Darkin A Journey East - By Joseph A. Turkot Page 0,35
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.
“Now you have made me disobey my master and use magic. On such pathetic enemies as you two are—what a waste to lose his trust over this. But I will not be slain by humans on this or any other day, master’s will or not,” Bulkog rambled, half to himself, as he approached them. Gurgling blood poured from his mouth. Bulkog dropped his weapons and grabbed the dazed Erguile by the neck with his fists. He lifted him up and choked him, finally slamming him against the wall.
“Die now at last, human,” Bulkog said, and he thrust his sword into Erguile’s neck. Just as the blade tip pierced the first layer of skin, a great white light blinded Bulkog and burned his eyes so that he fell backwards and to the ground. Adacon stood over him then, pointing Slowin’s orb of light directly at the troll’s eyes. Bulkog cried in pain, and the light of the orb seemed to intensify more than it had in the cellar; the orb seemed to draw in from an ambience of light to a fine pointed beam, and the energy caused smoke to drift up from Bulkog’s eyes, seeping between his fingers that failed to shield them.
“Bastard,” said Erguile, who had come to stand beside Adacon over Bulkog. Erguile picked up Mirebane, the Feral hammer of war, and brought it down without mercy on Bulkog’s skull. The crunch echoed loud, and on Darkin Bulkog the Feral made once more a howl but never again; the haunting call cascaded out through the balcony and into the night sky, loud enough for Slowin, far below, to hear.
“In here,” said Adacon. He led the way through the entrance to the jail. Inside was a circling wall of thin-barred cells, tiny and cramped, all hugging the fringe of the room. They were empty except for one; in it was a hunched man, balled on the floor underneath a mess of wild brown hair, clothed in stained rags. He appeared asleep or dead.
“That must be him—the keys,” remembered Erguile, and he ran back to grab the keys from Bulkog’s corpse. Adacon approached the cell door and peered down.
“Hello, Flaer? We’ve come to free you,” Adacon said. He trembled, still filled with the adrenaline of facing Bulkog. From the crumpled man came no reply. Adacon repeated himself to no avail. Erguile returned with the keys and quickly opened the door. With a rusty creek it gave way and he shook the man.
“Come on, we’ve got to be off now,” Erguile pleaded, shaking him. After another bout of shaking the man came around, opening his eyes and peering up. Slowly he got to his feet.
“Are you alright?” asked Adacon. There came no answer, but a moment later the man nodded his head.
“Can you speak?” asked Erguile, and the man shook his head side to side.
“Cursed, I’ll bet,” Adacon guessed. The man nodded to confirm. “Are you Flaer?” he asked, and the man nodded once more. His face was long and shaggy, appearing like an overgrown animal.
“Damn it—I can’t free his hands,” Erguile groaned. Adacon looked down to see Flaer’s hands shackled in what appeared to be a smooth black contraption made of something with no interlocking pieces. The shackle, it appeared, was a black steel figure eight that somehow bonded Flaer’s hands tightly at the wrists; there were no keyholes or features of any kind. The bracelet was in fact one smooth unit.
“Better get him down to Slowin,” stammered Adacon, and Erguile agreed. Flaer followed without protest, and the three descended the tower. They exited the front doors instead of going through the cellar, and Slowin was already there awaiting them.
“Well done; are you hurt much?” Slowin asked, noticing the blood on Erguile’s neck and