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

by Turkot, Joseph

  “Get it elf woman,” Remtall called, safely away in a row of charging Oreinen warriors. As if in reply to Remtall’s encouragement, Calan let go of both hands, momentarily flying off the head of the Warpede as it writhed; the beast twisted up then back to the ground; she landed again on its ripped face, perilously hanging from its loose jaw.

  “Didn’t mean for you to do that,” Remtall admonished, rushing forward to help her; apparently she had meant to, realized Haeth, watching from the side—she swung deftly from the right mandible back to the left side of its armored skull; there she opened a flap in its upturned plating, cleaving with a single motion the exposed eye of the beast. Foul-scented blood broke like a river undammed, washing over her—the elven edge dug deeper. Quickly she released the dagger, wiping tar-colored goop from her brow before it seeped into her eye; then, against the force of the bucking centipede of war, she drove it in again; and again; and again—the blind Warpede fell thunderously to the valley floor to the cheers of Haeth and Remtall.

  “There’ll be more coming—no time for celebration,” she said quickly, clearing as much gunk as she could before racing away toward the fray surrounding Adacon and Flaer’s brutal melee.

  “Who’s that one?” came a voice behind Remtall. Remtall turned to see a strange figure with lidless green eyes, robed in bright red that caught the reappearing sunlight.

  “Calan—feisty elf woman—she’s taken my friend,” Remtall gloated, pausing during the din of war to drink from his flask. Reap looked at Remtall in astonishment.

  “I’ve never seen such agility,” he said.

  “Get used to it, bug eyes,” Remtall said, laughing. “On with yourself, fight!”

  “It is good to see the sun again,” Reap said, rushing past the gnome into battle, brandishing Hemlin steel.

  “Push!” King Terion boomed over cries of agony. “Push them back!” On the western ridge Gaiberth had cut a line deep into the trolls with his elven rank. Jaigan moved against them now, slow and deadly, cutting down elves left and right. Gaiberth despaired; his men could take row after row of Feral trolls, even dwarves, but Jaigan had proved invulnerable.

  “Iirevale!” called Gaiberth. “We must retreat until we have the aid of Vapoury—the spires are too strong.” Iirevale shook his head from several yards away, watching a third Jaigan close in; its coral arms swept again and again, mangling all that it grazed.

  “I’ll deal with them,” came a hoarse voice—Behlas looked to see an odd sight; coming fast to help the elves was a limping fire dragon—the glistening coat of scales spoke again as it neared the Jaigan:

  “Return to the sea, or find on land a hot death,” bellowed Falen. One of his wings hung oddly at his side, the other neatly tucked away. He leaned back for a moment, angling himself toward two approaching Jaigan, smoke rising from his nostrils; six of Gaiberth’s elves ran to escape the coming blast. A volley of steam ripped the atmosphere, prelude to a fierce gust of fire. The flames released: withering horribly the Jaigan wailed in pain, a low note of sadness, unable to defend themselves from the searing heat issuing from Falen’s gaping mouth. Their bright turquoise skin wrinkled to brown, then a flaking black; the tall spires suddenly curled in on themselves, succumbing to the extreme temperature.

  “Not so tough now, damned sea curses,” came an elf, watching the Jaigan that had killed his comrades burn and die.

  “The others, Falen,” Iirevale called. Falen turned his stream on the approaching Jaigan—Gaiberth ordered his men to the drake’s side to protect it from flanking trolls and Warpedes.

  Falen roared between breaths. “Thought I’d be useless without wings?” A whistle of steam sounded as he drew back and released fire again, crippling the last of the Jaigan.

  “It won’t be long now—without their sorcerer, they’re but mindless hordes, rowing themselves into a chasm, filing to their deaths,” said King Terion to Wiglim. The dwarf Vapour agreed, launching missiles of energy as fast as he could, each one hanging high in the air, soaring over friendly troops, deep into the last rows of the Feral.

  “Dergeros,” said Flaer, hammering a troll to his feet.

  “What?” Adacon replied, standing in a clearing of slain Feral; incoming waves of enemies had started veering around the range of dead, trying anxiously to avoid going near Flaer or Adacon.

  “He’s healing them, there—” Flaer said, pointing at slowly standing disfigured trolls. A soft-glowing circle of light bobbed, floating above which worked a cloaked dwarf, his hands stretched toward the injured.

  “Is he…resurrecting them?” Adacon said.

  “Not for much longer,” Flaer said, rushing forward. He barreled through four trolls, each knocked off-balance, falling clumsily under weight of armor.

  “Leave me to clean up your mess?” Adacon sneered, running after him, striking the stumbled trolls dead on his way.

  “Dergeros—good dwarf—how you’ve changed,” greeted Flaer, the dwarf hovering several yards overhead.

  “Flaer Swordhand, without his sword I see,” said Dergeros, turning away from the corpses he was reviving, flying skyward, out of Flaer’s reach.

  “Come and fight, craven mage!” Flaer called, swiping away trolls that charged his sides. “Vesleathren gave you the power to fly—did he know its use would be to flee from your executioners?”

  “I am charmed to see you today, truly,” came Dergeros’s sickly voice. “It will be joyous to watch him finish you off for good this time.” The dwarf spiraled higher, ensuring space to dodge any attack Flaer could muster.

  “Vesleathren? You still haven’t realized—too busy in your new trade of necromancy: He’s dead! Destroyed by the Rod of the Gorge!” jeered Flaer.

  “Fantasy and dream,” Dergeros laughed. “Rod of the Gorge!” the dwarf cackled madly in disbelief: “So desperate that you reach to myths for comfort?”

  “The sun has come out again,” said Adacon, flying up to Dergeros from behind.

  “How? Only those blessed by Vesleathren’s magic may fly,” said Dergeros incredulously. As if in delayed response to Adacon’s claim, Dergeros surveyed the valley; he noticed for the first time that the sky was no longer dark grey, but lit bright blue by the returning sun.

  “Ah, but you see…” Adacon started, trapping the fleeing dwarf within a stasis of energy as he spoke: “I am a Welsprin.”

  “No—no—can’t be—impossible—where’s Vesleathren?”

  “Hah! You were once a good healer, as I understand it…did he slake your thirst for power?” Adacon said, a grin spreading over his face.

  “This isn’t possible!”

  Flaer stood directly below, curious about his friend’s new power, a wall of red energy deflecting trolls so that he could watch without distraction. Adacon drew the struggling dwarf in as if by an invisible net; as Dergeros closed in, he offered his hand for the dwarf to grab.

  “What is he doing,” Flaer muttered to himself. “Kill him Adacon!”

  “Take my hand, I can help you—I can take it out: the corruption, the stain that has turned you from your Vapoury,” Adacon said calmly, extending his arm.

  “You can?” came the dwarf’s soft whimper. “But how?”

  “It doesn’t matter how—you have to trust me. You’ll be who you once were,” Adacon promised.

  “I trust you,” said Dergeros. He reached out, stretching to take Adacon’s hand. Adacon smiled, having won over the dwarf. He readied an ability Tempern had taught him in their last days together, something he’d said would be his most valuable asset; Tempern had taught him how to release evil from an enemy.

  “Fool!” Dergeros spat; his hand exploded as it touched Adacon’s, a secretly charged blast, erupting the moment they embraced. Adacon recoiled in sadness; the surprise attack of Dergeros billowed smoke around them, doing no harm to its target. The dwarf’s jaw dropped; he’d put all his remaining strength into the deception, yet Adacon floated unharmed amid the smoldering aftermath. Flaer stared from below, unable to see
anything, the veil of the explosion concealing them both; what he’d seen last had been a strange handshake. A cloaked log fell from the clouds above, then another; Flaer smiled in approval as each of Dergeros’s limbs thumped to the grass—Adacon had at last heeded his command. A bulb of hair tumbled down—the head of the corrupted healer. Adacon followed it, landing at Flaer’s side.

  “Well done,” Flaer congratulated, releasing his aura of red-white energy so that he could start fighting the nearby Feral again. Adacon appeared in pain, disheartened to hear Flaer’s remark.

  “Why the face?” Flaer asked, striking down a fleeing troll; the Corlisuen had thinned out, and the wall of Hemlin infantry had stood its ground—a fixed barrier of shields and spears, swords and pikes, squashed each row of the mindless horde as it slammed leaderlessly to death.

  “I failed to save him,” Adacon whimpered.

  “Save him?” Flaer said. “Can you save these too, then?” Flaer deftly beheaded a nearby troll with his blade. “How about this one!” Flaer cut down another, then another, validating his point. “I know what you’ve become Adacon—but you are not like Tempern, you are not that,” Flaer said, charging three Feral dwarves who’d been resuscitated by Deregeros minutes ago.

  “But I…”

  “You’re not! That fool can’t fight, he’s grown too close to his power, he’s become a nothing—neutral he says—unaffected by the evils that haunt our world,” Flaer angrily rent down blow after blow, clearing the herd of Feral. “You still have a will, you can still fight for what is good and make a difference,” Flaer continued.

  “Tempern is not a fool,” Adacon defended.

  “He went too far, Adacon. Too far…” Flaer called back. “He could single-handedly end this, with one wave of his hand—but no! I am—glad,” groaned Flaer between strikes, “that—he’s done—as much—as he has—for you…I am surprised he even offered to train you at all. And I am glad for it, but—you—don’t—want—to be—like—him,” Flaer urged.

  “What do you know about it?” Adacon thundered, growing sensitive at the attack on his new friend—Tempern had become very close to him on Nexus—they had formed a connection beyond what he thought possible between a teacher and apprentice—real friendship had been born.

  “I know because I’ve been there: each time evil has reared its ugly face, every threat that has ever loomed, with the world ready to die, I fought—at the front. I made—heads—roll,” Flaer roared back, swiping viciously with his sword. “He stood in his mountains, watching it, enjoying himself—it is because he has at least made Krem what he is—and you what you’ve become—that I do not kill—him.”

  “You’re not serious!” Adacon said through streaking pellets of black blood, splattering his face each time Flaer struck down another troll. He stood idle, watching Flaer destroy everything in sight—he couldn’t even continue to fight, being too startled by what his friend had said.

  “I am,” Flaer said. “It is my duty—my curse: that I care about the fate of this world—that I do something when the final hour approaches—that I take up a sword and fight…but because he understands the nature of reality so closely, he no longer can. Even his wife has the nerve to help—don’t give me the coward’s lie that a Welsprin can’t interfere with the affairs of good and evil because Gaigas is neutral!”

  “But Gaigas is neutral—she doesn’t purpose to make men good or evil—they choose on their own.”

  “Just as Dergeros chose on his own—and the whole race of the Reichmar—they chose to be corrupted by the evil that enchanted them? What about Grelion? Did he too choose to enslave you? Do you really believe that? Zesm—do you think he chose to kidnap hundreds of children, to merge with Vesleathren?”

  “That’s why I tried to save Dergeros! Because I know he didn’t choose the corruption—it was cast upon him!”

  “But then you see—we have to fight—we have to destroy evil, regardless of philosophy, or what that damned man thinks. Let me never see you hesitate to destroy an enemy again…”

  “If Tempern didn’t care, if he won’t be involved, how is it that I am here now, aware of my power, using it to fight? I am the work of Tempern!”

  “Kill them without mercy…so that there can be a time of peace again,” Flaer replied, ignoring Adacon’s point.

  “What did you mean his wife even has the nerve to help?” Adacon asked.

  “The Enox, Adacon, the Enox—it’s not Gaigas trying to make itself neutral, as he’s told you…it’s her own free will to manifest in a form that can fight.”

  “But she doesn’t fight—the Enox doesn’t directly inter—” Adacon began, but was cut off:

  “Oh no? What is that then?” said Flaer abrasively. To Adacon’s amazement, the great scarlet hawk came into view, flying over a distant peak, soaring straight for the battlefield. “Watch her fury—then, never again, doubt swift judgment of death upon these parasites Vesleathren has created.”

  As Flaer predicted, the Enox soared down to the battlefield, and unlike Tempern had told Adacon, the bird, as big as a small mountain itself, began to rake the last line of Feral down with razor talons, sickle claws the size of trees, annihilating row after row with single swipes.

  “I don’t believe it…” Adacon said, watching in disbelief as the hawk sounded a furious screech above the din of battle, paining the ears of all who stood alive in the valley of the Corlisuen. The Hemlin force cheered the miraculous arrival of the Enox, save for two: Krem stood aghast, like Adacon, at what he saw happening—Krem had the look on his face, hidden amongst the sea of cheering, smiling soldiers, leaping in victory, that something was terribly wrong; the Enox was not supposed to interfere. Flaer joined in the victory rally, helping clean the field of anything left half-alive, cheering the glory of an impossibly quick victory against the Feral horde. Adacon stood alone as many ran past him.

  “Adacon, we did it! They’re destroyed—he’s destroyed! It’s all over!” came Calan, spotting the lone straggler, her love.

  “We did,” Adacon said quietly. He saw her warm smile and couldn’t help but join in. Finally he let go of his startling confrontation with Flaer, raised his hand in glory, smiling wide, then took Calan up off the floor of the plains, embracing her hard, kissing her, wiping the hair that stuck to dried blood on her forehead. “We did it!” he affirmed.

  Krem stood alone, slapped on the back by many who passed him, many who recognized the brilliant effort he’d put forth in battle—he had, after all, subdued Vesleathren long enough for Behlas to use the Rod, removing the Unicorporas from the battlefield; but somehow Krem wasn’t happy—he felt deeply disturbed. He trained his eyes on the Enox as it flew away north, back over the mountains, not sticking around long enough to be commended by the troops for its swift work on the last of the Feral ranks. The combined forces of the Hemlin army raised their hands high, thanking the red hawk as it soared away, its scarlet feathers glittering under the high sun. Krem lowered his head, closed his eyes, and drew a long, trembling sigh.

  XXX: EMMORTAS

  A spectrum of Darkin’s races celebrated together the flight of the brilliant hawk, gliding away ominously as the sign of Vesleathren and Zesm’s defeat, the final testament to the power of good over evil; many did not know what the great red bird was, and had been initially frightened at seeing the taloned beast swoop down onto the valley floor—only when it began dismantling the last of the Feral Brood did the Hemlin forces rejoice, losing their fear of some secret attack from Vesleathren. The celebration didn’t last long for Adacon, as Flaer rapped hard on his shoulder while he twirled Calan about, hoisting her high in the air:

  “Come—we’ve got to make sure it’s dead,” Flaer grunted to Adacon, eyeing him severely. Adacon still felt bruised from Flaer’s attack on Tempern, and looked ready to reject Flaer’s orders out of disdain, but a smile of understanding overcame his first thought of anger, and he agreed that they should be sure the corpse of the Unicorporas was found.

  �
�There will be plenty of time for celebration later—especially since this battle hasn’t left you in a coma,” Flaer assured with his familiar charm.

  “Alright—that one with the smoke?” asked Adacon, looking out at the mountain in the distance that produced curls of dark grey smoke.

  “You’ll be flying us there,” Flaer smiled.

  “Of course,” Adacon acknowledged. Suddenly, after telling Calan he’d be right back, Adacon rose into the air, followed by Flaer; they shot out of sight, flying headlong toward the distant peak, faster than Yarnhoot or Falen had ever flown. Krem rushed up beside her as she watched the two small silhouettes disappear from sight.

  “They’re going to make sure he’s dead,” Calan said, noticing the bearded hermit walk alongside her.

  “I’ve never felt a more powerful blast than what Behlas channeled from the Rod, fair Calan—if he is not dead, I would resign my attachment to the good order of Vapoury,” Krem said.

  “He’s changed, Krem—you didn’t tell us much about what he’d be doing out there, but I feel it; it’s as if his spirit has become—visible,” she reflected, unsure how to feel yet about the drastic change that had occurred in Adacon.

  “He has changed for the better, don’t forget—he truly is a Welsprin; I suspected as much for a long time. I waited for him, moved into Molto’s Keep, close to his farm, because I sensed it, long before he’d even been born—I knew there would be a Welsprin.”

  “What?” she said, unsure if Krem had meant to say what he’d said, given that she didn’t understand what Molto’s Keep was.