Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (18 page)

“You snuck out?”

“Right past the Gear that was guarding the Way of Old exit.”

“The way we came in through just now?”

“Precisely, keen gnome,” smiled Behlas, and suddenly he held out his arm, barring the way from them. “It is here.”

In front of them was a rusted door made of red metal, aged into a state of disrepair. A lively grey fungus spotted its length. The mold coating the door seemed to be moving around of its own willpower, alive and writhing.

“Didn’t see this on the way out,” Behlas said of the putrid gunk streaking the door.

“Is there a key to get in?” asked Ulpo.

“No, not that I know of—though there is a key hole,” Behlas said, pointing to a tiny hole, half covered under slime, next to a moss-covered knob.

“Never mind key holes!” Remtall whined, and he withdrew his diamond dagger and started felling the moving fungus, cutting down the wriggling slime to the floor where it slurped away at their feet.

“Awful weeds,” Ulpo shuddered.

“No use against my blade though,” Remtall said, cutting faster and revealing several other strange keyholes—it appeared the door was locked by three different mechanisms.

“Who’s there?” a muffled voice came through to them from the other side of the rotting door.

“Say nothing,” whispered Behlas, hoping their chance of surprise had not already come to an end.

“It’s your maker: He has come to end you!” shouted Remtall in a rage, and he struck hard on the iron with his blade. A clangor rang through the cavernous tunnel.

“Get behind me!” shouted Behlas, but it was too late—in an instant, a bright smoke seeped through the hinges and bottom of the ancient door, and the old iron began to glow—in a second the door cracked down its center, and with a great explosion, pieces of molten iron exploded out. Behlas tried as quickly as he could to jump in front of the door, to spare the others, but he was too late; a shard of iron flew into Remtall’s arm, pinning him hard to the ground. Ulpo dived at the sight of the glowing iron door, but only in time to have two splinters of hot iron pierce his cheek and knee. Ulpo and Remtall screamed in pain on the ground as smoke filled the cramped cave, and soon they began gagging.

“Bastard machine,” said Behlas as a Gear appeared through the smoke, charging in full swing with a spiked hammer in its hand. It struck down on Behlas’s left arm, held high in defense, and the spikes of the hammer pierced through his skin, sticking inside a mound of undead muscle. Behlas retaliated with a small dagger he had drawn during the fray of the explosion; the dagger stuck fatally into a mess of gold-trimmed coils at the center of the Gear’s chest, and in a fiery instant, sparks shot through the eyes of the half-machine, and light that shone from its breast went dark. With a crackle and a shot of smoke, the Gear collapsed upon itself. As soon as the Gear hit the ground, a stream of blue energy pooled above the pile of junk—it swirled in midair and shot back down into the mangled machine: suddenly, the blood-lined half-robot shot upright, arching its spine, thundering back into existence.

“By Parasink’s command!” shouted the machine in a human voice. Half-conscious, Remtall peered up at the Gear from the cave floor, able to see through the clearing smoke: it was as if a man had been stripped of his internal organs, and the chest had been scraped bare—instead of a heart and other vital organs, there was a collection of brass coils, copper lines, and radiating gems; most crucially affixed to the creature was a glowing red stone. The face of the Gear appeared almost entirely human, except for eyes that were rubies left long in a fire. Blood smeared the visage of the mangled Gear, and a grey tube dangled broken from its mouth. Its arms looked human, except for the fingers; they were each splinted with straight rods of brass. The Gear creaked, rotated and fired: a bolt of electricity collided into Behlas’s head, toppling him backwards.

Behlas barked in pain, rolling twice against the hard stone before coming to a halt. The battered Gear lumbered toward where he lay, and from its brass fingertips issued a line of blue energy, the same that had reanimated it. The spike of blue illuminated the dark cave walls with eerie fluorescence. Energy wrapped around Behlas, constricting him, binding him so that he could no longer move.

“Your mind will be destroyed once Parasink learns of your treachery!” croaked the Gear as it bent down to hoist up the paralyzed spirit. Remtall lay on the ground, watching in horror, feeling his own mangled arm. Suddenly, the Gear fell, collapsing on top of Behlas. It was Ulpo—the dwarf had crawled onto his knees and flung himself onto its back, tackling it to the cave floor. The sight of dwarven valor spurred the gnome to his feet; seeing the blue energy recede back into the Gear, and Behlas regaining control of his body, he jumped on top of Ulpo. Together they pushed down, trying with all their might to keep the Gear flattened.

“You cannot restrain the might of Parasink,” grunted the Gear, unfazed by the weight on its back. It vaulted its spine, springing Ulpo and Remtall together against the ceiling of the cavern. In a bruised mess they fell together, ricocheting with great speed from the spiky ceiling back down to the ground, losing consciousness. The Gear stood and spun around in one uncanny motion, but Behlas was already back up, free from the paralyzing blue energy.

“You cannot kill that which is dead,” said Behlas, and he held his dagger high, waiting for the Gear’s next move.

“I do not aim to kill you—only to harvest your mind, and return you to labor, errant slave,” replied the Gear. It clanked and steamed, pooling energy to its brass fingers again through some internal motor.

“I don’t care how much of Parasink’s magic you have stored in there,” said Behlas angrily, “It’s not enough!” As burs of lightning crackled from the Gear’s fingertips, Behlas mustered his Vapoury; he drew up a strong force of magic from the ground, a red-green liquid, transmuted from the stones at his feet. The liquid shaped itself into a firm hissing sphere—to the sound of static whining the ball flew at the chest of the Gear. Instantly, the electricity surging on the Gear’s brass fingers formed a flat circle, shielding it from Behlas’s assault. Smashing together, the projections of energy exploded in a white flare—for a moment they both stood blinded.

“How did you do that?” shouted the Gear, genuine human emotion in its voice; it had been fear, seeing that Behlas was conjuring energy, something the necromanced spirits of Palailia should never be able to do.

“Did the all-knowing Parasink realize he enslaved a Vapour?” responded Behlas, who then thrust forward. He pushed his dagger deep into the mech’s chest, digging into an artery of tubes and conduits, then twisting left, right, left again—the machine fell to the ground with a dying whine of motor. Suddenly, as before, a convalescent energy pooled up above the slumping Gear’s body. The blue aura swirled in a fit before diving back down toward the mech’s body—but this time Behlas was prepared for the ressurective magic Parasink had built into the Gear, and he prepared a counterspell: a buzzing splash of red-green light poured from Behlas’s hands, impeding the blue that was draining into the Gear, reviving it. The Gear quaked and rattled to life as some of the blue magic fought past Behlas’s and reached its components. Screeching, the mech tried to rise again, but there was not enough; Behlas finally forced the rain of blue to recede, preventing any more reanimation.

“Rest, poor creature,” commanded Behlas. With a fiery blast that shook the walls of the cave and caused a layer of debris to fall from the ceiling, the dark energy of Parasink evaporated into powdery gas, then disappeared altogether in a final puff of smoke. All the lights that had been slowly trying to flicker back on within the chest of the Gear dimmed, and its eyes lost their gloss—the contraption was dead.

*            *             *

“Up, up, up!” said Behlas, jostling the unconscious figures he stood over. Wisps of cyan light returned to the spirit’s hands from their bodies—it had been over five minutes since he’d begun healing them, yet they lay unmoving.

“Mugh,” came a strained voice. Remtall opened his eyes.

“Thank Gaigas, I thought you’d lost too much blood,” Behlas said in relief. Remtall shook his arm and looked at it with a start; there was not a streak of blood left where he’d been struck.

“Jester of a ghost! You picked a wonderful time to start using your Vapoury!” Remtall said, returning to life.

“I didn’t know I could, I never could before—not since before I was first put under Parasink’s enchantment have I been able to so much as hoodwink a mole,” Behlas replied, in awe of his returned abilities. “It must have been the flicker—when I lost corporeal form, I returned able to use Vapoury again. I hadn’t realized it until the Gear.”

“Where is it?” Remtall said in panic, looking around quickly as he stood to his aching feet.

“It’s that—” the spirit responded, pointing to a heap of mangled brass, copper, sprouting wires, and pooling blood, all barely visible in the dim light of Behlas’s softly glowing skin.

“Well done! Forget your idiocy of before, it is forgiven,” Remtall congratulated.

“The Gear’s dead?” came a whimpering voice on the ground—Ulpo was showing signs of life again, rolling to his side, looking in astonishment as Remtall had at his injuries, seeing no blood.

“Indeed, but we have no more time to waste—it took too long to revive both of you,” Behlas hurried them. “We have to get through the miners’ quarters as fast as possible, and make our way to the Gear Chamber before any more of them can realize what’s happened.”

“Quite full of our quest now, aren’t you, ghost skin?” roared Remtall. His boisterous remark caused a shot of pain to jolt through his temples, and he remembered quickly that he’d still not had a drop to drink. “Does your Vapoury cure headaches?” he asked, rubbing his head as Ulpo stood up next to him, ready to pass the blasted rubble of the door.

“Should have already, but there’s no time for that now—come!” replied Behlas, jogging ahead, leaving Remtall to nourish his skull alone.

“Well it didn’t! Blasted Vapours,” Remtall sighed. As Ulpo took off to trail Behlas, Remtall followed suit, grabbing his dagger from where it lay, strewn on the cavern floor from his fall.

Behlas led them to a much wider cave, looking altogether the same as the one they’d just been through except for its size. Gems sparkled as they cut deeper in, winking from the cavern walls as light from Behlas’s skin caught them.

“Beautiful place, feels dwarven to me,” said Ulpo without a trace of concern in his voice.

“No talking, we mustn’t alert more to our presence,” reprimanded Behlas. In silence they traveled on, descending a sloping rock floor that led to a tunnel protruding at their right. Once they reached a flat landing, there in front of them appeared another door, unrusted, built of glistening silver steel.

“Stand back,” whispered Behlas, and Ulpo and Remtall did as they were told; a shot of midnight-blue electricity sparked from the tips of Behlas’s fingers, illuminating the dank grey of the cavern walls. Slowly, the silver steel door turned white-red, and a low undulating rhythm vibrated from it.

“Quite a find, this ghost Vapour, eh?” said Remtall, forgetting to be quiet, slapping Ulpo on the shoulder.

“I’d say so,” Ulpo agreed as the steel door in front of them flashed red then pink; soon all color drained from the metal, and the dark blue stream shooting from Behlas retracted to his hands, leaving an ashen semblance of the sturdy door.

“Open her for us,” smiled Behlas. Remtall went up to the door, reached for the eye-level handle, a bland u-shaped hook. As Remtall grasped it, he felt his hand wring right through, clasping at thin air and dust. The entire door crumbled to the ground, disintegrated to powdery sand.

“Your handiwork impresses,” Remtall coughed in approval. After the cloud of metal powder settled, and Remtall came through a choking fit, the party pressed through to a warm room, not as dank as the cavern—Ulpo noticed tiny holes all over the walls; each seemed to be shooting fresh air somehow, refilling the room with oxygen and a subtle breeze.

“Yes—Parasink takes heed of his slaves’ physical needs; though they are near to dead, they need air just the same,” Behlas explained.

“Where’re the slaves then?” asked Remtall, looking around the strange quarters—there were no beds, only column after column of large hooks, hanging five high along every wall, the last of which was nearly the height of the four yard ceiling.

“They’ll be digging—work starts at dawn each day, we’ve arrived only just in time,” Behlas informed them. Remtall and Ulpo realized it seemed alright to talk again.

“What are these?” Ulpo asked, observing the rows of massive iron hooks that climbed nearly all the walls of the room—some were fastened to stalactites high above the center of the chamber. 

“As like to a bed as a miner gets—look,” Behlas said, and he ducked down level with Ulpo’s eyes, then turned his head so his neck was revealed: centered in the back of the spirit’s neck were two horizontal slits, from each one protruding a ring of metal.

“What in the…” Ulpo replied in shock at the grotesque sight. Remtall immediately dashed over to see.

“Jewelry for a fancy ghost,” Remtall prodded.

“It’s the mechanism Parasink uses to connect us to the hooks when it’s time for us to sleep.”

“You sleep hanging?” Ulpo gasped.

“Surely we do.”

“How is it you aren’t ripped off from the weight of your body?” the repulsed dwarf asked.

“The ring is grafted to the spine—another wonderful experiment of Parasink’s—gleaned from his work on Gears,” Behlas explained.

“Well, it saves space doesn’t it?” Remtall acknowledged. “Ugh.” His headache had worsened, and Remtall forgot his tormenting of Behlas for a moment to resume rubbing his temples.

“It’s been awhile—let me see if this still works,” Behlas said, taking notice of Remtall’s moaning. Behlas bent his head down, closed his eyes, and his skin’s glow dulled for a moment, all while he swirled his hands in an intricate pattern. Ulpo and Remtall turned to watch the curious act, and Behlas cupped his hands, sturdied his frame, and chanted something unrecognizable—suddenly a clap sounded, and a dust of verdant light flashed bright, disappearing just as fast, leaving a sealed brown bottle in Behlas’s outstretched hands.