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

by Turkot, Joseph

  “Then, after we went to find out where the light was coming from, one of our friends was kidnapped,” Pursaiones explained.

  “Not really one of ours—a stranger, new to our village,” Taisle rejected her inclusion of Noilerg. Adacon looked concerned.

  “Zesm,” he said to himself, recalling the detailed stories of Remtall’s, in which his son had been taken in the night, sold into slavery. “Was the kidnapped one a child?”

  “No, a man—middle-aged,” Taisle replied.

  “And you’re trying to find a way out of Rislind to find him?” Adacon asked.

  “Yes—to save him,” Pursiaones went on. She explained the situation at length to Adacon, from the first story of ghosts in the village, to the night they caught Noilerg stealing, to the destruction of the magical entrances, to Noilerg’s prominence among the town people, and finally, to the sight of the strange metal vehicle in the forest that had made the awful clicking sound. Adacon listened patiently, seemingly with all the time in the world to listen, nodding as they relayed the events.

  “That is odd—click, click, click, you say?” he asked again.

  “Yes, and we saw him—strapped into the thing, horrified. Whoever or whatever it is, it’s got him, and it was not friendly.”

  “I’d guess that the light around your village is connected to that thing somehow,” Adacon suggested.

  “You’ve already done more than anyone could ask, but will you help us get out of these mountains?” Pursiaones begged. Adacon’s smile vanished for a moment. He seemed to ponder whether or not he should let them out of Rislind—whether or not it would be safe for them to carry on.

  “If you don’t, I will try the ridge again, I have no other choice—I can’t let him die.”

  “You’re in love him!” Adacon said unexpectedly, a smile crossing his face. Taisle frowned and looked away.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “No—I’m not.” She looked at Taisle, but he tried to appear as if he wasn’t paying attention. “No one deserves that, to be taken.”

  “I know the pain of missing a loved one. I’ll help, but I hope you don’t get sick easily. I don’t plan on walking out of here,” Adacon said. A joyful expression of eagerness wrapped his face again; in a whirl of strong wind, Taisle and Pursaiones both found themselves thrusted high above the ridge, then above the treeline near the peak, and soon above the entire mountain range. Slightly underneath them were their horses, surprisingly calm for drifting through open space, thousands of yards above solid earth.

  “Dear Gaigas!” cried Taisle. His stomach felt as if it sat in his throat. Looking to his left, Pursaiones appeared to have shut her eyes tight, not ready to have left sturdy soil again so soon.

  “This is amazing,” said Taisle. He’d overcome his angry stomach rather quickly, and looking around, adrenaline filled his body. He beheld a view he’d never imagined in his wildest dreams: the grass fields of the Rislind Plateau stretched for miles in every direction; behind him was the circular range of the Rislind mountains, concealing the tiny meadow at its heart. To his left was a stream meandering out from the river at the west entrance to the Rislind range, and following the stream Taisle saw it transform, eventually growing into a serpentine river in the distance that dropped suddenly at a waterfall, plummeting from the plateau at its highest point. Directly in front of them was a rover’s dream: the Vashnod prairie. To his right he spied the tiny-looking twin tower of Ceptical, and further in the distance Ceptical tower itself.

  They flew on. Taisle gazed in raw splendor at the looming fog-drenched peaks of the grey Angelyn mountains, many times higher than the greatest of Rislind’s peaks. Far to his left appeared a bare tract of arid flatland, burgeoning into a desert, vast, snaking away south.

  “Look there!” cried Pursaiones, who had finally opened her eyes after several oohs and aahs had gushed from Taisle as he beheld every feature of the magnificent spectacle below. She pointed to what had already caught Adacon’s attention—it was a thick band of marching rovers, some reflecting light with armor, some not. Adacon knew immediately the blue glint of dwarven mail; neither Pursaiones nor Taisle saw the wide grin that crossed his face. He caught something else in his vision—a silver object hovering in the sky above the marching troop, higher than he flew.

  “Are we going to land near them?” Taisle asked. “Maybe they’ve seen the silver thing—” Taisle cut himself off, noticing what had distracted Adacon: a larger version of the vessel he’d seen in the forest floated northwest of them, higher up between a spread of long cloudbands. “That’s it!”

  “But it’s impossible—it’s so much bigger.”

  “You’re sure that’s what you saw?” Adacon asked, focusing hard on the strange anomaly.

  “Yes!” they replied at the same time. Several lines of darker metal ran the length of the oblong vehicle, and three points of light dotted its hull, spread uniformly—other than that, it had no features.

  “Maybe we’ll rescue your friend sooner than you thought,” Adacon said zealously, increasing their speed. In the distance, they watched the vessel shoot straight down; in a matter seconds, it had landed on the ground, a small tube glinting silver under the sun, right alongside the band of marching fighters. The marching army slowly came to a halt, realizing it had visitors. The long straight line of warriors began to coil in, surrounding the silver mystery that had fallen from the sky.

  “There in a minute friends,” Adacon said to himself. The air around them whooshed violently—in an instant they had closed in on a confrontation between the alien craft and the confounded army of Gaiberth and King Terion.

  XXVI: ASCARONTH

  “This way,” called Peren to Erguile, who trailed him. They had traveled through the dank winding corridors for hours. Behind them trudged all of the city’s remaining citizens and the last of the Hemlin Army.

  “These damned tunnels!” said Erguile in frustration. It hadn’t been official, but he had assumed command of Flaer’s legion and become Peren’s second-in-command.

  “Are you sure this is the way, Peren?” came Diblo, an old druid who wore a singed robe of scarlet and green, walking fast alongside the generals.

  “As sure as our lore teaches it—I’ve never been through this pass, it’s been sealed for an age. I only pray the Reichmar receive us well when they discover what’s happened,” Peren replied.

  “So the merger is real then?” asked Diblo.

  “Yes, yet it may mean an advantage for us,” Peren said huskily as they labored up an endless incline in the dripping tunnel, wide enough across for three.

  “How could the Unicorporas be to our advantage? That’s madness! We barely held the damned wizard long enough for the army to man the city walls!” retorted Diblo.

  “Well, it is said that once the merger wears off, the spell leaves its sources much weaker than their original strength.”

  “I don’t know if I believe that,” Diblo said, unconvinced.

  “It makes sense—they plan to destroy the entire country before the spell fades, leaving them without fear of retaliation while they recuperate from the Unicorporas.”

  Erguile looked back warily, making sure the thousands that were in tow hadn’t mysteriously vanished: a long line, two and three wide per row, marched forward in sadness. Intermittent torches lit the dark-grey cavern walls. As far back as Erguile could see, the remains of Hemlin’s greatest city marched painstakingly forth, to an end that lay shrouded in doubt to all.

  “Peren, you saw nothing at all of Slowin or Flaer after we retreated?” Erguile asked, his mind drawing his missing friends.

  “No. I think I saw…”

  “What?”

  “I think I saw Slowin’s arm, off in the grass, reflecting light from the sun,” Peren informed bleakly.

  “Damned Vesleathren!” Erguile ripped angrily.

  “We’ll pay him his due justice,” Diblo said. “Surely the druids of the north do not fear that wicked magic—so vile to mother Gaigas!
Let him merge, let him rip Wallstrong asunder, and see that his tab is running, his sum total to be paid in full at the Corlisuen!” Diblo worked himself almost to a frenzy, and rubbed at his arm where a piece of Vesleathren’s snaking lightning had found him and burned through his robe, scalding his skin.

  “The pass is almost here,” Peren said after they’d marched in cold silence for several minutes—the chatter of the long line behind them had died down, only to suddenly rise again when Peren brought them all to a stop at the front. The cave veered in two directions—one tunnel remained the same size, delving left into the mountain deeps; the right path was small enough for a single man to file through at a time, and it bore hard to the right.

  “The right path leads to the secret entrance of Ascaronth, as my reading has taught me—the left is the old way to the Corlisuen choke, it will yield those who take it to the very valley we march to defend.”

  “What’s your idea then?” Erguile came, impatient to be stopped in the cramped, wet darkness.

  “A small party to Ascaronth, carrying our plight; the rest to the choke in haste—the Feral Brood are no doubt making speed toward the Corlisuen now, eager to rape the Vashnod and all that lies south of its golden limits.”

  “Understood,” Diblo said heartily, ready to be dispatched wherever Peren thought necessary. Peren’s jade aura brightened, lighting the tunnel with ambient glow that made the cave-rock twinkle as if built of emeralds.

  “Peren?” asked Erguile, waiting for a command.

  “We go to the choke, Erguile,” said Peren thoughtfully. “Diblo—you, Belwid, Hetgot, Kasewin, and Geron I entrust to carry with urgency our woe to the Reichmar dwarves, that they may emerge from hiding and aid us in the waning hour of the West, at the choke.”

  “We will carry the message, they will have no choice but to help—their home will not stay hidden if they do not,” Diblo confidently obeyed Peren. One by one, with swift haste, the five chosen druids filed into the small cave that ran to Ascaronth.

  “Emptoren, Falsrought, Semwon,” Peren called out after the five druids had disappeared from sight—they’d entered the pitch black cave with no torches, their only illumination their auras, lesser mirrors of Peren’s.

  “Peren,” came the stony voice of Emptoren, who stood several rows back, pushing his way toward his leader. In a moment the other two whom Peren had called found their way up, and all awaited his instruction:

  “We will face the Unicorporas again, and soon. Without Flaer, we have no power of Vapoury among our ranks, only the good-natured efforts of us—the druids. March back through the ranks, string together what’s left of our kind—so that a collected effort can be made one more time to subdue him…so that time is given to our army, that they may dismember the Feral Brood as it jams in the choke,” Peren ordered. “Erguile, you’ll be commanding Flaer’s legion.”

  “Understood,” Erguile replied, eager to be moving again, suddenly feeling himself a poor imitator of a general. As Emptoren, Falsrought, and Semwon went back, shuffling through the long line of civilians and military, trying to form a single file of druids, Peren led his followers through the cave on the left. Erguile fell in behind him, and Peren’s aura lit the way through the twisting corridor of eternal black.

  “How far to the valley?” Erguile asked.

  “Not far at all,” laughed Peren, who received a strange look from Erguile. “Sorry, it’s just—what better revenge in this party than your wrath, and the wrath of those others who were slaves. Your slavery is a product of the last war—that fiend who won the war for us, he created you also—and now, you lead an assault on the same foe that was your creator’s.” Peren seemed to find the scenario humorous despite imminent death, but Erguile was filled with doubt; his normal cocky and arrogant attitude had vanished, replaced by fear and sorrow—he’d lost two of his only friends in the world, Slowin and Flaer; he’d also had to leave Weakhoof behind in Wallstrong, and the fate of his beloved steed worried him almost more than any other comrade’s. That city was burning, and they’d been forced to throw the horses into an abandoned stable, in hopes that the Feral Brood would ignore horses as they marched through, tearing down everything else around them. It hadn’t mattered much to anyone else, but Weakhoof was Erguile’s closest friend, and he’d not had the chance, as on the marsh pass of the Slave Trade Route, to ride away this time. His heroics would become solitary, as his partner neighed in fear somewhere far away.

  * * *

  “This’ll be it then,” said Diblo, happy to have finally reached the end of the cramped tunnel. A hard granite wall prevented them from moving forward, but on the floor at the end of the tunnel was a small wooden hatch, locked by a series of iron pads. “Well, Hetgot, don’t let an old druid do all the work, eh?”

  “My pleasure,” came Hetgot. He sent a stream of blasting energy down, a thin line of extreme heat, and the pads sizzled instantly. Shoots of smoke filled the tiny space.

  “Ah—not with heat!” Diblo coughed. He retreated several yards, as did the rest, trying to escape the smoke of burnt iron.

  “Sorry,” gagged Hetgot, “not used to being in caves—business of dwarves and gnomes if you ask me.” The five druids waited patiently for the smoke to clear. Finally they saw the hatch on the floor again, surrounded by piles of brown ash.

  “You’ll be first down after that,” Diblo said.

  “Wouldn’t want it another way—these damned tunnels madden me,” he replied. Eagerly, he bounded forward, lifted the unlocked hatch, then jumped down, disappearing from sight.

  “Well,” Kasewin said limply. None among them moved forward.

  “I’ll go, we’ve no time to be finicky,” Geron, a young midnight-blue-robed druid said. He followed Hetgot down. As soon as Geron passed through the wooden door on the cave floor, a shriek came back up; the shriek was Geron’s. Diblo wasted no time and ran to the wooden hatch, holding it up and peering down at a polished stone floor of light grey—standing three yards below him was Geron, hands held to his face in horror.

  “What is it?” Diblo said in panic, jumping down as the two druids behind him, Kasewin and Belwid, came quickly after. Geron did not have to explain his mind-wrenching howl, as its cause was plainly in sight before them: the mangle-splayed body of Hetgot was strewn across the floor; several pools of blood spread across the ground, fueled from a spurt issuing from Hetgot’s gut, which faced into the polished stone floor.

  “Hetgot!” screamed Kasewin and Belwid, but Diblo was already scanning the small square room for a culprit; there was nothing in the room but two small doors on either side of them—the room was in fact perfectly square and polished it seemed, awash in green light from the druids’ auras.

  “Auras down, quiet,” muttered Diblo.

  “We can’t let the auras down, we have to heal Geron now!” came Kasewin desperately. Diblo looked sternly at Kasewin, then each of the others:

  “You sense it just as I do—his life-force has passed—he’s dead.” A noise creaked by the door to their left.

  “Now—auras down and no noise,” Diblo ordered again, as angry and loud as he could be with a whisper. This time the druids around him halted their denial, accepting their friend as gone, and let down their auras. The room darkened from ambient green to an unseeable lair of deathsmells. The druids strained to adjust but could not focus even upon each other, though close they huddled.

  “No noise…” Diblo reminded. An eerie quiet enveloped the four standing druids, and but a trickling sound could be heard—Hetgot’s new-slain body leaked by their feet, and they could feel the waste-current of his evaporated life swathing their leather boots.

  “I don’t hear anything,” Kasewin muttered as softly as he could manage, growing uneasy with the delicate spindrift of blood that hit his ankles.

  “Whatever killed Hetgot is still here,” Diblo said. They returned to their waiting game, hearing no more creaks, and soon, no more blood trickled either.

  “Maybe the Feral fou
nd this passage before us,” said Geron fearfully, forgetting after several minutes Diblo’s ordinance of silence.

  “The door was sealed, remember!” came Belwid angrily.

  “There may be other entrances! What if the dwarves don’t live here anymore, what if something else has taken—”

  A creak sounded. Something brushed against stone. An odd gurgle resonated, hoarse and deep.

  “Quiet!” Diblo shouted, unable to contain his fear. The noises continued. They seemed to come from the door nearest to Geron, on their right. Another gurgling emitted, like a beached tyrant of the sea, then a cracking noise, then the pitter-patter of steps, the congregation of more than one being.

  “We’ve got to move—to that door,” ordered Geron, paralyzed by the sounds, closest to him. Without Diblo’s consent, Geron rushed to the far door, away from the noises.

  “No!” whispered Diblo, but it was too late; Geron tripped violently to the floor, tangling with Hetgot’s corpse. In the crash he toppled into Kasewin, and together they thudded hard against the floor, sliding some over a warm coat of blood. Suddenly the room lit dimly green, Belwid’s singular aura; he’d refused to take darkness any longer. Whatever was on the other side of the door had heard the terrible crash, its movement frenzied by it.

  “It’s opening!” came Belwid, looking at the door from which Geron had run. Diblo turned in time to see the stone slab of door rising into the ceiling. Several sets of small brown fingers drove it up. At once Diblo sent a beam of light at the door, a violent shade of maroon, and the fingers struggled to raise the door any higher.

  “Help!” Diblo cried in pain, realizing that whatever lifted the door had abnormal strength. Belwid joined Diblo, cascading his own stream of maroon energy into the first. Channeling together, their light strengthened, turned white and purple. Geron and Kasewin both struggled to lift the door at the opposite side of the room for retreat, hoisting from a thin iron bar bracketed to the bottom of the slab; together they pulled up, and the door momentarily moved, but fell back down—they would need a third person, Geron realized in horror.