Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (25 page)

“Well then, let’s be out of this Gaigas forsaken place,” Remtall riled, his head turned to thoughts of warm beds, women and ale.

“But what of the rest here?” Binn protested.

“Ulpo and I mustn’t tarry. You two may do whatever you please. Know that you won’t be forgotten, and that we will one day repay the heroism you’ve rendered here,” Remtall said. Content with his goodbye, he moved toward the door, ready to return to the Endless Forest.

“I am coming—if there’s anything to be done for the slaves and spirits of this place, we’ve done it—if the Enox has risen, then any who haven’t been here too long will realize they’ve a soul again, and they will find it in themselves to leave—as for the rest, there is nothing we can do for them,
not now,” Behlas said.

“Then I’ll follow,” Binn said after a moment of silence.

“A Gear! To come back to the East Continent? Ho!” Remtall said, thoroughly amused.

“I may be part machine, but the evil in me died with Parasink, who instilled it; and my consciousness has somehow been restored—I will go, on whatever errand you are tasked with, for I have been sick of these dank mines for too long, and long to see free lands again,” Binn cried.

“Fine with me—our ship is more than well-equipped for four—but no more of this dallying, we march to the shores!” Remtall ordained. He walked to the far side of the room. Behlas and Ulpo followed their gnomen friend, and after a long pause, Binn chased up.

“So where are we going then?” Binn asked.

“As second-in-command on this expedition, Ulpo will fill in such details,” Remtall explained. The three marched fast through the tunnels, past the empty miners’ quarters, and out onto the high rock-packed forest trail. They hiked swiftly down; all the while Ulpo filled Binn in with details about their situation: he told how the evil wizard Aulterion had attacked Enoa; how Vesleathren had used magic to corrupt a generation of trolls, creating the Feral Brood Army; how evil had been defeated in Enoa, but reformed in Hemlin; how Krem, Slowin, Flaer, and Adacon had all been heroes, ensuring that the world was not destroyed.

“I have been a native of Aaurlind since before I was—made like this by him—and I’d heard lore of Vesleathren and Aulterion, but I thought both to be dead—legends of a war before my time,” Binn said.

“Young then, are you?” Remtall asked, realizing it was impossible to tell the age of the once-gnome, given all the mechanical parts sprouting from him. “I was
in
the Five Country War, boy,” Remtall told.

“Really?” asked the eager Binn; for the rest of the journey to the shore, Remtall became the focus of attention, recounting tales of his time spent as captain aboard the
Granfernace
, in command of the Gnomen Fleet, about which Binn had heard legends in his youth. Binn remembered tales of valor, and he was greatly enthused to not only hear the stories once more, but from a direct source, a legend himself.

“What a strange life you have led, Captain Olter’Fane,” Behlas smiled as dawn opened its pink eye through a last row of trees that separated the brush line from the long beach. 

“Ah—she’s a sight for sore eyes,” Remtall exclaimed, first to step through the trees, seeing clearly his anchored ship, half a mile away, thirty yards out to sea, beyond the gentle lap of the Kalm, ebbing away from the flat yellow-white sand.

The party of four crowded into the small boat that Remtall had tied to a black-rock jetty. Remtall and Ulpo grabbed oars and began to bat furiously into waves, making good speed toward their ship.

“What happens if water gets in your chest,” Remtall asked as foam sprayed into the boat.

“I don’t know,” Binn whined, having forgotten for awhile that he was now half-machine, and as such, dependent upon his Gear circuitry for survival. He rotated around, using his back as a shield against the breaking surf.

“With the sun out, I can’t see the glow of your skin Behlas,” Ulpo remarked, noticing that Behlas looked more human than ever in the spreading daylight. A beautiful sunrise snaked its way between strips of clouds in the horizon as the boat gently rolled over swells, passing the breakers, rowed fast toward the anchored ship. Remtall looked back at the long beach, a peaceful, empty vastness that buffered the ocean from the shrubline, beyond which rose the wall of pines, entrance to the Endless Forest.

“Aaurlind would seem a prettier place to me if I weren’t here on such a grave errand,” Remtall said, finishing his last glance.

“Indeed—” Ulpo confirmed. They boarded the ship, lifted anchor and set sail with a course toward the eastern coast of Arkenshyr. Soon all sails were set, catching a strong southerly wind; the sun was high in the sky, and Remtall had prepared a great feast for Ulpo and his new guests. They sat merrily beneath the midmorn sky, at ease for the first time in a long while. Remtall fixed a pipe to smoke.

“So, Binn, what were you saying about the Enox?” asked Remtall.

XVI: UNICORPORAS

Dashing madly past the Jaigan, Erguile just managed to maneuver around the sea-beast’s sweeping arms. Six trolls kept him from fleeing any farther, each one frenzied, wielding a jagged sword.

“Alright then—get back somehow, ol’ boy,” Erguile commanded, hopping off his horse; he knew Weakhoof stood a better chance of escaping the throng without him. Hesitant to leave, Erguile smacked Weakhoof hard, triggering a strong gallop toward Peren’s men. The trolls, Gazaran, and Jaigan all turned toward him, letting the riderless horse fly past unharmed.

“Come, black scourges—oh how I have longed for this!” he said with the fearlessness of a dying man. Three trolls charged, each with its z-shaped blade raised high. Erguile took one step back, heard a high-pitched whooshing; he ducked swiftly—the coral arms of the Jaigan whipped by, inches above his skull. A pungent odor of decay dispersed; the grey-blue arms flew past again, spraying plasma into his eyes. A metallic clink brought his attention back to the trolls in front: one had thrown its sword, where it stuck firmly to his upper chest—Erguile winced, glad for his mail. The three trolls hesitated, strangely waiting to further assault. As they watched Erguile check his chest, a gold-plated monstrosity reared its head high from behind them, followed by another. Two Gazaran mercilessly barreled forward, forsaking their own; the armored centipedes crawled over the trolls, crushing them in their eagerness to devour Erguile. Razor-spiked mandibles opened, flexing black and white within the rim of the gold sheath.

“Two of you,” Erguile grumbled to himself, “Gaigas let me slay one, ere I die.” The Warpedes rose, eyed their target, shot their jaws in a line for the ill-defended Hemlin captain. Buckler raised, Erguile decided his only chance was to roll at the last second, though he felt sure it wouldn’t do much good—the mouths of the Gazaran were too big, covered too much ground. Radiant gold drove toward him, the round circumference of the Warpedes took up all of his vision; the whooshing arms of the Jaigan sounded again, and Erguile rolled to his right. His body pounded into the legs of a charging troll, tackling it. Pouncing quickly to his feet, amazed to be alive, he looked behind: the Jaigan had cut into the Warpedes in their attempt to kill him—a dented, pus-dripping mass of gold lay where Erguile had just been. Slowly, the Warpedes uncoiled their bodies, dazed by the razor-strike of the Jaigan’s coral arms. The Jaigan’s spire rotated on splayed tendrils, finding Erguile; the Warpedes quickly followed suit, one bleeding profusely thick ooze-like blood, having been pierced by the Jaigan through its temple.

“Erguile!” came a voice. Erguile wondered if he’d died—a hand had come down from the sky, patiently extending over the troll he’d knocked down. The concussed beast dug its arms into the soil, trying to stand back up. Quickly, unsure if it was a hallucination but not caring, Erguile grabbed the hand and was pulled upright. There stood a glorious sight: Peren Flowerpath, armor rent from enemy steel, sat atop his plate-armored horse. Without words Erguile was hoisted onto the saddle. They quickly spun around, the horse as fast and agile as any Erguile had ever witnessed; somehow, Peren had forged a path through the thicket of Feral monstrosity—and into that same trail, still grass-green, the horse galloped hard, narrowly escaping a whizzing arrow. Erguile surveyed the war-torn landscape, unable to speak: it seemed as if they glided through a sea of black from which glinted specks of gold, the writhing droves of Gazaran, occasionally broken by the towering teal of deadly Jaigan.

“You’re no good as a captain if you’re dead, friend,” Peren said. Erguile was taken aback by a smile, slowly dividing the druid’s face: it was irresistible, and Erguile smiled too; he knew he should not be alive. They rode fast and hard, and amazingly, left the mass of Feral Brood, making good speed toward the top of a hill, upon which summited the Hemlin Army. Looking back, over the slow moving wave of Feral, Erguile scanned the crater, then the sky: he saw no trace of the red sphere of the Unicorporas—he double-checked the crater, thinking for a moment he could expect to see Flaer and Slowin climbing out, but there was only a rising vat of smoke.

“We’ll see what we can do from up here. Hold to the crest, captain your men,” Peren commanded. Erguile jumped off the stallion; there waiting for him was Weakhoof. Peren ran to the front line of his legion, eagerly awaiting the slow-approaching mass of the Feral army—Erguile found his own troop, and soon there was a perfect line at the crest of the hill, barring the way from all passers. Behind the front row of pike-wielding soldiers stood row after row of lithe archers. Peren wasted no time; he rode before the Hemlin force—amazingly, his shouts could be heard clear by all:

“Pikemen—hold till my mark, then thrust with fury for your slain brethren! Archers, fire now!” Peren roared, strangely confident. Like the most beautiful chorus of snaps, Erguile heard the arrows release; he saw them, flying overhead, falling into the middle of the trough in front of them. Again and again the same chorus sounded, and with each wave of arrows the Feral forces slowed, trolls crumpling at the front of their lines, obstacle corpses for the beasts following behind. Several Gazaran scurried through the stagnant rank, and were the first to snake their way up the hill. Again Peren rode out in front of his legion; he made a call Erguile did not understand, and twenty or so riders came forth to meet Peren. They sat together astride their steeds, waiting for the first Gazaran to summit. Erguile was amazed at what he saw next:

The first gold-plated centipede saw and charged directly for Peren and his company. From afar, Erguile saw Peren’s jade aura emanate, elongate, and diffuse out toward the oncoming beasts. Suddenly, the gold juggernaut froze mid-rush—as nimbly as elves, a series of the men surrounding Peren jumped from their horses, each drawing a long glowing spear—the men ran along the paralyzed back of the creature, down and in driving their spears, cracking the armor, then boring into the flesh-meat of the creature, effecting fountains of rancid ooze. Erguile cheered, along with the rest of the company, and as quickly as they’d assaulted the Warpede, they retreated atop their waiting horses. Peren turned and rode back, recreating a seamless line atop the hill until another Gazaran broke ahead of the slow-moving troll-pack—Peren strode forth, released the same aura that froze the last; again his deft fighters dismounted, leapt atop the creature, and slew it in a surgical fashion, only to return instantly to rank.

“Not letting me have any of the fun,” Erguile said to himself, forgetting for a moment that he’d nearly died, and that his two friends were gone—it was thrilling to see the centipedes handled so gamely, so effortlessly.

The rain of arrows poured fast; a body-pile mounted in the trough, so that trolls had begun to climb over each over, suffocating and clawing their way up the slope to reach the edge of the waiting Hemlin line. The Jaigan were completely baffled as to how to get around the obstruction of troll bodies—some travelled in circles, others marched troughward, hoping to eventually break free of the congested pack altogether.

The first row of trolls that managed to scramble up met a uniform strike at the lip of the hill—Erguile joined in from atop Weakhoof, striking his sword down through the head of a leading troll. One after another, row after row, the trolls fell, unable to press past the high line of the legions.

Minutes rolled as hours; for the several that had fallen among the Hemlin army, a hundred had been lost among the Feral. Erguile began to wonder again where the Unicorporas had gone, and only when he began to think of it did he hear the screams: soldiers behind him were shrieking in fear—some sounded as if they’d seen their own ghost, others sounded as if they’d received a fatal stab in gut. Turning quickly toward the horrific noises, Erguile witnessed the unthinkable: there in the sky, south of them, where their hill descended toward Wallstrong, was the flaming red omen—hanging from a position yards above, afloat in the sky, the Unicorporas had unleashed its death-fury unto the Hemlin Army, slaying the southmost ranks. Like a god, timeless above them, through red film, he showered missiles of electric light, jacinth bolts of fire, such that clouds of dust were thrown up in the air; the dust became soil, grass, mangled flesh and armor. Erguile could stare no longer: a horde of trolls rushed him, followed by more Gazaran. Unable to assist the troops failing behind him, Erguile knew the red wrath would soon reach him as well; he rode out to meet Peren, who had battled far, nearly to the trough, making for deep within the rank of the trolls.

“Peren!” Erguile called, but above the din of battle nothing could be heard. Weakhoof raced down, dodging swipes from Feral axe and sword, desperately trying to reach the general. They nearly barreled into Peren’s armored stallion as he hung low from its side, releasing his blade from a freshly rent troll. “He’s back—you have to do something, now!”

Peren turned to the fray at his rear, where his army still held fast atop the hill—from their position in the trough they could see no sign of the Unicorporas’s red sphere, or the lightning that raked the following soldiers.