Darkin A Journey East - By Joseph A. Turkot Page 0,25

battle. Late last night, an unforeseen difficulty entered my mind. . .” Krem said. Adacon winced. “All that I wish to alter is our time of departure—I have decided we shall leave before noon, much earlier than we first decided. My reasoning lads, is that we shall reach the stone tower by nightfall, rather than in the middle of the night. We shall sack the tower under night’s cover still; I just do not wish to be upon the dunes after dark.”

“And why is that, old man?” asked Erguile gruffly. “Haven’t you magical powers at your disposal?”

“Yes I suppose one might say so, but what I fear does not heel to my Vapour,” Krem uttered.

“Eh? And whom is it you’re speaking of?” asked Erguile, growing quite baffled.

“Do not be troubled—it is nothing that concerns either of you: we are going north to cross the desert before night has fallen, and that is all I will speak of it,” Krem said. Never before had Krem seemed so stern in his wording, so sure in his resolve; Adacon still had not spoken yet, but he did not need to, for he felt he knew what Krem’s concern was—Krem must have changed his mind after hearing about the sword thief, and so he decided he would not query the topic, at least not yet.

They finished their breakfast and thanked Krem accordingly; even Erguile showed genuine courtesy. Krem and Erguile seemed to be forming quite the humorous relationship, Adacon observed. It was both like and dislike together in one, but thankfully it appeared that neither of them took matters to heart.

To the slaves’ surprise, Krem had already packed their sacks, having made time to do so early in the morn. Each one was filled to the brim, containing much food and water, along with some extra rations that might come in handy along the journey. There was also plenty of pipe-fill inside the sacks, Erguile soon found, as he prodded through his. Krem was attired in his usual garb—a dark purple robe and the emerald-encrusted hat—and he clutched his oaken staff in hand. Erguile fastened his armor in place and sheathed his sword. Adacon slung his quiver over his shoulder once again, and tucked his bow in place at his side. Time passed quickly as they made their last preparations, and then Krem held a prayer to Gaigas, asking for a safe journey. Soon it was mid-morning and the party was set to move out—Adacon, Erguile, and the little Vapour Krem made their way out into the desert.

The sun was hot, already beginning to scorch Adacon’s arms as they made their way northward in a direct line. Krem used a softly glowing blue sphere-shaped device he called a Relic to align their course toward the northern sky; when Erguile asked how the thing worked, Krem had only laughed and said: “It is my magical powers, lad.” The three marched on under the rising sun, and soon Molto’s Keep was far from sight.

“And what of the bright purple robe you wear? Odd as it is fashioned, more pressing on my mind is the notice it gives to those that might seek us,” questioned Erguile, fearing the Vapour’s stark appearance against the yellow dunes.

“Don’t pay it any mind; you’ve forgotten my Vapoury, lad. Know we are concealed by my power,” Krem answered.

“I will take your word then. So, you’ve a good knowledge of this world’s map, is that right Krem?” asked Erguile as they pressed on, himself beginning to grow beads of sweat on his forehead from the overbearing sun.

“I expect I know most of what’s out there, though I cannot account for all changes of recent, most of which I reckon are a product of Grelion’s rule,” said Krem.

“Well what might you call this desert we walk, if you were to call it something other than hell,” Erguile returned.

“This forbidding place is known to all who have crossed it as the Solun Desert—the Solun, plainly put.”

“Solun eh? And what of our farm? Adacon and I have known it by nothing other than the farm; I’m sure it must have another name.”

“Indeed you have known it by no other name because it has no other name. All of the slave farms, numerous and scattered as they may be, are given numbers—nothing more. I believe the one you and Adacon escaped from is Felwith farm, number seventy-seven.”

“Felwith? I’ve never heard that before, what does it mean?” joined Adacon.

“Felwith is the name given to those who most directly