Meanwhile, Ja’tar quickly bolted down the steps to the niche that held the Roceye, yanked it from its place, and stuffed it into his robe pocket. Ja’tar looked into the gate and in that one terrifying moment before the gate closed, saw an unexpected sight.
He saw women with faces he remembered, in a place he would have just as soon have forgotten. These were the women of the Keep; sisters, wives and daughters captured at Rynwaar during the final battles of Ror. They were bound in chains, battered, bruised, being led by grimlock demons.
The place was unmistakable, it was Darkhalla. But how?
Ja’tar’s eyes shot wide as he yelled out, “Kayla!”
A pleasant looking woman turned, recognizing her name and saw Ja’tar through the gate with dull lifeless eyes. Her eyes widened as she recognized the Keeper. She yanked at her chains and dashed toward the gate arms outstretched.
“Ja’tar!” she screamed as she broke into tears.
She pulled so hard, she knocked the woman following her off of her feet and was dragging her by her neck toward the gate. The girl choked, her hands at the collar about her neck. Kayla grabbed the chain and tugged with bleeding hands while she screamed at the young girl.
“Get on your feet, damn you!”
The young girl flailed, struggling to gain her feet, but was unable. Kayla was so desperate to get to the gate, she never gave the woman a chance to stand. The third girl in the chain grabbed the young girl by the arm and was also making for the gate, dragging her along.
“Hurry Jayle, the demons come!” Kayla screamed, as she looked back over her shoulder.
A pair of grimlocks ran up to the girls and back-handed them across their faces, causing them to spin full circle before tumbling to the floor. Grimlocks, muscular demons with dark reddish-brown skin, were used in the lower planes as mindless workers. At nearly seven feet tall and as wide as two men at the shoulders, they easily subdued the girls. Kayla pushed herself to her knees and was still trying to get to the gate when the demons realized that she had a higher purpose than escape.
They turned toward the gate and ran, ignoring her struggle, sensing an easy kill of the mage standing on the other side of the portal.
The winding leaves of the Roceye wilted, and stopped moving. The gate began to collapse in on itself.
“Don’t leave us,” came a cry.
The grimlocks tried to step through, thinking that they could beat the gate. The gate’s mists began thickening and stopped swirling, and the door slammed shut, catching the two halfway between realms.
The torsos of the demons on this side of the gate were cleanly sliced in half. They thrashed, screaming loudly in defiance as they hit the floor; their tongues draping from their gaping jaws as a pool of demon gore spread at the foot of the gate. The remainder of their bodies never made the journey and tumbled back to the ground in Darkhalla. The gate was closed from entry, no more could pass.
The demon form of Bal’kor, Ja’tar’s nephew, pulled its blade and jumped at Ja’tar, “Die!”
Ja’tar raised his hands and finished casting a spell of servitude. The demon hit the invisible barrier and fell to the floor writhing in the pain. The demon’s back arched as the spell took hold and the blade fell from its claw, clattering on the stone floor.
It resisted and fought, crawling up the steps, foot by foot, digging its nails in the stone. “Arrgh...You...will...pay...mage!”
The spell was strong and the demon was cast backwards, flying through the air as if some large beast had hefted its insignificant frame. It landed against the wall several feet away and Ja’tar held it there. He closed his fist, and released the spell with a flourish. The demon crumpled in a heap to the floor. The demon knew that it couldn’t get through; it scratched and screeched as it tried to attack the wizard, but it was futile.
Ja’tar turned his attention across the room and held his staff out and chanted quietly, a ball of wizard’s fire gathered on the end, wrapping itself about the dragon’s eye, and was sent seeking the group of goblins trying to attack the Floormaster. They didn’t see the balls of flame coming and it hit them with the force of a rising storm, bowling them over. They howled as the hot tendrils found intended targets and one by one they vaporized into curls of smoke.
Next, Ja’tar’s attention focused on his friend at the bottom of the stairs; just in time to see Menzzaren embrace a wraith from behind as it was readying an attack on the Floormaster who was preoccupied, fighting off a ghoul. The foul creature was known for killing only for the sheer hatred of life. It turned its attention on Menzzaren and sucked his life spirit.
Menzzaren’s face went pale; he felt the icy embrace of the wraith as it moaned its banshee wail. He knew he wasn’t long for this world, and in that moment, gathered all his strength and flung it at the wraith. The two of them were enveloped in a large pulse of blue light and hideous black snake-like wisps of vapor rose from the wraith as the spell hit home. The now vaguely man shaped cloud shrieked in an ancient tongue, dissolved into ether and then both were gone.
“Menzzaren!” Ja’tar screamed, but it was too late.
The room was clean, there were no more demons lurking; only the one that appeared in the form of Bal’kor remained. Ja’tar was very tired and he slowly lowered himself into one of the chairs and put his hands to his face and choked back a sob.
The Floormaster joined him and flashed him a weary smile, patting him on his back. “We have won.”
Ja’tar looked up blankly. “Did we?”
Rua’tor smiled weakly. “We did. The gate is shut.”
“Did you see into the gate?” Ja’tar asked.
“No, why?”
“It was Darkhalla. I saw Kayla and another girl, whose name escapes me in chains. I think she might have been Barran’s oldest daughter. I didn’t recognize the girl they dragged. I swear to the gods that they looked as if they hadn’t aged a day.”
Rua’tor’s neck whipsawed. “What? Are you telling me you saw women from the battle at Rynwaar?”
Ja’tar nodded. “They looked ragged and unhealthy, but they were alive. I suppose I’m not that surprised that they haven’t aged. Mortality has no meaning in the abyss.”
“I had no idea they were still alive…all these years. I had assumed that Warvyn and the demons killed all the prisoners when we sent him back to Darkhalla during the battle,” Rua’tor reasoned.
Ja’tar smiled weakly. “I guess he didn’t. By the gods, I can’t imagine living all this time in servitude to demons.”
“Who knew?”
“Maybe, when this is finished, we can figure out a way to get them back!”
It’s worthy…!”
“I was so close…” Ja’tar lamented. “We can’t very-well leave them there…now that we know!”
Rua’tor looked blankly back toward the smoking gate. “I wonder how many of the others were captured and are being held as slaves. Do you think he could hold some of the wizards?”
Ja’tar scowled. “I can only assume that more than those I saw survived. More disturbing yet, you know what else I saw?”
Rua’tor waited for the rest.
“I saw several of the women wearing the bloody collars.”
“What collars?”
Ja’tar’s face reddened. “I think those were the Collars of Torn.”
Rua’tor’s eyes got wide and his lips quivered. “Not the ones that Duvall used to harness the last dark ones?”
“The very same, I’m afraid.”
“Are you certain?”
Ja’tar shrugged, frowned and tried to recall every detail. “Now I remind you that I only had a brief glance, but they had the same three stones in the neck. Even the detail in the metal appeared identical.”
“But how can that be? I thought they were destroyed.”
“They absolutely were. I saw them destroyed myself. I was there and helped Duvall, Skra and my father destroy them. They were all accounted for.”
“Then how?”
Ja’tar stared out across the chamber and paced. He thought carefully before he answered the question. He pondered whether or not to tell Rua’tor that the collars were his idea. That he helped create the collars with his brother. More disturbing, Ja’tar wondered how and why Warvyn had them. Without a mage, he doubted the demon could create them on his own, even if he knew how they worked. Demon magic was different.
“I can only think of one logical explanation; a dark mage must wander the realms and cross the planes. A dark mage from the days of Ror would know the magic and could recreate the collars. There are no other reasonable explanations!”
Rua’tor grimaced. “So, you were right!”
Ja’tar nodded, rubbing the space between his brows. “Aye, I wish it weren’t so.”
“As do I.”
Bal’kor’s head spun and his stomach churned as the room blurred. He saw Mica’s naked body fade from view. The sconces that they had lit were dark, snuffed out by the shift, and disappeared to a small dot on the horizon before they winked out and all was black.
He felt the shift—at least that is how he would have described it if someone were there to talk to. One second he was with Mica, and the next, he was sitting on the large, icy, slab of stone in the dark musty cave—by himself.
He drew his first breath, trying to clear his head and watched as the vapor froze into a fog when he exhaled. It was cold, so very cold. The dank air left a stale taste in his mouth, and he slowly came to realization that he may no longer be in the same cave.
“Hello?” he called out in a voice that cracked.
There was no response, not even an echo.
“Is anybody out there? Mica? Hello?”
He waited for a familiar voice to break the stifling silence.
His mother’s voice in the back of his head asked, “Oh, Bal’kor...what have you done?”
Bal’kor stared down at the bracelet—a bal’achar—that held his mother’s being. The opalescent stone swirled. The bracelet was fixed to his arm, and there it would stay until he either died, or his mother could be transferred to a welcoming host. She had willed herself into the stone when the gates had stilled her realm from the magic of the Zylliac. Topaz’s brother, the Keeper, could free her if he chose, but she had broken the rules and made Bal’kor with a commoner of the realm known as Naan.
He pushed the voice away, unwilling to listen.
He sat there in shock as a blank stare filled his face. “Where am I?” he wondered, trying to recall the missteps he had taken to put himself into this predicament.
Bal’kor’s eyes slowly adjusted to the diffuse light. There wasn’t much to see. He was in a narrow, dismally gray, cavern. The walls were rough, damp, and unadorned. The cold stone beneath his buttocks numbed him and forced him to shiver uncontrollably. He choked back the tears that were forming in the corners of his eyes and sighed heavily—as fear filled his face. He realized that he had been careless and had gravely erred. His predicament was...dire. His uncle was going to be furious and punish him for sure—he’d be lucky if he didn’t have to mop the entire Keep for several years.
Mica had lied to him. She didn’t want to be with him. The pleasures and delights she had offered him were nothing but a ruse. Plain and simply put—she had used him—tricked him. He should never have trusted her—a demon—and now she was free to roam the Keep. That worried him—a demon loose in the Keep. He should have put the Book of Rah’tok away when he found it; even the very touch of it had made his stomach churn and his skin crawl. If he had listened to his feelings, he wouldn’t be in this pickle. After all, it was one of the restricted tomes—he was sure of it. His uncle would be furious when he found out that he had been dabbling in the dark arts.
Demon
Ja’tar turned and faced the demon, still struggling against it bindings and spoke, “You can assume your own shape now. We know you are not my nephew.”
The demon stopped struggling and slowly morphed back into the female shape that had lured Bal’kor with deception. Ja’tar was surprised, and it showed on his face.
“You didn’t expect a female!” The demon let out a hideous laugh and asked, “How did you know I wasn’t he?”
“Your eyes…you have no pupils,” Ja’tar said, speaking quietly. “My nephew was not as confident either. He would have trembled during the ceremony.”
“Ah yes, the pupils! That, is one of the few things I cannot change. I had thought I had averted my eyes in time. You are very observant old wizard,” the demon said, flattering the old man. “By what name am I to address you?”
“I am the Keeper.”
“I presumed as much. Does the Keeper have a name too?”
Ja’tar paused before answering. “I am Ja’tar Kandor’a. Who might you be, reveal your true name?”
The demon fought the request and her face contorted, but the binding spell that Ja’tar had placed on her was too great.
“Mica,” she blurted, taking a deep breath.
“It is not my real name, but it will do,” she shrugged. “You say you are called…Ja’tar?”
Ja’tar raised his brows almost imperceptibly.
“Might you be any relation to the Ja’tar of legend, the man-god who defeated the Warvyn at Rynwaar?” the demon asked. “The one they are fond of calling the Destroyer?”
Ja’tar lifted a brow at hearing the long-forgotten name and a thin smile flickered across his face as he nodded.
“Then, I am most honored, for you are most reviled by the Warvyn,” she laughed. “And now, as he ravages your friends in the Keep, he has even more reason to hate you.” She mocked him and irreverently bowed.
“He needs no more reason!” Ja’tar scoffed.
“True. It is rumored…that you have in your possession a valuable book that belongs to him.”
“Ah, the book. All this for that worthless book?” Ja’tar shook his head and his face reddened. “Don’t try to play me for the fool…I know you saw the book; my nephew had it and used it to summon you!”
Her eyes flared. “It does not belong to you. It is ours!”
Ja’tar snorted and waved her off.
“I assume he is here?” Ja’tar asked, with bitterness in his voice as he searched her deep black pupil-less eyes.
“Yes, and he seeks you,” she snarled, amused at this little man, wondering how someone such as he could cause the demon lord Warvyn to tremble with fear.
“Well, I am here.” Ja’tar said, before asking the demon, “Where is Bal’kor?”
“The boy…he is gone. I sent him away—far away,” the demon said, obviously delighted with herself.
She grinned and slid her hands down her chest to her thighs. “He thought to sample my wares…and was easily lured.”
“I asked where,” Ja’tar stated again, impatiently. The demon didn’t answer, throwing her nose into the air.
“We can do this the hard way!” he snarled, as he waved his hand in a small intricate pattern. The demon doubled over from the cramps in her guts, fell to her knees and screamed. Ja’tar motioned with his staff, and the demon was brutally thrown against the wall.
“B..B..ar’haan, I guess...a place called Bar’haan was etched in the stones of the old gate in a cave I stumbled across down by the river,” she said, wiping blood from her mouth and taking a deep gasp of air. The pain was subsiding and she was able to straighten again. “I sent him through the gate. You are lucky I found the cave, or he would be dead!”
Ja’tar didn’t doubt her, he had erased the memory of the cave and the old gate from his mind. He snorted. The realm of Bar’haan had been long neglected by the Keep, as had many places, including the near realms.
That gate was not like the others, it was special. Although it could work like all the other gates in the realms, this one held noble purpose, to send the Accepted into Bar’haan for testing, an a single rune on the dais could send one there.
Bar’haan was an in-between realm, cut from the cloth of the other realms and
bordered by the mists. There was only one way in, and there was only one gate that allowed exit. The realm existed as a twist in time, could not be seen, and could not be found—except through magic. A single step in this world would let a person pass across its borders, but inside, the journey could take weeks and covered many mountain ranges, for the land was massive. It was not possible to see the realm from the outside, but if one stood in just the right spot, one could hear the whispers of the Sentinels, the ancient druid pines that lived and guarded the land.
Only the dwarfs and the elves lived there, away from the prying eyes of the human race. They chose to do so, to not only serve the Keep as Guides, but because they wished to avoid the turmoil caused by Kings. They could leave if they wished, but a Newling could not…not without successfully negotiating the challenges.
Sadly, there hadn’t been any Accepted in hundreds of years. Newlings had stopped coming; the Guild had stopped searching out children with the gift. Worry filled his face. He knew that Bal’kor was not ready to face the challenges that realm could…would produce. Its entire purpose was testing and the wizards and the Ten had filled the land with many lethal challenges. Maybe they would get lucky since his magic hadn’t presented itself. There was a chance—.
“Well then, maybe we stand a chance of getting him back!” Ja’tar chortled weakly, raising his brow and covering up his fear with a lie.
“If you say so,” the demon said, hearing the doubt in his voice.
Ja’tar paced. “So, what shall I do with you? Huh?”
Mica puffed her chest out and groveled. She prostrated herself on the ground and touched her nose to the stone. “I am insignificant. I have no value.”
“Of that I am almost certain,” Ja’tar agreed.
The comment stung, but she fought the urge to respond.
Ja’tar paced. “Yet Warvyn chose you out of all his minions. Why would he do that? You must have some redeeming value, some special skills.”
Mica rose to her knees, licked her lips and made her clothes transparent, “I can entertain, if you are into that.”
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla Page 3