He pushed hard on several rocks before he found the one for which he searched. After pushing the rock with both hands—feeling it toggle and hearing the latch click—he watched as the hidden passage appeared. The large monolith stone-door slid inward to one side, scraping on stone-casters neglected for centuries. Quite frankly, Rua’tor was flabbergasted that the door still functioned. He turned to urge Ja’tar into the passage only to see him still lagging far behind with his staff glowing.
“We need to go!” he said, perhaps too harshly, stepping in Ja’tar’s direction and growling in a gravelly voice; he prayed that his comments didn’t carry far enough for them to be discovered.
Ja’tar barely heard him and reluctantly turned toward the sound. He had not realized that Rua’tor had wandered afar. Ja’tar swore as he made up his mind to forego battle; it forced him to hustle to catch Rua’tor as he stepped into the darkness. He caught a rather disappointing look from the Floormaster just before he ducked out of sight.
“It would serve the whole Keep better if you would focus,” Rua’tor mumbled angrily under his breath as he stepped deeper into the passage. “If you die, we die!”
Ja’tar overheard the comment, nodded curtly and let it slide as he followed the Floormaster into the narrow space. The door grated closed and sealed with a resounding thud, leaving them in absolute darkness. They were sealed from the rest of the Keep, even the sounds of the battle were muffled to the point of hushed whispers.
“Where does this passage lead?”
“To the lower levels,” Rua’tor said. “You need to stick close.”
Ja’tar immediately felt claustrophobic and began to sweat. His skin got clammy and his pulse rushed. The space was tight, barely a shoulders width wide, dark as ink, and smelled musty—the air was stale and sour. Ja’tar reached a hand up and found the damp stone roof only an inch above his head. He squinted in the dark, hoping his eyes would adjust.
“We are going to descend stairs here. Use your hands to find your way down. We can’t hazard a light, but it isn’t far,” Rua’tor whispered out of habit. “Five, maybe six stories at most. Do not step down one of the side passages. You will wander for a long time before you find a way out.”
The two old wizards stepped cautiously, feeling their way down, sliding their feet to locate the ledges of each uneven rock-hewn step. Rua’tor mumbled to himself as he recalled the steps of his forefathers.
“Left before right, or lost from sight…”
“Three times left is best before…”
“Ten steps down, then duck beneath the hollow…”
It seemed to Ja’tar that they were traveling agonizingly slowly; he counted ten heartbeats for every step, his patience wearing thin. He couldn’t see Rua’tor, but could hear his heavy breathing. He knew he lead the way with his enchanted Floormaster’s sword held at the ready; Ja’tar could hear the ring of the metal when it slid along the rock.
Rua’tor held it in his fat clammy hand and wove it slowly back and forth, clanging it on the rock. He jabbed at the darkness, making sure the path was clear, and simultaneously broke up the cobwebs that hung thickly…undisturbed since the days when Rua’tor had traveled the passage with his father. Ja’tar wiped his face as the fine gossamer threads of the spiders caressed his cheeks. He raised an arm shielding his face and counted the steps out of habit.
Rua’tor had been but a lad of five when his father began training him to become a Floormaster. The gruff man had lavished both praise and criticism on his son as he committed to memory the sayings and layout of the secret passages in the Keep. Rua’tor recalled the way his father spoke with pride when he described his life’s work. It had been a different time… Rua’tor had long lost any reverence he held for the job.
Rua’tor stopped suddenly, finding the landing and searched for the hidden catch that would release the door.
“I can’t find the latch,” he cursed under his breath. “It’s supposed to be right here!”
“Take your time,” Ja’tar calmly said.
“We don’t have time…” Rua’tor spat as he pounded his fist on the wall and rubbed hands across the cold damp rock.
Ja’tar lied. “We have time.”
“Where the halla is it?” Rua’tor cursed, as his hands blindly searched the wall, growing increasingly desperate.
Ja’tar grew frustrated and conjured a small, dim, light globe. “Calm down…”
“Ah, found it!” Rua’tor said, relieved. He pressed the lever and heard the telltale clunk of the mechanism. The door didn’t move, so he threw his shoulder at the slab of rock, causing the seal to break. He pushed hard, straining, and the heavy, well-balanced, door creaked opened. Fresh air rushed in across his face, but it was filled with the stench of death.
Rua’tor crouched and listened before he poked his head out of the enclosed passage. He held his sword at the ready and expected the worst.
The hall was empty and barely lit; only reflections from the lights in the tower at the far end filtered to where they stood. The ornate dragons-shaped copper sconces on either side of the hall were cold. They had stood cold for centuries and had only recently been lit after the rediscovery and the subsequent opening of the Chamber of Light. They were alone—fortunate that the battle had not yet spread to the lowest levels.
Rua’tor pushed the hidden passage closed, and waited for the latch to fall into place. He signaled for Ja’tar to be silent.
“Stay close…and follow me…”
Ja’tar bobbed his chin, pausing, letting Rua’tor get a couple steps ahead before he fell in silently behind the man.
They moved noiselessly on bare callused feet, toughened by years of traipsing the rough floors. They hurried down the hall and across to the narrow alcove that was the entry to the Chamber of Light. Minimal concealment was all that was available behind the great rock doors, which still stood open from the ceremony earlier that day.
Their pulses raced.
Panting, they paused to catch their breath before they both peered around the corner into the room. From their vantage point, they could see the glow of the Gate, but not much more. Ja’tar swore and took a hesitant step into the room, causing Rua’tor’s eyes to go wide.
A scraping sound from down the hall raised the goose-flesh on the back of Rua’tor’s neck.
“Against the wall,” Rua’tor ordered, as he shoved the Keeper back into place.
The abrupt shove caught Ja’tar by surprise and startled him out of a mesmerized gaze at the swirling open gate in the chamber. The two wizards turned toward each other as they heard something descending the main stairs at the far end of the hall. They combed the hall, but there was no other place for them to hide—being exposed, they and would quickly be seen by any demon swarm coming down the stairs from the tower or emerging from the room. Ja’tar readied his staff, chanting softly as he loaded spells. They considered the chamber, but it had demons milling about near the gate. Rua’tor swore, cursing the gods.
“You stay here,” the Floormaster ordered.
He persuasively pushed Ja’tar back, wedging him into the space between the half-open door and the rock wall. He stepped down the hall and took up a defensive position on the outside edge, right in front of the heavy door. He silently drew his second weapon, a long knife, and with a trembling, white-knuckled hand, held the blade at the ready.
The sound of demon wings echoed ever louder. Then, almost as suddenly, the sound faded and they heard a dull thud.
The Floormaster strode toward the sounds of the battle, raised his weapon and froze, listening. Looking back over his shoulder. He paused for several seconds, shrugged, and then advanced several more paces toward the entrance to the tower.
He looked out in shock at the carnage. Bodies of both demon and wizards alike were scattered across the floor of the tower. He spied Zedd’aki’s body sprawled awkwardly across the far side of the rubble, his guts torn out, and eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
Tears fil
led his eyes and a large lump formed in his throat. He and Zedd’aki went way back. Not only had they both taken the Oath of the Ten at the same time, but they fought side-by-side at the end of Ror as newly anointed wizards.
His gaze traveled around the room and up the steps, where the back wall of the turret was missing. There was rubble at his feet, nearly blocking the doorway. A demon with a broken neck caught his attention, but his mood sank when he saw the beaten body of Menzzaren half buried under the debris; he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the old wizard’s chest rise and fall as the unconscious man drew in ragged, shallow, uneven breaths.
He heard a whisper from Ja’tar’s direction that gave him pause. “What do you see?”
He ignored his question and waved him off.
Ja’tar saw Rua’tor rush out into the alcove. He saw him bend over and quickly grabbed a large dark bundle from the floor. Ja’tar couldn’t make out what was happening from his hiding place deep behind the door. This time, he stayed in place as his friend the Floormaster had instructed.
Rua’tor grabbed Menzzaren by his feet and hauled him out of the alcove. Once he was clear of the tower, he stopped and studied the man at his feet, turning him around. The wounds were grave. Grabbing him by the collar of his robe, he managed to drag him another five paces, far enough into the hallway that the damage on the far side of the tower was not clearly visible.
Rua’tor didn’t want Ja’tar to see Zedd’aki in his condition. From the look of things, he was long dead and it would be too late to do anything…meaningful. He knew Ja’tar well-enough to know he would be devastated and inconsolable. Zedd’aki was Ja’tar’s best friend and they were inseparable. In this hour of need, the Keep needed the Keeper to be focused on his tasks. If Ja’tar knew about Zedd’aki, he would attack with blind rage, endangering all for his revenge.
“Quick, Ja’tar! It’s Menzzaren, and he’s hurt,” Rua’tor hoarsely whispered, as he bent to help the fallen wizard off the floor.
He grabbed handfuls of his robe and dragged him several more paces deeper into the hallway, leaving a crooked trail of fresh blood. He leaned him against the wall, hoisting him up into to a seated position.
Menzzaren groaned and choked as his lungs filled with blood. He sputtered and blood ran down his chin from the corner of his mouth, matting down his beard. His eyes fluttered open and then clamped shut as his face turned gray.
Menzzaren’s robe was slashed in multiple places. There was so much blood, Rua’tor didn’t know where to begin. Rua’tor coughed and his robe fell open, exposing his heaving chest. Rua’tor winced and with a gentle hand pulled the robe open further. He saw the trails of deep-gashed claw marks across his friend’s abdomen and multiple puncture wounds; they were already festering at the edges and the skin was turning black. Bright red blood bubbled freely into the white cloth of the robe.
The ancient wizard’s head drooped to his chest.
“He’s passed out from the pain,” Rua’tor said, as he laid hands on the mage and began chanting. The healing magic sank into the wounds.
Ja’tar’s eyes went wide, “Out of my way!”
Ja’tar stepped from behind the door and rushed to aid his friend, kneeling to inspect the wounds, pushing Rua’tor over in the process.
Menzzaren’s eyes darted about. “By the gods, this really…stings.”
Rua’tor pushed himself up and patted Menzzaren on his shoulder.
“I don’t feel very goo…” he mumbled before he passed-out again.
Ja’tar clasped his hands together and began chanting, soon they began to glow. He laid his hands over the wounds and watched as the blue glow pulsed and his friend’s body twitched.
When he removed his hands, the wounds were skinned over and healing. His friend was still very weak, for he had lost a lot of blood. Ja’tar altered his spell and laid his hands on his friend for a second time.
Menzzaren tried to smile. “I fear the healing is worse than the wounds.”
“If only,” Ja’tar grunted and pushed himself to his feet. “Close your eyes. You need to rest.”
Menzzaren coughed and his cheeks trembled from the pain.
After several minutes, the Floormaster helped Ja’tar get Menzzaren to his feet. They hefted his arms over their shoulders to leverage him up. Together they staggered toward the door of the chamber. Menzzaren stumbled like a drunk as he was half-dragged, half-pulled down the hall.
“I thought I was a goner…” he moaned.
The Floormaster tried to set him down as gently as he could, but his weight was too much, and he fell the last few inches like a bag of flour to the floor. Menzzaren winced, nearly crying out, as he hit—the newly-healed wounds pulling. His eyes showed their whites as he fought to remain conscious.
Menzzaren grunted and Ja’tar heard a scream building in his friend’s throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but Ja’tar clamped his hand over his mouth, muffling the scream. He raised a finger to his lips and whispered, “We have to go close the gate to shut off the flow of demons. You rest here. Do not move! We’ll come back for you when we’re done.”
Menzzaren eyes focused and he nodded weakly, barely able to keep his chin up.
He understood. It was the important to shut the gate.
Menzzaren bit his lip as he tried to control the pain and tasted the salty metallic taste of his own blood. He tried to spit it out, but was too weak; it dribbled down his chin, leaving rivulets from the corner of his mouth.
The Floormaster peered around the corner of the door and once he deemed it safe, signaled his friend to follow. They quickly slipped through the unguarded entry…crouched low, and hastily concealed themselves behind the half-wall and tall black marble colonnades that encircled the room.
Ja’tar was nervous and was sweating profusely as he glanced out from behind one of the stone columns. He had a clear view of the tabernacle, and what he saw, dumbfounded him; there was a pattern of four glowing stones on the altar. In all his centuries at the Keep, he had only seen patterns of three, never more. The meaning of what he saw terrified him.
He and Rua’tor looked through the gate into the other world and saw demons gathering at the fringe, waiting to make their journey to the battle. The demon who occupied Bal’kor was standing by the gate, helping the demons over the threshold. From where they stood, the origin of their calling could not be determined.
Ja’tar set his sight on the Roceye branch in its slot against the far wall and began to work his way around to the left side of the altar. Ja’tar caught Rua’tor’s attention and motioned for him to make his way down the other side of the Chamber.
Ja’tar kept low, using the short waist-wall for cover, as he slipped from column to column. A group of ghouls and several ghasts stepped through the gate, their long tongues licking at the air. Ja’tar froze and lifted his hands, ready to cast spells. He was not confident that his wards would hide him from the keen noses of the hell-hounds.
The smell of blood was calling them and the ghoul’s yellow bloodshot eyes rolled in ecstasy at the smell. They gnashed and ground their teeth as they charged up the ramp toward the door. Ja’tar barely kept from retching from the foul odor and the repulsive sight as they passed.
Ja’tar waited for them to clear the room before he began to move once more. From pillar to pillar he crawled, slowly circling the room. He was only one pillar away from the small niche that held the Roceye. If he could dislodge it, the gate would close.
He didn’t act, realizing that he still had the demon Bal’kor to deal with. Ja’tar reached into his pocket and pulled out a small chunk of charcoal he had saved from Bal’kor’s room and knelt down. He rapidly began drawing on the stone, chanting quietly and rocking as he made the intricate designs from memory. When he finished, he looked the spell over and knew that it would do its job.
Ja’tar saw the demon version of Bal’kor hiss and point over his shoulder toward the door. He turned around and saw Menzzaren standing in the doorway, covered in
blood, his staff glowing bright yellow and extended. The man took but three steps forward before he toppled, rolling down the steep ramp toward the altar below.
Ja’tar cursed, he had not expected this turn of events, but knew that while the demons were distracted he had to act. He stepped out from behind the column, his staff in hand.
Bal’kor turned to see him just as he whirled his staff in a small pattern and rapped three times on the stone. Once again, the cave crackled with yellow light as fingers of light came forth from the eye and seduced the door to close.
Light danced over the surface of the huge stone doors, like lightning in a dark storm. They creaked and moaned on large old hinges, only recently used after centuries of waiting. They began to move, slowly at first, but gaining momentum as they closed. Most of the demons in the room howled and ran for the doors. Some dove through, others tried to prevent them from closing. They wedged themselves between the door and the rock and were slowly crushed, their essence oozing to the floor, as the doors crushed their bones and sealed. The door altered its shape and became one with the surrounding rock. They would never leave the cave!
Simultaneously, the Floormaster jumped over the waist-high wall and charged. He engaged the demons on the ramp in battle, slicing and parrying with his enchanted sword. The ghast charged and raked him with his claws, as Rua’tor lowered his shoulder and in one fluid motion, flipped the demon over to its back. The demon rolled over, hissed and gnashed its teeth.
Rua’tor jumped back and plunged his sword through the demon’s heart. The demon grabbed the sword with both hands and shook from side to side as a pungent yellow vapor rose from the meeting of the magic blade and foul flesh. The demon pulled itself up the sword until it was on its knees. Rua’tor put one foot to the demons chest, and pushed it off the sword. The demon toppled, shriveled and shrieked until there was no more than dust left. Rua’tor jumped to the side as another demon picked up where the last had left off.
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla Page 2