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

by Turkot, Joseph

“I wish Remtall was still here,” Doings muttered to himself, thinking of the sea captain who’d departed months ago, the resident who would have had the most wisdom to deal with the situation. Taisle called the others to help him hoist the lifeless stranger and together they carried him through the narrow alley and into his house, dropping him on the floor. The room quickly filled with uninvited townsfolk, including Mayor Doings, until finally Pursaiones warned everyone to clear out. She assured them that when the time was ready they would be summoned once again to hear what the thief had to say. Hesitantly, most left the small house and it became once again uncramped. Doings was the last to leave and he instructed Taisle that when the stranger awoke, he was to be immediately summoned. Taisle, Pursaiones, and three others remained, each a member of the night party that had gone searching for the ghost—none had slept much yet. One by one, as the stranger slept soundly on the floor, each of them fell half-asleep themselves, until finally, no one was awake at Taisle’s house, and the new guest, now tightly bound in rope, snored loudly.

  * * *

  A knock rattled Taisle’s door, and no one responded. Finally, after knocking three more times to no avail, a crowd of citizens watched as Miss Brewboil walked directly into the house. A concern ran through everyone about why no one was answering. She rounded the hall corner into Taisle’s bedroom and to her amazement she saw each of the Rislind warriors sound asleep. Pursaiones was lying across Taisle on the bed and the others were slumped against the walls, heads sunk into their chests, dreaming deeply. Quickly she looked to the dirty body at the center of the floor, curled into a ball like interlocked twine; the man on the ground was the prisoner, and his eyes were wide open—he lay awake, unsleeping, smiling up at Miss Brewboil.

  “Aaaahh!” she screamed, and stumbled backwards. Turning swiftly to run from the room she tripped over the townsfolk who had shoveled in behind her. A crashing thump sounded, and a jumble of limbs formed as Miss Brewboil’s spill resulted in a pileup in the small hallway. More tried to come rushing in to see the scene, but none could make it through the tiny hallway, now smushed full of groaning bodies working to untangle themselves without stepping on each others’ hands and faces. Pursaiones opened her eyes to the tumult. She glanced to the prisoner and saw him twist to meet her gaze; he’d been awake for some time, she realized, and they’d all fallen asleep.

  “I want to explain,” he whimpered.

  * * *

  Mayor Doings assembled the town at noon and, still shackled, the thief was presented before a great throng that awaited a statement from him—the man had pleaded for his chance to explain, to justify his sneaking into the homes of the Rislindians, stealing their food, their milk, and casting a terrorizing spell over the community—this petty thief was their ghost, incarnated as a feeble, haggard man.

  “Very well then, say your peace,” the Mayor at last ordered. Taisle and Pursaiones stood by, assuming the roles of guards for the Mayor in case anything out of the ordinary happened. Some were whispering that the man was in fact a ghost, and that his hidden powers lay dormant. Taisle and Pursaiones had long since dismissed any fear of the frail man, sensing him to be harmless—strangely, Pursaiones had even come to pity him.

  “I was cast out. A used-up slave after the tendrils of Vesleathren’s evil overtook the farm where I once worked,” cried the man in a rough timbre, sounding hoarse as if with a cold. “Once the evil bastards had no more use for me—once the slave camp was wrecked—I was thrown out, left to wander the Red Forest.” Gasps rang out in the crowd of gawkers.

  “You are a liar, and a ghost!” refuted Miss Brewboil. Others joined her accusations and the crowd grew angry until Doings quieted them:

  “Let him speak!” urged the Mayor.

  “I nearly died. I was without food and water. I don’t know how I survived, everything is too dark. My memory is clouded” trailed the hoarse drone. “I really can’t explain how I made it here… I saw the hills, and traveled many days, eating whatever carcasses I could find. Once I made it to the foothills, I couldn’t think of any fate other than a lonely death in those woods,” the man told, and he pointed to the range of mountains that encircled the fair meadow. “That’s when I broke through onto the meadow, and saw the village.”

  “Why then didn’t you approach our gates as a traveler? Why sneak in at night and rob us?” cried Crumpet.

  “No, forget that—I want to know how you breached the inner sanctum of Rislind—the secret paths are bound by Vapoury!” cried Brewboil.

  “Yes, pitied thief, explain that, lest you cannot, and prove a ghost—how did you gain entrance hither?” asked Doings, coughing up smoke as he puffed contentedly, half-drowsed with the sweet fumes of his pipe-weed.

  “I cannot give you such an explanation as to how I came in through these mountains,” answered the prisoner. “I only know I came upon a broken wall of bramble, vines, and thorns, all tangled in piles on the ground. Beyond them I came to the path leading down into your valley.”

  “Impossible! That is the living wall you speak of, enchanted, ever grown anew!” Taisle retorted in disbelief.

  “It was as I said: tangled, a heaping mess, not alive at all,” replied the stranger. “And I merely stepped over it.” More gasps rang through the crowd, and a greater wave of fear ran through the citizens of Rislind than had ever been caused by the idea of a ghost.

  “We shall investigate immediately! But it is important to know then why if you didn’t break the magic wall yourself, as you claim, you became a thief in the night, sneaking about, scaring us, and making us believe you to be a specter of evil,” Doings demanded.

  “I had to be wary, and though captured I am more relieved than you can imagine—you see, there is nary a friendly place left in Arkenshyr, not one that I am aware of,” choked the man between hacking coughs. “Every place I’ve passed is now under the spell of anarchy, turmoil, slaughterings, executions, revolts—the law of Grelion is ended, and bands of nomads now control the countryside.”

  “Law! You dare call that monster lawful?” replied Crumpet, and the older villagers recalled the alliance Grelion formed with Zesm the Rancor many years ago, in which Zesm stole and sold babies in exchange for rewards: the babies were gifts of slavery to Grelion, and what Zesm had received in return no one ever discovered. One such baby was abducted from Rislind itself, from the home of an old friend named Remtall Olter’Fane.

  “I do not contend that it was just law, but now murder is to be expected if you approach an unknown group of savages—the slaves have formed tribes: they roam about, taking no prisoners, and the towns and villages I’ve seen are under violent leadership, disunity—I could not have risked to simply knock on your door—what if you were a loyal faction to Grelion—or worse, a tribal slave town?”

  “How dare you suggest we be in league with Grelion Rakewinter, that hate-mongering coward!” cried Miss Brewboil, working herself into a fit.

  “If you are a slave, why fear a slave tribe?” asked Doings, feeling more curious than angry.

  “Because the tribes fear all strange newcomers. They associate unknowns with the old leadership of Lord Grelion. They would kill me long before believe I was one of them.”

  “I’ve many more questions for you, and we must deliberate on the exact course of justice we will serve you—but in the meantime, we must investigate the vine wall. If it is dispelled, then we are in graver danger than any ghost would have put us in. And it is all the more worrisome if the tidings you bring of the outside countries are true,” Doings said.

  “I understand. I am glad to be in your village, despite as a prisoner. Deservedly that condition is cast on me—for some reason, my mind is extremely cloudy, and I feel as though I am still just waking up from a long, painful nightmare,” came the scratchy voice of the thief.

  “Taisle, assemble a party,” Doings ordered. “And what is your name, or shall you still be referred to as the ghost?”

  He looked off into the horizon, as if he had to think
very hard about what his own name was. Finally, he twisted his head and looked down.

  “You do not know your own name?” Doings recoiled in awe.

  “Sorry—I am called Noilerg. As I said, my mind is stormy. I think I have an infection running through me, and I have eaten but scraps for days: whatever carcasses, roots, or berries I’ve been able to find.”

  “Though you are a prisoner of Rislind, Noilerg, thief of night, specter of our dementia, you will be cared for—Brewboil, see to it that he is given food and drink, and his ailments are properly treated. He will be a valuable source of information for us, as to the true state of turmoil coursing over the landscapes beyond our peaceful meadow.”

  “But he is a liar!”

  “A ghost!”

  “We don’t believe him!”

  “I assure you he is still a prisoner, and will remain shackled until we investigate the vine wall,” Doings coughed in reply to the jeers.

  “Sir, I’ll be heading there presently—it should be checked immediately,” said Taisle, ready to trek to the wall of vines atop the western peak.

  “Sooth. Go, disqualify this vagrant’s boasts,” Doings smiled, turning to watch the prisoner as Brewboil led him away. Several troll brutes gripped his arms as they left. Noilerg wobbled as if about to faint and the trolls steadied him.

  “Come on,” Taisle winked at Pusaiones. She was already ahead of him though, and they set out toward their horses.

  * * *

  Mayor Doings was sitting upright in Deedle’s Tavern, asleep on his stool, drooping over a half-finished mug of Rislind Ale. His pipe dangled, smoldering slowly; every now and then a puff of ash went flying into the air. Several nearby patrons were enjoying an afternoon draught, chatting about the transformation of their ghost into a haggard slave wanderer: some believed the slave’s story of sorrow; others remained skeptical, fearing some kind of dormant evil, believing the ghost planned some malevolent deception. Doings awoke with a fright when Pursaiones walked up, shaking his shoulder.

  “It’s true—the wall is dead,” she said. Taisle nodded in confirmation, along with three others who’d journeyed with them.

  “We will have to take his words for truth then—something has destroyed the magic. We are vulnerable to intrusion for the first time in I don't know how many years,” Doings trailed off with a hint of panic.

  “I think he did it,” replied one of Taisle’s companions. “I think that man—he could be a wizard, a lying wizard.”

  “Yes,” Doings said, drowsing again into an unalarmed state, lighting his pipe anew. “But I don’t think so, I didn’t feel that kind of energy in him—he’s too run down.”

  “I agree,” chimed in Pursaiones. “We should question him further as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, yes indeed,” returned Doings, despondent about their fragile state of seclusion.

  “And what of the vine wall?” asked Taisle.

  “Yes, I will put you in charge of creating a barrier—it won’t be magical, of course, but you can build something strong, I think, Taisle,” responded Doings. “Speak to Miss Brewboil’s husband, Gesrey, he ought to be able to lend his stoneworking to the task.”

  “And the eastern entrance, the enchanted boulder?” asked Pursaiones.

  “Well, I hadn’t had time to think of that—oh dear, let’s hope that isn’t gone too?” Doings responded. Taisle and Pursaiones looked at each other, pitying the village for its absent-minded mayor.

  “I’ll go at once,” she offered.

  “Good, good. Oh dear Gaigas, let us hope this isn’t the end. I haven’t done all I wanted to do yet,” Doings talked into his mug.

  “Alright fellows, let’s make quick work of this. I intend to sleep tonight,” Pursaiones commanded. She left the tavern, headed for the eastern peaks; Taisle began his search for Gesrey. Doings was alone again, sipping dreamily his ale. The tender of the tavern walked over to him.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear—will you be making a public announcement about the vine wall?” asked the tender.

  “Oh, yes of course,” muttered Doings; but a moment later he was asleep, his chin descending, dipping his whiskers into warm brew.

  X: THE LAST NIGHT OF PEACE

  The dining hall was filled with hundreds of warriors. Nearly every race of Darkin sat together in feast, and a fever of anticipation marked the atmosphere. The conversations were not wide-ranging; most spoke only of the coming morn, when they would at last set out over the Hemlin Hills, driving north to intercept the Feral Brood army. Peren had received new information from druid scouts the day after the council that confirmed the approaching enemy’s path. Anticipation of a hopefully-unsuspected counterattack against the incoming Feral had raised morale. Peren planned to waylay the Feral army on the Rolling Hills, but being uncertain of enemy numbers, some captains of the Wallstrong force were anxious about the maneuver.

  “The thrill of combat displaces all fear,” said Erguile between bites of a pungent plate of fresh leaves and bear meat, smothered in a bittersweet sauce, called Meldsniir by locals.

  “And that is why you're a captain from a slave,” Slowin replied, himself eating hearty Hemlin stew, loaded with more bear.

  “Yes, yet it seems we have so little information. Why couldn’t Krem have just flown over the hills, spied down on them, told us exactly what we’re up against?” asked Erguile.

  “We don’t know the full arc of their magic, nor do we know how many black mages accompany their march,” Flaer replied, drinking sweet tea-elixir of Wallstrong, known as the restorative Berryveine.

  “Anyway, I cannot wait to confront their numbers—large or magical,” Erguile said in display of genuine confidence.

  “Remember to stick to the plan the generals have laid out, and be mindful of all that Peren has explained,” Slowin reminded.

  “What is your idea of the Feral leadership?” he asked Flaer, putting down his knife and stretching, feeling filled and quite tired.

  “They are working together, but I can’t quite say how yet.”

  “Vesleathren and Zesm, you mean partners? So all the rumors of Vesleathren being overthrown, you ignore them?”

  “That line is too simple. You must remember that Vesleathren is the source of Zesm’s power. There is no chance Vesleathren would give Zesm enough strength to become a threat to him,” Flaer answered coldly.

  “I still don’t know what to think,” Erguile said, trying to appear unconcerned.

  “I know what I think—this battle needs to end the war. We’ve numbers enough, I think, to win outright. And then I can go home at last—return to the Red Forest, to peace, to a good night’s sleep in my tree,” Slowin sighed, smiling in remembrance of his red-leafed friend.

  “Well, that wouldn’t be any fun for Remtall or Adacon would it? They’d play no part in the destruction of Darkin’s greatest evil!” Erguile joked.

  “They’ve played enough of a part already,” Slowin replied.

  “He’s right, I would rather not see Adacon have to fight again, nor our gnome friend—our greatest hope is as Slowin said: a decisive victory tomorrow on the hills.” A wave of silence fell over the dining hall, only for an instant, and then the clamor of conversations promptly resumed. Flaer turned to the door to see the cause: far away, at the opposite end of the great hall, Peren strode in.

  “He’s come to eat,” Erguile said. “What about his aura?”

  “Hmm?” Slowin replied.

  “I saw it grow at times when he was talking, and now it’s there, surrounding him softly. I can see it from here,” he explained.

  “You’re very perceptive for a human slave,” Slowin answered him. “Many do not notice the aura; they cannot see it.”

  “Really?”

  “Slowin’s right. You're attuned to Gaigas, if but by a single degree,” replied Flaer.

  “Perhaps I can become a Vapour some day,” Erguile smiled. “And then my sword will glow too!”

  “It is not my Vapoury i
nstilled in the Brigun Autilus, friend: It is by the work of Vesleathren that this sword gained its power,” Flaer explained.

  “Vesleathren?” Erguile exclaimed.

  “It was in the Five Country Wars, when I fought him—we dueled, I took his sword from him. As you saw when the grip burned Slowin's hand, one cannot harness the sword and bend its will to their own use, lest powers of old Vapoury run deep,” Flaer told.

  “You amaze me to no end, Ironhand—I can’t believe you dueled Vesleathren, the very monster we go to destroy!”

  “My death was nearly the price. Aulterion’s final blast in that war—I was very close to its eruption—I can’t say if I would have destroyed Vesleathren or not, had I more time. I remember his body knocked to the ground, appearing dead in the aftermath of the explosion. I grabbed the sword where it lay, but a foot from his body.”

  “Why didn’t you finish him then?”

  “The sword scalded me, a shot of energy rent my body's nerves—I was knocked out as soon as I touched it. When I awoke, I saw Vesleathren’s lifeless body being dragged off. I was sure he was dead: there was a long trail of blood running from where he'd lain. Trolls were binding me, but the Brigun Autilus lay nearby, undisturbed on the ground; no one had dared touch it. At that moment, I summoned more strength than ever before in my life, breaking from the fiends that seized me. I picked up the sword and poured every bit of Vapoury I had into it, balancing the magic of Vesleathren for but an instant.”

  “And then what?”

  “I slew them all. None lived.”

  “And then did you chase after Vesleathren?” Erguile said, hanging onto each word.

  “I could not—Aulterion had descended on his wyvern, Holfog, whom you know well.”

  “The same we slew in the marsh, that creature Aulterion summoned after swimming off?”

  “The same. I saw a look in Aulterion’s eye, as he flew away with the bloody mound of Vesleathren’s remains—he looked down at me, our eyes locked.”