“No. You do not know this man,” came Krem, still restraining Remtall. “If you think you do, then you have believed his lies—his rightful name is Grelion Rakewinter, general in the Five Country War, war-hero-turned savage traitor to the free people of the world—enslaver of dear friends of mine,” Krem eyed Adacon of whom he spoke; it seemed only Krem sensed the raw power that Adacon now possessed—only he knew who the most powerful among them now was. “We will deal with this prisoner after the war is over—his justice will be meted then. That is my counsel on this matter.”
“And who are you to make the final judgment, old hermit?” Remtall replied.
“Who are you, gnomen friend, to stop me from doing so?” Krem flared; a fiery glint of anger came into the old hermit’s eyes. Remtall knew he could do nothing to overpower the old man. Behlas looked patiently at the ordeal, waiting for his chance to interject, desiring to ask questions of Krem.
“This business seems well-important to all of you, but, I’d like to be told what is going on,” came a deep scratchy voice—it seemed Falen had been forgotten in the fray. He stood upon his enormous taloned feet, surveying the ongoing commotion.
“Let me go. I won’t hurt him,” Remtall said in a tired voice. Krem accepted his word instantly, releasing his hold.
“Is this true?” Pursaiones said, tears welling in her eyes, “It was all lies?”
“You’ll have more than these folk to answer to!” an angered Taisle called out to Grelion. Beside Taisle, Haeth and his warriors had wandered over, having been at the back of the line, watching patiently; they now realized they had also a great stake in the fate of the man.
“You will feel the justice for what you’ve done. Tribes roam about, killing themselves, for the freedom you took away!” Haeth called over the din.
“No—no—no. It’s all wrong…all of it,” Grelion rasped. He hadn’t yet voiced a word, his eyes lurking low over the grass at his feet, returning from a daze. Finally Grelion raised his head; all eyes were fixed on him. He watched Krem ready a spell of constraint for him, hermit hands outstretched, licks of blue energy dancing on them.
“Wait, Krem,” Adacon said. He freed his arm that slumped around Calan’s neck, finally involving himself once more in the situation. “I want to hear him.” Adacon had a look of stalwart indifference, and of earnest desire to hear Grelion’s tale. He alone believed there could be something in it other than new lies; Pursaiones had run off, back to Taisle, believing finally what everyone else had already seemed to know—that she’d fallen in love with an evil traitor, a hated murderer of children.
“It was all Zesm—he’s been working in me for nearly twenty years…it’s not very clear, it’s coming back to me very slowly, but—he’s the reason, he’s how it all went so…wrong…after the war,” came Grelion’s dragging voice. Krem looked entirely unconvinced, as did Remtall, who seemed to be mustering every bit of his energy to not launch another assault on his son’s murderer.
“Go on…” Adacon said plainly, everyone’s attention on him and Grelion.
“I don’t know how—but suddenly his control over me, it disappeared. A month ago, maybe more than that, I can’t know for sure…as I said, everything is very fragmented—it feels as if the war ended yesterday.”
“It explains why he hasn’t aged!” came Wiglim, seemingly out of nowhere. Krem was taken aback at the notion, but it was very true—Grelion appeared only a handful of years older than Adacon, but the Five Country War had ended many decades ago.
“So—Zesm cursed you, used you as his puppet?” Adacon asked.
“I can’t be certain how he did it, I don’t remember very much. Pursiaones, I really did believe for awhile that I had been a slave, my memory has been so, so…” he trailed off, looking out toward her, but Taisle had wrapped himself hard around her, distracting her from his appeal. “I’m sorry—I am sorry everyone,” Grelion whimpered.
“What if it’s true?” Behlas whispered, half to himself and half to Binn. Both he and Binn knew the tales of the Five Country War, and of the treacheries of Grelion during the decades that followed: it was astounding to think it could have all been a trick, a magnificent manipulation through dark magic.
“The only way Zesm could have enchanted you so severely would have been if Vesleathren had been still about, channeling his energy, all the while in our midst,” Krem said. “But he was gravely injured after his battle with Flaer, far too injured to do such work. And you—you turned so fast after the war ended.”
“No—I see it—he’s not lying,” said Adacon, looking as if he stared right through the horizon, looking past it into an invisible ether. “It was Aulterion who funneled his power—I sense it. Krem—feel for it, there’s still a trace on him.” Krem patiently tried to do as Adacon told, and the others stood by in confusion, most not knowing what they talked about, waiting nonetheless.
“You’re right,” Krem suddenly broke the silence, smiling at Adacon, amazed at how much Tempern had been able to do in such a short period of time.
“But Aulterion is dead. How can you sense his energy?” Calan shot in, eager to grasp the looks of recognition that dawned on Krem and Adacon’s faces.
“It was when we killed Aulterion that Grelion’s enchantment wore off!” Krem said, a look of startled realization spread across his face. “Sometimes, when an enchantment is that strong, it can take years to wear off, even after its caster is dead—some have said certain magic never leaves its victims.”
“Lies! Lies, all of it! Behlas, blast him with the Rod,” Remtall said, outraged that those closest to him were absolving his son’s murderer. Since leaving Rislind, Remtall’s driving motivation had been his desire to kill the man in front of him—he had taken to the sea, so many months ago, leaving his long years of seclusion, in the hopes of one day facing and killing the one who’d murdered his beloved child. “Forget you all—it’s the work of dark magic still, spreading even now—I’m the only one left who is sane,” Remtall coughed wildly, seeing that Behlas would not heed his call for the Rod’s use on Grelion. Remtall threw his dagger, noticing Krem’s lapse in restraint—in a perfect arc, it struck Grelion in his neck. Grabbing frantically at the deep impalement, Grelion fell to his knees, toppled on his side.
“Noilerg!” cried Pursiaones, running from Taisle’s arms.
“Krem, stop him!” Falen called, seeing that Remtall had charged for the fallen body, ready to take his dagger out so that he could strike with it again. Krem quickly ensnared Remtall once more, this time snapping him quickly up into the air.
“Damn you, vile traitors,” Remtall spat. Krem sent a bolt of magenta light at the writhing gnome, causing his head to slump to his shoulder upon impact. Gently, Krem laid him down on the earth, sound asleep.
“His name is Grelion,” came Taisle from afar, still hearing Pursaiones shouting his fake name as she grasped his slumped body, blood spraying her from where the knife lodged in his neck.
“Reap,” Krem called; as if from a dream, the Nethvale native sprung into action, applying his medicinal salve, first releasing the dagger in a swift motion, then stopping the flow of blood.
“He’ll survive I think,” Reap called after several moments of tending the unconscious form.
“This is all a waste of time,” came Terion. “I may sympathize with the country of Arkenshyr, its plight of slavehood, its pursuit of justice for that traitor lying there, but there is a more pressing matter, one which I sailed across the ocean to attend—one which I ended my race’s seclusion in the Blue-Grey Mountains to resolve. And it is to march north that I intend, into those foreign peaks, so that we might stop the greatest evil this world has ever known from accomplishing his grand purpose: to vanquish all light from this world, everything I love and care about—so, we leave now. Those who wish to harbor over aliens, or Grelion, or the missing Slowin, may do so, but they will not take from me any more time when evil presses upon this land,” he declared loudly, filling the ears of those around h
im, purging his anger at being held up for so long, prevented from journeying toward their truest errand.
“We will not delay you further, begin your march. We are with you until the end, King Terion, and you, Gaiberth,” Krem said, settling the clamor that had started. Finally, the troop began to march north. Haeth offered two horses—one for Grelion and one for Remtall. Behlas enchanted them so that the riders were stuck tightly to their saddles, magically bound upright, heads down, bodies asleep.
Adacon fell in line by Calan. She asked him question after question about his trip. He revealed as much as he could, at one point showing her his newfound use of Vapoury to fly; for a moment she looked at him as if he was a different person, but soon she shrugged off the notion, realizing he was the same carefree spirit she loved. She accepted its truth, though she had known it for some time; he possessed some kind of mystical power, some inborn connection to Gaigas that she would never fully understand.
“I am in love with a Vapour,” she said jovially as they marched into the foothills of the Angelyn mountains. The sun set mildly to their left, falling in and out of view behind the jutting spires of dark grey peaks.
“I am no Vapour,” he laughed. Krem, walking nearby, smiled, then returned to his pipe. It seemed that Krem had formed a quick relationship with Behlas, and they shared deep conversations about the depth of the Rod’s power—Behlas had even let Krem wield it briefly. Unlike Wiglim, Krem could set the Rod aglow easily. Behlas was happy to have another among them that could use it if the need arose. Binn found himself making interesting conversation with Ulpo, who was entirely fascinated by the machinery of the gnomes from Aaurlind, the catalyst for Parasink’s twisted experiments.
“You know, it was all very productive, before he came and ruined us,” Binn exclaimed.
“How do you mean?” Ulpo said, taking a swig of ale, noticing his flask retained its weight much better with Remtall asleep.
“Well, our machines were used for a great many productive things, we even built a flying horse—of course, it wasn’t as Parasink did—we didn’t mingle machines with living creatures, with flesh,” Binn’s tinny voice replied.
“Amazing—a flying horse you say, built of machines?” Ulpo said, lighting a fresh pipe.
“Yes, Begbotious Grawsfander invented her—it was on the precedence of that invention that Parasink overtook us—did away with machinists, with the whole of our race frankly—transmuted us into Gears,” Binn told.
“Gears?” said Iirevale, creeping into the conversation. Binn explained how Parasink operated; he told Iirevale how the Gears were Parasink’s experiments to replace the spirits, his diggers.
“Sounds dreadful—I am glad you’ve come away from that place,” Iirevale said.
“And I’m glad to have met an elf,” Binn said excitedly. They talked of elven culture until Terion brought everyone to a halt several miles into the first stretch of the Corlisuen pass.
“Welcome to the Angelyn Range—we will set camp here for several hours of needed rest. These mountains are quite dreary against the good Blue-Greys, I’ll admit,” Terion said, chipper again at having made good speed across the last stretch of the Vashnod Plain. The army quickly transformed into a long row of camp sites, abound with small fires. Soon a meal was had by all, as generous stores of meat and fish were given out. King Terion and Gaiberth had lugged a great store of nourishment across the ocean, even bringing vegetables and fruits, all of which Wiglim had enchanted so as not to spoil.
“I’m worried about Slowin,” Calan said to Adacon as they set their camp site around a crackling fire. A warm scent of fresh-burnt wood rolled past them, and the low-lying pines near the foothills came alive with chirps and howls.
“I’m not worried. It’s strange, the prophecy…I don’t know, but I can’t leave again, I have to stick with you,” he replied, smiling.
“I don’t want you flying off,” she said, managing a half-hearted chuckle.
“What is it?”
“I’m still not used to it—your being a Welsprin,” she said.
“Don’t say it so loud—Falen might overhear and feel, well, not as special anymore,” Adacon laughed.
“Heard that…” growled a hoarse voice somewhere amidst the yellow flames behind them, several rows of camping army back.
“That drake has impossible hearing,” Calan whispered, lying down to gaze up at the emerging stars.
“It was them, you know,” Adacon said.
“What?”
“That star—the one that brought all the fuss in Enoa, and everywhere else.”
“It was who—you mean the strangers?”
“Yea. They were watching us, taking information, reading our thoughts.”
“You’re joking?”
“No. Tempern showed me—he knew they were there.”
“But—I don’t understand. Why didn’t he come with you?” she asked, thinking that they needed another Vapour as powerful as Krem, not realizing that Adacon had far surpassed even Krem’s power.
“He can’t—he can’t interfere directly; he’s attuned too closely with the neutrality of Gaigas,” Adacon explained.
“But,” Calan said, confused, too tired to keep asking questions that would yield no understanding. “I can worry about it all tomorrow. I’m so tired, and so happy your back. You know I was worried, I didn’t know if you’d made it here ahead of me, and I heard the news about Wallstrong.”
“I wish I had been there in time—I can’t begin to think about what I’ll do if Erguile is hurt, or Slowin.”
“And Flaer is there too.”
“Hah!” he laughed hard.
“What?”
“He’s one I do not worry about,” Adacon grinned, lying by the fire. A thin row of sap-filled pines sent their scent through the air, turning his gaze skyward from the earth, mirroring her, looking at the million shimmering specks of starlight.
“Do you think those—aliens—do you think they really know where Slowin is?”
“Maybe. But I’m not worried about it. They may know where he is, they might even have planted him here, a long time ago—but as long as he’s with Flaer, they won’t get him—they won’t even come close,” he said confidently.
“I can’t believe he could be the enchanted metal from the dwarven prophecy after all,” she replied, trying to fathom what that really meant. It changed her perception of the lovable golem she’d grown to know in Erol Drunne as she’d waited three months for Adacon to wake from his coma.
“Sounds quite strange—but then again, it would make sense wouldn’t it? Everyone always talks about how odd he is, how there’s not another golem like him in all the world—even besides the color of his skin—a golem that loves to sleep in trees,” Adacon said, thinking of his first meeting with the shiny giant.
“Look—there’s Yarnhoot. He must be hunting a late-night meal,” Calan pointed up; the black silhouette of the condor flew under the canopy of stars above.
“Ah, good Yarnhoot, and Wester,” Adacon chimed. The second, third, then fourth great condor followed in a line behind Yarnhoot.
“He’s got some friends apparently,” she said lazily, closing her eyes now, succumbing to the warmth of sleep.“I hope Remtall is alright with this, once he wakes up.”
“He’ll be fine, as long as he gets a bit of pipeweed, and let’s not forget—some dwarven ale from Ulpo,” Adacon chortled. “They were incredibly strange, the aliens—Krem couldn’t use his power…” Adacon waited for Calan to respond to his reflection, but she didn’t; he looked at her closed eyes, her black hair falling softly across her forehead, her arm slumped across his chest as if in claim of ownership. She’d fallen asleep. Better do the same, he told himself. Soon he slipped into a world of dreams, pleasantly falling into a peaceful void, dozing to the smell of their snapping fire; one last thought briefly flickered to life in his mind before it died out: Where is the Enox?
XXVIII: LONE WANDERER
“Wake up!” Erguile push
ed Peren for the second time, more forcefully than the last. Night had fallen hours ago, but Erguile had been unable to sleep. He elected himself as first watch for the night, guard against Vesleathren and his army while the rest slept. He’d been vigorously alert until a moment ago; somehow, he’d accidentally drifted off. Upon opening his eyes, a single silhouette moved in the distance, trudging along, pacing toward them under starlight.
“Erguile?” Peren peered up.
“Someone’s coming,” Erguile whispered. Peren instantly roused, as if struck by lightning. Together they crept among the sleeping infantry deeper into the narrow valley until they reached the edge of the battalion. Erguile ducked down, bidding Peren to look into the darkness.
“I don’t see any—oh, there,” Peren said, shaking the fog of sleep.
“Who do you think it is? A straggler left in Wallstrong?” asked Erguile.
“Impossible, all of them would be Feral or dead by now—none could make the long route to Corlisuen alive,” he replied, unable to think of who could be marching alone through the mountains at such an hour.
“A mountain native, maybe one of the Reichmar,” Erguile suggested.
“No—too tall and thin,” said Peren, keenly eyeing the wending shadow; it was difficult to discern against the low-ridge converging mountains in the horizon. Peren quieted Erguile before he could continue the discussion of the traveler’s identity. They sat together in silence as several other soldiers awoke, wandering to the front only to have Peren silence them too. Soon, the silhouette had come close enough to be called to, but it seemed it still didn’t know it was being watched: he must see a sleeping army on the floor of the valley before him, yet he’s walking on anyhow, Erguile’s mind raced, deciding that meant it could not be an enemy; surely it would be foolish to cross the Corlisuen if thousands of Hemlin enemies lay in wait, plainly in sight beneath the stars.
“Vesleathren—what if it’s him,” Erguile said, no louder than a whisper—a gasp came from a nearby soldier who watched with them. The stranger stopped, hearing the gasp: He stood motionless, twenty yards away, concealed in shadow.
Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) Page 32