“I am Haeth, and these are my riders. We are the remnants of slavery, left to blow through the prairie wind as forgotten grains. We thought no law left in this land,” he told them. “Remtall tells us of your quest, and we wish for nothing more than to join you, provided you can allow us something to eat.”
“I am King Terion, Lord of the Blue-Grey Mountains, and I tell you that more to fight Vesleathren are always welcome in my company.”
“Our thanks,” Haeth responded. With a wave of his hand, his riders rode alongside the ranks of the dwarves. Some of the dwarves exchanged wary glances with the newcomers, wondering if they would be more hassle than help. Haeth and his riders appeared worn from travel and famine; they looked the kind of wanderers who’d long ago lost cause. The faces of his men showed weak smiles to be in the company of those with a purpose.
“Know that we will fight to any end that will kill those that bound us, forced us to work the farms, burn in them—no more—we know the tale of Adacon: his valor has spread throughout Arkenshyr, and we give our lives to those who are friends of his!” rallied Haeth, instilling a sense of duty and vigor in his weary band of riders.
“You have a way with words Remtall—can I ask how you managed that?” Ulpo whispered to Remtall, who was hopping down from his newly acquired steed to watch Wiglim.
“Hold on, the dwarf is trying the Rod,” Remtall said. Together they lit pipes, eagerly awaiting Wiglim’s first move. He walked out many yards from the long line of marching dwarves, facing the open meadows that stretched west before them.
“Not in that direction!” hollered Remtall, pointing to another streaking ragtag band savages in the distance, riding horses underneath the slow-falling sun.
“Maybe you can go get them too, eh Remtall? We could collect quite a band of slave-warriors I should expect,” Ulpo suggested.
“Quiet dwarf!” Remtall warned; Wiglim had raised the oaken staff high with both hands. A gasp came from Wiglim; the dull oak lit with gold, just as it had in the Gear Chamber.
“On with it, thick dwarf wizard!” Remtall yelled, sipping the dwarven stock he’d acquired from Ulpo.
“Be patient Remtall, he’s trying,” Behlas said, smiling; Behlas knew instantly that Wiglim was not a Vapour of the same strength that he was—it would take the dwarf more training, practice, and patience. The long line of frozen marchers watched eagerly for something more to happen, but the gold was flickering already, and dull flashes of oak reclaimed the color of the staff.
“Pah! Weak Vapour!” Remtall railed belligerently, handing the flask to Ulpo. “Behlas, show this fool how it’s done.”
“Not yet, give him another moment.”
“He is unsure of the Rod’s synergy with the planet, he doesn’t know quite how to use it…” Gaiberth remarked, watching in anticipation for the gold light to return.
“Enough, Wiglim,” Terion’s voice boomed over the eerie quiet. Haeth and his men were too tired to ask questions; they only knew that whatever was going on, it was beyond their wildest imagination: Vapoury had been a myth to them, as had elves and dwarves. They were astounded by the demonstration and wore looks of bewilderment and disbelief. Suddenly, they had no choice but to believe in elves and dwarves, as their impolite stares suggested, and witness a piece of wood glow gold. Haeth spat on the ground, then eyed the flask in Ulpo’s hand with longing, wondering if ale would ease his puzzled mind.
“Let Behlas have his chance,” Terion said, surrendering to his Vapour’s inability, coaxing the staff from Wiglim’s outstretched hands. “Lest we get no use at all from this forsaken Rod!”
Behlas humbly smiled. He walked forward, took the oaken staff from Wiglim’s hands. Immediately, at the moment of exchange, the oak transformed into solid gold. Pieces of electric light danced off its tip, arcing down to the earth in a shower of sparkling luminosity, bright even under the midafternoon sun. A barrage of oohs swept through the astonished onlookers; some let out long incredulous sighs, not realizing it would get even more intense: suddenly the aura around the staff reached out several yards in every direction, completely enveloping Behlas. He paced fast away from the dwarves and elves, and once he stood in the spot where Wiglim had just been, he faced the distant western horizon. The riders that were crossing the plains had vanished from sight, and the meadow was clear—Behlas took his shot instantly: the sky transformed from blue to gold. The watching crowd shielded their eyes, but it was too late for many—Haeth, among others, screamed in agony at the blinding light, unaccustomed to the ferocity of elemental magic. Remtall, seemingly unfazed by the radiance, watched with rewarding satisfaction at what unfolded: a great spire of energy bounded skyward, from the tip of the staff, climbing impossibly fast for the heavens, only to volley back down toward distant rolling meadows, two hundred yards away. It appeared Behlas had taken deadly aim, as a single crop of trees exploded instantly; a great mound of earth erupted skyward, almost to the height of the bolt before it had arced back down. Once light and smoke settled, just a few moments later, Calan looked out to see what had happened, having shielded her eyes with nearly everyone else: In the distance, there wafted a curling strand of black smoke, disappearing rapidly. It rose from an empty ruin, absent of trees, grass, or hills.
“No! What if there were nesting birds? Treetormers? Revnees? We mustn’t use the Rod for destruction of innocent life!” Binn came suddenly, charging at Behlas to take the Rod. Binn threw his hands around the oaken staff, plain-looking again, but it still sizzled and cracked in response to his touch, sending the Gear flying backwards, his motor whizzing.
“I’m sorry Binn,” Behlas said low. “I didn’t realize just how much power there was in this—I tried to use as little of its strength as I could.”
“That’s quite a present I’ve brought, eh?” Remtall rejoiced, happy to know the Rod would be usable by at least one among them. “Sorry Wiglim, she’ll be of no use to you, only the ghoul can wield her.”
“I bet Flaer could wield it, maybe Krem even” said Calan.
“Flaer can wield it,” Behlas said, walking back after helping Binn up.
“You know of him then?” she replied.
“Who does not?” he replied, but others did not say anything, and it was clear that many younger troopers did not remember Flaer Swordhand, or know his deeds of old. Remtall thought that Behlas must indeed be very old, but he decided to change their wandering questions and attend to more pressing business.
“Hye! Hye!” Remtall called his horse, a gift from Haeth’s men, and as the horse bounded towards him, the small gnome swiftly climbed atop. “On with this parade! Terion, we’re wasting precious daylight. We’ve proven the Rod, now let’s be off! Hurrah!” Remtall smacked his horse, and looked up to make sure Yarnhoot and gang were following overhead; Yarnhoot eyed down lazily from above, letting out a mellow squawk.
Terion did as Remtall commanded, and the army began to move again. The company of elves, dwarves, humans, and gnomes—one a half-machine—walked steadily over the soft-cresting prairie of the Vashnod. The sun sank down in the sky and the Angelyn Range seemed much closer already. In the distance Remtall spotted several towers, one of which was the Ceptical, the jail that once housed Flaer. Even farther away, Remtall strained his eyes to fix upon a lush plateau, rising like a snake through tall grass, leading away to foggy mountains: it was Rislind, and Remtall longed to go and tell his tale, as he’d not been home since first leaving for Kalm Point so long ago. He thought of how old Doings would relish in his feats of adventure, how they would inspire young Taisle to set out on his own adventure, and instigate young Pursaiones to tell her tales of valor and bravery—there would come a time for that, the gnome decided, but it was not yet: his journey was not yet complete.
Terion called the army to a halt, and Gaiberth helped set up camp for the night upon the plains. Haeth’s men were overjoyed when they saw that there was plenty of food, as Iirevale went about fixing portions for everyone down the line, each person getting a b
it of stew and dried meat, stale biscuits and gravy, along with elven wine and water. Fires were made as the night grew cold, and Calan left Iirevale to sit with Remtall and his friends near the southern end of the line.
“What on Darkin did you tell that band of slaves that won them over so quickly, Remtall?” Calan asked as she sat down next to a new-started fire around which sat Binn, Behlas, Ulpo, and Remtall.
“I’ll tell you myself,” came a voice from behind Calan, and to her surprise she turned to see Haeth himself standing over her, heartened by the full meal he’d just finished.
“This little—gnome, is it? He came and said that he was recruiting for an army that went to kill the lords—that was all he had to say,” Heath told.
“Well,” said Remtall, seeing the look of confusion on Calan’s face, “I knew Adacon once thought that there were a great many lords, all of whom controlled the slaves—so I knew they’d bend right to it.”
“What?” said Haeth in confusion. “There are not, you say?”
“Calm yourself beast-man—there is only one, and his name is Grelion, but we go to kill him anyway, so it’s really no different for you, is it?” Remtall said.
“It isn’t…” Haeth said, hanging his head in thought. After a moment of silence he looked deep into Remtall’s eyes, tearing slightly. “The moment you said Adacon, we were in—he is our hero, he started the rebellion you know.”
“He did?” Calan said, bemused, never hearing Adacon quite phrase any part of his journey that way before. “How did he start it?” Calan didn’t so much want the story of Adacon killing the farm guards again, she just wanted to hear her love as the topic of conversation; Haeth told of how lore spread to his slave camp, and Calan was heartened to hear of the inspiration Adacon’s courage had wrought.
“Once word travelled to the rest of the farms, that was it—there’d been more and more hangings lately, it was a matter of time—but hearing word that a farm had been successfully overthrown, that was all it took for us to break out.”
“And there are many other farm slaves roaming about?”
“Yes—some on foot, some on horses, like us. Some have banded together, some have not, and remain as a group of their original farm. Some have taken to looting and pillaging whatever poor villages they come across, others have taken to…nobler ventures, as we do now.”
“Have any gone to Morimyr?” Remtall asked, knowing the legend among slaves that the lords lived there.
“Morimyr?” Haeth said with no sign of recognition.
“Oh, yes—the Dark City, you would know it as,” he refined.
“The Dark City! We searched long to the west of these flatlands, but found nothing—we rode out as our first purpose, to destroy the city of lords, but as you see, we’ve not found even a road that leads there.”
“I tell you this Haeth: after we kill Zesm, I’ll guide you to the Dark City, and we will hunt Grelion together. It should be an honor to make it my next adventure.”
“I would be honored as well,” Haeth replied. He took a seat by the fire, and several of his fellow slaves came, sitting together for another hour, talking about the state of Arkenshyr. Eventually Remtall and Calan told of the events that came to pass in Enoa: they explored every detail of the Battle at Dinbell. Finally, the weight of fatigue captured the jovial mood of the firegazers, and each found his way to a fair patch of grass to rest for the night. Remtall finished his pipe alone by a ridge of small outcropping of trees, gazing north at the looming spikes of the Angelyn mountains, stark against the clear night sky. Ulpo drifted up behind him.
“You suppose we’ll be home for a feast in seven days’ time?” Ulpo asked hopefully.
“It’s strange there’s been no news from Krem, or Flaer—anyone for that matter,” Remtall said in seriousness, puffing intently.
“I’m sure they fight at the front, and will meet us in the Corlisuen choke.”
“That could be, that very well could be.”
Remtall placed his arm on Ulpo’s shoulder. He offered a tired smile, then returned to the still-strong fire, found a patch of grass and fell fast asleep.
XXII: INTERROGATION
“There’s been a great energy flux disturbance in the upper left hemisphere, quadrant 4.1345 on 743.21. Altering course to investigate,” came a slightly static ring through Brosse’s earpiece. He ignored the message from Teme and focused upon his captive, seated on a log in a tree-littered glen alongside his transport vessel. The silver capsule whined imperceptibly, its motor working in near silence, hovering a yard above the ground. Brosse had been ordered by Commander Naeos on their journey north toward the Angelyn mountains to investigate a consciousness disturbance detected in the small circular mountain range on what the planet’s inhabitants referred to as the Rislind Plateau. The bound man, a young human with a small beard and dark eyes, sat unable to move or talk atop the rotting tree stump, staring wildly at Brosse.
This had better be worth it, thought Brosse. He’d much rather have stayed with Flether, Flote, and Commander Naeos, but of course Teme had to find something in the scans, and now he was stuck on some unimportant side-mission while the real crew headed toward a real energy disturbance. With no one there to monitor his interrogation, the worst was coming out in Brosse.
He walked up to his captive and placed a small needle into the back of the seated man’s head. The captured human quivered for a moment, then resettled; Brosse had implanted the translator device: now he could ask questions.
“What is your name?” Brosse asked, staring impatiently at the frightened man. An instant later, his message transferred from Brosse’s language to something comprehensible to the Darkin native.
“Noilerg,” came a defeated voice, tired and exhausted from fear. He’d been stripped of his horse, frozen by a mysterious ray of light, and strapped helplessly into some kind of metal bird. Noilerg’s words came back to Brosse, who instantly understood their meaning through his translation system, sewn inside his ear lobe.
“What do you know about a metallic alloy, unearthed from what your people call the Vashnod Eye?”
“What? I don’t know what it is…”
“The giant crater that scars this land! Imbecile! Don’t pretend I don’t know you have information I need—if I had more time, I’d transfer your entire memory into our banks and be done with you, kill you now and sort through it later—but that isn’t a luxury I can take right now!”
“What about the crater?”
“Where is the alloy that was unearthed there?”
“Alloy?”
“Metal, shiny and perfectly square, equal on all sides, polished, silver color! Does your species forget unearthing an artifact such as that?”
“I don’t know anything about a metal.”
“Then you are useless to me, I have a disturbance to get to. Hold still so your blood does not splatter on me…” Brosse said in frustration at having come out of his way to the useless forest mountains of the Rislind Range.
“Wait!” Noilerg interrupted as Brosse drew a shiny object from his side and pointed it at him.
“Yes, why?”
“I can tell you how to find what you’re looking for, I know who can help.”
“Liar!” Brosse said, knowing the defenseless being connived for its life.
“I am the emperor of this land, the lord of everything you see here.”
“Hah! Yours is an entertaining species,” said Brosse, noticing a resemblance between Noilerg and himself.
“But I am! I lied to you before—”
“What?” Brosse said, amused.
“My name—I lied, that’s not my real name…”
“What difference is it to me what your name is? You know nothing of the metal, that is all I care about,” said Brosse, raising his seamless pistol.
“I am Grelion Rakewinter, lord of this land—I can take you to someone who knows where your metal is,” replied the frightened man.
“I’ll run it—if nothin
g comes back, I think I’ll torture you for wasting more of my time,” Brosse said indifferently. He turned away from his captive and looked at the lush green grove around him, a foothill of the Rislind mountains.
“Teme?”
“Yes Brosse.”
“See if Grelion Rakewinter comes up in the consciousness pool.”
“Right, one moment…”
“Beautiful planet,” Brosse said reflectively, turning back to look at Grelion. “I like the smell of its forests.”
“Brosse—could be of some importance—he’s a war hero of what is known as the Five Country War—united people, then afterwards oppressed them—hated by most all. He may know something, as he held dominion over the region where the metal was buried.” Brosse fixed his eyes on his captive, looking at him in new light. “I’ll need a picture of him to confirm.”
“Sent,” responded Brosse, unmoving.
“Running…running…yep—that’s him. Apparently he hasn’t aged. That’s quite strange, seeing as he should be eighty years old.”
“Thanks Teme,” replied Brosse. “Quite strange, I’d say.” Brosse stared with great concentration on his subject, and finally he allowed his captive to speak again.
“I’ll take you to the archive in Morimyr. Information stored there dates back to the Iinder Age, when that crater was struck. If what you’re looking for is anywhere, it’ll be there.”
“We’ve been through Morimyr already! A team just finished scouting that city—they say it’s a festival of looters and pillagers, ransackers and thieves. The buildings in that city burn, as they are cast down by its own civilians! We gleaned nothing from our time there, and you suggest we go back?”
“But you didn’t know where my home was—it’s secret, deep under the shoreline, beyond the city’s edge—there I collected and stored every artifact and work of literature in Darkin’s history, meticulously—you will find what you are looking for, I promise.”
Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) Page 26
