Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (31 page)

XXI: REUNION OF OLD FRIENDS

The great troop of Enoan elves and dwarves marched across the Vashnod plains in broad daylight. Bands of horse-riders witnessed their wake, scattering at the sight.

“These must be the slaves of Grelion, no longer ruled by his poison fist, wondering about the land, searching for purpose,” mused Gaiberth to Iirevale, walking alongside one another.

“What a shame that he remains unfound in these times. If we could have a head to blame for all this it’d be his,” said a nearby dwarf.

“It would not be Grelion, dear friend, as evil as he is,” Gaiberth quickly responded. “We can’t forget where true evil lies.” The dwarf fell silent, knowing whom Gaiberth spoke of; Vesleathren was the only one who deserved the title of true evil, even the most stubborn of the Oreinen dwarves knew.

Passage through the city of Saru Gnarl had come easy enough for Terion—the guards there had been in shambles; it seemed the chain of leadership had been broken with Grelion’s desertion. The rise of Zesm’s power over the slave routes had left them leaderless. Earnest looks of fear had come from the guards-turned-pillagers as Terion marched his troops up the main avenue of the city, a wide berth given to the placid elven ranks. Many looked bewildered, as if witnessing a dream; they wondered if Grelion was returning to power, and a newly contracted army had come to restore order—still others wished to join the army of Terion, sensing that he went to war against the evils that had made paucity their way of life for so long. Groups of slaves had attacked the dwarven force, but they were quickly set straight by a volley of elven flint; misguided notions had led them to think they were attacking their enslavers, come from across the sea to reclaim them. Terion had briefly addressed the people of Saru Gnarl:

“We know of your destitution, and we come not to hasten your demise, your spiral into lawlessness. We march west to restore peace and provide for you a replenishment of hope—a chance at survival unfettered by the cold king whose bondage meted your unhappy years. Know, people of Arkenshyr, that Grelion is gone, if you’ve not believed it from the state of your city—know that the slave trade is ended, if not before today, then today, by my passing here! Know that the great dwarves of the Oreinen, from across the ocean, have come: know that the great elves of the Carbal Jungle, reprieved of Aulterion’s hateful stroke, come hither now too, that your country may be saved before a true conqueror comes—as he has already torched those cities you do not see, north of this realm, beyond the horizons of cold spires, home of our cousin-kin, the Reichmar.

“Sustain yourselves! Follow us if you wish. Know that we go to end the evil that condemns your land, your chances of lasting freedom. Do not, and languish here in lawlessness—and to those who choose that course, I suggest you hide well, for Grelion has left an awful legacy of treachery and betrayal. Fair well, citizens of corruption. Know that your saviors pass you now!”

Gaiberth had stood idly by, listening to Terion’s words, eager to pass out of the wretched city, to be away from the gaze of the looters, the pillagers, the enslavers, the calloused slaves themselves, factions warring amongst themselves. And so Terion passed out of Saru Gnarl, trailed by a hundred former slaves. Some of Grelion’s former guards followed, hoping for a chance to reach a better existence, to fulfill some dim aspiration of happiness and peace. The great army marched along the Slave Trade Route, formerly congested by Grelion’s slave carriages, now empty, passing the secluded mountains of Rislind far to their south. Eventually they had come onto the Vashnod Plains.

“These nomads—if they could only be united somehow,” Iirevale replied to Gaiberth.

“Terion has the power to unite, as you saw in that forsaken port city. But time presses us. We know not how stricken the north forces are, or whether they stand at all. If we weren’t in a race for the choke, I would agree that we ought to round up as many as possible, gather and tie them to our purpose,” Gaiberth said. Calan walked behind, talking with Wiglim the dwarf Vapour.

“And so he was a slave here?” replied Wiglim.

“Somewhere in Arkenshyr, yes,” Calan replied. She’d engaged Wiglim in the story of her champion, whose absence from their journey rent all smiles from her visage.

“I have heard the stories—rumors, legends about the final attack—I knew he was a slave. That’s why it never made much sense; how could he have done so much, more than Flaer?” Wiglim replied skeptically.

“You know I saw him…Aulterion. I was there when he swung his sword at Flaer—and I know that Adacon did it: he ended that monster’s life, north of the wall, amid a sea of Feral trolls.”

“But
how
did he do it?” Wiglim replied incredulously. Calan didn’t respond; something had caught her eye. She looked into the southern sky of the Vashnod, nearly opposite the direction they traveled.

“Condors!” she cried. The army moving with her did not seem to care at all that she’d called out the name of a species of bird, nor that she was now stamping up and down, shouting at the top of her lungs, pointing at the horizon behind them. “Look!” she cried. Only Wiglim stopped to see what she was raving about; the armored dwarves moved steadily on, exhausted from the steady glare of the western sun.

“What is it? I see nothing,” Wiglim replied. Calan ignored him, wondering what good Vapoury was if it left wizards blind to distant objects. She ran at full speed, terribly fast even for an athletic elf, to meet Gaiberth and Iirevale where they led the dwarves.

“Iirevale, look! Condors, four of them!” she gasped.

“What?” Iirevale said, his line of thought interrupted; he’d been discussing with Gaiberth the nature of the Reichmar seclusion, the legends surrounding the dwarf city Ascaronth, and what myths claimed lay hidden deep in the Angelyn heart.

“Condors?” Gaiberth echoed her comment. Together the three peered off into the distance, straining for a sight between bands of clouds that streaked the blue sky. Four distant specks stained the otherwise uniform spring horizon.

“You really think it might be—it’s impossible Calan. Let’s be on, we lose our pace,” said Iirevale, having stepped out of file. Rows of elves and dwarves marched past the stragglers. Wiglim finally caught up and stepped out of line, gazing with them now at the anomaly: four brown dots in the distance, flying in the direction of their northern route.

“There are riders!” she screamed with glee.

“That drunken gnome, you really think so?” Iirevale gasped in disbelief.

“It has to be him, it really has to be him!” shouted Calan, confident she had identified the specks. Soon a crowd of dwarves gathered. All stood watching the condors close in high above them.

“They’re flying right past us,” cried Calan.

“I’ll send a signal,” Wiglim said; immediately a black line of smoke shot directly up from his hands toward the passing condors.

“They’ve seen it!” Gaiberth said, his first acknowledgement of what was happening. Terion approached to see what was holding up his march, angered and disgruntled; he gazed skyward as the rest, and to his amazement, he saw a tiny gnome squatting atop a condor, descending swiftly toward the ground from the heavens.

“Who’re these?” Terion asked cautiously.

“One at least that was a guest in your home last summer!” Calan informed the confused king of dwarves.

“A guest of mine?!” came King Terion.

Yarnhoot landed near the congregation of gawking dwarves and elves, out of place in the barren stretch of yellow-green plains—Wester followed quickly after, carrying a pasty figure clothed in fern-colored garments, wearing many belts and pouches. The man wore several swords, a buckler shield, and the look of happy surprise on his face. Suddenly, behind Yarnhoot and Wester, two more condors thumped to the ground, each bearing another rider. Gaiberth, Terion, Iirevale, Calan, and Wiglim all jumped back when they saw the third rider hop to the ground from his condor: the rider was the height of a gnome; his eyes glowed red, dust-white boots emerged from grey leggings, and his chest protruded with a hole at its center, housing the strangest assembly of wires and pipes that any of the onlookers had ever seen. It appeared, Calan decided, that this rider was partially constructed of metal parts; she could make no sense of anything, only that she was enraptured by the face of Remtall Olter’Fane, Captain of the Gnomen Fleet.

“Good Ulpo!” thundered Terion’s deep voice. Ulpo jumped last off his condor and walked up to join the others. Terion embraced his old friend, who grinned heartily to see so many friendly faces—many rushed to greet him, hugging him of his breath, smiling forever, asking through what adventure he’d come.

“Remtall!” Calan called. She ran to embrace the little gnome, whose clothes and hair were dirt-black, matted and disheveled—he’d lost his hat long ago.

“Where goes this ragged band of fighters?” quipped Remtall, stepping back to survey the massive army. “I think this brings quite a recollection in my mind—have I not once before been a part of this troop?” he resounded.

“Good to see you—you didn’t—you didn’t actually get—” stuttered Iirevale, glancing at what Gaiberth’s eyes had been fixed upon the whole time.

“I present to you Behlas, white ghoul of the Endless Forest; Binn, halfman of the Palailian Mines—and, the Rod of the Gorge!” cheered Remtall. He turned to his new companions who had stood back from the fray of the reunion. Behlas nodded his head low, then, looking up at his audience, he raised the Rod of the Gorge. The oaken staff appeared lifeless for a moment, then flickered with light, visible under bright rays of the afternoon sun.

“Impossible,” Terion said in awe, forgetting his pleasantries with Ulpo, staring as if bewitched by the sight. “But it can’t be real?”

“It’s quite real, I assure you. I am Behlas, pleased to meet you all,” he said, his glowing skin concealed by the light of day.

“As am I, if you are friends of these three,” came Binn’s robotic voice. Calan stood aghast at what she’d heard—it was the strangest timbre imaginable—ridden with pitch change and tremulations. Gaiberth looked as dazzled as the rest, but he was the first to walk forward and embrace the strangers, welcoming them.

“Friends of Remtall are friends of ours,” Gaiberth said.

“Well then, what is this ragged troop?” Remtall said.

“We go to end this war for good,” Terion replied. “And we must not delay, Wallstrong is already burned to rubble.”

“Wallstrong?”
Behlas gasped. “It can’t be! I know the strength of those walls!”

“It is true—Terion leads you not astray. We press on toward the choke at Corlisuen. Do you come with us?” Gaiberth asked.

“There is no question to be made, elf. Ulpo, fresh ale from your dwarven family,” Remtall ordered. Terion commanded his ranks back into file, and the great march resumed, heading north again over the Vashnod plains.

The white-capped Angelyn mountains loomed over the troop, growing dark grey spires, covered on their bases with lush green stretches of rising forest.

“Any news of Adacon?” asked Remtall as he marched alongside Calan.

“None,” she replied. “Have you heard any word?”

“Me? I’ve been tramping through the Endless Forest of Aaurlind—through ancient mines where the likes of him lurk about, ready to strike,” Remtall ranted, speaking of Binn who walked by them. He had received a fresh flask of dwarven rock-liquor courtesy of Ulpo; slowly, his wits were returning to proper form.

“You are quite the strangest person I’ve ever met. Remtall, if you’d tell us your tale,” chimed in Iirevale.

“It began when we first came upon that forsaken shore. A pack of carnalfages attacked me—good thing for Ulpo too, for he would have been the first eaten alive…” Remtall said. He created a dazzling tale for the elves and dwarves that would listen. Ulpo, who knew when fantasy had mingled with reality, said nothing, allowing Remtall his full indulgence.

“And then, the damned fungus creatures, them and their fume sacks! They captured poor Ulpo, and they tried to get me, but my trusty dagger…” he went on.

Calan poked a question now and then while Ulpo smiled in confirmation occasionally, puffing on his pipe. Binn walked alongside Behlas, two outsiders, unable to get a word in edgewise about their journey; boisterous Remtall took center stage.

“And that forsaken spirit—he had quite a moment when we fought Parasink back in that Gaigas-defiling experiment chamber…”

“Experiment chamber?” asked Iirevale.

“Where that necromancing bastard created the likes of him!” Remtall said, pointing at Binn, who whirred from the motor on his chest.

“I see,” Iirevale replied.

“Well, this damned spirit—Behlas, of course—charged full blast, having his Vapoury back—” Remtall continued, but Iirevale cut him off:

“Spirit, you keep saying?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“He’s a damned ghost, look at him,” Remtall goaded.

“I am quite undead, yes, but not how you might imagine—in fact, I do think the magic of Parasink is reversing itself. Somehow I’m returning to this plane of existence with alarming swiftness,” Behlas said.

“Returning to, what did you say?” asked Calan, looking at Behlas with fascination, noticing something odd about the pasty-white skin of the otherwise handsome-featured man.

“You see,” Behlas explained, “Parasink froze the process of death so that he could animate lifeless corpses to do his bidding—cursed into such a creature, I was unable to use my Vapoury, or think in a self-aware state at all, until something happened—something interrupted his spell.”

“Freeze death?” Calan replied in confusion.

“Well, just before the spirit leaves the body, he would halt death from occurring in his subjects, leaving them but a flimsy shred of their former selves, only enough that they lived on as empty shells, easily manipulated for his digging—constant digging,” Behlas explained.

“Sounds more dreadful than I can imagine,” Iirevale interjected.

“It is. But something changed,” Behlas said.

“Yes. According to our field monitors, energy had temporarily shifted away from Parasink, enough to allow a lapse in his magic. You see, by my estimation, the Sleeping Enox returned,” voiced Binn.