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

by Turkot, Joseph

  No entity stood near, nothing hinted of life; there was but an endless succession of moon-lit hills adorned by the dead. A curious fire fed silently on the sky in the distance. Flaer knew: it was Wallstrong. Little hope was left to the West: the Unicorporas had been created, and as long as its magic held, nothing could stop it. He passed the endless slain forms, slanted upon their shared tomb. He thought briefly of his friends, the Hemlin Army; no memory returned their fate. Forget the battle, he decided: there is nothing to affect what has already come to pass. No anger surged, but a keen sense of urgency filled him—must keep moving, get to the city…His footsteps drowned all thoughts of sadness. The spackled firmament bore its neutral light upon the lone traveler’s passage over the hills, the bodies. Silence gently rested on the hills save for the soft steps of one death-risen man. Somehow, swordless, he would go to kill the Unicorporas, indestructible though it was.

  * * *

  “To the mountain pass?” Erguile asked in panic. The night was on fire. Around him stood the last defending archers. They battled from a stone embankment high atop the inner-castle wall of Wallstrong. Flames rent the night sky starless, lighting shrieking women and children that trembled and ran, terrifying the elderly. Most huddled in a petrified mass below the high buttress that rose at the base of the capitol building, awaiting word from Peren.

  “I’ll provide cover. We must leave now—there’s no use staying here, the gates have been destroyed,” Peren informed his captain. The other living generals were summoned forth; Peren informed them of the plan to evacuate the city. From outside the city arced forth a sky-wide volley of fire-rain, behind which hovered the scarlet Unicorporas, enraged at having been contained for so long by the druids. In battle among the hills, Peren and his fellowship had successfully prevented his assault for nearly an hour; they’d formed a shield through which a small portion of his power was drained, allowing enough time for the Hemlin Army to retreat behind city walls. The containment did not last—several druids fell by way of exhaustion before the Unicorporas ripped away over the hills, aiding his army as it reached the gates of the stalwart city. Peren had chased after him, sneaking back inside the city, skirting a flank of trolls that marched ineffectually against the fortified embankments. The only passage visible to the Feral was a high granite door, raised and lowered by a set of chains from behind the walls.

  “Generals!” roared Peren. Archers rained arrows upon the Feral mass below, but they now slipped past the granite door; it lay fractured to shards by the Unicorporas’s aerial destruction. The generals—four of originally seven—stood listening for Peren’s command.

  “We evacuate the city! We head for Reichmar Pass—Gelros, you go with Chreghim, break the Reichmar Seal.”

  “The Reichmar Pass? It hasn’t been used in decades!” came a citizen who hid by the Hemlin forces.

  “He’s right general,” Chreghim said, stepping close to Peren. “We don’t know if the Reichmar are friend—” he was cut off:

  “Does this look friendly to you? Is this your vision of defense? Go now! Do not question me—now!” Peren screamed, pointing at the glowing dot in the sky, a red star; from it splinters of fire hurtled a trail of fire across the night, landing behind the walls.

  “Peren?” Erguile asked patiently, awaiting his orders.

  “Lead, Erguile. Take the citizens through the tunnels until you find an entrance into Ascaronth—the Reichmar must consent. Their fate hangs by a thread as thin as ours.”

  “Yes general.” He dropped the bow clenched in his fist, unsuited for its use anyway, and started rallying all the standing women and children around him, ushering them down from the stone embankment, flooding them onto the burning streets below where a mob awaited its fate.

  “Listen here!” called Chreghim. Erguile and the other generals mirrored his call for attention:

  “We are evacuating the city! Follow us, call your loved ones near if you value their lives—come to the Reichmar Pass with us, or stay and die!”

  “Order! Order!” called Gelros over the din of hysteria. Frightened citizens raced toward the old Hopwing House, a museum of relics, housing the sealed door to the Reichmar Pass, an underground tunnel leading directly underneath the Angelyn Range, four miles to the south.

  “What do you plan to do once you’ve holed everyone up in Ascaronth, and this last vestige of fortitude has burned to the ground?” came the citizen who’d reminded Chreghim that the Pass had long since been derelict.

  “We will draw them to the Corlisuen, fight them at the choke,” Peren cut in. Aglow with emerald light, aura extending several yards in each direction, he paced away toward the stairs, heading in the direction of the Feral trolls that swarmed the outer streets of Wallstrong, not away from the blasts of the Unicorporas but toward them.

  “And you propose that rock and granite are a protection against the wrath of him?” whispered the demoralized citizen, who lay down as the last of the archers fled, urging him to get up as they passed.

  “Those mountains will not protect you!” he called to his would-be saviors. He let them leave. A jetting sphere of fire eclipsed Darkin’s greatest moon. It crashed into the edge of the embankment, shattering its lip. Closing his eyes, the young citizen of Wallstrong thought his last thought—a quiet reception of the limitless power of the Unicorporas.

  * * *

  “Can you see that?” called Reap. Krem and Falen hadn’t heard or seen a thing. The great scarlet hawk upon which they rode flapped its wings gently—Krem had never come across the Kalm ocean so fast, nor could he if he used every bit of his Vapoury. Nothing on Darkin could muster such speed as the Sleeping Enox had provided them.

  “I said look over there!” yelled Reap, whose vision surpassed both of his fellow passengers. Krem and Falen turned their gaze to see what warranted Reap’s screams. In the distance they saw what had caught his eye: there was a wavering orange blaze, smothered by a smoke stack, appearing blurrily together as one massive spire. Krem knew instantly that the best defense of the West had fallen.

  “Wallstrong,” Falen said low.

  “We can’t go there, we can’t land there!” Reap recoiled in fear at the thought, sensing grave danger: “He’s there!”

  “You propose to destroy the evil harboring itself in Gaigas by running from its source?” Falen charged the Nethvale refugee.

  It had only been a few days since the blizzard when Adacon had been knocked unconscious by the pelting hail. A sudden wash of red had saved them; the Enox had come upon them. But Adacon had disappeared midflight, halfway down the mountains, vanishing from right off the back of the bird—Krem had been quite unsure of what to do. The hawk dropped them off at the foothills of the Nethvale mountains, and without a word, it flew off—back up toward the peaks. Krem’s magic had returned, and they’d decided to fly back atop Falen to search for Adacon, but Tempern had sent word, a floating letter curled up, driving through the wind of its own accord, landing purposely in Krem’s cap: all was well atop the mountains of Nethvale, and Adacon was in good care. The search was called off. Soon the red hawk returned, intercepting Falen’s southerly flight, taking them all on its back speedily across the Kalm to the burning city.

  ‘Sorry for the delay—I realize your Vapoury has been null; it’s this bird, she’s always doing that—making me forget things I shouldn’t, making me remember things I shouldn’t. At the least, know that you ought not try and rescue your friend; he’s my guest now. The Enox will be intercepting you soon. Sorry I’ve never mentioned her to you Krem—I’m sure your short meeting was acquaintance enough to know she is something extraordinary. I hope to meet your friends soon, sorry there isn’t time now. There is grave news: I sense that something terrible has happened in Hemlin. I send you there at once to do my bidding where I cannot: save what innocent lives you can. For your dragon friend: Be calm and merry atop the Enox, she flies much faster than you. Anyway, I’ll be getting this boy back to you as soon as I can—in time to help I hope. A good
flight to you,

  —Tempern’

  “I wonder if this bird ever talks?” asked Reap, momentarily distracted from the burning city. “Perhaps it would give us advice on where to land?”

  “I think we should land south of the city,” Krem suggested.

  “In there?” Reap said warily, pointing down at an endless stretch of jagged peaks, piercing the blanket of clouds below, black and foreboding.

  “The Angelyn mountains are not so merciless as they appear from up here,” Krem reassured. “I don’t think there’s much we can do for the city—but we might attempt to rally the Reichmar and counsel them into bringing aid.”

  “The Reichmar?” laughed Falen. “They haven’t helped anyone but themselves in decades! Even I know that much, old Vapour.”

  “It’s true, but who is to blame for their seclusion? Surely none other than Grelion—and where is he now? He’s abandoned the country for another age of terror, disappeared just in time for it!” Krem said angrily. “No, I think they will see things differently now—they must know something of the menace encroaching upon their foothills…and by what route does Vesleathren purpose to travel south? There is only one way: through the Corlisuen!”

  Falen visualized the tiny valley passage he’d flown over countless times, the Corlisuen, a choke commonly held as the only way to march through the Angelyn Range and come out on the other side alive. The thin pass ran several miles, exiting into the Vashnod plains—Melweathren’s Crawl Plaque had come through the pass in ancient times, surprising the peaceful countryside of Arkenshyr. It cannot be allowed to happen twice, Falen thought to himself. The plan was set, whether the Enox heard their idea or not. They would land in the small valley between the skyjutting peaks of the Angelyn range. From there they would search out the entrance to Ascaronth, and pray for the aid of the long-secluded dwarves.

  XXI: REUNION OF OLD FRIENDS

  The great troop of Enoan elves and dwarves marched across the Vashnod plains in broad daylight. Bands of horse-riders witnessed their wake, scattering at the sight.

  “These must be the slaves of Grelion, no longer ruled by his poison fist, wondering about the land, searching for purpose,” mused Gaiberth to Iirevale, walking alongside one another.

  “What a shame that he remains unfound in these times. If we could have a head to blame for all this it’d be his,” said a nearby dwarf.

  “It would not be Grelion, dear friend, as evil as he is,” Gaiberth quickly responded. “We can’t forget where true evil lies.” The dwarf fell silent, knowing whom Gaiberth spoke of; Vesleathren was the only one who deserved the title of true evil, even the most stubborn of the Oreinen dwarves knew.

  Passage through the city of Saru Gnarl had come easy enough for Terion—the guards there had been in shambles; it seemed the chain of leadership had been broken with Grelion’s desertion. The rise of Zesm’s power over the slave routes had left them leaderless. Earnest looks of fear had come from the guards-turned-pillagers as Terion marched his troops up the main avenue of the city, a wide berth given to the placid elven ranks. Many looked bewildered, as if witnessing a dream; they wondered if Grelion was returning to power, and a newly contracted army had come to restore order—still others wished to join the army of Terion, sensing that he went to war against the evils that had made paucity their way of life for so long. Groups of slaves had attacked the dwarven force, but they were quickly set straight by a volley of elven flint; misguided notions had led them to think they were attacking their enslavers, come from across the sea to reclaim them. Terion had briefly addressed the people of Saru Gnarl:

  “We know of your destitution, and we come not to hasten your demise, your spiral into lawlessness. We march west to restore peace and provide for you a replenishment of hope—a chance at survival unfettered by the cold king whose bondage meted your unhappy years. Know, people of Arkenshyr, that Grelion is gone, if you’ve not believed it from the state of your city—know that the slave trade is ended, if not before today, then today, by my passing here! Know that the great dwarves of the Oreinen, from across the ocean, have come: know that the great elves of the Carbal Jungle, reprieved of Aulterion’s hateful stroke, come hither now too, that your country may be saved before a true conqueror comes—as he has already torched those cities you do not see, north of this realm, beyond the horizons of cold spires, home of our cousin-kin, the Reichmar.

  “Sustain yourselves! Follow us if you wish. Know that we go to end the evil that condemns your land, your chances of lasting freedom. Do not, and languish here in lawlessness—and to those who choose that course, I suggest you hide well, for Grelion has left an awful legacy of treachery and betrayal. Fair well, citizens of corruption. Know that your saviors pass you now!”

  Gaiberth had stood idly by, listening to Terion’s words, eager to pass out of the wretched city, to be away from the gaze of the looters, the pillagers, the enslavers, the calloused slaves themselves, factions warring amongst themselves. And so Terion passed out of Saru Gnarl, trailed by a hundred former slaves. Some of Grelion’s former guards followed, hoping for a chance to reach a better existence, to fulfill some dim aspiration of happiness and peace. The great army marched along the Slave Trade Route, formerly congested by Grelion’s slave carriages, now empty, passing the secluded mountains of Rislind far to their south. Eventually they had come onto the Vashnod Plains.

  “These nomads—if they could only be united somehow,” Iirevale replied to Gaiberth.

  “Terion has the power to unite, as you saw in that forsaken port city. But time presses us. We know not how stricken the north forces are, or whether they stand at all. If we weren’t in a race for the choke, I would agree that we ought to round up as many as possible, gather and tie them to our purpose,” Gaiberth said. Calan walked behind, talking with Wiglim the dwarf Vapour.

  “And so he was a slave here?” replied Wiglim.

  “Somewhere in Arkenshyr, yes,” Calan replied. She’d engaged Wiglim in the story of her champion, whose absence from their journey rent all smiles from her visage.

  “I have heard the stories—rumors, legends about the final attack—I knew he was a slave. That’s why it never made much sense; how could he have done so much, more than Flaer?” Wiglim replied skeptically.

  “You know I saw him…Aulterion. I was there when he swung his sword at Flaer—and I know that Adacon did it: he ended that monster’s life, north of the wall, amid a sea of Feral trolls.”

  “But how did he do it?” Wiglim replied incredulously. Calan didn’t respond; something had caught her eye. She looked into the southern sky of the Vashnod, nearly opposite the direction they traveled.

  “Condors!” she cried. The army moving with her did not seem to care at all that she’d called out the name of a species of bird, nor that she was now stamping up and down, shouting at the top of her lungs, pointing at the horizon behind them. “Look!” she cried. Only Wiglim stopped to see what she was raving about; the armored dwarves moved steadily on, exhausted from the steady glare of the western sun.

  “What is it? I see nothing,” Wiglim replied. Calan ignored him, wondering what good Vapoury was if it left wizards blind to distant objects. She ran at full speed, terribly fast even for an athletic elf, to meet Gaiberth and Iirevale where they led the dwarves.

  “Iirevale, look! Condors, four of them!” she gasped.

  “What?” Iirevale said, his line of thought interrupted; he’d been discussing with Gaiberth the nature of the Reichmar seclusion, the legends surrounding the dwarf city Ascaronth, and what myths claimed lay hidden deep in the Angelyn heart.

  “Condors?” Gaiberth echoed her comment. Together the three peered off into the distance, straining for a sight between bands of clouds that streaked the blue sky. Four distant specks stained the otherwise uniform spring horizon.

  “You really think it might be—it’s impossible Calan. Let’s be on, we lose our pace,” said Iirevale, having stepped out of file. Rows of elves and dwarves marched past th
e stragglers. Wiglim finally caught up and stepped out of line, gazing with them now at the anomaly: four brown dots in the distance, flying in the direction of their northern route.

  “There are riders!” she screamed with glee.

  “That drunken gnome, you really think so?” Iirevale gasped in disbelief.

  “It has to be him, it really has to be him!” shouted Calan, confident she had identified the specks. Soon a crowd of dwarves gathered. All stood watching the condors close in high above them.

  “They’re flying right past us,” cried Calan.

  “I’ll send a signal,” Wiglim said; immediately a black line of smoke shot directly up from his hands toward the passing condors.

  “They’ve seen it!” Gaiberth said, his first acknowledgement of what was happening. Terion approached to see what was holding up his march, angered and disgruntled; he gazed skyward as the rest, and to his amazement, he saw a tiny gnome squatting atop a condor, descending swiftly toward the ground from the heavens.

  “Who’re these?” Terion asked cautiously.

  “One at least that was a guest in your home last summer!” Calan informed the confused king of dwarves.

  “A guest of mine?!” came King Terion.

  Yarnhoot landed near the congregation of gawking dwarves and elves, out of place in the barren stretch of yellow-green plains—Wester followed quickly after, carrying a pasty figure clothed in fern-colored garments, wearing many belts and pouches. The man wore several swords, a buckler shield, and the look of happy surprise on his face. Suddenly, behind Yarnhoot and Wester, two more condors thumped to the ground, each bearing another rider. Gaiberth, Terion, Iirevale, Calan, and Wiglim all jumped back when they saw the third rider hop to the ground from his condor: the rider was the height of a gnome; his eyes glowed red, dust-white boots emerged from grey leggings, and his chest protruded with a hole at its center, housing the strangest assembly of wires and pipes that any of the onlookers had ever seen. It appeared, Calan decided, that this rider was partially constructed of metal parts; she could make no sense of anything, only that she was enraptured by the face of Remtall Olter’Fane, Captain of the Gnomen Fleet.