“We need your help!” Diblo cried, as the door he and Belwid fought to keep down slowly rose again. “Damnit Geron! Kasewin!” Diblo glanced back, not stopping his energy for a moment, but catching a glimpse of his druid fellows struggling with the far door.
“Hold the door for a moment yourself Diblo, and we can get this up—Belwid, come on!” Geron defied.
“No!” Diblo rallied. “They’re going to get in!” The door that Belwid and Diblo had at first kept down rose steadily now; more brown fingers, sets and sets of them, yielded to sight dirty tatters of pants wrapping thick dwarven legs and mud-crusted boots. Grimy, soil-colored beards of dwarves were soon visible, and then glowing eyes of black, beadily set in skin that hung loosely from gaunt faces, partially ripped and torn, bloodless and dry.
“Damnit!” Diblo roared. “I need more power!” He looked around, the dull green of his aura fading—Belwid stood fast at his side, but it was too late: three plague-ridden dwarves hoisted the door up and locked it in place over a hinge; Diblo looked on in horror at row after row of beady dots, blacklit against abyss.
“We’ve got to try the door now,” Belwid said matter-of-factly. Diblo turned and ran with him to assist Geron and Kasewin who had managed to get the far door a quarter of the way up. Diblo let a deep scream loose, channeling his last energy, gripping firmly the iron rung, helping the other three to lift it up. The door went up easily with all four of them. Geron crept under first, then grabbed the iron rung from the other side, pushing up hard.
“In the hinge!” said Belwid, buckling under the weight.
“No, they’ll follow us in!” cried Geron. Kasewin ran through just as a dwarf-axe bit into the back of Belwid’s neck, cutting hard, causing the valiant druid to slump to the stone floor, his tomb alongside Hetgot’s.
“No!” Diblo railed. He rushed through the stone door, only Geron and Kasewin holding it up. Without the aid of a third druid, the stone slab fell heavily on the back of Diblo’s leg as he passed, tripping him to the floor. In a panic, Kasewin let go of his grip on the iron rung. The door slammed down onto Diblo’s right leg, crushing it, catching several dwarven feet that rushed forward. Wails and shrieks filled the rooms, from the dwarves on their side, and from druids on Diblo’s side: Geron looked on sadly, feeling as though he should have stayed back, but Kasewin wasted no time; with a thin beam of red-black light pulsing from his hands, Kasewin cleanly severed Diblo’s lower leg where it trapped him. Without a second for blood to drop, Kasewin’s light turned white, changing instantly to a warm healing ray. Diblo’s wound was sealed without so much as a cry of agony.
“You coward!” rushed Diblo at Geron, “Foul coward!” Diblo charged to ring Geron’s neck.
“I’m so sorry,” Geron said earnestly. He hung his head, defeated, as the door in front of them started to rise.
“No time for that—look!” Kasewin ordered. The three of them instantly spent their remaining energy to keep the door down—the dwarves struggled against the power of the druid magic, unable even with their Feral strength to combat the combined force of three druids.
“What now?” said Kasewin, looking worriedly at Diblo who wobbled on his good leg.
“We hold it down!” he screamed in reply, staring hard at Geron. “And if there’re no deserters, we can keep them out!”
“I said sorry, I thought it was our only—” Geron stopped midsentence, but Diblo hadn’t been paying attention to him, nor had Kasewin; they were struggling to overcome the hoisting dwarves who seemed to grow stronger with each passing second.
“Vesleathren has turned black the ancient race: these are no longer Reichmar,” Diblo stated coldly as the door in front of them rose, their united strength failing.
“Geron!” came an incredulous howl from Kasewin, who discovered the reason that the dwarves had seemed to gain strength—Geron was standing still, no longer channeling into the door, facing away from them. Alarmed, Diblo turned to see what he feared—Geron was not helping, but looking away into darkness.
“It’s no use, none at all.”
“Why?! Help us Geron! Help us!”
“This must have once been the great Reichmar hall—so lovely in tale, so beautiful to behold…” came the indifferent voice of Geron, who’d sent his green aura at its most powerful to illuminate the space they’d entered. Peering back at the maddened Geron, Kasewin looked off momentarily, still maintaining his energy on the rising door. The room they now stood in was not small and square, but long and high, pillared with giant spires stretching to a ceiling too distant to be seen; statues of dwarves surrounded them, and each pillar sat atop a several-yard-high plinth displaying angelic armor and swords, axes and helms. Brackets lined the distant walls with unlit torches, but no opposite end to the hall could be seen—only a sea of blacklights, beady dots, a polarized vision of the stars, steadily moving, soundlessly creeping forward, level with the height of a small man; the great hall of the Reichmar still housed a magnificent host, but it was no longer valorous, no longer anchored by ancient honor and creed: the sea of dots, glowing black amidst dull green that stretched into the gargantuan void, came for feasting, but not of lamb nor mountain goat: the Feral dwarves marched forth for the sweet blood and meat of druids.
Kasewin’s channel of energy ceased. Diblo grew furious, realizing he alone held down the door, as greedy brown fingers pushed up to reveal once more bodies of dwarves in the rising gap. Finally, Kasewin pulled Diblo away, stopping him physically, turning him to see the hall behind. Diblo stood speechless, as did all three of them. From behind came the Feral dwarves, and from the front surged the host of Ascaronth, rent by the darkness of evil. And so the hopes of Peren Flowerpath that the Reichmar might bring aid to the Corlisuen died in that hour, perishing with the lives of five of his valiant kin.
* * *
“Nothing!” Erguile shouted, staring at the empty Corlisuen pass in front of him. The beautiful dawning sun rose to his right. A line of refugees poured out after a long night’s march, and before them was the narrow rock valley, wide as twenty men, steep towering mountain walls buttressing its sides. Above them the glow of blue morning sky stunned their dilated eyes, and between two spiking peaks the Darkin sun warmed Hemlin faces that drew their first breaths of fresh air in what seemed forever.
“We’ve beat them to it!” Erguile rejoiced.
“Now if only the dwarves will get here before he does,” Peren said, “godspeed, brother Diblo.” As soon as the entire length of the refugees came out to sunlight, Peren set about dividing civilians from army—many were drafted to freshen the fighting ranks, former civilians with able bodies; the rest—elderly, some women, and many children—were set in a party purposed to travel farther south. Peren appointed leaders to guide the civilian masses out of the Angelyn mountains. Once they passed south from the range they were to look for safety in Arkenshyr. Erguile taught the way to Rislind as best as he remembered it, so that food, lodging, and friendliness might be found. The harvest of Rislind had always been plentiful, he’d been told while staying there, and its people were sympathetic, if not welcoming. Peren sent a druid along with the party; though he felt he would need every druid among them to subdue the power of the Unicorporas, Erguile assured Peren that no way into Rislind could be found without the use of Vapoury, as its only two entrances were sealed by enchantment.
Soon the civilian troop began their arduous journey south, led by Falsrought, whom Peren had selected to gain entrance to Rislind. The remaining Hemlin army formed a strong line across the Corlisuen pass, walling it off with their bodies. Row after row spread uniformly behind the first; the heavily armored infantry held the front rows, while archers were positioned behind—tucked neatly between the archers and the infantry was a small company of druids, in fact every druid left to Peren—the task set to them would be to subdue the Unicorporas, so that the Hemlin forces might go to work upon the mindless Feral that would surely march to their deaths against their fortified position.
&n
bsp; “Will it work?” Erguile asked, surveying the various races of fighters all around him, looking north but still seeing no sign in the distance of the Feral army.
“We’ll find out soon enough, I suppose,” smiled Peren. He left Erguile to his legion of front-line infantry, twenty wide and twelve deep. The army stood in position, patiently awaiting an enemy to test its mettle.
XXVII: WE COME ONLY FOR THE ORE
There was a flash of light—Remtall turned before anyone else to see what had flared behind them: A great silver vessel, shaped like an oblong pod, shiny and reflective, whizzed into view, descending from the firmament. It came down so fast that Remtall could not place who or what it might be—he instinctively feared that Parasink had returned from the dead—or that Vesleathren had plotted a preemptive assault.
“Attack!” Remtall shouted, grabbing his diamond dagger from his side, slapping Ulpo’s shoulder.
“What on Darkin,” Iirevale exclaimed, marching among a troop of elves several yards in front of Remtall. The entire army stopped in a moment, bracing themselves to face the shiny metal vehicle, only ten yards away from them on the flat prairie, soundless, motionless.
“Vesleathren!” Ulpo cried, unable to fathom what else the foreign looking object might be.
“No—it’s not giving off any kind of energy, good or bad,” came Wiglim, who’d rushed up from Terion’s company at the front of the line.
“It’s moving—there’s a door!” came one of Haeth’s men who’d jumped down from his horse, ready to fight, showing no fear of the alien contraption. A whooshing sound reverberated over the plain, softly rolling through the dwarven army. Terion ordered his men to surround the vehicle:
“On guard! Surround and prepare for attack!” he roared, dismissing the brilliant sheen of the mysterious vessel for a moment and assuming his role as leader.
“He’s right—there’s nothing coming from it at all,” came Behlas, who’d snuck up behind Remtall. Binn and Calan ran to the edge of the surrounding line of warriors, waiting for a sign of movement from the gleaming metal object resting obtrusively on the verdant grass, many times larger than any soldier among them.
“It looks rather like a creation of your master, Binn,” Remtall said, tossing a look of concern toward Binn, who stood transfixed, unspeaking.
“It can’t be—I knew all of Parasink’s work—none of it looked as this!” Binn retorted after moments of suspenseful silence passed.
Out of an opening orifice on the vessel stepped a woman, sleek in skintight black clothing, dark hair falling past her neck, eyes wondering over the congregation surrounding her ship—she appeared by most of the dwarves’ judgment to be a human; none guessed her alien origin. Suddenly, the woman on the grass spoke, but no sound came. Behlas raised up the Rod of the Gorge, but no light came into it. He gazed at the staff, befuddled as to why it hadn’t pooled energy as it had one half-hour earlier. Finally a sound came, a garbled language; as fast as they heard the mangled tones, a clear refrain broke out over the top of it, something in the common tongue that they could all understand:
“We mean no harm, we come only for the ore,” spoke the calm female voice.
“Ore?” Remtall gasped, “what demonic tactic is this? Let’s have at her—Gaiberth, do we rush?” He looked for a go-ahead from the elven leader who stood close to the gnome. Gaiberth appeared unnerved, not consenting to Remtall’s request to charge the ship and the woman, instead offering his hand up to signal restraint, forcing his company to wait for further communication.
“Who are you?” shouted Ulpo before anyone else mustered the nerve. No one had ever seen clothing like she wore, nor an anomaly in nature that resembled the flashing metal pod she’d floated down from the sky in. Two more, dressed similar to the woman, stepped out of the vehicle.
“As you can clearly see, we are not from here,” she said resolutely. “We only wish to find information that might take us to the ore.”
“What is this ore?” boomed King Terion, feeling as if there was no longer a threat, though he stood as perplexed as the rest of his army. It was surely not Vesleathren, he decided, who was a man; nor was it Parasink.
“The ore is a key element needed in our labors to reverse the engine of the cosmos—it is a safeguard that is now being called upon; our last store of it was planted in this planet, long before life arose here.”
“Pah! An absurd wench! Come, let’s charge her! She’s a devil serpent, a sorcerer no doubt!” Remtall raged. Gaiberth restrained the gnome, who again begged to rush ahead alone, to attack her with his tiny dagger.
“The Rod is not—it’s not working,” Behlas said. Iirevale and Calan who stood nearby looked worriedly at him; he struggled to summon any force at all into the Rod. It rested limply between his fingers, unable to channel the slightest surge of power.
“Your energy is subdued while you are near our transport. Our generator creates a neutral field,” came Naeos’s sweet voice. Her eyes fixed upon Behlas, and he felt as if she’d read his mind.
“Impossible!” Wiglim shouted, “No entity on Darkin can sever Gaigas’s connection to those that know how to channel her!”
“I do not want you to try,” she said placatingly. “We do not, as I’ve said, wish to interfere in your planet’s affairs, nor to harm anything here. We only want help—help to find the ore.”
“What is this ore you speak of ceaselessly? It would seem none of us know it,” came Iirevale, who grew more angered each second, feeling for his elven blade.
“We have found one who knows of the ore so far. Three others have tried to harm us. I seek confirmation for the information we work from—that is why I have landed. Grelion Rakewinter has told us he can yield information that will lead to the ore. What does this mean to you, dwellers of this country?”
“Grelion?” screamed an incredulous chorus, confused by what the seductive woman had asked, angered by her suggestion that she knew his whereabouts. In a fit of anger, an armored dwarf ran headlong at Commander Naeos.
“No—get back!” cried King Terion. The errant dwarf harbored an especially irreparable resentment of Grelion, who’d bought his relatives for slaves from their home in the Staylinds; he ignored his king’s command.
“Commander?” Brosse said casually. He and Flote stood ready at her side.
“Sustaining blast only, Brosse…” she whispered to him in her native language. The army surrounding the vessel watched a flash of light issue from Brosse’s pistol, setting the dwarf’s armor alive with dancing sparks, causing him to tumble hard to the earth. The dwarf did not move. Remtall struggled to break free from Gaiberth’s restraint; Calan saw Remtall trying to follow the path of the fallen dwarf and joined Gaiberth in holding him back. Behlas stepped forward, dropped the Rod, and looked at commander Naeos.
“Where is Grelion?”
Suddenly the shiny metal of the vessel behind the commander became transparent, revealing in a small compartment four figures—Grelion Rakewinter, Krem, Reap, and Falen the wyvern.
“Krem!”
“Falen!”
“There he is!” rampaged Remtall. In an otherworldy burst of strength, Remtall broke free, streaking toward the vessel at the body of his son’s murderer. “Grelion!” He charged for the vessel’s door, yards away, forgetting his better judgment and the warnings that came to him from behind him; Terion and Gaiberth shouted for him to stop, but it was too late: light flashed again, Remtall crumpled to the earth the same as the dwarf before him had. To Calan’s relief, the dwarf first hit by Brosse’s pistol slowly got to his feet, shaking a mound of grass stuck to his helm.
“It would seem that this is no just emperor of yours,” Naoes said.
“Emperor? Hah—enslaver, traitorous murderer, more the right words!” came Ulpo, knowing well Remtall’s story.
“However justice is to be dealt, it is not our concern. We need to know if he will take us to the ore, directly or indirectly, it does not matter. The galaxy is at stake.”
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br /> “Galaxy?” muttered a baffled league of dwarves and elves, unknowing of the word. Behlas looked ahead quizzically, then stepped forth again to speak:
“You seek an ore? This makes no sense to us—you house two of our close friends, it would seem. Terion?” Behlas turned to King Terion who had suddenly stepped up beside Behlas. Gaiberth strode out alongside them.
“For the answers you seek, we must barter. You will return to us our friends,” Terion ordered. “You are outnumbered, and even as you may thwart our use of Vapoury, it is no matter—dwarves rely not on their magic, but their hardihood with axes and swords. So—release them to us,” Terion demanded.
“If they mean something to you, so be it. They are hostile to us, and that is why they have been detained.”
“Gaigas…it can’t be,” shuddered Wiglim. He’d lost his train of thought several minutes ago, furiously working through a disturbance in his mind. “The departed race of prophecy!”
“What?” Calan said, bewilderment spreading to those around her.
“The departed race! The key! It is true!” Wiglim cried as if some revelation had struck him but missed all others.
“Explain yourself dwarf!” came Iirevale, whose anger at the strangers’ imprisonment of Krem erupted.
“It seems one among you has understood our purpose here,” came Naeos.
“It’s as Merol said! The Waln Parchment!” Wiglim cried.
“Enough of that! The fables are burned! Did you not swear an oath to never speak of them?” shouted an enraged Terion.
“But it’s in her words—she’s said it for us,” Wiglim answered sadly.
“The key is the ore, that is all. We find it and we leave. None of you will be harmed. Here are your friends,” Naeos said, trying to defuse the natives. Out came Flether and Flote, each carrying Krem and Falen respectively. Their bodies floated on near-translucent beams of light. Behlas looked with awe at their mysterious magic.
Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) Page 30
