“Let’s move on, the sun falls in the sky!”
The troop mounted their steeds, this time Erguile getting on properly before the others, and Weakhoof led them away from the water and back onto the road. Soon the three horses were in full gallop again, heading fast for the eastern cape-city of Saru Gnarl.
The riders pressed on hard, and in the eastern horizon the sky darkened prematurely before the sun had waned behind them. Dark clouds rolled in the distance, and a clap of thunder was heard before long. The terrain had thickened with shrubbery and hunched trees that hugged the edge of the road. The air grew humid, and the fresh green blades of Rislind were all but forgotten in the mire they now surveyed. The streams that covered much of the land earlier were now turning into wider pools of muck, foaming in spots, abound with slimy stones. Adacon began to notice bugs on the surface of the marsh waters next to the gravel road; bugs that seemed to grow larger and larger the deeper they traveled into the swampland.
Soon, all the land that had been solid disappeared, and the only thing left was the gravel road. At the edge of either side of the road was a steep drop that went three yards down into the opaque marsh. Looking back, Adacon saw no trace of firm soil. Up ahead the sky grew increasingly dreadful as thunder sounded closer.
Stretched out as far as could be seen was dark muck, and the even the trees and plants that had been intermittent in the water were gone now. Around them appeared to be a vast field of tar with no end in sight; it gave the appearance of firmness, but Erguile suspected the putrid water would not hold a man’s weight. Occasional bubbles came to the tar’s surface when oddly shaped insects would land and take off. An odd mist began to settle on the surface of the swamp, clumping in spots here and there. As they rode on the grey fog seemed to thicken around them, and the various balls of mist welded themselves together to form a sheet over top of the road. Although none of them could see more than ten yards in any direction, Adacon started in terror and halted Flaer and Fablefen.
“Something ahead, on the road!” he wailed. The other horses stopped and came together in a huddle. The road was barely six yards wide, a thin strip of earth amidst the vat, and each member of the party looked in vain through the fog to see something. Thunder clapped loudly and rain poured down; light drops came at first, soon turning heavy and furious. Weakhoof neighed in anxiety.
“I can’t see a thing,” Erguile said.
“Neither can I,” said Slowin. They all looked to Flaer who shook his head, having not seen anything either.
“But it was there!” Adacon said as he pointed directly ahead down the road. Still, nothing but dense grey fog and a charcoal sky filled their view, now accompanied by the cool downpour of heavy rain. Thunder clapped again and for a moment the sky lit up. Only Erguile had been looking directly ahead when the flash came, and in the brief light he had seen a tall striding figure.
“There! There’s a man coming this way!” Erguile yelped uncontrollably, much too loudly.
“I still see nothing…” Slowin said peering ahead, straining for any shape in the distance; he did not yet seem alarmed.
“How far away Erguile?” Adacon asked. Flaer wasted no time questioning the validity of the sightings; he drew the Brigun Autilus.
“The orb!” Erguile remembered, and Adacon reached frantically into his pocket and withdrew the orb of light that Slowin had given him. Immediately it shone in a unidirectional manner, and Adacon focused the beam of pearly light into the fog ahead. Against the dense rain and mist the light of the orb reflected back at the group, the glare blinding them. The orb of light shut off, but not before Slowin made out a human silhouette that flickered in the distance. Flaer saw it too, a mysterious stranger closing in on them.
“To the ground,” Slowin commanded as he hopped off Thunderhoof with shocking grace. The others followed suit and Slowin bade the horses back off behind them. Next to Flaer Slowin aligned himself, drawing quickly his weapons into his hands—mallet and dagger. Erguile drew his broadsword while Adacon equipped his bow, hoping he could still fire it in the rain with some accuracy. The four stood in front of their horses, forming a wall across the entire width of the road. The ferocity of the pelting rain increased, as did the volume of the thunder and lightning. It was a full blown storm, and the constant lightning gave away the approaching figure: a man’s shadow drifting in and out of darkness nearly twenty yards away.
“Brace yourselves,” Slowin prompted, and then he roared into the storm so loudly that Adacon and Erguile both trembled: “Who goes there?”
No response came, yet the shadowy figure continued toward them.
Several yards away the dark stranger stopped. He was cloaked in black from his feet to his neck, and a dark bandana covered neatly around his soaking head. There was a momentary pause, and Slowin questioned the shadow again:
“Name your business, stranger,” Slowin commanded.
“Is this road not public, for use by all in Grelion’s register?” responded a hoarse voice, barely audible over the din of rain. The stranger’s face was almost completely concealed by black wraps, leaving only slightly glowing red eyes to look upon.
“Then pass,” Slowin ordered, and he gestured for Flaer to step aside so that a gap opened in the road for the stranger to go through. The shadow did not move, it only continued to gaze at each of them. After several minutes, the stranger spoke again:
“I am sorry friend, but it is you who mustn’t pass. The way to Saru Gnarl is flooded ahead, and the city is become an island for the time being,” the man rasped.
“Then we will survey it for ourselves,” came Slowin, and he strode forth toward the stranger. The black man put up his arm, as if commanding Slowin to stop where he stood.
“Sheer might alone will not gain you passage this way, dear Slowin,” coughed the dark figure, and his eyes began to glow bright within the veiled visage.
Thunder and lightning echoed, coming in turbulent waves. Weakhoof had taken to excessive neighing, and the slaves feared the horses would run, so they held fiercely the reins. Flaer stood ominously behind Slowin, Brigun Autilus in hand.
“How do you know my name? Reveal your purpose here tonight,” demanded Slowin, raising his mallet and dagger slightly.
“Folly would it be to strike with weapons such as those against me, metal golem of the Red Forest. You wander too far from home, on an errand you are not fit for,” replied the dry voice. Adacon couldn’t believe what he was witnessing, if only because Slowin’s might was being challenged; the slaves had now reckoned Slowin to be invincible.
“We shall see,” Slowin said. Suddenly the giant golem raged forth, dagger and mallet twisting in a death-thrust at the stranger. A scarlet-orange flash issued from the eyes of the man and Slowin was quaked down by an earth-tremor at his feet; his weapons flew from either of his hands out into the swamp.
“Ughrrr,” Slowin groaned, tasting mud as he stumbled to the ground, his knee boring deep into the gravel. Flaer’s blade suddenly lit to an extraordinary brilliance; the light transformed into a ruby-pearl hue that blinded the slaves. He leapt toward the stranger; Adacon squinted and saw the strange man attempt to quake Flaer with energy from his eyes as he had Slowin, only this time the blast emanated out only to be absorbed directly into the Brigun Autilus. At seeing his attack fail, the shadowed man drew a sword from his side and blocked Flaer’s downward slice; blue sparks flitted.
Adacon fixed an arrow on the black stranger and let it fly as Erguile stood by waiting to strike. The arrow glanced off the robes of the stranger, appearing to stop short at some kind of invisible wall. Slowin slowly regained his feet and stood up once more.
Flaer dueled ferociously with the cloaked figure, working him away from the rest of the group. Slowin prepared to rush forward again, but only stayed at seeing Flaer with the fight well in hand; the Brigun Autilus was throbbing bright as ever with each strike, and the dark figure seemed beaten back almost to defeat.
“Ragh!” screamed the shadow,
and an eruption of fire emitted from his dark folds. Flaer fell back but kept his footing, as the Brigun Autilus absorbed most of the blast; still, enough energy shot past, and Flaer stood dazed for a moment. In the lapse of attack, the man raised his arms skyward and issued forth a foreign-tongued command. The gravel road began to shake, and the horses fled away down the slave road, galloping toward Rislind. Adacon and Erguile both fell to their knees on the tremulous road, and soon even Slowin stumbled. Flaer stood strong and raised his sword again.
“Who is it in Slowin’s party I have not accounted for—what strange power was missed?” said the vile figure, glaring at Flaer.
“You have not accounted for Flaer Swordhand, erstwhile known as Flaer the Slayer,” belted the Brigun Autilus itself as Flaer brought the charged sword down upon the stranger; he was quick to block with his own sword, but this time he fell backwards and to the ground at the might of Flaer’s strike.
“It cannot be—Swordhand is long dead, killed in the final blast of the Five Country War,” the stranger said in bewilderment, face buried in mud and gravel of the road. Flaer’s sword spoke no response, instead readying itself for a death pierce into the head of the cloaked enemy. The Brigun Autilus came down with force after the stranger rolled to the side, barely escaping; he jumped back to his feet and backed away, stammering in anger:
“Be you Flaer or not, it is no matter now. The hour of Vesleathren’s assault is at hand, as is the death of all those who might oppose him. Friends of Vapoury, behold your end. Even Lord Grelion will kneel before the true savior soon,” rallied the mysterious black figure. He backed farther away as Flaer stood in guard. Lightning streaked across the sky, and the black man spoke once more in his retreat:
“Know that your friend, Krem the Vapour, is dead—and know that he didn’t die before giving away your route—so that you could be destroyed.” The stranger dove head first from the side of the road into the murky depths of the swamp. He started swimming away on the surface of the water, and before he disappeared he shouted once more to them:
“It is too late for you—I have already summoned Holfog, spawn of Delfog! He issues forth now, so fly away, if you can muster wings.” The stranger cackled hysterically with laughter in the swamp, finally diving underneath the water, disappearing. Bubbles rose where he submerged, and an impact tremor distinct from thunder echoed from the road ahead. The tremor continued in intervals spaced several seconds apart. Slowin stood wearily and shouted, “Footfalls!”
Flaer turned and ran back to the others, signaling them into a formation. The slaves retrieved their swords once more.
“Who is Holfog?” asked Adacon.
“The Fire Wyvern that approaches us now,” answered Slowin. The group reformed the blockade of earlier, barring the western road. The storm had not lightened, yet amid the thunder Holfog’s footsteps could be heard clear. Soon the thunder-steps were paired with scaled legs emerging from the fog ahead; massive tree trunks sprouted up from jetting talons. The enormous wyvern walked stridently towards them, revealing its form to the party. Lightning lit the creature’s coat of scales aglow, shiny ocher-jade glimmering around several jagged scars. The head of the creature was as a serpent’s; beady eyes were set glossily in the back of deep sockets, and they glared hungrily. A limp tongue flicked from its wide mouth, and hundreds of serrated teeth momentarily showed. Enormous bat-like wings took the place of arms, tucked sturdily down to its muscular haunches. It eyed the party without slowing its advance, as if choosing its first meal.
“It’s a dragon!” squealed a shivering Adacon.
“Not quite, but a much smaller cousin to one,” Slowin replied, strangely cool.
“This is smaller than a dragon? I don’t believe it,” Erguile gasped. The wyvern appeared at least twice as tall as Slowin, and its girth was nearly that of the road’s width. The beast clawed toward them.
“Fear not, I have handled a fair share of wyverns in my time,” Slowin said confidently, standing with his arms braced to strike, though weaponless. Flaer shot a wry grin at his metal companion. The giant winged serpent hissed in front of them, standing erect, almost five yards tall. An enormous pointed tail swung around from behind the creature as its jaws opened and a stream of fire shot forth.
Adacon and Erguile cowered to the ground, shielding their faces. Flaer jumped in front of the beast, using the Brigun Autilus as a shield, absorbing the flame. It was only at the last second before the poisonous tail of Holfog pierced Erguile’s poorly defended skull that Slowin leapt into action, subduing the writhing tail in the harness of his silver vise-arms. Flaer recoiled from the final blast of flame as Holfog’s attention was diverted to Slowin; its jaw opened wide and descended to Slowin’s head, arriving at its target with fangs that pierced even into the metal skin and muscle of the golem. Slowin frantically released his hold over Holfog’s tail and pried in vain at the jaws enveloping his head. Just as Slowin began to work the jaws apart, the freed tail of Holfog struck again at Erguile; Flaer intercepted, and he cleanly lopped the spiked tail with a flash from the Brigun Autilus. Putrid blood rushed from Holfog’s freshly severed tail, and the wyvern whined loudly into the thundering sky. Quickly the serpent unleashed its hold of Slowin’s head and bent its gaze upon its wound. Flaer wasted no time, and he swept the Brigun Autilus up through the creature’s throat. The head of Holfog fell to the ground and rolled off the edge of the road into the swamp. There it bobbed as the rest of its body slumped to the ground. More oily blood spilled onto the gravel as Slowin felt his head for scarring; his head appeared fine, save for two grape-sized holes indenting deep into either side of his temples. No blood dripped from his metal head, and Flaer steadied the golem as the slaves rose from their cover.
“I’m alright, thanks,” Slowin said. Flaer backed off and returned his gaze to the fallen wyvern.
“He said Krem was dead,” Erguile said with sadness.
“And he’s a liar—it’s as rare a possibility as him having given away our route,” Slowin defended Krem.
“I heard you speak, Flaer,” Adacon cried. Flaer calmly shook his head in disagreement, then nodded at his sword.
“The Brigun Autilus can muster a voice, when heroics so fit one,” Slowin explained. “And in your debt, Flaer, are we all.” Slowin bowed, and seeing it so did the slaves. The storm let loose a great thunderbolt at that moment, and the sky was lit up. Flaer returned his sword to his belt and smiled, returning their grace. Then Flaer bade them in gesture to stop their thanks so that in urgency they could reassemble themselves and resume their passage in haste. It was then that Erguile started.
“Weakhoof!” he wailed, seeing the horse whimpering up from the western road. None of the other horses followed. Weakhoof trotted to Erguile and whinnied.
“He is no longer of use to us, Erguile. Fablefen and Thunderhoof have fled,” said Slowin.
“But we can’t just leave him here in the marsh,” Erguile shouted between thunder claps. “It’s dark, and he can’t see this from that!”
The party was sullen and quiet.
“Slowin’s right, Erguile. It is not a happy thing, to send him away here. But with him alone…” Adacon trailed off uneasily.
“He can walk along with us,” Erguile offered.
“We approach Saru Gnarl now, and a horse will only give us away. Our only way of stealing a ship is stealth. I had planned to send the horses back together; I did not foresee this—this stranger of such power,” Slowin said solemnly. Flaer acknowledged agreement with Slowin by hanging his head; he enjoyed the idea no more than any of them, but it would have been done anyway.
“Going to just send him off alone—to die along the way in a thunderstorm?” Erguile argued.
“Weakhoof knows the way better than any of us, Erguile,” Slowin comforted.
“Not tonight. Not my horse,” Erguile burst. He mounted Weakhoof in all the haste he could manage. Adacon thought that he saw tears welling in Erguile’s eyes. A bang of thunder coincided with Erguile�
��s voice for a last time.
“Yahh! Eeyah!” Erguile ferociously kicked Weakhoof’s side; with all the strength of a noble stallion, Weakhoof set off, galloping east down the gravel road.
“Come back!” Adacon called.
“Erguile!” Slowin roared as loud as he could. The sound of thumping hooves dissolved into the chatter of rain, and then there were only three.
VII: BLOCKADE RUNNER
“Does your head hurt much?” Adacon asked as the three journeyers marched toward the eastern coast.
“No, I don’t feel anything at all,” Slowin responded. The terrain changed as they left the bog, and solid earth sprung up along the roadside again. The marsh fog began to wane, and soon the swamp transformed into a system of streams amidst firm grassland. Trees started to appear again, and the road was no longer an island strip surrounded by bubbling mud-water; even the thunderstorm had ceased, its clouds parted, and a cool breeze stole through the air as all but the lightest rain subsided. Moons blossomed above them, and Adacon spoke:
“Erguile! Ach, stupid of him. Who could have foreseen him being so attached to that horse? Now he’s gone to get himself killed.”
“He seemed to detest Weakhoof at the start, if I recall correctly,” said Slowin. Flaer walked alongside their conversation, eyeing the new greenery sprouting around the road. Shrubs and trees grew in bunches, and tall shoots rose moonward. In the distance a low-lying forest wall loomed, beyond which nothing could be seen.
“He did—he hated the old horse,” Adacon chuckled.
“Save your worries for the task at hand. Erguile has made a decision over which we are powerless now,” Slowin said. “And we might see valor come of him yet, in his flight east.”
“I sure hope so. I will miss him, anyway—an energetic force to have among our company.”
Darkin: A Journey East Page 12