“Falen,” whispered Reap in frustration, watching his winged friend lay motionless on the ground. He saw no blood running from the unconscious dragon.
“Teme—I have some more prisoners—your speedy arrival would be much appreciated,” Brosse said. Krem and Reap heard more muffled throat noises, none of which made any sense; it seemed the silver-helmeted man was muttering to himself.
“That’s it—we can’t reason with one who doesn’t know the common tongue of Darkin,” said Reap under his breath; Krem knew it meant he was about to rush in for an attack. Using every last bit of energy he could muster, Krem tried desperately to fix a shield of Vapoury around Reap so that he might be protected from the stranger’s weapon.
“Agh!” yelled Krem. He channeled his Vapoury more furiously than he’d ever done before, fighting an invisible force that silenced his connection to Gaigas, one unlike what he’d encountered atop the Nethvale mountains. Collapsing in a fit of depletion, Krem somehow managed to break the mysterious shroud that subdued his power, and in a final moment of consciousness, he sent a protective aura of jade light around Reap, just as he had launched into action. Krem fell sideways to the ground, eyelids closing and gem-encrusted cap falling off, but his errand had been completed: Reap drew his sharp blade from its hiding place inside his robe, then, surrounded by a shield of bright emerald energy, pounced fast upon Brosse, who, standing erect, looked directly at his attacker. Brosse saw the flash of green; without taking time to think about the anomaly of energy he had witnessed, he aimed his pistol again, immediately firing at the lidless eyes of the serpent-featured man charging him.
A great clangor of thunder boomed across the plateau of grassland. The projectile of energy from Brosse’s weapon ricocheted off Reap into the trunk of a nearby birch tree. Reap, midleap above Brosse, came down whipping his sword in a horizontal slice, cleanly cutting against the silk-like cloth that wrapped Brosse’s chest. To Reap’s surprise, his sharp edge bounced limply away, unable to pierce the flimsy-looking material. Brosse was still in one piece, but the force had knocked him off his feet. He looked up in fear, having lost from his fingers the only hope he had left—his flash-pistol had been tossed aside, landing in a nest of high grass. Reap landed deftly and turned, quickly closing in again on his downed victim—perhaps the cloth was cursed, thought Reap. He stood above Brosse, who fought to catch his breath.
“Your face won’t be so tough, I don’t think,” Reap said, raising his blade high, pointing its tip squarely toward Brosse’s eyes. He struck down with all his might.
“No!” screamed Brosse. His voice sounded like a garbled mess to Reap, who understood the alien’s tongue only as a collage of guttural panic. As the tip of Reap’s blade pierced through Brosse’s unprotected face, it froze; next his hands froze, then his entire body—something had caught the former League of the Mage in a paralyzing grip. Reap tried to turn to see Krem, who’d fallen expending his last ounce of energy, and Falen, who lay lifeless on the prairie grass, but he couldn’t turn his neck—he couldn’t even slant his vision, his eyes were fixed. Into view came a new figure: looking directly at Reap was a beautiful woman with jet hair and a sedated pair of hazel eyes, curiously peering at her subdued victim. The green shield surrounding Reap evaporated.
“Strange creatures on this planet—incredible power though, a research case once we’ve finished our mission. I think I’ll come back here personally to study,” commander Naeos said in thoughtful contemplation. “Oh, sorry.” She quickly pushed Reap aside, his strong frame toppling to the ground, his eyes fixed upon the lifeless form of Falen whom he now lay beside on the grass.
“Thank you commander,” said Brosse as Naeos offered her hand to him. A shot of warmth ran through his body at her touch, and his obsession with her flared; he forgot his near-death at the hands of the planet’s natives.
“Oh, that one’s not subdued yet—fell over on his own,” Brosse said, pointing to the small hermit in the distance, appearing peacefully asleep on the grass.
“Their energy is incredible—that green light that surrounded this one,” remarked Flote, who stepped from the commander’s hovering vessel which dwarfed the size of Brosse’s transport.
“The creatures on this planet have somehow learned to control energy with their consciousness, it would seem—if that’s the case, we’ve got more than a research study—this is revolutionary,” said Flether, astounded.
“The reversal takes precedent though—without that, we will have no home to bring the research to, no race to deem the evolution valuable, no more Godking—” Flote was cutoff:
“No one needs a reminder of why we need the ore,” commander Naeos said flatly, cold and unyielding to the excitement of her comrades.
“What do you want us to do with these?” Flote asked.
“He’s the only one we need,” said Brosse, finally catching his breath after Reap’s blow to his chest. “Destroy the others.”
“Who put you in command?” asked Flether insolently.
“Enough bickering, unless you both want to be left alone on this planet,” Naeos scolded as if they were children. “They’ll all come as prisoners—we may salvage more information from them.”
“Yes commander—and what about the village? I never made it into the—”
“You what?” the commander scowled.
“I found this one at the forest ridge—he had the information we wanted so I didn’t have a need to proceed farther east toward the village. Our readings said they are primitive—” Brosse attempted to explain, getting cut off:
“I don’t care what the readings said,” she said with inborn ferocity. Brosse knew then in her scowling visage how superior she was to them—her eyes remained steady, her voice calm, yet her order rang with certainty. “What about the vacuum?”
“Several nights and it yielded nothing, though I left the vacuum set up on the peaks, just to be sure,” answered Brosse. To the Rislindians it had been a band of light along the top of their mountain range, there night after night—none knew its purpose had been to examine their collected memories and consciousness.
“Pure luck then that you’ve found this one,” Flote interjected.
“Alright—we’re going then, the village is of no use to us. A single night would have been all that was needed,” said the commander in a tone of displeasure.
“Course for the Darkin city Morimyr, commander?” Flether asked.
“Yes. Brosse, board your transport. Flether and Flote, get these ones on board—that one might be a tight fit,” she said, eyeing the still dragon warily.
“I’ll make it so, commander,” Flote said. Instantly they went about emitting spectrums of laser-light from instruments fastened on their hips; from the grass rose the three bodies, and soon they were all fit with space to spare in the commander’s silver vessel. It was midday by the time the aliens boarded their vessel and lifted directly up into the sky, speeding through bands of puff-white clouds, making great speed west for the coastal city of Morimyr, hundreds of miles away. It was only several minutes into their journey when all four travelers peered out of the port window at an enormous marching congregation of assorted natives—commander Naeos immediately called their ship to a halt, and they floated in midair, high above a line of dwarves, elves, and other strange beings—the trajectory of the long line of marching sentients put them on a course directly toward the Angelyn mountain valley, the location of the powerful disturbance recorded earlier.
“What’s this then?” Flote asked curiously.
“Something is stirring on this planet, they are at war among themselves,” the commander replied coarsely.
“Shall we continue west then, and leave them to their war?”
“Not just yet, I want to land—I want to ask their leader about the metal, and see if any of them know this prisoner of ours, apparently so famous among the inhabitants of this land.”
“So he claims—he called himself emperor of this country. He looks rather rag
ged for the part though,” Brosse chimed in. The commander gazed back at Brosse, rewarding his brilliant achievement with a warm smile.
“What did you say his name was?”
“Grelion Rakewinter.”
XXV: A DECISION TO LEAVE
“I wish you’d reconsider—both of you,” begged Doings, standing wistfully at the gate of his peaceful village, quaintly secluded in a meadow surrounded by lush green mountains that rose into early morning fog. Meandering in and out of the veil of fog was a band of fading light, an alien glow that had shrouded the village in fear for days.
“Sorry. I have to find him,” Pursaiones said resolutely.
“Believe me mayor, I’ve tried more than anyone to keep her here—I know our mission is in vain, but I couldn’t convince her…and…” said Taisle; he trailed off into quiet thought.
“My two strongest young warriors, my best—the pride of Rislind!” moaned Doings, sobbing over a freshly lit pipe. Crumpet stood by, and Miss Brewboil, who surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eye.
“May you go with Gaigas, and return swiftly, unlike that drunken old fool Remtall—do not disappear as he did!” Crumpet ordered. Many of the villagers hugged Pursaiones and Taisle, the only ones leaving on the errand to save Noilerg.
“We’ll be safe, and back soon,” Pursaiones reassured them. Without prolonging the tearful goodbye, Taisle mirrored Pursaiones to the top of his horse, and they galloped away into the meadow, before Doings could rebuke them further for leaving their fair village unprotected. Taisle knew better, he’d worked with a lot of the young men and women in the village; there were more than enough able bodies to handle the protection of the village—still it was a hard sell for Doings and the elders, especially with the recent appearance of the mysterious band of light. Many whispered it to be a sign of the end of the world, and each night the ominous glow returned they believed their doom to be closer.
The early meadow morn was drenched in low-lying clouds, and through the fog little was visible, but the riders galloped swiftly and with purpose, as Pursaiones had long known her way without sight.
“Are you sure you remember the old path?” Taisle said, disbelieving Pursaiones, thinking their new-built wall would thwart them from leaving.
“I am certain I do—Remtall taught me the way,” she replied with a smile.
“He always did like you most,” replied Taisle apprehensively as they came upon the first inclining foothills. Hours passed and soon the riders were trotting steeply up a barely passable ridge. Low-lying clouds had dissipated, and visibility was good again. Eventually, Pursaiones called them to a stop, breaking by a trickling spring that the horses refreshed upon. She looked over the narrow pass they would soon attempt, then patted her horse on its soft brown mane.
“We’re sure-footed today, eh girl?” Pursaiones said, reassuring herself more than her horse.
“Did you and Remtall ever actually take this ridge?” Taisle asked, beginning to doubt the feasibility of what looked to be a severe drop ahead of them. The mountain transformed into a sheer face, and only a thin ridge hugged the flat rise of granite, bushes sticking out from between cracks in the rock; at one point, it seemed, the entire ridge disappeared, revealing a free fall of several hundred yards.
“Of course not—Remtall never left the meadow, you know that,” Pursaiones replied.
“Right—I just…was hoping, I guess,” Taisle gulped. In a moment Pursaiones drove her steed on, and together they reached the narrow ridge, hanging nakedly. Hundreds of yards below spread the valley, a massive forest-blanketed stretch of foothills that bridged the base of their mountain to that of the next peak in the range.
“Steady girl,” Pursaiones said. Her horse tried in vain to find footing. Soon the ridge grew thinner, more treacherous, and the horse refused the path, as there was no clear footing. It would not against its better judgment take another step forward.
“Purs—it looks like we’re going to have to turn around, head to the wall. Maybe we can expose a spot, break it down,” suggested Taisle.
“And leave Rislind defenseless in our wake?” she scolded him. “Ah!” she whipped her horse, and for fright of another hit, the horse leaped forward, bounding over the missing length of the ridge where it receded into the rock face.
“Purs!” screamed Taisle in horror: her horse lost its footing and began to slip sidelong down the edge of the thin ledge. In a panic, it slipped farther, then toppled off the ridge and began to freefall. Pursaiones realized her doom and screamed violently. The horse neighed, writhing wildly in thin air, bucking Pursaiones from its back; they fell quickly, drifting apart in space, plummeting faster toward foothills two hundred yards below. Taisle wailed in disbelief, tears flooding his face as he watched in agony, entirely helpless, unable to help her.
“Pursaiones!” Taisle yelled—she’d fallen too far now, could not hear him; the last thing she was to hear was the sound of her own screams, the ferocious neighing of her equine companion. Taisle hung his head as her screams grew faint, far, out of reach—he no longer heard the death shrieks, and he closed his tear-filled eyes. Salt-tasting sorrow ran in streams to his lips. He bit so hard against the side of his tongue that it bled. His tears mixed with blood, all of which dripped from his chin.
“Damn you Noilerg! Gaigas! Damn every last one of you!” Taisle screamed with every last ounce of energy in his body. His horse retreated in fear, knowing well the plight of his sister horse, knowing better than to try the leap himself. For several minutes Taisle tried to reassemble coherent thought, but he could not. Nothing seemed to make sense to him now—it didn’t mean anything if he continued on, it didn’t mean anything if he went back to town; there was no purpose left for him. He looked at the sky, spirit filled with the ache and desire of one convinced he is in a terrible nightmare.
“Wake up—wake up Taisle!” he screamed. The heavens did not yield a response to him. He became aware that he was all too awake, that he would not snap out of his new reality; it had just happened, it was irreparable, unchangeable.
“Hi,” came a soft voice from near the ridge where Pursaiones had slipped to her death.
“What?” snapped Taisle, wondering if he had entered into madness, hearing voices in a state of heart-ripping delusion.
“I said, hi!” came the happy chirp of a young man. Taisle watched, completely petrified: the figure of a human floated up from beneath the edge of the ridge to the spot where it completely disappeared into the rock face. Taisle rubbed his eyes, his horse whinnied wildly; the man was still there, hovering in midair, floating over hundreds of yards of empty space, smiling at him.
“You’re…real?” Taisle said, struggling to form words.
“Of course I’m real! And your friend is very lucky I passed this way,” came the exuberant reply.
“What?”
“Taisle!” came a desperate high-pitched wail; rising up from below the man was a horse and a woman.
“Pursaiones!” gasped Taisle, his eyes filling with tears again. “How is this possible—I must be dreaming—I must have fallen and hit my head on a rock!”
“No, you’re quite awake,” came the chipper voice in response. Motioning his body toward the cliff, the man flew forward and landed, hopping lightly to where Taisle had retreated back from. The horse in thin air and Pursaiones followed on their own, landing farther behind Taisle.
“My name is Adacon—nice to meet you,” came the sweetest voice Taisle had ever heard. Taisle jumped from his steed and squeezed the man as hard as he’d ever done in his life, deciding he didn’t care anymore whether he was dreaming or not: he would accept it either way—Pursaiones was alive.
“I thought it was over, I was expecting pain to come—all I could think about was the pain,” Pursiaones said, bewildered.
“It’s quite alright, you’re safe now,” Adacon reassured her.
“Who are you?” Taisle said, finally releasing the man.
“I am Adacon, I’ve just told you
that,” he replied eagerly.
“But—it’s just, I’ve never seen Vapoury before, especially not flying!” Taisle said. Pursiaones lay flat against the ground, embracing a patch of grass, sighing after each breath of soil.
“How sweet I never knew, solid ground!” came Pursaiones in a frenzy of relief. Her horse already seemed to have forgotten its near death experience, and was fraternizing with her brother horse, grazing lazily upon the sparse shoots rising between cracks in the granite.
“Well, I’ve just learned it really, so don’t be that impressed,” Adacon replied.
“Thank you so much,” whimpered Pursaiones. She shot to her feet, forgetting she hadn’t thanked him for saving her life.
“You’re quite welcome. You haven’t told me your names,” sprang Adacon’s incessant cheer, miming the youthful essence of Tempern.
“I’m Pursaiones, and—”
“I’m Taisle.”
“Pleased to meet you, Taisle and Pursaiones,” Adacon responded with a smile. He brushed away his maple hair which had grown long and straight, occasionally falling over his face. Through stone-grey eyes Adacon gazed at them, perplexed by something.
“You’re both from Rislind, aren’t you?” he asked, curiosity piquing.
“Yes,” they answered together.
“Then—pardon me for asking—why did you come this way? Surely the wall of vines would be the easier way?”
“The wall of vines was destroyed—so we were forced to seal the way with a wall. It’s impassable now,” Taisle answered quickly.
“Destroyed? That’s strange,” Adacon said, wondering how the Vapoury of the magical bramble could have been tampered with. “Why do you leave? I didn’t know that anyone traveled away from Rislind—especially with times such as we’ve had lately.”
“It’s a story of oddity—there’s been a light, a ring of light, surrounding the peaks of the Rislind range,” Taisle began.
Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) Page 28
