Darkin: A Journey East (2 page)

He came to the edge of the corn. A sentry stood against a small tree, puffing on a slender black pipe; tufts of smoke filtered into the night air. The sentry did not look roused, or in an aware state at all for that matter; rarely did the sentries have anything to do at night except stand about and look at shooting stars. Adacon froze for a moment and unsheathed his blade. In his right hand he gripped the handle tightly and walked eastward.

Instantly, he ducked to the ground, lying flat against the cold earth. His nose pressed into the soil and he breathed deeply, replacing for a moment the smell of burnt flesh with that of tended soil. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the night sky, and in the direction of the sentry, let out a soft yelping noise.

As quickly as the sound had left his mouth, he rolled sideward into the last thicket of corn, concealing himself. Hard shoots grazed his flesh, releasing his blood along their stalks. The guard withdrew his pipe at the sound of the yelp and spun around quickly to face the direction of the noise. Through a gap in the undergrowth, Adacon saw a dumbfounded expression wrap round the guard’s face as he looked for a source, baffled. The tower archer had been too far to hear the yelp. The man extinguished his pipe and looked up and down with great curiosity. Wearing an expression of unease, he trod slowly along the path southward, in the direction of the noise. He examined the ground around his feet as he walked; Adacon experienced a thought not his own:
he will see the broken earth, and where you lie hidden
. He readied his sword and clenched his teeth. The guard strode along with careful steps, coming within a single yard.

Looking closely at the crop line, the guard spotted the matted cornstalks; it was too late. Before the guard could draw his broadsword Adacon sprang up and hewed the man’s torso at its center. Blood misted and the guard let loose a howling cry, unexpectedly loud. He quickly silenced the cry for help by slicing the sentry’s throat with a quick thrust, causing him to fall dead to the earth with a thud. The strike had been fluid, precise—his body was not using its own faculties to battle, it seemed, but those of an alien bloodlust. His adrenaline, his passion, his body—they performed in accordance to what
had
to happen now, what
had
to be accurate and fatal. 

He stood up, a wholly different being than last had stood upon the earth of Darkin in his shape, a murderer of men. He looked high enough to see broadly again over the top of the corn. The tower had heard the death cry; the noise had been too loud. He froze for an instant, paralyzed by a fleeting panic: something is wrong, he thought—I did not mean to be discovered. His adrenaline surged. A thought arose, and unsettled him:
they are coming
. Still too far away to be seen, he kept his eye on the tower, two archers manning it. One of the archers climbed down the tower ladder and the other stood in place. Adacon quickly ran out past the end of the corn trail and through a small clearing; the archers didn’t spot him. Just beyond the clearing was an old barn, and to its west stood the restricted building, heaving rotten smoke from its chute. He darted to the far side of the decaying barn, safely out from sight of both guards.

As soon as he arrived on the side of the barn, a light struck out through the night air, shining down on where the first sentry had fallen. The light remained there, illuminating the surrounding area, as the archer now on the ground made his way toward the newly lit area. Adacon drew a quick glimpse of the area, edging to the end of the barn wall and peering around to watch for the guard’s arrival. Blood had splattered onto his thin clothes, making them dirty and red; his face dripped with its warmth, and the taste of it possessed his tongue. Still, he felt calm and collected again, and he was not enraged. The possibility of freedom started to take on strength. It was almost tangible now, and only the guards stood between him and the unknown wilds beyond the plantation.

The archer on the ground stepped warily to the head of the trail that led south to the slave huts. Adacon watched the archer arrive and stoop to the ground to retrieve something—the dead sentry’s pipe. The archer then turned southward and discovered the slain man’s body; he gasped. Adacon wasted none of his opportunity for surprise, and sprang from his hiding.

The archer rushed toward the mangled body on the ground, shaken by the gruesome sight. Adacon ran at a full sprint for the archer’s exposed back. With a clear motive, he raised his sword overhead and adjusted his momentum so as to strike down with great force upon the nape. A terrible horn sounded as his sword fell toward its target; the tower had seen the trap, and issued warning. The archer spun around fast enough to meet the falling edge with his neck. He slumped to the ground amidst a red fountain that steamed the cool air. One archer left, Adacon thought. He knew he would have to overpower the last archer from lower ground. He stole the bow and arrows from the fallen archer and found quick cover in nearby brush, dodging an arrow that whizzed by his head. The archer on the tower did not make a move—he stood atop the balcony and pointed the great light toward the foliage he had vanished into. Adacon waited quietly in the foliage for a sign of movement.

Minutes wore on, and his mind slowly trickled doubt about his situation. He wondered what would keep the archer up on the tower, as the lords bid their servants to fully control slaves at any cost, even that of their own lives. Then it hit him—with a shiver he realized that the archer was waiting for fellow sentries alerted by the horn. Three more would come at least. He decided not to wait for the incoming guards, and he dashed from his hiding place to a new one, closer to the tower. As he ran briefly into the open, another arrow slid by his frame, nearly tricking up his feet.

He crawled on all fours past huge thickets of ivy against a low stone wall. The wall ran southeast in a looping curve, out to the path leading directly to the tower, and the gate beyond. He remained unseen as he made his way east, face grappling with the earth in stealth. As the wall rose some, he turned his back against it and sat down, slowly removing an arrow from the slain archer’s quiver. He knew his shot would depend on whether or not he could steady his hands enough to aim at the high target on the tower. The archer eyed the thick growths that hugged the north face of the wall, unable to see where the slave hid; the beam of light emanating from the tower revealed nothing. Adacon’s face grew stern as the time for his deadly task came. He straightened the arrow against the string and centered its feathers in his sight. He decided to aim high and hope the arrow would arc; though he knew their make and purpose, he had never before used a bow and arrow. Still, he doubted he could hit the high target, despite a strange assurance overcoming him again. His attacks had been fatal and accurate thus far—maybe I can hit him, he thought.

He stood to fire, revealing his hiding spot. About to loose his arrow, he froze at the sudden clap of footsteps coming from behind. The footsteps were faint, twenty yards away at least, accompanied by muddled voices. He lost his focus for a moment to the distraction, but quickly returned his gaze to see the archer above fixing aim on him. Two arrows flew: the archer’s spared its target; Adacon’s did not. The form atop the tower grasped at his neck violently. The aim had been dead set. More red misted the night sky, illuminated by the torch harnessed to the tower balcony. The tower spotlight flickered out. The limp body toppled over the side of the tower rail and fell to the fertile earth, croaking until impact. Adacon began a mad dash at that moment, running directly to gain the tower. The trailing footsteps had grown louder, and he felt their eyes upon his back. The tower had seemed larger from a distance, and appeared smaller as he approached its ladder: it looked like a frail old piece of wood crafting, fashioned by wood slaves in the south. The old bars were sturdy though, and he quickly gained the high ground.

Three sentries came into plain view, rushing at the tower. He removed another arrow from his quiver and set it in place on the bowstring. He drew the string back and let the arrow fly, targeting the front most sentry. The arrow missed to the left, burying into the soft soil. He did not think—he instinctively reloaded the bow and fired again. The arrow hit, but not at its intended target; it glanced off the front guard’s sword and flew into the archer that had been bringing up the rear. The arrow pierced through his lower left abdomen, leaving him helplessly wailing on the ground. Two guards rushed on—an archer and a swordsman; he reloaded his bow and fixed aim on the archer. Before he could release, the swordsman charged the ladder and haphazardly threw a knife skyward. He dodged the errant blade, but enough time had been saved for the archer to quickly take position behind the stone wall.

Adacon squatted behind the balcony’s small rail to be out of sight. The swordsman grunted below, climbing the ladder with haste for the balcony. Adacon looked down through the floor hole where the ladder came up into the balcony. Peering down, he saw the top of a man’s head rising upward fast. He felt no guilt as he fixed aim on the defenseless guard’s skull and loosed another arrow. The force sent the guard tumbling back to the ground where, after a loud crack, blood pooled. One more, he tallied. The last archer sat hidden somewhere below, nowhere to be seen. With reckless abandon, Adacon flew down the tower ladder, hopped the slain guard at its landing, hit the earth, and ran toward the stone wall. He threw his bow to the ground and again unsheathed his sword. Gripping the hilt with both hands, he felt new energy course through his muscles—he stalked forth, and the fragrance of melted flesh bathed him once more.

He prowled the brush along the looping stone wall, searching the thicket where the archer had disappeared into. He froze to listen for noise—nothing. He grew impatient and started a mad search, untangling each piece of knotted brush. Suddenly, he heard the unmistakable sound of a twig snapping. It had come from behind.

He spun around to meet a cocked bow pointed at his face. The sentry launched an arrow at the slave’s throat; Adacon reacted in time, reeling his sword upward in an instinctive reflex, severing the bow’s sturdy frame. The arrow limply glanced from his neck, drawing a thin line of blood. The guard stumbled back in despair, and Adacon locked onto his eyes. They shared a brief moment of compassion before he swung his great blade around, this time horizontally at the guard’s abdomen.

Snapping out of his momentary daze, the guard unsheathed his short sword and parried upward, causing a clangor of metal to break the quiet. Blue sparks of steel on steel fed Adacon’s desire for freedom. The sentry struck back in the next second, thrusting powerfully in an upward slice at his torso—but he reacted as if possessed, countering without effort. The sentry wobbled off balance for a moment, stooping slightly to regain his footing—Adacon wasted no such chance, swiftly beheading the fazed guard. The guard hit ground with a thump.

A wail echoed from several yards away, and Adacon glanced to a still living guard, lying on the earth, grappling with an arrow stuck in his gut. He thought for a moment about sparing the helpless man, but memories of Remtall flooded in—there could be no mercy now. He thrust down once more, ending the cries, and a light filled his head…  

The farm is free; at least for the moment. A fallen farm, he guessed, would take several days to replenish its guards; it was more than enough time to clean the evidence and make a swift and long departure. But he was not concerned with evidence; he felt that he had perpetrated no unlawful act. The words of his lost friend Remtall echoed in his head. This is the start, he thought. He sheathed his sword. The air had grown extremely foul, it seemed fouler than ever before, and he grew anxious to leave the smell behind. The landing of the tower ladder was painted scarlet, and Adacon had begun to leave his mark in the History of Darkin.

The gate to the outside world was fifteen yards away. He slowly walked the path. This is the start, he thought: there is no repenting this, not to the lords. He did not know where to travel once he made it beyond the farm gates, but he decided he ought to go east, in hope of finding free countries; he did not trust the slave lore, nor the tales of the elders, but he had no other hope. He knew it was more likely he would be picked up by sentries marching across the countryside, or by routing posts hidden throughout the land, only to be tortured and hanged. The guards of the lords had the right to sentence immediate death unto a slave. But fear was a feeling he now had no use for, it seemed—it was a newly estranged remnant of his old form. The sun leaked a hint of its first somber pink glow in the distance. Adacon wiped the blood from his brow and broke away from his past, through the farm’s gates.

II: KREM THE VAPOUR

He had the clothes on his back, the boots on his feet, the sword at his hip, and the bow and arrows on his back, but Adacon did not have much else—certainly no food for making a long trip away from the farm. He knew he was not coming back, that he was leaving on a quest toward the hope that there were free countries in the east. It would be his new responsibility to find food and drink along the way, at whatever the cost.

He had not been hungry as he left the plantation, but hunger soon began to grow in him; he thought of the bread and water he received regularly on the farm, and how that was now a comfort of the past. The road leading away from the plantation was formed of dirt, and lined by green and gold shrubbery that outlined a dark red wood on either side of the path. He followed the path steadily into the morning, hearing the forest wake up for the coming day. From childhood he recalled strange memories of forest tales, stories whose origins were long forgotten. They were stories about curious things; tales of wolves and wizards, elves and trolls—the sort of lore that was meant to be believed for only the first quarter of your life. Stuff like
magic
and
spells
. He didn’t believe in any of it, though he thought he would rather like meeting an elf. He had always heard elves to be loyal creatures of the forest, living at one with nature. The elves had no rule or slavery; they lived in harmony away from anyone else’s concern, the fables told. Such was the kind of tall tale that had sometimes made him long to personify the stories, and embody a noble elf of the Red Forest.