Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (40 page)

“Sorry to leave so soon after meeting—but a pressing matter has come to us—we’ve found your
Slowin
, or at least a piece of him, if he was a person as you claim,” she said, her foreign language filtered into the common tongue of Darkin.

“What?” spat Remtall. “You’re a liar! Rotten—” Remtall lunged upward with his dagger, attempting to pierce commander Naeos’s neck. Krem restrained his enraged friend, understanding the strange power of the alien race now—he too was still unable to use Vapoury.

“Adacon, please do something,” Calan pleaded. He had been distracted, telling a story of his training with Tempern. Turning to see that the alien race was leaving, having missed the commotion, he ran forward, meeting Remtall and Krem on the grass by the ship.

“Krem!” Adacon said happily.

“No time for greetings boy. They claim to know where Slowin is,” Remtall shouted, backing up so Krem might loosen his uncannily strong grip.

“Slowin?” Adacon asked, dumbfounded.

“Yes!” Remtall shrieked, “They are going to kidnap him!”

“What’s left of him—it should be enough,” Naeos replied. She entered the transport, the door sealing instantaneously behind her.

“Have you heard anything you poor fool?” Remtall scolded. He hadn’t—first distracted with stopping Brosse’s attempt to use the cage field, and then with seeing Calan again for the first time in weeks—he’d missed that Slowin was thought to be the ore,
and that the prophecy of the dwarves had proved true, as Wiglim had persuaded. Remtall explained what was happening as urgently as possible, begging all who would listen to help him stop the ship. Before any action could be taken, engines whirred, several clicks sounded, then it rose several yards off the ground. A voice came from inside the cockpit, sounding over the plains, reaching the ears of every member of Terion and Gaiberth’s army:

“You may have your friends back, we won’t be needing them now,” came Flote’s unsympathetic voice. Through a transparent hole in the side of the ship Grelion and Reap fell several yards to the ground. In a flash the shiny metal ship flew away, zooming into the sky in the direction of the close-looming mountains. Grelion and Reap landed on their feet, both having been awake, the height causing them to crumple and roll on the grass.

“Foul beasts,” came Remtall. “Bastards! Vermin! Cohorts of Vesleathren! We’ve got to find Slowin!”

“There are more pressing matters, Remtall; we must defeat what I fear has come upon Hemlin: the Unicorporas,” Krem said loudly. Only Wiglim seemed to recognize the word; he gasped.

“Aah!” Remtall roared in a fit of rage, charging Grelion who stood to his feet.

“Noilerg!” came another sweet voice, and from atop her horse Pursaiones chased toward her love.

“Who—are—” muttered Grelion, seeming half asleep, but Remtall came too fast: he pressed his fingers deep into Grelion’s neck. Grelion’s face turned pink, then purple. Reap stood up nearby, his scarlet robe a glaring contrast against the afternoon blue, his slit-eyes darting around to take in the vast army huddled on the prairie.

“Remtall!” called Krem.

“My Vapoury—it’s back,” came Behlas, who stood gripping the gold-glowing Rod.

“It must have been the departed race—they stoppered Gaigas,” Wiglim exclaimed. “The parchment spoke of this.”

“Remtall,” Calan said, trying to get to Remtall before he killed Grelion, who flailed, punching wildly at the gnome; Remtall seemed unaffected by the blows. He could only scream curses, speaking madly about his son.

“Not now,” Krem said, raising a finger; Remtall suddenly lost control of his arms, his legs, and then his entire body, as he floated harmlessly off of Grelion.

“Krem you damned halfling, let—me—go!” he screamed in protest.

“Now is not the time for that. Executions I will not yet endure.”

“He—murdered—my—son!” Remtall shouted, tears streaming down his face. Adacon looked on, bewildered, reality sinking in: was this really the sum of the lords? Was this really Grelion? The one who had killed his only friend on the slave farm? The one who had forced grueling labor to be his life, devoid of freedom and happiness? Was this really that fabled man, the dark lord of all Arkenshyr?

“Noilerg, are you alright?” Pursiaones said, hugging him hard. Grelion backed away quickly, rubbing his neck. Reap walked over to Krem and Remtall, as confused as the rest of the army. Taisle stood back, watching miserably as Pursaiones lit with happiness at the sight of her love’s safety.

“Why would you do that—are you mad Remtall?” Pursiaones said, glaring at her old friend.

“You don’t know who he is!” Remtall stormed. Again he ran for Grelion, this time restrained by the power of Krem’s Vapoury.

“Of course I do. Noilerg is an escaped slave from Arkenshyr,” she came back, clinging to her misapprehension. Taisle grew slightly alarmed: he’d suspected something was amiss with Noilerg’s stories—the suspicions would finally be confirmed, he thought to himself.

“No. You do not know this man,” came Krem, still restraining Remtall. “If you think you do, then you have believed his lies—his rightful name is Grelion Rakewinter, general in the Five Country War, war-hero-turned savage traitor to the free people of the world—enslaver of dear friends of mine,” Krem eyed Adacon of whom he spoke; it seemed only Krem sensed the raw power that Adacon now possessed—only he knew who the most powerful among them now was. “We will deal with this prisoner after the war is over—his justice will be meted then. That is my counsel on this matter.”

“And who are you to make the final judgment, old hermit?” Remtall replied.

“Who are you, gnomen friend, to stop me from doing so?” Krem flared; a fiery glint of anger came into the old hermit’s eyes. Remtall knew he could do nothing to overpower the old man. Behlas looked patiently at the ordeal, waiting for his chance to interject, desiring to ask questions of Krem.

“This business seems well-important to all of you, but, I’d like to be told what is going on,” came a deep scratchy voice—it seemed Falen had been forgotten in the fray. He stood upon his enormous taloned feet, surveying the ongoing commotion.

“Let me go. I won’t hurt him,” Remtall said in a tired voice. Krem accepted his word instantly, releasing his hold.

“Is this true?” Pursaiones said, tears welling in her eyes, “It was all lies?”

“You’ll have more than these folk to answer to!” an angered Taisle called out to Grelion. Beside Taisle, Haeth and his warriors had wandered over, having been at the back of the line, watching patiently; they now realized they had also a great stake in the fate of the man.

“You will feel the justice for what you’ve done. Tribes roam about, killing themselves, for the freedom you took away!” Haeth called over the din.

“No—no—no. It’s all wrong…all of it,” Grelion rasped. He hadn’t yet voiced a word, his eyes lurking low over the grass at his feet, returning from a daze. Finally Grelion raised his head; all eyes were fixed on him. He watched Krem ready a spell of constraint for him, hermit hands outstretched, licks of blue energy dancing on them.

“Wait, Krem,” Adacon said. He freed his arm that slumped around Calan’s neck, finally involving himself once more in the situation. “I want to hear him.” Adacon had a look of stalwart indifference, and of earnest desire to hear Grelion’s tale. He alone believed there could be something in it other than new lies; Pursaiones had run off, back to Taisle, believing finally what everyone else had already seemed to know—that she’d fallen in love with an evil traitor, a hated murderer of children.

“It was all Zesm—he’s been working in me for nearly twenty years…it’s not very clear, it’s coming back to me very slowly, but—he’s the reason, he’s how it all went so…wrong…after the war,” came Grelion’s dragging voice. Krem looked entirely unconvinced, as did Remtall, who seemed to be mustering every bit of his energy to not launch another assault on his son’s murderer.

“Go on…” Adacon said plainly, everyone’s attention on him and Grelion.

“I don’t know how—but suddenly his control over me, it disappeared. A month ago, maybe more than that, I can’t know for sure…as I said, everything is very fragmented—it feels as if the war ended yesterday.”

“It explains why he hasn’t aged!” came Wiglim, seemingly out of nowhere. Krem was taken aback at the notion, but it was very true—Grelion appeared only a handful of years older than Adacon, but the Five Country War had ended many decades ago.

“So—Zesm cursed you, used you as his puppet?” Adacon asked.

“I can’t be certain how he did it, I don’t remember very much. Pursiaones, I really did believe for awhile that I had been a slave, my memory has been so, so…” he trailed off, looking out toward her, but Taisle had wrapped himself hard around her, distracting her from his appeal. “I’m sorry—I am sorry everyone,” Grelion whimpered.

“What if it’s true?” Behlas whispered, half to himself and half to Binn. Both he and Binn knew the tales of the Five Country War, and of the treacheries of Grelion during the decades that followed: it was astounding to think it could have all been a trick, a magnificent manipulation through dark magic.

“The only way Zesm could have enchanted you so severely would have been if Vesleathren had been still about, channeling his energy, all the while in our midst,” Krem said. “But he was gravely injured after his battle with Flaer, far too injured to do such work. And you—you turned so fast after the war ended.”

“No—I see it—he’s not lying,” said Adacon, looking as if he stared right through the horizon, looking past it into an invisible ether. “It was Aulterion who funneled his power—I sense it. Krem—feel for it, there’s still a trace on him.” Krem patiently tried to do as Adacon told, and the others stood by in confusion, most not knowing what they talked about, waiting nonetheless.

“You’re right,” Krem suddenly broke the silence, smiling at Adacon, amazed at how much Tempern had been able to do in such a short period of time.

“But Aulterion is dead. How can you sense his energy?” Calan shot in, eager to grasp the looks of recognition that dawned on Krem and Adacon’s faces.

“It was when we killed Aulterion that Grelion’s enchantment wore off!” Krem said, a look of startled realization spread across his face. “Sometimes, when an enchantment is that strong, it can take years to wear off, even after its caster is dead—some have said certain magic never leaves its victims.”

“Lies! Lies, all of it! Behlas, blast him with the Rod,” Remtall said, outraged that those closest to him were absolving his son’s murderer. Since leaving Rislind, Remtall’s driving motivation had been his desire to kill the man in front of him—he had taken to the sea, so many months ago, leaving his long years of seclusion, in the hopes of one day facing and killing the one who’d murdered his beloved child. “Forget you all—it’s the work of dark magic still, spreading even now—I’m the only one left who is sane,” Remtall coughed wildly, seeing that Behlas would not heed his call for the Rod’s use on Grelion. Remtall threw his dagger, noticing Krem’s lapse in restraint—in a perfect arc, it struck Grelion in his neck. Grabbing frantically at the deep impalement, Grelion fell to his knees, toppled on his side.

“Noilerg!” cried Pursiaones, running from Taisle’s arms.

“Krem, stop him!” Falen called, seeing that Remtall had charged for the fallen body, ready to take his dagger out so that he could strike with it again. Krem quickly ensnared Remtall once more, this time snapping him quickly up into the air.

“Damn you, vile traitors,” Remtall spat. Krem sent a bolt of magenta light at the writhing gnome, causing his head to slump to his shoulder upon impact. Gently, Krem laid him down on the earth, sound asleep.

“His name is Grelion,” came Taisle from afar, still hearing Pursaiones shouting his fake name as she grasped his slumped body, blood spraying her from where the knife lodged in his neck.

“Reap,” Krem called; as if from a dream, the Nethvale native sprung into action, applying his medicinal salve, first releasing the dagger in a swift motion, then stopping the flow of blood.

“He’ll survive I think,” Reap called after several moments of tending the unconscious form.

“This is all a waste of time,” came Terion. “I may sympathize with the country of Arkenshyr, its plight of slavehood, its pursuit of justice for that traitor lying there, but there is a more pressing matter, one which I sailed across the ocean to attend—one which I ended my race’s seclusion in the Blue-Grey Mountains to resolve. And it is to march north that I intend, into those foreign peaks, so that we might stop the greatest evil this world has ever known from accomplishing his grand purpose: to vanquish all light from this world, everything I love and care about—so, we leave now. Those who wish to harbor over aliens, or Grelion, or the missing Slowin, may do so, but they will not take from me any more time when evil presses upon this land,” he declared loudly, filling the ears of those around him, purging his anger at being held up for so long, prevented from journeying toward their truest errand.

“We will not delay you further, begin your march. We are with you until the end, King Terion, and you, Gaiberth,” Krem said, settling the clamor that had started. Finally, the troop began to march north. Haeth offered two horses—one for Grelion and one for Remtall. Behlas enchanted them so that the riders were stuck tightly to their saddles, magically bound upright, heads down, bodies asleep.

Adacon fell in line by Calan. She asked him question after question about his trip. He revealed as much as he could, at one point showing her his newfound use of Vapoury to fly; for a moment she looked at him as if he was a different person, but soon she shrugged off the notion, realizing he was the same carefree spirit she loved. She accepted its truth, though she had known it for some time; he possessed some kind of mystical power, some inborn connection to Gaigas that she would never fully understand.

“I am in love with a Vapour,” she said jovially as they marched into the foothills of the Angelyn mountains. The sun set mildly to their left, falling in and out of view behind the jutting spires of dark grey peaks.

“I am no Vapour,” he laughed. Krem, walking nearby, smiled, then returned to his pipe. It seemed that Krem had formed a quick relationship with Behlas, and they shared deep conversations about the depth of the Rod’s power—Behlas had even let Krem wield it briefly. Unlike Wiglim, Krem could set the Rod aglow easily. Behlas was happy to have another among them that could use it if the need arose. Binn found himself making interesting conversation with Ulpo, who was entirely fascinated by the machinery of the gnomes from Aaurlind, the catalyst for Parasink’s twisted experiments.