Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (47 page)

“Right then, get it in.”

“Yes commander,” said Kams and her crew.

“How is it that this primitive race of tribal—of primitive sentients could have rent the ore into this kind of statue?”

“Statue? I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d made a robot from it,” Brosse chimed in.

Kams laughed as she dragged the heavy arm on board, helped by Teme, Welgrunt, and Flote.

“You wouldn’t laugh so much if you’d seen what I did,” said Brosse angrily. “These things—these beings—they transmute energy from the matter around them with their consciousness!
”
The whole crew erupted into laughter at Brosse’s suggestion, hysterically thundering at the impossible suggestion—only Naeos didn’t find it funny.

“Determining the technologies of this planet is for another expedition, another time. They possess something special here; I cannot say what, nor is it my mission to find out—Brosse, your suggestion is not without merit, I suppose,” said Naeos. The laughter stopped suddenly and the crew quietly finished securing the arms of ore aboard the main vessel—it seemed the reaction of Naeos was unexpected; no one could have expected the commander, of all people, to have taken it seriously.

“Dock your ship and we’ll be heading home,” Naeos ordered, a subtle pitch of victory in her voice, signaling to her crew that it had been a job well done.

“A course toward base ship, please, Flether,” Kams smiled triumphantly; finding the ore would surely mean an accolade of some kind once they returned, hopefully a promotion, she thought. She piloted her small vessel into the hull of its larger cousin, and each member of the crew entered the main ship. Brosse, entering last, paused to peer out one last time at the hills; he was taken aback at their beauty, despite the scar of the crater. Had their errand not been so dire, he thought, he would have enjoyed staying, investigating the planet’s strange life.

“What’s the problem now?” Naeos said, unalarmed. Thirty seconds more than was necessary had passed; their vessel should have already landed by its mother ship, stationed at the rim of the Vashnod Eye, yet they hadn’t even lifted off.

“I—don’t—not sure yet, commander,” said Flether hesitantly, wanting to be sure the ship was not stalling due to an error of his own. He knew it wasn’t him; he was as excited as everyone else to have found the ore so quickly, and to be heading home, but he’d been operating the same pilot grid for thirty years—he knew what he was doing, and the ship wouldn’t budge.

“Let me see,” said Kams walking close to Flether, peering over him, watching his operation of the ghost-like screen, hanging in thin air in front of Flether’s face. Flether repeated the same motion over and over again, pressing his fingers in a quick pattern on the holographic control array, but the ship didn’t seem to respond.

“It’s—as if we’re stuck—the engines are running fine, the systems are without error or warning,” said Flether, looking up from his airdisplay to the cockpit window, “Oh my god!”

“What?” Brosse said, shattering the jovial mood, racing toward where Flether and Kams were hunched over controls.

“It’s—it’s—holding us!” gaped Kams in her frail voice, and at the sound of the panic, Naeos gave a grunt of annoyance, coming to the front of the ship from her spot of comfort in the back.

“What is—oh dear god…” said commander Naeos.

“What do we do?” came Teme fearfully.

“Turn it off…” the commander said calmly.

“What?” Flether replied.

“The ship…
turn it off
,” Naeos directed. “Stay here…”

“But commander, he could be dangerous!”

“I said stay here, do you not forget that I alone have permission among us to use the Godking’s weapon?” The crew grew quiet, silenced by her mention of the weapon, and Brosse watched longingly at her from behind as she fearlessly exited the side of the ship, going to confront the young man who’d been anchoring the ship to the planet by a pink glow that rolled wave-like from his arms, ensnaring their large silver vessel.

“Hello,” said commander Naeos calmly.

“Where is Slowin?” Adacon said menacingly, not moving his hands which spread wide in an arc from his shoulders, sending a steady flow of energy at the ship, harnessing it to the hill. The entire vessel shone pink-silver, gossamer-fine strands of energy wrapping it, an anchor running up from Adacon’s feet, through his hands, and out to encompass the spacecraft.

“Most of him is still here—buried somewhere, I presume, on your planet. As for the small bit we’ve taken, it won’t be missed by your kind…now please, before I have to break my personal code of conduct and cause you harm, release my ship so that we may go peacefully away from your world,” the commander offered soothingly.

“Never—not before you give him back—whatever it is you have of him.”

“His arms?” chuckled commander Naeos loosely. “Out of curiosity, how is it that your friend came to be? Like a real live person you make him sound…not just a stat—”

“Slowin is my friend,” roared Adacon. He violently trembled, and the entire silver vessel rose shakily off the ground. “Now release him, unless you want to see your own friends smashed against a mountain!” Adacon raged furiously.

“I did warn you…” Naeos tried one more time, but Adacon kept lifting her ship high into the air, its engines now off; the energy that wrapped the ship turned from pink to puce, as a voice shot out from inside the silver vehicle, magnified somehow:

“Commander—the cage field has no effect! He is like the other one! Please,
use the weapon
!” screamed Brosse, his cry for action soon echoed by the others, who inside frantically tried to operate the cage field, its manipulation of the electromagnetic field failing to freeze Adacon’s output—it had not the slightest affect on him; he continued to transfer energy at will, and to the astonishment of the entire crew, without the aid of any visible technology.

“Very well, have it your way,” whispered Naeos, but Adacon didn’t hear her, he only collapsed instantly to the ground, his puce aura evaporating just as fast. The enormous vessel quaked the earth as it crashed down, nearly rolling down the side of a hill before Flether turned the engine back on and stabilized it. Adacon lay motionless on the grass, lying face up, the sun beating down on him. Commander Naeos tucked away a small brass-colored device, fastening it onto her belt, her sleek uniform reflecting the bright sun. She quickly walked back into the ship visibly startled.

“Are you alright commander?” asked Teme as she reappeared inside.

“Fine, thanks,” the commander replied, and Flether needed no more from her leader; the ship engine engaged, and soon the vessel was once again a hoary streak in the sky, blurring between clouds and beams of sunshine, racing south over the Angelyn Mountains.

XXXII: DEEDLE’S TAVERN AND INN

“So you didn’t see what it was that hit you then?” asked Erguile for the third time over a stout glass of Rislind’s finest ale.

“No, nothing, just one moment I’m holding them down, and the next, I’m out cold, everything’s gone,” Adacon replied.

“Better than last time,” Remtall boisterously bellowed from across the table. “At least you woke as soon as Krem found you—no coma this time around.”

“To Slowin!” came Flaer’s nearby voice, as the overpacked guests of Deedle’s Inn collaboratively raised their glasses, cheering the memory of their dear friend.

“To Slowin!” the tavern chorused in echo of Flaer.

“I hear there will be an expedition to search for him—so that he can have a real ceremony,” Calan said softly.

“I heard that too, and if it’s true, I’ll be going,” Erguile affirmed.

“You’re going to go?” asked Remtall. “Hah! A slave child thinks he can make progress into the Angelyn mountains alone?” Remtall had been drinking all day in honor of both victory and mourning, starting in the early morn with an elegy that had been held for Slowin in the meadow—in place of a body they had used a small sculpted monolith in the likeness of their golem friend.

“It won’t be alone Remtall—there’ll be an entire party of course—and besides—I’ve heard news today: none of the horse stables seem to have been destroyed, and more news coming down from Peren bodes that many of the city dwellers are still alive, having hid themselves in underground rooms and tunnels during the siege.”

“Erguile, that means Weakhoof will be there!” Calan exclaimed.

“He will.”

“About time that horse retires, Erguile, he was already set to when you all first arrived here,” Remtall said, calming himself down with some pipeweed.

“Did you hear about Wiglim?” asked Behlas, strolling up casually with a mug in hand, the Rod of the Gorge at his side as a walking stick.

“That stubby dwarf?” replied Remtall.

“Yes. Reap and he have started a deep study of the Waln Parchment, looking for clues about what the Prophecy of the Key portends.”

“What it portends? It’s already ended, hasn’t it? They came like it said, and took Slowin away,” Adacon said in anger.

“Well—not quite so completely,” Behlas replied. “It seems the Parchment has many more predictions for the future of our world,” chuckled the soft-glowing spirit.

“Bah! Leave the seers to their prophecies, it’s no matter to us, for there is true peace. Hear me! Peace on Darkin this day!” Remtall thundered over the din of the chattering tavern. Working through the crowd, a small man edged his way toward Adacon’s table; Krem’s flowing robe and gem-encrusted cap emerged from between the lower halves of two standing trolls, both nearly twice as tall as the bearded hermit.

“Krem!” Erguile greeted him.

“Adacon, Erguile, Calan—Behlas, Remtall…” Krem smiled.

“How is Falen?” asked Adacon.

“He’s healing right up, thanks to Reap I’ll add.”

“I suppose Reap found a strong place among us as a healer—better than hurtling mountains at us,” Adacon laughed between sips of ale. Krem laughed heartily though the others didn’t, not yet knowing the tale of Reap.

“Well, it’s really over lads—Vesleathren is dead, and Zesm. I don’t know what we shall do without an evil to confront,” Krem chuckled, “perhaps rebuild a peaceful Arkenshyr?”

“That sounds just right. After I get back from Hemlin, I think I’ll start my own farm,” Erguile said.

“Erguile the swordsman, a farmer?” Calan humored him.

“It’s one thing I know how to do—and I’ll reap what I sow this time, now that Grelion’s not in—” Erguile said but was cut off:

“When is that damned murderer’s trial?” Remtall spat, rising from a standing slumber he’d fallen into before the mention of Grelion’s name. “I can’t wait to see him hanged.”

“Seven days from now; a proper council is still being assembled, so that he may be judged properly—it will take a talented congregation of Vapours to measure the truth—if he was or wasn’t possessed by dark magic,” said Krem.

“I don’t care if he
was
possessed—he still murdered my son. He ought to hang regardless,” Remtall protested.

“But you
will
abide by the decision of the council, Remtall,” informed Krem indifferently.

“Well of course, I don’t plan on fighting the decision of a bunch of damned wizards.”

“Remtall, they are Vapours, not wizards,” chided Adacon.

“Pah! Magic users, one and the same, the lot of them,” Remtall piped, finding a chair and sitting down, drifting back to sleep again.

“Where’s he being held now?” asked Erguile softly.

“Haeth and his men have agreed to keep him in warm custody until the hearing,” Krem answered.

“Ah good Haeth. I saw him fight valiantly at the choke—he slew four dwarves, single-handedly,” Erguile said with glee.

“Four?” scoffed Flaer, walking over to the table filled with his friends.

“Flaer!” greeted a choir of friendly voices.

“A right proper toast you gave,” Erguile said.

“Thanks. Erguile—I’ve been meaning to ask…How did Slowin die?” he asked. A quick silence overtook their corner of the tavern, as solemn apprehension descended and all eyes turned toward Erguile, the only witness of the incident.

“You were down in the crater that Vesleathren’s explosion caused—the soil was smoking, it looked like there was nothing that could be done; Vesleathren had taken your sword, shattered it, and it looked like he was set to impale you with the jagged shards,” Erguile said, pausing to flex his memory.

“He shattered the Brigun Autilus?” Adacon said, shocked. “I hadn’t even realized you were without it.”

“I remember that part quite clearly,” Flaer said softly.

“Well, out of nowhere, that old silver menace comes bounding, no—flying through the air, out of nowhere—and he tackles Vesleathren, crushes him hard, and sends him into the scorched pit.”

“That sounds like Slowin,” Adacon said fondly.

“Next thing I saw, smoke was shooting off him, as if it was too hot in there. His skin started turning colors, but…the heat didn’t seem to bother you or Vesleathren, neither of you were smoking.”

“No, I was protected by magic, as was Vesleathren.”

“So you got up, and I saw you send some kind of blue light toward him, wrapping him in it, and the steam stopped coming off him.”

“Brilliant,” chimed in Remtall, apparently awake again, listening intently to the story.

“And the pieces of your sword, they just dropped out of the air, didn’t hurt you.”

“I remember all this,” Flaer said, wanting the part of the story of which he was no longer a witness.

“And then you fell in,” Erguile glanced up at Flaer. “The pit started turning to mud, liquid almost, draining into a hole at the bottom. I saw you fight it, but it looked like you had put your might into shielding Slowin from the heat, and it caught you off guard, you disappeared.” Many of the listeners gasped at Erguile’s tale, and Krem looked on with pride at Flaer, envisioning the epic battle.

“So then Vesleathren shot up, straight into the sky, and there Slowin was, hanging on for dear life, as strong a grip as ever, when…” Erguile stopped and fell silent again.

“What? When what?” Remtall finally egged him on, the others too tactful to do so.