Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (39 page)

“If they mean something to you, so be it. They are hostile to us, and that is why they have been detained.”

“Gaigas…it can’t be,” shuddered Wiglim. He’d lost his train of thought several minutes ago, furiously working through a disturbance in his mind. “The departed race of prophecy!”

“What?” Calan said, bewilderment spreading to those around her.

“The departed race! The key! It is true!” Wiglim cried as if some revelation had struck him but missed all others.

“Explain yourself dwarf!” came Iirevale, whose anger at the strangers’ imprisonment of Krem erupted.

“It seems one among you has understood our purpose here,” came Naeos.

“It’s as Merol said! The Waln Parchment!” Wiglim cried.

“Enough of that! The fables are burned! Did you not swear an oath to never speak of them?” shouted an enraged Terion.

“But it’s in her words—she’s said it for us,” Wiglim answered sadly.

“The key is the ore, that is all. We find it and we leave. None of you will be harmed. Here are your friends,” Naeos said, trying to defuse the natives. Out came Flether and Flote, each carrying Krem and Falen respectively. Their bodies floated on near-translucent beams of light. Behlas looked with awe at their mysterious magic.

“What spells are these?” he gasped, watching the beams of light harnessing Falen and Krem disappear, their bodies gently placed on the grass.

“Spells—it is not so simple as that. Yours is the first planet I’ve seen with a level of…control over energy, despite no technology for it,” Naeos said, digressing. “Do not regard our technology with distress. It is similar to what you may discover one day. For now, confirm what Grelion says—is there a vault of information in Morimyr containing information about the ore?” she said.

“They’re dead!” cried an elf, staring at the unmoving forms of Krem and Falen.

“They are not dead, fool,” Brosse came in, unable to control his anger at the primitive race. Commander Naeos shot a scolding glance at Brosse, then, whipping hair around her ear, looked back upon the army surrounding her ship of shiny silver.

“They will awaken shortly, they are unharmed,” came Naeos. “Now—if you’ll answer my first question.”

“Grelion is a bed of lies! Trust nothing he tells you—he is a murderer of children!” Remtall said, shakily regaining his feet.

“He’s a stubborn gnome, but he’s right,” Gaiberth chimed in. “I would not trust that man for the
ore
you look for.”

“Very well,” Naeos said, glancing hard again at Brosse, who’s prisoner she’d banked on for the vital information. “Then what do you any of you know of the ore?”

“None of us know what it is you want,” Calan called, wondering at the intelligence of the strange woman
.

“Oeuysomeixious Magensium Parabrocicilis. A perfectly square, silver slab of metal, immutable, buried here, beneath these plains, eons ago. We buried it in your world as a measure of protection for ourselves against the very danger our galaxy now faces. Many planets received the ore, only this planet’s store remains. We are in a race against time to retrieve it for its use in a machine on our home world, so that we can save our race, our galaxy.” Only Behlas seemed to make sense of what was said, though flutters of comprehension dawned on the others; still the matter was fuzzy and confusing for all of them.

“It’s as the Waln Parchment said! The enchanted golem, he is the key!
The scripture tells of the metal being unearthed in a chasm by Molto the Vapour, many eons ago—the strange metal, being of incredible property, was cursed—enchanted—sculpted to form—” Wiglim said but was cut off:

“Slowin!” Calan remarked first. She suddenly found herself a firm believer in the strange dogma of the dwarves. Wiglim continued to speak, and even Terion was silenced, paying close attention, listening to the detailed teachings of the old scripture as only a descendent of Merol could explain them.

“The metal was made into a—creature?” Brosse said incredulously.

“Impossible!” Naeos erupted, losing her perfect calm. She quickly regained her composure and bid Wiglim to continue. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, though only a few minutes, there was a silence between the Darkin natives and their otherworld visitors.

“Departed race of blasphemy,” Remtall said, stroking his head, taking a drink of his liquor. “When will Krem wake up then?” No one answered the gnome, and Naeos appeared deep in thought.

“So—if you all know this Slowin, as you name him, then you will now take us to him. He is rightfully ours,” Naeos said.

“You’re mad! You think we’d take you to him? Never to happen, I’ll first drag your corpse through Rislind’s groomed flower paths!” Remtall spat, growing angry, ready to charge once more, this time at the four aliens standing only yards away.

“We cannot betray our friend even if he was your ore, even if we knew where he was—unfortunately for our own sake we do not know where he is—and as I’ve said, if we did, you’d not be led to him, or allowed
to take him,” Gaiberth spoke sternly, unwavering before the intimidating stare of the perfect-featured commander.

“Hah! You think you have a
choice
?” Brosse interjected. He cackled viciously, joined by Flether and Flote.

“Silence!” growled Naeos, growing impatient. “It is most unfortunate that you’ve—enchanted, you say, our metal. It cannot be explained. But it is not our concern what you’ve done to our precious ore, only that you return what is rightfully ours. Now please, take us to Slowin.”

“No,” Terion said plainly. Behlas braced himself for what he thought was going to happen: the Rod was useless, Wiglim and his Vapoury were also useless—but swords and axes would not be. The numbers were hundreds against four. Remtall and Ulpo gripped their blades, feeling the imminence of battle.

“Calm yourselves, we will not fight,” Naeos declared.

“If you keep asking for our friend, wishing to take him from Darkin, then you force battle upon yourself,” came Gaiberth. Calan braced herself, as did the rest of the elves, hands firmly on sword-handles.

“Fine. Seeing as primitive logic is all you have at your disposal, I will make this easy for you. Brosse, engage the cage sweep, conscious level four point two six, reduction level eighty-two percent—let’s see what compliance it yields.”

“I don’t think so,” came a voice from the firmament.

“Excuse me?” said commander Naeos, annoyed at another interruption before Brosse could melt the consciousness of the army surrounding them, rendering them malleable, instructable, an obliging mindless mass that could be used to find Slowin, so that the ore could be taken. They wouldn’t be harmed, thought Naeos: the
Godking
wouldn’t be angered; they would be left in the same state as she had found them—she’d reverse the cage sweep
before they left, even go through the trouble of erasing their collected memories of their dear friend Slowin, to save them the trouble of mourning. Grief was a primitive emotion, but she was noble enough to grant them that for saving the whole of her race.

Adacon looked down at Naeos from several yards above in the air, descending elegantly. Two horses and two humans landed softly on the grass, quickly rising to their feet.

“Pursaiones! Taisle!” came Remtall, “Adacon?”

“I said—I don’t think you’ll be doing that anymore,” Adacon said calmly, ignoring Remtall.

“Doing what, exactly?” Brosse looked up gloatingly, pushing buttons on a small glowing contraption in his hands.

“That,” Adacon said forcefully, waving two of his fingers almost imperceptibly: Brosse flew to the ground hard, while the remote device in his hand rose up into the air, slowly drifting towards Adacon. Brosse rolled over, pointed his pistol up, and fired: The flash lit up the surrounding army, but the bolt was deflected aside, glancing away and exploding silently against grass in the distance. The floating remote came into Adacon’s hand. He paused, looking at Naeos with a broad smile, closed his palm. The device snapped, then popped. Adacon opened his fingers and let fall to the ground three yards below a rain of metal shards and jags of plastic.

“How is he surpassing the field?!” Flote gasped fearfully.

“Calan!” Adacon called, forgetting the alien race before him and flying swiftly down to the ground, embracing Calan before she could respond. “For you,” he whispered. Commander Naoes helped Brosse to his feet, trying to comprehend why Adacon’s use of energy hadn’t been blocked like the rest of the natives. From Adacon’s pocket he held forth a small pink flower, dried, missing several petals.

“Adacon!” she smiled, forgetting the peril amidst them, throwing her arms around him and kissing hard.

“We’ve found the ore!” came a voice into Naeos’s head before she could retry the cage field.

“What’s that?” said Naeos in her own language.

“Doesn’t seem to be affected whatsoever by the field
,
commander,” came Kams stern voice.

“How strange
,
” replied Naeos, who had rerouted Kams party north in her absence to survey the energy anomaly.

“The thing is—we have a track on the
ore.
”

“What?”

“Yes, we need to get, well, past this force…it’s just the damned force
.
Nothing we do kills its source!” Kams voice fed directly into Naeos’s earlobe.

“Where is the ore?” she belted, listening intently, drawing the attention of Brosse, Flote and Flether. The dwarves kept a wary eye on the aliens, while Calan and Adacon embraced, talking cheerily to each other, distracted from the confusion surrounding them. Remtall tended to Krem and Falen, who were slowly waking. Ulpo and Iirevale were counseling one another, trying to decide what to do, when Gaiberth came up, interrupting Adacon’s reunion with his love.

“Sorry, Adacon—” came the calm voice of Gaiberth.

“Gaiberth!” he returned exuberantly.

“I’m sorry to stop your…but,” he stuttered, as Iirevale and Ulpo came up alongside their elf leader.

“It’s fine Gaiberth,” Adacon replied.

“You’ve returned so soon,” Iirevale couldn’t help but smile broadly at his friend.

“Do you know the situation in the north?” asked Gaiberth. Adacon replied that he didn’t. King Terion kept vigilant watch upon the council of aliens, who still talked among themselves. Gaiberth told Adacon of the plight of Wallstrong.

“Strange—we’ve just run across one that doesn’t seem to be affected by the neutralizing field either. It won’t matter, we’re heading to meet you now. We can dispose of Grelion now that we know where the ore is,” Naeos muttered to Kams through her implant.

“How do you suppose we’ll get by this other one?” Kams replied.

“Go around him of course,” replied Naeos matter-of-factly.

“But we tried that, the static interference seems to be affecting the entire upper hemisphere of the planet,” Kams replied. “And yet we see the ore—it’s in the shape of arms. Would you believe that? Lying on a hill of grass, shaped like arms!” Kams shock at the interference was mixed with ecstatic joy at being able to actually see the ore; still, they’d been prevented from reaching it, as they could not yet fly or move their vehicles near the combined energy of Vesleathren and Zesm.

“I’ll worry about it when I get there—your coordinates?”

“We’re halfway along the mountain pass—coordinates are,” Kams began, rattling off a series of numbers to Naeos. Brosse rubbed his elbow where he’d smashed into the ground. Naeos turned to her subordinates and ordered them back inside the ship, forgetting about the army of natives before them.

“Commander, permission to kill
that one first,” Brosse said, too angry to think about how attracted he was to Naeos for a moment.

“Do you think if I let you you could?” Naeos replied whimsically. “Come on, there’ll be time to research these creatures later—once we’ve saved our galaxy.”

“Huh?” Brosse replied.

“Haven’t you heard a word of her conversation?” asked a frustrated Flote, already stepping back toward the door of the silver vessel. “Kams’s party found the ore!”

“Found it? How? Impossible!” Brosse cried, his tone in opposition to the goal of their mission, as a strong stare from the commander noted.

“You sound displeased Brosse, why would that be?” Flether responded.

“No—not at all,” Brosse said, his hope of finding the ore for his commander squashed inside his gut; he had envisioned her happiness, her love for him for completing their desperate errand—now it was Kams who would get the glory, and her attention.

“Very well. I’ll be happier when we’re back in space,” Brosse said loathingly, looking back at Adacon, seething, longing to verify his superiority, his greater intelligence over the native who’d struck him down somehow.

“Leaving so soon?” burst Remtall. He ran up to the commander, standing only a yard from her. She glanced around, last to reenter the ship. She saw the army still watching intently, waiting for the next line of communication from their alien visitors.

“Remtall, they are dangerous—get back!” cried Wiglim, who’d completed his lecture on the Waln parchment, everything seeming to miraculously match the ancient dwarven scripture. One piece of the scripture had been left unfulfilled—the Waln Parchment claimed that the departed race would cause widespread death in Darkin; luckily, it seemed to be wrong in its most evil proclamation. Wiglim tested his energy again, trying to draw strength from the soil at his feet, but failed, unable to make the slightest connection with Gaigas. Behlas also tried several times to reestablish his flow of Vapoury, but to his dismay he felt much as he did in the confines of Parasink’s dungeon, completely powerless to use magic—the Rod was merely a piece of oak in the presence of the mysterious alien race, unusable, ineffective beyond a walloping stick.

“It’s ok, furious one, we’re quite unhurt,” Krem said flatly, placing a hand on Remtall’s shoulder, hoping the gnome wouldn’t try to thrust his diamond dagger at her silk-smooth body suit.

“It seems that they don’t need our help anymore,” boomed Terion’s voice, still confused about the purpose of the aliens’ visit, wondering if Slowin could really have been the ore that they were searching for, as Wiglim had decided it was.