Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (10 page)

“It appears, from the life-force reconnaissance we’ve done, that conscious entities call this place the Vashnod Eye. Apparently, the collective consciousness of this planet yields to absolute truth about its creation—there was only fragmented abstractions found through our work, but—”

“To the point, Brosse,” the commander interrupted, tactfully saturating her delicate tone with anger.

“Well, it would appear that this crater is precisely where the metal alloy was once stored, as you’ll know by now—and it was unearthed by the blast that caused it. It’s no longer where we buried it. What is most strange, however—”

“Yes?”

“Well, the blast doesn’t appear to be the result of a space origin impact,” replied Brosse.

“What?” the commander yelped, displacing her calm demeanor with a tremor of shock.

“I wanted to be sure, so I double-checked everything, and then again I checked—it seems, unless the collected conscious memory of this planet’s beings is wrong, that an entity from the planet itself caused the destruction.”

“Impossible,” gasped several of the nearby council members.

“But how could that be? This planet is primitive! They have no technology,” came another, one of the oldest members at the table.

“Continue, Brosse,” the commander patiently ordered, she the only one to show respect to his discovery. She disliked what she’d heard as much as the others, but she had selected Brosse as her second-in-command for a reason—she could depend on his word.

“Again, it seems impossible, I know—perhaps there is some primitive technology here we simply haven’t accounted for, maybe because they long ago nearly wiped themselves out with it, and all traces of it were lost.”

“It seems we will have to send envoys—two—four per transport. I will accompany one of the teams myself, as time is now a concern, in this search-and-find extraction. I expect you all to take in as much research as necessary over the next day, planning exactly where your envoys will go—our goal is to systematically search this world and find the location of the ore. Do not destroy anything on the planet. Only find the ore.”

“Yes, commander, of course,” came the oldest member of the council.

“Who will you go with, commander?” stammered a sickly looking woman, bluish, alien in appearance compared to the rest of the council.

“The parties will be—Kams, Welgrunt, Ballar, and Teme for envoy
south.
Flether, Flote, Brosse, and myself, envoy
north.
”

*            *             *

“Commander, we have the routes mapped,” came the frail voice of the decrepit looking female sentient, Kams. A day had passed since the young commander had given her order, and the council assembled with plans for departure.

“Our group will travel south, through this terrain here,” said Kams, and in unison with her voice the great window of the conference room transformed again into a hovering map, floating from the sky as if a bird, and traveling over a great expanse of yellow sand. “We will pass this desert, and heading further southwest we will pass through these woods.” The wide desert on the screen yielded to shrublands, and gradually trees intermittently appeared, finally opening up to a huge red forest, covering the entire screen. The forest flew past for a long time, as Kams scrolled further and further down the East Continent of Darkin, passing through the southern tips of Arkenshyr. Every so often, the forest would have a clearing, where a small assembly of square and circular thatched roofs would appear—sometimes there would be cleared squares with rows and rows of dark lines. Archaically similar to our historical produce systems back home, thought Brosse.

“The first major city we will enter on this planet will be here,” said Kams, as the camera onscreen swept suddenly west after diving south for several seconds. From a great series of wooded hills emerged a long narrow bridge, suspended over a raging river of foam, eventually leading to a great stone city that filled their view, appearing as if hewn from a mountainous hillside.

“The consciousness of this planet calls this city Morimyr,” explained the muffled voice of Bellar. He was a squat, plump looking man, middle-aged and wearing some kind of synthetic apparatus over his mouth.

“It is our first real stop, though we will stop along the way at the various produce stations you’ve seen sweep past, and the small communities that are sprinkled throughout this countryside.” Kams continued to explain her route, revealing her plan to effectively cover the entire country of Arkenshyr, and its southern neighbor, the Staylinds, all the way down to the tip of the Southern Shores. When Kams had finished her presentation, the commander motioned for Brosse to begin his turn.

“We travel north through this pass,” said Brosse, and the wall monitor responded to his thoughts. The screen was racing north, away from the Vashnod Eye, toward the Angelyn Range, finally reaching the imposing mountains and revealing a narrow valley.

“This is known as the Corlisuen Path, connecting the lands of the north with those of the south, and just beyond these mountains we will find our first major city; the consciousness tells us this place is known best as
Wallstrong.
” Brosse plowed through the thin pass, unaware it was surrounded by the hidden dwellings of the secluded Reichmar, and he brought the view of the aerial map over the vast city of Wallstrong, which from the eye of a bird appeared to be constructed in the shape of a star due to outposts jutting from its heart in many directions.

“We surveyed some small communities to the west and east, south of the mountain range. You didn’t mention plans to visit them. What of those areas?” asked Teme.

“You mean this?” asked Brosse, and the image on the screen flashed to a circular mountain range, densely covered in thickets and trees—squat in the middle of the verdant mountains was a clearing: a meadow with a tiny village assembled at its heart.

“Yes. Wouldn’t it be more…
time effective…
to go there first?” asked Teme, purposely trying to suck up to his commander.

“It would be, perhaps—but the time difference is marginal, and so we will go to the bigger city first—for the chance of obtaining information there is greater, thus possibly avoiding the small communities altogether,” responded Brosse.

“Commander,” asked Welgrunt, who looked as if he was struggling with an issue in his mind that hadn’t been resolved for weeks.

“Yes?”

“Why would our consciousness collection reveal
nothing
of the alloy? We have not so much as found a link to the metal’s schema in any of the collected-conscious thoughts or ideas of the beings on this planet—how could that be? And if there’s no trace of knowledge in the minds of the collective, will our efforts traveling the world not be in vain?”

“Ugh…” Brosse sighed at the incompetence of his comrade.

“You ask good questions Welgrunt, as always, but as usual, you glean the answer much slower than the rest of us—I question your presence here at times… Kams…” the commander said in the manner of one fed up with a child’s crying.

“The memory of an ancient metal alloy would be too vague to probe in this manner,” Kams explained. “If we were to waste another month, maybe two, we would find clues—maybe; there is simply too much focus of the collective consciousness on the value of metals—they seem to value a great many different kinds on this planet, each with its own particular rarity and value. Remember also, Welgrunt, the alloy does not have a name on this planet, and there is also no collective name for this unique color and brand of metal—we can only do best by questioning the origins and nature of this crater further.”

“Yes, obtain a thorough history, use your intelligence, and the alloy will be in our grasp in no time—again, once we have completed this continent, we will move to the next one,” spoke their leader, and she elegantly turned to the screen: it flashed across a great ocean and appeared over a jungle that bordered a sallow plain with a wide granite road embedded in it, edging on blue-grey mountains.

“In the event some of these creatures can withstand our interrogation methods?” asked Kams.

“I suppose killing a few of these lesser beings will not anger
Godking Hayas
too much,” the commander replied.

“Commander Naeos!” coughed Teme, shocked, along with the rest of those sitting at the jet table, that their young commander had suggested disobeying the wishes of the Godking.

“
Never call me by my name!
” snapped commander Naeos, the illusion of her fragile femininity shattered by the violent proclamation.

“I’m sorry, commander,” whimpered Teme, recoiling in fear at his superior’s rage. We are above this kind of emotion, thought Brosse to himself, and through all his fixed admirations of his commander, and his blind love of her for her beauty, he felt disheartened that she was one of his race—if only for her inability to stopper her rage.

“
I am a second level officer—you are never again to use my name, understood?
”
ordained commander Naeos, quickly leveling her outburst. Perhaps she harbors some resentment toward Godking, Brosse thought—what else could bring out such reckless fury, such uncontrolled primitive tone and volume? He remembered a story he’d heard about her; how once, the Godking had met her, and told her she would never
ascend
. For that slight, Brosse thought, she must harbor such ancient feelings of contempt.

“Sorry, commander. Never again,” wailed Teme politely.

“You’re quite forgiven,” she sighed in a delicate, convincing manner. “To the transports—the rest of you continue your research on the consciousness of this planet from the ship, as we discussed.”

Brosse stared at her elegant body, her domineering mode of leadership, and her silverblack shine of hair as it lashed around her neck when she turned, striding strongly for the corridor, leaving them all—taking all of the beauty out of the room. Brosse wondered for a moment what she really thought of him. Then he stood from his chair, and began giving orders.  

VIII: EXECUTION OF A VAPOUR

“King Terion, it is time for Merol’s execution,” a voice drifted in over red carpeted walls and ceilings to reach the sidelong glance of stout Terion who sat in his throne, surrounded by dwarven guards.

“How joyous a day it is—that now we will have something to say for our seclusion, when we reveal ourselves to the world again—that in our mourning we have found and destroyed the very cause of our shame!” The guards surrounding Terion smiled, agreeing heartily.

“And we can void the remnants of that foul prophecy,” came the voice again, drifting from the hallway leading away from the King’s chamber.

“Indeed, dear Wiglim. How great was our luck to catch the poor fool creeping down the Enoan Road, as if traveling by nightfall would be as surreptitious as his now depleted magic once enabled him!” smiled Terion, and the guards rejoiced at seeing the first good mood in many days fall upon their King. “Come, all of you,” he beckoned his armored men. “The torture and killing of this one will be a conclusion we must share together, as a reconciliation of the Oreinen!”

*            *             *

“By order of the King, the evil wizard traitor, known as Merol, is hereby to be executed on this ninety-third day of our Great Seclusion,” boomed the voice of an elaborately dressed woman dwarf, speaking from the middle of the grand hall, nestled deep inside the walls of the Blue-Grey Mountains.

“Yea!” cheered a great multitude of the city’s inhabitants, all looking forth with eager anticipation. The new Oreinen Vapour—it being customary for the dwarves to always have a chief Vapour among their otherwise brute forces—prepared to execute the former one; Wiglim stepped up beside King Terion, patiently awaiting his turn to go to work. He would finally destroy the evil dwarf who’d become the bane of dwarven pride.

“How is it you drew him in from the outside?” whispered young Wiglim.

“The blessed Wereverns, whom I mustn’t forget we owe a great thanks,” replied King Terion, speaking of the reptile creatures his dwarven race had befriended—and in recent times the Oreinen dependence upon Wereverns for news from the outside had increased dramatically, but only Terion knew the full extent of the partnership with those lizard spies: the fact that the dwarves were not completely cut off from the outside world could make their seclusion appear to be a front. The Wereverns had earned Terion’s trust through many decades of intense secrecy.

“Dwarves of the Blue-Grey,” projected Terion to the multitude, “your moment has come! We will unbind this prisoner and hear his last words, and we shall see him silenced forever. Together we will sate our thirst for the pride we have lost!” The crowd cheered together with Terion, and all those dwarves who’d remained in seclusion felt bad for the ones who’d left the mountains; each felt as though it was suddenly worth it, and that in the hours of doubt when they’d questioned their choice, it was all a price to be paid for the moment of finality they were about to receive.  “Go, newest Vapour of the Blue-Grey, and cement your honor among us!”

Wiglim cautiously approached the giant slab against which Merol was shackled. The traitor was bound at the feet, arms, torso, neck, and mouth. Wiglim had been an apprentice under Merol, and a violent stir of feelings trembled through his heart as he paced forth, executioner of his former master. Wiglim was young and talented, if not unwise—he had always shown much promise, and Terion’s decision had been easily made in letting Wiglim become the new Vapour of the Oreinen—though by some standards, Wiglim might not have warranted the title, being not yet as proficient as the title usually required.

Merol trembled. His eyes bugged wide, darting around, from his erect slab of schist centered in the middle of the grand hall for all to see—he appeared frozen with fear, stricken by the shackles dug into the stone. All he could do was watch fervently as his former apprentice approached him to the great roar of a grand audience. As Wiglim came close he pushed aside his old affections and any goodwilled feelings he still harbored, deciding he would have to bend his entire thought on the deeds of Merol himself, rather than the person he once knew. It was the cost of his deeds that he faced this course of consequences. Anger at the old greying dwarf built within Wiglim as he finally stepped within reach of Merol’s shackles. The uproar of the onlookers died down instantaneously, as if they knew it was about to begin and that they must pour every piece of their being into witnessing the truth; seeing for themselves the justification they needed. Wiglim shared a moment with Merol, staring into his eyes, and then his anger relinquished. A pure sense of duty enveloped him, and he unbound the shackle over Merol’s mouth with a flash of blue energy.