He stood to fire, revealing his hiding spot. About to loose his arrow, he froze at the sudden clap of footsteps coming from behind. The footsteps were faint, twenty yards away at least, accompanied by muddled voices. He lost his focus for a moment to the distraction, but quickly returned his gaze to see the archer above fixing aim on him. Two arrows flew: the archer’s spared its target; Adacon’s did not. The form atop the tower grasped at his neck violently. The aim had been dead set. More red misted the night sky, illuminated by the torch harnessed to the tower balcony. The tower spotlight flickered out. The limp body toppled over the side of the tower rail and fell to the fertile earth, croaking until impact. Adacon began a mad dash at that moment, running directly to gain the tower. The trailing footsteps had grown louder, and he felt their eyes upon his back. The tower had seemed larger from a distance, and appeared smaller as he approached its ladder: it looked like a frail old piece of wood crafting, fashioned by wood slaves in the south. The old bars were sturdy though, and he quickly gained the high ground.
Three sentries came into plain view, rushing at the tower. He removed another arrow from his quiver and set it in place on the bowstring. He drew the string back and let the arrow fly, targeting the front most sentry. The arrow missed to the left, burying into the soft soil. He did not think—he instinctively reloaded the bow and fired again. The arrow hit, but not at its intended target; it glanced off the front guard’s sword and flew into the archer that had been bringing up the rear. The arrow pierced through his lower left abdomen, leaving him helplessly wailing on the ground. Two guards rushed on—an archer and a swordsman; he reloaded his bow and fixed aim on the archer. Before he could release, the swordsman charged the ladder and haphazardly threw a knife skyward. He dodged the errant blade, but enough time had been saved for the archer to quickly take position behind the stone wall.
Adacon squatted behind the balcony’s small rail to be out of sight. The swordsman grunted below, climbing the ladder with haste for the balcony. Adacon looked down through the floor hole where the ladder came up into the balcony. Peering down, he saw the top of a man’s head rising upward fast. He felt no guilt as he fixed aim on the defenseless guard’s skull and loosed another arrow. The force sent the guard tumbling back to the ground where, after a loud crack, blood pooled. One more, he tallied. The last archer sat hidden somewhere below, nowhere to be seen. With reckless abandon, Adacon flew down the tower ladder, hopped the slain guard at its landing, hit the earth, and ran toward the stone wall. He threw his bow to the ground and again unsheathed his sword. Gripping the hilt with both hands, he felt new energy course through his muscles—he stalked forth, and the fragrance of melted flesh bathed him once more.
He prowled the brush along the looping stone wall, searching the thicket where the archer had disappeared into. He froze to listen for noise—nothing. He grew impatient and started a mad search, untangling each piece of knotted brush. Suddenly, he heard the unmistakable sound of a twig snapping. It had come from behind.
He spun around to meet a cocked bow pointed at his face. The sentry launched an arrow at the slave’s throat; Adacon reacted in time, reeling his sword upward in an instinctive reflex, severing the bow’s sturdy frame. The arrow limply glanced from his neck, drawing a thin line of blood. The guard stumbled back in despair, and Adacon locked onto his eyes. They shared a brief moment of compassion before he swung his great blade around, this time horizontally at the guard’s abdomen.
Snapping out of his momentary daze, the guard unsheathed his short sword and parried upward, causing a clangor of metal to break the quiet. Blue sparks of steel on steel fed Adacon’s desire for freedom. The sentry struck back in the next second, thrusting powerfully in an upward slice at his torso—but he reacted as if possessed, countering without effort. The sentry wobbled off balance for a moment, stooping slightly to regain his footing—Adacon wasted no such chance, swiftly beheading the fazed guard. The guard hit ground with a thump.
A wail echoed from several yards away, and Adacon glanced to a still living guard, lying on the earth, grappling with an arrow stuck in his gut. He thought for a moment about sparing the helpless man, but memories of Remtall flooded in—there could be no mercy now. He thrust down once more, ending the cries, and a light filled his head…
The farm is free; at least for the moment. A fallen farm, he guessed, would take several days to replenish its guards; it was more than enough time to clean the evidence and make a swift and long departure. But he was not concerned with evidence; he felt that he had perpetrated no unlawful act. The words of his lost friend Remtall echoed in his head. This is the start, he thought. He sheathed his sword. The air had grown extremely foul, it seemed fouler than ever before, and he grew anxious to leave the smell behind. The landing of the tower ladder was painted scarlet, and Adacon had begun to leave his mark in the History of Darkin.
The gate to the outside world was fifteen yards away. He slowly walked the path. This is the start, he thought: there is no repenting this, not to the lords. He did not know where to travel once he made it beyond the farm gates, but he decided he ought to go east, in hope of finding free countries; he did not trust the slave lore, nor the tales of the elders, but he had no other hope. He knew it was more likely he would be picked up by sentries marching across the countryside, or by routing posts hidden throughout the land, only to be tortured and hanged. The guards of the lords had the right to sentence immediate death unto a slave. But fear was a feeling he now had no use for, it seemed—it was a newly estranged remnant of his old form. The sun leaked a hint of its first somber pink glow in the distance. Adacon wiped the blood from his brow and broke away from his past, through the farm’s gates.
II: KREM THE VAPOUR
He had the clothes on his back, the boots on his feet, the sword at his hip, and the bow and arrows on his back, but Adacon did not have much else—certainly no food for making a long trip away from the farm. He knew he was not coming back, that he was leaving on a quest toward the hope that there were free countries in the east. It would be his new responsibility to find food and drink along the way, at whatever the cost.
He had not been hungry as he left the plantation, but hunger soon began to grow in him; he thought of the bread and water he received regularly on the farm, and how that was now a comfort of the past. The road leading away from the plantation was formed of dirt, and lined by green and gold shrubbery that outlined a dark red wood on either side of the path. He followed the path steadily into the morning, hearing the forest wake up for the coming day. From childhood he recalled strange memories of forest tales, stories whose origins were long forgotten. They were stories about curious things; tales of wolves and wizards, elves and trolls—the sort of lore that was meant to be believed for only the first quarter of your life. Stuff like magic and spells. He didn’t believe in any of it, though he thought he would rather like meeting an elf. He had always heard elves to be loyal creatures of the forest, living at one with nature. The elves had no rule or slavery; they lived in harmony away from anyone else’s concern, the fables told. Such was the kind of tall tale that had sometimes made him long to personify the stories, and embody a noble elf of the Red Forest.
Eventually the path led to a fork that split off heavily east in one direction, heading into what looked like a hot, sand filled horizon. The other direction jerked back and up north, deeper into the Red Forest. Relief came in not having to travel the wooded path any longer, as his quest called for him to move eastward. The entrance into the heart of the dangerous Red Forest is what the northern trail had been, he knew from tales, though the path itself was not labeled with any signs. The tales said that the Red Forest was full of evil things, and no sound-minded human should enter it alone. But the forest path was averted, and he made his way in the other direction toward a gloomy desert, slowly gaining glimmer as the sun came up. The weeds and grass around the path began to intertwine with patches of yellow sand, and a distinct smell arose; it was totally unlike that
of the Plantation, not a pinch as vile. An aroma of warm bliss flowed in a delicate wind toward him, carrying the fresh smell of the dunes westward. The path leading out into the now cheerful desert seemed less than a few hundred yards, he realized.
Then, impulsively, he stopped walking for a moment, and glanced back one last time. Facing the direction of the life he was leaving behind, he felt his lingering stare hold all his memories in a single instant, one intense second of recollection, before melting away into passion. After several minutes, he looked away from the past, and set his eyes back upon the desert.
* * *
Adacon was a slave. Slaves did not get an education, especially any form of vital knowledge about the world or its geography. Slaves were given essential information needed to perform their duties. The information taught to a slave was always functional—it pertained either to how to use farm equipment or how to follow order. There were a select few whose dynasties were traced back to the most ancient times, slaves were told. These were the blood born rightful owners of Darkin. He was taught that the owners were gracious in that they allowed the poor to live on their land, and not only that, but offer them work on their farms. There could be no opposition because opposition meant death. No great powerful lords to control the great land of Darkin meant starvation and hunger for all, a good slave knew. It meant the absolute end to civilization. Still, he had always felt his mind was his most valuable asset, though it was restricted almost wholly. He had learned on his own to write, and had worked on his reading skills at night, absorbing books stolen from passing trade wagons.
He marched on, slowly starting to feel fatigued from the bloody scuffle he’d just survived. The sun rose slowly up and up, and soon the heat began to burn his skin. He wrapped his arms in a tight bundle, attempting to hinder the strong sun, but it didn’t seem to help as the hot rays continued to scorch. He’d read about the desert before, yet never had it seemed in writing so cruel and hot. But it was hot, and before long he grew hungry and thirsty. The patches of green slowly fell out of sight behind him, as the path leading on through the desert twisted and trailed eastward.
He noticed his vision seemed blurry, but even still he thought he could see an unusual sand dune up ahead, spotted with discolorations. He wondered if the vision could be a mirage, but as he drew closer he realized the dune was completely real, as it did not change or vanish from his sight. It was not so large in size, and it seemed to have what looked like windows and a small door. He wondered who could inhabit such a remote house in the desert, and where they fell under the rule of the lords.
It was noon by the time he reached halfway to the small house. He dragged on, noticing as he got closer that the windows were actually small holes, plated with glass, carved from the hardened walls of the sand hill. The door was a faded green, and it had a small sign hanging on it, he could see. He paced on through the terrible heat, hard as ever up and down the dunes, as slowly his mind began to waver. He began to wonder what he’d just done. He had killed six men. The lords would torture and hang him if he couldn’t find freedom in the east; if there was no freedom in the east.
Abstract thoughts rushed through his brain, many things of the strangest sort. He grew into a depressed state, deciding it was more than likely that the sand dune hut was a desert outpost for the lords. The structure hadn’t appeared to be anything more than a small, hardened dune to him at first glance, and the door to it had been well hidden behind another nearby dune. Should there ever be any roaming guards passing by, they would not easily see the hut. But he had spotted it, and so he adjusted his path across the hot sand towards its entrance. As the door came within his sight, he could clearly comprehend the lettering on the sign:
‘Molto’s Keeping.
Do Not Enter,
Lest You Fancy
Spirited Winds
To Sear Your Soul.’
He stood completely puzzled, yet completely enthralled. Though as a child he never talked of it, he always had a keen intrigue in the legends of Vapoury and its surrounding lore. Vapoury was the idea of using magic righteously, for the good of others, though magic itself was forbidden to be discussed by slaves, and was only spoken of in hushed tongues. He used to hear tales of the Vapours; the mythical wizards who used Vapoury, and could harness the natural elements for purposes of good. In one such tale there was a spell called the Spirited Winds, the same as was written on the sign. Though in all probability it was a coincidence, a stream of excitement poured through him, as he thought momentarily that perhaps Vapours were real, and their stories true.
Then a wave of fear poured through him. He knew, as slave legend told, that most of the magic users rumored to remain about the land in modern times were cruel and evil, only using their forces to construct a landscape of evil upon Darkin. The fear almost overtook him, but soon he supressed his worry, and curiosity devoured the fright in him. Still, he unsheathed his sword to be cautious, and made a slow pace toward the mysterious dune. He reached the tiny green door, froze for a moment, and then made an anxious knock. He hid his drawn sword to his side, deciding that an evil wizard might not kill him immediately should he appear unarmed.
The majority of slaves he’d known on the farm did not believe in Vapoury. None had seen it. The lords condemned the use of the word, and they named it a treacherous and chaotic fable. The rulers of Darkin believed with mysterious fear that the legend of magic was a bringer of ruin. The very act of reading about magic, or even openly speaking of it, almost always resulted in execution.
Adacon had always dreamt that there existed another world besides his own, one possible only in his dreams, where magic was a beautiful thing; he dreamt of humans and elves frolicking together on golden hills, using it only for Vapoury. This tinge of wonder in him had caused him to knock—any sane escaped slave would have made for the east until more civilization appeared, and worked from there on. But the moment had passed, and the door did not crack.
He briefly thought that perhaps the hut was an abandoned jail for some poor slave who had stepped too hard on his master’s foot. The windows were in pristine condition; there appeared to be no cracks, or for that sake any chips in the green paint coating the door. A bird chirped in the distance, and the sound of the sand ridden wind grew louder as he stood still waiting. The sun was extremely bright and there was no shade for him, making sweat slowly bead on his forehead as the intensity of the day grew. His hand holding the broadsword slowly released its tension, almost letting the handle slip, as he sighed in disappointment. He knocked once more, yet still no response came. He tried the door’s knob. It was locked. With a sigh he threw away his last hopes of anyone being inside, and turned around to face the pathless desert abyss, about to retrace his steps. No one was home.
“Yeh fallen tatter,” came a raspy voice, seemingly from thin air. Adacon had turned his back as the words were uttered, and he quickly turned around to face their source. No one was there, but a small hidden hole had opened on the door’s frame. “What chose you to disturb me? Has the great hawk of the sky met the humble serpent of the sea?” the withered voice continued. “Ah, I see you are a slave, escaped I presume. Forgive my queer tongue, and let me open the door.” Adacon remained speechless as the tiny door swung open. Standing in the light now able to poke through the door was a small and silly looking old man, well robed in dark purple cloth.
He wore a purple cap, a strange looking assembly, lined with emeralds that appeared completely foreign to Adacon. He held aloft his left side with a marble staff, which looked rather valuable; its top was gemmed with amethysts and rubies. His face was well wrinkled, a yellowish tan desert color, filled with crazy hair that assumed the form of a beard encompassing a mustache. His eyes were deep green, and quite large, though his pupils were barely visible inside his irises. Adacon could plainly see that the odd looking man was weaker than himself, but he decided not to spare any caution for the appearance. He took his sword out from behind his back and pointed it at the small
man in a menacing motion.
“Are you an ally of the lords?” Adacon asked viciously, gripping the handle tightly and preparing to strike down. To be safe now, he thought, he could only trust himself; a stranger’s trust would have to be hard earned. He kept an intimidating glare on the old brightly clothed man, but the old man simply stared back with an eager smile.
“Fellow of the light, brethren of Darkin, calm your anger. I am not at all with a label, you see. I do not follow such organized rules for structuring life, but I embrace life all the same. Now let us have some tea, yes, that would be nice. Save the sun for another day, don’t you agree? Today is a particularly harsh one. I think perhaps I shall have to set about making an awning for my front step. Perhaps the Lord Grelion should not get any sleep yet,” the little man babbled.
The old man had a delightful sparkle in his eye; Adacon could not tell if it was virtuous or pure evil. Either way, the welcome greeting was a relief to him, and rest from the heat along with food and drink seemed too desirable to question.
Darkin: A Journey East Page 2
