“What happens if water gets in your chest,” Remtall asked as foam sprayed into the boat.
“I don’t know,” Binn whined, having forgotten for awhile that he was now half-machine, and as such, dependent upon his Gear circuitry for survival. He rotated around, using his back as a shield against the breaking surf.
“With the sun out, I can’t see the glow of your skin Behlas,” Ulpo remarked, noticing that Behlas looked more human than ever in the spreading daylight. A beautiful sunrise snaked its way between strips of clouds in the horizon as the boat gently rolled over swells, passing the breakers, rowed fast toward the anchored ship. Remtall looked back at the long beach, a peaceful, empty vastness that buffered the ocean from the shrubline, beyond which rose the wall of pines, entrance to the Endless Forest.
“Aaurlind would seem a prettier place to me if I weren’t here on such a grave errand,” Remtall said, finishing his last glance.
“Indeed—” Ulpo confirmed. They boarded the ship, lifted anchor and set sail with a course toward the eastern coast of Arkenshyr. Soon all sails were set, catching a strong southerly wind; the sun was high in the sky, and Remtall had prepared a great feast for Ulpo and his new guests. They sat merrily beneath the midmorn sky, at ease for the first time in a long while. Remtall fixed a pipe to smoke.
“So, Binn, what were you saying about the Enox?” asked Remtall.
XVI: UNICORPORAS
Dashing madly past the Jaigan, Erguile just managed to maneuver around the sea-beast’s sweeping arms. Six trolls kept him from fleeing any farther, each one frenzied, wielding a jagged sword.
“Alright then—get back somehow, ol’ boy,” Erguile commanded, hopping off his horse; he knew Weakhoof stood a better chance of escaping the throng without him. Hesitant to leave, Erguile smacked Weakhoof hard, triggering a strong gallop toward Peren’s men. The trolls, Gazaran, and Jaigan all turned toward him, letting the riderless horse fly past unharmed.
“Come, black scourges—oh how I have longed for this!” he said with the fearlessness of a dying man. Three trolls charged, each with its z-shaped blade raised high. Erguile took one step back, heard a high-pitched whooshing; he ducked swiftly—the coral arms of the Jaigan whipped by, inches above his skull. A pungent odor of decay dispersed; the grey-blue arms flew past again, spraying plasma into his eyes. A metallic clink brought his attention back to the trolls in front: one had thrown its sword, where it stuck firmly to his upper chest—Erguile winced, glad for his mail. The three trolls hesitated, strangely waiting to further assault. As they watched Erguile check his chest, a gold-plated monstrosity reared its head high from behind them, followed by another. Two Gazaran mercilessly barreled forward, forsaking their own; the armored centipedes crawled over the trolls, crushing them in their eagerness to devour Erguile. Razor-spiked mandibles opened, flexing black and white within the rim of the gold sheath.
“Two of you,” Erguile grumbled to himself, “Gaigas let me slay one, ere I die.” The Warpedes rose, eyed their target, shot their jaws in a line for the ill-defended Hemlin captain. Buckler raised, Erguile decided his only chance was to roll at the last second, though he felt sure it wouldn’t do much good—the mouths of the Gazaran were too big, covered too much ground. Radiant gold drove toward him, the round circumference of the Warpedes took up all of his vision; the whooshing arms of the Jaigan sounded again, and Erguile rolled to his right. His body pounded into the legs of a charging troll, tackling it. Pouncing quickly to his feet, amazed to be alive, he looked behind: the Jaigan had cut into the Warpedes in their attempt to kill him—a dented, pus-dripping mass of gold lay where Erguile had just been. Slowly, the Warpedes uncoiled their bodies, dazed by the razor-strike of the Jaigan’s coral arms. The Jaigan’s spire rotated on splayed tendrils, finding Erguile; the Warpedes quickly followed suit, one bleeding profusely thick ooze-like blood, having been pierced by the Jaigan through its temple.
“Erguile!” came a voice. Erguile wondered if he’d died—a hand had come down from the sky, patiently extending over the troll he’d knocked down. The concussed beast dug its arms into the soil, trying to stand back up. Quickly, unsure if it was a hallucination but not caring, Erguile grabbed the hand and was pulled upright. There stood a glorious sight: Peren Flowerpath, armor rent from enemy steel, sat atop his plate-armored horse. Without words Erguile was hoisted onto the saddle. They quickly spun around, the horse as fast and agile as any Erguile had ever witnessed; somehow, Peren had forged a path through the thicket of Feral monstrosity—and into that same trail, still grass-green, the horse galloped hard, narrowly escaping a whizzing arrow. Erguile surveyed the war-torn landscape, unable to speak: it seemed as if they glided through a sea of black from which glinted specks of gold, the writhing droves of Gazaran, occasionally broken by the towering teal of deadly Jaigan.
“You’re no good as a captain if you’re dead, friend,” Peren said. Erguile was taken aback by a smile, slowly dividing the druid’s face: it was irresistible, and Erguile smiled too; he knew he should not be alive. They rode fast and hard, and amazingly, left the mass of Feral Brood, making good speed toward the top of a hill, upon which summited the Hemlin Army. Looking back, over the slow moving wave of Feral, Erguile scanned the crater, then the sky: he saw no trace of the red sphere of the Unicorporas—he double-checked the crater, thinking for a moment he could expect to see Flaer and Slowin climbing out, but there was only a rising vat of smoke.
“We’ll see what we can do from up here. Hold to the crest, captain your men,” Peren commanded. Erguile jumped off the stallion; there waiting for him was Weakhoof. Peren ran to the front line of his legion, eagerly awaiting the slow-approaching mass of the Feral army—Erguile found his own troop, and soon there was a perfect line at the crest of the hill, barring the way from all passers. Behind the front row of pike-wielding soldiers stood row after row of lithe archers. Peren wasted no time; he rode before the Hemlin force—amazingly, his shouts could be heard clear by all:
“Pikemen—hold till my mark, then thrust with fury for your slain brethren! Archers, fire now!” Peren roared, strangely confident. Like the most beautiful chorus of snaps, Erguile heard the arrows release; he saw them, flying overhead, falling into the middle of the trough in front of them. Again and again the same chorus sounded, and with each wave of arrows the Feral forces slowed, trolls crumpling at the front of their lines, obstacle corpses for the beasts following behind. Several Gazaran scurried through the stagnant rank, and were the first to snake their way up the hill. Again Peren rode out in front of his legion; he made a call Erguile did not understand, and twenty or so riders came forth to meet Peren. They sat together astride their steeds, waiting for the first Gazaran to summit. Erguile was amazed at what he saw next:
The first gold-plated centipede saw and charged directly for Peren and his company. From afar, Erguile saw Peren’s jade aura emanate, elongate, and diffuse out toward the oncoming beasts. Suddenly, the gold juggernaut froze mid-rush—as nimbly as elves, a series of the men surrounding Peren jumped from their horses, each drawing a long glowing spear—the men ran along the paralyzed back of the creature, down and in driving their spears, cracking the armor, then boring into the flesh-meat of the creature, effecting fountains of rancid ooze. Erguile cheered, along with the rest of the company, and as quickly as they’d assaulted the Warpede, they retreated atop their waiting horses. Peren turned and rode back, recreating a seamless line atop the hill until another Gazaran broke ahead of the slow-moving troll-pack—Peren strode forth, released the same aura that froze the last; again his deft fighters dismounted, leapt atop the creature, and slew it in a surgical fashion, only to return instantly to rank.
“Not letting me have any of the fun,” Erguile said to himself, forgetting for a moment that he’d nearly died, and that his two friends were gone—it was thrilling to see the centipedes handled so gamely, so effortlessly.
The rain of arrows poured fast; a body-pile mounted in the trough, so that trolls had begun to climb ov
er each over, suffocating and clawing their way up the slope to reach the edge of the waiting Hemlin line. The Jaigan were completely baffled as to how to get around the obstruction of troll bodies—some travelled in circles, others marched troughward, hoping to eventually break free of the congested pack altogether.
The first row of trolls that managed to scramble up met a uniform strike at the lip of the hill—Erguile joined in from atop Weakhoof, striking his sword down through the head of a leading troll. One after another, row after row, the trolls fell, unable to press past the high line of the legions.
Minutes rolled as hours; for the several that had fallen among the Hemlin army, a hundred had been lost among the Feral. Erguile began to wonder again where the Unicorporas had gone, and only when he began to think of it did he hear the screams: soldiers behind him were shrieking in fear—some sounded as if they’d seen their own ghost, others sounded as if they’d received a fatal stab in gut. Turning quickly toward the horrific noises, Erguile witnessed the unthinkable: there in the sky, south of them, where their hill descended toward Wallstrong, was the flaming red omen—hanging from a position yards above, afloat in the sky, the Unicorporas had unleashed its death-fury unto the Hemlin Army, slaying the southmost ranks. Like a god, timeless above them, through red film, he showered missiles of electric light, jacinth bolts of fire, such that clouds of dust were thrown up in the air; the dust became soil, grass, mangled flesh and armor. Erguile could stare no longer: a horde of trolls rushed him, followed by more Gazaran. Unable to assist the troops failing behind him, Erguile knew the red wrath would soon reach him as well; he rode out to meet Peren, who had battled far, nearly to the trough, making for deep within the rank of the trolls.
“Peren!” Erguile called, but above the din of battle nothing could be heard. Weakhoof raced down, dodging swipes from Feral axe and sword, desperately trying to reach the general. They nearly barreled into Peren’s armored stallion as he hung low from its side, releasing his blade from a freshly rent troll. “He’s back—you have to do something, now!”
Peren turned to the fray at his rear, where his army still held fast atop the hill—from their position in the trough they could see no sign of the Unicorporas’s red sphere, or the lightning that raked the following soldiers.
“He’s there—go!” Erguile assured him. Peren righted himself, quickly signaled his legion, then charged back up the hill, trailed by twelve other druids.
Peren sat aghast once he summited the crest, seeing the attack: a relentless barrage of incineration arcing down from a flying red orb, grounding the effort of the archers; it was clear now to him why the arrow rain had ceased.
“Lend me your strength!” Peren commanded of the druids that pursued him up the hill. Erguile followed after, guarding against any trolls that might try to disrupt whatever it was they were attempting.
From Peren’s arms, his jade aura extended high into the sky; several of the druids nearby, from atop their gloss-armored horses, cast emerald webs of light against the azure sky—the energy of the druids pooled together above them. The Unicorporas took quiet notice, halting his barrage against the troops beneath him. He turned to the anomaly of green energy in the sky. Moments passed, the druids strengthening their collective power, the Unicorporas watching intently. Finally, no longer an acceptable peculiarity to him, the lightning that had struck against the troops was released anew, redirected toward the pooling green.
A tremendous throb of gravity rocked Erguile to the ground; rolling onto his back he saw no sky—all was pitch black. Light returned in flashes; Peren’s magic was contending directly with the Unicorporas’s. Tremors shook the hills, and panic overtook the Hemlin army.
“Back to the city! Retreat—mount the walls! Send word—it is the Unicorporas!” Peren stammered, his voice somehow audible over the energy thunder-clashing above his head. Erguile didn’t know if anyone else had heard, but he certainly had—word had been sent to retreat; it seemed impossible after how well they had beaten into the northerly Feral lines. Peren fell silent, focusing, as more druids joined his plight, sending their arms up, offering their power to aid the growing calamity in the sky, a brown-rimmed void spraying luminous dust in each direction, lighting the otherwise blackened hill and sky that had only moments ago been clear blue against green. The Unicorporas poured his might into the steady bolt that, reacting with the druid energy, had formed an ovular void, slowly consuming light farther and farther away into the distance. Erguile finally wrested himself from the sight; he reiterated Peren’s order to all who would hear it:
“By order of Peren Flowerpath, retreat!” Erguile called. Over and over again he made his call, scalded more than once by errant shards of energy, his armor smoking at spots. Weakhoof whinnied ferociously as electric sparks snapped down like daggers into her soft skin. After enough men had heard the command, and the tide of the Hemlin force had started south, Weakhoof descended the crest toward Wallstrong, which in the black horizon could scarcely be seen. He rode past the struggle, the dying, the smoldered ruins of his comrades, knowing he could contribute nothing in what had become a battle of energy and magic. Looking up briefly, attention drawn by the sight of a new form, he saw something gliding in thin air next to the glowing red of the Unicorporas—it appeared to be a floating dwarf; he decided the energy had disoriented him, causing him to hallucinate the dwarf, who, in the strange vision, appeared to be channeling energy into the Unicorporas, aiding the dark sorcerer’s push against the might of the druids.
The sky lightened the farther south they reached. Erguile questioned how long Peren would hold out, despite all the strongest druids aiding him. The great Hemlin Army marched for the city of Wallstrong, scattered and unmanaged, as most of the generals had been slain; the remaining semblance of leadership rode forth lifelessly, depleted of heart, consumed by the feeling that their retreat merely forestalled ultimate doom. Time went coldly by; Erguile felt a numbness come on—an inexorable roll of darkness and gloom, unending death, and overwhelming helplessness. Glancing frequently back, the blackness seemed its own world, covering a great span of the waved hills, through which nothing could be seen—Erguile nor anyone else could tell what was happening within the light-stricken duel—if Peren was winning, if he was dying…
Wallstrong opened its gates. The citizens openly wept. Erguile strode in along with the rest; ignoring the empathy he felt for the women and children that stood tearfully around them, he began to issue orders, assuming what command he could, rallying what spirit was left, and organizing a defense of the impending siege of the city—to fortify the walls as Peren had commanded him to, with the time Peren had paid his life to secure.
XVII: TEMPERN
“How many hours have I been at this?” Adacon mumbled, doubting he would ever find the right way. He had rediscovered his own tracks in the snow twice already. The sun was setting and a cankerous hunger turned his stomach upon itself, yet still the landscape looked unchanged; he couldn’t tell if he’d made any progress at all in the frozen white sea.
At the start of the morning he had decided he would simply climb up until he found signs of his missing friends. That hope had ended fast as the trail descended, ascended, then curved steeply up, then became impassable. He’d struggled for hours to find alternate routes, but each proved as unyielding as the first. “Perhaps I need to take a nap,” Adacon wearily thought aloud. He was very close to completely numb. Frostbitten hands braced his fall as he dropped doll-like into knee-deep snow along a high ridge pass he’d surely crossed before.
“This is nice.”
A warmth suddenly came into his chest, and he wondered how it had happened—he decided he must be losing feeling inside his chest, the final stage of freezing to death; or maybe it was merely a delusion, all of it. Closing his eyes, a deep peace came into the former slave’s heart: he suddenly thought of Krem’s palace in the Solun Desert; there it was warm, safe. Adacon remembered first seeing Krem’s marvelous pool, crystal clear down to the gr
ey stone basin, and the amazing stalactites that glittered above as a starry night—Adacon’s mind wandered further: he remembered radiant flowers, warm seclusion beneath the forest, soothing hot water—what was it called? What was she called? Calan—Adacon focused all his thought on his love; quietly his mind began to finally turn off. He smelled her rose-scented hair; he felt her soft skin; he heard her tell him she loved him; he heard himself say it back to her; he felt her warm embrace; he felt himself falling asleep by her side.
* * *
“Up! Come on! Inside!” came a boisterous, rude voice. Adacon awoke to notice first that he was sweating profusely—yet he was still lying in the snow. Puddles of melted ice sogged his clothes, but somehow he wanted the cold of the snow to return—it was too hot. Looking up for the voice, wondering if he’d imagined it, Adacon saw a little man, smaller than even Krem, staring down at him. The little man was bald, wearing no cap; he had thick white eyebrows, deep brown eyes, and a tiny white beard that seemed to be made of ice and snow. He wore ivory-white furs, blending him into the backdrop of snow-covered mountains. Holding out one hand, standing erect yet only to the height of Adacon who now squatted, the middle-aged man jarred him once more:
“Come on! The Enox is back already, we should be heading on now,” came the brusque voice again.
“T—Tempern?” Adacon said, fog rolling from his mossy consciousness.
“Yes indeed, and you will be Adacon,” said Tempern, gripping Adacon’s arm, tugging him upright with surprising strength.
“Yea—did you keep me warm?” Adacon asked, standing up and wiping his brow.
“Of course, but let us head inside anyway,” Tempern replied. He raced off toward a winding trail that Adacon had twice surveyed; both times he’d thought it too treacherous to attempt.
Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) Page 20
