Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (21 page)

“It’s him!” Slowin agreed. Together they rushed over the edge of the crater. Weakhoof immediately went into a fit—the ground was too hot, and it scalded his legs, even through his hooves.

“The heat grows—it’s too hot for you, stay back,” ordered Slowin. Erguile obeyed, sitting alone astride Weakhoof, watching in angst as Slowin descended the sloping crater wall, bounding toward the smoking form that rose from the ashes below.

“Flaer!” Slowin called, arriving at the soot-covered body attempting to stand.

“I’m fine—don’t leave him alone up there,” Flaer railed. “Up, quickly.” He sprinted up, out of the scalding depression in the earth, somehow unhindered by the heat rising from the ground. Slowin gave chase, his metal feet lumbering up the dip he’d just come down. Glancing back, he saw the Feral Army reach the outer edge of the crater—it was too hot for them to march through: many were attempting to plod right down into it, but they succumbed quickly to the cinders; many fell to their knees upon stepping over its lip, burning alive, catching fire instantly. The army halted its advance into the crater, stopping more fiery deaths, and diverted its path around, slowing their march.

“They have to go around!” Slowin shouted at Flaer.

“Of course,” he replied, rushing toward Erguile, who shouted for them:

“Up there!” Erguile yelled, hoping they could hear him—the red sphere of the monster flew through the sky along the southern rise of the crater.

“Slowin, get Erguile back to the legion,” Flaer said, still inside the fiery ruins of the hillside, somehow unaffected by the heat. Slowin looked down at his legs: they had started to glow as if tempered in a forge—he rushed away, out of the inferno.

“Back to Peren! Quickly—forget Flaer!” Slowin directed Erguile. Erguile looked down and watched in horror: the red bolt of Vesleathren was lined up for a direct impact with Flaer. “
Now!
” barked the silver golem; Erguile snapped out of his trance, turning Weakhoof around, and headed back to the Hemlin Army, which congregated nervously atop the hill behind them.

The red orb burst open above Flaer. A ghastly form floated down, stepping to the charred earth slightly above him: Flaer looked forth with steel certitude at the face of his nearing assaulter, knowing there was no running, no room for fear. Vesleathren was no more, nor did Zesm exist—they had both emptied their spirits, parted from their souls, forged themselves anew as one: a hideous commune of evil powers, the most ancient of evil magics.

“You know more than any other, Flaer Swordhand, that I—the Unicorporas—cannot be slain,” came a snake voice from the ginger-skinned sorcerer; he stared at Flaer, watching for any sudden movement he might make. Flaer calmed his muscles, returned a cold gaze of his own; jets of steam curled up from the scorched earth between them, trickling high into the sky.

“Aulterion’s destroyer is among us—
he is a Welsprin,
”
said Flaer, unfazed by the sun-hot embers burning around him.

“Hah!” cackled the Unicorporas. “Tempern? That old fool? He’d not fight if I destroyed all the world but Nethvale!”

“He is not Tempern.”

“I sense no such presence here, not among your entire force—a Welsprin I would not miss, deceiver.”    

“Aulterion is no longer here to save you, no longer here to carry you off before I slit your throat,” Flaer said. He took a step forward. “You may have stolen Zesm’s spirit, but you are outmatched.”

“You think I had to steal it? That depraved creature? Hah
—
to think he was once a great king of old. It shouldn’t be a surprise, even to you, that it was his idea, his brilliance, to again return to real power.”

“
Lies!
” Flaer rushed at him, whipping the Brigun Autilus in a frenzy, swiping the sword in counterclockwise thrust, its glowing edge bearing down toward its target’s chest, several yards away.

“No,” the Unicorporas recoiled, extending his left hand: from the tips of his fingers shot a writhing flare of lightning, seeking the incoming blade of the Autilus, binding it with tendrils of radiance, lifting it high out of Flaer’s reach. Flaer stumbled off-balance, crashing to the charred slope of the hill. The Unicorporas kept his left hand high, far from Flaer’s reach; yards above, the sword dangled in thin air, bound in a vise of energy.

“Fool—my power is the end! Beg for your life, Flaer Swordhand: know the mercy of evil!”

“But what end does your evil sustain? Speak of that, waste of Gaigas.” At the sound of Flaer’s voice, the Unicorporas lifted the Autilus high. A cracking noise reverberated, louder than the din of the Feral Army circumnavigating the smoldering crater. A white slit ran down the blade as it hovered in the sky. Vesleathren channeled energy through his left hand; the stream of lightning thickened. The Brigun Autilus formed fractures along its length, and piece by piece, bits of the glorious metal flew out, striking down several marching trolls far away.

“I’ve wanted my sword back for some time now,” Vesleathren said. Flaer remained grounded, swordless, struggling to get to his feet. He looked up, witnessing the spray of his great weapon, watching it decay into glowing shards. A blast rang out, thrusting him hard against the ground just as he had regained his feet. His head ricocheted off a seared edge of rock, and then his limp body collapsed. Looking up in a daze, he saw that the Brigun Autilus was no more; it had disappeared, and in its place was a swirling team of glowing daggers, splinters of the former blade’s metal, hovering in formation above him, aimed toward his chest.

“After all this time—I thought you’d be stronger,” Vesleathren said. All at once the circle of daggers froze in midair; the evil sorcerer pumped both his hands, his fingers alight with red luminescence. Static bursts of fire snapped; the daggers shot straight down at Flaer—he lay unable to move from their path.

“Vile detritus of Gaigas!” a familiar voice knifed from the scalding floor of the crater. As if from a dream, Flaer opened his eyes: the daggers dropped out of the air, losing all energy and speed, falling lightly on his chest, and bouncing off to his side. He focused his vision, training it on his attacker: he saw not the evil spirit-form of the Unicorporas, but a beaming hulk of silver metal, wrapping the ginger-skinned monster in its vise grip, tackling him to the earth from behind. Shoots of steam hissed from Slowin’s metal where it rolled against the earth. Flaer wiped the flowing blood that ran from his head into his eyes; he stood up to behold the fray: the Unicorporas was constricted, unable to do anything. Slowin squeezed as hard as he could, with every ounce of energy he possessed, as if in some final fit of life. Flaer rushed toward them, wiping again the pooling blood at his brow. He fired a shock of azure from his hands toward the struggling golem, enveloping Slowin in a strange aura of Vapoury—suddenly, Slowin stopped steaming, his body protected from the volcanic earth, which had already turned his silver color to a hoary white.

“
Weakling!
” screeched the Unicorporas from his choked position inside Slowin’s arms and legs. They both began to shake, the ground around them too, as if an earthquake had begun. Flaer toppled back down into the crater, glimpsing the Feral Army march past as he rolled. The first clangs of battle sounded in the distance. Flaer knew that the Hemlin Army had finally met the first line of the Feral legion. Tumbling down the crater, Flaer dug his elbows into the soil to stop himself, but it had turned to molten muck, and a great chasm had opened at the pit of the crater. Helpless to avoid it, Flaer fell in, disappearing from the face of the planet.

“Slowin!” came a voice from outside the crater. Slowin ignored Erguile, whom he knew watched helplessly, battling Feral beasts above, unable to assist him or Flaer. The Unicorporas screeched again, a piercing howl that stuck deep in Slowin’s head, as if a shank stuck into his mind. In the terrible upheaval, the Unicorporas arced his back and flew straight up into the sky. Slowin pinched the length of his body with all four limbs harder than ever. Erguile watched in horror as the Unicorporas returned to the clouds above, high above the combat that had begun between the two armies. The orb of red slowly reformed around the tiny figurine in the sky, despite the hug of mammoth Slowin, who dwarfed the monster’s small frame. The hoary white of Slowin’s skin flashed brilliantly to orange-white, and with a tremendous surge of energy, Slowin exploded off of the Unicorporas—helpless to intervene, Erguile watched the hulking silver arms of Slowin rip away from his sturdy frame, flying like missiles in opposite directions from his body; a lifeless look came into the golem as he twisted down, loosely hanging onto Vesleathren by his tree-trunk legs. He dangled from the sky, barely able to hold on any longer. The Unicorporas punched down into Slowin’s back, which hung at his legs. Slowin fell silently to the fire-pit below; instantly, his skin turned hoary white again, heated by the oven of the crater, no longer protected by Flaer’s magic. In only a moment, the golem had tumbled out of sight, into the molten coffin.

“Gaigas—what has he done,” Erguile said in shock, unable to believe what he’d witnessed. Behind him, a Jaigan quaked the earth, followed by a troop of sliming trolls, oozing dark pus from putrid pores. The Jaigan stood more than thrice as tall as Erguile, and Weakhoof whinnied wildly as the stalking spire lumbered toward them: the grey-blue monster sprouted diamond-sharp branches of coral that moved, somehow moving fluidly like arms, its splayed feet carrying it along at a frightening pace, its gait like a starfish’s, leaving a trail of grease in its wake. The pock-marked coral arms of the Jaigan fanned out, striking down at Erguile, who had left the safety of the Hemlin Army to help his friends against the wizard who sought to kill them. His attempt to help had been in vain: he’d been unable to do anything but watch as they had both been swept away by the terrible evil. Now, alone, isolated from Peren and the seven legions of Hemlin, he could but hold fast and await the strike.

The arms of the Jaigan were many, each one targeting Weakhoof. In the distance Erguile saw no friends or allies, only more Jaigan amid a host of Feral trolls that marched eagerly for him. Several Gazaran gleamed within the teeming mass, glittering gold amid the dark ranks; the gold-plated beasts of war seemed also to cut a course toward him. What am I doing here, I am no Vapour, I am no metal golem, I have no special power—dear Gaigas, give me valor that I may destroy at least one of these villains before my death, Erguile thought to himself. He dodged the wriggling conflux of coral arms: “
Aye,
aye!
” he roared, kicking Weakhoof, who brought her in-air front legs down and galloped past the Jaigan’s outstretched weapons. Together they bolted forth, a last-ditch effort of hopelessness and fury, to endure, and take as many defilers with them as possible, from this life to the next.

XIV: UP, UP, UP!

Morning spread its replenishing arms over the crevasse, returning gloss to ice where night had stolen it away—Adacon stirred before the others, and saw that by his side, already awake and eating, was their captured assailant. A jolt of fear spiked in him as he wondered whether or not the man could be trusted. He felt at ease remembering that Krem lay nearby, and also Falen the fire drake—within their proximity it was hard to be afraid. Rubbing his eyes and sitting up, Adacon looked over, awaiting some acknowledgement from the green-eyed, long-robed being.

“Well?” Adacon said after several moments passed with no recognition.

“Oh—good morning. I didn’t notice you wake—here,” responded the stranger. Aloofly, he handed Adacon a piece of dried meat from his pocket. Adacon hesitated, eyeing the meat and the stranger’s extended hand warily—he looked to his right and saw Falen and Krem both still asleep, unable to assist him should the stranger attempt anything.

“I must warn you,” smiled the robed man, his water-green eyes glinting in the early morning sun, “it’s delicious.” Forgetting his fear in favor of hunger, and rationalizing that the man was eating the meat himself, Adacon hastily snatched the offering. He quickly put the strip of meat into his mouth; the great flavor promised burst upon his tongue.

“Glad you like it,” the man said in his odd accent, noticing the reaction on Adacon’s face. “I have more.” Adacon reached out, taking several more pieces. “What is your name?”

“Adacon. You?”

“I am Reap Windfall, of clan Windfall—
formerly
of clan Windfall
.
” The stranger bent his eyes downward in a liquid gaze, concealing any sadness that welled inside him. “And—your friends?”

“That’s Falen, the drake—and Krem, of course,” Adacon replied, chewing a third piece of dried meat.

“Krem—the great Vapour? I am saddened more that you chanced into our drain.”

“Drain, you spoke of that yesterday—you were trying to get rid of Darkin’s evil energy?

“Yes, though we’ve effected little change. The new strand of dark power is implacable; it yielded not at all to our efforts.”

“And what of the moon business? Krem seemed pretty sure you were trying to blow it from the sky, if not murder us too.”

“Your great friend’s lore has run bleached—the League of the Mage disbanded its primary purpose decades ago, when tidings first came from the East Continent about Zesm’s return.”

“But Zesm only just gained his power from Vesleathren,” Adacon replied.

“No, he has been drawing it slowly for many years—working desperately toward an unnamable spell, something that can only be cast with years of patient labor. Something that requires the energy of many newborn children.”

“
Unnamable spell?
”

“Indeed, a merger—the collective unity of two malevolent entities. An anchor laid deep within Gaigas’s darkest pools of power—the
Unicorporas
.”

“Unicorporas!” came a scratchy voice from behind them. Adacon and Reap turned to see Krem shooting up to his feet, apparently not the slightest bit groggy.

“Indeed, fair Krem,” Reap replied, with a deep look of sadness in his ice-withered face.