Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (9 page)

“That’s because I lost my torch, searching for this blasted dwarf! Had it not been for that, and those foul plants, we’d already be there!” Remtall retorted.

“No, you would not have,” replied the man.

“How can you know in which direction we have been travelling—you’ve only just found us surrounded in a hive of living vines,” questioned Ulpo.

“No. I have been following you for nearly a day’s time.”

“What!” Remtall raged. “Why then did you let the creatures take us?”

“I wanted to know where their home was, and so I let them take you to it,” he replied coldly.

“Why?” Ulpo asked.

“You see, these beasts were the first to attack me when I escaped, and I was rather angered by their hostility—so I wished to exterminate them; and if it concerns you so much, you would do well to know that you passed Palailia’s entrance long before they employed their gas on you.”

“But—ugh—I can’t believe we missed it. That doesn’t explain why you  followed us in the first place,” Remtall said, on guard.

“It is not every day one sees a gnome and a dwarf cross your path in Aaurlind—in fact there exist neither of your races in freedom on this continent; there hasn’t for over a hundred years. Not since the golden age of the gnomen mines, before Parasink came. So I intended to find your purpose here but I couldn’t, for you two were trekking through the forest in circles,” he explained.

“Circles! Impossible…” Ulpo exclaimed. Remtall hung his head, his pride cracking: he’d assured Ulpo he’d done the necessary research and learned the way, discovered the exact route they were to follow, and would know it once they entered the forest.

“And what folly, bringing only two torches into the Endless Forest!” the glowing man laughed loudly.

“Enough!” Remtall spat, angered and defeated.

“Parasink—is he the necromancer of legend?” Ulpo asked, ignoring Remtall’s disgust.

“Parasink was once a good Vapour, but not blessed with extraordinary ability. He served the order of peace during the Felwith Age, under the lordship of King Felwith,” explained the glowing man. “It is said that Parasink heard of a great artifact of power and sought it out, so as to become more than a subservient pawn of the king.”

“The Rod of the Gorge,” Remtall cried.

“Precisely that—so when the gnomes discovered the Rod deep within their mines, Parasink journeyed on a diplomatic mission to Palailia where he gained favor with its people. He promised aid for the war that was fast brewing upon the East Continent, claiming he knew the war would soon come to Aaurlind.”

“You mean the Five Country War?” Ulpo asked.

“Yes. And so after entering the good graces of the gnomes here, but harboring a greed for power in his heart, Parasink took from them the Rod, and began to use it for his own purposes—proclaiming himself King of Palailia. He forsook his former King, and became a recluse from the affairs of the East Continent and its war.”

“What scum! I’d heard such a story—about a deserter just before the war. It was news up from the southern shores, but I was just a young lad then, and I didn’t serve in the war until many years later, had I known—” said Remtall.

“Do not fret. I think you understand the rest of the story. He’s used the Rod to enchant the spirits of those who die; he enslaves them, forcing them to dig deeper and deeper, hoping he will find more treasures in those vacant mines—but he will not, there is nothing left there. He prattles of an endless need for power and wealth, but he is a common hate monger, no better than Grelion, who turned on his people just the same.”

“But how does he trap spirits?” Ulpo asked.

“Did you know that when someone dies, they leave this plane of existence, and return to the energy of Gaigas?”

“Yes.”

“With that Rod, a conduit of magical energy, he has discovered a way to halt the transition, so that a spirit does not go back to the planet, but stays confined in its body, devoid of true death.”

“And that’s what happened to you?” Remtall asked sympathetically.

“Yes, and I am tired. For each year since my death I have mined, deeper and deeper, alongside countless others. I did not feel pain, nor aches—only an endless cycle of sameness, day after day, driving me mad. I wished only to die a true death. So now that I’ve finally escaped, I go to find a way.”

“A way to die?”

“Yes.”

“How did you escape? Why didn’t you go sooner?”

“The magic that binds me to this plane, your plane of existence, grew suddenly weaker, only for a short hour, two days ago. I cannot explain it, but I became entirely without a body. And so I slipped out, unseen by anyone, and only upon breaking into the forest did I flicker back into existence in this physical realm.”

“And no others came with you?”

“No others that I know were unbound such as I was—for a sweet moment I felt as though I had died, but my misery returned when I found myself free—still enslaved as much as ever to this plane.”

“What is your name? I am Ulpo of Oreine—and this is good Remtall Olter’Fane, Captain of the Gnomen Fleet.”

“Call me Behlas—I think that is what I was once called.”

“Well Behlas, I am sorry we can’t do anything for you, and I’m thankful you’ve saved our lives, but we must be going,” Remtall muttered, and he walked off.

“With no light?” asked Behlas. Ulpo stood confused, watching his companion lurk off into the dark pines.

“Never mind a gnome’s night vision,” replied Remtall, and he continued into the dark. “Come Ulpo.”

“But don’t you think—” stuttered Ulpo.

“What? We know now that we’ve passed the entrance to the mines, and we have no more time to waste! The Rod is there—I must get it as soon as possible if I am to avenge my son!”

“You’ve come for the Rod of the Gorge?” laughed Behlas, and he chuckled heartily long after Remtall’s boast.

“What is so funny about that?” an angered Remtall replied, rushing back toward the spirit. “You may have saved our lives, but I’ll grant you your death if it pleases you so—
never
insult my son.”

“Remtall, don’t!” Ulpo warned, but Remtall had lost his temper; he ran full speed to throttle Behlas where he stood. The gnome cocked his fist as he ran, and realizing he still had his dagger, withdrew it from his side and readied to stab the glowing man. As quickly as he’d approached the ghostly specter, Behlas stepped aside, extended his foot and tripped Remtall. He spilled to the ground in a wail of agony.

“I’m sorry, friend, but your rage consumes you—It would seem you partake of too much ale,” returned Behlas.

“He is truly out of his mind—you can’t hold him accountable for his actions when he’s out of liquor,” Ulpo apologized for his friend’s wildness.

“I’m—I’m sorry…” moaned Remtall from the earth, rubbing his elbow where he’d smashed into the soil, barely missing a jutting tree trunk.

“It’s quite alright. I understand—if drink still worked on me, I might be in your fiendish state too, gnomen friend—my gloom is such,” replied Behlas. “I’ll come. Perhaps your deaths will bring some amusement to this tired old spirit. Or who knows, maybe you’ll get the Rod from him!” Behlas laughed again at the idea.

“He can light the way for us, Remtall,” Ulpo said, hopeful his friend would allow it.

“I suppose. Well then, take us to the entrance of the mines, and then be gone if it pleases you so. Just know we tread not to our deaths, but to the weapon that will destroy Vesleathren and his vile minion
Zesm,” said Remtall.

“Vesleathren?” retorted the spirit. “Zesm?”

“Yes. It is those two whom I will destroy with the Rod,” resounded Remtall’s small frame.

“I don’t believe—what have I missed?”

Behlas knew nothing of the recent war: the return of Vesleathren, the Feral Army, and the transformation of Zesm to a great power of evil. Remtall and Ulpo quickly filled the eager spirit in on all events since the fall of Grelion’s slave trade. They told of the Battle at Dinbell, relaying every detail about the war, all to the great bewilderment and disbelief of Behlas. Finally, a stunned Behlas quietly contemplated all he’d heard, standing in silence. He peered to the canopy of pines, staring off into space, mesmerized by everything he’d missed during his time as Parasink’s zombie. In looking at the ceiling of pines, he saw the star
and noted that its size had almost doubled since last he’d looked. Forgetting the star once again, he turned his gaze downward on his short companions.

“I am changed by this news—I had no idea such things were stirring, or that Flaer Swordhand was still alive…”

“Did you know him?”

“Yes, very well—and it is
his
Vapoury that can possibly give me my final death,” replied Behlas. “Where is he now?”

“We will take you to him, once you help us get the Rod,” Remtall shot back.

“It is so then. I will put everything I have into this, and I hope for my own sake that you two do not fail your errand.”

“Enough chatter. Lead us on. I am eager to kill your Lord Parasink,” Remtall boiled.

“Good. Follow me this way, and I will tell you everything I know of Palailia,” said Behlas in great seriousness; there was hope in his voice. The glowing half-man half-spirit, appearing no older than a middle-aged human, led his new companions into the black of the Endless Forest—his aura of pearl white brightened. Ulpo and Remtall trailed him by the light of his skin.

VII: ARRIVAL

The engines of the spaceship whistled rhythmically as its hull began to glow white-red. Soon the vessel illuminated the early dawn sky, piercing through Darkin’s lower atmosphere, radiating like a shooting star in the sky. Few were awake to see the smoke scar left by the dropping craft as it shot directly toward Darkin’s second largest continent, landing by a giant crater amid an otherwise flat, featureless expanse of prairie. The screech of brake thrusters was heard only by a small band of roaming nomads. The wild savages of the Vashnod Plains looked on in terror, fearing Aulterion had returned, much as the rumors from across the Kalm had claimed—but the comet came and crashed into the earth without so much as a whimper to their trained ears, and it was followed by no fiery explosion. The tribes stood in awe for many minutes, but eventually went back to their early morning hunts, journeying forth again atop their weather-ridden steeds. Several moments passed and no longer did anyone take notice of the spaceship’s landing, nor Darkin’s strange visitors who had landed quietly along the rim of the mile-wide crater known to natives as the Vashnod Eye.

“Brosse, status—” spoke the sweet voice of the ship’s commander.

“Commander: landing as planned, location as planned, all systems are good,” replied Brosse into an invisible piece of nanopolymer sewn into the side of his earlobe.

“Good. Conference chamber, immediately.”

Brosse stood up from the steering mechanism in the cockpit of the ship, and two others nearby him also rose, and they walked together through a clear door that seemed to disintegrate as they strode past. A whooshing noise reverberated down a dank metallic corridor, too tight for comfort. Brosse felt his old sense of claustrophobia flare up—he’d squashed his fears of space travel long ago, but every once and awhile, before missions of great importance, it could still play upon his mind, dribbling old terrors of inescapable confinement into his consciousness.

The gunmetal hall yielded to another disappearing door, and Brosse and his cohorts walked briskly into the conference room where eight others were already seated at a black table at its center. Their commander stood patiently, waiting for them to completely assemble and offer their attention. Brosse took a seat nearest to the commander, and the other two trailing him promptly sat—no one spoke a word. Suddenly, another whoosh noise sounded, very faintly, and the great black wall of the conference room suddenly turned into a window, exhibiting a wide expanse of the Vashnod Crater, filling their view. Just as everyone’s pupils contracted to adjust to the flood of bright light, the entire window covering the wall—from edge to edge—transformed into a picture of an inanimate hunk of a shiny silver metal alloy. The alloy was motionless. All around the alloy was dense rock, some of it slightly glowing, as if the picture on the screen was showing something deep within the planet’s molten core.

“This is our target, as you know,” the commander said brusquely. She brushed her hair away from her eyes with grace, and Brosse stared—half at her, studying her dark beauty, and half at the mission briefing she was showing on screen. Her short ink-black hair shone resiliently against the glimmer of the projected image on the screen. She was a perfect creation, thought Brosse, as he had so many times before—and in the same moment he knew he could never have her; she was born into a different class than he was; she was of
supreme
blood. The perfect symmetry of her muscular form showed him this, the even concentration of her power, the delicate summation of her attractiveness: a programmed masterpiece of his race.

“This is where we left the metal,” the commander informed, and suddenly the image onscreen began to zoom out from the metal alloy as if a camera was taking flight up and away from the original image. The expanse of a wide grass field came into view, some trees appeared in clusters, and the alloy disappeared beneath rolling hills as the image kept zooming out. The trees became as small as teardrops and the full magnitude of the Vashnod Plain came into view—the whole of the region fitted neatly on the screen.

“It was last here—this is our last image, dating from four-thousand years ago: storage location number seven-hundred and forty-two. As you as have noticed, things have changed on this formerly desolate planet—beings have come to claim these once barren lands, and with their rise to power, destruction they have rent upon the landscape.” As if by her mind’s will, the screen reverted to a clear window and they all stared once again at the vast crater, two-hundred yards deep, a mile wide—a remote grey bowl of rock waste, carved from the vibrant green of a prairie.

“Preliminary information has revealed what, about this, Brosse?” the commander relegated explanation to her second-in-command.