“Quiet,” said Peren. He tried hard to restrain his emerald-light aura, fluorescing in anticipation of encounter. The man moved again, walking through the shadows of peaks thrown from either side of the valley, moonlight unable to reveal his face or clothes.
“Who traipses late the Corlisuen?” Peren finally called, standing erect.
“What?” croaked a voice.
“Who are you—name yourself, or find an angered legion blocking your way,” Erguile shouted, holding his sword with both hands, erect alongside Peren.
“Your friend, I should think,” cut the tired voice through the darkness; the silhouette started moving again, coming within ten yards. Peren started to channel his jade energy to its full strength, bracing for a charge from the rogue.
“Friend?” returned a Hemlin warrior.
“If you are friends of Flaer Swordhand,” the voice said, deep and raspy. Erguile finally recognized it; he returned his sword to its sheath and ran forth:
“Flaer!” cried Erguile, running out to embrace the mysterious stranger. As they came toward each other, Flaer stepped into moonlight, his face illuminating: recognition spread over Peren’s face, a smile crested in his cheeks. Pieces of singed cloth hung from Flaer’s pants and shirt; his armor had all but disappeared, save for bracers and plate-guards on his shins. Peren eyed the two as they hugged, noticing Flaer’s sheath was still fixed to his belt, yet it was empty.
“The Brigun Autilus?” Peren asked, fearing what Erguile already knew: it had been destroyed at the crater in the Hemlin Hills.
“Shattered—to glassed shards,” glowered Flaer.
“Krem might restore it?” Erguile offered. He let go of Flaer and looked him over: a long series of burns ran the length of his left cheek.
“I don’t think so,” Flaer said, somehow finding the energy to chuckle.
“At least you made it back in one piece,” Peren finally said, coming forth, embracing Flaer as Erguile had.
“Barely…they’ve merged,” Flaer said.
“It’s true then—Zesm and Vesleathren are the same monster?” Erguile said.
“I tried to destroy him in Wallstrong…”
“You what?”
“You fought him alone? With no sword?”
“It didn’t quite work, you see,” Flaer said, walking to the edge of the infantry, taking a seat on stony earth.
“But how?” Erguile asked excitedly.
“I came out of the chasm—buried alive for an hour. Barely made it out. I had to use most of my Vapoury.”
“Slowin?” Erguile interrupted.
Flaer paused. “He’s gone. I saw him in the chasm as I bored up from underground,” he said with fatigue. “Lifeless, there was nothing I could do…he’s buried there now.”
“What of the city—where is he now?”
“Wallstrong is a pyre tomb. I entered over the rubble of the gates, he was high above his slithering masses. The Jaigan could not move through the narrow arches in the lower walls…”
“And you went after him?”
“Climbed the nearest tower, called him to me…”
“Called him?” asked Erguile, astonished.
“Yea—wanted to slice him through—I’d taken a blade from a fallen soldier…he saw me, flew over as I bid him to,” Flaer said, his eyes drifting skyward.
“You fought him with a soldier’s sword?”
“Mine was destroyed, would you have had me fight him with my fists?”
Flaer continued, recounting his tale:
* * *
“Corrupted waste!” roared Flaer from atop a monolith tower, twenty yards above the walls of the Wallstrong. Below writhed a black and gold mass of fast-moving Feral. “I long to see what true strength your desperation has yielded!”
“Ah,” came a voice, cackling with laughter over the fire-lit sky. Tracing through billows of smoke moved a red-lit film, ascending across the burning madness of the city. The scarlet form of the Unicorporas hovered above Flaer, who stepped atop the parapet of the monolith.
“Still drawing breath I see,” came the slimy voice. “I suppose my greatest adversary shouldn’t be as easy to destroy as you were upon the hills—yet I am eager to ask, is this your best? A shoddy sliver of metal and dull-witted Vapoury? You slow me down, mortal.”
“You won’t pass the Corlisuen,” Flaer said to the hovering sorcerer, protected by his red shield of light, sparking like the fire that licked the sky below.
“Enough,” said the Unicorporas, angered. A shot a of yellow electricity released from the red shield, steaming along its length, aimed at Flaer’s chest. Flaer rolled back, narrowly avoiding the attack. The Unicorporas had planned it so; another streaking shot was already shooting forth as the first had left, targeting the spot to where Flaer had rolled—scalding energy pierced Flaer’s shoulder, the force toppling him over the opposite parapet. He spun wildly to the ground, many yards below, hurtling into a mass of Feral trolls.
“Fool… All fools. This is the greater good,” came the voice of Zesm. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to become ready for—” A tremendous explosion cut Zesm’s voice off: where Flaer had fallen, the stone street erupted into fragments of rubble. Boulder-sized rocks flew in every direction, some pieces rocketing directly up, deflecting off the Unicorporas’s shield. “Where does this strength come from—did I not strip enough of it already?” came the amused sorcerer.
“Finish the job then!” Flaer roared up with the fury of a god, unscathed by his fall. The explosion had been enough to clear the street of Feral beasts; he stood alone on the burning road, surrounded by piles of troll arms and legs, heads and innards. Two Gazaran lay splattered against nearby walls, oozing black pus, the repercussion of Flaer’s wrath.
“A pest,” muttered the Unicorporas. He soared down to the street, landing, his feet aground before Flaer. “I am sorry, Swordhand. You truly are worth my time.” He drew a long, curved sword from underneath his robe. Suddenly, the red film surrounding him disappeared. “Do you know you are mortal?”
“Have you planned for the end of the merger, Zesm?” Flaer said, receiving his challenger heartily. He drew his flimsy blade, standing ready for battle.
“The merger will never wear off. You see, it’s permanent…”
“Impossible.”
“Not quite—I take it you don’t understand the Maelvulent…”
“Enough,” shouted Flaer, jumping at the exposed Unicorporas with great speed, cutting through the sickle-shaped sword of the sorcerer, causing it to clang to the ground and shatter. His left hand grasped the Unicorporas’s right shoulder, shoving him hard to the ground, his right pressed the dull edge of the soldier’s blade into the rubbery neck of the sorcerer. Pushing hard against tough leathery skin, a drop of black-brown blood appeared, trickling from the blade. The Unicorporas pushed back, but could not move; Flaer pressed down on him, glaring. The evil sorcerer looked up wildly, eyes seized with sudden fear. The walls around them flashed wildly, shadows and flame dancing on the burning buildings. Flaer released his grasp; using both hands he pushed down harder on the blade, trying to slice through the armor-skin of the Unicorporas’s neck. The sorcerer kicked his legs up, trying to buck Flaer with a burst of energy, but it didn’t move him: the Unicorporas’s uptake of dark magic was suppressed—trying as hard as he could, he could summon no demonic power. Flaer released his left hand again, still holding his sword against the tough neck with his right, and began to punch down: blow after blow landed, pummeling the pale, ginger face of the Unicorporas, knuckles digging into glowing eyes.
“I pay this debt to your father. His mistake keeps me alive to this day. I inflict upon you my judgment,” Flaer said, blind with fury. His legs wrapped round Vesleathren’s lower torso as a vise; no longer did he attempt to pierce the demon’s skin—instead, using both hands, he punched thick-knuckled blow upon blow, splitting the color from the Unicorporas’s face so that it grew deep purple in spots, brown in others. Trolls refil
led the destroyed section of the city; several bore down on Flaer’s back, swarming him in defense of their master, striking with twisted axes and rusted spears.
“Leave me!” Flaer screamed in fury. A bright red light emitted from his back as a wave of axes struck down toward his spine. The red blast swept outward, an enormous rippling wave, carrying all the vile creatures with it, smashing them to death against burning buildings. New trolls drove toward him, followed by a Gazaran. It raced ahead of the rest, reared its head, flashing spiked mandibles, and thrust down for a chunk of Flaer’s head. Another blast of red issued into the burning night: the gold-plated armor of the centipede shattered into a million shards, most digging into the internal organs of the bug, the rest flying as shrapnel into the chasing trolls. A bright scarlet hue cascaded from Flaer, reaching near to the top of the tower above, emitting endless waves of force that struck in all directions at the encroaching Feral legion, freeing him to focus on each punch, a ceaseless grinding into the skull of the Unicorporas. Each succession of Feral monsters met the same furious wrath as the last, unable to faze their master’s attacker. Row after row of beasts ripped forward, then apart, limbs and sludge carrying across the rubble-filled streets. None could move Flaer off their master, their creator, yet they could not stop coming, such was the Feral governance that bound them—hundreds turned to muck and dust-mixed filth, their ash-laden blood splattering the once beautiful stone pillars that bore the architecture of Wallstrong.
“Do you sleep?” Flaer muttered. The Unicorporas’s eyes had swelled to near-closed slits, face quiet of all expression.
“That’s it? The power of your greatest magic? A joke of greed and venom.” Flaer roared victoriously. He stood up, letting go of the battered body. He turned to face the advancing line of trolls, still filing mindlessly toward him over the blood of their slain brethren. In the distance, Jaigan could be seen, stuck trying to pass under the street arches, unable to reach him.
Flaer laughed in a frenzy. He bent, picked up a piece of the Unicorporas’s shattered blade, threw it into the head of a rushing troll.
* * *
“But then he’s dead, he couldn’t have survived that,” Erguile gasped, rejoicing at the glory of Flaer’s success.
“No—he survived,” came Flaer. “The damned Reichmar—he corrupted them long ago.”
“The Reichmar?” Peren exclaimed in fear. “I sent for their aid: Diblo and Geron, our great druids.”
“Then you’ve sent them to a Feral tomb,” Flaer said coldly.
“How did he survive?” Erguile said incredulously. “You stood over his body—he was dead!”
“A blast came from above—he’d been forming it the whole time.”
“Who?” Erguile asked.
“I don’t know…a dwarf…the old Vapour of Reichmar, turned to the purposes of the Unicorporas.”
“Dergeros?” Peren asked fearfully.
“I can think of no other dwarf with such power,” Flaer looked from the stars to Peren’s eyes.
“Dergeros?” Erguile said.
“It seems the oldest dwarf Vapour in the world has been turned to darkness, friend. That is why the Unicorporas survived me,” Flaer said.
“He blasted you from above as you stood over his defeated body?”
“He struck me down, the foul smelling beasts piled on top of me. And then it was up again, looking as if I hadn’t dealt a single blow—what did they call Dergeros, the Good Healer?” Peren nodded, worried at the new threat.
“I’m tired. I need to rest. I used up everything I had to get out of there,” Flaer said, helping himself to the soft valley floor.
“How’d you escape?” Erguile asked, wishing for the final piece of the tale.
“Another time, Erguile…please,” Flaer smiled up. A look of relaxation washed over his singed face. Erguile prepared to press the issue, but Peren headed him off with a stern glare of reproach.
“We won’t need a watch tonight—the Enox slowed him down—the first trolls won’t breech this valley until the morrow morn,” Flaer said, eyes glossed, hungry for sleep.
“Enox?” Erguile asked, feeling his need for sleep having left him entirely, replaced by adrenaline from Flaer’s story.
“Erguile—get some rest,” Peren said quietly, and paced away, leaving Flaer in peace. Erguile looked out at the empty stretch of Corlisuen before them, and then around at the sleeping infantry; many who’d woken had already gone back to sleep. Better do the same, he thought; I wonder if Flaer saw Weakhoof? Erguile thought better of asking another question. Trying to calm his excitement, he lay down again on the grass. He wondered if his mind would quiet again before daybreak.
XXIX: BATTLE AT THE CHOKE
“That’s them!” cried Calan.
“It is!” came another voice, then Remtall chimed in:
“Bout damned time!” he said, live with morning drink. The company had plodded through the Angelyn range uneventfully for several days, finally catching sight of their Hemlin friends, camping in the distance, their armor glinting under early morning sunlight.
“Just in time and not a moment late,” said Erguile when the dwarven army had finally converged with the Hemlin forces.
“Erguile!” Adacon rejoiced, embracing his friend.
“You look different,” Erguile said happily, noticing that something in Adacon had changed. “More confident, I think.”
“Of course I am, I trained with the teacher of this old man,” Adacon piped.
“Ah Krem! Old wizard of the dune, good to see you,” Erguile said, seeing the purple-robed Vapour.
“Lad, you’re a bit battle-worn I see,” came Krem, “Glad to be in the company of heroes once more.”
“Erguile!” said Calan, followed by Falen. Flaer drifted to them from the Hemlin ranks, beaming with happiness at the sight of his friends.
“Old man,” Flaer prodded, miming Erguile.
“Swordhand,” Krem nodded.
“Quite an assembly here…where’s Slowin?” Falen interjected, noticing the absence of the silver hulk. Flaer hung his head, looking at the stony grass of the valley floor.
“No!” Adacon cried.
“I’m sorry, there was nothing we could do. It’s true you know: the Unicorporas, it has happened,” said Flaer.
“Dead? Can’t be, nothing could hurt him,” Calan cried incredulously.
“I saw it, I couldn’t even go near…” Erguile said somberly.
“But today we avenge his death,” Flaer replied, “today we make good our promise to Hemlin.”
“I can’t believe it, it can’t be true,” Adacon muttered to himself, feeling the rawness of Slowin’s death. Calan wrapped her arms around him.
“You weren’t gone very long—I hope Tempern actually taught you something,” Flaer said.
“Not gone very long? I was gone three months,” Adacon returned with a look of confusion.
“Adacon,” Falen said, “you were gone for several days.”
“Right,” Adacon smiled with the youthful glee of a child; Krem saw Tempern reflected in his glittering eyes. “The place I went, it has a much greater density than Darkin, time moves differently there,” Adacon explained, repeating exactly what Tempern had told him on Nexus.
“Density?” Erguile said, bewildered.
“We can discuss it later—Vesleathren, er—the Unicorporas will be here any moment,” came a voice.
“Peren Flowerpath,” came Behlas’s excited voice.
“It can’t be—Behlas Goodwind?” gasped Peren. He gazed as if in a dream at the pasty, soft-glowing skin of the spirit.
“How go the druids?” Behlas asked. Peren didn’t hear him; he was thunderstruck, staring at the oaken staff in Behlas’s left hand.
“The Rod of the Gorge?” Peren gasped, astonishment ripping across his face.
“The very same,” said Remtall boisterously, bounding up from the line of dwarves. “Ulpo, Behlas and I—of course Binn too—we took it right from that damne
d necromancing fool.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“That will be the Feral Brood,” came Flaer’s voice. The delighted congregation turned to gaze down the valley—in the distance a heavy mass of hoary dwarves marched, ghoulish, carrying shiny steel mallets. They paced slowly toward the encampment.
Peren frantically called out orders, making Erguile return to his post at the front, aligning his generals and captains, assigning positions for Gaiberth and King Terion’s long line of warriors. Adacon ran to the archers where Calan stood drawing her bow.
“Have you seen the Enox?” Krem asked Flaer.
“Last night. It quite saved me.”
“Saved you?” he asked as Peren called Flaer away, urging him to retake command of his legion. The rhythmic thunder of the dwarf march loudened.“Surely did,” answered Flaer as he sprinted off toward his legion, leaving Krem perplexed.
“It can’t have…the Enox can’t,” Krem muttered to himself. Behlas overheard him and walked close.
“The Enox, it’s really here then,” he said.
“It would seem so. Somehow, it is fighting for our side.”
“But the Enox cannot fight for good or evil,” said Behlas, gripping the Rod.
“Be ready with that forsaken artifact you damned spirit!” Remtall called out, joining the ranks of elves that filed toward the front along the valley’s edge.
“I’m ready, gnome friend. Man your own post, and be ready to use your tiny dagger,” said Behlas.
“Maybe Adacon knows something,” Krem thought aloud. He rushed off to find the former slave.
“What of him?” asked Binn to Behlas, pointing at Grelion, who lay unconscious among Haeth’s standing cavalry.
“I don’t know, let him be I suppose, I’m sure he’ll be dealt with if we survive this,” Behlas said. Ulpo marched by with Terion and Wiglim.
“Come on,” Wiglim called to Behlas, “it’s time.”
“It sure is,” said Behlas. He looked into the horizon of the choke: new within the ranks of the grey dwarves appeared black and silver specks, the armored trolls, trailed by golden Warpedes.
Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) Page 33
