Darkin: A Journey East Read online

  They marched long hours without stop on the dirt path, all the while alongside a stream that had grown to become a river. In the distance beyond the meadow they walked through was a small mountain range. It was a dwarfed cousin to the Angelyn Range, but still the sight excited Adacon.

  “Is the ocean grand?” he asked curiously.

  “Indeed. It is ferocious as well. Once across the Kalm Ocean, however, we will find refuge and counsel, and then I will be relieved of my task, and set free to return home to the Red Forest.”

  “What of Flaer’s failed speech? Is there no remedy?” asked Erguile as Flaer issued a sidelong glance.

  “We shall find a cure as soon as we are able to; the mana of Vesleathren runs deep in that curse, and I alone can do nothing against it,” Slowin answered.

  “Surely you possess some magic Slowin; this orb saved our lives against Bulkog,” Adacon said, pulling the orb from his pocket. The orb was without brightness in the light of the sun.

  “I possess some unique power—though if I use magic not even Krem can say,” Slowin replied, confusing the slaves.

  “What’s that mean?” Erguile asked.

  “I am not like other golems. Truly I am not of their race, though it is more like them than any other being I appear. True golems are made of stone and tree, plant and rock. I am different as such, I am a metal golem.”

  “And there are no others?”

  “No.”

  They carried on, resisting the urge to continue an unending line of questions. Finally they reached the mouth of the river, a vast lake that ran into a waterfall at the precipice of one of the first mountains in the small Rislind range. The mountain range was tree-covered and sprawled in a circular fashion; shades of deep green shone brilliantly in the midafternoon sky. A mist clumped about the mountaintops, thick and wide. The lake was surrounded by burgeoning forest of a great many earth-shades; a mix of blue pine intensified amidst cedar and maple, covering thickly the lake edge and the slope of the nearest mountain. The group went along the side of the river toward the birth of the tree line. They stopped suddenly before entering; Slowin addressed them:

  “This is the way into Rislind Village, whose eastern gate will take us by road to the Saru Gnarl Cape,” he told. “Be wary of the frightful things that make this forest their home.”

  “But you’re here to protect us,” Adacon said.

  “I am, and so is Flaer—but even we do not see all the spies of Vesleathren. Dark things abound this age of our world. Let us make haste toward peaceful rest in the village.”

  They pressed in through the forest wall, leaving any remnants of the dirt path behind. Once within the forest shade there was no proper path, and Adacon questioned how they would find their way without getting lost—then he remembered Slowin was a forest golem.

  “Rislind Village is hidden to passers, nomads and spies alike. No trade routes run this way, and Grelion knows not of its existence. There is a secret way into the valley within the mountains, known to but a few who are still friends to Krem. This pass is what we seek now.”

  Slowin led them up a path that seemingly had never before been trodden; hazardous thorns and jagged boulders sprouted amidst massive trunks of birches, maples and pines. Scattered about the forest floor were trickling streams running between the boulders. Eventually the party tired, and panting they sat to have a drink.

  “Ah, how refreshing,” piped Adacon, drinking his fill on all fours. They drank heartily until each was satisfied. Erguile broke out a stale loaf and passed it around.

  “Slowin—you eat and drink the same as a human,” remarked Erguile.

  “It is true; I need the same sustenance as you,” replied Slowin, “and I assure you that I need rest just the same too, though it may not seem so.”

  Adacon looked up at the steep incline of their intended path. It appeared to grow more technical, giving way to bare-faced rock that went nearly vertical amidst the trees and shrubs.

  “This path grows treacherous,” Adacon thought aloud.

  “It is not much farther to the entrance,” Slowin remarked, and then he turned to lead the trek upwards. Flaer seemed in happy spirits for the climb, though being unable to talk seemed to weigh on him now—often would a look overtake his face when conversation began, as if he wanted to add his thoughts; too long had he wasted away in the rusty confines of Ceptical, deprived of merry conversation.

  They climbed farther up over bare-faced rocks, and even Slowin, whose size belied his agility, climbed with grace. As he reached a higher ledge he unearthed a small tree and sent it hanging over down toward the others. Holding fast, Slowin called them to climb up; one by one, each made his way up to Slowin’s ledge. In front of them now was a vast wall of vines and dense thorn.

  “This is the Plant Wall of Rislind, enchanted by none other than Krem himself,” Slowin told them. “Use caution even after we have silenced it.”

  Suddenly the wall of vine tendrils began writhing in offense at their presence. A vine snapped out and then another, sharp thorns scraping the air in a deadly frenzy. Adacon and Erguile backed away. Flaer pulled out his sword, and he appeared ready to dismember the mass of livened vines and bramble when Erguile suddenly spoke up:

  “Let me have at it first, Flaer.”

  Flaer smiled and paused. He sheathed his sword and issued a good luck gesture with his hand. Adacon looked frightfully at the plant, then at Erguile, then at Slowin who smiled also. Erguile stepped forward and hacked at a lashing vine. The vine was cut in two, but the plant retaliated; a thorn shot deep into Erguile’s arm from its opposite side. Erguile groaned and backed away. He regained his composure and charged back at the plant.

  “Do you have a death wish? Let Flaer do it!” Adacon warned.

  “Never mind that,” Erguile pressed, and back to strike at the plant he went; this time his hack missed entirely and his feet were caught in a thorny tangle. Swept to the ground, Erguile slashed about frantically, but a vine suddenly coiled around his sword and ripped it from him. Adacon looked side to side and saw Flaer smiling even broader, and Slowin still looking on without reaction.

  “Help him!” Adacon burst, and then he ran at the bramble, courageously slashing at tendrils that were coiling around Erguile. Soon Adacon was gripped in a tendril vise the same as Erguile, and it was only when blood began to trickle down the foliage that Flaer jumped into action; he severed the limbs of the plant with great speed. The plant lay dead and in pieces amidst a pool of jade ooze, and the slaves rubbed their grazed heads and arms.

  “What a mess that was,” coughed Erguile as Slowin helped them both to their feet. Behind the bramble, which still twitched violently on the ground, was a cave of earth and rock leading through the mountain, a tunnel down to the Rislind valley.

  “Amazing,” ushered Adacon, following behind Slowin and Flaer into the cave. The cave was cut squarely and led down and still farther down, descending to the eastern foothills of the range. After a long and eventless journey they exited finally at the bottom, stepping once again into forest.

  “Won’t the secret pass be revealed now?” Adacon asked.

  “For perhaps an hour, yes, but Krem’s enchantment causes the plant to regenerate swiftly to full girth, as strong as before it was cut down,” answered Slowin.

  Eventually the trees of the foothills thinned out and the earth became level yet again. In front of them appeared a field, treeless and wide, filled with opal flowers. Several horses roamed in the distance, heedless of the wide Rislind Mountains that afforded them safety by ensnaring their fair lawn in secrecy. In the center of the field were buildings; small thatched structures sprouted roofs the color of faded wheat and walls molded of ocher mortar. The party set across the field toward the village as the roaming horses stilled to gaze.

  “Free horses—they are incredible—I’ve ever only seen them hauling trade carts, dispirited and filthy, never so beautiful,” Adacon beamed.

  “We will find free living humans and gnom
es here, and a peaceful race of trolls as well,” Slowin explained. “Make sure to be properly polite and respectful to all you meet. They are very protective of their seclusion here, and rightly so. It is only in knowing Krem that we may trespass here.” Adacon restrained his joy at hearing about the different races, each coexisting peacefully in the village.

  They reached the edge of the village just as the sun slipped behind the westernmost peaks. Adacon studied the sky around them; it seemed they were encapsulated within a circular band of emerald mountains—it was as if the range was especially formed so as to conceal Rislind Village from the world. The village stood squat in the middle of the valley floor, and only upon reaching its gate did Adacon notice a stream running silently in from the east. A small post stood by the gate Slowin had led them to. Standing there was a tiny man, smaller even than Krem, and Adacon likened the little gatekeeper to sketches he had seen of gnomes. The gnome stood about as high as Adacon’s waist, and his hair was pushed underneath an odd triangular cap, colored brightly sea green. His entire tunic, for that matter, was sea green, except for a copper belt that held a brown sheath, in which sat a shiny dagger. The little man wore bole colored boots and gloves. The gnome’s hair was weathered auburn, and he had a patchwork beard and mustache. His eyes were small and black, but deeply set.

  “Slowin, the oddest golem in all of Darkin—what brings you and this strange assembly?” asked the little gnome in a surprisingly deep voice.

  “Ah, good Remtall! Woeful are my tidings,” Slowin replied. Time went by as Slowin explained to Remtall the whole story and their journey so far. Finally Remtall exclaimed:

  “This cannot be Flaer—that Flaer who aided my passing into this village so long ago?” stammered Remtall, and the two embraced; Flaer lit up with glee.

  “It is, though a hex is upon him now, and his tongue has been bound,” Slowin uttered.

  “I am stricken to hear it, that and all the ill tidings you bring,” Remtall said. “Alas, we will find you ale, and beds to rest in for at least one night before you set out again farther east.” Remtall at last turned his attention to the slaves, and for the first time heeded them.

  “And you two I suppose play some role in this flight. Pleased to make your acquaintances, freed slaves of Grelion, and welcome to Rislind!” With that Remtall heartily shook their hands. “Come, the sun sets, and the inn thrives.” Remtall began to lead them into the village when Adacon let out the thought that had been gnawing at his mind.

  “Remtall—I knew a Remtall; he was my only friend on the slave farm I come from. He was no gnome, taller than myself almost,” Adacon said. Remtall gasped.

  “It cannot be!” Remtall exclaimed.

  “Surely you did not know him?” Adacon replied. Remtall lowered his head in sullen thought and then raised his eyes again to meet Adacon’s.

  “Sad is my heart already at such dark news as Slowin brings; let us not speak further of this matter until we are within reach of tankard and ale—come quick!” Remtall spat desperately, and he raced ahead of them toward the biggest building in the village, presumably the tavern inn.

  The party traced Remtall through the town, the slaves curiously glancing around the small village. The houses and buildings all looked similar; they ranged in size but each had ocher walls and a yellowed roof. Along the way several villagers walked about, one of which Adacon recognized for a troll, albeit a much friendlier looking troll compared to Bulkog. Many of the town folk gave cruel glances at the outsiders, and their only assurance was Remtall leading them on.

  The troop came to the inn entrance, a giant oak door with a sign that boldly read, “Deedle’s Tavern & Inn.”

  In went the group, one by one, and Remtall led them to a secluded table near the back of the place. The inn was fairly crowded for such a small town; Adacon glanced around warily, absorbing the strange faces. Such a concoction of mixed people Adacon had never before witnessed. Erguile too was wary, glaring around the wide room, until a tankard of ale was slammed down before him. A friendly barkeeper had hurried over to the table and set the pitcher down, along with five frothing tankards.

  “Happy to oblige guests, and friends to Remtall,” said the keeper. Remtall had wandered off momentarily, frantically looking for a chair big enough for Slowin; the giant golem had been pulled aside by some strangers who knew him, and alone at the table sat Flaer, Adacon, and Erguile. They each drank greedily and quickly poured seconds.

  “This is a bizarre place, magnificent too, of course,” throated Erguile as he tore through his second tankard.

  “It is—I wish I could meet some of these folks, what I could learn,” Adacon said. Flaer smiled and patted Adacon and Erguile on their shoulders.

  “Good to have you with us man,” retorted Erguile, gripping Flaer’s shoulder in turn.

  “Yea, Krem spoke very highly of you. We are every bit comforted at your presence,” Adacon spoke in between gulps. “After all, the best swordsman in all of Darkin!”

  “That bit is contrived, but tonight I shall honor your skill just the same—a toast!” Erguile said cockily, then raised his glass, and so then did the others. They drank healthily the first pitcher to completion by the time Slowin returned to the table at last, toting an enormous stool. He sat on the fringe of the table and looked for his ale. Quickly he drank it and looked to refill, finding the pitcher empty.

  “A powerful company of drinkers, I dare say,” Slowin laughed. Just then Remtall reappeared, new pitcher in hand.

  “Sorry to keep you all waiting,” he said, placing the new pitcher down and finding a seat next to Flaer, opposite Adacon and Erguile. “I had to call a guard to remain at my post. Even in peaceful refuge such as Rislind we must never become complacent when Grelion is alive and seeking spoils.”

  “And I sorrow to bring news worse, Remtall, as we are again in Vesleathren’s wake,” Slowin said.

  “I can’t bear to think of that—it is too wretched; and this news of yours Adacon? My heart dreads to know of your tale, but please. . .” Remtall pleaded, engaging his tankard again.

  “Remtall was the name of my friend in the slave camp. He was my only friend before I deserted the farm and met Krem in the Desert. He was murdered, hanged for defiance by the Guard,” Adacon told. At that Remtall wept openly, and he trembled. Slowin tried to comfort the tiny man.

  “What is it?” Erguile questioned.

  “Was this Remtall of fair golden hair, with eyes of aquamarine?” cried Remtall.

  “Indeed he was—but how can you know that?” Adacon resounded.

  “Remtall Olter’Fane was my son—and I am the father of your lost friend,” burst Remtall, falling into tears and drinking deep of his ale.

  “But how can it be so? You are a gnome; that boy was a tall and mature man,” questioned Erguile. Remtall did not respond, but looked pitifully into Slowin’s eyes.

  “Forgive them, for they are slaves and know not of the world. Erguile, Remtall’s late wife was human, and can the height of a human or a gnome be created by such a union,” Slowin explained. Remtall continued to cry and drink, and the others drank in turn while hearing the tale of how his son was stolen with other children of Rislind seventeen years prior.

  “It was Zesm the Rancor! That dirty rogue, allied to all who might pay him well with black magic. I shall have his head yet,” an enraged Remtall blasted. Many in the tavern turned to look at the scene, but only briefly; Flaer turned toward the gawkers to reflect their poor manners with a fiery glare of anger. Momentarily his sword glowed, bright enough for every patron to see soft light rising above the table. Startled by the Brigun Autilus, the patrons went back to their own affairs, and the light disappeared.

  “You cannot be certain it was Zesm, can you? He was in hiding for the longest time after Krem defeated him in battle,” Slowin recalled.

  “There were many children taken that night, and one witness alone; and Zesm’s hunched figure is unmistakable,” said Remtall.

  “Who witnesse
d it?” asked Erguile.

  “‘It was me! And I ran after him and his carriage, through to the edge of the foothills; it was dark and I lost him there—aided he was by something magic and unseen,” Remtall said. “How any horse-drawn carriage could make a way through the Rislind Pass I do not know, lest black magic worked in it.”

  “Zesm is now allied with Vesleathren, and his power is returned stronger than ever; he is hunched no more,” Slowin mournfully admitted. “This I learned of late from Krem, just after he learned from Zesm himself, mere days ago in the Vashnod.”

  “But how is Zesm to be trusted? He is ever the liar,” a drunken Remtall contested.

  “Krem sensed Zesm’s power; he said it to be fiftyfold the power of the old Zesm,” Slowin said.

  “I overheard him speaking; I heard him say he would return the next night to kill all of us, and it has been three nights now with no sign of trouble,” Adacon added.

  “The liar, as I’d expect,” spat Remtall.

  “It is no matter. I have faith in Krem’s portent, and he assured me Zesm will fall, as will Vesleathren, ere a Feral Army can be made again,” Slowin said.

  The company sat momentarily in silence, and drank further into the evening. Slowin and Remtall made small talk for awhile, and the slaves chimed in with questions whenever they became confused, as often they did. Finally, Remtall returned to a serious consideration, and looked to Slowin.

  “What truly is your errand in the East?” the gnome asked. They were well into their fifth pitcher now, and Flaer had closed his eyes to rest. Food had come to the table too, and with the fourth pitcher the group had feasted.

  “We purpose to cross the Kalm, to the free city of Erol Drunne in Enoa,” said Slowin.

  “Enoa? How do you expect to find a ship out of Saru Gnarl? Grelion is the keeper of that city, and it is the primary port of all his slave trade from Enoa to Arkenshyr! And should…” Remtall stuttered with drink, “—should you even somehow find passage across the Kalm, you would find no captain willing to go the route.”