Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (32 page)

“What?” Gaiberth suddenly turned, paying attention again.

“The Sleeping Enox has returned.”

“That’s an old legend, a tale told by vagabonds, gypsies, and fearmisers to stir up trouble!” Iirevale contested.

“I know it’s a legend, but the math of the legend, its suggested energy perturbation, accounts for such an impossible flux in Parasink’s steady-state of control,” Binn returned.

“You mean you helped the necromancer?” Calan realized.

“It’s curious—I don’t remember helping him, being his first assistant down there, but when the shift occurred—
when the Enox awoke—
I, as Behlas, regained a consciousness of my own. It was then that I began to see the terrible creations he had rendered, myself included—and what he was intending to create next. But I was powerless to do anything, or to escape—that’s why when I first discovered the intruders, I let them remain undetected by Parasink, in the hopes they had come into those dark mines as enemies of his, that I might use the chance of a fray to escape!” Binn exclaimed, emotional.

“And you did, every bolt and wire of you,” Remtall said, slapping the small Gear.

“What is the legend of the Enox?” asked Ulpo. “Dwarves have no lore of it.”

“The Sleeping Enox is a legendary hawk, giant and red. It is said in the gnomen legends of Aaurlind that when the neutrality of Gaigas is swayed, she manifests from her energy the great bird in an attempt at self-preservation. The great bird then throws the planet back into balance. It is the greed of those with power who cause the evil energy within Darkin to swell—and it is no surprise the Enox has awoken, given Remtall’s revelations about Vesleathren; I daresay there is more evil in the world right now than I’ve ever known,” Binn explained.

“There might be a right lot of evil folk, but we go to get the worst of them now,” Remtall said between sips. He waved his diamond dagger wildly through the air, overjoyed to be with such good friends and spirits.

“And how does the Enox go about righting the balance of energy?” asked Iirevale.

“I can’t say. Maybe it attacks the wielders of evil themselves. I really don’t know—I do know it’s the only thing that makes sense, the only thing that explains why Parasink’s hold on his minions temporarily lifted—at least myself and Behlas can speak of that truth,” Binn said. Behlas nodded.

“And what of the Rod? I didn’t believe it was real, let alone that you’d have a chance at finding it. When Calan first told me where you’d gone off to, I must say, I thought you a bit of a deserter, but, now that I see it before my eyes…” Iirevale said, looking at Remtall.

“Deserter—I’ll prove who is a deserter in this!” Remtall writhed. He chucked down his bottle and charged at Iirevale.

“Ho! Ho, Remtall!” Ulpo yelled, restraining the tipsy gnome cautiously, “Iirevale, you forget who you insult.”

Iirevale smiled wryly and continued on. Overhead the condors flew close, Yarnhoot leading the pack. Remtall looked up at his tame birds and whistled to them. Soon Remtall interrupted Calan and Behlas’s new-started conversation about Vapoury by bursting into song:

Through thicket of forest and thicketed glen,

By soggy old beetle or turtle’s den;

By mosey, by shame, by stars of ancient name,

Where go the old friends of mine?

Down gent-sloped hillock, up raking crag of hell,

Under quiet old river of Gaigas I fell;

Through fiery dragon’s cratered den;

By valor, by strength, by oracle of limitless end,

Where go the old friends of mine?

We parted not long ago among the wilds,

but miss them already much I do;

They took their stand by my old body,

so that it wasn’t left below—

Where go the old friends of mine?

The marching troop quieted to Remtall’s loud song, echoing across the plains. In the distance, several bands of riders stopped to watch the parade of dwarves and elves go by: some stared in wonderment, wanting a chance to get closer; others watched in horror, thinking Grelion had returned with a war-machine to regain the land. Remtall continued to sing, and some joined in with melodies, complementing his melancholy tune.

“Where go the others? Your song brings their faces to my mind,” Gaiberth interrupted.

“Indeed, where goes that prophesied hunk of silver metal?” Terion chimed in.

“And mighty Flaer? I hope he works at the front, he is our greatest asset in this war,” Iirevale added.

“Speak not of them! Sing, if you wish, and know that their fates are sealed from us—they have been fighting in Hemlin, if I know anything of them, and have already given their strength to our cause. Perhaps the war is already ended, and we are blind to the fact,” Remtall replied.

“Falcon brethren from Hemlin came with news while we were at sea—Wallstrong has fallen. I do not think it would have come to that had we won the war already…” Iirevale rebuked.

“Pah! Have you no mind Iirevale, foul green rodent of the jungle? Know you not the strength of Flaer the Slayer? Or Slowin the Colossus? Or strong-framed Erguile of the slave camp, borne by the great steed of Rislind, Weakhoof? A fool, a fool! To come to this country and speak such atrocities of its natives!” Remtall spat, infuriated. His mood shifted speedily from jovial to angry and resentful.

“Come Remtall—he meant no harm in his words,” Behlas interjected, instilling calm into his new ally.

“I’ll give you harm!” said Remtall. The marching party watched in amazement as Remtall ran away onto the plains with his dagger in his hand and a pipe hanging loosely from his mouth.

“Where is he going?” asked Calan, amused and frightened at once.

“Quite an eccentric member of our race. I’ll say I can’t remember one quite like him,” Binn said reflectively. Remtall signaled to the sky. The gliding Yarnhoot dove down to him.

“Your race?” laughed Behlas.

“I was once a gnome, even if you no longer can surmise it from my looks,” Binn replied anxiously, afraid no one believed him.

“Look, he’s flying toward that small band of riders—you don’t suppose—he wouldn’t take out his rage on innocent nomads?” asked Iirevale, unsure of what Remtall was capable of; he remembered their march together in the Carbal Jungle, when Remtall had once ran ahead of every elf to fight a Gazaran alone.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Ulpo said calmly, relaxed and happy to be in dwarven company—Terion had been filling him in on the state of the dwarves: they had come out of seclusion, executed Merol, and replaced him with his pupil, Wiglim.

“Let him do as he pleases. He has brought us the Rod of the Gorge—that is more than anyone could dream to ask,” came Terion, his conversation with Ulpo interrupted by the commotion.

“I think he’s hailing them,” Calan said as she marched. Tiny Remtall, far out on the plain, had landed near a group of wandering riders. He was waving his arms in the air at them.

“And what of the Rod? I know it by legends alone, and not the slightest of its true nature,” Iirevale asked at Terion’s mentioning. The plain Rod was held in the fist of Behlas as he walked along.

“Indeed, what is its true nature, you who have been under its spell for so long? Do you know?” Gaiberth asked.

“It is a terrible weapon of power—it has no power to sustain life, only to destroy,” Binn answered vaguely.

“But you said Parasink stopped the process of death with it, leaving spirits in a state of eternal life?” Iirevale replied.

“He did, but in that regard it was destruction—the Rod was used to destroy the natural energy that allows a spirit to transcend the physical realm. The Rod has no power to heal a wound, or revive one who is slain,” Binn explained.

“Well then, we will wield it directly against Vesleathren,” Iirevale said.

“Or Zesm,” Behlas replied.

“You think he will be there too?”

“Remtall said as much—that both of them were working together,” Behlas answered.

“It does not matter, for either way, we go to conquer the evil we find, be it Zesm, Vesleathren, or them together,” Terion came in.

“Can I see the Rod?” asked Iirevale. Before Behlas could answer, Iirevale grabbed for the oaken staff. A jet of steam shot into the air, white against the blue horizon, singing Iirevale hands.

“Ow—blasted sorcery!” Iirevale grunted, rubbing his numb fingers.

“You should have known better than that, or did you doubt it was the Rod of the Gorge?” laughed Gaiberth. The party all laughed after seeing that Iirevale was unhurt, and Wiglim stepped forth, realizing the staff was not to be held by those who did not understand Gaigas’s energy.

“May I try?” asked Wiglim, looking into Behlas’s watery eyes.

“You may
try
as much as you like,” Behlas informed. Slowly, as the party marched along, Wiglim calmed his spirit. Quickly, he thrust his fingers out, wrapping them tightly around the Rod, just below where Behlas held it. No noise or shoot of steam responded to his touch, and Wiglim safely held the staff.

“Great!” Terion applauded, heartened to see his dwarven Vapour prove his worth. Many others cheered, though unsure of what they were congratulating, as they did not understood the power in the plain looking branch of oak.

“Very good, very good indeed,” Behlas exclaimed.

“You Vapours, I don’t quite understand it,” Binn said. “At least you have minds to put your powers to use; Parasink’s was irretrievably lost, utterly mad
.
Combined with the power of that Rod, you can only imagine what kind of work he bent his will toward.”

“Well, we don’t have to imagine those things anymore,” Calan replied, heartened to see that there were two among them who could wield the staff against their enemy.

“Terion, do you mind if I test the Rod’s power?” asked Wiglim, feeling its surge of energy enter his wide frame.

“Do so in a manner that doesn’t harm anyone, and you may test it, dear student of Gaigas—if, of course, those who brought the Rod allow it,” Terion said, deferring to Binn and Behlas with respect.

“I haven’t attempted anything but to hold it myself,” Behlas said flatly. “But I suppose it can’t hurt to have a grasp on what we have if we are to use it against our enemy.” Binn was indifferent, nodding his head weakly—he was quite unwilling to see the Rod put to use, almost fearing that it had the power to corrupt those who used it, but he kept his thoughts secret; Parasink had been evil long before he’d found the Rod buried deep within the planet.

“Company halt!” called Terion. “Moment of rest please.” Gaiberth echoed the command of Terion, walking up and down the line of marching elves and dwarves, bringing them to a stop. Many asked what the trouble was, and they were simply given the answer: We are testing the Rod of the Gorge. Many did not understand what that meant, but turned their eyes anyway to see what was happening at their King’s side.

“Not yet!” Calan called. They’d forgotten about Remtall; she’d noticed he was galloping toward them from atop a horse. Yarnhoot flew over his head, and farther behind trailed a motley band of savages. He called to them:

“How about these for harm?” boasted Remtall, his brigade following obediently behind him. There were a dozen riders, all atop horses, some horses carrying two on their back. The riders finally arrived and looked warily at hundreds of dwarves and dozens of elves, the Enoan army.

“Remtall?” Calan called up to the gnome who sat atop a savage’s horse.

“Calm, fair lady—these are the lost spirits of Grelion’s tyranny, come to destroy that evil that thwarted them,” Remtall spoke. One of the more rundown savages rode forth next to Remtall. His face was long-bearded, grisly blond hair streaking greasily down his face; his clothes were ripped, blood-stained at spots, and dust-ridden from riding.

“I am Haeth, and these are my riders. We are the remnants of slavery, left to blow through the prairie wind as forgotten grains. We thought no law left in this land,” he told them. “Remtall tells us of your quest, and we wish for nothing more than to join you, provided you can allow us something to eat.”

“I am King Terion, Lord of the Blue-Grey Mountains, and I tell you that more to fight Vesleathren are always welcome in my company.”

“Our thanks,” Haeth responded. With a wave of his hand, his riders rode alongside the ranks of the dwarves. Some of the dwarves exchanged wary glances with the newcomers, wondering if they would be more hassle than help. Haeth and his riders appeared worn from travel and famine; they looked the kind of wanderers who’d long ago lost cause. The faces of his men showed weak smiles to be in the company of those with a purpose.

“Know that we will fight to any end that will kill those that bound us, forced us to work the farms, burn in them—no more—we know the tale of Adacon: his valor has spread throughout Arkenshyr, and we give our lives to those who are friends of his!” rallied Haeth, instilling a sense of duty and vigor in his weary band of riders.

“You have a way with words Remtall—can I ask how you managed that?” Ulpo whispered to Remtall, who was hopping down from his newly acquired steed to watch Wiglim.

“Hold on, the dwarf is trying the Rod,” Remtall said. Together they lit pipes, eagerly awaiting Wiglim’s first move. He walked out many yards from the long line of marching dwarves, facing the open meadows that stretched west before them.

“Not in that direction!” hollered Remtall, pointing to another streaking ragtag band savages in the distance, riding horses underneath the slow-falling sun.

“Maybe you can go get them too, eh Remtall? We could collect quite a band of slave-warriors I should expect,” Ulpo suggested.

“Quiet dwarf!” Remtall warned; Wiglim had raised the oaken staff high with both hands. A gasp came from Wiglim; the dull oak lit with gold, just as it had in the Gear Chamber.

“On with it, thick dwarf wizard!” Remtall yelled, sipping the dwarven stock he’d acquired from Ulpo.

“Be patient Remtall, he’s trying,” Behlas said, smiling; Behlas knew instantly that Wiglim was not a Vapour of the same strength that he was—it would take the dwarf more training, practice, and patience. The long line of frozen marchers watched eagerly for something more to happen, but the gold was flickering already, and dull flashes of oak reclaimed the color of the staff.