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

by Turkot, Joseph

  “Where’re the slaves then?” asked Remtall, looking around the strange quarters—there were no beds, only column after column of large hooks, hanging five high along every wall, the last of which was nearly the height of the four yard ceiling.

  “They’ll be digging—work starts at dawn each day, we’ve arrived only just in time,” Behlas informed them. Remtall and Ulpo realized it seemed alright to talk again.

  “What are these?” Ulpo asked, observing the rows of massive iron hooks that climbed nearly all the walls of the room—some were fastened to stalactites high above the center of the chamber.

  “As like to a bed as a miner gets—look,” Behlas said, and he ducked down level with Ulpo’s eyes, then turned his head so his neck was revealed: centered in the back of the spirit’s neck were two horizontal slits, from each one protruding a ring of metal.

  “What in the…” Ulpo replied in shock at the grotesque sight. Remtall immediately dashed over to see.

  “Jewelry for a fancy ghost,” Remtall prodded.

  “It’s the mechanism Parasink uses to connect us to the hooks when it’s time for us to sleep.”

  “You sleep hanging?” Ulpo gasped.

  “Surely we do.”

  “How is it you aren’t ripped off from the weight of your body?” the repulsed dwarf asked.

  “The ring is grafted to the spine—another wonderful experiment of Parasink’s—gleaned from his work on Gears,” Behlas explained.

  “Well, it saves space doesn’t it?” Remtall acknowledged. “Ugh.” His headache had worsened, and Remtall forgot his tormenting of Behlas for a moment to resume rubbing his temples.

  “It’s been awhile—let me see if this still works,” Behlas said, taking notice of Remtall’s moaning. Behlas bent his head down, closed his eyes, and his skin’s glow dulled for a moment, all while he swirled his hands in an intricate pattern. Ulpo and Remtall turned to watch the curious act, and Behlas cupped his hands, sturdied his frame, and chanted something unrecognizable—suddenly a clap sounded, and a dust of verdant light flashed bright, disappearing just as fast, leaving a sealed brown bottle in Behlas’s outstretched hands.

  “Liquor!” cried Remtall, thrusting for the bottle.

  “Hold a second,” Behlas said, withdrawing the bottle from the greedy gnome’s grasp.

  “What is it? My headache leaves me ineffective for our battle against Parasink!”

  “That is precisely why I conjured this for you—but, there is something you need to know first.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, what is it?” Ulpo squealed, not quite with a headache such as Remtall had, but desiring the liquor nearly as much.

  “This is stronger than any drop you’ve ever tasted, and it must be consumed very, very sparingly,” Behlas instructed him.

  “Right, right, understood, be wary of ghost drop—hand it over,” Remtall urged, growing impatient with the warning, not telling Behlas he had brought nearly the strongest drop in all of Darkin with him, Oms Fine Granite Liquor, only to drink it much too fast.

  “I wonder—could it be that, even…” Behlas thought aloud, distracted, forgetting the eager gnome reaching for the bottle. Behlas quickly unscrewed the cap from the unlabeled bottle, and after a slight hesitation, took a tiny sip.

  “It’s not fair wasting it on you—you’re not going feel anything!” Remtall complained. Ulpo stood helplessly watching, waiting for his turn.

  “Wait a moment,” Behlas replied. They all stood in silence for another ten seconds, and finally Remtall couldn’t stand the wait any longer, and he lunged headlong for the bottle, which Behlas firmly grasped a yard in front of him.

  “Bastard!” Remtall groaned as Behlas dodged the gnome’s reckless dive for the bottle. He fell haphazardly to the stone floor.

  “Yes!” rejoiced Behlas, “I can’t believe it…”

  “What is it?” Ulpo asked.

  “What’s the idea ghost!” Remtall spat harshly, rubbing his knee hard where it had smacked the rock.

  “It’s working on me! The flicker, the temporary flicker must have brought back my feeling again!” Behlas explained, jumping in the air for joy.

  “Your feeling?” asked Ulpo, forgetting his desire for the liquor—Remtall stood watching, unable to care about the joy of Behlas before drinking a sip of his own.

  “Yes!—oh, sorry, here,” Behlas said, noticing the disgruntled look on Remtall’s face. Remtall took the bottle and drank heartily, despite Behlas’s warning. “You see, once Parasink has confined a spirit to this plane, it loses all but the most remote echo of feeling—a trapped spirit cannot taste, cannot feel joy or happiness, cannot be affected by elixirs or potions, or liquor,” he continued on. “The flicker has brought me back the qualities of a living person!” cried Behlas in disbelief.

  “Wow, what a drop,” muttered Remtall between gulps, hardly paying attention to the happiness that had suddenly filled Behlas’s heart.

  “Does this mean you can die?” asked Ulpo, struggling to fully understand.

  “No—it can’t mean that, for if the magic of Parasink were completely gone, I would be dead,” Behlas remarked, half-believing his own words. “I would simply evaporate in front of your eyes: no, his magic must still flow in me, cursing me, binding me to this plane, but somehow it’s mixed up now. Somehow it’s been disturbed, and my qualities are no longer that of a slave miner. But maybe of my own decision…”

  “Pah! Never mind your joy—your skin pulses ghastly, you foul spirit, thinking himself a man again!” Remtall prodded, forgetting his manners with the quick intake of Behlas’s liquor.

  “There’ll be none for me!” scolded Ulpo, and he grabbed the bottle from Remtall’s hands, the gnome already wobbling.

  “You didn’t lie ghost—this is good drop. Had I known Vapours could conjure from thin air, I would have been getting it from Krem all the time,” Remtall said, balancing himself.

  “I told you not too much, not too fast,” Behlas reiterated.

  “Pah! Never mind a gnome’s taste for fine spirits,” Remtall chortled. “Look ghost—I’ve drunk spirits from spirits! Hahaha!” cackled the self-amusing gnome, forgetting the peril of their quest.

  “Captain of the Gnomen Fleet, control yourself,” replied Ulpo in a deliberate tone. “We’ve work to do!” The dwarf’s spirits were up, having had his first nip of the Vapour liquor.

  “This means I could do it if I wanted to,” froze Behlas, comprehension dawning on him.

  “Come now—do what, dear friend?” Remtall cheered, embracing Behlas by the waist, which was at the gnome’s full height.

  “No, don’t think that!” Ulpo said.

  “What, what?” Remtall impatiently pleaded.

  “He’s able to find his peace, leave the world for good,” Ulpo explained.

  “You mean to kill yourself?” Remtall raged, jumping up and down violently. “Come now spirit, I’m sorry to withhold, have another taste to check your failing wit.”

  “For countless years my only hope has been the belief that one day I would find true rest, an endless peace—and now, through this accident, I could finally do it, finally end this brutal curse, now that I have my Vapoury—I could counter the curse, dissolve away.”

  “You wouldn’t be able to help us kill that scum Parasink,” Remtall said.

  “Hadn’t you two planned on coming here alone anyway?” asked Behlas.

  “He’s right, we never hoped to find help, not from the moment we stepped onto Aaurlind,” Ulpo admitted.

  “But it’s changed now—you’ve learned what’s at stake, with Vesleathren and Zesm on the West Continent. And what of the others here? Do you want them to stay like this, eternally unresting?” Remtall spat.

  “Calm yourself fiery one, the thought has passed me,” Behlas said after a long moment of silence. “I will not defeat myself, not before I see to it that I have done everything within my power to destroy this evil, so that it doesn’t infect anyone else—that Darkin i
s no longer under threat of Parasink, and his foreign mirrors, Vesleathren and Zesm!”

  “There’s the spirit, spirit!” Remtall said, slapping Behlas hard on the stomach. Behlas moaned at the zealous slap, and Ulpo burst out laughing.

  “This will be a lot easier than I had first presumed, now that I have my power back, but we’re wasting time—come, quickly,” Behlas commanded. Remtall seized the bottle from Ulpo, strapped it to his side, and followed directly after Behlas, who led them away from the miners’ quarters, down into a square-cut hall.

  They marched in silence until a third door appeared, similar to the last one. As Behlas began to work on it, using the same magic as before, a rumbling sounded from the other side, followed by a whir of motors, followed by a high-pitched whine.

  “They know we’re here,” Behlas snarled, rescinding his energy. “Let them come to us this time.” They stepped back from the steel door, hearing the clamor on the other side grow. Thudding noises, a creaking noise, a rattle of chains, and the steel door began to swing forward.

  XIII: THE BATTLE OF HEMLIN HILLS

  “Stout!” commanded Peren Flowerpath. His druid forces straightened their backs, a token of the seriousness of their errand: the entire standing army, the combined forces of the free people of the West Continent, were assembled at the north-western gates of Wallstrong; they embarked in but a moment’s time with the purpose of waylaying the invading Feral Army, confirmed to be only several miles away, marching fast for the capital city, numbering in the thousands.

  Among the legions of the Hemlin Army, as it came to be named, were the mixed races of Darkin—there in the early morning sun stood the troll troops of Drensh, the savages of South Shore, elves from every realm, weldumuns, gnomes, golems, druids and misshapen dwarves—collectively, the entire force was commanded by Peren, emissary of the druids, but even he had a distinct legion to direct in particular. There were seven generals, of which Flaer was one. Flaer’s legion stood next to Peren’s, and it contained Erguile, whose captaining would include the likes of Slowin, the only silver golem among the entire Hemlin garrison. Peren left his legion, made up mostly of refugees and surviving militia from sacked druid cities, and galloped out in front: facing all seven legions, he slowed to a trot upon his black stallion and beheld the vast army which stood as a symbol of hope for all the free people of the world.

  “Latecomers and new arrivals—thanks be to your speed, for it has made this march possible. We go to battle, at war yet again with a familiar foe—the ill-formed son of Melweathren, whom you know as Vesleathren. Let us be bold in stride, swift with edges, and cunning in perception; this day will stand in history as a mirror of the heroics at Dinbell!” Peren projected out over the multitude. They stood silent, heavily armed and armored, eagerly awaiting the signal from each of their legion generals to begin the trek over the rolling hills.

  The verdant green of the Hemlin Hills stretched flat before the city gates, but only a hundred yards to the north cresting shapes rose as frozen emerald waves. The hills were small but many: they stood as perfect lines, ripples in the earth, a tide frozen and stuck upon the soil, appearing as an interminable breadth of uniformity, one after the next, never too high, never breaking into flatland for as far as the eye could see.

  The clear sky was broken by a meandering line of clouds, fluffed strings of white upon the firmament, a beautiful contrast against the deep azure. The marchers would head directly northwest, as Peren had ordained, trudging over the crests and troughs of the hills. To their right and left would ride longlined expanses, the lowered alley of an endless trough, running perpendicular to their path, or the pinnacle of each cresting hill, running deeply away without interruption.

  “Into the hills—for Hemlin! For Darkin!” Peren rallied. He galloped quickly back to the front of his legion, and alongside the six other generals, he led his force away, passing out of the prairie at Wallstrong’s gates. Side by side the Hemlin army passed up the first hill, descended the slope that gave way after it, then began to ascend the next. In each valley the men could not see the hill beyond the one in front of them, unmarkedly green as the rest, until they peaked again. For a few moments they saw the endless ripples of hill after hill until again they went down the northern face, losing all awareness of the terrain. The hills were five times the height of a man, and each was separated by the length of thirty horses. The army grew accustomed to the climb, and it became a rhythm for them, from which sprang a song of valor, which Erguile knew not—but in the restless moments before battle, Erguile found himself singing anyway, heartily, alleviating the monotony of the uneventful climbs, where no peak had yet yielded sight of the enemy. The song went cheerily to their march:

  “Oh! Old Hemlin, fair city walls,

  Ancient keepers of the sanct morn,

  And all blessed peaceful resolves—

  How we march now to protect thee!

  Ramparts, bridges, and light be gone,

  Here we march ‘tro the stilling lea,

  Bastions unkempt, destroyed or slain,

  Fire and fight deeply mustered stay!

  Oh old Hemlin, fair city wall,

  Gaigas keep your stone ever strong,

  Lest darkness breach, our belov’d fall!”

  Erguile followed after the men he captained, and found his throat at ease with the song, which overtook him as if a fog, cooling his spirit from the angst and fright of battling the evil he had tasted months ago. Weakhoof bore him forth stolidly, at the pace of the footsoldiers who trailed him, and it seemed a new youth had come into the horse, as was required by its master. Erguile smiled wide at his friend. Whinnying in reply, Weakhoof sounded his worn voice, an equine song of courage.

  “We’ll have our day of rest,” Erguile comforted, but Weakhoof was not worried; the horse was steadfast, bearing his master to wherever their purpose might lie.

  Hill after hill came and went, up and down, down and up. The many hundreds trudged, and among them, the gleaming metal of Slowin shone brighter than the armor and shields of the other fighters. He looked out, surveying the assorted races within his troop, and then up ahead at Erguile, who led the marching force behind Flaer, who rode atop a brilliant white stallion of Wallstrong. Flaer galloped close to Peren, and together they were the frontmost of the whole army, first to see the horizon atop each new crest.

  “They are bold, your friends,” Peren said, keeping his glance fastened straight. The horizon disappeared again behind the shaded warmth of green hillside. They descended into a valley.

  “Bold is not a fit enough word—Erguile was a mindless slave, property of Grelion, nearly four months ago.”

  “And what has he to show for it? A captain in the Hemlin Army,” replied Peren graciously. “What greater honor there is I cannot guess.”

  “I have fought many hundreds of years, in battles like these,” Flaer said solemnly. “And here is a chance—a real chance—to end it all.”

  “I know of your bravery, and your role in shaping the history of our world,” replied Peren. “It is an honor beyond words.” Peren extended his hand to Flaer, who shook it mightily.

  “This putrid descendent of Melweathren’s, the second to mar an existence of peace, still aligns with the legacy of his father. Why is where I fail to understand,” Flaer said.

  “In the minds of those such as we go to face, there is no reason to be found, not even if you could pry into the recess of their thought. To search for it is to lose purpose,” Peren answered.

  “Perhaps. I do know that this line of evil has plagued our world for countless centuries, never failing to resurface, time and again, in some strain or form. And now, with Aulterion finally dead, we truly have a chance.”

  “Let this be that chance fulfilled—and the tyranny of Grelion not be repeated again; that after this war, we reap fruitfully of our past mistakes, our lack of vigilance.”

  “It is Zesm that worries me,” Flaer said in his dry tone of steel.

  “Zesm? He i
s a subjugated vessel of Vesleathren in the greater design, is he not?”

  “It would seem so, but I cannot be sure—I knew Zesm once, when he was a man,” Flaer told. Peren’s eyes lit with astonishment.

  “I’d heard that once, that he was a man in the distant past, uncorrupted by the drain of evil. Never before had I heard it from a credible man, by one who’d lived to see it.”

  “Indeed he was once a friend, I daresay—but it is as you spoke; he was irretrievably lost, corrupted—Melweathren first bound his soul, tied it to his dark agenda. His spiritless corpse was left to roam long after Melweathren’s death. Now, with Vesleathren wielding the collective evil of the world again, Zesm has returned to life—no longer a mere errand slave of Grelion.”

  “Perhaps Grelion works with them.”

  “No, he is fled into the wild, as the rumours say; I can sense that much is true—Vesleathren would not accept his defiler into his own ranks—do not forget that before Grelion destroyed the trust of his people, he united them. He was the only reason the world did not perish in the early days of the Five Country War.”

  “I know the history too well,” Peren replied. “The druids prefer to observe and study history, rather than partake in it—but mind that truth not; for when meddling is required, we are among the most valiant.”

  “I can tell by the command you have over this army,” Flaer turned to look at the seven-legion troop that trailed them. “Your charisma with them—your spirit. I’ve never seen anything like it,” Flaer said, voicing his awe at Peren’s ability to be the voice of a scattered nation of refugees.

  “It means more, coming from you,” Peren answered with a smile, bright as the morning sun which towered overhead. The hills continued to pass underfoot. “I am truly glad, whatever the outcome of this battle, to have met you—never would I have thought it possible: You were dead, as far as I or any others knew, though so few know truly who you are, and what you possess,” returned Peren. In reply, the Brigun Autilus at Flaer’s side shone bright red, flickering as if a wisp inside the metal had ignited temporarily. The glow wore off in a moment, leaving the sword silver again.