Darkin A Journey East - By Joseph A. Turkot Page 0,81
families, the children?” Adacon cried. Calan could not respond; she wept openly into his arms.
“Come on,” Remtall called back after they’d stopped moving for a moment. “There will be time for grieving once the head of that black wizard rolls.” Calan continued to weep. Adacon stood holding her in his arms, unresponsive to Remtall’s command, despite the heat that began to sear them both.
“Now, move!” Remtall roared with all the vigor of a gnomen captain, and as such he was finally heeded. Calan wept as she walked again forward, and Adacon held her, as the company of elves jogged away with increasing speed. No words came for a long time—not elf nor man nor gnome spoke. The night wore on. Soon dawn came, barely noticeable through the canopy, and slowly the weak rays transformed into morning’s full blossom. Adacon thought he heard noise from the elves for the first time since they had escaped the fire; at first he dismissed it as his imagination, and he looked to Calan, whose tears ran lighter down her soft emerald cheeks. Suddenly, a mysterious tune carried through the ranks, and Adacon knew he had not been mistaken. A song of sorrow had been taken up by the troop of elves. Adacon could do nothing but listen as the song wavered and peaked, ascending ominously in the morning sky: a lullaby for the departed. The words were as if hummed to the human ear, but Adacon could tell the language was elven, though he could understand none of what was being sung. It did not matter, as the song was as beautiful as anything he’d ever heard. Soon, surprisingly, Remtall joined into the song. Though the gnome did not know the words, he appeared with a gift for music, and kept his tongue in key, adding various harmonies where he could. Even Calan began to sing with the party, and soon a great melancholy set into the forest, as the song of mourning bore its noteful fruit to the waking creatures of Carbal Jungle. Adacon was still unnerved, but he couldn’t help but join in; he entered at the level of a whisper, and he knew then that all of the loved ones of Carbal Run had been lost to the Artheldrum.
It was nigh a week before any of the elves spoke comfortably again, and Adacon did not notice how quickly the days had passed. Since the fire explosion there had been no signs of danger, and the march had gone smooth enough. Remtall had run out of liquor, and as a result was becoming increasingly irritable. The nights passed calmly enough, and Calan had started to sleep by Adacon’s side. It became known to the elven company that the two were entranced with one another. Adacon did what he could to comfort her, but it mattered little; Calan’s spirit had changed. She seemed eager to battle, as much of the elven company did, and spoke of little else. Remtall and Adacon joined the company’s hunger for war, feeding deeply upon a spirit of revenge. No longer did the elves simply pay a debt to Krem, and no longer did they march for anything other than vengeance. On the seventh night after the explosion, a vitality that Adacon had feared to be lost in Calan’s spirit returned.
“I am sorry, Adacon,” Calan whimpered, as they lay close to each other near their fire.
“It’s alright. I have known loss all my life. I understand your pain, but I cannot console it,” Adacon said, holding her tighter.
“We will continue on—we will overcome this great evil, it must be so. Gaigas still aids those who care for her,” she said. Adacon warmed with hearing the first words of faith from her in many days.
“Yes, we will,” Adacon replied, and he leaned at her; they kissed, lying twined upon the jungle floor. A loud snore startled them, echoing from Remtall who slept nearby. They laughed together; Adacon’s heart rejoiced at the healing of laughter, and he felt at ease for the first time in days.
Morning overtook the troop, and a brief breakfast was prepared for the company. Remtall managed to procure additional sap liquor from one of the elves in the troop, through some secret bribe of which he would not speak, and he was in better spirits once more, though still belligerent.
“One more day of marching and we’ll be out of this blasted, sweltering jungle—and good riddance to it I say,” Remtall complained, drinking freshly from his refilled