Free Darkin: A Journey East by Joseph A. Turkot Page B

emerald-encrusted hat—and he clutched his oaken staff in hand. Erguile fastened his armor in place and sheathed his sword. Adacon slung his quiver over his shoulder once again, and tucked his bow in place at his side. Time passed quickly as they made their last preparations, and then Krem held a prayer to Gaigas, asking for a safe journey.  Soon it was mid-morning and the party was set to move out—Adacon, Erguile, and the little Vapour Krem made their way out into the desert.
     
    The sun was hot, already beginning to scorch Adacon’s arms as they made their way northward in a direct line. Krem used a softly glowing blue sphere-shaped device he called a Relic to align their course toward the northern sky; when Erguile asked how the thing worked, Krem had only laughed and said: “It is my magical powers, lad.” The three marched on under the rising sun, and soon Molto’s Keep was far from sight.
    “And what of the bright purple robe you wear? Odd as it is fashioned, more pressing on my mind is the notice it gives to those that might seek us,” questioned Erguile, fearing the Vapour’s stark appearance against the yellow dunes.
    “Don’t pay it any mind; you’ve forgotten my Vapoury, lad. Know we are concealed by my power,” Krem answered.
    “I will take your word then. So, you’ve a good knowledge of this world’s map, is that right Krem?” asked Erguile as they pressed on, himself beginning to grow beads of sweat on his forehead from the overbearing sun.
    “I expect I know most of what’s out there, though I cannot account for all changes of recent, most of which I reckon are a product of Grelion’s rule,” said Krem.
    “Well what might you call this desert we walk, if you were to call it something other than hell,” Erguile returned.
    “This forbidding place is known to all who have crossed it as the Solun Desert—the Solun, plainly put.”
    “Solun eh? And what of our farm? Adacon and I have known it by nothing other than the farm; I’m sure it must have another name.”
    “Indeed you have known it by no other name because it has no other name. All of the slave farms, numerous and scattered as they may be, are given numbers—nothing more. I believe the one you and Adacon escaped from is Felwith farm, number seventy-seven.”
    “Felwith? I’ve never heard that before, what does it mean?” joined Adacon.
    “Felwith is the name given to those who most directly serve Grelion himself—they are his greatest minions. Morimyr is their home, though they extend themselves much farther than its cold steps.”
    “And what name do we give this tower we are now headed for?” asked Adacon.
    “It is the tower of Ceptical, dear Adacon, and it is there that I hope we shall recover the greatest swordsman in all the land,” Krem spoke.
    “Hah! It is I you speak of, old man. I’ve been fighting with swords since I was a child. All through my slavery did I and some others form our own secret sparring titles. Hah, and it was always I who held the highest most rank,” Erguile said arrogantly. “But not an easy thing, what we did. A good number of the men who came to fight with us were caught with their weapons, the dumb fools. Friends they may have been, but pity them I do not. It was their mistake to be not overly concerned with their going about here and there in proper stealth.”
    “I never had any idea such clans existed on the farm,” exclaimed Adacon. “Surely I would have joined had any of you spoke of it.”
    “Yes, it was a very cautious thing, and I always spoke with the slaves whom I thought would fancy such a thing—you, young Adacon, never caught my eye as one to fight.”
    “I did practice as much as possible in my hut, with the space that allowed. I became quite good I think, over time. It was only after I slashed my walls a good dozen times that I stopped. Still, I retained the fighting arts in my mind, as I had learned from the different books I acquired.”
    “I’m more