The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla

by Scott D. Muller

  He passed battles that were still being fought on the levels above the dining room. He heard the sound of explosions and the clicking and growling of his demons. He turned down the hallway and grabbed one of the demons by the hair, spinning him around. The demon—caught by surprise—spun, nearly losing its balance. Warvyn tossed a handful of bristled wiry hair to the floor.

  “I do not want them dead. Do you understand me?”

  The demon nodded, but would not meet Warvyn’s eyes. He kept glancing down the hall, paying more attention to the battle than its master.

  Warvyn grabbed its face and slowly squeezed until he felt the demons jaw break. He wrenched hard causing the demons neck to crack loudly. He held it forcefully so that he could look the demon in the eyes. “If they die...I will kill all of you...permanently.”

  “Ye..ye..yeth lorb!’ the demon struggled to say. It sputtered, its tongue hanging limply to the side. “I..I..I he..ee.ar amd obey! Bub…somb hab been dea..aad a long timb alreathy…”

  Warvyn put his face just inches away from the demon and screamed—letting his breaths acidic vapor eat into the demons flesh. “Then it would behoove you to finish quickly, lest you are unable to bring them back from the land of mist.

  “…but...”

  “Good. Now that you understand, I want you to make it clear to the rest.”

  The demon didn’t struggle. Its eyes went wide as it let its body go limp. Every time it tried to speak, pain wracked its body, but to fail to reply would have meant death. “I will dooo yo bidthing. You needn’enth woo…oorry.”

  “Oh, I am not worried,” Warvyn quietly said, “but you should be, if you fail me.”

  The demons eyes darted away as Warvyn dropped his hand and shoved the demon in the direction of the melee. The demon grabbed its jaw and yanked it back into place. It moved quickly to the side of its allies and screamed loudly, all the while pointing back at Warvyn.

  Satisfied his orders were heard, Warvyn turned and continued his journey up the stairs, stopping at each level where he heard active battle. In better circumstances, he would have paused to admire the handiwork of the elves. The ceiling was as magnificent as he remembered. Being a demon didn’t preclude him from appreciating beauty; it was a common misperception.

  He slowed as he entered the high tower and saw the eleven doors, one for each of the Ten plus one for the Keeper. Trouble was...much had changed since he had last walked these halls. Did his brother take the apartment that was his father’s or did he chose a new room to occupy? And what of the Ten? If they were still here, he would face certain annihilation.

  Warvyn decided to go with his gut and check the apartment that used to be his father’s when he was the Keeper. He snarled at the thought. His father was the primary reason he was an outcast—a demon. The Ten, along with his support, had given him no choice. Their sudden shift in policy had left him with nowhere to go. He couldn’t battle both the dark and the light wizards and win. The dark shunned him for his mastery of the white magic; the white rejected his skills at necromancy and the darker arts. If he wished to survive, the only choice left to him was to make an agreement with the Dark Lord of the Underworld.

  The Dark Lord kept his end of the bargain, and gave him dominion over the lower planes. He hadn’t expected to be drawn back into the battle of Ror, but he had been younger, weaker, and unable to resist the calling of the dark wizards; it was a side effect of becoming a demon that he had not anticipated. The Lord of the Underworld had allowed it to happen by giving the dark ones powers greater than his. He had been forced to fight his own father...and his brother—that too had been unforeseen.

  He had tried his best to avoid direct conflict, but in the final battle, he was forced into face-to-face combat against both his brother and Zedd’aki. His heart wasn’t in the battle; he merely wished to survive. He escaped, and prior to returning to Darkhalla, took captives. They were insurance against further transgressions.

  After Ror, he had withdrawn to Darkhalla, making it his home. For centuries he had fought to retain his image of self, but slowly the changes came. He grew scales, and horns. He got stronger, taller too. The tail had been the worst. He could still make himself appear as human, but the effort cost him much, and for what? He had nobody left to impress. An endless supply of souls cast to the Lord of the Underworld kept him entertained. He even grew accustomed to the dismal realm, filled with vile smells and unpleasant atmosphere.

  Over the countless years, he had slowly molded the place from the abysmal pit he had first entered, into a more…civilized place. He had vision. His demons accumulated small items at his request and he had filled his villa with the spoils of wars fought between the demons and those that foolishly called them into service.

  Warvyn hesitated in front of the door, certain that if this room was indeed his brother’s, that he would have set strong wards. He delved with his magic and felt the wards. His hand reached for the latch, and he bared his teeth as the magic twisted his mighty frame. Numbness spread up his arm as the purple lightning crackled over his skin. To his credit, he lasted several seconds before he was thrown back and almost knocked over the railing. There was immediate recognition that the wards belonged to Ja’tar—it had his signature written all over them. This was his room!

  Warvyn pulled himself together, rubbed his sore, tingling arm and walked to the room that was adjacent his brother’s. He placed his hands on the walls unthreateningly and probed the forces, looking at the bright threads of magic. This magic he also recognized. It belonged to Duvall, but it was weaker than he remembered it.

  “Duvall,” he grunted under his breath. Now there was a piece of work. He snorted and shook his head almost imperceptibly.

  He wove his own wards and filled himself with potent magic before grabbing the latch and trying to open her door. The door cracked, and the room filled with smoke as the flesh on his hand burned and began to melt. He grimaced and snarled, refusing to let go and pushing hard with his shoulder as wave after wave of agony wracked his frame.

  He threw himself back, released the latch and watched as the flesh on his hand blistered and bubbled. He threw back his head, opened his maw, and roared in frustration.

  “I remember this magic. It has been a long time since I have tasted it.”

  He had thought that the art of old magic had been lost; certainly by all reports by his demons, that was the case. If it still existed, maybe there was some hope for them to defeat the dark mage after all. He waved his other hand over the burned one and the burning stopped. It took him but a short few seconds to heal the damage that had been done.

  Duvall felt the intrusion; it rang loudly in her head. She flung herself against the edge of the stone that held her captive. Demons, she screamed at the top of her lungs…but none could hear. The second time Warvyn grabbed the door she was paying full attention. Warvyn she growled, she could sense him. She tried to project herself to the room next door where the old man slept, but she didn’t feel his presence. The room felt empty to her, but she screamed for him anyway.

  She groaned. How was she to defend the Keep against demons by herself? She wept. Everything was her fault.

  A group of demons reached the upper level where the Warvyn stood trying to work out the puzzle of how to gain entry to the rooms of the Ten.

  The dark-grey scaled demon pushed his way to the front of the horde and fell to a knee, “How may I assist you, master?”

  Warvyn looked up and waved it off.

  The demon lowered its head and stood, preparing to go.

  “Wait!” Warvyn said. “On second thought, I do have a task for you.”

  The demon nodded eagerly.

  “I wish you to gather the demons and search the entire Keep. Bring all those you find to the room at the bottom of the great stairs. I will meet you there when I have finished. I warn you—do not kill the wizards. Next, send five or six of the strongest demons to me. I need their assistance to break into these rooms.”

 
The demon raised a brow, but said nothing. It was unusual, to say the least, for his master to ask for assistance. He turned to go.

  “Oh, and Trag—I repeat—I do not want those you find to be killed. If you injure them, I want them healed and chained. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly clear, great one.” Trag said, sharply. “We may not have enough chains.”

  “Only the older wizards will need them. The rest seem harmless.”

  Trag lifted a quizzical brow, turned, and instead of walking the stairs, spread his tattered wings and vaulted up and over the railing. He quickly descended and disappeared from sight.

  Warvyn and his cadre demons stood in front of Duvall’s door, for it felt the weakest. They had already tried Ja’tar’s door and the walls to no avail. They had withstood all that the demons had thrown against them. The quarters of the other Ten were not adjacent to Ja’tar’s room and it would serve no purpose to break into them unless something either forced his hand or led him there purposefully.

  They struggled for hours and soon, a pile of dead demons, spawn and other halla-fare were stacked to the side. Warvyn grabbed two, one in each hand, and tossed them over the railing to make room on the narrow walkway. He cursed—not yet ready to admit defeat. These demons had paid a horrible price; were unfortunate enough to have triggered spells they had not prepared against, or were too weak to fight off the counter-spells. The Ten were capable—clever and devious—more than the simple wizards of the Keep in his estimation. He could not resurrect those killed by their magic. They had been removed from the pattern and wiped clean from the Book of Existence.

  His frustration swelled. He and his kind did not have access to the powerful spells of the Dark Lord—at least not all of them. They didn’t wield the true force of darkness that his master shared only with a select few of the dark wizards. Even he, the Overlord, was not given those powers. The Dark Lord was very careful with whom he trusted, and with good reason. Past demons had tried on many occasion to usurp his power. The most recent in memory had been a close battle, with many being erased from the pattern. They called it The Purge. It had happened a long time before Warvyn had descended into Darkhalla, but demons live forever and have very long memories. The stories are still told, whispered in the halls by the young upstarts who have yet to figure out that some battles are not worth fighting.

  Warvyn rallied them to the task at hand. They cast their magic and wove their spells, calling on the Dark Lord to help them, but their requests fell on deaf ears. One by one, the fortunate demons were defeated and sent back to Darkhalla; the others were wiped from the Book. Warvyn tried to call more, but none were strong enough to break through the spells. Many of Warvyn’s minions had already died. He was hesitant to give up, but realized that he stood a better chance by leveraging his captives to gain his brother’s help.

  Warvyn felt the Calling long before he dematerialized from the wizards Keep. The song played in his head and the intricate symbols the dark mage had painted in blood on the white marble floor stirred his loins. He fought for as long as he could; she would pay a hefty price for her Calling. Finally, he gave in to the spell and stepped through to the marble floor waiting him on the other side.

  The mage sat in her dais, smug, confident.

  He bowed before her, with just enough indifference to indulge her ego. She must not suspect. He looked to the floor and out of the corner of his eye saw that five slaves had been sacrificed to bring him to do her bidding. He covered his smile.

  “I am so glad you called...” he mocked her.

  She twirled her long black hair around a finger. “Really!”

  “I am,” he reiterated. “We are stuck in the Keep unable to return to Darkhalla.”

  The Master lifted a brow, leaned forward and the edge of her mouth turned up. She pushed herself to her feet and stepped down off of the high platform. “The Keep? You have gained entry?”

  “We have and we have fought the wizards and won. Unfortunately, several escaped through a gate before we could kill them. The rest...” he shrugged.

  “I see...” she coldly grumbled, trying to hide her delight. “And how did you gain access to the Keep?”

  “The book of Rah’tok was there. A demon imp was summoned by a young wizard; an incompetent sot of little consequence knowing nothing of the book or its power.” Warvyn explained. “Our calling was really nothing more than an accident brought about by a lazy wizard by the name of Bal’kor.”

  She shook her head and acted surprised, “Ah, I see. The name means nothing to me. Do you have the book? May I see it?”

  Warvyn raised his voice and bowed. “You refer to the book? We...I do not have the book. The Keeper has set wards about the room. We are not mighty enough to break-in and the Dark Lord refuses to give us the spells necessary. The warding spell has the Keeper’s signature—he will be the only one who will be able to break it—and he has fled.”

  The corner of the Master’s mouth quivered slightly. “Unfortunate indeed, however this is good news! Do you have usable information about those that escaped?”

  “We do not know how or to where they escaped. I am assured that there was but a handful. We thought they had been trapped in one of the lower-level rooms, but when we gained entry, they were not to be found.”

  “And what of the Keeper?”

  Warvyn bowed. “Missing.”

  “Missing?” she screeched, with such loathing it felt vile.

  “Yes. We believe he also took a demon pet of mine as a captive; we think there was one other.”

  The Master turned her back to the demon as she walked around the containment. She didn’t want him to see her fury.

  “Why did you call me here?”

  She threw her hand up. “It doesn’t matter at this point. Things have changed.”

  “Then I wish to be sent back to Darkhalla that I may gather my demons and heal from our battle. I cannot go there of my own free will—you must send me back, or allow me free wander of the realms.” Warvyn grinned, knowing she would never acquiesce to that option.

  She turned to face him, walked around the entire containment spell and examined his wounds. His hands and arms were severely damaged and she could sense the old magic that had been used.

  Any attempts he had made at healing them had been feeble at best, meant only to quench the magic—not to repair. His remaining wounds did not appear great, but she couldn’t say for sure. That was the thing about magic. On the surface all may seem normal, but it is what lies beneath. Regardless, she had not expected that the Keep would be able to raise much resistance. Her plan was falling into place, although the Book going missing had not been expected. It contained spells she needed. Some were very hard to recreate and would cost her many lives to figure out...again. It would have been better to have reclaimed the tome.

  “Go then, return to the pit. I will call you later. We will need to discuss this matter in depth once I have time to verify what you have told me.” She waved her hands uttered a few guttural groans and moved her fingers in a blur.

  “As you wish,” he replied with a bow as he turned to an oily smoke and faded into the nether.

  Warvyn always returned to the same place after he visited the dark one. It was not his throne room, but a narrow hallway, deep below the armory. He pondered the significance of this location, but it seemed to be of little import.

  He turned and hustled to the throne, weaving his way among narrow passages. His throne room was empty, save two servants. “Call my guards,” he bellowed, as he entered.

  The guards appeared shortly and bowed.

  “Good, you are here. We have been triumphant and have razed the Keep,” he explained. “I need the chains, escorts and healers,” he roared. “Bring them to me. Quickly! We have little time.”

  The guards headed out with purpose.

  He dipped his finger into a vase he kept by the side of his throne, checking it for content. He used it to hold blood to draw the patterns he need
ed to open the portal to the plane of man. Of course the portal was only useful for bringing those above down into his domain. He could not travel the other directions without a summoning.

  Down on knees, he drew the patterns from memory. All the patterns in the Book of Rah’tok were known to him and committed to memory. It was one of his many gifts. His brother was foolish in believing that he needed the ancient tome; he desired it purely to keep it out of the hands of man, not because he needed it for its spells. For now, it was convenient to allow Ja’tar his misguided understanding.

  When he finished drawing, he chanted—calling on his demons and watched as the one-way portal opened between the planes. One-by-one, his demons made their way home with wizards in tow. They stared wide-eyed as they stepped into Darkhalla. They had been healed well enough to walk. Well, most of them had; several were carried, or dragged by the returning demons.

  They stood in front of their new master in shackles, chains and collars about their necks. Their eyes were weary and sunken in defeat. In single file they were paraded in front of the throne. The summoned guards quickly clamped collars on the handful who weren’t already harnessed. They offered no resistance.

  Warvyn recognized Qu’entza, who met his gaze. The others who staggered past, eyes sunk in deep sockets, he didn’t know. It mattered very little. Qu’entza and Zedd’aki were more than enough bait to draw his brother in. He knew how Ja’tar felt about Zedd’aki. He was more of a brother than a friend. A brother he was never able to be.

  The demon who led them stopped before its master and bowed deeply.

  “Yes, what is it?” Warvyn asked.

  “These are the ones that we could heal. Unfortunately, the battle was prolonged to the point that some of those killed early on could not be brought back across the threshold from the dream world.”

  The demon shirked back, waiting for retribution.

  “How many were lost?” Warvyn asked as he fought to retain control of his emotions.