Darkin: A Journey East

by Joseph A. Turkot

  “Amazing,” Adacon said, awakening to the sight of the drake attacking the gold-armored centipede. Soon Calan and Iirevale were up next to him, and together they rushed to Remtall, well back from the scorching flame. The drake streamed its torrent of blue flame at the centipede; the Feral beast dug its head defensively into the ground to face the brunt of the fire with its armored back. Its gold plating shone red from heat, and then became a blinding white.

  “Can we help it?” Adacon shouted amidst the crackling of flame.

  “No, keep back,” Calan said, grabbing his shoulder.

  The drake appeared in deep control of the battle, and the warpede made one last effort to defend itself, as its blood poured out from every orifice only to crisp into ash: being scorched by its molten armor, the centipede thrashed against several trees, setting them ablaze, trying in vain to break away from the dragon’s assault. The drake finally relented when the warpede writhed no more. Though the smoldering pile of centipede lay unmoving, the drake strode forth and began to gut the inside of the creature with its talons; soon the drake stomped atop the centipede’s armor, crumbling the once brilliant gold metal into piles of grey ash.

  “Praise to Krem,” Remtall said, finding new energy to stand on his feet again. The others stared at him in awe as the realization set in that they had, every one of them, somehow survived.

  “Praise to Krem, Remtall—but not to you,” Iirevale said in disgust.

  “Iirevale—his valor was great,” Calan defended her new friend, as each of them inspected their bodies for wounds.

  “If reckless abandon is valor,” Iirevale returned, but then went silent. He left the matter alone, deciding to be grateful that they had lived, and that a path was cleared for the rest of his company. Soon the fires of the nearby trees died out, Adacon guessed as a quality of the mist that hung everywhere, and the half-mangled four tried to clean themselves of the tarrish blood they wore. The drake, having finished its business with the centipede’s carcass, walked slowly over to them. Remtall bowed to it, and the others mimicked him.

  “I have never met a drake before,” Calan rejoiced, “We are honored.” To all of their astonishment, the drake responded:

  “As am I, to have defended free creatures of Darkin; it was too long that you waited to call me—I had been waiting for you to summon me. I was eager to help,” the drake said, its voice deep and slow.

  “You speak!” Adacon said with glee.

  “Forgive our looks of bewilderment, friend—we are not accustomed to talking drakes, or summoning stones, for that matter,” Iirevale explained.

  “Never mind their poor manners,” Remtall joined, fishing for his pipe. The drake stood back: he was a small dragon, colored bright green, though darker shades trimmed the tips of his scales. In places his scales turned red, and eventually bright red at the end of his tale. His head was similar to the fire wyvern Adacon remembered from the swamp, only much smaller, and more cheerful in color. The drake’s eyes were yellow with black irises, and its nostrils still smoked from battle.

  “My name is Falen, and to the enemies of Darkin I am known as Death Claw. I am glad to join your war against Vesleathren, even if it means I am a world away from my home.”

  “We are heartened to have you with us, Falen,” Iirevale smiled. He kneeled to the drake, who though small for a dragon, still towered over them.

  “Truly,” Calan mimicked, kneeling; Adacon knelt after her.

  “You weren’t quite necessary—I had already mortally wounded the beast,” Remtall boasted. The exhausted gnome attempted to kneel, but wobbled and fell to the ground.

  “Hah! Poor gnome, your burden is great, rest awhile,” Falen replied. The group laughed at Remtall, who lay unmoving, apparently asleep, and then the drake continued to speak: “I think more of your friends approach us—I feel footsteps. Rise, all of you, and tell me your names, for I bow to you as readily as you do for me,” Falen said, bowing, his voice a deep, rich timbre.

  “I am Adacon.”

  “Calan.”

  “And I, Iirevale.”

  “And he is Remtall,” Adacon said, smiling toward his sleeping friend.

  The troop of elves, led by Gaiberth, filed into the thrashed clearing and took sight of the pile of ash that had been the Gazaran. They looked in awe at Falen and the warriors who stood dressed in black gunk. A great commotion spread through the elven rank. Gaiberth silenced his men and walked up to Iirevale and the others.

  “How is it that the warpede has been destroyed?” Gaiberth asked.

  “Thank Remtall and Falen for it was their valor, without which we would all be dead. The warpede was Feral. It had grown terribly strong,” Iirevale told.

  “My thanks then—but who is Falen?” Gaiberth said as he surveyed the sleeping Remtall.

  “I, am Falen, good elf of Carbal Jungle,” spoke the fire drake in a deep belly-growl.

  “I am pleased to meet you then, Falen, for you are truly a friend to us, to have saved two of ours,” Gaiberth said in thanks. “We are in your debt.”

  “Pay it no mind, and know that I am marching now alongside your warriors. I will lead your path to Dinbell, I think that is your destination,” said Falen.

  “Yes, it is. There we will face a great many warpedes—I can only guess that they will be as strong as this one was,” Gaiberth foreboded. Suddenly Remtall roused from his slumber, and immediately he sat upright.

  “They won’t be a problem, not while the captain of the gnomen fleet is in your midst!” Remtall shouted. He stood, shaking the dirt and debris from his body.

  “Well then, no time for questions and answers that stay our journey—we must march,” Gaiberth commanded. Falen began to clear some of the foliage that had covered the Enoan road. Soon the path was unearthed, and the company began to march northeast once more. Falen led the group, followed by Gaiberth and Iirevale. Bringing up the rear was Remtall, and Adacon and Calan walked side by side slightly ahead of him. A weird song drifted from the back of the marching line of elves, and Adacon was first to realize that it was Remtall who was singing.

  “Warpede of the forest,

  How it does compel us,

  To hurry on our way!

  Send it back to Gaigas,

  That something good may pry

  It from its misery!”

  Soon the whole company joined Remtall’s chant, and for a great number of hours the company marched forward peacefully. Once midday came and passed, Gaiberth stopped the party so that they could eat and rest for a moment, but it was not long and soon the march continued. After several days of marching with no event, the jungle began to dissipate around them; the Enoan road jutted north, turning from soil to a mighty granite streak, set deeply between fields of tall grass, running as far into the distance as the eye could see. The aged grey road roved up a hilled pasture of emerald green, flecked in places with white and purple flowers that caught in their petals rays of the failing sun, and the path was overshadowed by enormous blue-grey mountains, tipped in snow that capped its eastern face. The troop walked the wide valley, nestled between the dark seclusion of the Carbal Jungle and the sky-reaching rock of the mountainside. The road eventually left the jungle behind entirely, and no trees ran along its side any longer; the elves marched with the forest at their backs, the blue mountains on their right, and shaded green hills as far as the eye could see on their left. Directly in front were fields of prairie pearl, and away in the distance could be seen the dark silhouette of a tremendous wall. The wall was several days’ march away, yet it loomed as grand in the horizon as the blue-grey mountains. The wall appeared to be built of ashen stone; its strange presence thwarted the rolling meadows that ran to its feet, and veiled whatever land the north held.

  “Who built this granite road, and the wall itself?” asked Adacon, his curious nature returning.

  “The Oreinen dwarves. They are a magnificent people, but unlike their gentler cousins in the West, they still regard all who are not dwarves t
o be foes, or at least almost all others,” Calan answered.

  “Is that their home?” Adacon asked, pointing to the blue-grey mountains.

  “Yes. Carved within those mountains is their city, Oreine.”

  “It’s astonishing that any people on Darkin could build something as massive as that wall,” Adacon said with wonder.

  “Yes, and wait until you see it as you stand up against it…” Calan smiled. Remtall snuck up from behind to interrupt their conversation.

  “Gnomes have been known to outbuild dwarves,” Remtall said. “In fact, it is said that the gnome mine of Palailia is the greatest wonder in all Darkin, a marvelous underground city.”

  “Say what you will to belittle the dwarves, but they are masters of their craft,” Calan replied.

  “I mean not to belittle them, princess—but see Palailia, and you will see true beauty,” Remtall boasted again.

  “Where is it? Have you been there?” Adacon asked.

  “It’s in the southernmost country of Darkin, the Isle of Aaurlind, and no, I have never seen it with my own eyes,” Remtall confessed.

  “Then how do you know it rivals the Dinbell Wall?” Adacon questioned.

  “Because I have heard the tales and descriptions from the elder gnomes all my life, and every detail of the place has been relayed to me in utmost detail,” Remtall replied.

  “Isn’t Palailia haunted?” Calan asked. “I remember hearing tales of it—that it is possessed of demon magic, and necromancers dance through its halls.”

  “It’s true—an age ago, it was: Palailia was lost to a dark necromancer, and no sane adventurer of Darkin will go there, save with a wish for death—or something worse,” Remtall said. The sun began to sink, dimming the valley, and for miles in each direction the company was surrounded by open grassland with not a single tree to rest under. Gaiberth made the decision to march into the night toward the blue-grey mountains, off the road, toward the dwarven gates of Oreine. Under light of stars the company marched away from the Enoan road, heading directly for the mountains. In several hours’ time Falen had guided the elves into a narrow valley of rock that cut between two steep schist faces, and the plains were all but left behind. The boulder-ridden path widened, and there were many small shelves of rock to climb, but soon the gate of Oreine was in sight. It felt to Adacon as if the whole troop was crunched together, unmoving in a pitch black crevasse, somewhere underneath a giant slab that bridged the rise of two mountains. Directly before them was a high door carved from the mountain, cut in the flowing grooves of dwarven art.

  “How do you suppose we get in?” Remtall shouted, irritable from long hours of marching. Adacon and Calan moved up near the front of the line to watch as Gaiberth and Iirevale approached the giant door of stone. Adacon surveyed the mysterious carving of the dwarves: foreign writing ran the length of the door, and odd glyphs of beasts shaped it. Gaiberth drew his shield and knocked on the stone in an odd sequence, and Adacon noticed that as he knocked, the stone began to glow about its rim.

  “A magic door!” Adacon exclaimed.

  “No—the light of the city is leaking out, it’s opening!” Calan rejoiced. “I was unsure we’d gain entrance. The Oreinen dwarves have grown more fearful lately, even of their neighbors.”

  Slowly the door slid aside and bright light from a glowing corridor poured out, lighting the cavernous path where the elves stood cramped together. A silhouette strode forth from the at-first blinding light, and soon Adacon’s eyes adjusted: for the first time in his life he laid eyes upon a dwarf. The man wore a thick beard, much like the books he’d seen had illustrated them, and there was a dull armored cap atop his wiry mane. All about the man’s heavy frame hung locking squares of silver chain mail. He stood shorter than a man, but his girth was that of nearly two men; Adacon also noticed quickly that the dwarf was not unarmed—at his side hung two small axes, loosely clipped to his belt. There was a bright red marking on the dwarf’s chest plate, drawn on a piece of hanging leather.

  “Ulpo!” Gaiberth resounded. The dwarf quickly embraced the elf chief and turned to see the whole of Gaiberth’s company: suddenly, without warning, the dwarf fell backwards, stumbling over his own feet. Falen apologetically bowed for having so startled the poor dwarf.

  “I am Falen, and not be to be feared, dear friend of the mountain,” the drake said, his voice echoing twice.

  “A speaking drake?” said Ulpo, gaining his feet once more. “Goodness, come in, all of you. Krem has just left, and he told me to expect you.” Ulpo led them into the lit corridor, stretching interminably straight. Adacon became overwhelmed at hearing Krem’s name and he pushed past all the others to meet the dwarf.

  “I am sorry to interrupt, my name is Adacon, freed slave of Grelion, and…” Adacon blurted out, startling the dwarf for a second time. “Krem has been here?”

  “He has just left. And it’s on his word alone that you and your friends have gained entrance into Oreine in these dark times. Save for the bond between Gaiberth and me, you stood little chance at seeing our fair city,” Ulpo said, turning to Gaiberth. “And not many dwarves share my kinship with elves, and other unkindly to look upon peoples of this world.”

  “But why did Krem leave?” Adacon asked, desperate for the Vapour’s whereabouts.

  “He could only stay briefly, for he is too needed at the battlefront. He came to tell us that Aulterion has begun assailing the southern jungle with fire spells from afar, and that we should expect the scattered elves of the Carbal to come to us for shelter in their hour of despair. We of the stone do not share the fear of fire magic, as our home is impregnable, but we are good enough to offer shelter against such rank villainies as Aulterion’s,” Ulpo said, leading everyone farther along the corridor. Gaiberth caught up to Adacon, tailed by Iirevale.

  “What of the dwarven sentiment?” Gaiberth joined.

  “We have heard of the Feral centipedes, the Gazaran, and that their numbers grow. We also have heard of the marching Feral Brood trolls, and we don’t forget their love of caves; do not worry, son of Carbal: I believe counsel will be taken, and that the dwarves will go to war with you,” Ulpo said. “There is, however, something that troubles us deeply, apart from war—an ancient dwarven prophecy has woken from scripture long sleeping. It is unfortunate that Krem didn’t stay for but a moment before leaving, for we had many questions for him…” Ulpo said. He trailed off in thought before Adacon immediately prodded in:

  “Prophecy?”

  “Do you mean the Prophecy of the Key?” Iirevale said.

  “Yes, tree dweller, the same—the most read letters in all of dwarven history,” Ulpo said.

  “What does the prophecy say?” Adacon stammered, hardly able to contain himself. Suddenly Calan and Remtall joined the front of the troop, along with Falen, listening to the conversation.

  “Well, if you don’t know, then I guess I might offer you a very brief telling,” Ulpo said, and he cleared his throat. “There is an ancient scripture, written in times before men or elves or dwarves—even before your kind, little one…” Ulpo told, referencing Remtall who had walked up beside the dwarf.

  “Tell on, dwarf lord, and know that I am not angered at your presence, though your race betrayed ours, even as we stayed ever loyal in the darkest times…” Remtall said. As they continued he released his flask as he had done so many times before, and drank deeply of his elven sap liquor.

  “Friend, may I taste a drop?” Ulpo said, catching sight of the flask, and Remtall handed over the liquor. Ulpo drank his fill, and when his thirst for spirits had been quenched he returned the elven stock. “An invigorating blend! Elven sap liquor, I think.”

  “Indeed, but now the favor must be repaid, stout smith—tell your damned prophecy,” Remtall said. Ulpo laughed, as did all others nearby, and a happy union was forged amongst the many different races of people; the idea of a company of strangers forming friendships, each different race accepting the other, surprised Adacon.

  “T
he ancient scripture, called the Waln Parchment, was unearthed from the deep belly of the Blue-Grey Mountains by the Oreinen, many centuries ago. It is said that the scripture was written long before even the first great age of Darkin. The scripture foretells of the returning of a people who departed Darkin long ago, an alien race of yore—and that these refugees will return as soon as their key is found upon the fertile forests of Darkin.”

  “Hah, gibberish!” Remtall exclaimed. He lit his pipe as they walked.

  “Would you mind?” Ulpo asked, again borrowing from Remtall, this time a pinch of the gnome’s tobacco. Ulpo filled his pipe and puffed alongside the gnome, as Iirevale, Calan, Gaiberth, Adacon, and Falen all followed quietly, awaiting further lore of the prophecy. “The key is said to be extremely dangerous to all who are not the alien people, or “the departed race,” I should say, as it is written.”

  “Why is this tale of such concern?” Iirevale prodded.

  “We have found the key!” Ulpo cried.

  “What?” Adacon said, fascinated.

  “Pah! What do you mean you found the key?” Remtall snickered.

  “He was running through a field, alone, heading south, just yesterday,” Ulpo said.

  “He?” they all replied at once.

  “Yes. You see the key is not actually a key at all, even though the scripture names it as such. The key in the Waln Parchment is entirely curious: in the ancient text the key is described as a tall man—some might mistake the description for a golem but for a single trait never found in their kind—that it be built of star-finished metal, some matter foreign to our world. This key, or silver beast, serves as a beacon for the departed race, calling them to Darkin...” Ulpo could not finish his sentence; Remtall and Adacon cut him off: