His friend stretched, stiff from his short, yet restful nap. He stood up, tested his leg and walked over to Ja’tar.
“My leg feels much better. When do we eat?”
Ja’tar startled, glancing up. “Huh?”
“Eat? When do we eat?”
“Oh, sorry! I was lost in thought?” Ja’tar mumbled, looking at his friend. “How’s your leg?”
“Fine! I asked, when do we eat? I’m starving.” Rua’tor said, bending over and speaking more or less directly into his friend’s ear.
Ja’tar looked at the man’s big potbelly and sniggered.
“Oh, very well!” Ja’tar said, frustrated with the interruptions. He waved his hand in a small circular pattern a few times. Swirls of dust and dirt from around the room gathered, taking shape on the small table. Within seconds, two large loaves of bread, ale and some stew appeared before them.
Rua’tor grinned and shook his head in awe. “Someday you are going to have to teach me how you do that. Everything I make comes out tasting like wood…or dirt.”
Ja’tar smiled proudly. He was one of the few in the Keep that could actually conjure an edible meal.
The Floormaster reached for one of the hot loaves and tossed it from hand to hand, burning his fingers on the hot crust. As soon as it cooled a little, he ripped it in half, letting the steam rise into his nose as he breathed in the fragrance of the just-baked—well, really conjured—bread. He ripped off a small chunk and dipped it into the stew. It ran down his hand as he tried to get it into his mouth without making a bigger mess.
“It’s good,” he mumbled. “Not as good as Gretta’s though.”
Ja’tar sighed. This one was always complaining. Of course it wasn’t as good as Gretta’s—she baked hers in an oven using real flour and eggs. There was just so much you could do with magic, and as far as he was concerned, it was more than adequate. He should just let Rua’tor eat dirt! He was tempted to cast a spell on the old man’s bread just to spite him, but calmed himself and began to eat.
“It is a work in progress,” Ja’tar grunted.
“Can I have some?” Mica asked.
The thought never crossed Ja’tar’s mind that the demon might be hungry. He supposed it would do no harm, so he conjured up a bowl for the diminutive imp. She took it and ate silently.
The stew was warm and tasty, and Rua’tor felt his strength returning as he ate. He had been so busy, he hadn’t noticed that his friend still hadn’t taken more than a bite of bread. He tore off another piece of the wheat loaf and sopped up more gravy with it.
He pointed it at Ja’tar and spoke. “You should eat more! You are going to need your strength. The stew’s not bad. Needs more meat, but not bad.”
He finished talking and thrust the wad of gravy drenched bread into his mouth and continued chewing.
This was getting him nowhere, he could think of no way to escape. Ja’tar reached for his loaf, ripping it in half and shoved it into the gravy as punishment. He was angry. He shoved the steaming loaf in past his teeth and bit down, burning the roof of his mouth.
“By the Ten!” he swore as he felt his tongue blister.
He nearly spit it out as he tried to cool the hot, soggy, lump off by pulling deep breaths of air past the offending mass. Eventually he could chew. He continued eating; ignoring the look of amusement he was getting from his companion.
Ja’tar raised his brows. The bread was good but dry; it needed butter. He chuckled to himself and wove a spell slathering his bread. He didn’t offer to do so for Rua’tor and could hardly contain the grin that was spreading across his face.
“See! I told you that you needed to eat,” Rua’tor said. “How is your bread?”
“Moist!” Ja’tar said.
Rua’tor stared blankly for a second before he shrugged his shoulders and continued eating.
The oblivious Floormaster grinned to himself, as he took the last bite of his stew, savoring its flavor. He took the last of his bread and made one last pass around the bowl before he declared victory. He set the bowl down and looked over at his friend who was now eating ravenously.
“So, what plan have you come up with?” he asked, coming straight to the point.
“I have no plan!” Ja’tar said, shoving another glob of stew into his mouth.
“None?” his friend said, astonished.
“All right, if I must spell it out for you. I haven’t been able to think of a single, bloody-halla solution!”
Rua’tor’s face paled. “None?”
“What is it? Am I speaking some foreign tongue that you cannot understand? I said, I have no…” He paused.
It was a long pause. Something the demon had said had just registered in that small finite brain he populated with useless wizard facts, figures and spells.
“…plan,” he slowly said, as a small grin came to his face.
He remembered she had said that she sent Bal’kor to Bar’haan using the old gates. Now that he wasn’t under the glamour, his memories were starting to return. He remembered stories of the first gates told to him thousands of years ago when he was just a child. So long ago, in fact, that they were just wisps of thoughts, whispers on a breeze.
What he did know was that, when the new gates were created, they stopped using the old. He couldn’t recollect any stories of their demise, neither destruction nor dismantling. A large smile spread over his face. There just may be a way for them to get away.
Ja’tar sprung to life, snapping out of the comatose state he had been in for the past several hours. He grabbed his staff and stood. The Floormaster watched with great interest at his friend’s new-found determination.
“Going somewhere?” he asked, suppressing the grin that was forming in the corners of his mouth.
“I have to check on something. You wait here. Guard her,” Ja’tar ordered while pointing with his staff. “I shall not be away long!”
And with that, he scuttled off down one of the corridors that were accessible at the back of the chamber.
“Where is he off to?” Mica asked, finding it curious that his mood had shifted so quickly.
Rua’tor shrugged. “Those tunnels don’t go anywhere. Maybe he’s hoping for some supplies or something.”
Mica studied the sudden change in her captor. He returned in a few minutes and took off down a different tunnel.
“He is a very strange man,” she commented to nobody in particular as she watched him disappear down the dark tunnel, waving his staff, which now glowed with an eerie blue light.
“You have no idea!” the Floormaster cackled, overhearing the comment.
He picked up the bowls and utensils. He put himself to work gathering what he found around the room that might be useful while his friend was gone. He knew the bowls and utensils were conjured, and that Ja’tar could make them at will, but he stuffed them into the shoulder pack just the same. Sometimes you just couldn’t afford to use magic, especially if you were hiding and trying to avoid detection.
Ja’tar was very excited as the recalcitrant memories of his youth came flooding back. His father and his father’s friends had been working on the new gate when he was a lad in the Keep. The Ten had been there. Ja’tar remembered watching them, filled with awe. The ageless faces of Duvall, Illiana and Jynx still haunted his memories.
He remembered spending countless hours running and playing at being a wizard down, at what seemed at the time to be, miles of tunnels that were below the Keep. He and Zedd’aki played while his father supervised the work above. He remembered the tunnels led to the chamber and the altar.
One particular event was stuck in his mind; his stumbling into a room with a large stone altar. There had been cherubs, or maybe angels, that towered to the ceiling above, holding the roof of the room on their wings. He recalled the severe scolding by his father. He vividly remembered the worried look in his eyes as he grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him forcibly, telling him to never enter the room again because he could be sent awa
y where nobody would ever find him. It terrified him so; he never ventured into that part of the labyrinth again and had nearly pushed the repressed thoughts out of his memory—until now.
“Not there,” he said, as he returned and took off down the third tunnel.
He ran up and down the narrow tunnels as his memories came back in waves. He was feeling his way along, using intuition as much as recall. He rounded a corner and fell face first into a large dusty cavern. He pulled his face out of the dirt and was caught by several sneezes as the dust found its way into his nose.
When the stars in his eyes finally cleared, he was staring at an old stone altar. The tabernacle was covered with dust and spiders’ webs that were strung from its highest two points to the floor. He walked slowly in its direction, fighting back the fears dredged up from his childhood, with the sense of amazement and curiosity that made him feel like a child again. The cherubs were still holding up the ceiling, although he now recognized that they were the regal elves of the Elvenwood. He swung his staff in an arc, causing red light and sparks to spiral outward, burning the webs and dust.
He stood at the base of the altar and cast a small spell that blew away years of dirt that coated the archaic carvings at the base. The air hazed over with the blue smoke from the burning cobwebs and dust.
He found a small dry fountain and beckoned the water to return by holding his hand over the basin and chanting the words uisge baugh, water of life. The basin filled. He conjured a large mug and filled it with the water. He splashed the water over the altar, washing away the centuries of mud and dirt. He did this several times before it was clean enough to read. After slowly reading the glyphs engraved into the rock that were written in High Torren, he smiled to himself.
Escape was possible! He lit several lamps, still in place around the perimeter of the stone crypt and watched the light dance in the chamber for the first time in millennia.
As his eyes adjusted to the sudden influx of bright light, he worked his way around the gate room, searching for the symbols he knew had to exist.
He found the panel of symbols, well-hidden in the recess of a wall, and being careful not to touch them; he waved his hand over the symbols chanting, flatu-gaoth. He continued waving his hand slowly over the symbols as the soft breeze blew away centuries of dust from their surfaces. He looked over the carvings and made a mental note of the patterns he didn’t recognize.
Ja’tar recalled the strange four symbol pattern that was on the gate when he closed it and wondered how the demon had learned to operate the portal. He would interrogate her when he got back.
To the south, an elf known as Brock went about his normal daily routine. His brow was damp from the effort he had put into working the leather. The finished doe-skin sat across his lap; his tools were still dirty and had yet to be cleaned. He turned the newly prepared skin over in his hands and examined it critically for any flaws. The skin was clear and soft—it will make a good shirt, or light jacket. Brock ran his hand over the skin and felt for thick and rough spots. He found no defects and was pleased with his work. He thanked the gods for the gift of the doe.
Brock squinted as he looked up at the sun, gauging the time of day. The supply of venison was low in the village. Hunting had been hit-or-miss these past few weeks. Unusual for this time of year, but certainly not unheard of! Hopefully, he would remedy that situation tonight.
Unlike his brothers, Brock preferred to leave mid-day and get to the hunting grounds well before dusk. In his opinion, dusk was when the hunting was best. The animals made their way to the meadows to forage, and drink from the cool streams. They slept during the heat of the day, and hid in the thick tangles of brush.
Most of his clan preferred to hunt together, and they hunted in the early hours of the morning. There was much argument and discussion over who was right and who was wrong. He didn’t really care one way or the other. He would hunt when he wanted to hunt. He would hunt...alone.
Alone. There, he had said it. He preferred to hunt alone. Brock enjoyed the solitude much more than most of his kind. Elves were social, especially his clan. They were the tree elves, living in the large sentinels of the forest. It wasn’t that he wasn’t social—he just enjoyed a little quiet time—that was all. Brock snorted. He enjoyed quiet time all the time!
A chime sounded loudly in his head.
Brock’s head whipped around. He stiffened, stood tall and listened, holding his breath. Nothing. He waited. Nothing. He visibly relaxed.
He bent over and started wiping his tools off and carefully placing them in the wrap. There it was again—there was no mistaking it. He had heard the chimes of the Calling. His palms itched and he scratched at them without notice. His palms always itched when he got excited.
It had been a long time, since the last Calling, hundreds of years. Brock thought back to the days when he had served the Keep with his father. He had been younger then—anxious—and obnoxious. Brock grinned and shook his head from side to side.
His father had passed on over four hundred winters ago, and with him, the gift had passed to Brock. Brock served the Keep now, he was the Guide. His father had served for almost five-hundred winters and would have served many more if he wouldn’t have been critically injured in a hunt—a big boar had buried its tusks deep in his gut. Just the same, he killed it before he died.
The last Calling shot to the front of his mind, dredging up memories he had long forgot—tried to forget. When the chimes rang the summer after his father’s passing—he went to the mountain, just like he had those many times with his father. He had prepared well, remembering to take the staff and feast. When he reached the gathering place, he waited—impatiently. This was his chance to prove himself as a man, and as a Guide. For a full week he waited. He sat on the logs in the Ring of Ancients, and prepared food for the welcoming, but mostly he sat next to the fire and stared up the trail.
The Chosen never arrived.
Brock had only once left Barhaan, escorted to the Keep by his father and one of the Ten, whose name he didn’t recall. He and his family lived in the in-between world. Most of his elf brothers also lived there, They couldn’t leave unless someone from the Keep helped them. Of course the wizards who came to complete their training were faced with the same constraints. They couldn’t leave unless they successfully completed their challenges and the Keep deemed them worth of being elevated from Accepted. Many failed to survive.
Every Calling was different. They never knew how many would step through the gate—nobody did, but there were always two or more. Sometimes there were elves, sometimes dwarfs, but mostly—there were the tall men—the other race—the warring race.
The weather turned bad that night—a fierce spring storm came in unannounced from the west and it snowed for many days and nights. He hunkered down, built a strong lean-to and gathered much wood. The wind blew and the snow came down so hard it was impossible to see. He remembered pulling his sleeping skins tightly around his shivering frame and throwing more wood on the fire, which sizzled as snow blew under the low roof of his shelter.
After waiting days for the storm to break, finally, on the sixth day, he was able to climb the mountain. The snow was over his knees and there were drifts that were above his head which he struggled to negotiate. Painfully, he made his way to the base of the cliff.
He reached as far as he could climb, above the clouds where the air was thin. With wet feet, exhausted and out of food, he stood staring up at the cave far above. The first thing he noticed was that the stairs were gone. They had been scraped off the side of the mountain. He could find no trace of them. It was more than a curiosity. The stairs were the only way up to the cave. He could go no farther. The wizards would be able to descend. They had skills that far exceeded his rather poor knowledge of the gifts.
He squinted and shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight and stared at the insurmountable task in front of him. He could find no way to climb; the cliff was covered with ice and snow. So, he stood
at the base of the cliff, cupped his mouth, and yelled at the top of his lungs. Only the wind answered. He called again and stared up at the cave. Yet again, nobody answered his call. He lowered his head in shame, turned and made his way home. He had not spoken of the event to anyone.
For many nights and days he wondered if he had heard the chimes at all. Mayhap his father had not passed the gift on to him. Mayhap he was not worthy.
That was the last Calling. The chimes had not rung since that day. He had forgotten all about the mountain, the cave, and the Calling. Brock had pushed all memory of it from his mind.
Brock jogged a short way down a narrow path, his feet leaving no marks that would give a tracker any idea he had passed. He broke out from under the canopy and was greeted with the warmth of the strong sun on his face as he tilted his head up. Staring off into the distance at the high mountain peaks, he wondered who the Chosen were and how many were coming.
He could just make out the peak known as Wizard’s Lair, shaped somewhat like the hats the wizards were so fond of. Coincidence, he wondered? Brock grunted loudly. Nothing was just coincidence when it came to wizards. The Lair, as it was informally called, was where the wizards in training came to do their final trials, their last tests before they become accepted, perform the sacred rites, and were raised to full wizard status. There was one way in, and only one way out. Many did not survive. He was a guide—his job was to assist the wizards while they were in this realm. He couldn’t help them, but he could provide guidance and wisdom. Helping them would get him killed. It was forbidden.
He watched the mountain; it was an inhospitable place filled with danger. Even at this distance, he could see the howling wind blowing snow at the top. The snow curled as it wrapped itself around the front cornice on the skyward peak. The storm clouds boiled over the peak and shot out into the valley, thinning as they hit the warmer, dryer air. It was best when the snow stayed in the mountains, but once in a while, a storm would settle into the valley and dump snow deeper than an elf’s chest. When that happened, the trees cried from the cold. It was always so cold when the storms came.
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla Page 6