scorched thousands of warriors in single blasts. One final blast ended the Hemlin-Auc battle, and in that blast was King Felwith Aukc-Intdres himself destroyed along with much of the countryside of Hemlin-Auc itself. What arid land remained harbored no force of resistance to Vesleathren, and Darkin was claimed for the Feral. This ended the age that pinnacled during its namesake’s rule, King Felwith.
It is said that although all seemed lost, Flaer himself survived, and even still, kept with him the Brigun Autilus, stolen blade of the Feral commander Vesleathren. What power Aulterion had poured into that blade Flaer knew not, but with it he fled east, towards the Kalm Ocean.
It was rumored that in the battle of Hemlin-Auc, ere the blasts of Aulterion, Flaer had confronted Vesleathren, and they had dueled. In that duel Flaer raised the Brigun Autilus from Vesleathren’s grasp and wielded it only in time to flee by some magical aide from the onslaught of Aulterion.
All the while, in the latter part of Felwith age, Krem the Vapour journeyed on some hidden errand, and of no aid had he been to the Five Countries against the Feral. And it came to be the Midst Age, when none in Darkin would surmise if an age of morality or peacefulness would ever return.
Then Flaer traveled east, speaking not whence he came, nor of the burden laid upon him ever after until his death.
THE ROUNDS OF ZESM UPON THE FIRE PLAINS
TROUBLED WERE THOSE THAT WOULD COME THROUGH Arkenshyr by way of the Vashnod Plain or Solun Desert in the Midst Age, for Zesm the Dark Rancor made those lands his abode. Ere Krem could fashion shelter in Solun, he was waylaid by Zesm (the short name given to Elvierzesm Duoring).
Among rogues, Zesm was elite, and in skill to stay stealthy more so than in skill to battle. And so Krem, with aid of Vapoury, repelled Zesm whence he came, though to what purpose Zesm assailed Arkenshyr Krem foresaw not. Within Krem was little fear, yet fear remain reserved for Zesm, for Zesm could remain cloaked even before Krem’s Vapoury. Krem kept watch for many nights, and across Zesm again did he never run in those summers of the Solun.
Although Krem had repelled the Dark Rancor in battle, to any other Zesm was a formidable foe, and Krem often found stragglers and nomads slain for the sake of their muscle, so that Zesm could feed upon them. Often were these bodies hewn in such a fashion that belied them as Zesm’s victims, though Krem sufficiently knew this.
While Krem surely detected the Vex of Evil within Zesm, the more troubling notion lay in the truth that Krem had been unable to finish Zesm in melee. Zesm had fled in stealth, aided by malevolent speed, and not since reappeared to Krem.
The rounds of Zesm were clear enough however, in the frequent carcass counts marked by a signature suture of the eyes. It was not until Krem’s twentieth summer in the Solun that Zesm would be revealed for his true ancestry, and make himself available once more to Krem in combat.
THE FATE OF FLAER IN BULKOG’S TOWER
FLAER ISENHART SWORDHAND (PRONOUNCED FLAY-EAR), renowned to be greatest in all of Darkin with blade as his name came to tell, became imprisoned upon the North Tower of Sceptical. There Bulkog gave him home in captivity, ever abiding the will of Grelion his hidden master.
Bulkog was of Feral genetic, and lurked about the north tower by day and night, mindful of his captive and ever waiting for word from Grelion. About the tower, sentries held post as far as a league in any direction.
It was rumored that the Brigun Autilus, Flaer’s elder-forged blade, was held likewise captive and far apart from him in another tower, a sister to the east across a vast scorched plain, a fire plain that had been known to the Ferals as the Vashnod. The Brigun Autilus was revered among Feral-blooded with great fear, and away it must remain from Flaer lest he unite with it and slay those that would bond him, as he had come to be known as “Flaer the Slayer” among the Ferals.
Bulkog kept mindful eye of his duty, but discarded to indulgence in extravagant pipe-weeds as would come through his pass, for the route of Sceptical was along trade lines stretching out across the Vashnod and into the port city of Saru, upon the Saru Gnarl cape north of Asgaronth Bay. Some nights Bulkog would indulge further still in elixirs from the north, intoxicating blends known as Etrhils, and hallucinogenic blends known as Rhetrhils. Prowling the uppermost plank of his tower, some mile high over the Solun Desert to the south and the Angelyn Mountains in the north, Bulkog often scorned the name to whom his oathe was sworn, and he would exact vengeance on those minions at hand when need so met his want of violence.
So it came to pass that Flaer was freed by a party, and in the trespassing of Ceptical was Bulkog slain in drunken stupor. Quickly, Flaer and his party fled east in search of the Brigun Autilus across the Vashnod plain, the band of fighters hot in temper.
Many Feral who had stood guard in the Ceptical had already withdrawn, and to aid Bulkog no one came in his final hour, when he took up Ettlebane his foul forged craven blade and Mirebane his demonic mallet of war against Adacon and Erguile, mere farmhands. And so come to slay Bulkog were two, and their purpose was to reunite Flaer Swordhand with sword, and cross the fire plain Vashnod eastward to reach the sister tower Ethrull.
THE FIRST SCRIPTURE OF GAIGAS
IN THE ELDER AGE OF DARKIN, KNOWN AS THE FELWITH AGE, THERE dwelt Mineos Ortemall the Fertile-girth, son of Mineos Ortemall Fair-girth, in the Hemlin-Auk country of the great North. For many years did Mineos reign over the emerald hills of the Hemlin, and his line ran high to daughters. In a great rending of the sky, a council of men was destroyed at Wallstrong, ere the reign of Mineos the Fertile-girth could be passed to his heir, Mineos the Tender-girth. Among those enflamed at the Great Scorching were all whom Mineos the Fertile-girth could name for sons.
As the heirs of Mineos melted, Fertile-girth strode anon unscathed from the blaze, spared; he cried forth, assailing the firmament and its meddlesome gods:
“A great age of tempered beasts have I produced, oh Gaigas–and this flame repays my toil. Spared am I from the slaughter of my sons but to behold the ruin of my line.” At the quieting of Mineos’s voice a thunder echoed in response from the heavens:
“Quiet your angry tongue, Fertile-girth. The makers of you and your line will do as pleases their whimsy, be it fanciful or designed.” And Fertile-girth quieted not, and a caustic spite he voiced:
“Then I return to the valley a baresark; and the women of the earthen-flock will know my namesake. Once their thirst of manhood has been sated I come to make your decline, oh Gaigas–”
The gods spoke not again but a sword fell from the sky. Near to the flame the sword glowed until Mineos o’ertook its steely hilt–a runic etching ran dark on the metal, and Mineos read the lore of the fallen blade:
In the beginning was Welfirth, spawn of Castfirth; Welfirth begot Agrifirth, and Agrifirth begot Koerlfirth, father of Maelwend. Upon Maelwend’s deathbed was appointed a great prophecy to take root and hold of all the people of Darkin: The prophecy bade men to concede to the maker-line of Gaigas, and its kin; such was the fertility of Gaigas that even Welfirth, first of natural-born beasts, hungered for its virility. Spaketh Maelwend from Death’s edge:
“Heed Gaigas and the maker-line–rest assured I have seen beyond Death’s edge to a vestige of the first days; It was in the first age that Golwoth decided to pleasure himself and bear a fruit-laden caste of gifts, the first of which was Gaigas. Unto its spawn did Gaigas divide the bounty of Golwoth,and fairest of all gifts was Welfirth, the first natural-born manbeast.”
Many surrounded Maelwend as he lay dying, and all passed the lore of Golwoth’s creations evermore upon Darkin. Primest of Golwoth’s endeavors, Gaigas, loved the warmth of natural-born man most; his love was such that envy was conceivable when great lines ran fertile and high to daughters. Only Li’fere the Deceiver recognized fault in Gaigas’s love–and none save the line of Fenglon took the lore of Li’fere, such was his history of mischief. Upon the birth of a most fertile line, the reckoning of Gaigas’s flaw became a wearisome affair of men–an
d soon the form of Gaigas descended to Darkin to halt the meritorious line it so envied; and standing in preparation was a great force of men. Last standing to die was Tolfirth, greatest ascendant of the Ortemall line. Against his deathwind he spaketh direct to Gaigas:
“Know that a son I have born, and hidden he is amongst the shadows. Know also that in an eon his descendants will spread true the fertility of their line once more, and claim all the wilds of this place for their own, and women shall ne’er again lament the passing of a last heir of Ortemall.”
Gaigas deemed not the spoilt form worth a response, and smote his beast-ruin upon the hillside. Long in splendor evermore did Gaigas preside, but some harbored the prophecy of Maelwend and its portents; some said Tolfirth had found favor with The Gods who Hid, and for many generations had there he dwelt breaking sweat upon an anvil, forging in the firmament a sword worthy of forsaking Gaigas’s designs for the limits of what man ought be–a sword that would fall from the heavens at the second meddling of Gaigas into the hands of a spared manbeast of the line of Ortemall. Engraved upon that blade would be its purpose, and fated would be its wielder’s journey to sieze the envy from Gaigas at last, though the death of a god may be the cost.
Mineos looked up from whence the runed blade had fallen, and he bade thanks to his greatest grandfather who heavenkept had sent him his errand; to Tolfirth he assured the recognition of his task, and only for the valor to undertake it did he ask. And so gripping his new blade, especially crafted to slay Gaigas, Mineos walked westerly upon the hills, away from the burnt chars of his brethren, on toward the valley so that a last ravishing could cause his line to endure, and set into motion another heir, safely hidden whislt the treachery of Gaigas was avenged.
As Mineos the Fertile-girth hastened forth, taking a steed toward the Angelyn Range, a figure appeared to waylay him; a creature veiled in darkness, cloaked in nightshade forbade his passage. The creature spoke in riddles:
“Go back and die peacefully while you may, Mineos the Fertile-girth, last of the fair line of Ortemall. Know that you may serve some tamed purpose there, but your course does not lie this way.”
“Spy of Gaigas, I am no fool–you would stop me from spreading my seed, and would have the greatest line ever seen upon Darkin thwarted ere it began anew.”
“Be not so foolish, Mineos Fairbreast–I mean no harm, but am a lover of men who calls you to your greatest interest; forget a life of women and breeding, return to Wallstrong and tend to the ashes of your heirs-live their humbly and praise your lord God, Gaigas, and be grateful for the last of the single life availing the line of Ortemall.”
Mineos saw a glint in the eyes of the creature, and for a moment all its darkness was o’erdrawn: there veiled was Gaigas come in the form of a man, chancing to halt the line of Ortemall before it could be resprung.
“I know the toil of Tolfirth, and you ought know his toil as well–” and with his reply Mineos brandished the toil of Tolfirth, an eon-long forged blade whose sole purpose was to rend Gaigas asunder.
“So you know it is I, Gaigas–then also know that your greatest grandfather’s blade was built of spoilt metal, impure and of the lesser gods; that edge will find no target here.”
“Then fear not to meet it, Gaigas Fertile-thief!” And forth charged Mineos, blade raised high to meet godflesh.
A rotted tavern sprung as a wound from the foot of a flower-laden meadow gully; its oaken back-door swung wide, and toward a firm cask of aged ale there limped a brutish form. Far away, a great clangor split the pale still of twilight, and Claw the Meadhand gripped his mead-horn firm; “Master!” he called in mortal fright.
“What is it, Moldhand?” answered Master from within the tavern dark.
“A great thunder rips the sky, but the sky—it stays pale and true!”
“Quiet your beastsome tongue, Moldhand; our guest waits with no patience for ale poured of frightful gimp-hands.”
“Yes master.”
Old master surveyed his tired meadhand, burdened with a horn of ale and a greased complexion of grey-wheat. Claw ticked along the wood planks leading to the cavernous tavern hall, dragging his molded feet; his dark-veined eyes jerked in spasms over the distant sky, searching in vain for a source to the terrible thunder.
“Quit your tarrying, Moldhand! Our guest is the first in a month, and I’ll not have you drive away business—forget the thunder and move in fast, else feel the wrath of my bloated toes!”
Claw the Meadhand, smelling of ripe sea-greens, brought the cloaked guest its foaming horn of ale. As a dog, Claw sat by, awaiting a token.
“A sip, is it, you desire?” spoke the guest.
“If it pleases the guest.”
“Here, Meadhand.” Claw accepted and drank deeply from the horn.
“Why is it you’ve had no guests in a month?”
Claw wiped his oiled mouth, then spat as he talked, checking behind to be sure the Master was away in the kitchen: “There has been a plague about the land. There has been a terrible plague about the…”
“Speak the tale in full, and leave nothing out, dear Meadhand—for I am a guest in your house.”
“Master is lurking; he listens from the hall.”
“Your master rots from the hall, where he lies slain.”
“Master?”
“Indeed it was no thunder you heard crackling yon.”
Claw the Meadhand hobbled with vigor toward the kitchen hall, and staring up were the lifeless eyes of Master—the body weeped brackish blood from its pores, spoiled from some mischievous magic.
“A feast-treat for you, dear Meadhand, and by the name of Moldhand shall you be known no more.”
And in response to the guest’s proclamation, Claw bit fervently, and tore eagerly of Master’s flesh—first he stripped the arms of their meat; then he drank ravenously of the streaming veins; and next he devoured the chest and abdomen, merrily sating his hunger for manflesh.
“You are a true friend, Claw,” spoke the guest from his stool in the hall. He drank thrice from his horn and placed it, empty, on the table.
“Sweet meats! How I have had such treats of late,” a muffled exclamation came from the kitchen hall.
“Yes. A plague is about the land, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
READ THE FULL-LENGTH DARKIN NOVELS
BOOK I: DARKIN: A Journey East
BOOK 2: DARKIN: The Prophecy of the Key
ABOUT THE CREATOR
Joseph A. Turkot currently works as a Teacher of English in New Jersey. He graduated from Rutgers University with a B.A. in English. He has written numerous short stories and novels in the horror, science-fiction, and fantasy genres. Sign up for the author’s mailing list for notification of new books.
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You’ve reached the end of the first Darkin short stories book! I am glad you have made it this far. I sincerely hope you take the time to write a review on Amazon.com, and any additional retailers that have my stories for sale. I will continue to put care into my writing and engage my readers. I would also like to hear from you about my stories. My email is at the end of this book. If you haven’t yet, pick up the full-length novels, DARKIN: A Journey East and DARKIN 2: The Prophecy of the Key.
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