“Krem has sent word again,” Remtall said as he sat down.
“Just now?” Adacon cried.
“Yes, by way of Yarnhoot, and he has also asked both the condors on a mission, and so I let them go,” a solemn Remtall proclaimed. He handed Adacon the letter, who quickly read it while Calan sat patiently.
“A summoning stone?” Adacon said with wonder.
“Here…” Remtall said; he held aloft in his hand the tiny green and red stone, alive as the colors swirled around inside, mixing and separating.
“What on Darkin?” exclaimed Adacon; Calan and he moved to peer close at the summoning stone. “What is a summoning stone?”
“Beautiful,” gasped Calan. “I have once before seen such a stone, used by an elven druid who lived amongst the Carbal elves several years ago. Though he never used it, he claimed it could summon a giant creature of the wood—though his stone was gold and black.”
“This is all too much, too much to think about before a proper meal has been eaten—let me refill my mug, and we will eat before we are consumed by such mischievous pebbles,” Remtall commanded, regaining his tone of captainship.
Soon the three of them were feasting, and when they finished, seconds were served. Adacon drank heartily the honey-fruit tea that he learned was called Ebper Froth, a restorative blend the Carbal elves consumed often to refresh body and mind. Remtall stuck with his elven ale, and before long he was acting foolishly drunk.
“It’s just a matter of time before I meet my end, and face in heroic valor a Gazaran, taking its life whilst it takes mine!” Remtall coughed, puffing quickly on his pipe.
“Remtall, gnome of Rislind, mind to our quest and its prosperous outcome alone. We do not need talk of worthless martyrdom to spoil these last hours of haven,” Calan interrupted. Adacon marveled at her strength and bravery, both required when confronting the drunken gnome.
“Certainly right, my dear, and I am sorry. It is for my son my sorrow spills out, and ever is it renewed when the foul Zesm, kidnapper of my only child, aids the villain we march against,” Remtall said, reclaiming his calm.
“I wonder what those centipedes of war look like, and how big they are,” Adacon thought aloud.
“I have seen them before, never wearing armor though,” Calan attested. “They are as tall as five elves, and have the girth of four dwarves. They do not bother us as we do not bother them; though if they are corrupted with black magic, and turned Feral, I do not guess what evil they might be capable of.”
“I dread to think,” Adacon replied. “Hah, look!” Calan turned to see what amused him: it was a sleeping gnome, upright in his stool, lit pipe dangling from his mouth. Suddenly Remtall toppled from his stool, where on the wooden floor he promptly began to snore. Adacon walked over to extinguish the smoldering pipe, and together he and Calan lifted the old captain onto a nearby carpet, plush enough to serve as a bed.
“Well—serves him right I guess,” Adacon said.
“Does he always drink with such abandon?” Calan asked.
“He has since I have known him.”
Adacon drifted off, forgetting Remtall, staring at Calan: her attire clung loosely around her fragrant body, and she appeared moist with the dew that hung about the trunk-cabin air. Her jet hair shone with silver brilliance that seemed to radiate its own light, and her deep eyes drew his attention even from her curved body.
“Adacon?” Calan spoke after an awkward pause; they had both been staring at each other.
“Sorry, I was thinking of tomorrow,” Adacon lied.
“Would you come out to the balcony with me, and see the stars before sleep?”
“Sure,” Adacon replied with delay. He became excited, yet sick with nervousness. He stared at her from behind as she led them out onto the balcony. On the balcony the stars glittered wildly above them, twinkling through sections of broken canopy; every few moments a shooting star trailed through the luminous night sky.
“It’s beautiful,” Adacon replied. “In my country, the stars aren’t so visible. I can’t think what to blame for it except Grelion and his destruction.”
“I don’t know if this will be troubling for you to answer…” Calan said.
“No, please—what?”
“Was being a slave—it must have been so awful…” she trembled. Adacon did not respond at first, and Calan felt as though she had overstepped a boundary; her face contorted with a terrible anxiousness. Instinctively Adacon touched her hand to ease her, and she looked up, startled.
“It’s ok—it was awful—I never really gave it much thought until after I slew all the men that kept me there.”
“I’m sorry,” Calan offered. Adacon clasped her hand in his, she tightening her own grip.
“Don’t be. I have come to accept it for what it was, and what it is—and now, though our journey is grim, I am much happier—just for each moment of freedom, even if the consequence is death.” Calan smiled in response, and they both looked up to the starry cutouts in the canopy; from the branches surrounding them emanated subtle night songs, and it seemed all the birds of evening had come alive to sing melodies of love. The mist that hung static in the air shimmered in combat with the light of the stars, and so it appeared the forest was filled with glistening jewels, bright as the night above. Far down, at ground level, Adacon could see fires roaring, where masses of elves carried on in revelry amidst the sparkle-checkered air.
“You know, you’re really the first young human I’ve ever met; I have met old Vapours, and most other races of Darkin as well. But there are few men in Enoa, compared to your country. It is a new experience for me,” Calan expressed. Adacon thought to tell her that she was the first female he had ever met, human or otherwise, but out of embarrassment he did not; instead he leaned forward and kissed her. Calan recoiled, and Adacon looked away, feeling sorely mistaken, loosening his clutch of her hand. Suddenly she gripped his head and turned his jaw back on her, and they kissed once more under the starbrimmed heavens.
* * *
The morning came fast and with quite a start, as a great bell sounded throughout the entire post, and soon Carbal Run was alive and bustling with the coming day. Already gathered about the center of the post was a great congregation of elven men, and several elvish women. Adacon and Remtall awoke atop the jungle in their high room. Adacon thought immediately of what had transpired the night before: Calan and he had kissed, he remembered; it hadn’t been a dream. Adacon looked around the room and found they were alone; she must have left after they had lain down together and he fell asleep.
“Up with the sun, boy. What, no energy of youth? Get up! Have a drink to raise your spirit,” Remtall said, kicking Adacon’s ribs; once stirred, Remtall filled his mug for a morning drink.
“No thanks,” Adacon muttered, rubbing his eyes, slowly rising to his feet. He thought for a moment about telling Remtall what had happened, but then thought better of it, considering how unpredictable Remtall had been acting lately. Soon the gnome had polished off four mugs of the elven ale, and had somehow discovered a vial of elven sap liquor.
“This will do us well on the Enoan road,” Remtall explained as he filled both his flasks up.
“Haven’t you lost enough of your wits?” Adacon asked wearily.
“Never mind a gnome’s wits, boy. Know that Remtall of Rislind marches north this day, to the beat of vengeance,” Remtall said. After they were both awake they descended the long tree cut ladder to the jungle floor.
Adacon reached the floor of the jungle first, and through various twining plants and high grasses he rushed toward the congregation forming at the center of Carbal Run. Remtall was quick to follow in the mist-filled morning, and soon they both stood before a pooling of elves. Each man-elf wore armor that shone a deep hue of jungle bark. Two of the elves spoke while the rest listened reverently; they spoke in a foreign tongue that neither Adacon nor Remtall could understand. Adacon recognized one of speaking elves as Iirevale; the other was a much older el
f, covered in long greying hair, with a thick beard protruding from his jutting chin. Calan spotted them and came to Adacon’s side amidst the clamor.
“Good morn,” she whispered.
“And good morn to you fair lady!” Remtall said loudly, without restraint. Suddenly the elves of the congregation turned to see who had interrupted them: the whole of the elven council brought its eyes to Remtall, who withdrew his pipe and began stuffing it with tobacco.
“Never mind a gnome when it is the first hour of the morning,” Remtall instructed the staring elves. None of them turned back to Iirevale and the old elf. “Go on, back to your council.” Finally the elves dismissed the rudeness of their guest, and Iirevale began to speak again with the old elf in the foreign speech of the Carbal elves.
“Remtall, you must whisper, everyone is on edge…” Calan said. Remtall winked at her, and walked off to a nearby tree trunk, plopping himself down to puff on his pipe in peace.
“What are they saying?” Adacon asked, speaking in the faintest whisper.
“Iirevale is speaking with our chieftain, Gaiberth. Word came early today that Carbal Run’s sister village, Nightwink, was destroyed,” Calan said with sorrow.
“But, I don’t understand—the war is being fought many miles from here, in the North, I thought?”
“It is,” Calan replied. “But black magic is far reaching, and it is said that Vesleathren himself is launching great ranged attacks, deep into the heart of the jungle.”
“What kind of attack could span so many miles?”
“I dare not say—I only hear rumor and conjecture—but Gaiberth believes the magic to be darkfire, Artheldrum: a sun-shaped flame cast into the firmament that sails many leagues in the sky before finding its prey.”
“That sounds horrible.”
“Worse news has come today: it is being said now that Aulterion, greatest of black mages, has risen from his grave to aid Vesleathren once more.”
“Krem spoke of him once—he said that Aulterion had ended the Five Country War.”
“It’s true. They direct all their warmongering on our continent, much as they did yours in the last Great War. We are ill prepared for this, Adacon,” Calan said in despair; they touched hands for a moment, then let go.
“What is it then—what’s all this business about?” Remtall said in a quieter voice. Adacon and Calan turned in surprise to the small gnome who had snuck up behind them. As Calan was about to reply, the congregation broke up; some formed into marching ranks, while others returned to their houses. Iirevale rushed over to them.
“We depart now, sooner than expected—you are thanked for your understanding,” Iirevale said quickly.
“I’ll gladly bring aid sooner to any cause that might bring me revenge for my son!” Remtall piped.
“I am coming,” Calan said sternly.
“I cannot protest it, not at this hour, our time is too precious. Quickly, gather a sword and shield each from the store, there is no time for anything more; we march north along the Enoan road, on to the Wall of Dinbell,” Iirevale commanded, and he left them for the ranks of elves that stood waiting, Gaiberth at their head.
Calan led Adacon and Remtall to a nearby hollowed trunk, wide enough to fit several men; therein was a narrow underground tunnel leading several yards underground. Inside she led them to a small room where thin elven blades and wood-shields clad the walls. They each grabbed a sword and shield, and in a hurry they returned to the elven formation just as it was about to leave. Among the elven men were several woman-elves going to war; behind the troop gathered the women and children of the village, alongside several elders too frail to travel north, all of whom were to stay behind. The elves remaining at Carbal Run wept openly at the departure of the strongest in their community. Calan said hasty goodbyes to loved ones she left behind, and Remtall and Adacon followed behind the company of elves as it began to march along a small trail cutting northeast from Carbal Run. Soon the post was out of sight behind them, and only thick droplets of mist could be seen hanging everywhere about the air, intertwined with thick jungle terrain. Many wondrous thickets of trees crowded the trail once the troop exited the jungle clearing of Carbal Run, and they marched at last into the heart of the jungle. The shrubbery and foliage was denser than anything Adacon had imagined possible, and constantly the forest seemed to be moving, making noise, breathing; every few seconds some kind of mysterious critter could be seen scurrying by, many of which were colored very strangely, with vivid stripes and spots, and Adacon couldn’t place a name on any creature he saw. The trail the company followed was well carved from the jungle, though it was only four yards above them that the jungle closed in, sealing off the sky, none of which could be glimpsed; only a spectrum of green hues, the rising trunks of the canopy, sprouted with tremendous vines, branches, leaves and trunks.
“How long of a march do we face?” Adacon asked.
“Pipe down boy. Never mind the length of the march, it matters not in the scheme of things!” Remtall riled.
“Sorry—I was curious.”
“Curiosity thwarts valor, young slave,” Remtall chided as he drank his elven sap liquor. As does your drink, Adacon thought to say in response, but he kept his mouth shut.
“It’s a week long march to the end of the jungle, and another day to the dwarven city of Oreine. The Wall of Dinbell is just a day’s march beyond that,” Calan said, ignoring Remtall’s harassment.
“A fine journey, I might say. I hope they have brought enough food for us,” Remtall said, coughing between gulps.
“We elves of the Carbal know ways to find nourishment from the forest, and there is hardly a stretch on the road where the jungle doesn’t lend herself to our appetites in some way or another,” Calan said.
“Are there many fruits along the way?” Adacon said excitedly.
“Certainly, a great variety of them: some delicious, some healing, some fatal.”
“And what of ale on the journey?” Remtall asked, calculating that he had not brought enough now that he knew the length of their march.
“I am afraid we have not had the time to secure such a luxury for this trip, as haste has become our greatest ally now,” Calan explained, winking at Adacon. Adacon smiled, and Remtall fell suddenly silent as the three marched on at the tail end of the elven troop. For many hours they continued on without any event.
Late in the day, when the golden rays of sun finally stopped lightening the shades of green above, Gaiberth brought the company to a halt. In elven speech he addressed the assembled troop, which numbered fewer than thirty.
“What’s he saying?” Adacon asked.
“We make camp here tonight,” Calan answered. Soon all the elves were rolling out mats of fuzzed moss that had been strung to their satchels. Adacon, Calan, and Remtall squeezed onto the end of one of the largest mats, sharing the company of several elves. Fires were started in spots along the length of the troop, running down the middle of the trail. A small meal was prepared for everyone, and to Adacon’s delight, there was Miew stew again. Calan went off to speak with Iirevale, and Remtall and Adacon sat alone after their meal. The sun had nearly set, and a darkness enveloped the forest in shadow, save for the flickering illumination offered by the small fires. The flames crackled softly, harmonizing with the nightly beasts that awoke for the night to sing or chirp or squeak or hunt.
“Remtall, I long for news of the others,” Adacon moaned.
“As do I, boy. But Krem made no mention of them in his letter, and I fear the worst now. But don’t let it weigh you down; we still carry the mission, and our purpose has grown more important.”
“I know, but I am saddened—I don’t know of anything that could kill Slowin or Flaer, if only they had made it to land alive. I daresay the two of them together are invincible.” Adacon smiled in fondness of the memory of his friends.
“I know, I think the same as well. Let us hope in our hearts that we meet them again, and Erguile and Weakhoof; but we cannot dwe
ll on what has come to pass. It makes me sadder still that just as you had acquired your new weapons from the pirate stash, they were lost to the sea,” Remtall grumbled. “And now we are given these flimsy elf blades.”
“I think there is more to these wooden shields than meets the eye—the odor alone I have never smelled from a wood,” Adacon responded.
“It is the smell of rotting!” roared Remtall, and one of the nearby elves eyed the gnome in disgust before returning to his own conversation. “Forget all that, and let’s sleep soundly tonight.” Remtall borrowed some flame from a nearby fire, and soon they had their own small fire going beside where they sat, on the edge of the trail, beyond which was interminable darkness. Adacon noticed that, strangely enough, the mist that clumped near the fire seemed unaffected by the heat and smoke. Instead it shone brightly, not being dissolved to vapor, but dancing in reflection of the leaping tendrils of flame.
“I don’t like sleeping at the end of the line, so close to the darkness,” Adacon said, filling with fear at the many strange noises emanating from the jungle.
“Pay those noises no mind, boy, and know that you sleep next to the most feared gnome in all of Darkin,” Remtall said; strangely, Adacon felt safer. He looked up the trail in the hope of catching a glimpse of Calan, but she was nowhere to be seen. He assumed she was talking to her brother. Tired from marching all day, Remtall and Adacon both stretched out on the moss bed; they found the mats extraordinarily comfortable for things that looked so scratchy and moist.
“Good night Remtall,” Adacon said, his eyes shutting with heavy fatigue.
“Night boy.” The gnome sat upright a few moments longer, puffing on his pipe, before joining Adacon in the realm of dreams.
* * *
Darkin: A Journey East Page 19
