“If the men and women of our fair company knew that it was Vesleathren’s sword you possess, I don’t know if it would comfort or frighten them. But I understand it—I am comforted,” Peren said, gazing at the blade.
“You remind me of him,” Flaer said as they descended another hill, losing the horizon again.
“Of who?”
“Grelion Rakewinter—”
“Grelion?”
“The Grelion Rakewinter of Old. A great man, a heroic man, whom you do not remember, nor know of, for his tale is not told any longer.”
“But, how can you say that? He is a murderer, enslaver of thousands!”
“It is not so simple. But when you’ve only lived a short time, only felt a thin breadth of history, I well understand how you would see things as one-sided as you do—as most all do.”
“You speak as if defending the man,” Peren said, shocked at what he was hearing from Flaer the Slayer—Flaer Swordhand the moral and just.
“Look! They come fast!” Flaer pointed, riding to the crest of the hill in front of them, leaving Peren behind. Peren saw nothing, as the hill blocked their view still, and he wondered how Flaer had seen anything with the hill blocking, but he rushed up anyway. He reached the peak and stopped to behold: together they surveyed a vast darkness: a crawling, writhing, living mass—the war troop of the Feral Brood. Line after line slowly marched toward them from distant hills.
“How is it we did not see them before now?” Peren said, startled.
“Deceiving is the magic of Vesleathren—he cloaked them all,” Flaer surmised, “so that they could not be seen from a great distance.”
Like waves, row after row of ashen-armored trolls forsook the emerald of the hills, blanketing them as if rolling tar, one half-mile ahead. Great auras of scarlet energy danced over sections of the Feral army, low clouds of red light, and amidst the black mass Flaer recognized slithering hordes of gold-plated beasts: the Gazaran. There were sections of Feral army enclosed by the rest, elite variants, marching with special guards. They appeared in deep purple garb, and around them wobbled sprouting shields of ornate lightning, sparkling bright as the midday sun.
“What trickery is this,” Peren said with grave alarm, looking to Flaer for direction. Tumult ran through the ranks of the Hemlin Army as it burgeoned atop the crest where Flaer and Peren watched. The troop absorbed the horror with shock, amazed not so much that the Feral Army could appear from nowhere, but at the sheer size of it: there was no end in sight, and not a green hill could be seen beyond the first line of marching trolls. An echo rang out over the hills, followed by another, and then a third, and it soon became apparent that the Feral forces were marching to a thumping rhythm. The thunderous bass drum cascaded through the wide knolls, reaching the ears of the waiting Hemlin troop—it was a war chant of foul beats, each hit sounding a savage thirst for blood.
Erguile rode through the throng of men and to the top, avoiding the congregation of generals who stared in bewilderment. Weakhoof galloped straight for Flaer and Peren, who stood alone, ten yards farther than the others, at the point where the hill descended.
“What are those?” Erguile raged hoarsely, filled with adrenaline, eager for battle. He pointed to enormous spires within the Feral ranks that sprung skyward every fifty yards, rising to the sun from the muck of marching black. “The towers walk!”
“They are Jaigan—were Jaigan—just as those creatures marching at us are no longer trolls,” answered Flaer calmly.
“He’s corrupted the Jaigan?” Peren stammered in shock, eyes poring over the new terror Erguile had spotted.
“I’ll say it again—what are they?” Erguile repeated, unable to take his gaze from the towering creatures that stood nearly as high as the hills.
“Jaigan are the peaceful race of Great Coral, native to the Nething Sea—but those are but remnants of Jaigan; they are enchanted tools of evil—without foul magic, they could never leave the sea floor. They would shrivel and die at the onset of air,” Flaer explained. Several flares of wild copper light arced into the sky. A stream of energy funneled up out of the scarlet clouds that hovered over the Feral ranks; the stream formed a high bubble wherein appeared a silhouette. Floating toward the Hemlin force with great speed, the figure looked down from within its film of energy; wisps from the scarlet casing leaped off, tantrums in every direction. Lightning licked the ground and the heavens; the clapping thunder of a god-like entity drove forth.
“Stand back! Peren, order the men down, trough-ward! Quickly!” Flaer ordered, emotion suddenly returning to his voice. The Brigun Autilus flashed as Flaer drew it—the hoary slate of the blade disappeared; it was no longer metal, but a seething bolt of red-white fire. The sword had come alive of its own accord, apart from its wielder. Peren stood aghast: all his charisma fled him as he became bathed in the ruby light of the enemy, who floated above them now. A wandering tongue of lightning singed the earth where Weakhoof planted his hooves.
“Now!” roared Erguile with all the intensity he could muster. Peren awoke as from a dream; Erguile and he galloped back to the congregation of stupefied generals, issuing Flaer’s directive for retreat, which they carried out hastily. The whole of the Hemlin Army began storming back and away, receding down the southern hill face, into the trough.
Alone, Flaer craned his neck skyward and trained his eyes on the bulbous shield of scarlet housing their foe. It came to a stop, hovering directly overhead. Flaer raised his hands and placed all his fingers on the handle of the Brigun Autilus, pointing it at the airborne figure above. The red sphere snapped down tendrils of fulgurating light; sparks rained furiously, scorching the earth where he stood.
Flaer steadied his sword against the burning assault: a sanguine bolt erupted from the Autilus, thwarting the enemy’s attack. A shield of pearl formed over Flaer’s head, through which no tendril of fire-light pierced.
“Your men may submit now, before losses are taken,” came a monster’s voice, as audible to the entire army of Hemlin as it was to Flaer, to whom the statement had been directed.
“So quickly you’ve forgotten our last encounter?” replied Flaer, grinding his feet into the dirt beneath the smoking grass, holding fast beneath a relentless volley of jacinth shards that ricocheted off the throbbing white shield projected by the Autilus.
“Quite the opposite—I learned deeply from it,” replied the omnipresent voice. For a moment, the scarlet casing disappeared, and the figure above was revealed to Flaer—he gasped in horror at what he saw—the creature within was not Vesleathren, as he’d expected, nor was it Zesm—it was someone entirely different: it was somehow both of them.
“In what forsaken magic have you meddled?” roared Flaer. “Defiler of light!” Suddenly, the pearl barrier of the Brigun Autilus washed carmine, shaping into a beam that bore straight upward. Flaer’s attack drove through the raining assault of fire, exploding toward the monster’s body—the sphere returned to protect it. A great clap sounded, and with it erupted a violent cloud of smoke that rent the sky indigo, then black. The onlookers of the Hemlin Army stood petrified by what they had witnessed; even the marching Feral force had stopped in its tracks to watch the explosion. Flaer heaved his sword into the sky after the blast, directly at the place where the floating being had been. Another clangor tore the sky; the day became night. As quickly as the light had receded, it returned, and a red orb of energy was seen falling fast to the earth atop the hill, monster inside, trailed by the Brigun Autilus.
Erguile watched in wonderment from afar: the enemy had flown in and attacked so suddenly, and had plummeted to the ground just as fast. It was happening nearly too quickly to be seen, but he was sure he saw the throbbing Brigun Autilus follow the creature back down from the sky, thrust itself into the monster where it lay, and pierce the fallen monster’s chest.
Flaer extended his fingers. Bits of red light leaped from his hands, and in response to its master, the Brigun Autilus struggled to break free from the body it ha
d impaled. The victim of her enormous power lay lifeless on the ground, no longer guarded by its protective case of energy.
“Come!” Flaer yelled at his sword, willing it to return from several yards away. The Brigun Autilus broke from the being’s chest and climbed into the air, gliding of its own accord back into Flaer’s hands. From below, Peren gasped at what he saw—the great Vapoury of Flaer Swordhand was no hyperbolized lore—Vesleathren had been slain simply, decisively, quickly, right before his own eyes. Flaer gripped the hilt of the Brigun Autilus and slowly approached the fallen body. He walked with caution, alert to the hills wreathed in black, three hills out, that awaited a sign from their fallen commander.
“You sicken me—to merge with him, Zesm!” Flaer roared, walking to the felled body, lying atop burnt remnants of grass. The fallen body did not stir, and its form was cloaked from view by a long cape of royal blue, coiled around a twisted frame, long enough to conceal it head to feet. Flaer put his heel on top of the monster’s hip. Glaring at the lifeless shape beneath him, angered at the lack of a response, he struck down in disgust.
Slowin rushed to Erguile’s side. The rest of the army stayed down in the valley between hills, unable to see what was happening—only Erguile, Peren and Slowin had ventured from the rest after Peren commanded each general to stay their men in the trough. Erguile watched alongside the others as Flaer held the Brigun Autilus high, then plunged the sword directly toward the slumped corpse on the charred hilltop.
As he heaved down with every bit of strength he possessed, an explosion tore at his face. The onlookers saw a violent flash that blinded them, and heard a crackling that forced them to cover their ears. Some bled from their ears, having not thrust their fingers inside in time; others winced in agony as the sharp noise reached an alien threshold, and nothing could be seen but blinding incandescence.
The light dissipated, the Hemlin forces stood in shock, foremost standing Erguile, Slowin, and Peren: the entire hill that Flaer and the monster had been on was carved anew, rent into a spherical crater, gouged out at its very mount of it—the crest disintegrated. The whole of the Hemlin Army saw directly past a pile of rubble that had once been the hill; they now saw past to where the first footsoldiers of the Feral Army peaked and descended, their dull senses unfazed by the explosion. Erguile frantically searched the rubble of the hillside, peering down into the crater at smoking piles of cinder—Flaer was nowhere to be seen. A flash of red streaked across the sky, catching Erguile’s periphery; their attacker had survived, the enemy drove in, but where was Flaer?
“Valiant warriors of Hemlin, prepare to put forth all courage!” Peren commanded, returning to life from the petrification of witnessing the explosion. “Generals, assume the last hill!” Peren knew the plan was to keep high ground, atop a hill, and let the mindless forces of the Feral Brood march directly into them; that avenue had been temporarily taken from them, as the nearest hill, moments ago in front of them, had evaporated—transformed to a charred hollow. Together, the generals ordered their troops to the preceding hill, turning their backs to run for high ground. One of the generals had assumed command of Flaer’s men, and they hastily following suit. Erguile was stilled by the blast, unable to follow the rest; his eyes pored over the smoldering ruins of the hill, looking for a sign of life that could be Flaer.
“Come Erguile!” called Peren. His horse reared on its hind-quarters, neighing wildly at having to stop and turn. Peren caught the bubble of scarlet in the sky, reformed, approaching his army. Slowin, shining under the midday rays, stood by Erguile, they the only two not following the command to retreat. Peren waited but one more moment, and seeing Erguile refuse to heed his call, he turned back and rode fast to reach his men, who already outpaced him on foot.
“There!” Erguile sparked to life, noticing a piece of smoking debris move at the center of the crater.
“It’s him!” Slowin agreed. Together they rushed over the edge of the crater. Weakhoof immediately went into a fit—the ground was too hot, and it scalded his legs, even through his hooves.
“The heat grows—it’s too hot for you, stay back,” ordered Slowin. Erguile obeyed, sitting alone astride Weakhoof, watching in angst as Slowin descended the sloping crater wall, bounding toward the smoking form that rose from the ashes below.
“Flaer!” Slowin called, arriving at the soot-covered body attempting to stand.
“I’m fine—don’t leave him alone up there,” Flaer railed. “Up, quickly.” He sprinted up, out of the scalding depression in the earth, somehow unhindered by the heat rising from the ground. Slowin gave chase, his metal feet lumbering up the dip he’d just come down. Glancing back, he saw the Feral Army reach the outer edge of the crater—it was too hot for them to march through: many were attempting to plod right down into it, but they succumbed quickly to the cinders; many fell to their knees upon stepping over its lip, burning alive, catching fire instantly. The army halted its advance into the crater, stopping more fiery deaths, and diverted its path around, slowing their march.
“They have to go around!” Slowin shouted at Flaer.
“Of course,” he replied, rushing toward Erguile, who shouted for them:
“Up there!” Erguile yelled, hoping they could hear him—the red sphere of the monster flew through the sky along the southern rise of the crater.
“Slowin, get Erguile back to the legion,” Flaer said, still inside the fiery ruins of the hillside, somehow unaffected by the heat. Slowin looked down at his legs: they had started to glow as if tempered in a forge—he rushed away, out of the inferno.
“Back to Peren! Quickly—forget Flaer!” Slowin directed Erguile. Erguile looked down and watched in horror: the red bolt of Vesleathren was lined up for a direct impact with Flaer. “Now!” barked the silver golem; Erguile snapped out of his trance, turning Weakhoof around, and headed back to the Hemlin Army, which congregated nervously atop the hill behind them.
The red orb burst open above Flaer. A ghastly form floated down, stepping to the charred earth slightly above him: Flaer looked forth with steel certitude at the face of his nearing assaulter, knowing there was no running, no room for fear. Vesleathren was no more, nor did Zesm exist—they had both emptied their spirits, parted from their souls, forged themselves anew as one: a hideous commune of evil powers, the most ancient of evil magics.
“You know more than any other, Flaer Swordhand, that I—the Unicorporas—cannot be slain,” came a snake voice from the ginger-skinned sorcerer; he stared at Flaer, watching for any sudden movement he might make. Flaer calmed his muscles, returned a cold gaze of his own; jets of steam curled up from the scorched earth between them, trickling high into the sky.
“Aulterion’s destroyer is among us—he is a Welsprin,” said Flaer, unfazed by the sun-hot embers burning around him.
“Hah!” cackled the Unicorporas. “Tempern? That old fool? He’d not fight if I destroyed all the world but Nethvale!”
“He is not Tempern.”
“I sense no such presence here, not among your entire force—a Welsprin I would not miss, deceiver.”
“Aulterion is no longer here to save you, no longer here to carry you off before I slit your throat,” Flaer said. He took a step forward. “You may have stolen Zesm’s spirit, but you are outmatched.”
“You think I had to steal it? That depraved creature? Hah—to think he was once a great king of old. It shouldn’t be a surprise, even to you, that it was his idea, his brilliance, to again return to real power.”
“Lies!” Flaer rushed at him, whipping the Brigun Autilus in a frenzy, swiping the sword in counterclockwise thrust, its glowing edge bearing down toward its target’s chest, several yards away.
“No,” the Unicorporas recoiled, extending his left hand: from the tips of his fingers shot a writhing flare of lightning, seeking the incoming blade of the Autilus, binding it with tendrils of radiance, lifting it high out of Flaer’s reach. Flaer stumbled off-balance, crashing to the charred slope of the hill. The
Unicorporas kept his left hand high, far from Flaer’s reach; yards above, the sword dangled in thin air, bound in a vise of energy.
“Fool—my power is the end! Beg for your life, Flaer Swordhand: know the mercy of evil!”
“But what end does your evil sustain? Speak of that, waste of Gaigas.” At the sound of Flaer’s voice, the Unicorporas lifted the Autilus high. A cracking noise reverberated, louder than the din of the Feral Army circumnavigating the smoldering crater. A white slit ran down the blade as it hovered in the sky. Vesleathren channeled energy through his left hand; the stream of lightning thickened. The Brigun Autilus formed fractures along its length, and piece by piece, bits of the glorious metal flew out, striking down several marching trolls far away.
“I’ve wanted my sword back for some time now,” Vesleathren said. Flaer remained grounded, swordless, struggling to get to his feet. He looked up, witnessing the spray of his great weapon, watching it decay into glowing shards. A blast rang out, thrusting him hard against the ground just as he had regained his feet. His head ricocheted off a seared edge of rock, and then his limp body collapsed. Looking up in a daze, he saw that the Brigun Autilus was no more; it had disappeared, and in its place was a swirling team of glowing daggers, splinters of the former blade’s metal, hovering in formation above him, aimed toward his chest.
“After all this time—I thought you’d be stronger,” Vesleathren said. All at once the circle of daggers froze in midair; the evil sorcerer pumped both his hands, his fingers alight with red luminescence. Static bursts of fire snapped; the daggers shot straight down at Flaer—he lay unable to move from their path.
“Vile detritus of Gaigas!” a familiar voice knifed from the scalding floor of the crater. As if from a dream, Flaer opened his eyes: the daggers dropped out of the air, losing all energy and speed, falling lightly on his chest, and bouncing off to his side. He focused his vision, training it on his attacker: he saw not the evil spirit-form of the Unicorporas, but a beaming hulk of silver metal, wrapping the ginger-skinned monster in its vise grip, tackling him to the earth from behind. Shoots of steam hissed from Slowin’s metal where it rolled against the earth. Flaer wiped the flowing blood that ran from his head into his eyes; he stood up to behold the fray: the Unicorporas was constricted, unable to do anything. Slowin squeezed as hard as he could, with every ounce of energy he possessed, as if in some final fit of life. Flaer rushed toward them, wiping again the pooling blood at his brow. He fired a shock of azure from his hands toward the struggling golem, enveloping Slowin in a strange aura of Vapoury—suddenly, Slowin stopped steaming, his body protected from the volcanic earth, which had already turned his silver color to a hoary white.
Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) Page 16
