Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (11 page)

“Noo! Please, you’ve—” Merol immediately began to rant, crying hysterically, and with a wave of his hand Wiglim silenced his former master, and Merol became mute. The crowd was locked to the scene with anticipation, knowing what Terion’s orders had been.

“As per the request of the King and the support of his citizens, you have been granted a chance, by reason of your past-done good deeds, to speak of the reason for your treachery before you are executed—so speak it now, for your time is short, and choose your words elegantly, for they will be the last any will remember of you,” came the monotone, unattached drone of Wiglim, purposefully trying to seem unconcerned with the fate of his once beloved master. Again a blue light flashed from the tips of Wiglim’s fingers, and Merol could once again speak.

“It’s all wrong—a misunderstanding! I was controlled by Aulterion, he possessed me—his power was incredible, there was no defense against it! It was not I who betrayed you, it was a puppet of Aulterion’s!”

“Enough! We’ve heard that line before, when you were first brought in!” roared Terion himself, standing up in anger from across the grand hall. “Have you no honor or pride, not even given the venerable death we offer you now?” Wiglim looked for a sign from Terion as to whether or not to let Merol continue to speak—it seemed Terion would allow one more chance, and so Wiglim turned for Merol’s last words.

“Do not believe me if you wish, but I
was
being controlled by Aulterion, you’ve no idea of the power he gained from Vesleathren! And now Vesleathren and Zesm the Rancor have merged into one! You’ll see the monstrosity soon enough! My words will proof in a sky of fire!” Wiglim eyed Merol with extreme disappointment, as if trying to dissuade the former Vapour from the tale he was shaping, knowing it would rob him of his last chance to speak something that might give his memory some shred of dignity.

“No More! Silence him, Wiglim—he spins evil webs even to his dying minute!” commanded Terion powerfully, and all the room grew so faint that not a whisper could be heard.

“You’ve said enough,” whispered Wiglim, feeling anger trickle again into his heart. He waved his hands for a third time and a bright flash of blue emanated from them; this time the flash was abrupt, and it disappeared with a resounding crackle, as if shut off prematurely. From Merol’s body had come a surge of energy, a searing flash of jade-colored lightning—the old Vapour had somehow conjured enough spirit to counter the muzzling effect of Wiglim’s spell, buying himself one more brief moment to speak; it was clear immediately to Wiglim that Merol had been saving his strength for his last counterspell. Merol slumped down on his schist slab in exhaustion, but his purpose was achieved, and he used his last seconds to speak while Wiglim cast his muting spell once more:

“Know then my last words—
the prophecy has been fulfilled; The Departed Race has returned to Darkin! Fear their arrival, and let this omen of mine when it comes true allow you a fond remembrance of me!
”

Wiglim ignored his chance to return a muting blast and instead he channeled his rage at the insolent dwarf that he no longer recognized to be his master—the great blue clash that erupted from Wiglim’s finger tips lit the grand hall so brightly that each dwarf had to shield his eyes, and each felt the temperature rise sharply in the drafty hall. Even King Terion stumbled with temporary blindness as he approached the slab, intending to punish Merol himself for his insolent last words.

There was no torture as had been planned, for the great focused blast of Wiglim smote Merol where he cowered, smearing his ruin against the schist. The deep grey of the stone was scorched black and drizzling between the crevices of the rock were tiny streams of goopy blood—some of which had sprayed Wiglim in his face. Wiglim closed his eyes feeling a sense of duty accomplished, and he tasted his former master’s blood in his mouth and on his lips. The crowd stood in silence. One by one they slowly opened their eyes, and even King Terion took his time taking in what happened, not saying a word. Only after what seemed like half a minute did a dwarf begin to applaud the display of power by the new Oreinen Vapour. Before long each dwarf in the hall, young and old, servant and king, chimed in. They cheered the efforts of Wiglim, forgetting that he had spared the traitor his due torture. It seemed that the ill omen of Merol was too much, and the dwarves could not dwell upon it, for in their hearts they feared that it might be true, and so they clung to the glorious moment at hand, as a great victory of redemption for their race. Later that evening Terion addressed his people, explaining that with Merol dead so too was the old scripture, the old way of believing; the Prophecy of the Key was to be forgotten. King Terion declared later that night that due to their redemption through capturing and executing Merol, and due to the Werevern-brought tidings of great destruction across the ocean, the dwarves would end their seclusion prematurely—they would open the Blue-Grey Mountains in one month’s time and quest westward to aid the countries under duress there.

IX: SPECTER AT DAWN

Pursaiones stopped for a sudden movement in nearby foliage and bid her trailing party to be still: it was only a rodent, and it scurried along its route past the searchers and into a hole in the earth. Five members of the party sighed deeply, relieved that the creature had not been the ghost they sought, but Pursaiones and Taisle were disheartened—the search had gone on all night with no sign of anything out of the ordinary. Taisle had been growing audibly frustrated over the last hour, damning the decision of the mayor to send the party, citing a lack of a good night’s sleep for “the purpose of nonsense.” Pursaiones’s slender frame led them down a low path, cutting between blue-flowering thickets that ran along a stream where half of the trail whelmed with fresh crystal dew. Through the tips of maples and birches broken strands of light began to fall onto the forest floor, and Taisle felt at ease that their journey was almost at an end.

Their purpose had been to track the specter said to be haunting the foothills of Rislind, but through an entire night of searching not a single spirit had been seen or heard. Several in the party were still skeptical about the ghost, especially Taisle and Pursaiones—both of them had resisted the wishes of Mayor Doings, only succumbing to the consensus of the village that had urged them out. The trek had led them high up along the ridges of the deepest Rislind peaks, where they had scoured the few paths through the dense woods—they had reached either end of the Rislind Range, going as far as the secret entrances that kept Rislind hidden from all who might wander in the realm of her doorstep. Finally, as dawn was in full blossom, Taisle broke into the lowest foothills and reached the first low-lying trees where their horses were reined.

“Look—a shooting star!” cried one of the party as they descended into the early morning mist-filled meadow. The party, too tired to take much notice, grunted in acknowledgement of the strangely bright star that streaked to the earth—no one realized the star falling to the earth had not long ago been unmoving in the sky.

“Now to sleep all day!” Taisle rejoiced. Pursaiones followed after him, and together the tired party mounted their steeds, surrendering the fruitless night, hoping explanations wouldn’t be required as soon as they returned—all the energy they had left would amount to a “there was nothing.” Any questioning beyond that would have to wait until the morrow, Taisle decided.

The golden meadow glinted under a red sun. Glimmering beams of pink-yellow light twined with the high blades of grass that filled the prairie horizon, and the ocher homes of Rislind grew as the seven horses bore their riders home. All was quiet in the village when Pursaiones came through the front gate after releasing the horses to roam as they pleased, the morn meadow their stable.

“Can’t wait to get to bed,” repeated Taisle for the third time. The other five in the party had said goodnight and walked to their separate dwellings, while Pursaiones stayed close with Taisle, walking toward their neighboring homes.

“Me too. I hope this all dies down tomorrow and the elder folk realize their delusion,” Pursaiones replied. She didn’t boast, but she knew she would have been able to go on searching—her constitution was greater than Taisle’s, though the townsfolk thought the opposite. Despite her having outperformed Taisle in feats of valor through the years, the town had always charged him with status as their supreme protector, as their strongest physical specimen. She did not mind, however, because she knew that Taisle was aware of her power, and that was all that mattered.

Neither of them believed in the ghost sightings. Pursaiones did think something could be amiss in the woods, but she would not go so far as to claim a spirit culprit.

“Want to sleep here?” asked Taisle as they reached the front door of his clay-built two-room home. Pursaiones was taken aback: she knew Taisle was pursuing her, but why bother now, when he was so tired?

“No, I’m going straight to bed. I’ll see you in the afternoon,” she smiled, summoning the strength to hide her displeasure.

“Alright—see you then. Good night, or morning, whichever…” Taisle grunted as he stepped into his tiny cottage, warmly tucked beneath a low-hanging thatched roof that he’d built himself. Pursaiones wandered back to where both her parents lived, a cottage not much bigger than Taisle’s.

She tried to recall what the townsfolk had seen that had made them so certain there was a ghost: Miss Brewboil could have been tired from work, and surely old gnome Crumpet was demented. Something strange was at play though, and while it was not something as farfetched as a ghost, it still needed to be uncovered. It was hard to believe, she decided, that the coincidental apparitions were merely delusions, as Taisle had decided.

At last feeling exhaustion set in, she streaked through the tight corridor of her parents’ cottage. She quietly slipped past her sleeping mother and father’s room, practicing more stealth than she had while lumbering through the forest after the specter. She undressed, threw her clothes onto the floor, and rolled into her soft quilts. Her bed was snug against the far wall, by the room’s only window which faced another house. Hers was the next-to-last house from the eastern meadow; through her window she could see the last cottage before a low-lying fence separated Rislind village from the wild stretch of prairie that ran for several miles to meet the eastern mountain foothills.

“No more for tonight,” she scolded her still-analyzing mind. She pulled her body together into a ball and rested her gold-haired head on a soft pillow. The sun was gleaming, poking through her cross-hatched window, and until she had shut her eyes she hadn’t noticed the annoying brightness that had saturated her room, preventing sleep.

“Ugh,” she said, sitting up to close the heavy maroon curtain, wishing for her room to become a dark abyss. Propping herself up in frustration, she twisted to grasp the curtain, but could not reach without getting out from under the warmth of her quilt. Sighing, she vaulted herself up, grabbing the bottom left strand of the bunched cloth. Upon closing it she caught a glimpse of the scenery outside her window: dawn light was catching the roof of Crumpet Grames’s orange and brown shanty. She sealed the window and blackness reclaimed the room, finally allowing her much-needed rest.

But something had tricked her eyes.

She jumped up again, just after laying down, and swung the curtains aside: there, barely visible through the tiny window of Crumpet’s house, wandering through his kitchen, was a figure. It was hunched over, grisly and grey, peering into one of the old gnome’s pantries. The form was dark and sinister, and Pursaiones did not recognize it for a villager—she knew everyone in the town, and Crumpet himself was too short to be seen through the high window of his kitchen. She kept watching, half in shock, wondering who the thief could be—then she remembered in a wave of paralyzing fear: it is the same monster that Crumpet described. It had robbed his kitchen, spilled his milk, and run off last time—this was Miss Brewboil and Crumpet’s ghost! She immediately shut the curtains and her mind was electrified, all thoughts of sleep and fatigue vanishing—she would rush and get Taisle, as quickly and quietly as possible, or it could mean death for poor old Crumpet.

She bolted out of her room, moving purely on instinct. Suddenly, a wave of doubt came upon her as she reached the door—what if she was crazy, delusional from lack of sleep? Better check one more time to be sure, she thought: I don’t want to wake up that grumpy mope Taisle unless it’s absolutely real.

She darted back on top of her bed to see if a mysterious stranger really was creeping around in Crumpet’s house. She flung the curtains aside and peered into Crumpet’s kitchen through his tiny window: the kitchen was no longer there, and in its place stared a face lit by two glaring eyes. It saw her; it was leering at her from inside Crumpet’s kitchen—it knew she had been watching.

Pursaiones froze in fear, unable close the curtain. She shuddered at the deep evil in the stare, watching eyes blink rapidly at her above a grimy beard. The man-ghoul backed away from Crumpet’s window so that she saw his neck and chest, and in an instant the intruder fled, dashing for the back door of Crumpet’s shanty. Panicked, knowing she was probably the only one awake in town, Pursaiones grabbed her sword, forgetting even her clothes, and rushed out stark-naked to wake Taisle.

The invader hadn’t run away like last time, when according to Grames he’d fled into the meadow: this time he’d come to face his only witness. In front of the naked Pursaiones stood the thin, long-bearded ghastly form whose lifeless eyes pored over her bare curves. It stood still, patiently awaiting her next steps, cornering her at the hedge by her front door.

“Taisle!” she screamed, and raised her sword high. The man-ghoul didn’t flinch. It remained motionless, and slowly its hand began to creep toward something at its side, something that looked like a satchel between discolored layers of rag-clothing.