Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (35 page)

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“Tempern!” Krem said in disgust as he tried to create a spell of invisibility, repeatedly failing.

“What is it Krem?” Reap whispered. They hid behind a group of birch and pines as best they could, though Falen’s bright red and green scales stuck out like a sore thumb.

“My Vapoury is disrupted again, something is stopping my channel to Gaigas,” he said in frustration. He bent his head down, focused all his attention on his feet, then drew his hands slowly up along his sides, closing his eyes and wincing. A small lick of light grew around the ground. Krem’s feet began to dissolve into thin air, but in an angry huff of exhaustion, the feet snapped back into sight.

“But it can’t be Tempern can it? He wrote us—he knew what he’d accidentally done—he knew he’d almost killed us up there. He wouldn’t let that happen twice,” Falen said, his low voice filled with doubt.

“But the Enox’s gone…Maybe it’s distracted him again,” Reap guessed.

“No, it can’t be him—even if the Enox distracted him again, that would nullify my Vapoury in Nethvale, near his home,” Krem responded, his beard ruffled by his roaming fingers, frustrated as to why he couldn’t conjure a simple spell of concealment.

“Ough egroue?” shouted a voice. Krem looked out over the grass separating their batch of trees from the one concealing the silver object.

“He’s seen us!” Falen responded. “I say we confront them, magic or not. I still have fire—and he’s not so tough looking.”

“Krem?” said Reap, warily observing the small hermit for direction. The strange man now strode towards them: he wore a funny-looking suit that seemed to be both pants and shirt at once—it was a soft-looking material, emblazoned with an odd row of stripes running down one side. In his hands was another shiny silver object which the stranger quickly placed on his head.

“That’s not a helmet or cloth I’ve seen before,” said Krem, entirely disturbed by the foreign appearance of the man. The other being remained back by the oblong vessel of glinting silver, half-hidden behind tree trunks. The one wearing the helmet now paced fast toward them—Falen immediately stepped out from the cover of the trees, neglecting to wait for instruction from Krem.

“Hieh fron dough!” came the voice, and though Krem did not recognize the strange language the man used, he knew the tone of it—it had been a warning. Falen roared mercilessly; from his scaled face shot a stream of napalm-like fire, straight up as he arced his back and stretched his wings. The even pulse of fire rose then fell several yards in front of Falen, burning ferociously on the grass between them and the approaching stranger. The man stumbled at the sight of the fire. The red scales that had first caught his attention were now a full-sized animal of the likes he’d never seen before. Falling over backward in a tremor of fear, Brosse’s helmet lit up with dull-green phosphorescence.

“Known as a wyvern Brosse. Better neutralize it fast—our information has it aggressive—brute force capabilities of 130.234, damage value intrinsic, fire secreting glands,” fired Teme into Brosse’s ear in response to the emergency scan sent to her of the creature now bearing down on him. Brosse didn’t waste any time wondering if the enormous force capability reading was wrong, as it seemed impossibly high—instead he simply heeded Teme’s advice and from the ground raised his flash-pistol, firing a shot at the monster towering overhead.

“Falen!” Krem cried, unable to assist in any way. Reap stood fast, gripping the secret blade he’d kept within his oversized red robe, ready to pounce. The small glimmer of spark lasted only a second, but an explosion followed, loudly echoing over the sparse prairie. Falen roared in a fit, the hoarse-coughed cries of a dying dragon—his enormous body thudded against the ground, paralyzed by the blast of Brosse’s weapon. Krem stared in horror, unable to believe the power the strange man possessed, sensing no magic coming from him.

“Please—we mean no harm!” shouted Krem. Brosse immediately stood up, surveying the small hermit and his serpent counterpart. Reap moved his left leg tensely, gripping tighter the handle of his short sword, waiting for his chance to bound forward and take down their assailant. Brosse’s headgear translated the common tongue of Darkin into his own language, making sense out of puzzling gibberish. Amused, Brosse awaited another desperate plea from the natives.

“Please, let us help, we go to what may be the same cause as you, to fight Vesleathren at the Corlisuen,” Krem pleaded, though in the back of his mind he was sure that he must be staring at some sick creation of Vesleathren’s, unfathomable in every way—the artifact of power in the stranger’s hands, the metallic pistol, was unlike any vessel of magic or energy Krem had ever known or heard of, and he feared his words fell on deaf ears.

“Falen,” whispered Reap in frustration, watching his winged friend lay motionless on the ground. He saw no blood running from the unconscious dragon.

“Teme—I have some more prisoners—your speedy arrival would be much appreciated,” Brosse said. Krem and Reap heard more muffled throat noises, none of which made any sense; it seemed the silver-helmeted man was muttering to himself.

“That’s it—we can’t reason with one who doesn’t know the common tongue of Darkin,” said Reap under his breath; Krem knew it meant he was about to rush in for an attack. Using every last bit of energy he could muster, Krem tried desperately to fix a shield of Vapoury around Reap so that he might be protected from the stranger’s weapon.

“Agh!” yelled Krem. He channeled his Vapoury more furiously than he’d ever done before, fighting an invisible force that silenced his connection to Gaigas, one unlike what he’d encountered atop the Nethvale mountains. Collapsing in a fit of depletion, Krem somehow managed to break the mysterious shroud that subdued his power, and in a final moment of consciousness, he sent a protective aura of jade light around Reap, just as he had launched into action. Krem fell sideways to the ground, eyelids closing and gem-encrusted cap falling off, but his errand had been completed: Reap drew his sharp blade from its hiding place inside his robe, then, surrounded by a shield of bright emerald energy, pounced fast upon Brosse, who, standing erect, looked directly at his attacker. Brosse saw the flash of green; without taking time to think about the anomaly of energy he had witnessed, he aimed his pistol again, immediately firing at the lidless eyes of the serpent-featured man charging him.

A great clangor of thunder boomed across the plateau of grassland. The projectile of energy from Brosse’s weapon ricocheted off Reap into the trunk of a nearby birch tree. Reap, midleap above Brosse, came down whipping his sword in a horizontal slice, cleanly cutting against the silk-like cloth that wrapped Brosse’s chest. To Reap’s surprise, his sharp edge bounced limply away, unable to pierce the flimsy-looking material. Brosse was still in one piece, but the force had knocked him off his feet. He looked up in fear, having lost from his fingers the only hope he had left—his flash-pistol had been tossed aside, landing in a nest of high grass. Reap landed deftly and turned, quickly closing in again on his downed victim—perhaps the cloth was cursed, thought Reap. He stood above Brosse, who fought to catch his breath.

“Your face won’t be so tough, I don’t think,” Reap said, raising his blade high, pointing its tip squarely toward Brosse’s eyes. He struck down with all his might.

“No!” screamed Brosse. His voice sounded like a garbled mess to Reap, who understood the alien’s tongue only as a collage of guttural panic. As the tip of Reap’s blade pierced through Brosse’s unprotected face, it froze; next his hands froze, then his entire body—something had caught the former League of the Mage in a paralyzing grip. Reap tried to turn to see Krem, who’d fallen expending his last ounce of energy, and Falen, who lay lifeless on the prairie grass, but he couldn’t turn his neck—he couldn’t even slant his vision, his eyes were fixed. Into view came a new figure: looking directly at Reap was a beautiful woman with jet hair and a sedated pair of hazel eyes, curiously peering at her subdued victim. The green shield surrounding Reap evaporated.

“Strange creatures on this planet—incredible power though, a research case once we’ve finished our mission. I think I’ll come back here personally to study,” commander Naeos said in thoughtful contemplation. “Oh, sorry.” She quickly pushed Reap aside, his strong frame toppling to the ground, his eyes fixed upon the lifeless form of Falen whom he now lay beside on the grass.

“Thank you commander,” said Brosse as Naeos offered her hand to him. A shot of warmth ran through his body at her touch, and his obsession with her flared; he forgot his near-death at the hands of the planet’s natives.

“Oh, that one’s not subdued yet—fell over on his own,” Brosse said, pointing to the small hermit in the distance, appearing peacefully asleep on the grass.

“Their energy is incredible—that green light that surrounded this one,” remarked Flote, who stepped from the commander’s hovering vessel which dwarfed the size of Brosse’s transport.

“The creatures on this planet have somehow learned to control energy with their consciousness, it would seem—if that’s the case, we’ve got more than a research study—this is revolutionary,” said Flether, astounded.

“The reversal takes precedent though—without that, we will have no home to bring the research to, no race to deem the evolution valuable, no more Godking—” Flote was cutoff:

“No one needs a reminder of why we need the ore,” commander Naeos said flatly, cold and unyielding to the excitement of her comrades.

“What do you want us to do with these?” Flote asked.

“He’s the only one we need,” said Brosse, finally catching his breath after Reap’s blow to his chest. “Destroy the others.”

“Who put you in command?” asked Flether insolently.

“Enough bickering, unless you both want to be left alone on this planet,” Naeos scolded as if they were children. “They’ll all come as prisoners—we may salvage more information from them.”

“Yes commander—and what about the village? I never made it into the—”

“You what?” the commander scowled.

“I found this one at the forest ridge—he had the information we wanted so I didn’t have a need to proceed farther east toward the village. Our readings said they are primitive—” Brosse attempted to explain, getting cut off:

“I don’t care what the readings said,” she said with inborn ferocity. Brosse knew then in her scowling visage how superior she was to them—her eyes remained steady, her voice calm, yet her order rang with certainty. “What about the vacuum?”

“Several nights and it yielded nothing, though I left the vacuum set up on the peaks, just to be sure,” answered Brosse. To the Rislindians it had been a band of light along the top of their mountain range, there night after night—none knew its purpose had been to examine their collected memories and consciousness.

“Pure luck then that you’ve found this one,” Flote interjected.

“Alright—we’re going then, the village is of no use to us. A single night would have been all that was needed,” said the commander in a tone of displeasure.

“Course for the Darkin city Morimyr, commander?” Flether asked.

“Yes. Brosse, board your transport. Flether and Flote, get these ones on board—that one
might be a tight fit,” she said, eyeing the still dragon warily.

“I’ll make it so, commander,” Flote said. Instantly they went about emitting spectrums of laser-light from instruments fastened on their hips; from the grass rose the three bodies, and soon they were all fit with space to spare in the commander’s silver vessel. It was midday by the time the aliens boarded their vessel and lifted directly up into the sky, speeding through bands of puff-white clouds, making great speed west for the coastal city of Morimyr, hundreds of miles away. It was only several minutes into their journey when all four travelers peered out of the port window at an enormous marching congregation of assorted natives—commander Naeos immediately called their ship to a halt, and they floated in midair, high above a line of dwarves, elves, and other strange beings—the trajectory of the long line of marching sentients put them on a course directly toward the Angelyn mountain valley, the location of the powerful disturbance recorded earlier.

“What’s this then?” Flote asked curiously.

“Something is stirring on this planet, they are at war among themselves,” the commander replied coarsely.

“Shall we continue west then, and leave them to their war?”

“Not just yet, I want to land—I want to ask their leader about the metal, and see if any of them know this prisoner of ours, apparently so famous among the inhabitants of this land.”

“So he claims—he called himself emperor of this country. He looks rather ragged for the part though,” Brosse chimed in. The commander gazed back at Brosse, rewarding his brilliant achievement with a warm smile.

“What did you say his name was?”

“Grelion Rakewinter.”

XXV: A DECISION TO LEAVE

“I wish you’d reconsider—both of you,” begged Doings, standing wistfully at the gate of his peaceful village, quaintly secluded in a meadow surrounded by lush green mountains that rose into early morning fog. Meandering in and out of the veil of fog was a band of fading light, an alien glow that had shrouded the village in fear for days.

“Sorry. I have to find him,” Pursaiones said resolutely.

“Believe me mayor, I’ve tried more than anyone to keep her here—I know our mission is in vain, but I couldn’t convince her…and…” said Taisle; he trailed off into quiet thought.

“My two strongest young warriors, my best—the pride of Rislind!” moaned Doings, sobbing over a freshly lit pipe. Crumpet stood by, and Miss Brewboil, who surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eye.

“May you go with Gaigas, and return swiftly, unlike that drunken old fool Remtall—do not disappear as he did!” Crumpet ordered. Many of the villagers hugged Pursaiones and Taisle, the only ones leaving on the errand to save Noilerg.

“We’ll be safe, and back soon,” Pursaiones reassured them. Without prolonging the tearful goodbye, Taisle mirrored Pursaiones to the top of his horse, and they galloped away into the meadow, before Doings could rebuke them further for leaving their fair village unprotected. Taisle knew better, he’d worked with a lot of the young men and women in the village; there were more than enough able bodies to handle the protection of the village—still it was a hard sell for Doings and the elders, especially with the recent appearance of the mysterious band of light. Many whispered it to be a sign of the end of the world, and each night the ominous glow returned they believed their doom to be closer.