Darkin A Journey East - By Joseph A. Turkot Page 0,78
said, kicking Adacon’s ribs; once stirred, Remtall filled his mug for a morning drink.
“No thanks,” Adacon muttered, rubbing his eyes, slowly rising to his feet. He thought for a moment about telling Remtall what had happened, but then thought better of it, considering how unpredictable Remtall had been acting lately. Soon the gnome had polished off four mugs of the elven ale, and had somehow discovered a vial of elven sap liquor.
“This will do us well on the Enoan road,” Remtall explained as he filled both his flasks up.
“Haven’t you lost enough of your wits?” Adacon asked wearily.
“Never mind a gnome’s wits, boy. Know that Remtall of Rislind marches north this day, to the beat of vengeance,” Remtall said. After they were both awake they descended the long tree cut ladder to the jungle floor.
Adacon reached the floor of the jungle first, and through various twining plants and high grasses he rushed toward the congregation forming at the center of Carbal Run. Remtall was quick to follow in the mist-filled morning, and soon they both stood before a pooling of elves. Each man-elf wore armor that shone a deep hue of jungle bark. Two of the elves spoke while the rest listened reverently; they spoke in a foreign tongue that neither Adacon nor Remtall could understand. Adacon recognized one of speaking elves as Iirevale; the other was a much older elf, covered in long greying hair, with a thick beard protruding from his jutting chin. Calan spotted them and came to Adacon’s side amidst the clamor.
“Good morn,” she whispered.
“And good morn to you fair lady!” Remtall said loudly, without restraint. Suddenly the elves of the congregation turned to see who had interrupted them: the whole of the elven council brought its eyes to Remtall, who withdrew his pipe and began stuffing it with tobacco.
“Never mind a gnome when it is the first hour of the morning,” Remtall instructed the staring elves. None of them turned back to Iirevale and the old elf. “Go on, back to your council.” Finally the elves dismissed the rudeness of their guest, and Iirevale began to speak again with the old elf in the foreign speech of the Carbal elves.
“Remtall, you must whisper, everyone is on edge…” Calan said. Remtall winked at her, and walked off to a nearby tree trunk, plopping himself down to puff on his pipe in peace.
“What are they saying?” Adacon asked, speaking in the faintest whisper.
“Iirevale is speaking with our chieftain, Gaiberth. Word came early today that Carbal Run’s sister village, Nightwink, was destroyed,” Calan said with sorrow.
“But, I don’t understand—the war is being fought many miles from here, in the North, I thought?”
“It is,” Calan replied. “But black magic is far reaching, and it is said that Vesleathren himself is launching great ranged attacks, deep into the heart of the jungle.”
“What kind of attack could span so many miles?”
“I dare not say—I only hear rumor and conjecture—but Gaiberth believes the magic to be darkfire, Artheldrum: a sun-shaped flame cast into the firmament that sails many leagues in the sky before finding its prey.”
“That sounds horrible.”
“Worse news has come today: it is being said now that Aulterion, greatest of black mages, has risen from his grave to aid Vesleathren once more.”
“Krem spoke of him once—he said that Aulterion had ended the Five Country War.”
“It’s true. They direct all their warmongering on our continent, much as they did yours in the last Great War. We are ill prepared for this, Adacon,” Calan said in despair; they touched hands for a moment, then let go.
“What is it then—what’s all this business about?” Remtall said in a quieter voice. Adacon and Calan turned in surprise to the small gnome who had snuck up behind them. As Calan was about to reply, the congregation broke up; some formed into marching ranks, while others returned to their houses. Iirevale rushed over to them.
“We depart now, sooner than expected—you are thanked for your understanding,” Iirevale said quickly.
“I’ll gladly bring aid sooner to any cause that might bring me revenge for my son!” Remtall piped.
“I am coming,” Calan said sternly.
“I cannot protest it, not at this hour, our time is too precious. Quickly, gather a sword and shield each from the store, there is no time for anything more; we march north along the Enoan road, on to the Wall of Dinbell,” Iirevale commanded, and he left them for the ranks of elves that stood waiting, Gaiberth at their head.