“You can’t even sword fight?”
“You know, I hadn’t thought of that—no, no I couldn’t.”
“I can’t believe that!”
“But it’s true—and because you have no depth to your connection, you maintain the ability to destroy things, be they good or evil.”
“But what about the Enox?”
“Although she gave herself to Gaigas, she can act as but a transport in her physical manifestation—no more directly can she partake in violence than that.”
“Ugh, this is all too strange, and it doesn’t make much sense,” Adacon said, growing tired of trying to make coherent the perplexity of his being an untempered Welsprin.
“That’s quite alright. Rest your mind for now—I promise you we’re going to have a lot of fun together,” came a childish energy from Tempern.
“But I think I’ll need to eat first, I’d forgotten how hungry I am,” Adacon complained.
“I’m sorry!” Suddenly the stars and planet above vanished, and the cool blue sky returned, accompanied by a mysterious breeze that rolled through the enchanted cave somehow; calmly popping into existence by Adacon’s side was a long wool blanket, atop which were many clay plates, each piled high with steaming food—it seemed Tempern knew every kind of meat, bread and cheese that Adacon loved, because they were all displayed now in front of him, patiently awaiting his hands. He remembered Krem’s strict policy on paying homage to Gaigas and awaited word from Tempern before he started eating—Tempern seemed to read his mind:
“First lesson Adacon; it is good enough if only in your mind you remember to be grateful that you receive nourishment. Don’t feel as if you must speak the words outwardly for them to be meaningful, nor that you must show your gratitude in some physical way—only be grateful, don’t prove externally that you are.”
Adacon sat, smelling the food now, the delicious scent wafting to his nose. He tried to make sense of Tempern’s lesson, but he only decided that he was never more grateful in his life to have food, and he wasted no time digging in. Tempern laughed amusedly as Adacon gorged himself.
XVIII: TO THE WESTERN SHORE
Calan’s hair whipped wildly in the hard-blowing easterly wind. She looked deep into the sunset, a calm pink glow that streaked scarlet and orange in places. Her ship had been at sea for weeks, and the Hemlin shore was only a day away, the dwarven captain had said—still Calan was entirely too restless, it had been over a month since Adacon left her. The dwarf-built vessel, christened the Stonesea Island, was large, built in the Bay of Dirmgaw; it had three red masts, dyed to a deep hue that matched its sails, boasting of dwarfcraft excellence. Dwarves were not known as ship-crafting adepts, but the Oreine had proven the common lore a misconception with their fleet of seaworthy vessels. Calan walked back along the starboard gunwale toward the dining-cabin entrance. The ship was quite long, Calan had realized after only a few days at sea—it took her five minutes to get from bow to stern. Gazing up at the emerging stars, Calan felt a longing stir within her; she wanted to be on land again, and no longer underneath the massive red sails.
“Calan,” came a soft voice that leaned from the rail. Craning her neck around, Calan saw her brother, Iirevale, peering out over the placid waters that lapped peacefully against the hull many yards below.
“Brother,” she said, lacking much energy, her only enthusiasm the hope of gaining the shore in a day’s time.
“How goes the eve?”
“Good enough, I’m too long ready to get off this malpurposed, rent bit of forest,” she joked.
“As am I—as am I,” he replied weakly. “There’s a right feast in the cabin tonight,” Iirevale signaled toward the dining windows—small, lit up portholes that interrupted the neat line of woodgrain running parallel to the dining hall’s black locust frame.
“I’m not very hungry. This trip has provided me too much idle time to think—I’ve been dwelling on Carbal.”
“Me too. I’ve had a number of dreams these past weeks.”
“Their faces—they live too keenly in my memory,” she empathized.
Since the destruction of Carbal Run, the ensuing battle and reconstruction, there hadn’t been a moment of idle time—every elf had been kept busy, vital to the reconstruction efforts, ceremonies, and reinvigoration of the people; the trip to sea was the first time the elves had experienced an excess of free time, a stretch of waiting without purpose or agenda—only to patiently keep still until further action could be taken after landing in the West Country, where the scourge remained, strengthening itself.
“Terion’s to make a talk. Gaiberth too,” Iirevale relayed, half hoping Calan would grow spirited at the news of an address.
“I heard,” she said solemnly. “You know…”
“What?” Iirevale replied. Calan fell silent by his side, staring out over the gunwale, the last rays of orange turning midnight-blue. Finally she spoke:
“I will be very heartened indeed, to get on with this fighting—it is too much to wait for it, I want to be there now, I know they must be already dying—somewhere they are hurting… did we wait too long to come?”
“No—we couldn’t have come sooner. We had not the heart nor fortification—we had no home from which to come, not then. But now, now—Rainside Run has blossomed beautifully. There is no time for us, before or to come, other than now, dear sister.”
“I hope you’re right—I hope.”
Iirevale registered a fleeting look of despair cross Calan’s darkened expression; he knew there was a new reservoir of pain within her soul now, something that had never been there before, something acquired in the process of loving someone.
“Let’s go in,” she said.
“I know,” said Iirevale, gripping her shoulder as she turned to enter the hall. “I know that you hope he’s not already there, not already fighting without you by his side.” Calan smiled, looked down, then limply wended her way into the great dining hall.
* * *
“We’ve come a long way—many nights have we slept upon swells and under sail,” Terion roared before the seated congregation of elves and dwarves. “I tell you now that we avail ourselves of bloodlust, to destroy that evil man—him behind this all. We go to the farther shores not to save the men of Arkenshyr, nor the druids of Hemlin, nor the savages of the South Shores—we go to kill Vesleathren. We go to destroy the last threat to our world, so that never again does a generation of sons and daughters journey to war, so that never after will History scribe a battle!” The dwarves and elves took joy in Terion’s talk of action, the nearing end to idleness. The lusty throng clamored from their seats for further portents of bloodshed.
“And—” came in Gaiberth, “we have grave word from ashore: a falcon has flown in, bringing ill tidings of war—Wallstrong has fallen. There is no greater desperation than now, no greater importance to the fate of the world than our retaliation.” Whispers buzzed through the hall: many forgot their empty plates that awaited filling and turned their thought to the dreadful news; Wallstrong was a city named and renowned for its impregnable walls, a city with a history of defending endless hordes—during the Five Country War, the city had served as a safehaven and stronghold, sheltering refugees from sacked cities and villages for hundreds of miles in all directions; even as the Crawl Plaque had driven its horde around the walls, unable to penetrate the gates, the people inside knew their safety was unquestionable, such was Wallstrong’s defense. To hear that the great city had been taken caused a stirring unfamiliar on the sea journey thus far. After the murmur died down, Gaiberth resumed his speech at the head of the room:
“We take not lightly to this news, nor do we expect it to mean our cause is lost. We go to turn them back at the choke: we go to defend the Angelyn Pass. As some of you don’t know the western lands, the choke will be five days march from port. We will march directly after anchoring in the Bay of Saru Gnarl—I expect all of you to keep spirit and wit about you. Save it for six days more, that we can
aid the Hemlin Army’s southward retreat, they the last western forces of good that remain in this world.”
Fervent discussion about the peril of the situation spread throughout the Stonesea Island—some said that it was a bad idea to have come, that leaving seclusion was wrong, that the power of Vesleathren was too strong now, that the West Continent was all but lost; still, the majority were heartened at the chance for battle, and to be ashore in the next day, filled with thoughts of avenging the deaths in the East.
“This is a terrible fate, no luck I guess, for our mighty saviors at Dinbell—I would assume them lost, now I know the falcon’s message,” came a nearby dwarf to Calan.
“You’re mistaken!” she instinctively shouted. She panicked but collected herself immediately, angered that she lost herself to emotion; the situation was much worse than she’d anticipated, and she knew that Adacon was set to travel to Wallstrong after his training completed. Was he done his training?—had he already been to Wallstrong, fought, defended the failing walls of that free city— had he been hurt—was he already dead, body trampled underfoot by the driven madness of the Feral? No. An anger surged through her—not possible—she would know—somehow she would sense it, if he’d been killed. How could Krem have let it all come to this? How could Flaer? It didn’t make much sense; those glorified veterans of the Battle had seemed immortal to her, unstoppable; after all, she’d seen Flaer’s power firsthand, she’d witnessed that man duel with Aulterion, she’d seen him rend the sky black and red with his might.
Piping roasted ham and mushroom stew were placed on plates, along with bread, cheese, and corn: it turned out that Wiglim, the new Vapour of the Oreine, had quite a practical use for his Vapoury skills: he was a fine chef. Calan’s woes by a newformed hunger were momentarily forgotten; she ate heartily in silence. Tired and restless from a long day with nothing to do, she decided to turn in to bed for the night, earlier than usual, for she’d found the talk of impending doom rather unsoothing—many were discussing the slaughter of the innocent in Hemlin, and the women and children of the city of Wallstrong. It was too much for right now, she’d felt; there was still nothing they could do to help.
XIX: NEWFOUND TRUST
Rain pattered against the cross-paned windows of Deedle’s Tavern. A wavy reflection of torches lit along a series of brackets flickered from inside: the tavern was alive with commotion much later than usual, as the day had concluded a stretch of labor that had produced new blockades at either end of the Rislind mountain range—replacements for the destroyed magic that once kept the village safe. Noilerg had been instrumental in structuring the stone walls that Pursaiones and Taisle had led construction on, and he had since his capture come into the good graces of the people of Rislind; some claimed he was the most popular man in town now, in no small part because of his industriousness and ingenuity. He’d bathed and shaved, received new clothes, and had even been allowed to live with Crumpet, who’d miraculously forgiven him after Noilerg helped rebuild his rotting shed.
Taisle watched from across a table at the crowd surrounding Noilerg, who had enthralled a group of Rislindians with one of his adventure tales, something he’d become very good at doing. Pursaiones had become quite taken with the dashing stranger, much to Taisle’s displeasure—he’d long ago decided there was no contention about who she belonged to. No one else came close to him, all salient qualities quantified, as a suitor. But it had been very different during the last week; she’d become infatuated with him.
“So, I destroyed it. That was the only thing left to do,” Noilerg said, five onlookers before him, one of whom was the smiling Pursaiones.
“A braided dragon!” reiterated one of the amazed listeners.
“Surely they’re impossible to strike though, their plated hide is like steel!” gasped an older troll.
“You must remember: the weakness of the braided dragon is its pads, underneath their scaled feet,” Noilerg went on. “It was a matter of waiting for it—letting the foul thing come to make its strike first.”
Taisle grew disgusted with the celebration of the new walls, despite the fact that they’d done a tremendous job in securing the eastern and western entrances to the meadow. The stone barriers were no substitute for the old enchanted barriers, and in the blinding light of the great Noilerg, the town had seemingly forgotten that there had to be a reason why the magic had stopped working in the first place; but everyone was smitten with their new hero, a well traveled seer of the world, it seemed. Even Mayor Doings had declared him an official resident in only five days’ time. Noilerg had offered as an excuse for his thievery, during his second day in Rislind, that he’d been enchanted, corrupted by an evil force, something he couldn’t name. He claimed that that was the reason he’d been stealing, along with his original reasons. Taisle never bought the story, as most others did, instead growing more suspicious of Noilerg as time went on. Part of it was that Noilerg was naturally handsome—moreso than Taisle, and he knew that was a part of the reason Pursaiones had taken to him. She had always longed for the outside world, to truly test her mettle, and now she was getting it, vicariously, through the wanderer. Noilerg had eaten well since his stay began; after a few days he’d already started to put weight back on. His work in the fields regained him a bronzed glow, replacing his tired, ghostly complexion, reviving his withered state of fitness.
“So, what’s the best news you have of Arkenshyr?” asked the old troll.
“He’s already told you twice!” Pursaiones defended Noilerg.
“It’s alright—” Noilerg replied. He touched Pursaiones on her shoulder, as Taisle watched, frustrated, from over the brim of his finished mug of ale.
“Well, the slaves are banding. They have formed into tribes—they’ve become savage. I saw several kill each other in a fit of rage. I’m glad we finished the walls here so fast; I’m afraid they would’ve found this village very soon if we hadn’t replaced old magic—”
“And lucky we are to have had you wander through first! We might not have known the magic was gone. We don’t check very often at all—Vapoury isn’t supposed to just disappear, you know,” praised the troll.
Taisle’s rampant thoughts swirled: Exactly, but somehow you all don’t want to discover why, do you? He decided to head home, leaving the enraptured idolaters to talk the night through. Picking up his mug he walked by the table crowded with Noilerg and his admirers, said a pleasant goodnight, then dropped his empty glass by the tired tender who waited patiently for the rest to go home so he could close.
“Thanks,” said the tender. Taisle nodded, annoyed as he heard another story beginning, Pursaiones instigating it this time. Maybe he’s not so bad, maybe he really is an asset to the village, thought Taisle as he approached the tavern door; maybe I’m a jealous child, unable to express my true feelings—pathetic.
“Taisle!” came a croaking voice as he turned the knob and opened the door to the dark night and pelting rain. There in the doorway was a soggy Mayor Doings, pipe hanging from his mouth, put out by the rain, still wafting a single file of smoke up from the wet cinders inside.
“Mayor?” asked Taisle, wondering what had brought Doings back; the mayor had left for bed hours ago.
“There’ll be something for you to hear, better—s—stay a m—moment,” the Mayor said. Taisle immediately felt a shock of panic, as the Mayor never trembled when he spoke. The mayor darted around Taisle, shaking visibly, and stood in front of the tender. He ushered the attention of Noilerg and his cohort, each of whom seemed slightly displeased that the story that had just begun had been halted.
“I’m afraid, I’m afraid the real ghost is—it was not an illusion—it’s here, it’s all around us!” choked the Mayor. He fainted on the spot, crashing hard into the table behind him, smacking a mug that shattered loudly against the stone floor.
A wave of disbelief swept the weary and drunken patrons. Pursaiones was first to rush to the mayor, lifting his head off the ground—he was unconscious, a line
of blood running to his eye from his soaked scalp. Taisle watched as the crowd dispersed, some running outside the tavern to see if there was a commotion, others coming to help hold the mayor. Noilerg showed no sign of alarm.
“Maybe a bit too many drinks?” Noilerg said, walking over casually and kneeling next to Pursaiones.
“I don’t know,” she whispered back, repeatedly saying Doings’s name, hoping for a glimpse of consciousness.
“I’ve never seen him so shaken before—” started Taisle, but he was drowned out by a wave of oohs and loud gasping sounds: the ones who had run outside were beholding something in the dark rainy night—something seemed to be startling them as much as it had Doings. Taisle left the congregation by the mayor, where the tender was raising a glass of water to Doings’s unmoving lips; he raced outside to see what was happening.
Rain pelted hard, driving in slanted waves across a sky rendered devoid of stars by thick cloud cover—Taisle immediately looked to his left down the main village road. Between the last two houses a glowing blotch of light, bright yellow, distantly static beyond the meadow, pulsed. Taisle didn’t stay with the drunken village folk who stood paralyzed, too scared to flee or move closer to the ominous light—rain drenched them while Taisle sprinted down the muddy street, desperate for a better view of the light. The houses fell away as Taisle came to the birth of the meadow; the dim field stretched away, a flat expanse running into the feet of the mountains, nearly a mile away. Slowly looking around the dark horizon, Taisle could not comprehend what he saw: there in the Rislind range, high atop the mountains, was a stark band of yellow light, continuous, as if a line of men stood atop the mountains holding linked torches—except the line of light was smooth; there were no breaks in the uniformity of the gold luminescence.
Taisle gazed incredulously. He followed the strip of gold with his eyes across the cloud-dimmed night; the light went on, unbroken, tracing the peaks of the Rislind range, right around to the edge of his vision. He ran into the stable, quickly unreined his horse, jumped on the saddle, then whipped the beast so that it charged into the stormy meadow. Turning around several hundred yards out, alone in the dark prairie between the mountain-ring and the village, Taisle could see the circumference of the Rislind peaks, the grand walls that enclosed their secluded meadow. Gold light formed a complete circle atop the distant mountaintops. The thin band of gold, a nature-defying aura penetrating the fog, had ensnared the community. Muddy hooves slopped, coming from the village, but Taisle was too entranced to notice. Noilerg galloped alongside him, followed a moment later by Pursaiones.
Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) Page 22