Adacon thought about the mystery of the water he was bathing in, tranquilized by soft colors and warmth, and how it had traveled all the way from Gaigas to reach this very spring—like himself, a Welsprin.
“This water and I are very much alike,” he thought aloud.
“Huh?”
“I’m not supposed to say anything to anyone, but I trust you, so I’ll break my word. I don’t know what will happen, and I don’t want to think it, but maybe I won’t see you again.”
“Don’t think like that!” Calan said, and she splashed him once more.
“Well, if what Flaer told me is true, I am exactly like this spring—my special power, the nature of it, I haven’t told you…”
“Adacon, I know you possess something special. If you’ve sworn not to tell, don’t.”
“I know it will be safe with you, and you may understand it better than me. Flaer said I am something called a Welsprin, a—” before Adacon could finish his explanation, Calan gasped, and her face contorted with shock and bewilderment.
“A Welsprin?”
“You know the word?”
“I know it,” she said. The look of shock left her face, and she hugged Adacon tightly.
“But how? I was told I am one of two that are alive.”
“It is the story of my race—that we were born long ago from a first elf, a Welsprin,” she told. “In our history, the first of our race was this Welsprin, and from that elf and her mate were the elves created.”
“So the Welsprin elf is dead now?” Adacon asked.
“Our lore doesn’t explain how she died, only that she was our originator, many thousands of years ago. And you…” she stared at him with curious fascination.
“I’m sorry,” he replied, unsure how to react.
“Do not be! You are like this spring! And from your spirit’s energy are there streamers, shooting down into Gaigas, anchoring you to her spirit! You are Gaigas manifest!” she rejoiced.
“I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“Don’t be solemn; Gaigas is the good in all things, and you as such are that goodness!”
“But, how can there be so much evil then? And the dark magic that destroys our races, how can Gaigas allow that?”
“It is not Gaigas that those dark conjurers draw from as their source—no, they draw from a different energy,” she replied, “a collective spirit of evil.”
“You mean, there’s another great spirit of Darkin, besides Gaigas? One of pure evil?”
“No, it’s not a mirror of Gaigas—Gaigas is the originator of our planet, the one and only true spirit from which Darkin’s energy is come. Those who would do evil with magic, they draw on a power that stems from Gaigas, but is then corrupted by the evil in their hearts.”
“You mean, Gaigas allows people to use her energy for harm?”
“No, Gaigas doesn’t allow anything—Gaigas is inert, of herself—the innate disposition of her energy is good, of common kinship with life. She cannot thwart her own energy’s occurrence—when any person has an evil thought, or an evil intention, they add their own bit of darkness to the collective of corrupted energy in the world.”
“Collective?”
“Yes, we elves understand it that way. Every spirit that harbors malice in its heart, toward itself or another part of creation, living or not, contributes to the collective reserve of evil energy, the source from which wizards such as Vesleathren draw their strength.”
“So whoever has evil in their hearts can use the energy of the collective?”
“No—and be glad that is not so. Whoever has evil in their hearts simply produces a stream of darkness, flowing naturally from Gaigas to the collective energy of evil. Only those with knowledge of Vapoury can use that power, and tap into it for their own malevolent designs.”
“You mean, all the evil wizards of the world were, once Vapours?”
“Yes, to put it very simply. But it can be much more complicated than that. The man who harbors evil intentions in some remote part of Darkin knows not that he contributes to the powerwell of dark wizards far away—think of your country’s oppressor…”
“Grelion.”
“With his evil, he has contributed an immeasurable stock of dark energy to the very being he fought so valiantly to destroy—in turn allowing Vesleathren the strength he needed to return to life from the brink of death.”
“I think this is too much, too much for tonight—I need to forget about this all,” Adacon said, feeling frustration and fear seep back in.
“I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intention to burden you further.”
“It’s alright; it’s difficult to feel any negative thought in this place,” Adacon said. He forgot the foreboding talk of evil, and gazed once more at the flower-lit ceiling, splaying its dim spectrum of color, radiating gently, enveloping the whole room.
“At least know your secret will stay with me,” she said, smiling.
“Do you think very differently of me?”
“Well,” she chuckled. Adacon’s face began to droop with despair. “I thought you had a special power—but I didn’t realize you were this powerful.” Calan said, winking. She slipped underneath the water.
“Hey, where’re you going?”
VI: OMEN OF THE STAR
Circular roofs atop massive stems blocked out the stars, and hanging from a long thin vine, dangling close to the ground, was a slimy, clear tube—a hardened carapace, in which sat a slowly awakening gnome. Remtall opened his eyes and recoiled in disgust at the slime he felt oozing all around him; it dripped from the roof of the small sack. He was imprisoned—Remtall knew it at once, and he looked around to see anything at all. His tiny sack, swaying slightly, was clear and he could see through it with ease, but night still blanketed the Endless Forest, and it was hard to make anything out.
“Hello! Vile Fiends! Let me out!” Remtall screamed, thrashing at the hardened inner wall of his cell. The inside of the shell was transparent, but Remtall saw veins running vertically down its length, appearing as an oversized leaf. He panicked, then calmed himself. He knew if he was to get out of this trap, he would need to collect his wits. He felt his inner thigh and realized his captors hadn’t searched him—at least not thoroughly. Remtall didn’t know they’d made the same mistake with Ulpo, who’d almost escaped, only to be caught again while running aimlessly in circles through the maze of the forest.
Remtall wiggled out his tiny diamond-shaped dagger. After a brief struggle to change position that left his pod swaying, he held the blade in his hand.
“This ought to do it,” he muttered to himself, his senses yet to recover from the gaseous slumber his captors had induced. Powerfully, he thrust repeatedly at the pod wall, stabbing again and again, but to his agony, the hardened shell did not break—it did not even tear.
“Blast this,” Remtall cried, his voice muffled by the damp pod. He reached instinctively for his liquor, but found it empty. “This is exactly what I planned,” he grunted sarcastically. In his frustration he thought of Ulpo, and he wondered if his dwarven friend could still be alive.
* * *
Ulpo writhed in agony against the inner wall of his pod—it was no use. Whatever material was entrapping him, it was too strong to break through. As he gave up in exhaustion, a creature wobbled into view nearby. Ulpo looked up to see it through his clear pod-cell wall: it was one of the plants—it had soft-glowing yellow eyes, mounted on a long thin neck that seemed to have vines running its length. Its head had two long stalks, each fixed with a tiny ball at the end, encrusted with small spikes. Ulpo recognized it from earlier: What do they want with me? he thought.
“I am Kimp, leader of the forest,” came a high-pitched voice.
“What do you want?” cried Ulpo.
“I want to know when the star comes.”
“When the star comes?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about! What have you done with Remtall? Release me
from this infernal sack of pus!”
“Your friend didn’t know either. We will not need you any longer if you know not when the star comes.”
Ulpo was confused by the beast’s odd query, and he frantically thought for a reply. Then something popped into his mind: a matter had drawn the concern of the Erol Drunne council months ago; it had been about a lingering star new-formed in the firmament, growing larger with time. Still, he didn’t know if that was the same star the plant creature spoke of, and he was certain he had no information worth telling about it.
“I will offer you as a sacrifice, together with your friend,” came the guttural whine of the plantbeast.
“Wait—what is your name? You speak the common tongue of Darkin,” Ulpo said, struggling to keep the plant leader in conversation, hoping to create a chance to escape.
“I’ve told you—I am Kimp, leader of this wooded realm.”
“Kimp! Kimp! Kimp!” floated a melodic chorus from beyond the depths of Ulpo’s vision.
“I mean, ugh—I meant your race, what is your race’s name? We have never encountered ones like you before. The King will surely be pleased to meet you all.”
“The King?” replied Kimp.
“Yes, he’ll be along now in just a few more minutes—with his legion.”
“What King, what legion? We traced no others in the forest besides you and your small friend—”
“That’s because the King is aided by great Vapours, who have concealed all evidence of their passage.”
“It cannot be. For what purpose do rockfolk travel through our homeland?”
“The King comes to establish the defense of the star,” Ulpo lied.
“Defense of the star?”
“Yes. You see, the star is coming. It will crash right here and destroy this forest, and everything in it.”
“Tell me more,” Kimp eagerly replied. Ulpo tried to hide the utter joy that swept through him as he realized the primitive plant believed his lie.
“We, erm, rockfolk, have traveled far from home to stop the destruction, lest it spread to our lands next. That star you’re worried about, it will explode here, in this very forest, without the King’s help, and without the Vapours he brings. We will all be doomed if I am kept long from the King. You see, I am his most personal guide for this great defense.”
“Oh, but we do not worry about the star—we await its coming with the greatest desire.”
“What?” Ulpo replied, his crafty tale foiled.
“We Drya do not have fear, such as you wish to instill, for the star,” Kimp explained. “The coming of the star has been foretold by all generations of Drya, and the great time of legend draws near at last!”
“But, I know precisely when it comes.”
“You do?”
“Yes—tell me, why have you captured my friend and me? What have we to do with your race’s legend?”
“Nothing,” replied the squeal of the Drya leader. “It is as the ancestors foretold: once the star begins to grow, let none pass through the forest, for any could be the spy of the star-stopper…”
“Star-stopper?”
“One who wishes to thwart the coming of the star. One who would end our legacy before it begins. And so you and your King must die before an attempt is made to defile our legacy. Do you deny now what you have already told, that you aid the star-stopper?”
“I can assure you I am no star-stopper! Nor is Remtall!”
“Remtall did you say?”
“Yes, that’s my friend,” Ulpo said, urgently fidgeting to check if a weapon was left on him. His pod-sack swung slightly from its cord, hanging from the roof of the sky-blanketing mushrooms above.
“Funny name—but unless you reveal to me the time that the star is to reach the forest ground, I will be forced to release the acid into your husk.”
“Kimp! Kimp! Kimp!”
“I can only tell you if you let me speak with Remtall—my powers of Vapoury combined with his will yield the answer you are looking for,” Ulpo lied. An acid husk would only mean something terribly painful, he surmised.
“Very well…”
They are intelligent creatures, but their desperation is a great weakness, Ulpo thought. Kimp snapped his head tendrils forward as if whips. The acid husk broke open; Ulpo tumbled to the ground. Before the dwarf could get to his feet, an aroma enveloped him as before, and he was asleep.
* * *
“Your friend does not seem to remember what you are talking about, rock dweller,” Kimp said. Ulpo rubbed his eyes and looked around: there were glowing eyes in a circle surrounding him and Remtall, and directly in front of him was the leader, Kimp. Ulpo wondered whether Remtall and he could make a run for it into the Endless Forest, but they were covered in every direction; it would be no use, he decided. The creatures knew their way in the dark, and neither he nor Remtall had any light left to travel by.
“I am no Vapour—I am a sea captain! I have told you this, vile weeds!” raged Remtall, angered beyond amelioration. “Ulpo, you awake? These foul bean creatures, they are primitive, without sense!”
“You see, a lie you have told,” Kimp said, flicking his tendrils close to Ulpo’s neck.
“But of course gnomes don’t call themselves Vapours—they are called sea captains in their culture, but it is the same thing,” said Ulpo, trying to keep Remtall from ruining his deception.
“Lies!”
“Kimp! Kimp! Kimp!” The circlet of eyes began to shimmer, and in a rhythmic syncopation they danced round the captives.
“No! I’m not lying!”
“Come, foul fungus—have at us then,” Remtall said, unaware of Ulpo’s chicanery. “We may not have the power of Vapoury, but we have knuckles where you have vines!” Suddenly Remtall threw up his fists, ready to throw a punch at the next creature that came close enough to reach. Ulpo looked about in terror, realizing his deceit had failed.
“The star comes now! Look!” Ulpo yelled. Kimp immediately looked up to the sky, at the slivers of night between the towering mushroom canopy overhead. The circle of eyes stopped their motion, their chanting; each creature followed the stare of its leader. Remtall wasted no opportunity, this time aware of Ulpo’s trickery. He lunged forward, gripped Kimp by neck, and throttled him until stinging nectar ran through his fingers. Ulpo followed, balling his hand into a tight fist before slamming his pumped arm into its abdomen. To the dwarf’s surprise, his fist pierced directly through Kimp’s stomach, into its belly—Ulpo’s hand immediately began to burn, and he writhed in agony, removing his slime-drenched fingers.
“Stinging blood!” Ulpo wailed.
“Aye! I feel it!” Remtall moaned through clenched teeth, as between his fingers, which were fast wringing Kimp’s scrawny neck, an ooze of acidic juice continued to singe his skin, sending a stream of hot vapor into the dim night. Kimp let out a death cry, and his once sturdy head slumped over Remtall’s arm. Ulpo and Remtall quickly released their hold on the leader of the Drya, letting its body thump heavily to the earth. They turned around, backs to one another, facing the rest of the creatures—the Drya were in a frenzy, closing in fast, screaming their leader’s name in agony.
“Kimp! Kimp! Kimp!”
“Close your nose, don’t breathe!” Ulpo warned.
“Hard to do, friend,” Remtall replied, and he rushed forward at the closest Drya.
“Ahh!” Ulpo roared, charging behind Remtall. The fragrant aroma of the Drya had already been released into the air again; sleepily, dwarf and gnome tried their best to fell more of the plant beings. Remtall jumped into the air, forgetting to hold his breath, and threw his leg at the head of a Drya he was bounding toward. Overtaken again by the Dryan draught, Remtall collapsed on top of the creature, crushing it in the process, once again asleep upon hitting the earth.
Ulpo turned to see the acid of the crushed Drya searing Remtall, where he lay in a growing puddle of its ooze. He rushed to the gnome’s aid and tried to roll him from the acid, but a shooting
tendril struck the back of his head. He became dizzy, steadied himself, and then fell to the ground. Ulpo opened his eyes from the forest floor, and in his pain he forgot not to breathe the noxious air. A mysterious shape streaked by his feet. Looking sidelong, Ulpo thought he saw a pearly light. Shrieks pierced the night all around him, fainter with each passing moment. To Ulpo’s fading consciousness it sounded as if the Drya were being destroyed—something was killing them, and they moaned a chorus of death wails. As he succumbed to the fumes for a third time, a blurry figure came to stand at his feet: a human, softly luminous. Somehow, Ulpo thought he could see through the body.
“Who are you?” he murmured. The utterance had been his last strength of consciousness. He fell asleep to a vision of a phantom rolling Remtall from a puddle of Drya slime.
* * *
“Wake up, small ones,” came a commanding voice from above. Remtall awoke to the booming voice and feverishly began to scratch his right arm where the Drya slime had burned through his glove, turning the skin there to a rash of itchy pus.
“Don’t!” said the voice. “The venomous sap of the Drya is spread that way. Here, use this. Put it on your hand.” A soft-glowing man knelt down to Remtall and placed in his hand an ovular glass jar filled with white goo.
“Who are you?” Remtall asked, still drowsy from his dose of the Dryan gas. He surveyed the stranger with what wits he had: the man was tall, at least as tall as Adacon, and wore ancient clothing the color of fern, with root-colored belts that crisscrossed his chest. Hanging from the belts were several pouches, one of which he’d removed the small jar from. At his sides hung two swords, medium length and razor thin, sheathed in russet leather that matched his boots. He wore dark silver greaves, and a dull circular shield was slung over one of his shoulders. But most peculiar of all was the dim-white glow that enveloped the man, and Remtall wandered if he was alive or dead. The waking gnome looked to his side to see Ulpo still sleeping from the Dryan gas. He returned his gaze to the calm visage of the ghoulish man looking down at him.
Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) Page 6
