“Why didn’t you tell me—better yet wake me up right then and there, hearing noises and such?” said Erguile angered.
“I felt I was doing you a favor, letting you sleep and gain your strength. Besides, like I said, I saw nothing that night, and I thought the noise might have been imagined at first,” responded Adacon.
“Sure, but you heard it twice!”
“I’m sorry,” Adacon said limply. “But this Zesm, when I saw him last night talking with Krem, I glimpsed a broadsword on him.”
“What? Mine surely!” Erguile raged.
“But it was bloodied. Yours was clean.”
“So he may have killed with it after he stole it.”
“But then why not kill us as we slept?”
“Who knows his intentions, but on account of your story he sounds like a powerful enemy of ours—it is strange he didn’t slay us though.”
“Last night, this Zesm spoke of a master. Perhaps he was doing only as commanded.”
“Perhaps, but either way I will slay him on sight if he dares to cross our path again.”
“But even Krem seemed to fear him once he mentioned a name—I think it was Veh—Ves…” Adacon trailed off trying to remember the name.
“The old man feared him? That’s hard to believe, for I could sense no fear in that old man.”
“Whoever it was, Vessomething, it was after his mentioning that Krem spoke with fear in his voice. It seemed it was the master of Zesm’s.”
“I don’t like this business about phantoms, and I think we need to set forth toward the tower. We’ve waited longer than we should have already. Let Zesm try to murder us before the next day comes, and we’ll see which man is sent to his grave,” Erguile said confidently. Adacon didn’t like the idea of going on without Krem, especially considering the threats Zesm had made. Erguile was right though; hours had passed, and too long already they had been sitting idle, awaiting Krem’s return. So they silently gathered their supplies and began their march northeast towards the Ceptical Tower, now shining in the full light of day.
They paced on over the plains, enjoying a cool wind that was sweeping in from the east. The day passed lazily, as they marched uninterrupted for several hours.
“Aren’t you worried about his threat to kill us if we don’t return to the desert?” asked Adacon nervously as they marched.
“Hah! Let him come, and meet my steel fang,” responded Erguile, and he drew his sword and swung it through the air.
“You’re quite fearless, and a comfort for it,” smiled Adacon. “After all, if we return south I suppose our danger remains the same. Either way Grelion will want us dead, and north or south we know not the way. At least we may try for this swordsman in the tower.”
“And maybe others more than him, as Krem foretold,” said Erguile. “Won’t be long before we have a proper band of fighters I think.” With a slight boost in their morale the two sped across the plain at a hastened pace. The sun started to fall westward in the sky, and there remained a cool breeze as they trudged closer to the tower. It wasn’t until the sun was almost halfway down in the sky that they decided to stop for a meal. The tower was very close, only several hundred yards away: it was at least ten times as tall as the towers on the farm, Adacon reckoned, and it was made of plain, unremarkable grey stones. A dark and massive wooden door could be made out at the base of the stone tower, and a shoddy gravel road ran away from it. The slaves chose a shady area behind a tree-laden hill for their resting place, partly so they wouldn’t be spied upon from atop the tower’s balcony, and partly so they could start making an early dinner.
Dusk began to creep upon them as they ate. Soon the meal was finished, seemingly as quick as it began, and Erguile was complaining that had Krem still been with them they would have been able to smoke their pipes; with no Krem magic to conceal the smoke trail in the sky, they were forced to go without.
“Alright, I suppose we had better do as Krem meant for us to, despite that he’s a deserting coward,” said Erguile. They went over their original design—to take the tower by way of a secret passage at its rear; after getting inside, they were to go up the staircase leading to its highest room, near the upper balcony: the cell of Flaer Ironhand. At the balcony, as Krem had told, they would find Bulkog—troll guard of Ceptical—carrying a circlet of keys, one of which would open Flaer’s cell. Krem had spoken to them briefly of Bulkog’s ferocity, and of his weakness for hallucinogenic pipe-weeds and liquors that came through by way of farm trade. If they were to have some luck, Bulkog the Vandal would be in a stupor and drunk.
“On after me, Addy,” Erguile ordered. They crept, heading out into the open darkness, leaving their concealment beneath trees. They followed the gravel road that lay in the front of the tower—it loomed up in the night sky before them and its great balcony appeared as a crown from which a spire needled out toward the stars to a black point. To their great relief there didn’t appear to be any guards above—no one was watching. The tower was tall, but it was not very wide, and when they had finally gotten close enough the two slaves swiftly darted across the road and around its circumference. There were still no lights coming off the tower, and Adacon felt reassured that they hadn’t been seen.
“Doesn’t this place look abandoned? No guard on the balcony, no scout, no torches?” questioned Adacon.
“Don’t think too hard on it—you might spoil things,” replied Erguile with a wry smile. They crouched hidden amidst shrubbery that ran wild with vines and weeds that hugged the tower’s foundation. Wasting no time they began to scour the earth for the secret entrance Krem had described to them.
“Found it,” Adacon yelped immediately and too loudly.
“Quiet—we still have an element of surprise working for us. Do you want to lose that along with the old man?” Erguile chided. Adacon began to uncover the earth around a rusty old iron padlock; it seemed to be on the face of an inlaid square door, two yards wide and level with the soil. It looked as though it led down into a cellar just outside the tower.
“And how are we supposed to get past this?” asked Adacon dumbfounded, staring at the lock.
“Don’t remember there being mention of a lock…” said Erguile. They took turns fiddling with the padlock until they both gave up exhausted; the frustration had got so far as Erguile taking a swing at it with his sword, disregarding the noise it would make. Still, there was no sign of activity or noise in or around the tower.
“What can we do now but enter in from the front,” Erguile acquiesced.
“That door may be locked as well, and we could be walking right in on them,” replied Adacon.
“Well I don’t see any other choices, but it doesn’t seem to me there’s anyone here to be walked in on.”
“Maybe we should press on—leave this place and head toward the Rislind Plateau, then go on further east,” suggested Adacon. “Maybe Krem was wrong about this tower. Maybe it is abandoned.”
At that, a loud cracking noise sounded, and both Erguile and Adacon exclaimed in horror at what they turned to see: fallen to the ground from atop one of the trees they had been sheltering near was a mass of silver metal in the shape of an enormous man. It looked as though it had been perching atop a branch—around its body were long splinters of wood.
“What in the world,” Adacon whispered. They both drew their swords.
“Keep it quiet now; maybe he’s not dead,” whispered Erguile.
“What should we do?”
“Follow me, and be ready to strike it,” he uttered quietly as he stepped toward the tree less than twenty yards from where they stood. Cautiously, he made his way within ten yards of the hulking silver mass, Adacon tailing him. Adacon came up alongside Erguile as they finally came within striking range. They were now only several yards from the creature, and they stood in awe at the sight: the man was not truly a human at all, but some kind of a rock-like being; he was shaped much as a man would be, but larger than anyone either of the slaves had ever
seen. The giant dressed in a leather chest-piece and greaves, and he wore faded boots the color of soil. His head had no hair, but was tightly bound in russet cloth above his eye line. On his belt there was a dagger big enough to be a man’s sword, and he wore gloves on either hand with finger holes cut in them to let his silver fingers through. The mass of silver began to move.
“Ugh, fallen again in my sleep—weak trees here,” spoke a deep voice.
“Name yourself—enemy or friend to slaves of Grelion?” shouted Erguile, forgetting his stealth and brandishing his sword.
“I’m sorry—didn’t see you there,” the silver giant said slowly.
“What kind of man are you?” Adacon rattled off in shock at what he was seeing.
“I am no man, Sir Adacon—I am Slowin, golem of the Red Forest, protector of the earth there,” retorted the silver mass. The two slaves stood aghast.
“Slowin?” Adacon gasped. “A name Krem spoke of, and you said mine.”
“Yes, Krem told me of your journey,” said Slowin. “It is why I am here, and far from home.”
“A friend of Krem’s—I suppose we’re in no danger from you then. Still, we have this tower to sack, and we are too loud,” Erguile said, regaining his composure.
“It is that very task that I can assist you with,” Slowin said, standing up to full height. He was colossal, nearly twice as tall as Adacon, and of magnificent girth.
“How is it you were able to hide here, so close to the tower?” asked Adacon.
“Krem’s Vapoury of course,” responded the silver golem.
“Where has he gone then?” Erguile asked.
“He had a grave errand—unexpected, it sounded when he told me,” Slowin replied.
“It had to have been something with that Zesm,” Adacon chimed.
“Quiet,” Erguile warned. They had forgotten stealth, and were talking loudly, since the crack of the tree and Slowin’s crash to the earth.
“Don’t worry Erguile,” Slowin reassured. “Bulkog is drunk and hallucinating in the tower, and the other guards have fled in haste two nights ago at hearing word of Zesm the Rancor’s return.”
“You have been in the tower already?” questioned Adacon.
“No, Krem told me last night, after summoning me from my rest.”
“That bastard—doesn’t let on all he knows does he,” Erguile spat.
“I owed him a debt, and I am repaying it now, as an escort for you both,” said Slowin.
“Are we in no danger now then?” asked Adacon.
“Of course there is danger; but rest assured, while you are under my watch, no harm will come to you,” Slowin said, standing as a hulk with his arms crossed over his otherworldly construction of a body. His stone skin seemed to be made out of something metallic as per its sheen, and his enormous frame appeared to be organic; there was fluidity in its design not apparent in the crafted machines of men.
“And enough questioning, for haste is set upon our errand. Enter, and do as was your plan at the start,” Slowin said, and he strode toward the tower. The slaves followed, and when there Slowin drew forth a mallet that had been hidden on his back under garments. After hoisting his mallet, he brought it down with great force upon the padlock. Out rang the clangorous echo of metal on metal, and the padlock lay broken apart.
“Aren’t you going to come?” asked Adacon, as Erguile already began lowering himself through the door into the cellar below.
“Ahaha! I had forgotten the humor of humans—does it look like I might fit through?” Slowin laughed loudly, throwing caution to the wind. “Now go, make haste.”
Adacon followed Erguile down into the cellar, and soon they were half crawling in a dank and dust filled cavern with no light. The cellar was wide but not tall enough for either of them to stand, and they could see nothing but a soft trail of starlight coming from the open door.
“And what now, how are we going to ever find the way in from here?” Adacon grunted.
“Krem didn’t account for this part then, did he,” Erguile groaned. At the last word of Erguile’s a thud came from behind them. Spinning around, they saw a small orb of glowing white on the cellar floor, fallen in from the door above.
“Use it well, slaves. It is my light for times such as these,” called down Slowin. Adacon picked up the shining orb—feeling like a heavy ball of marble—and realized that it sent a shaft of light toward whichever direction he thrust it.
“A magic trinket from a golem—our journey grows queerer by the hour,” Erguile chortled.
“Thanks Slowin,” Adacon called up, and he turned toward the dark parts of the cellar. Once lit, the layout of the den was simple: a floor of orange sand, wooden crates, and several sacks scattered about an otherwise empty chamber. Toward the end of the room against the opposite side was another door: a small wooden square that appeared to have another lock on it. The slaves hurried toward it, hands ready by their sword hilts.
“Another lock,” Adacon said, frustrated.
“Pay it no mind, this one I ought to handle fine,” Erguile said, and then he reversed his position so as to set his back against Adacon’s. With a heave, he thrust both feet forward, cracking the wood. Again he assaulted it, using Adacon for leverage. With a loud splintering crack the door caved completely in, and new light poured forth. The small orb in Adacon’s hand suddenly went dark; it became a lifeless mix of grey and black. Erguile went through first, followed by Adacon. In a moment they both were standing in a wide dungeon hall ten yards high. The walls were bare, and there was no sound except for the droning crackle of torches that intermittently lit the hall.
“Look, stairs,” pointed Adacon, and they ran for a nearby staircase, their swords out and ready. They clambered up the tremendously steep staircase, Adacon leading the way. After many times around the circumference of the tower, each flight becoming increasingly vertical, they came to a foyer walled with inlaid jail cells and a path out onto the balcony. They entered into a small room laden with crimson carpet, on which stood several tables. On the tables were spilled tankards and flasks, as well as several upright beakers containing a thick brown liquid. On the wall hung what looked to be a giant decorative hammer. The slaves noticed an odd aroma, sweet yet pungent all the same. It wafted to them from the balcony entrance.
“Bulkog,” whispered Adacon.
“He must be on the balcony,” Erguile whispered back. They gripped their broadswords and quietly paced toward the balcony. The air was cool and a slight breeze rolled in from outside, carrying the odorous pipe smoke. The slaves turned a corner to face the precipice, and there they beheld the source of the aroma:
Pipe in one hand, hoary blade in the other, stood Bulkog; he appeared, however, unlike anything Adacon or Erguile thought a troll should look like. Both of them had seen illustrations of trolls, and this looked nothing like one. Bulkog was bigger in size than Erguile, almost two-thirds as big as even Slowin the golem. His skin was yellowed and dilapidated, oozing brown syrup from its pores. His head was poorly constructed, as if he had been misshapen in childbirth or beaten savagely in the face. His hair was wrapped up in leather bindings, and the mess of it that could be seen was greased and grey. He wore thick silver armor on his legs and shoulders, but his chest was bare except for a rotted black shirt. At the sight of the slaves Bulkog coughed deeply and dropped his pipe. A trickle of brown paste slipped from his lips, suspended itself in midair, and finally sagged to the stone floor of the balcony. Reaching for a sword, Bulkog spoke:
“What’s this—vile thieves of Zesm, come to steal from my hidden stores? Hold still and I will rend you both asunder—”
Adacon and Erguile began a full charge and Bulkog stepped back to parry with his long steel.
The blows fell hard, but Bulkog deflected both without effort; Adacon’s sword glanced off the troll’s shoulder armor, and Erguile’s strike was rejected by Bulkog’s own blade.
“Feel the bite of Ettlebane!” roared Bulkog, and in their recuperation from t
he parries, the deranged troll bolted past them back into the red foyer. Adacon and Erguile, temporarily stunned, rose again to action and gave chase. They confronted Bulkog in the foyer as he was taking down from the wall the massive hammer of war.
“Heel now to Ettlebane and Mirebane, blade and hammer of the Feral Dynast—or do not, and seek a prolonged death!” raged the drunken Bulkog, wobbling as he swung Ettlebane his sword in one hand, and Mirebane the war hammer in the other.
“Seek this,” replied Erguile cockily, and he swung violently at Bulkog’s head. Bulkog was drunk, but he retained his speed and blocked Erguile’s attack for a second time. At last Bulkog struck, flailing forward with both weapons at Erguile in a north to south swing. Erguile quickly rolled aside, diving headlong onto the floor, blood blending into the carpet as his leg grazed the steel at his ankle.
“Ahgh,” Erguile moaned, slowly regaining his feet. Bulkog stood over him ready to finish when Adacon came from behind; his sword bit directly into Bulkog’s shoulder, just between where his armor met his neck.
“Ugh—runt,” Bulkog violently screamed, “I’ll kill you!”
Adacon tried desperately to remove his sword from Bulkog’s shoulder but it wouldn’t budge; the cut had been a severe depth and the blade was buried in muscle. Bulkog twisted around to face him, and Adacon lost grip on his sword. He recoiled in fright, cowering with his arms over his face.
“Time to die, you rotten human; feel the death pang of Feral steel,” Bulkog bellowed as blood oozed down his chest from the fresh wound. Raising his hammer high over Adacon’s head, the mallet descended; Erguile had rolled near, and as the hammer fell, he stabbed down fiercely into Bulkog’s feet, causing him to tumble. Adacon jumped aside as Erguile regained his footing and yanked from Bulkog’s neck the broadsword. He tossed it over to Adacon and they were both armed once more. Bulkog was writhing about on the floor, howling in agony, his back to them. The slaves made ready for a unified death blow; they sent their swords down upon Bulkog’s spine, but as the tips were about to sting him a bright red flash of fire burst upwards from the troll’s chest. A great force followed the fire blast and the slaves were thrown back against the stone wall. Erguile looked over to see his friend unconscious; Bulkog rose and limped over, faint with blood loss yet ready enough to finish off the intruders.
Darkin: A Journey East Page 8
