The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla

by Scott D. Muller

  Ja'tar felt a little relief. "We have a new dark mage?"

  "Perhaps, or perhaps not. She is a dark mage. This much we know. Her origin cannot be determined by us."

  "Is she strong?"

  The air hung silent for several seconds. "...strong enough."

  Ja'tar felt his anger rise. "Yet you do nothing? You let a dark mage rise? You stand idly by and just let us die!"

  "What is there to do? We...are sequestered to the Spires. We no longer concern ourselves with the skirmishes of man. Your kind nearly wiped us out, yet you arrogantly expect us to care?"

  "The Keep never hunted dragons! You would do well to remember that you were harnessed in the past by the dark wizards."

  Voltaire lifted a lazy brow and stared at the cave wall in front of her, remembering those days clearly. "Yes, but the Collars of Torn have all been destroyed. The threat no longer exists."

  "It seems that you’re ill-informed," Ja'tar shot back. "I have seen the collars myself."

  Voltaire’s tongue flicked out nervously as she adjusted her position on her piles of coin and gems. She yawned and shot a blast of fiery breath against the wall, warming the cave nicely. She watched as the rock glowed dull-orange and felt the humidity rise as the moisture leaking into the cave instantly flashed to steam.

  She decided to call his bluff. "It matters not."

  "What?" Ja'tar spat. "What do you mean it matters not?"

  "Exactly what I said," replied Voltaire. "You can fight your own battles. We enjoy our solitude."

  "She…they will come for you..."

  "Mayhap, but there is only one. We should have no problem handling a single mage, dark...or not!"

  "We will talk more when I arrive," Ja'tar resolutely demanded.

  Voltaire forcefully spoke. "You should go home..."

  "I have no home to return too! We will talk!" Ja’tar growled back.

  Voltaire sighed. She knew how stubborn the old man could be. She had hoped he had mellowed with age, but then again, he was human after all. "Then I suggest you enjoy your walk. The storm is spectacular...or so I hear. I’ll see you in three days when…and if you get here."

  Ja'tar groaned. "You'll make me walk."

  Silence.

  Voltaire flicked her tail and brought it alongside to rest her chin on. "...you can expect a visit from the Guardians. I’d ward myself if I were you."

  Ja'tar sputtered. "Of course."

  "...it has been a long time since they had the good sport of fighting a mage..." Voltaire added, finding merriment in the situation.

  Bitterness filled Ja’tar’s voice. "I will try not to disappoint them!"

  Voltaire smiled to herself. "Yes, do try old friend."

  Ja’tar scowled.

  Voltaire could feel his anger building. She grinned to herself. How amusing! She cut off the contact, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She would have to process what she had just heard.

  “Ja’tar…Ja’tar?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been staring off to the north for five minutes…you were mumbling in Torren.”

  Ja’tar cleared his throat. “I was talking to Voltaire.”

  “Well, bloody hell! Could you have picked a more inhospitable place?” Rua’tor swore as he wrapped his meager cloak around himself and turned his back against the wind.

  His tunic didn’t provide much protection and the tie at the waist did little to keep out the wind and cold. Another icy blast blew up under his cloak and numbed his bare legs. Had he known where Ja’tar was heading he would have prepared better. Cursing, he wracked his brain trying to remember spells to create clothes. The best he could do was make what he had thicker. Stupid magic!

  “What?” Ja’tar absentmindedly asked. His head was filled with other, more important, things and he had not been listening to Rua’tor’s whine.

  “I said… Oh, never mind,” Rua’tor said, angrily kicking at the snow.

  Ja’tar apologized. “I’m sorry! I was lost in thought and didn’t hear you.”

  Rua’tor mumbled to himself, “Horrible place, couldn’t pick someplace warm to take us...”

  “We had to come here. I need to see an old friend.” Ja’tar wove his own spell, lengthening his cloak and filling it with a heavy wool lining. Rua’tor watched as Ja’tar cast a pair of leggings. He’d be damned if he was going to ask for help.

  Rua’tor grunted. “Old friend? What manner of man or beast would ever choose to live in this place?”

  Ja’tar spat at the ground and watched as his spit froze before hitting the crusty snow and bounced across. “They didn’t exactly…choose.”

  Rua’tor looked at Ja’tar. “What do you mean they didn’t choose? Are they exiles or criminals?”

  Ja’tar shook his head. “Worse! Their dragons.”

  “D..d..dragons?” Rua’tor’s face went white. When Ja’tar had said he was talking to Voltaire, he didn’t know he had meant here. He searched the sky, expecting them to appear at any second.

  “Welcome to the Ice Spires,” Ja’tar dryly said, while grinning ear to ear, “the most inhospitable place in the realms.”

  It had been a very long time since Ja’tar’s feet had tread on this place. He had been a much younger man then. His father had brought him to this place when the great Rotterdam Pact had been signed. They had said their goodbyes and he watched as his familiar flew off into the distance, never to be seen again. For years he faithfully kept the bond and stayed in contact, but eventually it weakened and those days were forgotten.

  Rua’tor’s face got a worried look. “Are you sure we should be here. I thought man was forbidden from this place.”

  “We shouldn’t and it is…but we have no choice. Besides, it is too late anyway. They know we are here.”

  “They?”

  “The Guardians. I can feel their thoughts. I let them know we mean no harm.”

  Rua’tor faced the ground and swore loudly. “That’s reassuring. Will that keep them from roasting us?”

  Ja’tar grinned. “Probably not.”

  Rua’tor curtly nodded his head in acknowledgment.

  “We better get a move on it. We have a long way to go.”

  Mica stared at the two, watching them bicker. She knew it was cold, but her demon nature allowed her to ignore such things. She did allow her nipples to harden and poke through the thin transparent material of her chemise. She did it just to make the two wizards more uncomfortable. She may be a captive, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t liven things up just a tad.

  Rua’tor’s mouth dropped open when she turned to face him.

  Ja’tar caught the old man staring. “I guess she’s cold!”

  Rua’tor mumbled to himself and turned away red-faced, causing Mica to giggle in delight. Ja’tar rolled his eyes.

  Without speaking a word, Ja’tar turned into the wind and started heading toward the mountains, following the ridge. His feet were getting cold and he used a thin thread of magic to warm them. He lifted his staff and uttered an arcane chant. The air in front of him calmed and the snow split to either side of the party.

  Ja’tar gave Mica’s chain a gentle yank. “Let’s go!’

  Nonetheless, she cursed him in the demon tongue.

  Ja’tar smirked. He understood well-enough what she had said, but chose to give no comment.

  The trail was steep and the snow deep, reaching far above their knees, as they climbed to the ridge. It wasn’t long before the two men were panting and sweating. They were unaccustomed to walking uphill on snow.

  Their smooth boots slid around causing them to cartwheel their arms to maintain their balance and lift their legs high to free their feet from the white that surrounded them to their thighs. They needed their wooden pattens, but they were lost along with the Keep and neither one of them had thought to use magic to create them, so they struggled.

  The lead guardian of the dragon clan knew the moment the wizards stepped through the gate. The great blue had felt
the magic and heard the writ of the one who called himself Ja’tar. Drag had been but a hatchling in the days when the pact was established and had never seen man, although he had been told the stories; they all had. He felt no animosity to the men and was indifferent to being sequestered to the spires. For a dragon, a cave was a cave.

  He sent out his magic feelers. There didn’t appear to be any immediate threat, so he decided to just monitor the situation for a while. There was no use venturing out in a storm if he didn’t have to...not when one had a nice warm cave!

  Ja’tar bent over, knelt down and wove his fingers. The ice before him melted and a puddle formed at his feet. He pulled his water-skin free of his cloak and filled it, taking several large sips.

  “You need to drink more,” he said to Rua’tor. “You’ll dry out here in the mountains.

  Rua’tor grunted, pulled his water-skin out of his cloak and followed Ja’tar’s lead. He was glad he did. He had felt an ever increasing pounding in his temples—most likely dehydration.

  The days were short in the Northlund. The sun was low on the horizon even though it was just after midday. They would only have daylight for three more hours before they would have to stop; although truth be told, they couldn’t continue farther. They were both exhausted from the night’s battle and their journey. Night was already quickly approaching and the temperature was plummeting.

  “We need to stop,” Ja’tar shouted over his shoulder, but Rua’tor couldn’t hear him over his wheezing and the wind. The old man was bent over on his haunches in agony, trying to catch his breath.

  Ja’tar stepped off the ridge and slid a short distance down the slope where the snow was deeper and packed tightly. Ja’tar pointed his staff at the large snow bank and blasted a controlled flame. He walked into the snow cave he had created and was surprised at how quickly the walls iced over when he stopped carving it out with his staff. Satisfied, he motioned for the others to join him. As a last minute thought, he conjured up pine-needles to cover the icy floor and to provide them with some insulation from the cold.

  They settled in for the night. Rua’tor heated the small cave with a spell, while Ja’tar set a spell across the doorway to keep out both cold and beasts. Ja’tar had heard stories of the big white bears that traversed this hostile land; fierce meat eaters and thrice the size of a man. He wanted nothing to do with them; they had enough problems to deal with already.

  He removed his cloak and set it on the needles, preparing himself a place to sleep. Ja’tar set his wards and conjured up a meal for him and his friend. They sat in silence, listening to the wind howl.

  Mica watched them eat. Demons didn’t need to eat. Just the same, it would have been nice if he had asked.

  Ja’tar turned to Mica. “My spell will keep you in the cave tonight and as you know, the runes will prevent you from harming us. Do you understand?”

  Mica nodded, she knew it was true.

  Ja’tar turned to Rua’tor. “I hope I can sleep tonight.”

  Rua’tor though the comment was strange and out of context. “What? You haven’t been sleeping well?”

  Ja’tar shrugged. “I keep getting visitations by a young girl crying for help. Every night she visits. Trouble is—she never tells me who she is or where she is; she only incessantly whines for help.”

  “That does seem strange,” Rua’tor said, nodding and taking another bite of his bread. “What does she look like?”

  Ja’tar’s expression grew thin. “Nothing more than a shadow. It’s more of an impression that I get than anything else. It’s the most infuriating thing.”

  Rua’tor grunted acknowledgment. “Care to elaborate?”

  “She is never in focus. It’s like I’m seeing her through thick bubble glass, and her voice is always muffled.”

  “Does she call you by name?”

  Ja’tar snorted. “Old man…I think she calls me old man…”

  Rua’tor shook his head side-to-side. “I wonder who she is…”

  “As do I.”

  Morning came too soon—muscles were still sore and eyes still filled with sleep. Ja’tar awoke with a start, restless dreams had filled his night—but the young girl had not visited and he had…slept! He rolled over and felt every single one of his years.

  The first thing he did was check his life spell. Satisfied it was still viable, he pushed himself to his feet and made for the door. With a short wave of his hand, he let the wards fall by the wayside and stepped past the magic curtain out into the morning. The air was brisk and the sky blue as the emeralds of Kalton.

  “How did you sleep,” Rua’tor asked, watching his friend star out into the winter landscape.

  Ja’tar grinned. He shouted back over his shoulder. “Great!”

  “No visitors?”

  “None. First good night’s rest I’ve had in decades.” Ja’tar shivered and stepped back into the cave.

  “See…getting out of the Keep is good for you,” Rua’tor joked, rolled over and fell back asleep.

  Ja’tar’s expression changed. While it was true, he couldn’t help but feel that the interruptive dreams he was having were tied to the Keep somehow. It was one more puzzle to occupy his mind.

  Ja’tar gazed out through the protective curtain he had woven across the entry to keep the heat in. The mountains and the Ice Spires stood out as a backdrop and took Ja’tar’s breath away with their beauty. The Spires, made of ice, with some of them several hundred feet high shot out of the ground at the base of the mountains. Judging from the distance, they had to be as large as a small cottage, or more, across the base. The edges were jagged and they were nearly clear. They caught the morning sun and twinkled brightly. Nobody knew how they came to be. They just were.

  He took a deep breath and stretched his back, twisting from side to side and bending to touch his toes. Within minutes, he felt chilled to the bone and stepped deeper into the shelter and cast a spell to heat the chilled air.

  Mica watched him intently as he went about his business. Demons didn’t need to sleep. Rua’tor was still curled up in a ball under his cloak and was snoring loudly.

  Ja’tar sat down on the matt of needles, conjured up a small fire and watched it dance in the small pit he had made of stone. It was lifeless, but the illusion was sufficient to put his mind at ease and the heat it gave off quickly warmed the room. He spun his hand in a small circle and a large loaf of piping hot bread appeared in his palm. While he was at it, he conjured some cheese and some sausages, although he was certain that Rua’tor would have preferred biscuits and gravy. The very though made him long for Gretta’s home cooking, and he wondered if she had perished in the attack on the Keep.

  Ja’tar took a bite of the bread and tore off a hunk of sausage. Almost immediately he spit it out and rubbed his tongue on his sleeve. He wrinkled his nose and threw the sausage into the fire where it was quickly consumed. After rolling up his sleeves, he tried again, creating a sausage from thin air. He bit off a chunk and chewed—satisfied with his second attempt. Ja’tar was one of the few mages with the skill for conjuring food. His father had also had the gift. The skill was rare, and highly prized; it required the ability to weave hundreds of threads at once to duplicate the texture and flavor.

  Ja’tar turned his head in Mica’s direction as he sliced the cheese into even pieces and cubed the sausages into bite sized chunks. “So demon…what is your story?”

  Ja’tar’s request caught her by surprise; it was the first time he had addressed her directly other than giving orders and demands. Mica was not sure if she felt up to telling the mage the story of her pathetic life. She reclined and let her thin tunic outline her frame.

  Mica shrugged. “I was once interested in magic. Ha! I thought it would be grand to be a mage or a sorceress. But you know how these things go, I got impatient. I didn’t have the innate aptitude for it. So, I took shortcuts, made deals. Let’s just say that they turned out poorly.”

  Ja’tar nodded as he ripped another chunk of br
ead free and placed a slice of cheese across before taking a bite. “Betrayed?”

  Mica shook her head, “No…killed by a better mage.”

  Ja’tar raised a brow. “Anybody I would know.”

  “No, most likely not. Anyway, I was called to honor my deals.”

  “Deals?”

  Mica frowned, “…half my soul to be delivered upon my death for a lifetime of the powers.”

  “Ahh!” Ja’tar nodded.

  Her explanation explained a great deal. Ja’tar now understood why she seemed to have emotions other than anger and fear. Her half-soul was at conflict with the half that was controlled by her master.

  Mica pushed at the pine-needles with her foot and with a very quiet voice said, “I was a wizard for exactly one week before I was challenged by another and lost the contest. I was…overconfident.”

  Mica knew that was the truth. It was hard for her to admit, even after all of these years. She had been arrogant and full of herself. It made her a target…and easy prey.

  Ja’tar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took a swig of water. “Is that the entire story?”

  Mica pouted. “Not much else to tell. My new master had me attend the coven training in Darkhalla to become a sex slave. I suppose it could have been worse.”

  “Who is your master?”

  Mica hesitated. “Warvyn.”

  Ja’tar sat quiet and toyed with his roll and bit his tongue.

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “I am the Keeper,” he said. “I fought with the Ten at Ror. I have no master.”

  “I know…” she said, with a touch of awe in her voice. “You are famous in the halls of Darkhalla.”

  “Am I?” Ja’tar asked, a bit shocked.

  Mica smiled. “You are! I have heard that you were a god, were you not?”

  “Do gods walk amongst men?” Ja’tar asked, with bitterness in his voice.

  Mica shrugged. “But you said….”

  She changed her mind, “Anyway, that is what I heard.”

  Ja’tar nodded weakly. “I’d rather not talk about it…”