Darkin: A Journey East (16 page)

“It’s a dragon!” squealed a shivering Adacon.

“Not quite, but a much smaller cousin to one,” Slowin replied, strangely cool.

“This is smaller than a dragon? I don’t believe it,” Erguile gasped. The wyvern appeared at least twice as tall as Slowin, and its girth was nearly that of the road’s width. The beast clawed toward them.

“Fear not, I have handled a fair share of wyverns in my time,” Slowin said confidently, standing with his arms braced to strike, though weaponless. Flaer shot a wry grin at his metal companion. The giant winged serpent hissed in front of them, standing erect, almost five yards tall. An enormous pointed tail swung around from behind the creature as its jaws opened and a stream of fire shot forth.

Adacon and Erguile cowered to the ground, shielding their faces. Flaer jumped in front of the beast, using the Brigun Autilus as a shield, absorbing the flame. It was only at the last second before the poisonous tail of Holfog pierced Erguile’s poorly defended skull that Slowin leapt into action, subduing the writhing tail in the harness of his silver vise-arms. Flaer recoiled from the final blast of flame as Holfog’s attention was diverted to Slowin; its jaw opened wide and descended to Slowin’s head, arriving at its target with fangs that pierced even into the metal skin and muscle of the golem. Slowin frantically released his hold over Holfog’s tail and pried in vain at the jaws enveloping his head. Just as Slowin began to work the jaws apart, the freed tail of Holfog struck again at Erguile; Flaer intercepted, and he cleanly lopped the spiked tail with a flash from the Brigun Autilus. Putrid blood rushed from Holfog’s freshly severed tail, and the wyvern whined loudly into the thundering sky. Quickly the serpent unleashed its hold of Slowin’s head and bent its gaze upon its wound. Flaer wasted no time, and he swept the Brigun Autilus up through the creature’s throat. The head of Holfog fell to the ground and rolled off the edge of the road into the swamp. There it bobbed as the rest of its body slumped to the ground. More oily blood spilled onto the gravel as Slowin felt his head for scarring; his head appeared fine, save for two grape-sized holes indenting deep into either side of his temples. No blood dripped from his metal head, and Flaer steadied the golem as the slaves rose from their cover.

“I’m alright, thanks,” Slowin said. Flaer backed off and returned his gaze to the fallen wyvern.

“He said Krem was dead,” Erguile said with sadness.

“And he’s a liar—it’s as rare a possibility as him having given away our route,” Slowin defended Krem.

“I heard you speak, Flaer,” Adacon cried. Flaer calmly shook his head in disagreement, then nodded at his sword.

“The Brigun Autilus can muster a voice, when heroics so fit one,” Slowin explained. “And in your debt, Flaer, are we all.” Slowin bowed, and seeing it so did the slaves. The storm let loose a great thunderbolt at that moment, and the sky was lit up. Flaer returned his sword to his belt and smiled, returning their grace. Then Flaer bade them in gesture to stop their thanks so that in urgency they could reassemble themselves and resume their passage in haste. It was then that Erguile started.

“Weakhoof!” he wailed, seeing the horse whimpering up from the western road. None of the other horses followed. Weakhoof trotted to Erguile and whinnied.

“He is no longer of use to us, Erguile. Fablefen and Thunderhoof have fled,” said Slowin.

“But we can’t just leave him here in the marsh,” Erguile shouted between thunder claps. “It’s dark, and he can’t see this from that!”

The party was sullen and quiet.

“Slowin’s right, Erguile. It is not a happy thing, to send him away here. But with him alone…” Adacon trailed off uneasily.

“He can walk along with us,” Erguile offered.

“We approach Saru Gnarl now, and a horse will only give us away. Our only way of stealing a ship is stealth. I had planned to send the horses back together; I did not foresee this—this stranger of such power,” Slowin said solemnly. Flaer acknowledged agreement with Slowin by hanging his head; he enjoyed the idea no more than any of them, but it would have been done anyway.

“Going to just send him off alone—to die along the way in a thunderstorm?” Erguile argued.

“Weakhoof knows the way better than any of us, Erguile,” Slowin comforted.

“Not tonight. Not my horse,” Erguile burst. He mounted Weakhoof in all the haste he could manage. Adacon thought that he saw tears welling in Erguile’s eyes. A bang of thunder coincided with Erguile’s voice for a last time.

“Yahh! Eeyah!” Erguile ferociously kicked Weakhoof’s side; with all the strength of a noble stallion, Weakhoof set off, galloping east down the gravel road.

“Come back!” Adacon called.

“Erguile!” Slowin roared as loud as he could. The sound of thumping hooves dissolved into the chatter of rain, and then there were only three.

VII: BLOCKADE RUNNER

“Does your head hurt much?” Adacon asked as the three journeyers marched toward the eastern coast.

“No, I don’t feel anything at all,” Slowin responded. The terrain changed as they left the bog, and solid earth sprung up along the roadside again. The marsh fog began to wane, and soon the swamp transformed into a system of streams amidst firm grassland. Trees started to appear again, and the road was no longer an island strip surrounded by bubbling mud-water; even the thunderstorm had ceased, its clouds parted, and a cool breeze stole through the air as all but the lightest rain subsided. Moons blossomed above them, and Adacon spoke:

“Erguile! Ach, stupid of him. Who could have foreseen him being so attached to that horse? Now he’s gone to get himself killed.”

“He seemed to detest Weakhoof at the start, if I recall correctly,” said Slowin. Flaer walked alongside their conversation, eyeing the new greenery sprouting around the road. Shrubs and trees grew in bunches, and tall shoots rose moonward. In the distance a low-lying forest wall loomed, beyond which nothing could be seen.

“He did—he hated the old horse,” Adacon chuckled.

“Save your worries for the task at hand. Erguile has made a decision over which we are powerless now,” Slowin said. “And we might see valor come of him yet, in his flight east.”

“I sure hope so. I will miss him, anyway—an energetic force to have among our company.”

They pressed on several more miles before deciding to pass off the slave road for an inviting glen, and there the three sat by a tree and fixed a meal as properly as they could manage. The grass was nearly dry, and the very aura of the land seemed shifted from that of the foreboding darkness they had come through. Somehow, Adacon reckoned, the trees and bushes that grew thicker about the land signaled some prevailing hope for their errand; they had made it through the harrowing ordeal in the swamp alive, save for losing two horses and a member of their own. Flaer managed a small fire under an old maple tree by way of a spark that came from the tip of his sword.

“Your magic—I mean—Vapoury, is incredible, Flaer,” Adacon stammered. Flaer looked up from the salted piece of meat he was roasting to provide Adacon with a wink.

“Odd as this may come across, I can’t wait to get to Erol Drunne and lift your curse, so that I can talk to you,” Adacon said, maintaining eye contact with Flaer. Flaer looked away and down, tending to his meat.

“It is not odd, Adacon, to wish to speak with him. Nor is it odd you find the world so wondrous even in the face of mortal danger. You have been so oppressed that everything new is exciting, and better than slavery, I am sure,” said Slowin.

“Krem said the rebellion would start with me, that fate had decided it,” Adacon said. The fire leaped up while he chewed on a fresh-smoked rind.

“Krem doesn’t believe in fate, but in Gaigas—so he must have jested. But I do think he meant it when he said you would begin the rebellion. A slave army to topple Grelion, I think he had in mind.”

“But you speak as if the plan has changed from that?” Adacon queried.

“Well, not entirely: It is Vesleathren’s return that alters the quest at hand, but a slave army will be required nonetheless. It is, after all, Grelion who reunited Darkin’s free people only to later shatter them, leaving them as they were at the end of the Five Country War.”

“Please tell me more of the war?”

“No—not now anyway.”

“But…” Adacon pressed his luck, but then Flaer looked up and shook his head, glaring icily.

“And the one who assailed us on the marsh, what of him? Do either of you know?” Adacon pushed further.

“I am afraid not,” Slowin said, glancing at Flaer, who looked up again from his food only to show that he didn’t know either. “I do know of Delfog the Fire Wyvern, whose offspring Flaer slew back in the swamp.”

“You knew the fire dragon?” Adacon squealed.

“As he disappeared, did you hear the stranger yell: Holfog, spawn of Delfog?” Slowin asked.

“Yes, I didn’t make the meaning of it.”

“Delfog was the biggest wyvern to ever live, larger than many dragons, it is said. In the elder age of Darkin, known to some as the Iinder Age, Delfog descended upon this very country of Arkenshyr during the first great war of Darkin. It is told in legend that it was on the plains of the Vashnod that a great Vapour struck Delfog down, causing the crater there known as the—”

“Vashnod Eye!” Adacon said, cutting him off.

“You know of the lore then,” Slowin replied.

“Krem told me briefly of Molto and his Spirited Winds magic.”

“Then you should know that if the stranger spoke truth, we have slain a descendent of the very wyvern that bore the flame of the Spirited Winds,” Slowin explained.

“This is glorious—provided it is no ill omen of more dragons to come…”

“I am wary to believe the stranger’s words, but with Vesleathren about, I am apt to have an open mind. Besides that, the sheer power that man possessed; I am afraid that without Flaer, we would have all—” Slowin was cut off this time by Flaer, who kicked at the fire to extinguish it. Flaer sent his eyes to Slowin and bade in gesture that the party should set forth again. Adacon decided that Slowin’s grim reflection was of no aid to them now, as they had passed through unharmed.

“Come,” Slowin commanded Adacon. “Our errand takes us to Kalm Point.”

Adacon harkened and soon the three were marching again east on the gravel road. Along the way Adacon saw several paths cutting away from the gravel road, each one going in a different direction.

“What are those other trails?” Adacon asked.

“They are the different trade routes. North to the country of Hemlin-Auk, and south to Great Uthner Island. In these times only Grelion uses them, and so they have all become known as the slave trade routes, though they were known by different names long ago.”

“Grelion has corrupted much in—” Adacon began, but he stopped midsentence as Flaer shot him a glance commanding silence, and it was clear that Flaer had grown stern as the cape drew close.

They entered into the thick pines, and as the road had turned into an island strip amidst swamp before, it now became an island strip amidst dense wood. Woodland creatures began to make their songs heard, and the fresh scent of the pined glade overbrimmed the air. The sky was clean and placid, lighted by the dust of stars and the aura of the moons; the road seemed to offer cheer to the weary travelers, and a dim opalescence afforded by slits in the canopy. Noise grew steadily around them: chirping and hooting, until there was a fuss among the foliage on either side of the road. It seemed the nocturnal animals of the forest had suddenly come to life. Insects buzzed and whistled, and Adacon shooed away a mosquito as it drove for nectar from his skin. On they marched in silence through the wilds.

Just as Adacon was about to ask Slowin if they would reach the city soon, and when they would next sleep, a strange noise broke the choral chirping of crickets. It did not come from the forest at their sides, but from directly ahead; Slowin and Flaer heard it at once also, and recognized it for the clonking of hooves and rolling of iron wheels against the gravel.

“Quick, past that glade,” whispered the golem. He ran off the road through a small clearing and into a patch of trees, trying to act furtively against the will of his enormous frame. Flaer and Adacon quickly followed, and soon they found themselves in a tall thicket hidden from the road. Quietly they watched through a tangled knot of branches as a horse drawn carriage clanked along the gravel path heading west. There were three horses, all jet black, tugging a carriage draped in maroon canvas; it had foreign gold lettering stitched down its side. The front of the carriage was illuminated by two small torches. Adacon realized that had Slowin not been bandaged and clothed so heavily, the torchlight would have reflected off Slowin’s metallic skin. Still, as it was, they hid unseen, and the carriage rattled on and away leaving them behind.

“Who were they?” Adacon whispered.

“Slave traders out of Saru Gnarl. I think it would be unwise to stay upon the road any longer, especially with the coming daylight. Carriages will increase as we get close to the city,” Slowin said, and Flaer agreed with a nod.

“Then what can we do?”

“Take to the forest—seek the golem entrance to the bay,” Slowin replied, and before Adacon could ask what the golem entrance to the bay was, Slowin had already hustled deeper into the woods. Flaer quickly followed, with Adacon bringing up the rear, and they cut away from the gravel road on a course southeast through the wilderness.

*                  *                 *

The forest chattered with life around the travelers, and strange insects thronged about, biting whatever open flesh was available. Slowin, of course, was not bothered by the bugs, and he led them quickly along as if he knew the way. They reached a wide clearing; set like a gem in the middle was a small pond mirroring the stars above. About the rim of the pond were crumbling stone structures that looked ancient, barely visible in the dim light—Adacon thought they could have once been statues of tree-nymphs. Something stirred in the water, and Slowin brought them to a halt.