Darkin: A Journey East

by Joseph A. Turkot

  “Slowin!” they cried.

  “What? We’re moving quite slow as it is—don’t be alarmed, the key is being kept under careful guard, caged deep in the underground. He has been bound, this omen of evil, and he cannot move his legs or arms. We’ve trapped his mouth so he cannot speak, lest some awful toxin spills from his throat into our fair city—or worse than that, that he calls the dark race here so that they reap our souls.”

  “We know him—Slowin is his name. Didn’t Krem tell you about him?” Adacon railed, stopping Ulpo dead in his tracks.

  “What? No—as I said, Krem had a grave task before him, and he rushed off without spending more than mere minutes here.” Ulpo replied.

  “Well, take us to your key then!” Remtall exclaimed.

  “That would be far too dangerous. The prophecy portends the danger of the silver golem—not danger just to dwarves, gnome friend, but all people of Darkin,” argued Ulpo.

  “Pah! Never mind your prophecy, dull-witted dwarf; he is our friend, and a friend of Krem’s,” Remtall charged.

  “A friend of Krem’s? But I can’t believe that…” Ulpo trailed off.

  “These are honorable allies Ulpo, and true friends of Krem’s. I place my trust, and the honor of the Carbal elves, on their word,” Gaiberth said.

  “I am not sure what to—gnome, please, your drop,” Ulpo said, bracing himself on the arms of Gaiberth.

  “Captain Remtall Olter'Fane, my liege,” Remtall corrected, and he withdrew once more his flask for Ulpo.

  “I cannot make the judgment myself, but some strange feeling compels me to believe you...I can grant you an audience with the king immediately; not before that could I possibly bring you to the key—beast—er, what did you call him?” stuttered Ulpo.

  “Slowin,” Adacon quickly filled in.

  “We must make haste: a darkness approaches, not very far from here,” Falen said, and the party regained momentum. In a moment the troop was marching briskly again. Ulpo restrained his wonder, leading them deep into the mountains with new urgency. Adacon could do no such thing, and his mind raced; he thought of the eon-old Prophecy of the Key, and how it could possibly mention Slowin.

  Soon the bright corridor abruptly emptied them into a wide hall, carved from crimson rock, impossibly high, filled with vast square pillars that reflected up their lengths torchlight, bracketed on corners of man-high plinths. The ceiling rose tremendously, and Adacon noticed the sweet aroma of a fire burning, and all about the great hall could be seen various stone houses, cut directly out of the rock walls. Light emanated softly from within each house, flickering into a pattern of amber glow. The pillars that stood throughout the hall were engraved with dwarven art, intricate designs that appeared as old as the stone itself. Adacon walked on, in awe of the underground fortress. Though the place seemed blander in color than he had he expected, a uniform slate-red, the magnificence of the hall belonged to its grand size. The underground city seemed to run on endlessly into the mountain deeps, and the dwarves of the Oreine went about their daily business, for the most part ignoring Ulpo and the odd elven troop marching in his wake. Once in awhile, Adacon caught dwarves staring at them, mostly the small curious ones, what he took for dwarf-children.

  The great hall led to a house, much the same in appearance as the others though far bigger, and Ulpo marched them directly inside. Once inside, Adacon realized that the house was a mere gateway to yet another hall: this one was smaller, though still fairly wide. Engravings wrapped the walls more elaborately than before, and there were no longer houses jutting from them, only marvelously colored armors, weapons, and gems of an infinite variety that hung everywhere. Adacon thought he even saw piles of gold, shimmering behind chests that were strewn about in dark corners, but he kept his eyes on a massive iron door that was fast approaching. Four dwarves stood at its entrance, each fully armored, unlike the rest of the dwarves they had so far seen about the Oreinen city. Ulpo approached the guards, and spoke to them in a guttural tongue.

  “Dwarven?” Adacon whispered to Calan, who stood at his side.

  “Yes, the dwarves are said to use the common tongue least of all Darkin’s civilized peoples,” she responded in a hushed tone, awaiting Ulpo’s return. Ulpo seemed to be finished discussing the matter with the guards, and he returned to speak with Gaiberth.

  “Four may enter, and no more. I am sorry, but it is the law of the Oreine,” Ulpo explained.

  “Four is plenty enough,” Gaiberth replied, and he turned to Iirevale. “You, you, and you,” Gaiberth said; he picked Iirevale, Remtall, and Adacon.

  “Alright then, follow me,” Ulpo said, and he walked back to the guards who each in turn went to four small pillars nearby, and it seemed for a moment that they chanted something while moving hidden switches. Adacon stared on in amazement, wishing he could be closer to see what magic they were working. A great creak reverberated in the hall, sounding a delayed echo. Calan turned to Adacon, and as their eyes met she smiled and whispered him good luck. The iron door swung open, and an intricate stairway carpeted in plush scarlet fur bore the chosen ones higher, up into the King’s chamber. Adacon kept close to Remtall’s side, and though he felt safe, he kept his hand on the handle of his elven blade. The staircase led them to a tiny hallway, still carpeted in plush red fur, and the walls too were covered with it, as was the ceiling, ensconcing them in a pillow of red. Walking forth, the light became less and less, the red a deeper shade around them. At the end of the cramped hallway, in a dim glow, two more armored dwarves stood guarding another iron door. They stood with axes in hand, blocking the path, protecting the way from intruders. Ulpo told the others to stay as he approached the guards alone.

  “Quite a damned procession, isn’t it?” Remtall muttered to Adacon. “Come to any gnomen city—see if we raise this kind of stink! Gnomen kings live among their people!” he complained loudly, and Adacon saw the dwarven guards begin to give the gnome glares of suspicion. Adacon gulped, smiling nervously at the dwarf guards, hoping they would be merciful toward a disgruntled gnome.

  Finally, after more mysterious lever pulls, the last door before the king of the Oreine opened; Ulpo led the man, gnome, and elf into the royal chamber.

  * * *

  The dwarf king sat atop a gem encrusted throne, lined with pillows made from what appeared to be the same plush fur the carpets were made from. All about the small chamber of the king were more dwarves: some examined various artifacts, while others were standing in armor as guards. The walls of the chamber were covered with portraits of fattened dwarves, each one Adacon guessed to be a dwarf king of old. Shocked, Adacon saw one etching that looked as if it resembled Slowin. It wasn’t quite right, but the basic structure implied the silver golem, and underneath the etching was carved a key. Adacon realized how prominent the prophecy had to be for it to adorn the wall of the king’s chamber. Suddenly the dwarf guards spoke:

  “Have you no courtesy? Bow before King Terion!” said the two foremost dwarven guards. Each of the visitors immediately dropped on a single knee, mimicking Ulpo’s lead; as if in worship, they bowed their heads to the king, who sat still and speechless.

  “Kiss my feet now, so that the dirt may be cleansed from them!” commanded King Terion, his booming voice sending shivers down Adacon’s spine. Iirevale looked to Gaiberth desperately, filled with reluctance. Gaiberth appeared willing, and slowly they approached the king’s feet, except for Remtall, who began to stand up, as he was tired of praising the dwarf king. Suddenly, to the astonishment of them all, every dwarf in the room broke out in tumultuous laughter; even Ulpo joined in. Finally, the others began to laugh too, unsure of what was so funny. After a long spell of riotous laughter, the clamor died to quietness, and Terion cleared his throat.

  “Forgive me. You didn’t think dwarves were without humor? Kiss my feet—hah!” And the room was engulfed with laughter once more, and this time Adacon and his friends joined, feeling relieved at the easing of tension. After the second spell of laughter
died down, Terion decided to assert with seriousness the matter at hand, and he spoke directly to Gaiberth:

  “I am brought word, brother of the forest, that our captive is a friend among elves?” Terion asked.

  “It is not entirely as you say: the prisoner is a friend to the friends of elves, namely Krem the Vapour—as well as these who stand with me, and before you, now,” Gaiberth informed.

  “A grave thing it is, to befriend the prophesized one, as grave darkness is portended to come from him,” Terion shuddered. “But a claim such as friendship with Krem, our greatest ally, must not be taken lightly—and so you have this audience.”

  “It’s true! Slowin is a friend of Krem’s,” Adacon said.

  “Slowin, did you say?” Terion asked.

  “Yes, Slowin is your prisoner’s name. He is a golem of the Red Forest, a place near the slave farm I have escaped from. Krem first befriended him there, and did some favor for him. In return, Slowin has repaid his debt to Krem by coming west and guiding us,” Adacon explained.

  “Guiding you? But to what end?” Terion replied with faint shock.

  “We set out to rid Darkin of the enslavers, Grelion and his under-lords. It was not until Krem suddenly departed from us, in the Vashnod Plains, that Slowin came to guide us to Erol Drunne. We hoped to find counsel there for fighting the greater evil,” Adacon continued.

  “A noble feat—to break the bonds given you by Grelion Rakewinter—but indeed the greater evil is Vesleathren’s return,” Terion stated. He laughed maniacally, “but I see not how a mere slave could aid in any fight, be it against Grelion or Vesleathren…”

  “Believe him, old dwarf—Slowin is a friend to the cause of good, though he is a strange golem to look upon. Your prophecy leads you astray,” Remtall railed, angered by Terion’s doubt.

  “What is your name, little gnome?” Terion asked, agitated by Remtall’s boisterous intrusion.

  “None other than Captain Remtall Olter'Fane, commander of the gnomen fleet,” he said with pride.

  “Hah! And where is this gnomen fleet today, good sir?” Terion chuckled.

  “Destroyed, complacent dwarf, in the Five Country War,” replied Remtall.

  “Well, we shall unbind the prisoner’s mouth, and hear its own tongue,” Terion said. Two of the nearby guards rushed off to follow the command of their king.

  “Pardon me, good king, but what news have you of the war? How goes the front? And what of Erol Drunne?” Iirevale asked, using the moment of silence as an opportunity to speak.

  “Erol Drunne is now occupied by the Feral Brood. The Feral army came upon the city too fast, and without warning. Our dwarven diplomats there are lost, and I know not what the true state of that city is in this dark hour,” Terion told.

  “We meant to reach Erol Drunne to find counsel, and an army to march on Grelion, back in Arkenshyr,” Adacon said with sorrow. “But now it seems Vesleathren is invading your country as well as mine, attacking from both sides of the Kalm Ocean.”

  “You speak the common tongue well for a slave, I am impressed—indeed you speak the truth, he does just that, and the hour is grave. In the Five Country War, the Feral army descended upon Arkenshyr alone. Now, enough force has he gained, he launches two assaults. And that is why we dwarves are sending out our great force tomorrow morning—so that at the Wall of Dinbell the Feral Brood might be pushed back enough to reclaim Erol Drunne.”

  “You leave tomorrow morning?” Iirevale sparked up in surprise.

  “Yes, there is no more time to wait, at least that much did Krem tell us in his brief visit. If we continue to sit idle in the mountains, it will only be a matter of days before the Feral Brood breaks past Dinbell and marches down the Enoan road, toward our home,” Terion foreboded.

  “We will march with you, with what force we have. Though we lack numbers, our valor is absolute,” Gaiberth said.

  “And we shall be most honored to march at your side, friend,” said the King. “We have had our differences in the past, but when utter destruction comes upon our homelands we are bound by kinship of good to defend against what is evil.”

  “Has there been any good news from Dinbell?” asked Iirevale.

  “Krem did not stay with us for but a moment, and he only stayed to tell of the attacks on the jungle, and that we should expect and welcome the elves as they strayed from their homes,” Terion said. “Other than that, there has not been much in the way of information, save some curious bit floated along by the wereverns.”

  “Wereverns?” Adacon said, dumbfounded.

  “Reptile creatures we dwarves befriended, dear freed slave of Arkenshyr. Terribly magnificent spies of the land, though cowardly at first they may seem,” Terion explained.

  “What is the curious bit then?” Remtall demanded.

  “According to the wereverns, the only reason the Feral Brood hasn’t already come through the Wall of Dinbell is due to the heroics of two swordsmen. It is quite silly, though, that the wereverns would take to such a ridiculous rumor—usually their information is reliable—but no two swordsmen alone could ever make a difference in a battle of this scale.”

  “Flaer and Erguile!” Adacon burst.

  “Pah! You’re sorrow stricken, boy,” Remtall said.

  “Who are those you name?” Terion asked.

  “Our friends whom we lost at sea, after a spell rent the ocean into a wall of ice, and it crashed upon our ship,” Adacon recounted.

  “My goodness, it seems for a slave you’ve had more than your share of adventure in such a short time of freedom,” Terion replied in amazement.

  “It was nothing I couldn’t fetch us from,” Remtall boasted, forgetting to mention the aid of the phantom ships.

  “In any case, we do not recognize the story of the two fabled swordsman to be anything more than a myth of fancy, and for it our trust in the wereverns information has lessened,” said Terion.

  “The prisoner approaches,” remarked a dwarf guard from the front entrance of the king’s chamber. Suddenly Slowin appeared, hands bound, mouth gagged with white cloth. Two guards led him in. Adacon thought of Slowin’s tremendous strength when he saw the flimsy shackles binding the metal golem. Surely Slowin could have escaped at any time, but why hadn’t he? Adacon wondered. At King Terion’s command the guards removed the cloth from Slowin’s mouth so that he could speak. Slowin glanced around the room at the company of the king. He smiled immediately at the sight of Remtall and Adacon, who returned the gesture, though they kept silent.

  “As you may or may not know, the dwarves of Oreine believe you are the Key, as prophesized in the Waln Parchment. This is a powerful omen of ill fortune for our race, as the Key portends great evil, as written in the scriptures. This is the reason why you have been bound, and are soon to be destroyed in the fires of the Brolsrind Chasm. However—by a most odd stroke of fate—new information has come to light. It seems you have the best friends imaginable, those who would vouch you to be a close friend of Krem’s, and an ally in our battle against Vesleathren,” Terion said, looking directly at Slowin.

  “Had you allowed me to speak when you first captured me you might not have had to wait so long to realize that,” said Slowin with coldness in his voice. It sounded strange, as Adacon was used to a measure of warmth in everything his golem friend said.

  “Sorry, I am, for the abrupt magic that bound you, that kept you from speaking your peace from the first. But that is a matter I cannot reverse. I can, however, make amends to you, by freeing you here and now. Of course there is one condition, for the Prophecy lives too firmly in our culture for me to completely overlook the fact that you so resemble the Key…” Terion went on.

  “What is the condition?” Slowin asked, displeased.

  “March with us tomorrow, to the Wall of Dinbell, to aid the failing militia of Erol Drunne, who single-handedly defend us now. Prove to us in battle where you truly stand in this great struggle of good against evil,” Terion said.

  “That is exact
ly what I had planned to do—how strange that is,” Slowin lied, as he had heard nothing about the situation at Dinbell. After another moment of silence, he seemed to calm down from a state of inner fury. “Free me please, now that you know I am not your prophecy...”

  “Guards! Fetch good Merol to release his bonds,” Terion ordered. “And one other thing Slowin, which I presume you wish to be called. . .” Slowin did not speak, only grunted. “Once the war is over, and Vesleathren is defeated, you must grant me an audience, so that I might obtain all the information I can about you, so as to truly invalidate you from the Prophecy, for no reason other than the security of my kingdom.”

  “Once this war is over, I shall be returning to the Red Forest in peace, to live among the wilds. Follow me there, and you may then ask all you wish to learn,” Slowin replied. At that moment, a short dwarf draped in a black robe and a tightly fitted black cap walked into the King’s Chamber. The dwarf held aloft a cane that looked somewhat similar to Krem’s, though less extravagant. The dwarf’s face was filled with black and grey hairs that shaped a thick beard and mustache.

  “Merol, please release the spell upon our prisoner’s shackles,” Terion ordered.

  “But, your kingship, he is the Key!” Merol retorted defiantly in a high gravelly voice that cracked in pitch.

  “Do as I say Merol!” Terion commanded, scorn in his voice for the public questioning of an order. Merol groaned, but did as the king said, and Slowin once again was able to move unrestricted. Adacon realized it had been the black dwarf’s magic staying the might of Slowin.

  “Now if you don’t mind, good king, I have a bit of catching up to do,” Slowin said. “We leave tomorrow morning, correct?”