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

by Turkot, Joseph

  “He shattered the Brigun Autilus?” Adacon said, shocked. “I hadn’t even realized you were without it.”

  “I remember that part quite clearly,” Flaer said softly.

  “Well, out of nowhere, that old silver menace comes bounding, no—flying through the air, out of nowhere—and he tackles Vesleathren, crushes him hard, and sends him into the scorched pit.”

  “That sounds like Slowin,” Adacon said fondly.

  “Next thing I saw, smoke was shooting off him, as if it was too hot in there. His skin started turning colors, but…the heat didn’t seem to bother you or Vesleathren, neither of you were smoking.”

  “No, I was protected by magic, as was Vesleathren.”

  “So you got up, and I saw you send some kind of blue light toward him, wrapping him in it, and the steam stopped coming off him.”

  “Brilliant,” chimed in Remtall, apparently awake again, listening intently to the story.

  “And the pieces of your sword, they just dropped out of the air, didn’t hurt you.”

  “I remember all this,” Flaer said, wanting the part of the story of which he was no longer a witness.

  “And then you fell in,” Erguile glanced up at Flaer. “The pit started turning to mud, liquid almost, draining into a hole at the bottom. I saw you fight it, but it looked like you had put your might into shielding Slowin from the heat, and it caught you off guard, you disappeared.” Many of the listeners gasped at Erguile’s tale, and Krem looked on with pride at Flaer, envisioning the epic battle.

  “So then Vesleathren shot up, straight into the sky, and there Slowin was, hanging on for dear life, as strong a grip as ever, when…” Erguile stopped and fell silent again.

  “What? When what?” Remtall finally egged him on, the others too tactful to do so.

  “Vesleathren did something; I don’t know what, some kind of magic I guess…Slowin grew bright…”

  “Bright?” asked Remtall.

  “He just, his arms, they ripped out of him. He slumped down, and that was it, Vesleathren flung him off—he still was clinging without his arms.”

  “The bastard golem! Stubborn as me, was he?” Remtall smiled.

  “And he hit the crater again, turned white and steamed like before without your spell; then he went your way, right down into the crater.” Flaer looked around the tavern, as if he was searching for someone in particular, then closed his eyes, repeating Erguile’s story in his mind.

  “A valiant effort from both of you,” Krem interjected after sad quietness had displaced the cheerful celebration.

  “So where’s Ulpo gone off too?” Erguile asked, changing the subject.

  “He’s around here somewhere,” Remtall said, looking through the thick crowd of Hemlin warriors, Rislind natives, and forces of Terion and Gaiberth.

  “He’s become fast friends with Binn, hasn’t he?” Behlas said.

  “Yea—I never knew Ulpo had such an interest in mechanical things, I half expect that damned dwarf to get drunk and start taking Binn apart,” Remtall laughed. The room laughed hysterically, the mood of glory returning to them.

  It was the first night of rest since returning from the choke, and Remtall had elected Rislind as the finest, and nearest site for repose. Many elected to stay behind with Peren, and begin rebuilding Hemlin as soon as possible—still many of the Hemlin fighters came for the celebration, finding Rislind a cozy village to rejoice in after such a long struggle. Mayor Doings had barely a minute to prepare the village for the arrival of so many guests, and ever since their arrival he’d remained in an uproar about his town not being properly presentable for heroes. Though the townsfolk didn’t quite grasp the weight of the war, they rejoiced nonetheless to see the ring of light disappear from atop their mountains, and know that their ghost truly didn’t exist. Some were distraught at hearing that Noilerg had lied, and that he was really Grelion, a man accused of the severest atrocities; surprisingly, Crumpet was one of the first to offer asylum to the man, citing his hard work on the crops as a good enough reason to absolve any crime.

  The night of celebration wore on; the entire meadow surrounding the town filled with campsites and white cloth awnings that kept the cool night wind away. Near to dawn the tired tender of Deedle’s finally ushered everyone out to their sleeping quarters, and he hadn’t complained too much when Remtall refused to leave his last pint, as he’d never had a better night of business.

  The next morning came fast, and Adacon awoke with Calan in Taisle’s house, having been offered his spare room to lodge in, being heroes of special magnificence.

  “Good morning Taisle,” Calan called to the young man who pored over a jar in his kitchen basin. “Scrubbing pots this early?”

  “Back to routine—it’s how I’ll deal with getting over all this,” he replied, then continued: “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about Grelion, whether he’ll be condemned or not—at first, I wanted to see it happen…now, I’m not so sure.”

  “I don’t think he will,” said Adacon, just waking up and joining them in the kitchen.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I sensed something in him, I can’t quite describe the feeling—something that made me believe he’d been used, controlled by an evil force—I remember feeling the same energy before, a long time ago, late at night in the desert near here.”

  “Adacon?” Calan asked, confused.

  “One night as I slept in the desert, I awoke hearing Krem’s voice—he was talking with Zesm. At the time Zesm had not merged with Vesleathren, at least not completely…” Adacon racked his memory. “I felt a dark energy on him; I don’t know how I sensed it at the time, but it stayed with me, that terrible feeling…and when I met Grelion, I sensed it, only it was dying slowly, fading from his spirit. It was as clear as anything I’ve ever felt. I’m sure of it—he’d been possessed by Zesm’s magic, chained down from Vesleathren himself.”

  “It’s incredible you can feel that much from standing near a person. Are you a Vapour, Adacon?” Taisle said, surprisingly comforted to hear that Grelion would likely be spared, even though that meant Pursaiones could remain in love with him.

  “No, I’m not,” Adacon smiled at Calan, who smiled back and hugged him.

  “You know, he can fly,” she bragged.

  Outside the town bustled, and Adacon thought he saw Falen move past the window, jogging along the street.

  “I know, I saw him do it in battle, remember?” Taisle said exuberantly, putting down the jar he’d been washing, drying his hands.

  “You were terrific out there too, Taisle—Remtall never told us that he had so many strong friends back at home,” Calan said.

  “Thanks. So what do you two plan on doing now that it’s all over?”

  “Adacon and I were thinking of—” Calan began, but was distracted as Adacon dashed out the front door:

  “Falen!” called Adacon, seeing the dragon bounding quickly away, his wings looking as good as new.

  “Adacon! Good to see you,” came the raspy voice of the wyvern, turning around to peer down at his friend—Falen stood nearly as tall as the Rislind houses themselves.

  “Where are you running off to so early?”

  “Haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  Falen let out a hearty howl: “Tempern and the Enox have come to Rislind!”

  “What?” Adacon shrieked. “Impossible.” But Adacon looked out into the distance, through the last row of houses, and sure enough, beyond the farthest street, where shining meadow should have been, a glinting scarlet coat of feathers obstructed the view. “Tempern…” Calan came out to see what was amiss, followed by Taisle, and then Pursaiones from her nearby house.

  “What is it?” asked Pursaiones, rubbing gummy webs from her eyes.

  “A friend of mine, come and meet him,” called Adacon. He grabbed Calan, hoisted her up, and ran fast behind Falen, taking her swiftly toward the meadow’s edge, where a congregation of people goggled over th
e magnificent Enox.

  “Glad you’ve finally made it, Addy,” said Erguile. Adacon peered up at the enormous hawk, its eyes glinting, slanted in a permanent expression of disapproval, sedately peering at her wide audience.

  “Right then,” Mayor Doings said, wobbling up to the hawk, and Tempern, who stood atop the back of the great creature. “On behalf of my rich town, welcome to Rislind!” shouted Mayor Doings, and then he started whispering to a small hermit beside him.

  “You’re sure they’re friends? The bird looks rather on edge,” Doings whispered to Krem.

  “Of course, would I lie to you, Cafle?” Krem replied just as Adacon put Calan down by their side, beaming up at the bird. Flaer and the others stood by as well, and all the great warriors of the Battle at the Choke were present, except for Peren.

  “Hello everyone,” came the energetic voice of Tempern, who hopped down in one graceful motion from atop the hawk. His long blue jacket fluttered as he fell, wrapping around him, and he stood instantly after impacting the ground; his silk-black hair fell long behind him, his strong-featured face gleaming at his audience from deep black pupils: many looked ragged, having had little sleep after the celebration of the night before.

  “Tempern,” Adacon waved, staying at Calan’s side.

  “Adacon—you’ve done good things I hear,” Tempern said proudly. “And hello Krem—Flaer—everyone!” Tempern shot smiling glances all around.

  “What brings you to our fair village, wizard friend?” Doings said awkwardly. Krem laughed loudly at his remark, and soon Tempern himself giggled at the presumption.

  “This is my magister—and Adacon’s,” relayed Krem.

  “Ah, of course,” Doings said, resigning himself to his pipe.

  “Some young boy to be teaching anything to you, old man,” Erguile piped, Remtall laughing heartily at the jab.

  “Not so young as I’d like—I’m many centuries old, friend Erguile,” said Tempern casually, a smile on his face.

  “What? Blasphemer,” Remtall coughed out some morning liquor. The chattering of the villagers died down, and a silent murmur of whispers crept through the crowd, each passing on how long they’d heard Tempern’s age to be: many doubted the truth of it, by the dashing young appearance of the man, but the age ranged by the end of the gossip from eighteen to a million years old.

  “I’ve come both to congratulate everyone for righting the balance—neutralizing Gaigas once more,” Tempern paused at a scoff from Flaer, who disapproved of Tempern’s description of defeating evil. “And, to introduce you to your new queen.” A great line of gasps echoed out from the front of the crowd, particularly from Krem and those around him; many in the back did not hear what was happening.

  “Tempern? What are you doing?” Krem asked gently.

  “Krem—everyone—this is Alejia Bloom,” Tempern said; in a great thundering strike, as if a storm cloud had clapped overheard, the enormous red bird behind Tempern, squatting atop many of the campsites that were now evacuated, turned bright white—as bright white as the sun was yellow—and everyone shut their eyes to relieve the stinging vision; Adacon and Calan opened theirs together in an instant, once the light ceased to pour through their closed lids: slowly their sight adjusted to the regular glare of morning sunlight again, and they saw that the bird was no longer present, but vanished.

  “Where’s the Enox gone?” Adacon stabbed out, incredulous.

  “The Enox has gone; its work is finished,” came a powerful, kind voice. Everyone among the crowd who could see gasped at the sight: the most beautiful figure they had ever beheld stood before them, gleaming as if a ruby from the heavens; Adacon knew instantly why Tempern had struggled over his love for her—Alejia was no Calan, he decided, but she was beautiful in a different way, almost too perfect. Erguile and Remtall goggled at the woman, the gnome already a fancier of humans, watching her long hair toss loosely in the wind behind her, strands of gold that faded to brown, then black. Some of it fell over her face, and she parted it with her fingers, moving them across her brow—her scarlet gown whipped back wildly, softly glowing as the feathers of the Enox had; her feet remained hidden under the high grass of the meadow. Adacon watched in awe, noticing that around her protruded an aura, much like he’d seen on Peren, and he wondered if she was a druid; her glow was amber though, unlike the emerald of Peren’s.

  “Alejia,” Krem gasped finally. Flaer stood in silence, awaiting his opportunity to thank her for intervening on the battlefield. Erguile and Remtall watched with uncharacteristic patience, affixed to the beautiful face gazing out at them all. Calan clung close to Adacon, who had not the slightest inkling what was happening. Behlas pushed his way forward, his glowing skin barely visible, finding a place near Binn and Ulpo. Falen stretched his wings in anticipation of what was to happen.

  “I am here to ensure that no evil such as you have destroyed ever returns,” Alejia said warmly. “I have come, if you will not object, to govern the world, as I see fit, that no men are defiled, no children stolen into slavery, and no women taken for less than their worth.” Tempern beamed at her from several yards away; Adacon understood what he must be feeling: Tempern had told him how much he’d longed for Alejia to embody a person once more, though it had seemed impossible—Tempern had said it could never happen—yet somehow it had, and he’d received his greatest wish. He stared lovingly at her as she addressed the bewildered crowd.

  “Ho!” bellowed a deep voice from within the throng. Shoving his way to the front was King Terion, desiring to put a stop to the woman’s claim to a worldly throne. “No woman, nor man, will claim kingship, or queenship, over my mountains! None! It is outrageous!”

  “He’s right—I will not relinquish governance of Carbal,” Gaiberth agreed, walking up behind King Terion.

  “I ask not that you give up your estates, or your countries,” she replied with a warm glowing smile, her thin black eyebrows contorting as if to suggest surprise. “I only come to be your guiding light, that when the affairs of kings or queens prove inharmonious, as to cause chaos and pain, I will intervene, setting each back to his purposed course, preventing war, strife and waste.” Krem gasped again: it seemed that what was happening terribly upset the Vapour, as if Alejia had overstepped her bounds.

  “She’s right,” blared Flaer. “We need her…it’s been too long since we’ve had a just force preside over Darkin.”

  “Flaer!” Krem shouted, aghast that he’d taken Alejia and Tempern’s side in the matter. Adacon watched indifferently, trusting Tempern and whatever his magister thought was best.

  “Never—I will submit to no foreign rule!” Terion proudly rejected her.

  “It is fine, for those who do not wish to be under my protection will not be under it—and you would not notice the difference, as there is no threat that seems possible to any free country, now that the line of Melweathren is ended at last, dying with Vesleathren his heir.”

  “Then why are you here?” Iirevale said in confusion, stepping up beside Gaiberth.

  “Only to offer my guidance to those lands that accept it, nothing more—I am your queen,” she said patiently, smiling, her warm lips curving into earnest gratitude and compassion.

  “Are you a Vapour? A wizard like the others?” came Miss Brewboil from somewhere within the crowd.

  “No. I am the oldest Welsprin on this planet,” she honestly replied.

  “Welsprin?” many chimed back, more confused.

  “Wait! Everyone wait!” railed Mayor Doings, halting the tumult occurring without his mediation. “I would like to have you as Rislind’s queen, if it means anything to you—but there is one thing I must know,” he said, more mesmerized by her beauty than her words. He turned away from her, toward the crowd: “Are you friends with these visitors?” Mayor Doings asked the heroes of the war—he looked at Krem, Flaer, Adacon, and Remtall for a reply.

  “She is my friend,” came Remtall at last, the one who knew least about her.

  “A very trust
ed friend,” chimed in Flaer.

  “Then it is settled—you are hereforth, at least in Rislind, queen!” Mayor Doings declared; the crowd hesitantly cheered. “Anyone who is a friend of Krem’s, and the others who risked everything to save our peaceful village, is a friend of Rislind’s!” The crowd of citizens cheered heartily, dwarves and elves joining in at last.

  “I refuse still,” responded Terion. “You were a great help in battle, but I do not see the need,” Terion boasted, gleaming with pride.

  “Nor do I, but I will allow myself time for a full consideration—I ask that of you, Welsprin,” Gaiberth offered.

  “You may have as much time as needed—I do not expect you to call me your queen at once; only by observing my nature can you make a decision about my ability to guide you, protect you,” she said softly.

  “But you said yourself Alejia: there is no need for protection, not any time soon, it would seem,” Krem finally spoke up. Tempern eyed Krem wildly, a twinkle sparkling in his eye.

  “Yes, Krem, you’re quite right; but, you’ll find in the course of history, men may make new wars amongst themselves, often for little or no reason—the final result is this: I am no longer watching idly, observing the events of the world as they unfold, expecting wrong to right itself through the balance of time. I am intervening, so that I can make a difference directly, as you saw on the battlefield three days ago. I will not state the reasons for my change of heart, they are obvious to the righteous, but I will no longer let evil go unpunished—I cannot.”

  “We commend you for that,” Flaer cried, his fist raised in the air. Adacon smiled, and Calan looked on, surprised at everything that had been said, but happy enough to sense good in Alejia’s intents and purposes for Darkin.

  “I would gladly allow her to watch over Carbal,” Calan whispered to Adacon. “She is pure of heart.”

  “Perhaps we can go there together—this time to stay,” Adacon said, shifting slightly, ignoring the commotion of Alejia for a moment, distracted by the thought of a home with Calan.