Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (6 page)

Peren’s response seemed to be enough to ease the anxieties of the audience. The chatter died down, and the people patiently awaited his next words.

“As you know, in the decades since the end of the Five Country War, there has been tranquility in Hemlin, even whilst Grelion turned dark the fate of Arkenshyr with his slave circuit. Our tranquility is now but a vestige of history; three of our greatest cities have already been destroyed.” Again the audience cried out in tumult, voicing their personal disagreement with Peren’s statement:

“Hemlin forsook its neighbor!”

“Hemlin is responsible for the treachery!”

“You had your peace as we rotted under Grelion’s corruption!”

Erguile noticed the calm aura around the druid flare. It seemed Peren knew the sentiment his statement would rouse, and he soothed the unrest of his audience:

“Friends, the history of the Five Country War cannot be unmade. We can, however, learn from it and account for this returned evil. As a result of the long peace after the war, Hemlin never rebuilt its militias, nor reformed a unified army. It is no surprise then that we were left utterly helpless to defend ourselves. Thusly, with great speed darkness forsook the whole of Hemlin.”

“Peace for you perhaps!” shouted a woman in front. “My three children were taken from me, turned to slaves, while I was forced into hiding for fear of death!”

“As were mine!” an old man spat into the air, harnessing the woman’s hostility and directing it at Peren. Peren’s aura rippled, wavered, reformed.

“This is not easy. I am not attempting to absolve Hemlin of guilt. I wish to represent the situation as it currently exists. Please, let me continue, so that you may know the state of our country, and the world.”

“But what of that monster now? Is he to be absolved of his crimes!” shouted a dryad, whom to Erguile appeared like a delicate elfling. Then, to his surprise, he noticed a translucent pair of thin wings neatly folded behind her arched shoulders; Erguile decided to himself that he would no longer be shocked by the strange folk he observed—it seemed anything was possible in the world outside of the slave farm.

“Yea! We want justice for Grelion!
He’s
the greatest villain! To think he was the one who unified us in the old war! It makes me sick to remember,” an old troll screeched above the growing racket.

“Yes—Grelion Rakewinter is the reason that many of us are here and alive today, but that does not remove the villainous stain he wrought upon our world, upon Arkenshyr and Enoa the most. I promise you that justice will be served to Grelion—but right now he is not our most urgent threat. As it stands, Grelion’s slave trade has fallen into disarray. His Guard has mutinied, his capital Morimyr is crumbling,” Peren informed the angered mob.

“He has gone into hiding, the coward, at the first sign of a power greater and more evil than him! We ought to seek him out, and hang him at once, after a long torture!” cried an old troll.

“That we may well do. Please listen—the hour grows late, and Vesleathren’s horde draws near.” Erguile was awed once again at how easily Peren managed the crowd, somehow preventing the imminent violent eruption.

“He’s a good speaker,” Erguile mumbled to Flaer.

“And a better Vapour,” Flaer informed.

“I knew there was something about him.”

Peren waved his arms, and Erguile returned his attention to the enormous plinth.

“Grelion is gone, and now his slaves run wild in clans and packs, struggling for survival upon the plains, deserts, and woods of the southern countries. Regardless of Grelion’s whereabouts, we will find and destroy him after we vanquish the evil at hand—I promise it will be done.” The crowd roared in applause at Peren’s pledge, which had been made in the charismatic tone of an emperor.

“Once the bodies of Vesleathren and Zesm lie at our feet, we will seek Grelion. Now, we must unite the slave clans of the south, so that they may aid us in this war—for if the dark force passes through us, it will claim Arkenshyr next. The Reichmar have refused to help us. Lucky we are to have the aid of the trolls of Drensh, and the men of South Shore, who march to us now through desert and plain. Many have come across the Kalm from Enoa; elves and humans alike have journeyed to our defense. Together we will unite, as we did in ages of yore, to end the plague of the Feral horde!”

The crowd cheered, egging Peren on, hungry for more talk of conquest. They hollered loud, and exuberance filled the room. Again, from the corner of his eye, Erguile thought he saw a bird peep out from the great tree at the center of the chamber. Amid the frenzy he tried to draw Flaer’s attention, but to his surprise, Flaer was standing up, heading toward the front of the room. Erguile was stunned, and he turned to Slowin, who simply nodded. From places all throughout the chamber, people were getting up from their seats and walking toward Peren.

“Friends! Coming before you now are veterans of the Five Country War,” Peren informed the crowd. Flaer stood alongside twenty others, rimming the edges of the plinth, each patiently awaiting Peren’s next words. Erguile recognized the absence of a gnomen sea captain. 

“Be heartened, for firstly I present our finest general: Flaer Swordhand!”

Most of the seated spectators stood to applaud, and only after looking around in awe did Erguile rise with the rest to clap merrily.

“For those of you who do not know who I am,” Flaer spoke, quieting the crowd with charisma that matched Peren’s, “I am a commander, a veteran of the Five Country War.”

“He looks good up there, doesn’t he?” Slowin said to Erguile as he sat back down. Flaer certainly had changed in appearance since Erguile had first met him in a prison cell atop the Ceptical Tower; he had been a balled up mess of grimy hair and dirty clothes then, tattered and smelly. His beard had been long and greased, his eyes had been watery, and his grisly mane of hair had been stuck to his back. He had worn the white look of emaciation, fatigue, and hunger—and he hadn’t been able to speak.

As it was told to Erguile, it took the might of six Vapours together to destroy the curse that had bound Flaer’s tongue—Krem counted among them. Flaer had never told Erguile how the curse had come upon him, and Erguile had never inquired. Had Adacon been awake during the months after the Battle at Dinbell, he would have surely asked; Adacon never feared being too nosy. But Erguile had known not to pry with Flaer from the start; his presence was too ominous and uncertain. All he knew was that Grelion’s men had found and captured Flaer as he was roaming the hills near Morimyr.

Krem had briefly told the tale: he said Flaer had been mad with black magic, cursed by a demon, possibly the new-christened pawn of Vesleathren, Zesm. Upon questioning, Flaer hadn’t responded, and had acted as if possessed, dancing sporadically in strange rhythm. Grelion’s men at once brought their strangely powerful prisoner—it was said it took a hundred men to restrain him—to meet Grelion himself. Not being able to determine the origins of the mysterious prisoner, nor recognizing the haggard appearance of the long thought dead hero of the Five Country War, Grelion decided to imprison wild Flaer in Ceptical Tower, deep upon the Vashnod Plains. Grelion gravely underestimated his prisoner, unaware of his true identity and that of the sword the wild man carried.

It was said that Grelion’s men tried to take the sword from the fevered vagabond, but that upon touching the handle, the sword seared them beyond hope of healing. Finally, Grelion had imprisoned the mysterious wanderer, deciding to deal with him later, as more pressing issues were threatening his trade routes. According to what Krem had said, it took all of Grelion’s best wizards to transport the mysterious sword and house it in Ceptical’s nearby sister tower. Beyond what he’d learned from indirect sources about Flaer’s recent past, Erguile knew very little about his new friend, and he smiled wide in anticipation of Flaer’s address.

“I will be once again commanding a legion. We will march directly to meet Vesleathren’s Feral force, just as they pass Marsh Ravine, the only direct path through the Forest Sea,” Flaer said. “We will be accompanied by many legions, and we will march accordingly. It is widely known that Vesleathren, and Zesm, have corrupted Gaigas to their will. There will be a great cohort of wizards among their ranks, make no doubt about that. That is why we must now discuss a maneuver of attack.”

As Flaer continued to explain, Erguile understood less and less. Flaer used strange words—flanking, kiting, volley—that the former slave was wholly unfamiliar with. After more than twenty minutes, Flaer finally stepped down, and another of the veterans from the Five Country War stepped onto the plinth and began to address the audience with a plan for the defense of the city. Flaer stayed at the edge of the platform, listening intently.

“How long is this council supposed to last?” Erguile asked Slowin, who didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable at having to stand through the whole ordeal.

“Several hours at least,” Slowin guessed.

“A few more hours?” Erguile cried. He felt lost already in the jargon of the new speaker; it all seemed too technical for him to understand.

“Calm yourself, you’ll be taking the stage soon enough,” Slowin said.

“Me?”

“Sure. Remember that you have been appointed a captain for superior valor in the Battle at Dinbell.”

“Well then, when I get up there, I’ll give the people something they can understand!” Erguile said. He smiled, once again feeling engaged by the council.

Hours passed, and Erguile made his speech, firing up the crowd despite their fatigue, and several freed slaves in the room roared especially loud for their new captain.

“And so on the back of Weakhoof I will ride to death, or to glory, and my name will ring in the ears of our enemies! I have slain beast and man, and will do so once more at your side! Long live the freed slaves of Arkenshyr!” Erguile finished, stepping back down. The crowd roared.

Erguile was lined up with many other captains, all of whom were under direct command of Flaer, including Erguile himself. Erguile beamed from the center of the room, winking at Slowin, who was trying to let a group of gnomes pass without tripping them.  

“In two days’ time, we set forth. Over the Hemlin hills—through peril—to feats that make ballads!” Peren ignited the chamber council for the last time of the night. Everyone stood, cheering with a newfound optimism, instilled in no small part by the leadership of Peren Flowerpath.

V: CARBAL, FAREWELL

Adacon peeled off Calan’s sky blue dress as she planted several warm kisses on his arm. The Carbal life had become paradise for Adacon during the last several weeks, though it seemed as if he’d been there for an eternity. The small Carbal village of Rainside Run had been one of the few villages untouched by Aulterion’s fire attacks, known as
Artheldrum
magic. Left unscathed, Rainside Run had quickly become the center of the Carbal elves’ livelihood, and had transformed into their new capital.

Calan sighed teasingly as Adacon turned her on her side. The sparkling droplets of mist that hung everywhere in Carbal Jungle somehow seemed thicker here, in his room, where Calan and he had made their home. Iirevale had gladly welcomed their relationship after Adacon’s return from Erol Drunne, knowing full well how much of a part the former slave had played in ending the havoc caused by Aulterion.

Her long muscular legs constricted him and he struggled for a moment to breathe in, but soon she submitted, and his eyes drifted and wandered down, following the deep curve of her thigh. Must be the Miew stew, Adacon thought to himself, and he smiled. The freedom of life in Rainside Run wasn’t without a looming shadow—Adacon knew he would have to leave her behind soon. They would have to part, only so soon after they had met.  

“I know I saw it though,” Calan said, lying limp across their soft bed. “When you blacked out, I was just getting to my feet, when I saw you start to—glow. I was shaken from hitting the ground so hard after falling from Falen, but I don’t mistake what I saw.”

Adacon took her story as reassurance that going to see Tempern was the right thing to do, though in his heart he still felt much doubt about possessing the power everyone believed he had. While he certainly had evidence—his feeling of being guided with fatal accuracy in combat—he still retained the idea that maybe, somehow, everyone had mistaken his power for something or someone else. After all, how could
he
be a
Welsprin?
He was just a slave, a boy, who had been lucky enough to see Krem’s small door tucked under the side of a sand dune.

“Can we go for a walk?” Calan asked, lazily stroking his hair.

“This late?” Adacon replied, tired from a long day of elven festivity. Iirevale had begun Rainside Run’s newest tradition earlier that day: a three week long festival of sporting, woodcraft, and other tests of stamina, endurance, and strength. Iirevale had vowed at the Erol Drunne council to aid the West Continent in what ways he could, but only after he had restored his people to a state of peace and equanimity under the wise leadership of Gaiberth. Though in desperate need of forces to fight the evil in the west, the council understood the depth of Carbal Jungle’s devastation, and had allowed the elves as much time as they needed to rebuild what Aulterion had destroyed.

“I want to give you something,” she said. “Come on, follow me.”

Adacon quickly dressed and raced to catch up to Calan, who had already descended the vertical hall from which their room sat atop, carved from a giant tree trunk. Adacon knew his time would be up the next day—Falen was to arrive and take him north, to the ice country of Nethvale. As much as he’d asked during his stay, the elves had told him little of the forbidding ice country—only lore of its dormant monsters, lying in wait beneath razor-crystal snow, appearing as if mountains. Adacon didn’t quite like the kind of stories he began to hear, so he’d stopped asking altogether.

The night left several dwellers around a large bonfire in the middle of Rainside Run, all relaxing to soft music that cascaded skyward from two elf players who perched on low hanging branches nearby. There wasn’t much talk, and all was dark in the late hours of the eve, save for the sparse illumination provided by the amber torches that dotted the walkways. The fire dwellers didn’t take notice as Calan and Adacon slipped past. Adacon watched in wonderment as the thick drops of mist evaporated constantly above the great fire, sparkling rosy orange before their death, only to reform again seconds later. It was a great spectacle he hadn’t been able to get enough of in his time there. Calan tugged his shirt as he lagged behind staring.