Darkin: A Journey East (11 page)

“Another lock,” Adacon said, frustrated.

“Pay it no mind, this one I ought to handle fine,” Erguile said, and then he reversed his position so as to set his back against Adacon’s. With a heave, he thrust both feet forward, cracking the wood. Again he assaulted it, using Adacon for leverage. With a loud splintering crack the door caved completely in, and new light poured forth. The small orb in Adacon’s hand suddenly went dark; it became a lifeless mix of grey and black. Erguile went through first, followed by Adacon. In a moment they both were standing in a wide dungeon hall ten yards high. The walls were bare, and there was no sound except for the droning crackle of torches that intermittently lit the hall.

“Look, stairs,” pointed Adacon, and they ran for a nearby staircase, their swords out and ready. They clambered up the tremendously steep staircase, Adacon leading the way. After many times around the circumference of the tower, each flight becoming increasingly vertical, they came to a foyer walled with inlaid jail cells and a path out onto the balcony. They entered into a small room laden with crimson carpet, on which stood several tables. On the tables were spilled tankards and flasks, as well as several upright beakers containing a thick brown liquid. On the wall hung what looked to be a giant decorative hammer. The slaves noticed an odd aroma, sweet yet pungent all the same. It wafted to them from the balcony entrance.

“Bulkog,” whispered Adacon.

“He must be on the balcony,” Erguile whispered back. They gripped their broadswords and quietly paced toward the balcony. The air was cool and a slight breeze rolled in from outside, carrying the odorous pipe smoke. The slaves turned a corner to face the precipice, and there they beheld the source of the aroma:

Pipe in one hand, hoary blade in the other, stood Bulkog; he appeared, however, unlike anything Adacon or Erguile thought a troll should look like. Both of them had seen illustrations of trolls, and this looked nothing like one. Bulkog was bigger in size than Erguile, almost two-thirds as big as even Slowin the golem. His skin was yellowed and dilapidated, oozing brown syrup from its pores. His head was poorly constructed, as if he had been misshapen in childbirth or beaten savagely in the face. His hair was wrapped up in leather bindings, and the mess of it that could be seen was greased and grey. He wore thick silver armor on his legs and shoulders, but his chest was bare except for a rotted black shirt. At the sight of the slaves Bulkog coughed deeply and dropped his pipe. A trickle of brown paste slipped from his lips, suspended itself in midair, and finally sagged to the stone floor of the balcony. Reaching for a sword, Bulkog spoke:

“What’s this—vile thieves of Zesm, come to steal from my hidden stores? Hold still and I will rend you both asunder—”

Adacon and Erguile began a full charge and Bulkog stepped back to parry with his long steel.

The blows fell hard, but Bulkog deflected both without effort; Adacon’s sword glanced off the troll’s shoulder armor, and Erguile’s strike was rejected by Bulkog’s own blade.

“Feel the bite of
Ettlebane
!” roared Bulkog, and in their recuperation from the parries, the deranged troll bolted past them back into the red foyer. Adacon and Erguile, temporarily stunned, rose again to action and gave chase. They confronted Bulkog in the foyer as he was taking down from the wall the massive hammer of war.

“Heel now to
Ettlebane
and
Mirebane
, blade and hammer of the Feral Dynast—or do not, and seek a prolonged death!” raged the drunken Bulkog, wobbling as he swung Ettlebane his sword in one hand, and Mirebane the war hammer in the other.

“Seek this,” replied Erguile cockily, and he swung violently at Bulkog’s head. Bulkog was drunk, but he retained his speed and blocked Erguile’s attack for a second time. At last Bulkog struck, flailing forward with both weapons at Erguile in a north to south swing. Erguile quickly rolled aside, diving headlong onto the floor, blood blending into the carpet as his leg grazed the steel at his ankle.

“Ahgh,” Erguile moaned, slowly regaining his feet. Bulkog stood over him ready to finish when Adacon came from behind; his sword bit directly into Bulkog’s shoulder, just between where his armor met his neck.

“Ugh—runt,” Bulkog violently screamed, “I’ll kill you!”

Adacon tried desperately to remove his sword from Bulkog’s shoulder but it wouldn’t budge; the cut had been a severe depth and the blade was buried in muscle. Bulkog twisted around to face him, and Adacon lost grip on his sword. He recoiled in fright, cowering with his arms over his face.

“Time to die, you rotten human; feel the death pang of Feral steel,” Bulkog bellowed as blood oozed down his chest from the fresh wound. Raising his hammer high over Adacon’s head, the mallet descended; Erguile had rolled near, and as the hammer fell, he stabbed down fiercely into Bulkog’s feet, causing him to tumble. Adacon jumped aside as Erguile regained his footing and yanked from Bulkog’s neck the broadsword. He tossed it over to Adacon and they were both armed once more. Bulkog was writhing about on the floor, howling in agony, his back to them. The slaves made ready for a unified death blow; they sent their swords down upon Bulkog’s spine, but as the tips were about to sting him a bright red flash of fire burst upwards from the troll’s chest. A great force followed the fire blast and the slaves were thrown back against the stone wall. Erguile looked over to see his friend unconscious; Bulkog rose and limped over, faint with blood loss yet ready enough to finish off the intruders.

“Now you have made me disobey my master and use
magic
. On such pathetic enemies as you two are—what a waste to lose his trust over this. But I will not be slain by humans on this or any other day, master’s will or not,” Bulkog rambled, half to himself, as he approached them. Gurgling blood poured from his mouth. Bulkog dropped his weapons and grabbed the dazed Erguile by the neck with his fists. He lifted him up and choked him, finally slamming him against the wall.

“Die now at last, human,” Bulkog said, and he thrust his sword into Erguile’s neck. Just as the blade tip pierced the first layer of skin, a great white light blinded Bulkog and burned his eyes so that he fell backwards and to the ground. Adacon stood over him then, pointing Slowin’s orb of light directly at the troll’s eyes. Bulkog cried in pain, and the light of the orb seemed to intensify more than it had in the cellar; the orb seemed to draw in from an ambience of light to a fine pointed beam, and the energy caused smoke to drift up from Bulkog’s eyes, seeping between his fingers that failed to shield them.

“Bastard,” said Erguile, who had come to stand beside Adacon over Bulkog. Erguile picked up Mirebane, the Feral hammer of war, and brought it down without mercy on Bulkog’s skull. The crunch echoed loud, and on Darkin Bulkog the Feral made once more a howl but never again; the haunting call cascaded out through the balcony and into the night sky, loud enough for Slowin, far below, to hear.

“In here,” said Adacon. He led the way through the entrance to the jail. Inside was a circling wall of thin-barred cells, tiny and cramped, all hugging the fringe of the room. They were empty except for one; in it was a hunched man, balled on the floor underneath a mess of wild brown hair, clothed in stained rags. He appeared asleep or dead.

“That must be him—the keys,” remembered Erguile, and he ran back to grab the keys from Bulkog’s corpse. Adacon approached the cell door and peered down.

“Hello, Flaer? We’ve come to free you,” Adacon said. He trembled, still filled with the adrenaline of facing Bulkog. From the crumpled man came no reply. Adacon repeated himself to no avail. Erguile returned with the keys and quickly opened the door. With a rusty creek it gave way and he shook the man.

“Come on, we’ve got to be off now,” Erguile pleaded, shaking him. After another bout of shaking the man came around, opening his eyes and peering up. Slowly he got to his feet.

“Are you alright?” asked Adacon. There came no answer, but a moment later the man nodded his head.

“Can you speak?” asked Erguile, and the man shook his head side to side.

“
Cursed
, I’ll bet,” Adacon guessed. The man nodded to confirm. “Are you Flaer?” he asked, and the man nodded once more. His face was long and shaggy, appearing like an overgrown animal.

“Damn it—I can’t free his hands,” Erguile groaned. Adacon looked down to see Flaer’s hands shackled in what appeared to be a smooth black contraption made of something with no interlocking pieces. The shackle, it appeared, was a black steel figure eight that somehow bonded Flaer’s hands tightly at the wrists; there were no keyholes or features of any kind. The bracelet was in fact one smooth unit.

“Better get him down to Slowin,” stammered Adacon, and Erguile agreed. Flaer followed without protest, and the three descended the tower. They exited the front doors instead of going through the cellar, and Slowin was already there awaiting them.

“Well done; are you hurt much?” Slowin asked, noticing the blood on Erguile’s neck and leg.

“Minor cut, nothing worth paying mind,” Erguile said. “But Bulkog was no common foe, drunkard or not.”

“He’s dead now though, I gather,” returned Slowin, glancing to Flaer who kept his head down. “Flaer Swordhand—an honor to make your acquaintance,” cheered Slowin, and he hugged Flaer heartily; Flaer grimaced.

“He cannot speak, nor can we free his hands,” Adacon informed.

“That is the least of our trouble, as I expect Vesleathren to be greatly angered by this meeting we conduct here; we who are among the freed Flaer Swordhand and felled Bulkog,” said Slowin. It appeared Adacon was ready to ask more questions but Slowin spoke again:

“We must travel immediately, in all haste, farther east and up onto the Rislind Plateau. Not until we reach the Saru Gnarl Cape will we be safe to rest. Come,” And with Slowin’s order the company of four departed swiftly into the night, marching east from the sacked tower of Ceptical along the slave trade route.

V: THE BRIGUN AUTILUS

The party traveled through the night in silence, stopping just before dawn to rest and eat. There was not much talk, and Flaer’s silence brought an air of gloom upon the slaves. Slowin made little conversation, averting questions when they came up.

“We will rest here briefly, now that we have reached Rislind and are upon the Plateau,” Slowin told them. A small fire was started, and in the early morning twilight the four sat around, eager for a chance to sleep.

“Can you not break Flaer’s bonds, Slowin?” asked Adacon.

“No, they abound with evil magic, the magic of Vesleathren. I cannot break them,” he responded.

“I have thrice heard that name. Who is Vesleathren?” returned Adacon, as Erguile stood near to Flaer and curiously raised his sword.

“I’ll break it. Hold still, Swordhand,” Erguile said, preparing to strike at the black cuffs binding Flaer.

“No—do not strike, else lose your blade’s edge,” Slowin gasped.

“Just think I have the power for it; there’s no intention of harming him,” Erguile solemnly moped, sitting back down. 

“It is folly to play at Vesleathren’s magic; believe me, I have tried it before,” Slowin went on, restoring order. Flaer remained downtrodden, hanging his head in lethargy. “Vesleathren is the heir to the Feral Throne of Melweathren—Melweathren the Admiral of the Crawl Plaque during the first age of this planet, who was defeated in battle on this very plateau by a Rislindian, thousands of years ago.”

“What is Crawl Plaque?” asked Erguile.

“That is the name given to the first army of the Feral Brood, a race brewed of corrupt magic; dark mana sustained their life and power,” answered Slowin.

“That’s what Bulkog spoke of, Feral Dynast something,” said Adacon.

“It is much as I feared then, and Bulkog the troll had become of Feral genetics. Lucky you are to have survived his encounter.”

“What of Grelion? Is he not our most treacherous foe?” asked Erguile.

“Long had it been thought that after the old war, which Molto the Vapour ended by casting Spirited Winds, did the Crawl Plaque expire out of existence. Few were those who knew that Melweathren had an heir, named Vesleathren. Vesleathren brooded, conspiring for long years, preparing a Feral army that would once again try to sack the entire country of Arkenshyr.”

“Arkenshyr? Where in Darkin is that?” questioned Adacon.

“Hah! Poor slave, it is here in Arkenshyr that we are now, and one of the five countries of Darkin it is,” Slowin replied. Adacon tried his best to keep up with everything he was being told, as did Erguile; they both looked dumbfounded and confused.

“And so he invaded, and another great war was fought; the five countries united, unifying in Arkenshyr to battle Vesleathren. Then, for a second time in history was a war ended by a great Vapour. At last Vesleathren was thought dead, killed in the final blast, but the world was weakened so by this war that the scattered Feral ravaged the lands, reproducing endlessly. Leaderless they were, but they pillaged everything nonetheless. No unified power of good was left to oppose them,” Slowin told.

“Was there no more left of the Five Country Army?” asked Adacon.

“No, not enough to contest the ill-spawned Feral Brood. The rape of the countryside continued for many years, until finally a brave soldier rose in ranks from the north country of Hemlin, and united enough free men, elves and dwarves to drive back the Feral Brood. And the Feral were slain on sight, until they were all but gone entirely from the face of Darkin. This leader came to great power over the world for his triumph; but in the time of peace that followed the Feral cleansing he grew restless with greed. His great favor with the cultures of the world won him entitlement to whatever he pleased, and soon his greed overtook his valor.”

“What was this leader’s name?” Adacon queried, fascinated by the tale.

“Grelion Rakewinter.”

“Grelion!” Adacon cried.

“Can’t have been him,” Erguile said. Flaer shook his head and lay down for sleep.