Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (46 page)

“No…” she wept, turning away, unable to look.

“Time will set him free, you’ll see.”

*            *             *

“I’m sorry,” Flaer said, getting used to the sensation of flying as they sped into a southerly draft.

“It’s alright,” Adacon replied, knowing Flaer’s apology to be for his attack on Tempern.

“I have a history with Tempern, you see. He and I—he’s the one who—made me as I am,” Flaer said.

“But you’re not a Welsprin,” Adacon shot back.

“Of course not—that’s not what I meant. I am older than anyone else you know, you realize that, Adacon?”

“You told me a bit, you said once that—”

“Let me explain,” Flaer said as they flew over several mountain tops, heading directly for the growing plume of smoke in the distance, the spot where the Unicorporas had landed.

“When Tempern was young, just learning his gift from Alejia, as she trained him, they fell in love—it shattered his judgment, he couldn’t truly focus on what she was trying to teach him.”

“About how to use his power as a Welsprin?”

“Let me finish—” scolded Flaer. “So when Melweathren appeared, the first great threat of evil in Darkin’s recorded history, Tempern was much like you—young, powerful, newly exposed to his role as a Welsprin, unsure of how to best use it for the purpose of good.” Flaer paused. Adacon wondered if the story had been cut short for some reason.

“Recorded history you said—Darkin has a
recorded
history?” Adacon asked, finally breaking the silence.

“As kept by the Artificias—formerly housed in Morimyr.”

“The Artificias?”

“They keep the record of Darkin’s known history—but it only goes back to a certain period, we call it the Iinder Age.”

“Slowin told me about it—the age when Molto used his spell,
The Spirited Winds
, to end a war—he caused a great crater by it—the Vashnod Eye,” Adacon said. Hearing himself call out the name of his slain friend bore his spirit down; he became sullen, forgetting Flaer’s story, bending all his thought to his silver friend. “Slowin taught me so much.”

“And so,” Flaer said, continuing his original story to distract Adacon from his mourning, “Tempern had a decision to make: how would he use his power to fight the new evil, the first spawning of Melweathren.”

“What did he do?”

“He gave his power to a young boy, not but a few years younger than you, Adacon…Tempern himself could but lie in bed for months after that, so drained he became from giving so much of himself away…”

“Gave his power?”

“Used his connection to Gaigas’s core, summoning every last bit of energy he could to cast a spell, against the will of his magister, Alejia.”

“What spell?”

“He cast the spell of Emmortas.”

“
Emmortas
?”

“Yes, on the greatest hope the world had, a perhaps vain hope: the young boy. Many saw the boy as a prodigy, the only source of strength that could defeat Melweathren—others saw him as a risk, an unproven possibility, undeserving of leadership.”

“But what does Emmortas do?”

“That boy was me.”

“What!”

“I—but a year older than the foolhardy young Tempern himself, given the greatest spell of a Welsprin, bedridding him for months—Alejia was very displeased.”

“Tempern gave
you
his power? But what does Emmortas do?”

“Do you know what happened when Tempern awoke?” asked Flaer, purposely ignoring Adacon’s question.

“What?”

“He learned that the first war of the Iinder Age had been won, led by the violent leadership of that young boy,” came the reflective voice of Flaer. “Alejia was quite unsettled…”

“Violent?”

“Many were lost—they said I was reckless, my commands too quick; the kings said that I did not heed villages and the innocent, ones I swept through with force to reach the evil…many claimed that more innocents were lost than was needed…some claimed that more innocents died than agents of Melweathren. Some blamed me, most blamed Tempern.”

“Great Gaigas…He didn’t even mention—”

“And so he’s regretted it: regretted giving me what I have, ever since, even after everything I’ve done—he still thinks he made the wrong decision to this day, and so he vowed…” Flaer fell silent again as they almost reached the fuming mountain.

“Vowed?” Adacon repeated after Flaer didn’t resume.

“Vowed to never again interfere.”

“But he does—we know he does—he trained me,” Adacon said.

“You’re right, Adacon. He does. But if you only knew how much he could really do…He interferes in such subtle ways that I barely call it fighting at all, in fact, I don’t. I’m just sorry I took it out on you back there. If you witnessed what the Enox did in but a moment, you have an idea of how much a fully trained Welsprin can do to stop evil, if they really want to.”

“So the Enox, I mean Alejia, she forgave Tempern for casting the spell on you?”

“Of course. She eventually commended him, but she didn’t really love him. And so he bore no more of her lessons, didn’t listen to her apology—that he’d actually made a good decision by giving me the power to fight Melweathren.”

“He told me they were deeply in love!”

“Alejia loved him differently; Tempern loved her as a human does, with flawed perception.”

“Flawed perception?” Adacon said, taking offense, himself a human in love.

“Indeed—but she fights, he does not. I think he resents her for her decision, and he still resents me; to him, I am an everlasting reminder of his one and only mistake.”

“He bore no ill will when we spoke of you—in fact, he spoke fondly of you.”

“He would,” Flaer said, trailing off as they finally reached the crumbled plateau of mountain, its floor a field of steaming rubble. Below them at its basin was a limp form—no more red light wrapped the black sorcerer, no more energy field protected it; it was just a lifeless body, concealed by its cloak, lying still.

“It’s strange he’s not a disfigured mess of slime,” Flaer said, astonished that the Unicorporas’s body lay in piece.

“He looks alive. Come on, let’s finish him,” Adacon replied, forgetting their conversation at the startling sight below. He landed them on the smoldering rocks, cooled enough that they didn’t burn through their boots. Together they approached the body.

“Zesm,” called Flaer, but there came no reply from the body.

“Even if he is dead, I want him in pieces,” Adacon said.

“That’s my sort of idea,” Flaer agreed, approaching the feet of the corpse.

“I see you’ve died, Vesleathren, Zesm—what a pity that is,” Flaer goaded. He drew his Hemlin blade, ready to cut the body apart, limb from limb. Adacon whipped his head around suddenly: a silver comet shot along the western ridge of the Corlisuen, speeding hastily toward the distant ruin of Wallstrong.

“Them.”

“What?” Flaer said in confusion. “Adacon, no!”

“I’m sorry Flaer,” Adacon said. He darted into the atmosphere, giving chase to the silver comet zipping through the clouds. Flaer torqued his neck, looking for what he’d gone after: it was already too far, he could see neither the silver blur nor the human form zooming after it, only a thin trail of smoke that marked where Wallstrong once stood.

“Arrogant bastard,” Flaer said, turning back to his dissection of the Unicorporas. “I guess this is really my work anyway,” Flaer said. He was silent for a moment. Finally, he raised his sword over the left arm of the Unicorporas, cutting down furiously, cleanly severing it. “Still asleep?” Flaer yelled at the lifeless body.

Again Flaer cut down, cutting the leg of the Unicorporas away after several blows. This will take too long, he thought to himself, fighting the enjoyment destroying the evil body brought him. He knew there was a faster, more effective way: a sudden surge of energy coursed through his legs, filling his torso, his arms, his head. A red aura extended from him; he channeled every bit of strength he had into his palms, held outstretched above his head. Set to incinerate the half-body at his feet, a terrific cackle pierced the air, pausing him; the profusely bleeding body, nearly a stump without its left arm and leg, somehow turned itself over, wrapping its cloak over its wounds: a haunting face peered up at Flaer, withered, seething, as if with its last ounce of life it chose to scorn its murderer with a glare of contempt.

“Flaer Swordhand, you’re a treasure,” cackled the voice of the wizard, testing Flaer’s patience; the appearance of life from the dismembered body startled him, but he’d half expected it. He tried with all his might to not release the cannon of energy boiling over his head.

“I am. Taste my glory once more, fiend,” Flaer said. “And Zesm, if piece of what you once were can hear me…” Flaer paused, thinking of the man who had been his friend: “Thanks for what you once did for me, long ago…goodbye.”

The Unicorporas cackled through a fit of coughs, frail eyes sunken into its hoary face. “Complete the
Maelvulent
Flaer—do this in memory of me, and you will have salvation,” the Unicorporas whispered.

“Sickly maggot of Gaigas. I’ll complete your death, for your voice pains me—it seems even the Rod meant me to finish this job.”

“Gaigas!” screeched the demon, finding humor in the name of the planet’s spirit. “Oh Flaer!—and how the Rod
nearly did
, and now
you will
!” gloated the Unicorporas, an eerie smile crossing its putrid face. Unable to bear the demonic sight any longer, groaning loudly, Flaer ran his fingers in an arc down toward the flattened mountaintop, sending his concentrated force: energy flashed bright, entering into each orifice of the Unicorporas, singing every pore beyond recognition; its skin evaporated, then its meat, muscle and bone. The evil form, a decrepit merger of Vesleathren and Zesm, was no more.

“It is done—your aid will not be forgotten!” came the last withering sounds from the abomination. Flaer stepped back, letting his Vapoury work. Soon the red light vanished, his energy dissolved, and there was but a black mound of ashes ready to be swept into the wind.

“Good riddance. Adacon, where the hell did you go? I do not want to climb down this damned mountain—I’d much prefer a nap,” Flaer smiled, letting the joy of victory finally grip him. He’d fulfilled his truest wish—to dissolve the very fabric of the one he hated most—to turn his skin to dust, his bones to soot, his evil to nothingness. Flaer sat down exhausted, patiently waiting for Adacon to return. Looking south in the distance at the tiny throng in the valley, he saw a quivering mass of celebration—the Hemlin Army had won.

XXXI: DEPARTURE

“I’m sorry commander, that field—I still can’t believe it was generated by a native of this world—had I just realized that earlier…” He trailed off.

“No matter, Brosse,” came the delicate, sweet voice of Commander Naeos, thoroughly pleased to be finally past the engine interference caused by the Unicorporas: it seemed the immense energy field the Unicorporas had been drawing from the planet—its trees, grass, mountains and water, even wind and atmosphere—had caused a disruption in the operation of Naeos’s vessel. She didn’t seem to mind the long process that had consisted of Flote, Flether, and Brosse working fervently to figure out why the engine had stalled now that they were moving again—at the time she had been screaming furiously though, a scary sight that Brosse hoped to never witness again; she had been directing her verbal assault primarily at him, whose specialty was in engines. Once the disturbance mysteriously disappeared, coincidentally with the nearby eruption of what Flether said had been a volcanic eruption, Naeos had become instantly calm, as the engines silently whirred to life again, pushing them finally toward their mark—a site the computers detected as two separate deposits of the ore.

“That’ll be it—setting her down,” came Flote from the control panel. The glinting silver vessel, an elongated egg-shaped tube, smooth and featureless, hovered above a wide crater gouged from the earth. Through the transparent walls of the vessel’s command center the crew gazed out, looking at uniformly cresting waves of green, the frozen tide of the Hemlin Hills, stretching away interminably from the smoldering city far behind them.

“There,” cried Flote, realizing that the tiny figure standing on a hill almost thirty yards away was Kams, and hopefully, their ticket back home—on the ground by Kams’s legs was the reflective sheen of a metal arm. Commander Naeos ordered her vessel over toward Kams and her vehicle, a much smaller variant of the commander’s own ship. Brosse was the first to race out from the vessel, yelping with the excitement of going home:

“Second confirmation? Has it been acquired?”

“Yes Brosse, second confirmation is complete, and there are two of these—
arms
,” returned Kams. Welgrunt, Ballar, and Teme stepped out into the Hemlin sunlight, stretching. “The other is already quarantined aboard—just wanted the commander to see—Commander Naeos,” came Kams, delighted to see her chief.

“Kams,” the commander replied calmly, all traces of her lapse into anger gone. “Very well done. Get it aboard the ship, along with the other piece you’ve found.”

“Commander—there’s something strange with these,” came Teme, rushing up to his commander with a semi-translucent projection emanating from a piece of his wrist. “See—” Teme didn’t say anything further, he simply held out a reading of numbers, projected into thin air, letting the commander review them herself.

“It won’t matter—there’s enough in these arms
,
” the commander said, reading the numbers, understanding instantly what Teme had been concerned over.

“What is it commander?” Brosse asked warily.

“Only twenty percent of the original mass, even with both of these,” Ballar jumped in, visibly concerned about leaving without the rest.

“The Godking will not be—” started Welgrunt, but Naeos cut him off:

“The Godking will be happy that we have saved our race, and our home—it only takes a fraction of the ore to make the circuit of the engine complete. There is more than enough here. The rest may remain on this planet for the next time we need to reverse the expansion of the cosmos.” Naeos let out a whimpering chuckle, apparently amusing herself. She cut out her charming smile as she saw Brosse goggling over her pleasure-filled expression.