone,” cried Pursaiones, watching a look of anger scrunch Remtall’s features.

“Let—me—go!” he raged, a solitary thought coursing through his mind, over and over again—
this is the man responsible
—
this is my son’s murderer
: but Remtall could not break free, as Iirevale had raced up from behind, helping Ulpo, and then Calan. He was unable to budge as the three strong warriors held his arms; the gnome dropped his dagger, fell to his knees, then burst into tears.

“It was Zesm, It wasn’t me—it was Zesm!” Grelion said over and over, pained at the devastation he had caused, distraught at the notion of what he meant to the world outside Rislind. Pursaiones tugged his arm, watching Remtall through tears of her own, feeling no longer the sting of anger at him, instead seeing his pain, his sense of lost closure—not having found the person who deserved justice, there was nothing for Remtall: no one to kill, no one responsible left to hunt. The gnome had surrendered his life, his consciousness, his being, all to the pursuit of one thing: destroying those responsible for his son’s kidnapping and murder. Now he was restrained for it, told that there was no one responsible, no one he could exact revenge upon. Pursaiones felt only compassion, seeing all those things dressed on the tear-stricken gnome’s face, his small beard dripping, his dreams and fears laid bare for all to see.

“There will be a trial, Remtall—the ones accountable shall be held to painful justice,” came the powerful voice of King Terion from behind. “Until such time, Grelion will be—” King Terion sent a stern glance at the man who’d claimed Zesm had controlled him, “—detained by us.”

“No!” cried Pursaiones. A group of elves and dwarves removed her from his arms, and Grelion stood forlorn, looking to the ground, a single tear rolling down his cheek—not because he was being taken prisoner again, for the second time in days, but because for the first time he was bearing witness to the destruction he’d caused in the world, shown in the face of Remtall—he realized his sadness to be but a single episode of what had happened thousands of times over, lives ruined because of his weakness. He’d somehow let Zesm take control, he thought to himself, and though he did not even remember the last fifty years, nor how Zesm had done it, he blamed himself, offering his arms willingly to his captors. King Terion had him bound and cuffed.

“It’s alright, Purs. Justice will be found, and he’ll be set free, we have witnesses at home to testify his true character,” said Taisle, wrapping his arms around her, unable to believe he now sought to aid the one he’d long suspected and distrusted, hated even, for taking the loving gaze of the one he pined for. “I’m sure Mayor Doings will round up nearly every soul in Rislind on behalf of Noil—Grelion’s defense.” Pursaiones felt only slightly comforted at Taisle’s optimism, and watched sadly as Wiglim enchanted Grelion, so that he could no longer speak or move, only stand as a statue, placed atop one of Haeth’s horses.