“Be assured: he will not lose who he was,” Krem replied. From behind, cheers grew loud; Behlas rushed up, along with Binn, Remtall, Ulpo, and Falen.
“Krem, you foul bastard,” Remtall prodded, taking a victory puff from his pipe and passing it to the hermit, who received it gratefully. “Lady!” Remtall boisterously threw his arms around Calan, overjoyed at their great victory.
“I’ll be wanting a warm den very soon,” Falen informed exhaustedly, but a smile stretched across his snout, revealing rows of white fangs.
“Falen,” came a voice from behind. “Been trying to get to you, let me see that wing.” Reap had charged up, ready to start his healing work on the injured drake.
“Good friend, it is strange what time makes one grateful for: I am glad you hurtled death rocks at us, nearly killing us—if not for that, you wouldn’t have come on this journey,” Falen said, finally over his resentment for the former League of the Mage member.
“Enough talk—hold still,” Reap ordered.
“Now where’s that Gaigas-damned Grelion—I’m ripe to murder him, be it that he was enchanted or not, it doesn’t matter—none can do as he did without consciousness of it,” Remtall spat.
“Wait Remtall,” Ulpo cried, seizing the gnome by the arm, as a row of elves swept by, rushing at a limping Feral troll that had picked up its weapon. The elves quickly laid the troll to final rest, among them Gaiberth; Gaiberth surveyed the congregation of heroes, grinning broadly.
“Where is Adacon? Flaer?” he said, happily forgetting that Vesleathren hadn’t been seen since the beginning of the battle.
“To be sure the Unicorporas has been destroyed,” Krem returned.
“So it really was true—they merged,” Gaiberth said softly, shaking his head.
“Calan!” Iirevale called, running up to embrace his sister. “Did you see that magnificent hawk? What a majestic creature! Could that have really been the legendary Enox?”
“I don’t know—it was beautiful though,” she replied.
“And damned vicious—to kill a hundred with one swipe!” came Binn’s voice, fluctuating rhythmically as if a motor worked in his throat.
“We can thank Remtall—without his effort, and Ulpo’s, we wouldn’t have had the Rod—I wouldn’t have thought it possible to take it from Parasink,” Behlas said, congratulating his friend; the tiny gnome was nowhere in sight.
“Oh dear,” came Iirevale, “There he is—and Ulpo chasing after him—he must be off to kill Grelion—come on!” They watched the big dwarf chase the little gnome through a throng of celebrating troops. Calan ran after Iirevale, and some others followed, hoping to restrain the gnome before he completed his final act of drunken revenge.
“What is it, Krem?” came Behlas, his face serious.
“Oh nothing,” replied Krem, “It’s nothing.”
“We’ve won. You ought not look so dreadful about it,” Behlas replied. “If you’ve gone to thinking that Vesleathren—that the Unicorporas is still alive—forget it! I summoned that blast, you set it up excellently—there is no way it could have survived,” he continued. He’d recovered the Rod and held it firmly in his fingers, mindful of its dormant power.
“That’s not what troubles me.”
“I think I understand, dear friend—you’re thinking of those who are not able to celebrate among us—those we’ve forgotten in the midst of our cheers—the likes of good Slowin,” Gaiberth said.
“You speak truly of my heart, friend,” Krem lied, putting his arm around Gaiberth. He felt sad about Slowin, as the others would too once the glory of victory wore off; the mourning of Slowin would last a long time—but that was not the darkness that riddled Krem’s face and mind. The Enox cannot interfere; the Enox cannot interfere, Krem thought over and over again. Tempern had been very clear about what would happen if she did—if she did anything more than provide a flight for the agents of good—if she killed, took life. This can’t have happened, Krem’s mind battered itself; around him, Gaiberth, Behlas, and Binn looked on sympathetically.
“We will have a proper procession for your friend—all the world will know of his valor evermore—his name will be writ ageless into the vaults of history, sutured by the veins of legend, a brave hero of Darkin,” Gaiberth proclaimed, and to his happiness Krem seemed comforted; a smile bent his mustache.
“Off him you whore—off him!” roared Remtall violently at Pursaiones, who had been hugging Grelion—Grelion having just told her the tale of his being cursed by Zesm after the Five Country War, how he’d been enchanted by evil, possessed, for many decades, and only now was his right mind coming to the realization of what he’d done since the war—who he’d become.
“Remtall, stand down—you would talk to your friend with that tongue? I hope for your sake, and mine, that it is a momentary spell of madness that grips you, so that I do not have to lay you down!” Taisle defended; he still distrusted Grelion, but after seeing strange magic on the battlefield, he had started to come to some acceptance, and believe that possibly, Grelion was telling the truth—after all, he’d seen himself fly thousands of yards above the planet; he’d witnessed the floating evil menace of the Unicorporas; the blast of the magical Rod of the Gorge, which had destroyed the entire cap of a mountain—if those things were real, why not Grelion’s story? He did not want Pursaiones to love Grelion, but he still wouldn’t allow Remtall to call his closest friend a whore.
“Back off boy, this man murdered my son!” Remtall spat, drawing his dagger, prepared to rip Pursaiones from Grelion if he needed to, ready to fight Taisle if he interfered.
“Remtall, I am your friend!” Pursaiones said tearfully. “How can you do this?” Grelion stepped forward, releasing Pursaiones from him.
“You’ll need to get through me first, old friend—the world has changed you—you’ve become ruthless, primal,” Taisle said sternly, stepping between Grelion and the gnome.
“The world has made me this way so that I can avenge my son’s murder,” Remtall stormed back. Without hesitation, in a fury built of spirits, the gnome bolted forward, thrusting at Grelion’s neck.
“Remtall,” Ulpo boomed, grabbing his friend’s arm from behind, restraining him just in time; Taisle had already drawn his sword and shield in defense.
“I’ve seen him like this before—never so bad, never so far gone,” cried Pursaiones, watching a look of anger scrunch Remtall’s features.
“Let—me—go!” he raged, a solitary thought coursing through his mind, over and over again—this is the man responsible—this is my son’s murderer: but Remtall could not break free, as Iirevale had raced up from behind, helping Ulpo, and then Calan. He was unable to budge as the three strong warriors held his arms; the gnome dropped his dagger, fell to his knees, then burst into tears.
“It was Zesm, It wasn’t me—it was Zesm!” Grelion said over and over, pained at the devastation he had caused, distraught at the notion of what he meant to the world outside Rislind. Pursaiones tugged his arm, watching Remtall through tears of her own, feeling no longer the sting of anger at him, instead seeing his pain, his sense of lost closure—not having found the person who deserved justice, there was nothing for Remtall: no one to kill, no one responsible left to hunt. The gnome had surrendered his life, his consciousness, his being, all to the pursuit of one thing: destroying those responsible for his son’s kidnapping and murder. Now he was restrained for it, told that there was no one responsible, no one he could exact revenge upon. Pursaiones felt only compassion, seeing all those things dressed on the tear-stricken gnome’s face, his small beard dripping, his dreams and fears laid bare for all to see.
“There will be a trial, Remtall—the ones accountable shall be held to painful justice,” came the powerful voice of King Terion from behind. “Until such time, Grelion will be—” King Terion sent a stern glance at the man who’d claimed Zesm had controlled him, “—detained by us.”
“No!” cried Pursaiones. A group of elves and dwarves removed
her from his arms, and Grelion stood forlorn, looking to the ground, a single tear rolling down his cheek—not because he was being taken prisoner again, for the second time in days, but because for the first time he was bearing witness to the destruction he’d caused in the world, shown in the face of Remtall—he realized his sadness to be but a single episode of what had happened thousands of times over, lives ruined because of his weakness. He’d somehow let Zesm take control, he thought to himself, and though he did not even remember the last fifty years, nor how Zesm had done it, he blamed himself, offering his arms willingly to his captors. King Terion had him bound and cuffed.
“It’s alright, Purs. Justice will be found, and he’ll be set free, we have witnesses at home to testify his true character,” said Taisle, wrapping his arms around her, unable to believe he now sought to aid the one he’d long suspected and distrusted, hated even, for taking the loving gaze of the one he pined for. “I’m sure Mayor Doings will round up nearly every soul in Rislind on behalf of Noil—Grelion’s defense.” Pursaiones felt only slightly comforted at Taisle’s optimism, and watched sadly as Wiglim enchanted Grelion, so that he could no longer speak or move, only stand as a statue, placed atop one of Haeth’s horses.
“No…” she wept, turning away, unable to look.
“Time will set him free, you’ll see.”
* * *
“I’m sorry,” Flaer said, getting used to the sensation of flying as they sped into a southerly draft.
“It’s alright,” Adacon replied, knowing Flaer’s apology to be for his attack on Tempern.
“I have a history with Tempern, you see. He and I—he’s the one who—made me as I am,” Flaer said.
“But you’re not a Welsprin,” Adacon shot back.
“Of course not—that’s not what I meant. I am older than anyone else you know, you realize that, Adacon?”
“You told me a bit, you said once that—”
“Let me explain,” Flaer said as they flew over several mountain tops, heading directly for the growing plume of smoke in the distance, the spot where the Unicorporas had landed.
“When Tempern was young, just learning his gift from Alejia, as she trained him, they fell in love—it shattered his judgment, he couldn’t truly focus on what she was trying to teach him.”
“About how to use his power as a Welsprin?”
“Let me finish—” scolded Flaer. “So when Melweathren appeared, the first great threat of evil in Darkin’s recorded history, Tempern was much like you—young, powerful, newly exposed to his role as a Welsprin, unsure of how to best use it for the purpose of good.” Flaer paused. Adacon wondered if the story had been cut short for some reason.
“Recorded history you said—Darkin has a recorded history?” Adacon asked, finally breaking the silence.
“As kept by the Artificias—formerly housed in Morimyr.”
“The Artificias?”
“They keep the record of Darkin’s known history—but it only goes back to a certain period, we call it the Iinder Age.”
“Slowin told me about it—the age when Molto used his spell, The Spirited Winds, to end a war—he caused a great crater by it—the Vashnod Eye,” Adacon said. Hearing himself call out the name of his slain friend bore his spirit down; he became sullen, forgetting Flaer’s story, bending all his thought to his silver friend. “Slowin taught me so much.”
“And so,” Flaer said, continuing his original story to distract Adacon from his mourning, “Tempern had a decision to make: how would he use his power to fight the new evil, the first spawning of Melweathren.”
“What did he do?”
“He gave his power to a young boy, not but a few years younger than you, Adacon…Tempern himself could but lie in bed for months after that, so drained he became from giving so much of himself away…”
“Gave his power?”
“Used his connection to Gaigas’s core, summoning every last bit of energy he could to cast a spell, against the will of his magister, Alejia.”
“What spell?”
“He cast the spell of Emmortas.”
“Emmortas?”
“Yes, on the greatest hope the world had, a perhaps vain hope: the young boy. Many saw the boy as a prodigy, the only source of strength that could defeat Melweathren—others saw him as a risk, an unproven possibility, undeserving of leadership.”
“But what does Emmortas do?”
“That boy was me.”
“What!”
“I—but a year older than the foolhardy young Tempern himself, given the greatest spell of a Welsprin, bedridding him for months—Alejia was very displeased.”
“Tempern gave you his power? But what does Emmortas do?”
“Do you know what happened when Tempern awoke?” asked Flaer, purposely ignoring Adacon’s question.
“What?”
“He learned that the first war of the Iinder Age had been won, led by the violent leadership of that young boy,” came the reflective voice of Flaer. “Alejia was quite unsettled…”
“Violent?”
“Many were lost—they said I was reckless, my commands too quick; the kings said that I did not heed villages and the innocent, ones I swept through with force to reach the evil…many claimed that more innocents were lost than was needed…some claimed that more innocents died than agents of Melweathren. Some blamed me, most blamed Tempern.”
“Great Gaigas…He didn’t even mention—”
“And so he’s regretted it: regretted giving me what I have, ever since, even after everything I’ve done—he still thinks he made the wrong decision to this day, and so he vowed…” Flaer fell silent again as they almost reached the fuming mountain.
“Vowed?” Adacon repeated after Flaer didn’t resume.
“Vowed to never again interfere.”
“But he does—we know he does—he trained me,” Adacon said.
“You’re right, Adacon. He does. But if you only knew how much he could really do…He interferes in such subtle ways that I barely call it fighting at all, in fact, I don’t. I’m just sorry I took it out on you back there. If you witnessed what the Enox did in but a moment, you have an idea of how much a fully trained Welsprin can do to stop evil, if they really want to.”
“So the Enox, I mean Alejia, she forgave Tempern for casting the spell on you?”
“Of course. She eventually commended him, but she didn’t really love him. And so he bore no more of her lessons, didn’t listen to her apology—that he’d actually made a good decision by giving me the power to fight Melweathren.”
“He told me they were deeply in love!”
“Alejia loved him differently; Tempern loved her as a human does, with flawed perception.”
“Flawed perception?” Adacon said, taking offense, himself a human in love.
“Indeed—but she fights, he does not. I think he resents her for her decision, and he still resents me; to him, I am an everlasting reminder of his one and only mistake.”
“He bore no ill will when we spoke of you—in fact, he spoke fondly of you.”
“He would,” Flaer said, trailing off as they finally reached the crumbled plateau of mountain, its floor a field of steaming rubble. Below them at its basin was a limp form—no more red light wrapped the black sorcerer, no more energy field protected it; it was just a lifeless body, concealed by its cloak, lying still.
“It’s strange he’s not a disfigured mess of slime,” Flaer said, astonished that the Unicorporas’s body lay in piece.
“He looks alive. Come on, let’s finish him,” Adacon replied, forgetting their conversation at the startling sight below. He landed them on the smoldering rocks, cooled enough that they didn’t burn through their boots. Together they approached the body.
“Zesm,” called Flaer, but there came no reply from the body.
“Even if he is dead, I want him in pieces,” Adacon said.
“That’s my sort of idea,” Flaer agreed, approaching the feet of the co
rpse.
“I see you’ve died, Vesleathren, Zesm—what a pity that is,” Flaer goaded. He drew his Hemlin blade, ready to cut the body apart, limb from limb. Adacon whipped his head around suddenly: a silver comet shot along the western ridge of the Corlisuen, speeding hastily toward the distant ruin of Wallstrong.
“Them.”
“What?” Flaer said in confusion. “Adacon, no!”
“I’m sorry Flaer,” Adacon said. He darted into the atmosphere, giving chase to the silver comet zipping through the clouds. Flaer torqued his neck, looking for what he’d gone after: it was already too far, he could see neither the silver blur nor the human form zooming after it, only a thin trail of smoke that marked where Wallstrong once stood.
“Arrogant bastard,” Flaer said, turning back to his dissection of the Unicorporas. “I guess this is really my work anyway,” Flaer said. He was silent for a moment. Finally, he raised his sword over the left arm of the Unicorporas, cutting down furiously, cleanly severing it. “Still asleep?” Flaer yelled at the lifeless body.
Again Flaer cut down, cutting the leg of the Unicorporas away after several blows. This will take too long, he thought to himself, fighting the enjoyment destroying the evil body brought him. He knew there was a faster, more effective way: a sudden surge of energy coursed through his legs, filling his torso, his arms, his head. A red aura extended from him; he channeled every bit of strength he had into his palms, held outstretched above his head. Set to incinerate the half-body at his feet, a terrific cackle pierced the air, pausing him; the profusely bleeding body, nearly a stump without its left arm and leg, somehow turned itself over, wrapping its cloak over its wounds: a haunting face peered up at Flaer, withered, seething, as if with its last ounce of life it chose to scorn its murderer with a glare of contempt.
“Flaer Swordhand, you’re a treasure,” cackled the voice of the wizard, testing Flaer’s patience; the appearance of life from the dismembered body startled him, but he’d half expected it. He tried with all his might to not release the cannon of energy boiling over his head.
Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) Page 36
