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

by Turkot, Joseph

  “Good Ulpo!” thundered Terion’s deep voice. Ulpo jumped last off his condor and walked up to join the others. Terion embraced his old friend, who grinned heartily to see so many friendly faces—many rushed to greet him, hugging him of his breath, smiling forever, asking through what adventure he’d come.

  “Remtall!” Calan called. She ran to embrace the little gnome, whose clothes and hair were dirt-black, matted and disheveled—he’d lost his hat long ago.

  “Where goes this ragged band of fighters?” quipped Remtall, stepping back to survey the massive army. “I think this brings quite a recollection in my mind—have I not once before been a part of this troop?” he resounded.

  “Good to see you—you didn’t—you didn’t actually get—” stuttered Iirevale, glancing at what Gaiberth’s eyes had been fixed upon the whole time.

  “I present to you Behlas, white ghoul of the Endless Forest; Binn, halfman of the Palailian Mines—and, the Rod of the Gorge!” cheered Remtall. He turned to his new companions who had stood back from the fray of the reunion. Behlas nodded his head low, then, looking up at his audience, he raised the Rod of the Gorge. The oaken staff appeared lifeless for a moment, then flickered with light, visible under bright rays of the afternoon sun.

  “Impossible,” Terion said in awe, forgetting his pleasantries with Ulpo, staring as if bewitched by the sight. “But it can’t be real?”

  “It’s quite real, I assure you. I am Behlas, pleased to meet you all,” he said, his glowing skin concealed by the light of day.

  “As am I, if you are friends of these three,” came Binn’s robotic voice. Calan stood aghast at what she’d heard—it was the strangest timbre imaginable—ridden with pitch change and tremulations. Gaiberth looked as dazzled as the rest, but he was the first to walk forward and embrace the strangers, welcoming them.

  “Friends of Remtall are friends of ours,” Gaiberth said.

  “Well then, what is this ragged troop?” Remtall said.

  “We go to end this war for good,” Terion replied. “And we must not delay, Wallstrong is already burned to rubble.”

  “Wallstrong?” Behlas gasped. “It can’t be! I know the strength of those walls!”

  “It is true—Terion leads you not astray. We press on toward the choke at Corlisuen. Do you come with us?” Gaiberth asked.

  “There is no question to be made, elf. Ulpo, fresh ale from your dwarven family,” Remtall ordered. Terion commanded his ranks back into file, and the great march resumed, heading north again over the Vashnod plains.

  The white-capped Angelyn mountains loomed over the troop, growing dark grey spires, covered on their bases with lush green stretches of rising forest.

  “Any news of Adacon?” asked Remtall as he marched alongside Calan.

  “None,” she replied. “Have you heard any word?”

  “Me? I’ve been tramping through the Endless Forest of Aaurlind—through ancient mines where the likes of him lurk about, ready to strike,” Remtall ranted, speaking of Binn who walked by them. He had received a fresh flask of dwarven rock-liquor courtesy of Ulpo; slowly, his wits were returning to proper form.

  “You are quite the strangest person I’ve ever met. Remtall, if you’d tell us your tale,” chimed in Iirevale.

  “It began when we first came upon that forsaken shore. A pack of carnalfages attacked me—good thing for Ulpo too, for he would have been the first eaten alive…” Remtall said. He created a dazzling tale for the elves and dwarves that would listen. Ulpo, who knew when fantasy had mingled with reality, said nothing, allowing Remtall his full indulgence.

  “And then, the damned fungus creatures, them and their fume sacks! They captured poor Ulpo, and they tried to get me, but my trusty dagger…” he went on.

  Calan poked a question now and then while Ulpo smiled in confirmation occasionally, puffing on his pipe. Binn walked alongside Behlas, two outsiders, unable to get a word in edgewise about their journey; boisterous Remtall took center stage.

  “And that forsaken spirit—he had quite a moment when we fought Parasink back in that Gaigas-defiling experiment chamber…”

  “Experiment chamber?” asked Iirevale.

  “Where that necromancing bastard created the likes of him!” Remtall said, pointing at Binn, who whirred from the motor on his chest.

  “I see,” Iirevale replied.

  “Well, this damned spirit—Behlas, of course—charged full blast, having his Vapoury back—” Remtall continued, but Iirevale cut him off:

  “Spirit, you keep saying?” he asked, dumbfounded.

  “He’s a damned ghost, look at him,” Remtall goaded.

  “I am quite undead, yes, but not how you might imagine—in fact, I do think the magic of Parasink is reversing itself. Somehow I’m returning to this plane of existence with alarming swiftness,” Behlas said.

  “Returning to, what did you say?” asked Calan, looking at Behlas with fascination, noticing something odd about the pasty-white skin of the otherwise handsome-featured man.

  “You see,” Behlas explained, “Parasink froze the process of death so that he could animate lifeless corpses to do his bidding—cursed into such a creature, I was unable to use my Vapoury, or think in a self-aware state at all, until something happened—something interrupted his spell.”

  “Freeze death?” Calan replied in confusion.

  “Well, just before the spirit leaves the body, he would halt death from occurring in his subjects, leaving them but a flimsy shred of their former selves, only enough that they lived on as empty shells, easily manipulated for his digging—constant digging,” Behlas explained.

  “Sounds more dreadful than I can imagine,” Iirevale interjected.

  “It is. But something changed,” Behlas said.

  “Yes. According to our field monitors, energy had temporarily shifted away from Parasink, enough to allow a lapse in his magic. You see, by my estimation, the Sleeping Enox returned,” voiced Binn.

  “What?” Gaiberth suddenly turned, paying attention again.

  “The Sleeping Enox has returned.”

  “That’s an old legend, a tale told by vagabonds, gypsies, and fearmisers to stir up trouble!” Iirevale contested.

  “I know it’s a legend, but the math of the legend, its suggested energy perturbation, accounts for such an impossible flux in Parasink’s steady-state of control,” Binn returned.

  “You mean you helped the necromancer?” Calan realized.

  “It’s curious—I don’t remember helping him, being his first assistant down there, but when the shift occurred—when the Enox awoke—I, as Behlas, regained a consciousness of my own. It was then that I began to see the terrible creations he had rendered, myself included—and what he was intending to create next. But I was powerless to do anything, or to escape—that’s why when I first discovered the intruders, I let them remain undetected by Parasink, in the hopes they had come into those dark mines as enemies of his, that I might use the chance of a fray to escape!” Binn exclaimed, emotional.

  “And you did, every bolt and wire of you,” Remtall said, slapping the small Gear.

  “What is the legend of the Enox?” asked Ulpo. “Dwarves have no lore of it.”

  “The Sleeping Enox is a legendary hawk, giant and red. It is said in the gnomen legends of Aaurlind that when the neutrality of Gaigas is swayed, she manifests from her energy the great bird in an attempt at self-preservation. The great bird then throws the planet back into balance. It is the greed of those with power who cause the evil energy within Darkin to swell—and it is no surprise the Enox has awoken, given Remtall’s revelations about Vesleathren; I daresay there is more evil in the world right now than I’ve ever known,” Binn explained.

  “There might be a right lot of evil folk, but we go to get the worst of them now,” Remtall said between sips. He waved his diamond dagger wildly through the air, overjoyed to be with such good friends and spirits.

  “And how does the Enox go about righting the balance
of energy?” asked Iirevale.

  “I can’t say. Maybe it attacks the wielders of evil themselves. I really don’t know—I do know it’s the only thing that makes sense, the only thing that explains why Parasink’s hold on his minions temporarily lifted—at least myself and Behlas can speak of that truth,” Binn said. Behlas nodded.

  “And what of the Rod? I didn’t believe it was real, let alone that you’d have a chance at finding it. When Calan first told me where you’d gone off to, I must say, I thought you a bit of a deserter, but, now that I see it before my eyes…” Iirevale said, looking at Remtall.

  “Deserter—I’ll prove who is a deserter in this!” Remtall writhed. He chucked down his bottle and charged at Iirevale.

  “Ho! Ho, Remtall!” Ulpo yelled, restraining the tipsy gnome cautiously, “Iirevale, you forget who you insult.”

  Iirevale smiled wryly and continued on. Overhead the condors flew close, Yarnhoot leading the pack. Remtall looked up at his tame birds and whistled to them. Soon Remtall interrupted Calan and Behlas’s new-started conversation about Vapoury by bursting into song:

  Through thicket of forest and thicketed glen,

  By soggy old beetle or turtle’s den;

  By mosey, by shame, by stars of ancient name,

  Where go the old friends of mine?

  Down gent-sloped hillock, up raking crag of hell,

  Under quiet old river of Gaigas I fell;

  Through fiery dragon’s cratered den;

  By valor, by strength, by oracle of limitless end,

  Where go the old friends of mine?

  We parted not long ago among the wilds,

  but miss them already much I do;

  They took their stand by my old body,

  so that it wasn’t left below—

  Where go the old friends of mine?

  The marching troop quieted to Remtall’s loud song, echoing across the plains. In the distance, several bands of riders stopped to watch the parade of dwarves and elves go by: some stared in wonderment, wanting a chance to get closer; others watched in horror, thinking Grelion had returned with a war-machine to regain the land. Remtall continued to sing, and some joined in with melodies, complementing his melancholy tune.

  “Where go the others? Your song brings their faces to my mind,” Gaiberth interrupted.

  “Indeed, where goes that prophesied hunk of silver metal?” Terion chimed in.

  “And mighty Flaer? I hope he works at the front, he is our greatest asset in this war,” Iirevale added.

  “Speak not of them! Sing, if you wish, and know that their fates are sealed from us—they have been fighting in Hemlin, if I know anything of them, and have already given their strength to our cause. Perhaps the war is already ended, and we are blind to the fact,” Remtall replied.

  “Falcon brethren from Hemlin came with news while we were at sea—Wallstrong has fallen. I do not think it would have come to that had we won the war already…” Iirevale rebuked.

  “Pah! Have you no mind Iirevale, foul green rodent of the jungle? Know you not the strength of Flaer the Slayer? Or Slowin the Colossus? Or strong-framed Erguile of the slave camp, borne by the great steed of Rislind, Weakhoof? A fool, a fool! To come to this country and speak such atrocities of its natives!” Remtall spat, infuriated. His mood shifted speedily from jovial to angry and resentful.

  “Come Remtall—he meant no harm in his words,” Behlas interjected, instilling calm into his new ally.

  “I’ll give you harm!” said Remtall. The marching party watched in amazement as Remtall ran away onto the plains with his dagger in his hand and a pipe hanging loosely from his mouth.

  “Where is he going?” asked Calan, amused and frightened at once.

  “Quite an eccentric member of our race. I’ll say I can’t remember one quite like him,” Binn said reflectively. Remtall signaled to the sky. The gliding Yarnhoot dove down to him.

  “Your race?” laughed Behlas.

  “I was once a gnome, even if you no longer can surmise it from my looks,” Binn replied anxiously, afraid no one believed him.

  “Look, he’s flying toward that small band of riders—you don’t suppose—he wouldn’t take out his rage on innocent nomads?” asked Iirevale, unsure of what Remtall was capable of; he remembered their march together in the Carbal Jungle, when Remtall had once ran ahead of every elf to fight a Gazaran alone.

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Ulpo said calmly, relaxed and happy to be in dwarven company—Terion had been filling him in on the state of the dwarves: they had come out of seclusion, executed Merol, and replaced him with his pupil, Wiglim.

  “Let him do as he pleases. He has brought us the Rod of the Gorge—that is more than anyone could dream to ask,” came Terion, his conversation with Ulpo interrupted by the commotion.

  “I think he’s hailing them,” Calan said as she marched. Tiny Remtall, far out on the plain, had landed near a group of wandering riders. He was waving his arms in the air at them.

  “And what of the Rod? I know it by legends alone, and not the slightest of its true nature,” Iirevale asked at Terion’s mentioning. The plain Rod was held in the fist of Behlas as he walked along.

  “Indeed, what is its true nature, you who have been under its spell for so long? Do you know?” Gaiberth asked.

  “It is a terrible weapon of power—it has no power to sustain life, only to destroy,” Binn answered vaguely.

  “But you said Parasink stopped the process of death with it, leaving spirits in a state of eternal life?” Iirevale replied.

  “He did, but in that regard it was destruction—the Rod was used to destroy the natural energy that allows a spirit to transcend the physical realm. The Rod has no power to heal a wound, or revive one who is slain,” Binn explained.

  “Well then, we will wield it directly against Vesleathren,” Iirevale said.

  “Or Zesm,” Behlas replied.

  “You think he will be there too?”

  “Remtall said as much—that both of them were working together,” Behlas answered.

  “It does not matter, for either way, we go to conquer the evil we find, be it Zesm, Vesleathren, or them together,” Terion came in.

  “Can I see the Rod?” asked Iirevale. Before Behlas could answer, Iirevale grabbed for the oaken staff. A jet of steam shot into the air, white against the blue horizon, singing Iirevale hands.

  “Ow—blasted sorcery!” Iirevale grunted, rubbing his numb fingers.

  “You should have known better than that, or did you doubt it was the Rod of the Gorge?” laughed Gaiberth. The party all laughed after seeing that Iirevale was unhurt, and Wiglim stepped forth, realizing the staff was not to be held by those who did not understand Gaigas’s energy.

  “May I try?” asked Wiglim, looking into Behlas’s watery eyes.

  “You may try as much as you like,” Behlas informed. Slowly, as the party marched along, Wiglim calmed his spirit. Quickly, he thrust his fingers out, wrapping them tightly around the Rod, just below where Behlas held it. No noise or shoot of steam responded to his touch, and Wiglim safely held the staff.

  “Great!” Terion applauded, heartened to see his dwarven Vapour prove his worth. Many others cheered, though unsure of what they were congratulating, as they did not understood the power in the plain looking branch of oak.

  “Very good, very good indeed,” Behlas exclaimed.

  “You Vapours, I don’t quite understand it,” Binn said. “At least you have minds to put your powers to use; Parasink’s was irretrievably lost, utterly mad. Combined with the power of that Rod, you can only imagine what kind of work he bent his will toward.”

  “Well, we don’t have to imagine those things anymore,” Calan replied, heartened to see that there were two among them who could wield the staff against their enemy.

  “Terion, do you mind if I test the Rod’s power?” asked Wiglim, feeling its surge of energy enter his wide frame.

  “Do so in a manner that doesn’t harm anyone, and
you may test it, dear student of Gaigas—if, of course, those who brought the Rod allow it,” Terion said, deferring to Binn and Behlas with respect.

  “I haven’t attempted anything but to hold it myself,” Behlas said flatly. “But I suppose it can’t hurt to have a grasp on what we have if we are to use it against our enemy.” Binn was indifferent, nodding his head weakly—he was quite unwilling to see the Rod put to use, almost fearing that it had the power to corrupt those who used it, but he kept his thoughts secret; Parasink had been evil long before he’d found the Rod buried deep within the planet.

  “Company halt!” called Terion. “Moment of rest please.” Gaiberth echoed the command of Terion, walking up and down the line of marching elves and dwarves, bringing them to a stop. Many asked what the trouble was, and they were simply given the answer: We are testing the Rod of the Gorge. Many did not understand what that meant, but turned their eyes anyway to see what was happening at their King’s side.

  “Not yet!” Calan called. They’d forgotten about Remtall; she’d noticed he was galloping toward them from atop a horse. Yarnhoot flew over his head, and farther behind trailed a motley band of savages. He called to them:

  “How about these for harm?” boasted Remtall, his brigade following obediently behind him. There were a dozen riders, all atop horses, some horses carrying two on their back. The riders finally arrived and looked warily at hundreds of dwarves and dozens of elves, the Enoan army.

  “Remtall?” Calan called up to the gnome who sat atop a savage’s horse.

  “Calm, fair lady—these are the lost spirits of Grelion’s tyranny, come to destroy that evil that thwarted them,” Remtall spoke. One of the more rundown savages rode forth next to Remtall. His face was long-bearded, grisly blond hair streaking greasily down his face; his clothes were ripped, blood-stained at spots, and dust-ridden from riding.