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

by Turkot, Joseph

  “Still no sign of him,” said Peren, standing by Flaer at the front.

  “He sends us the vestiges of the Reichmar in his absence,” Flaer replied.

  “I was foolish to think they’d be there, waiting all this time for us to rouse them—”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Flaer consoled. “You had to try, we needed all that could be mustered. With the Oreinen, I think we’ve just enough, despite the Reichmar added to their numbers.” He smiled, gripping a Hemlin long sword.

  “Well then—where’s the damned thing?”

  “The Unicorporas? I expect he’s planning a grand entrance into the battle—if Zesm holds any great weight in that being’s decisions, their arrogance will unravel them before our swords.”

  “Adacon lad,” Krem called, rushing through close-knit ranks of footsoldiers, finding Adacon and Calan eight rows back from Flaer and Peren.

  “Krem, we’re so close now,” Adacon said optimistically.

  “The Enox, Adacon, what did Tempern say—why is it on Darkin?” Krem said, urgency and fear in his voice.

  “The Enox? Oh, Alejia Bloom.”

  “Yes—the Enox is not supposed to interfere—yet Flaer told me it saved him.”

  “Maybe it helped—let him fly on its back.”

  “No, something doesn’t make sense, it can’t have just given him a ride,” Krem said, words sticking in his thought, unconscious of the approaching Feral Brood only several hundred yards away.

  “Don’t worry Krem. I’m sure it’s all part of the balance of things,” Adacon said, unalarmed.

  “The what? Boy! Tempern has stricken your reason, has he?”

  “Krem, look,” Adacon said, turning Krem aside to see:

  “Falen?” Krem said.

  “It’s him—scouting ahead I bet,” Calan said.

  “He’s gone to see how we measure up against them,” Erguile called over growing chatter. Weaving his way back through the middle infantry to the front of the archers’ line, Erguile came upon his friends looking enthused.

  “But what if Vesleathren’s back there, waiting behind?” Calan said fearfully.

  “Then he’ll turn back, won’t he?” Erguile replied. “We’ll be releasing on Peren’s command. Adacon, you don’t have a bow?”

  “Neither does he,” Adacon said brightly, looking to Krem.

  “Well, he’ll send balls of fire and lightning—you need a bow!” Erguile said. He raced off, returning in a moment with a spare bow.

  “Been awhile since I’ve used one of these, not since I left the farm,” Adacon said to himself. He felt the firm wood in his hands, took a filled quiver from Erguile and strapped it on.

  “Gaigas be with us, eh Krem?” Erguile said. He sent the hermit a smile then raced toward his position in the infantry.

  “Oh no,” Calan whined, staring at the sky in the distance. The others turned to see: Falen flew back, yet his stroke was lopsided; one wing lagged uselessly, and its deficit bore him at an odd angle toward the earth—with each violent beat of his wings he gained a slight bit of altitude, then spiraled around, dropping faster.

  “I’ll go,” Adacon said. Before Krem could respond, Adacon shot into the sky as a flash of light. They watched him glide over the shrinking gap of empty valley, encounter Falen in midair, and hoist him from under his broken arm, helping the wyvern ease down onto the grass.

  A foreign tongue roared a command; arrows issued from the Reichmar: some soared with heads of flame, and others screamed with burs of electricity sparking at their tips. The arrows sailed forth, unable to reach the Hemlin forces, but striking down around Adacon and Falen as they retreated on foot back to the front line.

  “Adacon!” Calan cried. She pushed past Krem toward the front.

  “Any moment now,” came a voice behind Krem; he turned to see Iirevale shoving his way to the front of the infantry. King Terion fought forward too, abandoning his rear post for a chance at first action. He appeared happy, even smiling, his full girth cast in brilliant armor, gloriously approaching the awful spectacle of the Feral horde.

  “Krem!” called Terion, “this troop may not look as marvelous as the Five Country Army, but it is quite enough I think for the destruction of Vesleathren!” The king dwarf’s bellow echoed out to the ears of the frenzied dwarves, who traded march for sprint. Krem beheld a twinkle in Terion’s eye, the legendary battle lust of the Oreinen.

  “You say his name too soon,” Krem said, turning from Terion as darkness swept the battlefield: the Unicorporas appeared over the valley, rising from the farthest rows of the Feral Army, flying within his scarlet shield toward the closing gap.

  “Just as Vesleathren has corrupted the good dwarves of Reichmar, he corrupted me! Just as they are unable to think, vessels under his control, so was I!” came Grelion in a fit, woken by the tumultuous clamor of imminent battle, somehow unbound from Vapoury. He shouted to anyone who would listen, but none did; Haeth’s men had already moved up their files, eager to see the encroaching attackers. “I’ll prove my valor twice then, in this century,” Grelion resolved, jumping down from his horse and looking frantically for a weapon of some kind.

  “He must have cut a new exit from the heart of Ascaronth; we came through the only passage,” Peren said.

  “So they may come from behind then?” Erguile realized.

  “Let us hope not…” Peren responded, unable to consider the horrible possibility with an impending wave of armored dwarves before his legion.

  “They look so sickly, they can’t have much strength,” said a nearby soldier.

  “Look at their eyes! They glow!” said another.

  “Adacon!” Erguile shouted, seeing Falen and him still struggling in the choke, caught between the two armies, racing from a hail of arrows. Adacon had formed some kind of invisible wall over himself; the rain of fiery arrows glanced away several yards before hitting their two targets.

  “It was the aliens,” Falen called as they reached the front lines of the Hemlin infantry.

  “Aliens?” Peren said, sure he had misunderstood.

  “They were caught in Vesleathren’s energy, but it looked as if Vesleathren was caught too, they were both floating—still—and then he burst through, the silver left toward Wallstrong—when he came out, his blast hit my wing,” grumbled the drake.

  “Aliens,” Erguile said, trying to recall the word’s meaning.

  “No time for council—it’s time to fight,” Adacon said. Calan raced up to him, making sure he’d returned in one piece.

  “The sky, it’s the same as Dinbell!” she exclaimed, the morning sun having all but vanished. A dreary grey washed out the bright blue, the color of an impending storm; the only brightness visible over the Corlisuen was the glow of the floating Unicorporas.

  “Surrender now—surrender your pride, your false righteousness,” came an ethereal voice, somehow reaching clearly each member of the Hemlin force.

  “It’s him, he’s in our heads—don’t listen!” Erguile shouted. Something small and hard pushed past his legs; he glanced down and saw a russet-colored blur, breaking the uniformity of the front line, racing out into the darkened plain alone.

  “Remtall!” Adacon called.

  “For Slowin!” Remtall called victoriously, wielding his dagger high under the dead sky.

  “No!” Calan shouted. Adacon raced out, chasing the suicidal gnome, whose vision of revenge had shifted from murdering Grelion to avenging the death of his golem friend.

  The two ran across the gap, almost in reach of the first line of dwarves, as another hail of arrows poured down. Adacon sent his shield up again, and the arrows deflected off, as he finally came within grabbing distance of Remtall.

  “Remtall—we can’t help Slowin by rushing to our deaths,” Adacon chided.

  “Let—me—go! I’m tired of being held—this is my decision alone to make, and I do not wait for these cowards, I go straight for their necks,” Remtall said, struggling to break free. Adacon didn’t
let him move; a new power had come into him, and he held the ferocious gnome with ease.

  “I’m sorry Remtall—to do this,” Adacon muttered as the first Feral dwarf raced in, swiping with his rusted axe. Adacon heaved the gnome back, at the same time sending Remtall flying away toward Peren and his line—amazingly, Remtall landed unhurt and dusted himself off; a group of infantry stepped quickly forward to restrain him. Alone in the middle of the twenty yards that separated the two armies, Adacon fought the first wave of dwarves.

  “We can’t leave him out there alone,” said Erguile, watching in horror as a swarm of dwarves surrounded his friend, Adacon disappearing from sight.

  “Look—he’s alright,” Peren said, his green aura extending high over the heads of the men surrounding him. Dwarves were heaved in every direction; some flew skyward, others went pummeling into the ground, and many rolled in crumpled balls into each other—in common they endured the effect of being driven away from the spot where Adacon had disappeared.

  “He’s more than alright—look at his strength,” Erguile groaned in excitement, trying to comprehend the strange might exhibited by his friend.

  “And we’re not helping yet—tell the archers to release,” Calan called to Peren; without hesitating, she began to fire arrows into the dark mass that wriggled through the Corlisuen choke, circumventing the whirlpool of destruction that came from the spot of valley where Adacon stood.

  “Good Gaigas I didn’t issue it—Let fly!” Peren said, distracted by Falen and Remtall.

  The Unicorporas soared directly over Adacon, hovering silently as the first wave of arrows came from the Hemlin archers. Many glanced away, hitting the shield of the Unicorporas—a shining film of scarlet light that had expanded to protect his dwarven minions—but many found their way past, piercing the dwarves where they marched too far in front. Struck dwarves cursed in pain, toppling to the valley floor, clutching their wounds, trying to pull the arrows where they’d dug into armor and flesh.

  “Yarnhoot!” Krem cried. The gliding bird swooped low, followed by Wester. “Wester, pick up Behlas—that one, by the gnome there.” Hoping that Wester was as smart as Yarnhoot, Krem took off into the sky, heading directly at the Unicorporas, hoping to reach it before it could launch an assault. Beneath him, the lines of the two armies melted, twining in combat: the dwarves pushed into the wall of Hemlin shields that blocked the southern choke. Adacon fought tirelessly a short distance away, besieged by a thicket of Feral blades; Krem flew over the fray, high-flying bodies abound, launching as projectiles in all directions, one narrowly missing Yarnhoot before screaming back to the valley floor.

  “Flaer, stay,” Peren called. “We need to stick together this time.” Flaer ignored Peren’s command, fighting his way into the forest of grey dwarves, breaching into the enemy surge instead of defending the Hemlin line.

  “Sorry friend,” Flaer said, jumping forward; even without the Brigun Autilus, Peren saw the dwarves recognize Flaer Swordhand in terror—they fled where they could—where they couldn’t, Flaer slew them with his Hemlin steel, felling each who barred his path to Adacon.

  “Quite a swordsman,” Flaer called, barely dodging a headless dwarf hurtling past.

  “No sword work just yet,” Adacon replied. Flaer stepped in close to him; to his amazement Adacon hadn’t boasted: the thin sword he carried was still at his side, unused. Flaer watched in bewilderment as Adacon buffeted with his hands, each fist lit with blue flame, coiled round his knuckles, snaps of electricity flying after each hit; the dwarven armor split, cracked, and shattered.

  “I’ll match you—Welsprin or not,” Flaer said, his face tightening; he backed against Adacon, beginning his own rampage against the corrupted Reichmar.

  “The sky is gone,” cried a soldier.

  “It’s Vesleathren!” came another. The sorcerer flashed nearly overhead, a red sun.

  “Let Krem worry about him—stay on the dwarves!” Peren commanded, his aura brightening, failing to mirror the intensity of the Unicorporas’s. Shot after shot leapt from the druid’s hands, harvesting dwarves that raced forth mindlessly; their armor crackled with electric current, each streaking band of emerald emptying the mail of its living contents. He looked up as he fought, watching Krem close in on the red above—another bird flew close behind him, atop it a human with glowing skin.

  “Krem, old hermit—you should have heeded my courtesy in the desert, so many months ago…too stubborn, I suppose. Very well, I’ll not dislike your corpse hanging in my chamber—a valuable artifact it will make, a relic of the past—that foolery, Vapoury!” laughed Zesm’s slithering voice. Krem could recognize no face on the Unicorporas, hidden behind its wall of light.

  “Take me for your own then, if you can,” Krem taunted; his purple robe whipped in furious wind as he leapt midflight from Yarnhoot, diving at the Unicorporas.

  “Funny old man,” Zesm’s voice echoed out, piercing the roar of battle below. As Krem flew toward the dark sorcerer, a jet of air rushed from behind him, pushing him to great speed, knocking into the red wall: refracted light arced, a terrible crack of thunder ripped the valley, and Krem passed through the shield.

  “Behlas!” screamed Krem; he had somehow managed to grab the Unicorporas from behind, choking him. Krem’s tiny fingers glowed white, crackling as little thunderstorms; Vesleathren’s ginger visage contorted into a grimace of pain—he’d underestimated the deceptive old hermit.

  “You really…think…it’s enough?” choked Vesleathren, fighting to unfurl Krem’s stinging fingers. “Have you…forgotten…that I am…your…creator, I am…your…God?” said Vesleathren’s voice. Up from the battlefield below, a bolt of pure white surged, as if anchors had released from some violent tension; the force pulsed skyward, entering Vesleathren’s feet, then his waist, his chest, his arms, his head: the scarlet light surrounding the Unicorporas faded, replaced by blinding white. Krem howled in agony, as if the dark wizard’s skin had turned to lava; his hands turned flush pink, losing their thunderous Vapoury—he slipped off, falling swiftly to the mass of Feral below.

  “Now!” Krem signaled as he fell, craning his neck in freefall to see Behlas close in on the momentarily distracted Unicorporas. Yarnhoot swooped under him before he crashed into the frenzy of writhing trolls, marching in the wake of the corrupted Reichmar. “Good riddance Zesm—and all the progeny of Melweathren,” Krem muttered to himself, watching the oaken staff in Behlas’s hands turn stark gold. Behlas stood erect on Wester’s back, facing the shieldless dark wizard. A cataclysm of aurous light illumined the valley; the battle below ceased, frozen in time by the paralyzing flash—Peren tried painfully to peer through the glare, knowing the Rod of the Gorge had been used.

  “Aaaah!” belted Behlas, sustaining the scalding note, directing all the Rod’s might at the decrepit form before him; the Unicorporas did not realize what had happened, only that a piercing pain strickened his cells, every vein and orifice—he burned as if put through the sun: no longer able to see, he knew not even who struck him. Soon the burning ceased, his body succumbing to the painlessness of death; in a vestige of consciousness he hurtled as a missile, north over the Corlisuen, far past the last of his army.

  Behlas watched the Rod of the Gorge fall from his hands, too hot to grip any longer, and disappear in the black mass below; halfway down its gold diminished, dull as the grey sky.

  “Damn it!” he cried, mad at losing the searing wood.

  “It’s alright—its purpose is fulfilled,” came Krem’s ragged voice from atop Yarnhoot; his purple robe blew in tatters, its frayed ends hanging off his side. He sat half naked, body badly scalded, beard singed nearly off—a charred brown mess of hair represented his head, exposed where his emerald cap once was.

  “Look,” he said. Behlas followed his gaze out to the distant sky, to the farthest stretch of the Angelyn range visible—suddenly, almost as soon as Krem had ordered him to peer out, a giant peak split from its mount, a jagged triangle exploding up, granite
ripped apart like paper, trailed by an enormous golden plume; a shockwave reached them a second later, a dull thud that transformed into an earth-shaking clap, sending many footsoldiers below to their knees, unable to withstand the quaking earth. The Unicorporas had been driven miles by the blast, yet the blow of the Rod had maintained force, crushing him into the demolished mountain; its distant snow-tipped cap erupted into a gold veil of dust and spray.

  “Yeah!” cheered Peren below, one of the few who understood the reason for the quake—even Flaer and Adacon hadn’t seemed to realize: they fought endless rows of dwarves, then trolls, when suddenly, their enemies had stumbled to the earth.

  “On! Vesleathren is dead! The Unicorporas is dead!” Peren rallied. His aura exploded up, merging with the grey sky, shrouding hundreds of warriors in every direction—suddenly, many more auras lit, signaling the druids’ power restored; they rushed on against enemy infantry, leveling Feral beasts where they stood.

  “That’ll be a Warpede, keep still on her,” Remtall told Haeth and his warriors. They watched a glittering mass of plated insect speed at them, eventually halting short to rear its head.

  “Now—roll!” commanded the tiny gnome, but Haeth and his men were on horseback; they galloped aside easily, watching the gnome complete a strange rolling maneuver, narrowly escaping the mandibles of the giant creature, exposing himself for a second strike from the Gazaran.

  “Watch out!” Haeth cried. He wildly threw his slave blade at the Gazaran, hoping to stall it for Remtall, who slowly stood from his roll as the beast whipped around for a death blow. The shoddy sword bounced off the gold-plated armor of the centipede; unfazed, it rose up, arcing its serpentine length high, poised to make its attack. A graceful form hopped atop the gold armor, running the length of it; before the Gazaran crushed down upon Remtall, a small elven dagger cut into its exposed jaw, wrenching apart its delicately constructed mouth. Black pus showered down from its mandible, caking the Hemlin forces beneath. Remtall rubbed ooze from his eyes to survey his savior: Calan was there, atop the vile beast, rapping its head with her left fist, ripping out her blade with the other—the centipede thrusted wildly, trying in vain to buck her off. Remtall ran, his only hope to avoid being crushed, while Calan somehow fastened herself tighter, one hand digging into a chink in its mail.