Darkin A Journey East - By Joseph A. Turkot Page 0,7

in writing so cruel and hot. But it was hot, and before long he grew hungry and thirsty. The patches of green slowly fell out of sight behind him, as the path leading on through the desert twisted and trailed eastward.

He noticed his vision seemed blurry, but even still he thought he could see an unusual sand dune up ahead, spotted with discolorations. He wondered if the vision could be a mirage, but as he drew closer he realized the dune was completely real, as it did not change or vanish from his sight. It was not so large in size, and it seemed to have what looked like windows and a small door. He wondered who could inhabit such a remote house in the desert, and where they fell under the rule of the lords.

It was noon by the time he reached halfway to the small house. He dragged on, noticing as he got closer that the windows were actually small holes, plated with glass, carved from the hardened walls of the sand hill. The door was a faded green, and it had a small sign hanging on it, he could see. He paced on through the terrible heat, hard as ever up and down the dunes, as slowly his mind began to waver. He began to wonder what he’d just done. He had killed six men. The lords would torture and hang him if he couldn’t find freedom in the east; if there was no freedom in the east.

Abstract thoughts rushed through his brain, many things of the strangest sort. He grew into a depressed state, deciding it was more than likely that the sand dune hut was a desert outpost for the lords. The structure hadn’t appeared to be anything more than a small, hardened dune to him at first glance, and the door to it had been well hidden behind another nearby dune. Should there ever be any roaming guards passing by, they would not easily see the hut. But he had spotted it, and so he adjusted his path across the hot sand towards its entrance. As the door came within his sight, he could clearly comprehend the lettering on the sign:

‘Molto’s Keeping.

Do Not Enter,

Lest You Fancy

Spirited Winds

To Sear Your Soul.’

He stood completely puzzled, yet completely enthralled. Though as a child he never talked of it, he always had a keen intrigue in the legends of Vapoury and its surrounding lore. Vapoury was the idea of using magic righteously, for the good of others, though magic itself was forbidden to be discussed by slaves, and was only spoken of in hushed tongues. He used to hear tales of the Vapours; the mythical wizards who used Vapoury, and could harness the natural elements for purposes of good. In one such tale there was a spell called the Spirited Winds, the same as was written on the sign. Though in all probability it was a coincidence, a stream of excitement poured through him, as he thought momentarily that perhaps Vapours were real, and their stories true.

Then a wave of fear poured through him. He knew, as slave legend told, that most of the magic users rumored to remain about the land in modern times were cruel and evil, only using their forces to construct a landscape of evil upon Darkin. The fear almost overtook him, but soon he supressed his worry, and curiosity devoured the fright in him. Still, he unsheathed his sword to be cautious, and made a slow pace toward the mysterious dune. He reached the tiny green door, froze for a moment, and then made an anxious knock. He hid his drawn sword to his side, deciding that an evil wizard might not kill him immediately should he appear unarmed.

The majority of slaves he’d known on the farm did not believe in Vapoury. None had seen it. The lords condemned the use of the word, and they named it a treacherous and chaotic fable. The rulers of Darkin believed with mysterious fear that the legend of magic was a bringer of ruin. The very act of reading about magic, or even openly speaking of it, almost always resulted in execution.

Adacon had always dreamt that there existed another world besides his own, one possible only in his dreams, where magic was a beautiful thing; he dreamt of humans and elves frolicking together on golden hills, using it only for Vapoury. This tinge of wonder in him had caused him to knock—any sane escaped slave would