Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (30 page)

“Have you ever
seen
a ghost before?” scolded Miss Brewboil disapprovingly. “No? Well then, you can’t be certain it wasn’t.”

“It was the ghost!” croaked Crumpet from a barstool where he’d parked himself for the night. “I knew I hadn’t been deceived…Noilerg was never the original bread thief, it was
that thing
you saw in the woods!”

Many cheered the remarks of Crumpet and Miss Brewboil, and Pursaiones and Taisle hung their heads in defeat, feeling no possibility of relieving the villagers of their misconception.

“Well, well—not to take any one side—I think we’ll wait one more night, and if the light is still there tomorrow evening, we will hold a real council of urgency,” Doings offered, trying to mollify Taisle.

“There is urgency now—he could be dying!” Pursaiones cried.

“It must be Zesm, come back to kidnap our children again!” cried an elderly gnome-woman, one who had consoled Remtall in nights of yore, when his child had been taken.

“Silence! Enough conjecture, it’s useless!” Doings stammered, sipping from his drink and fixing a fresh pipe. “Zesm—that’s preposterous…”

“It was a steel, shinier than anything I’ve ever seen,” Taisle affirmed. “There was a
man
in it
with
Noilerg! I’ve already said this—he wore more of the same steel—a purple glowing helmet!”

The discussion went on for another hour until finally the tavern owner ordered that everyone could take the frenzied debate to one of their own houses, but that he was going to sleep, ghost or no ghost. The villagers wandered under the imposing gold aura cast from their peaceful mountains. They trudged home in eerie light, the glow cascading ambience upon the streets, feeling as if they were in an alternate dimension.

“I wish Remtall hadn’t left,” said Taisle, wishing the wisest man in Rislind hadn’t embarked on a mad quest to avenge his son.

“Me too. He’d know what to do,” Pursaiones agreed. She turned toward her house, stepping away; he stopped her by the arm.

“Thanks for being with me up there. I’d have lost my mind.” 

“I think I quite lost mine,” she smiled, the awkward gold light blanketing her vision of his face. “Well—good night,” she said, and turned to go.

“Pursaiones,” he came again, grabbing her arm once more.

“Hm?” she said, exhausted, looking back lazily. Taisle pulled her against him, kissed her quickly, and then released her. She looked confused, glanced away, then returned her eyes to his.

“I’m sorry, I…” he tried to explain.

“Goodnight Taisle,” she said, in her voice the hint that she knew; all along she knew how he felt about her.

“Night,” he said. He watched her walk away. Finally, alone under the watchful gold eye that encircled them, Taisle marched to his own bed: whether she loves him or not, he’s gone now, he thought; the short-lived stay of Noilerg had already come to a close. Squashing his selfish doubts, Taisle lay down. In his bed, he tossed and turned to visions of sun-glinting steel and sounds of clicking. He fell into a restless fit of sleep.

XX: FROM THE SMOLDERING RUIN

The night was quiet. Two moons shone, one half-lit, a hanging sickle among clustered stars. The verdant Hemlin hills were dashed of their color, as was the horizon, except for a small lick of flame, impossibly distant: the city of Wallstrong was ablaze. A depression, misshapenly gouged from a symmetrical row of hills, marred the beauty of the Hemlin north; a small stone rolled over in the pit of a giant crater;

Fingers, aglow with a spark of emerald light, unearthed themselves through flame-baked soil. A small pile of rubble tumbled into a thin crevasse at the center of the pit. Bursting through the rock came a dirt-capped mess of hair; next emerged a set of shoulders, two muscular arms: Flaer hoisted himself from his barren grave, lit by an aura of green Vapour—dusting the earth from his eyes, standing in the cooling depression of the hills, he started a slow climb from the black abyss.

No entity stood near, nothing hinted of life; there was but an endless succession of moon-lit hills adorned by the dead. A curious fire fed silently on the sky in the distance. Flaer knew: it was Wallstrong. Little hope was left to the West: the Unicorporas had been created, and as long as its magic held, nothing could stop it. He passed the endless slain forms, slanted upon their shared tomb. He thought briefly of his friends, the Hemlin Army; no memory returned their fate. Forget the battle, he decided: there is nothing to affect what has already come to pass. No anger surged, but a keen sense of urgency filled him—must keep moving, get to the city…His footsteps drowned all thoughts of sadness. The spackled firmament bore its neutral light upon the lone traveler’s passage over the hills, the bodies. Silence gently rested on the hills save for the soft steps of one death-risen man. Somehow, swordless, he would go to kill the Unicorporas, indestructible though it was.   

*            *             *

“To the mountain pass?” Erguile asked in panic. The night was on fire. Around him stood the last defending archers. They battled from a stone embankment high atop the inner-castle wall of Wallstrong. Flames rent the night sky starless, lighting shrieking women and children that trembled and ran, terrifying the elderly. Most huddled in a petrified mass below the high buttress that rose at the base of the capitol building, awaiting word from Peren.

“I’ll provide cover. We must leave now—there’s no use staying here, the gates have been destroyed,” Peren informed his captain. The other living generals were summoned forth; Peren informed them of the plan to evacuate the city. From outside the city arced forth a sky-wide volley of fire-rain, behind which hovered the scarlet Unicorporas, enraged at having been contained for so long by the druids. In battle among the hills, Peren and his fellowship had successfully prevented his assault for nearly an hour; they’d formed a shield through which a small portion of his power was drained, allowing enough time for the Hemlin Army to retreat behind city walls. The containment did not last—several druids fell by way of exhaustion before the Unicorporas ripped away over the hills, aiding his army as it reached the gates of the stalwart city. Peren had chased after him, sneaking back inside the city, skirting a flank of trolls that marched ineffectually against the fortified embankments. The only passage visible to the Feral was a high granite door, raised and lowered by a set of chains from behind the walls.

“Generals!” roared Peren. Archers rained arrows upon the Feral mass below, but they now slipped past the granite door; it lay fractured to shards by the Unicorporas’s aerial destruction. The generals—four of originally seven—stood listening for Peren’s command.

“We evacuate the city! We head for Reichmar Pass—Gelros, you go with Chreghim, break the Reichmar Seal.”

“The Reichmar Pass? It hasn’t been used in decades!” came a citizen who hid by the Hemlin forces.

“He’s right general,” Chreghim said, stepping close to Peren. “We don’t know if the Reichmar are friend—” he was cut off:

“Does this look friendly to you? Is this your vision of defense? Go now! Do not question me—now!” Peren screamed, pointing at the glowing dot in the sky, a red star; from it splinters of fire hurtled a trail of fire across the night, landing behind the walls.

“Peren?” Erguile asked patiently, awaiting his orders.

“Lead, Erguile. Take the citizens through the tunnels until you find an entrance into Ascaronth—the Reichmar must
consent. Their fate hangs by a thread as thin as ours.”

“Yes general.” He dropped the bow clenched in his fist, unsuited for its use anyway, and started rallying all the standing women and children around him, ushering them down from the stone embankment, flooding them onto the burning streets below where a mob awaited its fate.

“Listen here!” called Chreghim. Erguile and the other generals mirrored his call for attention:

“We are evacuating the city! Follow us, call your loved ones near if you value their lives—come to the Reichmar Pass with us, or stay and die!”

“Order! Order!” called Gelros over the din of hysteria. Frightened citizens raced toward the old Hopwing House, a museum of relics, housing the sealed door to the Reichmar Pass, an underground tunnel leading directly underneath the Angelyn Range, four miles to the south.

“What do you plan to do once you’ve holed everyone up in Ascaronth, and this last vestige of fortitude has burned to the ground?” came the citizen who’d reminded Chreghim that the Pass had long since been derelict.

“We will draw them to the Corlisuen, fight them at the choke,” Peren cut in. Aglow with emerald light, aura extending several yards in each direction, he paced away toward the stairs, heading in the direction of the Feral trolls that swarmed the outer streets of Wallstrong, not away from the blasts of the Unicorporas but toward them.

“And you propose that rock and granite are a protection against the wrath of him?” whispered the demoralized citizen, who lay down as the last of the archers fled, urging him to get up as they passed.

“Those mountains will not protect you!” he called to his would-be saviors. He let them leave. A jetting sphere of fire eclipsed Darkin’s greatest moon. It crashed into the edge of the embankment, shattering its lip. Closing his eyes, the young citizen of Wallstrong thought his last thought—a quiet reception of the limitless power of the Unicorporas. 

*            *            *

“Can you see that?” called Reap. Krem and Falen hadn’t heard or seen a thing. The great scarlet hawk upon which they rode flapped its wings gently—Krem had never come across the Kalm ocean so fast, nor could he if he used every bit of his Vapoury. Nothing on Darkin could muster such speed as the Sleeping Enox had provided them.

“I said look over there!” yelled Reap, whose vision surpassed both of his fellow passengers. Krem and Falen turned their gaze to see what warranted Reap’s screams. In the distance they saw what had caught his eye: there was a wavering orange blaze, smothered by a smoke stack, appearing blurrily together as one massive spire. Krem knew instantly that the best defense of the West had fallen.

“Wallstrong,” Falen said low.

“We can’t go there, we can’t land there!” Reap recoiled in fear at the thought, sensing grave danger: “
He’s there!
”

“You propose to destroy the evil harboring itself in Gaigas by running from its source?” Falen charged the Nethvale refugee.

It had only been a few days since the blizzard when Adacon had been knocked unconscious by the pelting hail. A sudden wash of red had saved them; the Enox had come upon them. But Adacon had disappeared midflight, halfway down the mountains, vanishing from right off the back of the bird—Krem had been quite unsure of what to do. The hawk dropped them off at the foothills of the Nethvale mountains, and without a word, it flew off—back up toward the peaks. Krem’s magic had returned, and they’d decided to fly back atop Falen to search for Adacon, but Tempern had sent word, a floating letter curled up, driving through the wind of its own accord, landing purposely in Krem’s cap: all was well atop the mountains of Nethvale, and Adacon was in good care. The search was called off. Soon the red hawk returned, intercepting Falen’s southerly flight, taking them all on its back speedily across the Kalm to the burning city.

‘
Sorry for the delay—I realize your Vapoury has been null; it’s this bird, she’s always doing that—making me forget things I shouldn’t, making me remember things I shouldn’t. At the least, know that you ought not try and rescue your friend; he’s my guest now. The Enox will be intercepting you soon. Sorry I’ve never mentioned her to you Krem—I’m sure your short meeting was acquaintance enough to know she is something extraordinary. I hope to meet your friends soon, sorry there isn’t time now. There is grave news: I sense that something terrible has happened in Hemlin. I send you there at once to do my bidding where I cannot: save what innocent lives you can. For your dragon friend: Be calm and merry atop the Enox, she flies much faster than you. Anyway, I’ll be getting this boy back to you as soon as I can—in time to help I hope. A good flight to you,

—
Tempern’

“I wonder if this bird ever talks?” asked Reap, momentarily distracted from the burning city. “Perhaps it would give us advice on where to land?”

“I think we should land south of the city,” Krem suggested.

“In there?” Reap said warily, pointing down at an endless stretch of jagged peaks, piercing the blanket of clouds below, black and foreboding.

“The Angelyn mountains are not so merciless as they appear from up here,” Krem reassured. “I don’t think there’s much we can do for the city—but we might attempt to rally the Reichmar and counsel them into bringing aid.”

“The Reichmar?” laughed Falen. “They haven’t helped anyone but themselves in decades! Even I know that much, old Vapour.”

“It’s true, but who is to blame for their seclusion? Surely none other than Grelion—and where is he now? He’s abandoned the country for another age of terror, disappeared just in time for it!” Krem said angrily. “No, I think they will see things differently now—they must know something of the menace encroaching upon their foothills…and by what route does Vesleathren purpose to travel south? There is only one way: through the Corlisuen!”

Falen visualized the tiny valley passage he’d flown over countless times, the Corlisuen, a choke commonly held as the only way to march through the Angelyn Range and come out on the other side alive. The thin pass ran several miles, exiting into the Vashnod plains—Melweathren’s Crawl Plaque had come through the pass in ancient times, surprising the peaceful countryside of Arkenshyr. It cannot be allowed to happen twice, Falen thought to himself. The plan was set, whether the Enox heard their idea or not. They would land in the small valley between the skyjutting peaks of the Angelyn range. From there they would search out the entrance to Ascaronth, and pray for the aid of the long-secluded dwarves.