Darkin: A Journey East

by Joseph A. Turkot

  “Now you have made me disobey my master and use magic. On such pathetic enemies as you two are—what a waste to lose his trust over this. But I will not be slain by humans on this or any other day, master’s will or not,” Bulkog rambled, half to himself, as he approached them. Gurgling blood poured from his mouth. Bulkog dropped his weapons and grabbed the dazed Erguile by the neck with his fists. He lifted him up and choked him, finally slamming him against the wall.

  “Die now at last, human,” Bulkog said, and he thrust his sword into Erguile’s neck. Just as the blade tip pierced the first layer of skin, a great white light blinded Bulkog and burned his eyes so that he fell backwards and to the ground. Adacon stood over him then, pointing Slowin’s orb of light directly at the troll’s eyes. Bulkog cried in pain, and the light of the orb seemed to intensify more than it had in the cellar; the orb seemed to draw in from an ambience of light to a fine pointed beam, and the energy caused smoke to drift up from Bulkog’s eyes, seeping between his fingers that failed to shield them.

  “Bastard,” said Erguile, who had come to stand beside Adacon over Bulkog. Erguile picked up Mirebane, the Feral hammer of war, and brought it down without mercy on Bulkog’s skull. The crunch echoed loud, and on Darkin Bulkog the Feral made once more a howl but never again; the haunting call cascaded out through the balcony and into the night sky, loud enough for Slowin, far below, to hear.

  “In here,” said Adacon. He led the way through the entrance to the jail. Inside was a circling wall of thin-barred cells, tiny and cramped, all hugging the fringe of the room. They were empty except for one; in it was a hunched man, balled on the floor underneath a mess of wild brown hair, clothed in stained rags. He appeared asleep or dead.

  “That must be him—the keys,” remembered Erguile, and he ran back to grab the keys from Bulkog’s corpse. Adacon approached the cell door and peered down.

  “Hello, Flaer? We’ve come to free you,” Adacon said. He trembled, still filled with the adrenaline of facing Bulkog. From the crumpled man came no reply. Adacon repeated himself to no avail. Erguile returned with the keys and quickly opened the door. With a rusty creek it gave way and he shook the man.

  “Come on, we’ve got to be off now,” Erguile pleaded, shaking him. After another bout of shaking the man came around, opening his eyes and peering up. Slowly he got to his feet.

  “Are you alright?” asked Adacon. There came no answer, but a moment later the man nodded his head.

  “Can you speak?” asked Erguile, and the man shook his head side to side.

  “Cursed, I’ll bet,” Adacon guessed. The man nodded to confirm. “Are you Flaer?” he asked, and the man nodded once more. His face was long and shaggy, appearing like an overgrown animal.

  “Damn it—I can’t free his hands,” Erguile groaned. Adacon looked down to see Flaer’s hands shackled in what appeared to be a smooth black contraption made of something with no interlocking pieces. The shackle, it appeared, was a black steel figure eight that somehow bonded Flaer’s hands tightly at the wrists; there were no keyholes or features of any kind. The bracelet was in fact one smooth unit.

  “Better get him down to Slowin,” stammered Adacon, and Erguile agreed. Flaer followed without protest, and the three descended the tower. They exited the front doors instead of going through the cellar, and Slowin was already there awaiting them.

  “Well done; are you hurt much?” Slowin asked, noticing the blood on Erguile’s neck and leg.

  “Minor cut, nothing worth paying mind,” Erguile said. “But Bulkog was no common foe, drunkard or not.”

  “He’s dead now though, I gather,” returned Slowin, glancing to Flaer who kept his head down. “Flaer Swordhand—an honor to make your acquaintance,” cheered Slowin, and he hugged Flaer heartily; Flaer grimaced.

  “He cannot speak, nor can we free his hands,” Adacon informed.

  “That is the least of our trouble, as I expect Vesleathren to be greatly angered by this meeting we conduct here; we who are among the freed Flaer Swordhand and felled Bulkog,” said Slowin. It appeared Adacon was ready to ask more questions but Slowin spoke again:

  “We must travel immediately, in all haste, farther east and up onto the Rislind Plateau. Not until we reach the Saru Gnarl Cape will we be safe to rest. Come,” And with Slowin’s order the company of four departed swiftly into the night, marching east from the sacked tower of Ceptical along the slave trade route.

  V: THE BRIGUN AUTILUS

  The party traveled through the night in silence, stopping just before dawn to rest and eat. There was not much talk, and Flaer’s silence brought an air of gloom upon the slaves. Slowin made little conversation, averting questions when they came up.

  “We will rest here briefly, now that we have reached Rislind and are upon the Plateau,” Slowin told them. A small fire was started, and in the early morning twilight the four sat around, eager for a chance to sleep.

  “Can you not break Flaer’s bonds, Slowin?” asked Adacon.

  “No, they abound with evil magic, the magic of Vesleathren. I cannot break them,” he responded.

  “I have thrice heard that name. Who is Vesleathren?” returned Adacon, as Erguile stood near to Flaer and curiously raised his sword.

  “I’ll break it. Hold still, Swordhand,” Erguile said, preparing to strike at the black cuffs binding Flaer.

  “No—do not strike, else lose your blade’s edge,” Slowin gasped.

  “Just think I have the power for it; there’s no intention of harming him,” Erguile solemnly moped, sitting back down.

  “It is folly to play at Vesleathren’s magic; believe me, I have tried it before,” Slowin went on, restoring order. Flaer remained downtrodden, hanging his head in lethargy. “Vesleathren is the heir to the Feral Throne of Melweathren—Melweathren the Admiral of the Crawl Plaque during the first age of this planet, who was defeated in battle on this very plateau by a Rislindian, thousands of years ago.”

  “What is Crawl Plaque?” asked Erguile.

  “That is the name given to the first army of the Feral Brood, a race brewed of corrupt magic; dark mana sustained their life and power,” answered Slowin.

  “That’s what Bulkog spoke of, Feral Dynast something,” said Adacon.

  “It is much as I feared then, and Bulkog the troll had become of Feral genetics. Lucky you are to have survived his encounter.”

  “What of Grelion? Is he not our most treacherous foe?” asked Erguile.

  “Long had it been thought that after the old war, which Molto the Vapour ended by casting Spirited Winds, did the Crawl Plaque expire out of existence. Few were those who knew that Melweathren had an heir, named Vesleathren. Vesleathren brooded, conspiring for long years, preparing a Feral army that would once again try to sack the entire country of Arkenshyr.”

  “Arkenshyr? Where in Darkin is that?” questioned Adacon.

  “Hah! Poor slave, it is here in Arkenshyr that we are now, and one of the five countries of Darkin it is,” Slowin replied. Adacon tried his best to keep up with everything he was being told, as did Erguile; they both looked dumbfounded and confused.

  “And so he invaded, and another great war was fought; the five countries united, unifying in Arkenshyr to battle Vesleathren. Then, for a second time in history was a war ended by a great Vapour. At last Vesleathren was thought dead, killed in the final blast, but the world was weakened so by this war that the scattered Feral ravaged the lands, reproducing endlessly. Leaderless they were, but they pillaged everything nonetheless. No unified power of good was left to oppose them,” Slowin told.

  “Was there no more left of the Five Country Army?” asked Adacon.

  “No, not enough to contest the ill-spawned Feral Brood. The rape of the countryside continued for many years, until finally a brave soldier rose in ranks from the north country of Hemlin, and united enough free men, elves and dwarves to drive back the Feral Brood. And the Feral were slain on sight, until they were all but gone entirely from the face of Darkin. Th
is leader came to great power over the world for his triumph; but in the time of peace that followed the Feral cleansing he grew restless with greed. His great favor with the cultures of the world won him entitlement to whatever he pleased, and soon his greed overtook his valor.”

  “What was this leader’s name?” Adacon queried, fascinated by the tale.

  “Grelion Rakewinter.”

  “Grelion!” Adacon cried.

  “Can’t have been him,” Erguile said. Flaer shook his head and lay down for sleep.

  “It’s true. But now Vesleathren has returned, from the grave it seems. And he has already been offering his dark magic to those who will take it. Bulkog certainly accepted, and he had already become Feral when you came upon him in the tower.”

  “That explains the fire blast he used on us,” Erguile realized.

  “Vesleathren will aid those who assist him, granting them great power through his black magic; even Grelion will be deeply fearful at his return,” Slowin foretold.

  “Black magic? Is that not Vapoury?” asked Adacon.

  “No. Black is the name given to magic that has a purpose selfish and destructive. That is why Vapours are known separately; they wield magic to righteous ends. Though they use the same source, they use it for good, and so it is Vapoury.”

  “Good wizards against evil ones?” Erguile surmised.

  “Precisely. Valiant Vapours against black mages. Vapoury against Black Mana.”

  “But, as Krem said, all magic comes from Gaigas. Why then doesn’t Gaigas restrict those wishing to do harm with her energy?” Adacon quipped.

  “Because Gaigas has no control over how living creatures use her force; she is not a conscious entity, as Krem might have you believe.”

  “This is all very grand, but I am tired from battle. Grateful I am to be heading east and no longer confined to slavery, but alas, I need rest before we continue—and before my head is filled with more dark lore,” grumbled Erguile.

  “Indeed, even silver golems require rest, though I prefer treetops to beds of grass,” said Slowin, and he left them for a nearby maple tree. After Slowin had climbed the tree to an astonishing height, he called down good night, though early dawn was breaching in. Adacon made a spot for himself and gave up trying to make sense of all that Slowin had told him; he truly was exhausted, and felt at least some comfort being in the company of Erguile and the golem. Flaer was useless however, until his bond was broken. Adacon shut himself down before thinking further, and fell fast asleep.

  * * *

  They hadn’t slept long before a loud chatter of birds woke them all up. First up was Erguile; he stretched and looked about. They had come off the plains and were now upon the Rislind Plateau—the plateau was mostly flat with bright green grass that ran high and intermingled with flowers of white, purple, and gold. Trees were clustered here and there—maples, oaks and pines. The trade road had led them southeast, but it looked to soon turn back north by cutting left ahead, back down the plateau. Erguile saw a fork where the road cut north; a smaller dirt path in the grass remained on the plateau and climbed higher up, east and toward the far precipice. In the direction of the dirt path was a stream, just visible between a burgeoning line of trees. In the direction of the trade road was another tower, faint in the distance, very far off, appearing identical to Ceptical.

  Before long the entire outfit was up and moving. Erguile had prepared a small meal for breakfast—mainly bread, water, and stew. After eating, Slowin told them to follow his lead, and they began a slow pace toward the fork ahead. The sun was cooler than before, and it seemed that autumn was approaching faster each day. Nobody spoke, but both slaves felt cheery in their new fellowship; it hadn’t been long, after all, since they had been alone and locked out of the tower.

  They followed the gravel road and came to the dirt path that curved up and away toward the southeast. The new tower, a twin to the one they had rescued Flaer from, now stood largely in the horizon to their left.

  “The Brigun Autilus is there,” Slowin said. Flaer nodded at the mentioning, and the four set off down the trade road, away from the dirt path, off the plateau and toward the tower.

  “What’s the Brigun Autilus?” asked Adacon.

  “Flaer’s sword. It was Krem’s sincerest wisdom that we reunite Flaer Swordhand with sword,” Slowin hooted, and Flaer winked. “And best to do so now before Feral Broodlings come to claim these towers.” The four hurried on toward the tower until they were within several hundred yards. In front of the tower they could see a single guard pacing. Behind a squat of bushes and small trees, the four huddled.

  “What’s so special about a sword that they’d want to guard it?” asked Adacon.

  “Can’t be much better than mine,” Erguile remarked, sun glinting off his blade as he drew it from his sheath.

  “Ah, but how mistaken you are Erguile,” Slowin chuckled. Flaer looked over, and Adacon caught what he took to be a smile.

  “What do you mean by that, Slowin?”

  “I mean that the power of the Brigun Autilus is so great that it will destroy those black bonds—” Slowin said, pointing at Flaer’s cuffs.

  “Impossible, how could his sword be that much more powerful than any other?” Erguile cried in disbelief.

  “Think of what we’ve already seen, Erguile—how is it you are shocked to learn that a sword can possess great Vapoury within its steel?”

  “Wish I could have had a shot at those cuffs, either way,” Erguile moped.

  “Stay here, both of you,” Slowin said to the slaves, ignoring Flaer. “I will return shortly.” And with that Slowin took off at a blinding speed; the crazed sprint looked quite unusual for a creature of his size. The silver golem gleamed, reflective sheen glaring in every direction as he motored toward the front door of the tower.

  “What’s he doing—in broad daylight? Sticking out like a sore thumb; he’s going to get himself killed!” Erguile said, about to run after the golem. Flaer grabbed him on the shoulder to stop him from chasing after. Erguile looked to Flaer, and Flaer merely winked, nodding toward the tower.

  Slowin approached the confused guard in front of the tower. The guard paused in shock before finally drawing his sword, but Slowin smashed right through him; in one motion he trampled the guard and smashed through the entrance, rending it open. The front door had appeared made of iron, but with a tremendous clank Slowin had broken right through with his charge. The guard was motionless on the ground, appearing dead.

  “Why couldn’t he have done that for us last night?” a bewildered Erguile said in awe.

  “What power,” Adacon gasped.

  The three waited in relative silence, watching the balcony atop the tower for any sign of activity. Finally, two guards flew over the side of the balcony as if heaved by a cannon. With violent screams they crashed to a soft thud into the earth below. Slowin suddenly appeared on the balcony, waving something bright in his hand; it was a glowing sword. To the slaves’ astonishment, at the next moment, Slowin heaved himself over the rail of the balcony and began to plummet straight down to the earth.

  “No!” Adacon shouted, and all three of them ran toward the tower.

  Slowin landed with an enormous clap that sounded like thunder. The ground quaked under the runners’ feet as they approached him. Slowin appeared unfazed.

  “My god, I would wager you are no ordinary golem,” exclaimed Erguile. Slowin raised the throbbing sword above Flaer, and Flaer knew to turn his back; the bright sword glared as it contacted the black cuffs. The figure eight sparked and broke apart. Flaer grinned wide; he turned to Slowin and took the sword from him. Suddenly, the throb and glow left the sword and it appeared as ordinary steel. Flaer bowed in thanks to Slowin, and Erguile and Adacon went to examine the shattered pieces of the black bracelet on the ground.

  “Amazing,” Adacon whispered in awe as Flaer slipped the sword into his leather belt, sheathless. The sword was longer and thinner than a broadsword, and its ricasso was wrappe
d in faded leather. The handle was grey and leather-bound, and the side of the steel blade had a black engraving that formed runic symbols.

  “Why couldn’t you have done that last night, golem,” said Erguile; he was half-amazed, and half-angered.

  “Krem thought it would be best you experienced combat to gain experience,” Slowin retorted. “Although had I myself known Bulkog to be Feral I would have intervened, I think.” Flaer appeared in the best spirits Adacon had seen so far, and soon the four were marching back the way they had come, toward to the previous fork in the road.

  “The sword shone brightly in your hands Slowin, then it faded when Flaer took it,” Adacon mentioned.

  “Yes, the Brigun Autilus can be focused only by its rightful owner. Had I held it much longer it would have scalded me to no hope of recovery.” Slowin showed them his hand where it had gripped the sword. His gloves had been burned through at the spot where he had held the handle, and his silver skin had become black and charred.

  “I thought I smelled burning ore,” roared Erguile, and at that all four of them laughed, though Flaer inaudibly so.

  Morale was high as the party followed Slowin. He led them back to the fork in the gravel road, and this time they took the eastern way onto the dirt path, leaving the slave trade route behind.

  “What course is upon us now?” Erguile asked eventually.

  “We travel tirelessly east now, through Rislind and on to the Saru Gnarl Cape,” Slowin proclaimed.