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

by Turkot, Joseph

  “Other than frenzy in the more primitive tribes of Darkin, there has been no consequence of the star, nor is there evidence to suggest there ever will be, lad. The tribes that have grown fanatical can be left to their own devices, to shift their astrologies out as they see fit. We can let the problem lie for now, and not come to expect harm from it. I wish I could say the same of Zesm’s Feral army that marches toward us this very hour,” said Krem.

  “I question if we go to fight an army led by Zesm—I know it is rumored to be so, but who has seen him commanding the Feral? Who has seen Vesleathren’s slain body to confirm what so many believe to be true?” came a soldier sitting nearby, a druid ranger from the largest wooded region in northern Hemlin, the Forest Sea.

  “What difference does it make, dear boy—we know at least that we contend with a great evil, and one or the other at its head makes little difference in the end,” Krem replied.

  “But, as I’ve heard it, Vesleathren never mercilessly slaughtered women and children, nor did his father, Melweathren, in the wars of old,” spoke a nearby weldumun soldier. “The tidings we hear today tell us that no woman or child of Hemlin is sacred—that this Feral army is slaughtering all in their path, and none are being taken for slaves.”

  “It is not wise to blindly trust the legends of old,” Flaer muttered through his stew.

  “And why is that? Why should I not believe that the power we fight against is a worse kind of evil than Vesleathren?” the weldumun soldier contested.

  “Because I have faced him in battle,” Flaer grunted in a hushed voice. “And I know neither Vesleathren nor Zesm care about women and children—and as Krem has told you, it makes no difference which one of them we’re up against.”

  “Liar! Faced Vesleathren? Hah,” laughed the weldumun soldier, spitting pieces of stew in Erguile’s face.

  “Ugh!” Erguile recoiled. Suddenly, the long wooden table shuddered. Everyone braced themselves, grasping their seat, as sudden heat pulsed from Flaer’s back. The druid and the weldumun looked in terror at a bright red light, nearly blinding; it beamed in every direction. Erguile felt the familiar wind push through the air as Flaer’s sword charged with energy. Krem continued to eat, unaffected, smiling wryly between bites. Slowin watched with delight as the druid and the weldumun struggled to stay in their seats, eventually having to step away from the intense energy and light. The glow amplified, from red to white, and the druid wailed in agony as the light pierced through his closed eyes.

  “You see, this is his sword. I took it from him last he met me,” Flaer said. The light of the Brigun Autilus died, and the room returned to normal, devoid of the ominous red hue that had enveloped the walls.

  “I can’t believe it…” the weldumun muttered.

  “Believe it!” Erguile shot out. “And be happy Flaer’s on our side, he’s almost as good with swords as I am.”

  “So you really did fight him!” the druid said, returning to his seat, blinking his eyes.

  “I’ll tell you the tale later, after council,” Flaer calmly replied.

  “Speaking of the council—you are attending, right Krem?” Slowin asked his purple-robed friend.

  “You know that he leaves tomorrow, and I have to be there to see them off,” Krem answered.

  “They’re leaving already?” Erguile interrupted.

  “Yes—we will need him back as soon as possible; he can’t wait any longer.”

  “He doesn’t want to leave—doesn’t want to leave her,” Flaer said.

  “Adacon knows his burden. Knows it well,” Krem said. “Falen only knows half the route; the last bit of the journey I will be guiding.”

  “Is it far, this Tinpan’s place?” Erguile asked, not knowing nearly as much about Adacon’s mysterious journey as Flaer, Slowin and Krem; all that Erguile knew was that Adacon had to temper some ability, as he possessed a hidden power, and that Krem had known just where to send Adacon to get his training.

  “Tempern! Though you’re no longer a slave, we must teach you how to remember names properly!” Krem scolded.

  “Well, then, is it far?” Erguile continued.

  “I’d say,” Slowin interrupted. “I’d only heard rumors of Nethvale until Krem assured me that the ice country of legend truly existed.”

  “Ice country?” the weldumun barged into the conversation.

  “Mind your stew,” Flaer replied, accompanying his instructions with a brief flicker of light from Brigun Autilus. The weldumun and druid both edged down the wooden bench, letting Flaer and his company have their privacy.

  “Yes, lad, the ice country of Nethvale is the farthest point north in all of Darkin, and the Great Cloudstream there keeps it veiled from ships that might pass its shores—that is why it is scarcely believed to be a real place.”

  “So how long before Adacon will be able to rejoin us to fight the Feral Army?”

  “I can’t say—that is up to Tempern,” Krem replied. He drifted into thought for a moment, gazing past Erguile.

  “Keep your focus on tonight’s council, Erguile; remember, you’re a captain now,” Flaer reminded him.

  “Ahh, you’re right. I still can’t believe it. Has such a lovely sound to it: Captain Erguile.”

  “Well, you certainly earned it,” Slowin replied.

  “Pity you have no last name, but such is the nature of slaveship,” Krem mentioned.

  “Some call you Swordhand, don’t they Flaer?” Erguile asked, quickly getting an idea in response to Krem’s comment.

  “Ironhand; Swordhand; Slayer; I have many last names.”

  “Well then, I will be Erguile Swordmaster, henceforth.” At once, the table burst into laughter, and everyone looked at Erguile with amusement—Erguile looked befuddled, and he couldn’t understand why they misinterpreted his seriousness.

  “Laugh if you want! Captain Erguile Swordmaster takes not lightly to mockery,” Erguile said, half-serious, and he withdrew his sword. “Many know the Brigun Autilus, but see now the ultimate blade of Darkin!” Erguile lifted up his blade from underneath his seat and held it high, mimicking pulsating noises like the Brigun Autilus emanated.

  “Ah, dear boy, you are good for a laugh,” Krem rejoiced, watching Erguile’s inspired theatrics. Suddenly a bell rang throughout the long kitchen hall, signifying that council was to start in fifteen minutes.

  “Looks like you’d better give your sword mastery a rest boy, and finish your meal,” Flaer smiled, motioning for Erguile to sit down.

  “Start thinking about the legion that will soon be at your command, and how to lead them to war,” Slowin advised.

  “Won’t be much trouble—especially with the help of a steed such as Weakhoof!” Erguile admitted with a grin still wrapping his face.

  “Still plan on riding that old thing?” Slowin asked in disbelief.

  “There was no thought required in the decision. I would ride no other into battle against those foul beasts!”

  “Well, perhaps I can see to it that Weakhoof receives some attention before you two set off in the sun together,” Krem said. Erguile thought that Krem meant to cast some kind of Vapoury on his horse, and he did not object.

  “But the star—” Erguile remembered all of the sudden. “Why would a star suddenly appear in the sky, and grow larger every night. It still makes no sense to me. I would have thought one of you would have a clear explanation for it.” No one responded to Erguile’s remark, and he knew it wasn’t out of secrecy; no one had an answer to give for the mysterious star. All anyone knew was that it was getting bigger, night by night, and many of the more primitive tribes throughout the land were becoming increasingly hostile, fearing some evil forming in the firmament.

  “I just hope Remtall and Ulpo don’t run into any natives in Aaurlind. I’ve heard the creatures there are savage, and given the star, I wouldn’t want to think…” Slowin thought aloud.

  “Gaigas is with them, with as much of her good spirit as she can spare,” Krem replied. Another bell ran
g out, and their conversation stopped. They hurried to finish their meals before the council began. Finally finishing, they dumped their bowls into a wooden crate filled with soapy water on their way out of the kitchen hall. At the door, Krem said goodbye:

  “Falen will be waiting for me outside, and so will Adacon back in Carbal Jungle,” Krem said. “Take care, all of you, and I will see you very soon.”

  “It’s quite remarkable that Falen can fly you back across the Kalm in a single night,” Erguile said.

  “Lad, it is I who will get Falen across the Kalm in one night’s time!” Krem winked. “But I must go—can’t keep the boy waiting.”

  “Not very likely he’ll want to leave Calan—but, take care of yourself, old man. I don’t want to see you disappearing again,” Erguile replied. They each gave Krem a warm embrace, and left for the council chamber. Krem sped away in the other direction, quickening his pace to reach Falen.

  * * *

  The council chamber was directly down the hall from the great kitchen, and both were housed in the grandest building of Wallstrong. The structure was the center for all political matters concerning the city, and in the past several days it had become the center for all matters concerning Hemlin; Wallstrong stood as the last unoccupied city of Hemlin.

  Flaer led the trio down a brightly lit corridor, dumping them at its end into a richly ornamented chamber that arced wide to allow many rows of grain-wood chairs. Each chair pointed toward the front of the room at a polished slab of granite, doubling as both a podium and a plinth for one single column that climbed all the way to the vaulted ceiling; the single column seemed to hold the entire room up by itself. Erguile gazed in wonderment as they entered, viewing thirty-yard high paintings of warriors clad in gold and silver armor that canvassed the walls. The pillar itself was painted in rustic lines that spanned its entire height into a distance where he could no longer make out its details; it appeared, he thought, to have been painted like the trunk of an impossibly tall tree. For a moment, Erguile thought he saw a bird poke its head through a hole in the pillar. He marveled at the lifelike artistry, and decided he would have to inquire later as to who could paint a structure so big. Flaer wound his way down one of the many aisles toward a row of empty seats near the front, and Slowin followed behind with Erguile, who was distracted still by the paintings. After a command from Flaer, Erguile sped up, and together they took their seats. Slowin could not fit into the row of chairs; instead he stood in the middle of the aisle, constantly moving as people passed by him, usually gawking.

  “Go on, nothing to see here,” Slowin said, allowing a troop of weldumuns to pass.

  “Look at that!” called someone from up the ramp. Slowin turned to see what he suspected—onlookers glaring in bewilderment.

  “Alright, you’ve seen me. Now be seated, we’re starting,” Slowin ordered. Many rows behind them, Erguile spotted what he thought were golems; there were two of them, both staring down at Slowin.

  “Look at that, metal friend. Some cousins of yours, perhaps?” Erguile asked.

  “A bit small for cousins, wouldn’t you say Erguile?” Flaer said. The golems were indeed smaller than Slowin, and Erguile figured that Slowin would dwarf them if they stood side by side. While the golems looked similar in form to Slowin—lumbering arms, rigid joints, giant hands and heads—their skin color was quite different: the golems were russet and grey, with green roots twining round their rock muscles as if blood veins. It very much appeared to Erguile that the staring golems were built of plant and rock, unlike the uniform metallic body Slowin possessed.

  “They can’t get enough of you,” Erguile called over. “Hey Flaer, did you see something move on the pillar? It’s like the painting is real.”

  “It is no painting, friend. That is the oldest tree in all of Hemlin. Some say it possesses the power of a lost age, untapped and dormant. The weldumuns would have you believe it is the bastion of eternal strength. The druids would argue it is a source of Gaigas’s power made available for men and beasts.”

  Just then, a clang reverberated through the chamber. The crowd of seated onlookers quieted. Taking a small set of stairs onto the plinth was a tall blonde-haired druid. The man appeared to Erguile the same as any other man.

  “What’s the difference between their race and ours?” whispered Erguile to Flaer.

  “Our natural life span is several hundred years shorter than theirs,” Flaer replied. “That is one of their many peculiarities.”

  “How can that be? But you’re as old as a druid. Krem told me you’ve been alive for as long as he has; he said maybe longer.”

  “I am an exception. Now pay attention.”

  “Friends of Hemlin, and protectors of the free world of Darkin, we gather here in urgency. We come together to relay the condition of our world to our brethren, and the condition of our fair Hemlin. Once this has been done, we shall set a war in motion, so that we may ensure no more of our beloved are killed, and no more of our grand cities rent with flames,” spoke the druid. Erguile noticed a mysterious quality about the druid’s voice; he sounded like a lullaby, yet projected throughout the entire chamber with ease. Erguile also thought he saw a faint glow, an aura, surrounding the druid—it weaved in and out of focus, but when Erguile concentrated hard, he definitely saw it: a soft hue, the color of jade stone.

  “For those of you who do not know my name, it is Peren Flowerpath. I am a friend to all who would fight the evil pressing in from the north, and a voice of the druid people.”

  “Was the druid city destroyed?” whispered Erguile.

  “There were several. And yes.” Flaer replied.

  “My task is to offer the collective information we have gained about Vesleathren’s war march, which heads south this very hour for Wallstrong.” The audience roared in protest, and many shouted Zesm’s name; some claimed Zesm to be the commander of the Feral Brood, yet others confirmed Peren’s claim. Seemingly aware of the clatter he had caused, Peren immediately silenced the disruption with his soft but booming voice:

  “Friends, I know there is speculation that Zesm, whom some may know as the Rancor, is at work in the Feral Brood Army, or may have usurped Vesleathren. I will not dismiss your opinions. I only give you what we are sure of—and no evidence convinces us that Vesleathren has been slain or thwarted as commander of the Feral force. We truly cannot say, but we know that a force such as Vesleathren should not be unaccounted for. If Zesm leads the death march, then so be it. We shall know it when we see his face in battle upon the hills. We will not believe anything has changed until that time is come.”

  Peren’s response seemed to be enough to ease the anxieties of the audience. The chatter died down, and the people patiently awaited his next words.

  “As you know, in the decades since the end of the Five Country War, there has been tranquility in Hemlin, even whilst Grelion turned dark the fate of Arkenshyr with his slave circuit. Our tranquility is now but a vestige of history; three of our greatest cities have already been destroyed.” Again the audience cried out in tumult, voicing their personal disagreement with Peren’s statement:

  “Hemlin forsook its neighbor!”

  “Hemlin is responsible for the treachery!”

  “You had your peace as we rotted under Grelion’s corruption!”

  Erguile noticed the calm aura around the druid flare. It seemed Peren knew the sentiment his statement would rouse, and he soothed the unrest of his audience:

  “Friends, the history of the Five Country War cannot be unmade. We can, however, learn from it and account for this returned evil. As a result of the long peace after the war, Hemlin never rebuilt its militias, nor reformed a unified army. It is no surprise then that we were left utterly helpless to defend ourselves. Thusly, with great speed darkness forsook the whole of Hemlin.”

  “Peace for you perhaps!” shouted a woman in front. “My three children were taken from me, turned to slaves, while I was forced into hiding for fear of death!”

 
; “As were mine!” an old man spat into the air, harnessing the woman’s hostility and directing it at Peren. Peren’s aura rippled, wavered, reformed.

  “This is not easy. I am not attempting to absolve Hemlin of guilt. I wish to represent the situation as it currently exists. Please, let me continue, so that you may know the state of our country, and the world.”

  “But what of that monster now? Is he to be absolved of his crimes!” shouted a dryad, whom to Erguile appeared like a delicate elfling. Then, to his surprise, he noticed a translucent pair of thin wings neatly folded behind her arched shoulders; Erguile decided to himself that he would no longer be shocked by the strange folk he observed—it seemed anything was possible in the world outside of the slave farm.

  “Yea! We want justice for Grelion! He’s the greatest villain! To think he was the one who unified us in the old war! It makes me sick to remember,” an old troll screeched above the growing racket.

  “Yes—Grelion Rakewinter is the reason that many of us are here and alive today, but that does not remove the villainous stain he wrought upon our world, upon Arkenshyr and Enoa the most. I promise you that justice will be served to Grelion—but right now he is not our most urgent threat. As it stands, Grelion’s slave trade has fallen into disarray. His Guard has mutinied, his capital Morimyr is crumbling,” Peren informed the angered mob.

  “He has gone into hiding, the coward, at the first sign of a power greater and more evil than him! We ought to seek him out, and hang him at once, after a long torture!” cried an old troll.

  “That we may well do. Please listen—the hour grows late, and Vesleathren’s horde draws near.” Erguile was awed once again at how easily Peren managed the crowd, somehow preventing the imminent violent eruption.

  “He’s a good speaker,” Erguile mumbled to Flaer.

  “And a better Vapour,” Flaer informed.

  “I knew there was something about him.”