The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla

by Scott D. Muller

  Ja’tar snorted, waving her off, not even giving her the satisfaction of another look.

  She was disappointed. She looked down at her shapely thighs and perky breasts. Men didn’t usually ignore her like this. Was she not more than pleasing to the eye? Maybe the wizard liked…men...or boys. Some people were inclined that way. Regardless, she hid her disappointment well.

  Ja’tar was getting nowhere with the mindless banter and felt himself getting angry. “I caution you, if you think you can toy with a god...?”

  “You are no god, mage!” she spat, laughing at him.

  “Oh, but I am—“ Ja’tar grinned. “I sat beside Jyra and Val’mier in Oynxardia, the great city between the planes. That was before I was rudely called back to this wretched existence to serve…kings!”

  Mica’s eyes widened, she had heard the whispered stories of the god made back to man, although in the story she heard, the god was asked to come back and accepted. The god was banished from Oxnardia for his decision. Regardless, she hadn’t any inkling that Ja’tar and he were one and the same, or for that matter, that any of the gods still walked the earth. They were just stories…

  “You are he?” she stammered, eyes darting as she looked for a way to escape.

  Ja’tar pulled back his hair and showed her the inch long mark on the back of his neck. A small dragon silhouetted by a crescent moon. The moon glowed like the sun and the dragon mark glowed blood red like lava.

  The dragon’s gaze followed her and she could swear that it hissed at her. Mica could feel the presence of the gods and fell to the floor, prostrating herself. She felt fear, real bone-chilling fear; it seemed as if the walls of the room were pulsing. She clamped her hands over her ears and spoke. “A thousand pardons. I did not know.”

  Mica kept her eyes on the floor, afraid to move.

  Ja’tar let his hair fall where it may and tossed his head. “Now you do!”

  She swallowed hard as the pulsing stopped.

  “As for you, what shall I do with you? Huh? Shall I send you back to Darkhalla where you belong? Or maybe I should just rid the universe of your annoyance,” Ja’tar pondered aloud.

  He could see the words sink into the demon like a harsh slap in the face. She was scared, if there was such an emotion called fear in the demon’s vocabulary.

  “I think that maybe you could serve a useful purpose, if I took you with me, but I am not…certain. I would need guarantees—let’s call them assurances—that you would do as I ask,” he said, staring down the demon.

  She feigned humility. “I will do everything you say, mighty wizard!”

  “I know you will.” Ja’tar said. There was a hint of evil in his voice that grated on her nerves and made a shiver run down her spine. She didn’t like the sound of his voice; what did he mean by that? What did he know that she didn’t?

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Observe…” he said, in the demon’s own tongue.

  Ja’tar knelt down and pulled the partially used charcoal lump from his robe pocket, started to chant and then began to draw on the floor.

  The demon called Mica felt funny. She didn’t feel good at all; as a matter of fact, she felt downright awful. Ja’tar chanted and drew, she watched, not understanding what he was doing. She looked on as the patterns began to emerge.

  Mica let out a blood-curdling scream and looked down in horror at her arms and legs. They had developed the designs and patterns from the floor, and more were being added as he drew. She felt them burn into her skin. The power spread across her, making her tingle and burn. She no longer had control—it was being wrestled away from her.

  “No, no, stop! Please, stop what are you doing?” she cried, falling to her knees.

  She looked at her stomach, and there in the center was a large tattoo she recognized, binding her into his service…forever!

  Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’ll kill you, I swear!”

  Ja’tar looked up with a smirk on his face. “Maybe, but not today, nor anytime in the foreseeable future. You’re mine!”

  He noticed the tears and thought it rather odd. Demons did not cry.

  She howled with the horror. The very idea that someone could bind her like this, seem inconceivable. She fought to rid herself of the design, scratching at it and using every ounce of her magic to fight it off, but nothing worked. This was permanent; she had a new master, even more powerful than the Warvyn, and she was filled with fear.

  While they were talking, the Floormaster caught movement in the corner of his eye and turned just in time to see a crippled demon pulling itself along the stone floor with one arm, making its way toward one of the dark passageways that led from the room. He quickly bolted from his chair, vaulted the small wall and ran to cut off its escape.

  He stood there looking down at the demon as it hissed and swore in a final act of defiance. The Floormaster plunged his sword through the demons chest, twisting it as he pushed.

  The demon arched its back, reaching behind to free itself of the magic, but could not reach the sword. The screaming stopped as its twisted and gnarled body convulsed one last time.

  The Floormaster placed one foot on the its back and pulled his sword free just as it burst into flame. It came free suddenly, pitching the old man backwards. Rua’tor’s arms flailed as he fell backwards, tripping over a dead goblin. His hand connected with a railing, breaking his fall.

  The old man held fast to the polished rail and steadied himself. He stood quietly for a short time, catching his breath, his heart pounding loudly in his chest.

  Finally, convinced that the demon had been purged, he turned and slowly limped up the ramp. His right leg throbbed and was bleeding from a large gash inflicted earlier by the claw of a ghast, a dirty hell-hound. Even his arms ached from swinging the heavy sword in battle.

  He was no longer the young man who had rode off into battle at Ror, strong and tireless. Now, he was weak, old, and out of condition. A grunt escaped his lips as he leaned on his sword.

  His rotund stomach hid his feet, as well as his family jewels, and it was a struggle to get a deep breath into his lungs. He wheezed as he righted a small stool, setting it down next to his friend. Using his sword as a staff, he carefully lowered himself onto the stool, keeping his injured leg mostly straight and letting himself plop down the last few inches.

  Rua’tor groaned as he sat down hard. “We are getting too old to be fighting mage wars!”

  “You…are old, I am just well-aged,” Ja’tar cackled, trying to lighten the mood. He sadly watched his friend struggle.

  “Well-aged?” Rua’tor rolled his eyes. “You look like well-aged halla-spawn!”

  Ja’tar groaned and confessed. “I feel a bit like halla-spawn...”

  Rua’tor wiped the sweat from his face, pushed his hair from his face and pulled open his robe exposing his leg. He carefully examined the gaping tear in his flesh, probing it with his fingers for debris.

  “That looks painful,” Ja’tar observed. “What did that?”

  Rua’tor grunted loudly. “I’m not certain, but I believe it might have been a ghast.”

  “A ghast? You’re lucky to be alive then...bitten?”

  Rua’tor shook his head. “No, just clawed.”

  “Well, that explains it then.”

  Ghasts were little more than eating machines, garbage collectors of the damned. They were all mouth, had three rows of razor sharp teeth, and even their saliva was poisonous—dissolving flesh from bone. The abominations looked awkward with their arms so long, they hung to the ground; they used them as a second pair of legs to propel themselves around, much like apes. The beasts had no eyes to speak of, but had three oversized nostrils and a keen sense of smell. Their skin was pasty green-gray with tufts of stringy hair splotched rag-tag about. The demons kept them as pets. If he recalled correctly, they were an invention of the Ten, used to clean the carnage of the battlefields. One more thing they conjured that went wrong and came back to haunt them!

 
; “Make sure there aren’t any bits of claw buried in there, they’ll kill you sure as the bite!”

  Rua’tor hissed as he dug out another bit of claw.

  Convinced that there were no more foreign objects hiding, he poured water from a small leather wineskin over the wound, flushing out the remaining dirt.

  He grimaced and ground his teeth as he rubbed the water into the wound, flushing out what was stuck to the skin and under folds of flesh. Rua’tor pulled a stick covered with bite-marks from his pocket and put it in his mouth. Biting down hard, he opened his flask and poured a little of the enchanted brandy over the wound. The stick muffled his scream. He fell back to his chair as sweat poured from his forehead. He sat quietly for a time, recovering his strength.

  Next, he opened a small bag of powder and sprinkled it over the gaping wound. His flesh began to foam, sparkled and slowly healed over. He traced his finger across the new scar, one of many he had acquired over the years. It would be tender for the next couple of days. The blade that balanced on his lap, slid to the floor when he shifted his weight to straighten his leg; it clattered as it came to rest at his feet.

  “I could have healed that,” Ja’tar said.

  “I prefer the old ways.”

  “But really, Stitching Weed and Snake flower?”

  Rua’tor shrugged. “It’s served my family for centuries…”

  “I’d feel better if you let me take a—”

  “—No. I’m fine!”

  Rua’tor reached inside his leather waist pouch and hunted around for the small square of cloth he used to clean the ooze covering the magical weapon. Finding it, he pulled the cloth out and shook it before carefully folding the cloth into a small square. He reached down and grabbed the blade, lifted it, set it in place and pulled the blade through the cloth until the blade was bright. When he was satisfied with its inspection, he slid it back into the sheath at his waist. The foul cloth was folded neatly and returned to its bag. Before he pulled the drawstring tight and tucked it away, he watched as a foul black smoke drifted up out of the bag; the magic cleansing the cloth.

  The old man flexed his stiff hands, sore from grasping the steel blade.

  Rua’tor spoke quietly, the exhaustion evident in his voice. “Am I repeating myself? I am getting too old for this, wizard! We should be sitting around a fire eating roasted duck, drinking ale, and telling tales of the old times, …not fighting demons and foul creatures.”

  He stared at the floor, unable to look Ja’tar in the eyes. “I’m sorry about Menzzaren; I didn’t even know the wraith was behind me. I’ve lost my edge…should have known it was there…should have sensed it. It’s my fault he is dead.”

  Ja’tar looked over at his friend and saw the deep sorrow that comes from knowing you caused the death of another. Although Menzzaren gave his life freely, he would not have had to sacrifice had Rua’tor sensed the wraith in the first place. Ja’tar said nothing. They had all committed enough mistakes this day to last a lifetime.

  “There was little you could have done.”

  “I could have done something…”

  “It was his time, he chose. He was sick from the poison of Ror, just like my father. It was better this way, I assure you. The way my father suffered…”

  Rua’tor knew that Menzzaren was taunted and pained by the dark magic. It was why he used Tor root to control the illness.

  “He will be remembered well.”

  Ja’tar nodded. “We will drink to his bravery later. For now, we have a quest. We need to get out of here with the orb and the book. They cannot fall into Warvyn’s hands, or the world will become his dominion, and all of us will be his slaves. I am afraid these walls won’t hold the Warvyn off for too long.”

  “He will come!” Mica grinned, and pushed her hands against the invisible boundary that held her in check, “…and when he gets here, you will beg the Master for a quick death!”

  Rua’tor nodded in her direction. “Can you get her to shut up?”

  “These rock walls won’t stop the Lord of the Underworld. Soon, you will be his too, and I shall ask him if I can have my fun with you before he destroys you. I will make you pay for what you have done to me. You will pay!”

  Ja’tar nodded and waved a hand. Her mouth sealed, only a muffled groan escaped. Her hands shot to where her lips were supposed to be but found nothing but smooth skin. Her eyes got wide and she tried to scream.

  “That’s better,” Rua’tor grumbled. “She was getting on my nerves.”

  Ja’tar snorted loudly as he cleaned his staff.

  “Are you sure we need to keep her? I’d just as soon remove her from the pattern,” he said, pulling his sword free of its sheath. One less demon, you know…”

  “For now, she stays!” Ja’tar said, resolutely. “I may have use for her later.”

  “I can’t see how…” Rua’tor replied, angrily shoved his sword back into the sheath. He gave Mica a look. In that instant she knew that given his druthers, he would run her through without hesitation…and would run her through given any opportunity. For now, the Keeper was the only reason she was alive. She struggled against her magic bonds, but with each movement, the net of magic tightened.

  “Are you ready to be quiet?” Ja’tar asked.

  She nodded.

  Ja’tar released her spell.

  “I’ll kill—” she started to say.

  Ja’tar raised a hand. “Once more outburst and I’ll make it permanent.”

  His eyes were cold and he seemed on the very edge of sanity and control. This man-god was dangerous. She shut her mouth and fumed.

  Ja’tar ignored her, stood and walked over to the cloth-covered table sitting off by itself adjacent to the wall on the opposite side of the room. He grabbed the edge of the plain wool covering and tossed it back. There lay the Orb, El’batar, right where he had left it at the end of the Closing, waiting for him to return and complete the purging of the Naan. As soon as the cloth was removed, the Orb began calling out. He soothed it.

  Ja’tar chuckled to himself. In his haste to destroy, the Warvyn had missed an easy opportunity to claim a valuable prize. Ja’tar knew they had been lucky, the dice had shown their favor. It wasn’t often you could beat the house at its own game!

  He picked up the orb and carried it over the pews, and carefully setting it on its stand next to the altar.

  Next time, he would be better prepared. He clenched his fist tightly and vowed to never be complacent again. The time he had spent away from the true magic had made him soft and weak. He would never had made these grievous mistakes when he were younger.

  This time, he had been caught off his guard; shame on him. There would not be a second time. If anyone was responsible for this situation, it was him. And now, they were trapped in this room with no way out. His failure as the Keeper left a bitter taste in his mouth. It had cost him the lives of his closest friends and his fellow wizards. How many were either dead or dying in the rooms above, he was hesitant to guess. Somewhere, his friend Zedd’aki battled. The gods had better protect him, or there would be halla to pay!

  He stared at the wall where the great doors had stood open and was convinced that the Warvyn had begun tunneling into the room by now; it was what he would be doing. He couldn’t even ward the room from demon entry, the demon Mica was already here, preventing that option, although he figured he could puzzle his way out of that dilemma easy enough. He could always kill her and erase her from the pattern. But for now…

  He sighed. Clearly, he needed to come up with a plan, but he was fresh out of ideas.

  Mica startled. “The orb was here all the time!”

  She gazed in reverence at the orb of legends. She knew of the awesome powers it could unleash. She felt giddy with excitement for just being in the same room with the reverent object. She could feel its presence, its power. Warvyn would reward her handsomely if she were to be able to deliver the orb to him, book or not!

  Warvyn

  Warvyn, the
overlord of the lower planes known as Darkhalla, tried everything he could think of to get into the room of the one called Bal’kor. He tried shadow spells, demon’s fire, spells of shatter and dissolution. In his anger, he tried brute force, but throwing his body against the door was ineffective too. Nothing worked; every time he touched the door, magic danced over its surface and burnt his flesh. His spells were repelled and careened of the walls, destroying everything in their path…including the goblins and demons that stood wide-eyed in the halls watching his failure. He paced the floor, trying to control his rage. The taint of the Keeper was written all over the protective wards that covered the room.

  He turned his hands over and looked down at them. His skin was raw and blistered from the magic. Even with his wards and constant healing, he felt their agony through the thick protective hide that passed as skin. He was so close. He could sense the book on the other side of the gnarled wood door.

  “Ja’tar!” he screamed, shaking his fists in the air.

  His face went red as he felt the rage in his veins. Ja’tar had beaten him yet again. His hatred for the old man festered anew as painful memories flooded back.

  He had hated him when he had walked the realms as one of their own, and he had hated him when he decided to disobey the Guild and take up the dark arts before being exiled into the abyss. He even hated him at the epic battle between them at Rynwaar, although it was the dark ones that forced him to do battle; his heart had never been in the conflict. He had sensed that Ja’tar’s wasn’t committed either.

  He contemplated the possibility that their paths were tightly woven, and intertwined by the pattern to such a great extent that they would never be free from one another. At times it seemed as if some cosmic joke were being played on them such that they needed to suffer each-other’s company and rivalry.

  He turned to walk down the hall as a small goblin came running up. The goblin slid to its knees and prostrated itself in front of the master.

  “Master, Master! Wizards have entered the room of the gate and have shut the door.”