The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla

by Scott D. Muller

  “Damn it, breathe!”

  The snow and ice ripped gashes into Bal’kor’s nearly unprotected skin and he could feel his joints being crushed and scoured by the rocks half buried in the snow, rocks he was sure had once been the steps up the side of the cliff. He wondered what it would be like to die.

  “Breathe!”

  His out-of-control tumble slowed down as the land began to level off and managed to spin himself around so that his head was no longer facing downhill. He rolled over onto his stomach and dug in his toes to stop his slide. Eventually, he stopped. For a few minutes, he laid still before opening his eyes and rolled over. All he saw was blue. He rolled his head to the side and cursed out loud from the agony. He turned his head the other direction and nearly blacked out. He decided to lay still.

  It took several minutes for his courage to return and he found the gumption to move again. This time he pushed himself up to a seating position and kept his head very still. He found himself in the center of a vast snowfield, which from above, had not appeared so large. He could not see the end of it from where he sat.

  He heard himself moaning a ghostly wail, but it seemed as if it were someone else. He hurt everywhere and every time he tried to move, excruciating pain shot up his legs and arms. Tears rolled freely down his cheeks, leaving tracks before they froze. He fell to his back and tried to take a deep breath. His chest hurt and he grabbed himself, hoping he hadn’t broken ribs—but fearing the worst.

  Bal’kor rolled to his side, pushed himself to his knees and tried to stand, first to a knee, then to a crouch. His legs and knees wobbled and every inch of his body throbbed. He squinted and looked up the slope, spotting his bundle far up the mountain. Collapsing to the snow, he shook his head side to side in resignation, knowing he had no alternative but to climb back up to retrieve them—not if he wished to survive. He tried to suppress the sobs, but heard them echo in the quiet, still air.

  After a rather lengthy rest, Bal’kor dusted himself off and pulled his disheveled clothes back together. He had sat on the snow for far too long and it had begun to melt, soaking through what little protection he had. A light breeze blew across the ice-flow, causing swirls of snow crystals to form small whirlwinds. The breeze cut through him and made him shiver. Clutching at his sides, he turned his back to the wind, letting it pass. He knew he had better get on with it before his body set up and the aches and pains became too difficult to tolerate.

  Bal’kor strained to regain his footing and then did a little dance trying to get the snow out from behind his cape, and that which was wedged down inside his britches. His vision doubled and his head ached from the sudden movement. He prayed that he had not done serious damage to his head, which was spinning a bit from hitting the snow. After a couple steps he noticed that quick movement brought on nausea, causing his stomach to churn. Bal’kor sighed heavily and groaned.

  Moving slowly he turned to trudge uphill. The air was thin here and he strained to catch his breath, which came to him in ragged gasps and wheezes. The slope was steeper than it looked, and the exertion required to climb it was deceptively high. The trip was taking more out of him than he imagined it would and sweat poured down his face, freezing in his day-old stubble. He took several steps...paused…clutched his knees…tried to breathe…took several more…paused...

  The slope increased as he approached the cliff. The slick, smooth bottomed boots he had taken from the tall man did not afford much traction. Bal’kor’s feet slid around, wrenching his knees and causing him to constantly lose his balance. Curses escaped his lips as he fell to a knee and the pain spread from the impact on the hard, sharp ice. After several serious spills, he ended up resigning himself to kicking in each step. It was brutally slow going and hurt his toes. The crust over the snow was hard and windblown here, not soft like it had been further down the mountain. He had to stomp hard to break through. He knew he was bruising the bottom of his feet, but cared little—they were already numb.

  Even with the kicked in steps, he found himself on his ass or his knees every few steps. It hadn’t taken long for the cold to work its way through the leather into his feet and his toes begin to burn. He looked down at the wet stains on his thin moccasins and stomped his feet, hoping to regain his circulation.

  The wind once again began to kick up and flung icy pellets swept up from the snow field onto his skin. Bal’kor turned his back into the wind, shielded his eyes, and heard the icy shards as they hit his oilskin cloak. Bal’kor cursed at the gods!

  The wind was howling continuously now and his face was raw from the onslaught of corn-snow that clawed at his skin. He held his single free hand up and tried to shelter his face as best as he could. It helped, but more with the brightness, which was giving him a headache, than with the ice, which seemed to find its way to his skin no matter how he placed his hands!

  Bal’kor reached the first bundle and bent down to pick it up. He pulled the tattered shirt from his pack and wrapped it over his face leaving only a small slit for his eyes. Seeing the next piece several yards further up the slope, he quickly threw the pack over his shoulder and pressed on. Finally, having retrieved his bundle, the spilled contents and spear, he turned around and started his trek down the mountain slope, half walking, and half sliding.

  The sun was starting to drop below the peaks. Night was approaching and he felt the temperature drop.

  Far down in the same valley, Brock sat cross-legged next to a small fire. The rabbit he happened upon had not been quick enough to avoid the arrow shot from his bow. He could smell the meat roasting and hear the sizzle as fat dripped onto the hot bed of coals. After eying it critically, he pulled it from the flame and tested it, shoving his large hunting knife deeply—making sure the juices run clear.

  He turned the rabbit over before placing the spit down and setting a large lopsided rock he had found over the branch, keeping the hare a safe distance from the flame. He was hungry from running all day and he wasn’t about to hazard burning his dinner. The meal would restore his strength and help him keep him strong during the journey.

  The journey had been uneventful. The path was easy—not too steep—the trails established. This would not be the case tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would venture off the trails and have to choose his path carefully, winding his way up the talus slopes of the mountain. His footing would be suspect. He would have to slow down as he crossed the skree—making sure his ankle’s didn’t roll—or worse! In the old days, the trails were well marked, but it had been so very long ago, he wondered if he would even be able to find his way.

  He closed his eyes and pictured his father, remembering his words, his guiding hand. His father would guide him—show him the way. For a second a small tear formed in the corner of his eye. He missed his father. Even after all these years, he still missed his gruff voice, green eyes and hidden smile.

  Brock had already set out his humble bed roll. It was nothing more than a couple hides sewn together, but the fur was warm and it was large enough to cover him from head to toe.

  Because he was on the move, he hadn’t bothered with making a shelter. A wayside evergreen that had thick low branches would serve sufficiently and he had set his bed beneath. The branches would provide him protection from the wind and at least a measure of insulation if it started to rain. More importantly—it hid him from view.

  The sky was clear now, but here in the mountains—who knew if it would hold for the night. A storm could come out of nowhere, being upon one in a matter of hours. Many had died by setting out on a clear hot day only to have the temperature drop to below freezing and being caught in a sudden blizzard without proper clothing. Brock didn’t take anything for granted—not here in the mountains—not anywhere.

  The hare was cooked, and Brock ripped a leg free and chewed on it slowly—enjoying the flavor and the texture of the meat. He hadn’t thought himself as hungry as he was, but once he tasted the meat he discovered that he was mistaken. His stomach growled. Grabbing the hare, he spl
it it in two and dug in, feeling the juice slide down his chin as teeth ripped large mouthfuls of meat free of the carcass. He ate until every last sliver of meat was gone. Not even a scrap was left for the crows or scavengers of the night.

  Brock tossed the cleaned bones onto the coals and stacked more wood on the fire—not really to warm himself, but to ward off creatures he didn’t wish to face this eve. Still, he would sleep with his knife drawn and clutched in his hand. Without someone to take the watch—he would sleep lightly—napping, not really sleeping soundly. He didn’t expect trouble, but given the times…

  A loud burp escaped his lips, catching him by surprise. He wiped his mouth and took a long drink from his water skin. It sloshed, so he shook it, making sure there was still plenty for his journey. It had to last until he reached the upper valleys of the mountains. Then, there would be water a plenty. It was early winter and the melt was in full force from the last storm. The rivers would be filled, roiling and churning. Small waterfalls would appear anywhere the melting snow and ice could find a path down the rocky slopes.

  He pulled his staff near to his side and pulled his blanket closed, watching his breath leave misty silver-clouds in the cool night air. It would get cold tonight, really cold if the sky stayed clear. Not as cold as it would be up on the mountain, but definitely colder than he was used to. For a while he stared into the flames of his fire, but within minutes sleep filled his eyes, and he was consumed with dreams.

  Merl stepped out of the gate and looked out across a vast green sea. A grin spread across his face, for he had never seen the sea and had heard but stories of its wonder. This was not the place he was seeking. He grabbed his robe and pulled up the hood and held it tight, turning his back into the wind.

  The stone-strewn shore was covered with driftwood, and ice. There were even small chunks of ice floating in the water, which was covered with whitecaps that curled over as the waves met the shallows. Merl heard the rhythmic splash and crash of the small waves and watched as the foam reached high up on the shore before the waves took it back out to sea.

  There were several skin-covered huts off in the distance and flat bottom fishing boats moored to rocks by the shore. They rocked as the frothy foam of the waves pushed inland, making a hissing sound as the wave retreated and the water sank into the sand. Merl didn’t see anyone, but the curls of smoke rising from the huts let him know that there were others around. He didn’t wish a confrontation. The tide was coming in. Soon the fishermen would head to sea; he needed to go.

  He adjusted his robe tighter as the icy wind whipped the snow falling from the dark-gray clouds. His hands shook as he pulled out his notebook and made some notes about where the first three symbols had taken him. After he checked off the next set of symbols, he pushed the notebook back into his pocket and took one last look out across the ice-strewn shore.

  He turned, placed his ring to the altar and waited for it to glow. He punched in the next three symbols and stepped back into the mist.

  Captured

  Warvyn descended the polished circular stone stairs taking two at a time until he reached the bottom. He kicked the dead bodies of both demon and mage alike out of his way, and threw those still fighting on the stairs over the railing as he wound his way to the bottom. He counted the number of times he circled the stairs, but lost track after he reached thirty-seven when he was distracted by an ongoing battle that raged down one of the halls he was passing.

  Eventually, he found what he searched for, and he stopped. His expression filled with horror as he looked on; a winged bone-back demon fed on the guts of Zedd’aki, slurping and tearing great chunks of meat free with its incisors as the aged mage’s blood pooled beneath his robe.

  Had his orders not been clear? This mage was to have been healed, as were all the mages. The collar was still in place. When he had left the room, the elven sisters had been working on him. He had even heard Zedd’aki moan; he knew he had been alive.

  Zedd’aki’s face was contorted, frozen in horror. He had died again while being fed upon and knew the horror with his last gasping breath.

  Warvyn’s face turned red and he clenched his fists. Had he not clearly given orders that this mage, to the detriment of all others, was to have been saved?

  He took a lunging step and backhanded the demon across the head with such force, that the sound of bones being crushed filled the tower causing all heads to turn in his direction. The demon skull crushed as it was lifted off the ground and tossed like a ragdoll against the stone wall where it jerked twice before it stilled. Warvyn cursed the demon and raised his hand letting his foul magic float over its body. The demon did not dissolve. The demon did not sink back into the lower planes. Warvyn wiped it from the pattern.

  “Heal this one,” he growled, pointing at Zedd’aki. “If he cannot be saved…again, I will slaughter all of you, erasing you all from the pattern, for disobeying my orders.”

  A demon rushed forward, dragging the elven sisters. Their expressions filled with shock as they saw the damage done by the demon. They had expended almost all their strength healing the man but a short few minutes ago before being yanked down the hall to heal others damaged in the melee. They knelt by his side as tears filled their eyes. They didn’t have the strength to heal him.

  “I haven’t the strength,” Morgan moaned as she searched the face of her dark-haired sister.

  Her sister, Nagrom, sat limply, too weak to even acknowledge the statement. Her head slumped as she blankly stared at the gray rock floor.

  Morgan watched as Warvyn glowered over the two.

  “We are dead…” she whispered, pushing her white hair from her face.

  “Well?” he bellowed.

  Morgan wept. “We are sorry…we haven’t the strength to heal him again.” Her voice went to a whisper. “We have healed so many…so…many…”

  A thin female demon bowed deeply to her master and shoved the two worthless elves roughly to the side before Warvyn had time to issue punishment. She lowered herself, straddling over the mage. She wanted to feed, but feared her master. She licked the mage, tasting and savoring his blood. Her body trembled in ecstasy.

  “I claim this one as mine,” she hissed. “I claim the right of Bonding!”

  Warvyn harrumphed.

  She threw her head back and her eyes began to glow. She gutturally hissed the ancient words and was filled with their twisted power. She placed her mouth over his and exhaled a fine blue mist.

  The seconds ticked slowly past. Zedd’aki’s body twitched slightly. Several seconds later it convulsed.

  “He lives—” she proudly proclaimed, removing her lips from his.

  Zedd’aki felt his guts ooze and felt the pain of a hundred blades from the claws and fangs of the demon. He felt a great weight on his chest and when he opened his eyes he saw the female demon sitting across his lap staring—just inches from his face. The demon cocked her head to one side and ran a long forked tongue from his neck to his eye. It threw back its head and cackled with pleasure.

  It lowered its lips to his ear and whispered. “Today is your lucky day mage! The Warvyn wants you alive. But make no mistake…you are mine! We are Foratsu—bonded.”

  Zedd’aki started to move his fingers, casting a spell.

  “Don’t!” came a sharp command from a voice he vaguely recognized. “Save yourself the trouble of dying...again.”

  Zedd’aki rolled his head to the side and focused on the voice, unable to see more than an outline.

  The demon healer began to feed a slow thread of magic into Zedd’aki, which caused him to scream in agony as his bones righted themselves and his wounds sealed. The healer took her time, letting him suffer—and suffer he did, for minutes on end. Zedd’aki felt the tang of the dark magic as it filled him, but he was powerless to reject it.

  “I can feel your pain, mage. It...excites me, yes it does,” the demon purred as it ground its hips into his pelvis. The demon stared into his eyes and filled his head with carnal
thoughts and felt his immediate response. “I think that I have chosen wisely.”

  Warvyn watched with mild amusement and smiled. “My friend enjoys her work...”

  Zedd’aki shut his eyes and bared his teeth trying not to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much she was hurting him, arousing him. She grinned, calling his bluff. She could feel him thicken beneath his robe. She knew she was pleasing both to the eye—and more. She was only half demon, condemned for her perverse tastes and desires.

  “You can scream if you wish.” She purred as she pulled his robe aside, revealing his excitement.

  Zedd’aki grunted, “I’ll not give you the pleasure.”

  “I do not care what you believe to be true. I am already pleased. And you will pleasure me, as I will you.”

  Zedd’aki coughed and tried to twist away as he felt her wet offering.

  “And...you will scream!” she whispered softly in his ear before she sucked on his earlobe and pushed her tongue in.

  Zedd’aki shuddered and tried to turn away. She fed another small stream of healing magic. He couldn’t contain his pain any longer and screamed out at the top of his lungs before he began convulsing and thrusting.

  He never saw the expression of pure ecstasy on the face of the demon as she ground her hips and rode him. She threw her head back to moan, pausing only when she needed to feed more magic into the mage to sustain both his life, and her pleasure.

  As soon as Zedd’aki passed out, Warvyn scoffed, turned and left the room. He charged back up the stairs, cursing the wizards under his breath. He hurried, knowing where he wanted to go, but unsure of how to get there. When he reached the main floor, he stomped down the hall, following the glass portico. He vaguely recalled the layout of the Keep, and found the circular stairs that led up to the apartments of the Ten. Warvyn nodded to himself, swearing that he would not leave without the book and if he needed to break into the apartments of the Ten to find a way, so be it.