“What was the look?”
“Pure fear.”
“Pure fear?”
“He knew his master’s sword had been claimed; he saw me wield it, unflinchingly. His eyes told dread, as black as his heart—that a mere man might hold the blade and live.”
“How did you continue to hold it?”
“At the start, I could only hold it for minutes at a time before it would begin to sear me. It talked more then.”
“Talked?”
“As you heard on the swamp road,” Slowin reminded him.
“I remember now. I didn’t recognize the voice, but I thought it was you,” Erguile recalled.
“Over time I learned to control the evil within the sword, so it could no longer hurt me, and I was able to use the terrible power for my own purposes—which I did, until I was captured.”
“But you had the sword—how could they ever capture you and take it?” Erguile asked, gripped by Flaer’s uncommon willingness to tell his story. A quick thought streaked through Erguile’s mind: Perhaps he’s telling me all this because he knows we march to our deaths tomorrow.
“Friends,” interrupted a familiar voice from behind. Erguile spun around to see who had spoken; he saw a shimmering trim of gold-green, softly bordering the shoulders and head of Peren Flowerpath, who now stood by them.
“Peren,” Flaer answered. Slowin looked up in reverence and nodded, and Erguile followed Slowin’s lead.
“How do our spirits fare, this night before epic valor calls upon us all?” Peren spoke, exuding the natural leadership that had gained him his role as head general of the entire Hemlin force.
“Very good, I’ll say, for myself anyway—this dish has brightened my spirits tenfold!” Erguile piped, referencing his cleaned plate of bear meat and salad.
“I’m glad you like Hemlin’s food!” Peren smiled.
“Anything new from the druid scouts?” asked Flaer.
“No. We guess the Feral to be the same as we thought before: two-thousand strong, making us only several hundred smaller than them. I do not wish to speak too soon, but with tonight’s arrival of the men from South Shore, we may well match their numbers.”
“We mustn’t depend too readily on our element of surprise—though we may hide well in the hills, Vesleathren is sure to have spies the same as us, knowing our moves before we make them,” replied Flaer, not showing any of the optimism Peren expressed so easily.
“Let us hope you are not right, Flaer, but I am overall decided that we will win, if only because of your presence—I know as well as any other your history, and your valor most recent at the Dinbell Wall.”
“Do not let me be that important to our cause. Know my history, and then also know that I did not defeat Vesleathren when last I fought him, many decades ago.”
“Ah yes, but that sword there did change hands, did it not?” Peren winked. Erguile watched in reverence, awed by the warmth he received from Peren’s aura. Slowin listened calmly, uneager to voice his feelings.
“Let us hope, as you’ve said, that it is enough—” Flaer replied. Erguile noticed a stillness in the expression of both the druid and Flaer, and neither said a word for what felt like a minute. Finally Flaer broke the stillness with a smile, turning again to Peren, though Peren said nothing; he laughed assuredly and slapped Flaer on the shoulder.
“Glad you’re among us,” Peren said, and Flaer nodded thanks before returning to his drink.
“And we’re happy to have you lead us,” Erguile finally spoke up, seizing a moment of silence.
“Ah—Erguile, right?” Peren asked.
“Yes.”
“Names are my strongsuit. We are heartened to have you as a captain, and to have you lead men to the hills tomorrow.”
“I am heartened to have the privilege.”
“Certainly—I have fresh steeds awaiting your company on the morn.”
“Fresh enough for me is Weakhoof, my good man!” Erguile confidently returned.
“That wouldn’t be the withered old thing taking space in my stables, would it?” smiled Peren.
“Withered? Pah! Forget how your eyes deceive you—that horse has outrun the militia of Erol Drunne, as well as the speediest of Feral Trolls!”
“I’ve heard the newformed legends…” Peren winked. “Anyway, I hope you find quiet sleep this night. I am greatly heartened at the constitution of all my captains.” Peren said, leaving them as quickly as he’d come, fast striding toward another section of the dining hall.
“He’s quite sure of himself,” Erguile said as soon as Peren was out of range.
“Hopefully not too sure,” Slowing said.
“He is a good man, that much I can sense,” Flaer said as a wave of relief seemed to sweep over his countenance.
“I’m happy to know my fair horse is the subject of legend now!” Erguile rejoiced.
“Finish your meal, you need all the sustenance you can get—tomorrow we end this ordeal for good, so that I can go home,” Slowin commanded.
“Right,” Erguile nodded, shoving the last bits of meat into his mouth from his polished plate.
The three left the hall together, heading to their sleeping quarters early. Many still ate, gossiping fervently about the Feral force they would encounter the next day. The accommodations of Wallstrong had been very good to Erguile, as he soon remembered beneath a warm blanket, head upon a soft pillow. Flaer slept in a nearby bed by the door to their lodging chamber. None of the beds were big enough for Slowin, but he’d chosen not to sleep in the larger golem quarters which were located down the hall. Perhaps he’s not comfortable around the normal golems, thought Erguile.
Slowin squatted awkwardly in the center of the cold stone floor, and Erguile watched in amazement as the great silver creature sprawled on the ground, somehow falling asleep instantly. Erguile’s eyes closed, his mind wandered tirelessly: his imagination curved near to dreams—where was Remtall now? Had his desperate mission met with any success at all? The stories the gnome told of the Rod seemed far-fetched, even though Krem had strangely agreed with some of Remtall’s reasoning for a trip to Aaurlind: Should the legend of the Rod prove true, Krem had said, it would surely prove an unforeseen boon to the Northern Army.
It won’t matter: the war will be over before Remtall and Ulpo can return with the Rod anyway, he thought. He wondered if the Rod could be as powerful as Remtall had seemed to think it was—Krem had denied any knowledge of its true power, claiming it was a mystery whose depths he knew not. He also spoke of the grave danger in travelling there, to that forbidden place; he’d spoken of a third kind of magic, separate from good and evil magic—it was a magic that could only affect the ethereal, he’d said. Erguile hadn’t understood, he’d only hoped his friends would be safe—he certainly missed having the humorous gusto of his gnomen companion; Remtall brought levity to all serious matters. Erguile thought of Adacon and his mysterious power that no one could seem to explain to him—he was only allowed small details on the purpose of Adacon’s journey to see Tempern in Nethvale. It seemed that Krem thought Adacon would be a great help in the war on the West Continent, like he had been at the end of the Battle at Dinbell. Erguile felt jealous for a moment that Adacon had some special gift, and he none, though they were both slaves; but then Erguile remembered his ability to see Peren’s aura—perhaps I have more power than I think too, perhaps I am gifted like him. Erguile dismissed the missions of his friends; it won’t matter anyway, he thought. The Rod, Adacon’s secret power—greatly helpful perhaps, but entirely unnecessary—the war would end tomorrow. I will cut a path to Vesleathren tomorrow, and Flaer will follow it, and finish what he could not before. This time there will be no Aulterion to rescue the wizard’s battered corpse.
XI: NETHVALE
An obnoxious rapping sounded inside a house that was cut neatly from the side of a great Carbal tree.
“What time is it?” Calan asked herself as she quietly rolled out of bed, trying not to disturb Adacon. He
was sleeping peacefully by her side, nestled underneath a cozy blanket. She looked out her only window and saw nothing but darkness. How long have we been asleep, she wondered—it’s still not close to morning. Again the rapping sounded, louder than before: a rhythmic knock, resounding from the front door through the rest of the small trunk-cut cottage. Adacon sprang up, looking around in a panic.
“Who’s that?” he said.
“I don’t know who it is,” she answered, creeping toward the door.
“Wait,” Adacon replied, jumping out from his blanket and grabbing his elven sword from the wall. Without proper dress, they approached the door together. As they came within reach of the wooden handle, a third series of knocks rang out.
“Who’s there!” Adacon replied.
“Open up!” urged a furious voice between coughs. At the bottom of the door a drift of smoke began curling in along the floor. Calan and Adacon stepped back. He looked at her, and she nodded—he focused his eyes on the door, raised his sword to strike at whatever stood behind it.
“Who is it?” he called again. Silence fell over the room; there was no reply, nor another knock. A minute passed. Stepping lightly, Adacon edged toward the door, preparing to swing it open and thrust outward with his blade.
“Wait…” Calan whispered to him. He ignored her; a fear had come into him that the intruder was seeking another way inside, and if he didn’t pursue at once, something horrible would happen. Adacon grasped the wooden handle to the door as the smoke started to dissipate by his feet. In a single violent instant, Adacon unlatched the door’s lock and swung it open. The door opened a little and stopped—whatever was outside had stopped the door as soon as he’d started to push.
“Ouch!” cried a familiar voice.
“Huh?” Adacon said, dumbfounded. He peered through the slim line between the door and the darkness of the jungle: a pair of glowing slits looked back. The two eyes blinked rapidly, set deep in the head of a creature that reared its scaled head.
“Aahh—chooo!” came a thunderous sneeze. A mighty blast of smoke gusted into the house and Adacon was thrown back, toppling into Calan who shadowed him from behind. Together they tumbled onto the wood floor of the living room. They looked up, dazed, beholding the sneezing dragon that stood in the doorway: Falen.
“Sorry, been…” Falen grunted in a peculiar voice, more haggard than the rich timbre Adacon was accustomed to. The dragon recoiled as if he was about to sneeze again. Suddenly, from the left side of the door, Krem barreled into view. The small Vapour deftly shoved his fingers up into the nostrils of the fire drake. Falen seized up for a moment, then his body relaxed again, and his neck craned to look down at his tripped friends.
“Sick,” Falen said.
“Sorry laddy for such a rude awakening. I hope I am not interrupting anything,” Krem said as he passed Falen who was too big to go inside.
“Ugh, no—of course not,” Adacon moaned, rubbing his head where it had banged into Calan’s. “You alright?”
“Still in one piece,” she replied. They helped each other up.
“I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow?” Adacon said, concealing his frustration at being woken in the middle of his last night with Calan.
“Well, these things have a way of making their own decisions, and—oh, would you like some?” asked Krem as he lit his pipe, stepping into Calan’s living room. The leafy aroma of the room was replaced by the powerful smell of Krem’s pipeweed. Adacon prepared for the headache pipe smoke usually caused him.
“No thanks,” he replied, wide awake with adrenaline from the incident at the door.
“You are leaving tonight?” asked Calan, seemingly unbothered that Krem had woken them with rude knocks in the middle of the night.
“Indeed we are, fair princess,” Krem answered solemnly.
“Why so suddenly like this Krem?” Adacon asked.
“We have no time to waste, none. As we speak, the Feral Army marches south to the last free city of Hemlin, and a great battle will be fought there—I fear that I may not get you to Tempern in time,” Krem answered, and his demeanor grew melancholy; Adacon took notice of an odd tone that had supplanted Krem’s usual cheer—a darkness had slipped into the old Vapour’s voice.
“Alright, I’ll get dressed then,” Adacon obliged, deciding he’d better wait until they were flying to ask more questions. He went about gathering what small things he’d prepared—a set of clothes, his elven sword, a red stone Calan had given him as a present, and the Orb of Light Slowin had given him.
“Should I bring some food?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about that, I’ve prepared everything for our trip. Go, wish your lovely friend farewell, for we must make haste—excuse me, my dear lady,” Krem responded, some cheer returning to his voice as he stepped outside into the mist-filled night and attended to Falen. The door closed behind him and Calan and Adacon were left in peace for a moment’s time: She seized him viciously, hugging him so hard that he couldn’t breathe.
“I didn’t tell you, but I’m going to meet you in Hemlin,” she said.
“What?” Adacon gasped. “You can’t—your brother needs you here to take care of the stranded ones, to rebuild a home for your people!”
“He’s going too, as are many others—there are plenty here to look after Rainside. Our people will be fine. We are going to repay the debt.”
“The debt?”
“The debt we owe the West Continent for its aid during the war in Enoa—without you and your friends, the whole of my race would have been destroyed.” Adacon returned her embrace and kissed her, then pushed her head deep into his chest, sighing. He knew she was right, and that he couldn’t change her mind; part of him felt selfish in knowing that he would get to see her again once he completed his visit to Tempern. His mission had seemed ominous: to fly to the war front in the West Continent after they had finished their errand in the ice country; now, his journey seemed lighter knowing he would see her sooner than he had thought possible. But he had to press her to stay, fearing for her safety in the West:
“You cannot go,” he said. “It will be too dangerous—you would do better by waiting here for me, so that we can continue to build our home as soon as I am done there.” She smiled at him, knowing that he was speaking out of necessity; she knew he didn’t really mean it, he knew her better than that, and he already understood that she had made up her mind—yet she still appreciated his love and concern.
“You know that I cannot, that I won’t. I must go. I am as able as any of the elven men in this village,” she responded. Adacon looked at her but said nothing, and his gaze was understood to mean yes, a nod in affirmation of her will to help, to go to war, so that the threat of evil would not be wiped from her country alone but from the world, and so that no other race of people would have to endure the burning rage of Artheldrum.
“Go, and don’t forget this,” she said, thrusting a small pink flower into his hand: it was one he’d plucked for her as they’d come home from the Blossoming Pool. “It’s mine again, next we meet.” She kissed him and he turned away, trying not to dwell on the somber urgency that made Krem steal him from her—perhaps it would have been harder if my departure were less sudden; I would have been thinking about it more, he told himself. No—that was a lie, this is worse, he thought. He didn’t look back again, but opened the door and left, knowing he would see her again soon.
Calan walked over to the window to watch the great wingspan of the drake unfold and beat savagely against the clumping mist, Falen heaving himself into the firmament, carrying two passengers away into the star-filled night. She smiled, knowing Adacon was in good company, and went back to bed, but being greatly saddened, did not sleep.
* * *
Dawn broke over the horizon and a tangle of clouds disintegrated in the distance, clearing the sky, yielding the morning sun. Slow waves of pink and orange rippled from the curve of the planet, and eventually the sky melted. A great collage of light
confiscated the black of night: pinks drizzled into amber golds and reds, and eventually a uniform blue overtook the atmosphere, unveiling a day of marvelous peace. Adacon felt cool as a fragrant breeze swept over him. He hugged onto Krem from the tail-end of Falen’s saddle. Up and down was the motion of the drake, and with each mighty thrust of his broad wings Falen bore them higher, only to sink lazily again each time. A siege of colorful birds chirped a melodious tune of dawn, flying underneath the drake in a v, heading in the same direction. Suddenly, Falen sneezed violently and the birds scattered, but in the next moment they reformed into a rainbow v and continued in tuneful pursuit of the drake.
“Still sick Falen?” Adacon asked, wondering how much ground they’d covered since departing Enoa. It had been several hours since he’d watched the last traces of Carbal Jungle disappear behind them. It had been a spectacular view from high atop the small dragon: he’d seen the crumbled remains of the Dinbell Wall from afar, and what appeared to be rotting mounds of slain Feral troll carcasses, still decaying. Krem had explained that they took an extremely long time to turn to bone, as the Feral corruption lingered even in their deceased forms.
“Yes, I’m still sick. Krem doesn’t seem to have a magic cure for me when it comes to a simple cold,” Falen complained sarcastically.
“I am sorry dear Falen but I can’t do anything for what you have, it must run its course—the colds of Nethvale are immune to most all Vapoury,” Krem replied.
“You’ve already been to the ice country?” Adacon exclaimed.
“Yes—I had to fly ahead, just to be sure I still possessed my wits in the cloud veil,” Falen replied.
“The cloud veil?”
“The reason the ice country is so secluded is because of the cloud veil that constantly surrounds it, laddy. You see, it is precisely why Tempern stays there. He has absolute isolation,” Krem said.
“Absolute isolation? But why would he want that?”
“It is the way of a Welsprin. He does not interfere with the urgencies of good and evil,” Krem responded.
Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) Page 11
