Ja’tar leaned over and gave the female tigear a small tap on the side of her head and she sprang into a run. Ja’tar looked back over his shoulder and laughed. Rua’tor’s face was white as a sheet and he was holding on with both hands screaming bloody murder. He bounced unnaturally and was going to be very sore by the time they stopped. Ja’tar felt the muscles of the tigear flex and he matched its motion. He had been adequate on a horse; it was coming in handy.
Ja’tar tucked his chin down and pulled his cloak snug to his body. The ice-cold wind cut like a knife. His fingers were already going numb, forcing him to alter his warmth spell. There was just so much he could do. The magic wasn’t suited to this; it didn’t like the variations.
They leapt over crevasses and large blocks of ice. Ja’tar watched as the mountains got closer.
Ja’tar heard the ice crack and snap, even with the weight distributed across the large soft paws of the tigears. What the dragons had told him was true, the ice was very unstable. Given how cold it was, the ice should have been thick as a man was tall. Ja’tar wondered what caused the instability.
Before long, he could see the entrance to the dragon’s lair perched high above the ice on a sheer cliff. He had no idea how he was going to gain purchase.
After several hours of riding, they reached the base of the mountain. Ja’tar let himself down off of the beast’s back and helped Mica down. They stood staring up the wall of what could only be called a fortress. The entrance to the cave was above them; far above them. Rua’tor came up behind them and followed their eyes to the cave.
“How the halla are we going to get up there?” he asked.
Ja’tar rubbed his chin. “I have no idea…”
Rua’tor’s mouth cocked sideways, “Haven’t you been here before?”
“I have, but the dragons helped us to the cave. We flew on their backs.”
Rua’tor grunted. “Well, that’s not likely to happen today, now is it?”
Ja’tar ignored the comment and continued to examine the wall. The rock was certainly climbable—although not by him. It was covered with ice, which he could definitely melt off if need be. He thought about using the trick he and Zedd’aki had used in the tower, growing rock. He was stronger now, it shouldn’t take nearly as long as it did last time.
The sun was starting to set. It had taken them the better part of the day to cross the ice-flow, even with the help to the tigears. He didn’t relish spending another sleepless night in a snow cave. The temperature was beginning to drop as the sun had passed behind the mountains. They were in the shadows now. With the thin air and the cloudless night, he knew it was going to get cold; the kind of bone-chilling cold that would kill a man caught out in the open without proper clothes and shelter.
“I can help,” Mica said, out of nowhere.
Ja’tar’s head snapped around and he eyed her warily.
“I can fly up there and take a rope. You can climb.”
“And where are we supposed to get a rope?” Rua’tor spat.
Mica looked at him with a blank expression.
Ja’tar rolled his eyes and suppressed a cackle, nearly blowing snot out his nose. “Well, we are supposedly wizards…”
Now it was Rua’tor’s turn to stare blankly. He turned red-faced and swore out loud, cursing some imaginary foe.
Ja’tar wove his spell and a large coil of rope appeared at their feet. He tied one end to Mica and leaned over to speak in her ear. “I warn you…do not try to escape. The effects will be most unpleasant.”
She nodded and shrugged. “I am your servant.”
Ja’tar condescended. “Of course you are…”
She pulled her top low, exposing her firm breasts. “I’m yours!” She fluttered her eyes.
“Do you have to do that?” Rua’tor asked, turning his gaze away, feeling a stirring he knew he shouldn’t.
She nodded innocently. “I can’t grow wings through the material.”
“Get on with it, then!” he grumbled, all the while staring off into the distance, but sneaking peeks.
Wizards are such strange men, she thought to herself. She closed her eyes and soon, wings grew from her back. At first they were just short nubs, but they quickly thickened and grew longer. She spread them and flexed them as the skin between the ribs thickened. They were longer than she was tall, and they splayed out across the snow. She looked quite striking. She jumped into the air and pumped them hard. It only took her seconds to get to the ledge. She let the wings shrink back into her back.
She untied the rope and found a very large rock to tie it around. She checked the knot, wondering if it would hold. She wasn’t an expert at these things. Just to be sure, she tied another two overhand knots at the end and stood back to admire her work. It was sloppy, but it would hold. It better hold. She was most certain that if something happened to Ja’tar, she would not be teleported back to the planes. He would make sure of that. Of this she was certain!
She walked to the edge and shouted down to the rest of the party. “I’m ready! You can climb now!”
Ja’tar stepped to the rope, gave it a tug to make sure it was taunt and then leaned his whole weight on it, hanging just inches off the ground. He didn’t trust Mica. After checking to make sure his staff was secured to his pack, he reached as high as he could and jumped up, quickly sliding back to the ground.
“This should be interesting,” Rua’tor snidely remarked.
Ja’tar turned to face his friend. “Not a word!”
Rua’tor got a very hurt expression on his face and he innocently motioned to himself and mouthed the words, me?
Ja’tar growled, “Yes, you!”
He grabbed the rope with both hands and hoisted himself up off of the ground. He quickly felt the strain on his shoulders. He wrapped the rope around his leg and shimmied up a couple of feet. Reality set in and he knew he would never make the cliff using this technique. He stopped climbing and thought this through. An idea hit him and he cast a small spell to dry the rock adjacent to where he climbed.
He lifted his foot and set it on the rough surface of the cliff where he had just dried the rock. He found good footing and took some weight off his already aching arms. Stepping up with his other foot, he pulled hard on the rope and smiled to himself. He was now almost ten feet off the ground. He found his balance and chanced wiping the sweat from his brow. His hands were cold and he wondered how far below freezing the temperature was—not that it mattered much. After taking another deep breath, and watching the fog form in front of his face as he exhaled, he decided it was best not to ponder these things on the side of a cliff.
After ten minutes had passed, he reached the ledge and threw his leg over while still holding on dearly to the rope. He pulled himself across the rock until he could stand. He stepped cautiously to the ledge and waved down at his friend.
After he untied the rope and threw it down to Rua’tor, he waited for him to climb. After several minutes had passed, he peered over the edge and saw that his friend had not made much progress.
“What’s the problem?” he shouted down.
“Problem?” Rua’tor yelled back. “Why, I’m old, fat, and out of shape. Other than that…I’m bloody fine!”
Rua’tor couldn’t believe Ja’tar had asked such a stupid question. Really? He should just let himself back to the ground and spend the night in a nice snow-cave.
He turned up into the intense gaze of his friend. “Maybe I’ll just wait down here!”
“You’ll miss the dragons,” Ja’tar taunted.
Mica turned to Ja’tar. “Why don’t you just pull him up.”
Ja’tar grinned. “Of course I will pull him up. But what fun is that if he doesn’t beg for it?”
Mica was shocked at his comment. “You are a very twisted man. I..I like you!”
Ja’tar snorted. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“I am here to serve,” she replied, bowing and licking her lips.
Ja’tar rolled his eyes,
grabbed the rope and pulled with all his might. The rope didn’t move.
He bent over the ledge. “You are a very formidable man!”
“You mean I am fat…” Rua’tor shouted back.
“Yes! You are fat. Now help. Use your feet.”
Rua’tor swore. He cursed, using every word in his vocabulary. Ja’tar used a well-anchored rock for leverage and Mica pitched in to help. She was surprisingly strong.
They pulled on the rope together, straining their backs. Inch by inch, they gained as Rua’tor took a more active role and began using his feet to help. Every foot or so, they were forced to wrap the rope around the rock and rest. Ja’tar’s palms were red and swollen. Working together, they managed to get the rotund mage to the ledge, however, it took them almost three times as long as it took Ja’tar to climb.
The sun had already set and the nighttime wind was starting to howl as the cold air sank into the valleys from the high peaks. The exhausted wizards huddled together, surveying their surroundings and making note of where they stashed the rope. They quickly hunkered-down, treading deeper into the entrance, sheltering themselves from the icy blasts of sleet and snow from an encroaching storm that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.
“We’re lucky we made it,” Rua’tor commented. “Good thing you called up those tigears.”
Ja’tar nodded. “It looks like it is going to be a rough night for anything out on the plains.”
Toulereau and Sheila stood on the wall in the tall guardhouse staring out across the fields as the sun set. The night breeze blew in her face.
“The night doesn’t smell right,” she mentioned.
Toulereau sniffed.
The air was stale and heavy. Sheila was right.
“I’m worried,” Sheila said. “It has taken them longer than it should.”
“There!” someone shouted and pointed toward the hills.
Sheila strained her eyes and spotted two men riding quickly in their direction. “Dra’kor and Men’ak?”
Toulereau squinted. “No. One is Brag. I don’t recognize the other.”
“You think he sent them ahead?”
“I suspect so, but why?”
The men were closer now. They road at a full gallop and their horses were lathered and panting.
“Open the gate,” Toulereau hollered.
Merl found himself sliding. It was a curious feeling. He stopped and looked out. More snow. He stepped out of the cave that was barely lit by the last rays of the sun as it set in this world of ice. He turned full-circle and saw nothing but more of the same. In the distance he saw tall ice spires. At his feet he saw the remains of a fire and some footprints, but the coals were cold and the prints were windblown. This was not the Keep either.
Merl sighed, made his notes in his notebook and memorized the next three symbols. He pressed the ring to the altar and waited as the mist gathered. He tapped the three symbols and stepped back into the gate.
Lair
Ja’tar didn’t wait for Rua’tor to catch his breath. He turned and purposefully strode off down the long passageway that he knew led to the gathering chamber. A wall of magic, spun by the dragons, assaulted him before he could get three paces into the cave.
It pressed against him and filled him with such impending dread that he practically froze with fear. His head was filled with thoughts of futility and helplessness. Baring his teeth, he started his own set of weaves to counter the ill effects. The Guardians and the Elders were doing everything in their power to make his journey difficult; although irritated, he had to admire their prowess in magic. He cursed himself for walking in blindly without any wards prepared. He was out of practice and had grown sloth over the years. If he wasn’t vigilant, he would soon find himself dead, or worse.
He turned and glanced over his shoulder at his companions who were on their knees, cowering—eyes filled with tears. Even Mica was afraid, clutching at Rua’tor’s robe, and hiding behind his large frame. Her wide lamp-black eyes darted around, warily looking for assailants. She was sure they were just around the unseen corners—hiding behind rock outcroppings—waiting to slay them all.
Ja’tar retreated and extended his hand to his friend. “They are attacking your mind. You need to weave your own wards.”
Rua’tor nodded weakly as he stared at his friend, eyes filled with tears. But his hands just wouldn’t move. He held them before his eyes and all they did was tremble and shake.
Ja’tar grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his feet. He pressed his face just inches from his ear and yelled, “Cast your wards now! Focus!”
The yelling snapped Rua’tor out of his fear just long enough for the message to sink in. Rua’tor managed to cast a single simple ward. He felt his sense of doom shrink minutely as it settled into place. Buoyed by this trifling success, he cast another. Ja’tar saw the relief spread across his face as the lines on his forehead lessened and his brows relaxed. Convinced that Rua’tor had regained control, Ja’tar turned his attention to the more pressing matter of getting into the lair.
“Now, we need to get to the central chamber,” Ja’tar said, motioning down the tunnel. “This conduit will lead us into the chambers of the elders. I expect that they will meet us there…if anywhere.”
Mica was still cowering, crouched in a ball with her hands over her face. She fought, but eventually let Ja’tar help her to her feet. He almost screamed out in pain as she grabbed his hands with such force he was sure she had broken his fingers. It took three-heavy handed swats across her wrists to get her to let go. She barely seemed cognizant of what was happening around her. Her face contorted and she struggled against Ja’tar as if possessed as he attempted to place his hands on her head to cast his spells. It took far too long before he saw her eyes calm and her body relax. She looked up at him with adoration.
“Come,” he ordered, ignoring her obvious overplayed gratitude.
The group started heading down the tunnel, pushing against the waves of energy and air that markedly slowed their progress. Ja’tar wove spells around the group and pushed back against the dragons’ walls of magic. They were barely moving, having to fight for every inch. He could readily see the weaves, but they were impossible to untangle. The dragons were teaming up and shifting the spells as quickly as he could ferret them out and neutralize them.
“It’s like pushing a wall,” Rua’tor grumbled as he wiped the sweat from his brow. As he used his hands to drag his leg one step further from the entrance.
“Yes, they wish us to leave,” Ja’tar said. “I thought they would give up once we reached the ledge. Apparently, they wish to make a point.”
“Apparently…” Rua’tor echoed. “I thought you said you understood dragons?”
Ja’tar chortled. “Nobody understands dragons.”
“At this rate we will never gain entry to the chamber. I can barely move—even with all of my wards.”
“Perhaps I should leave you here and continue on myself.”
Rua’tor looked at Ja’tar, gauging the seriousness of the reply. “If you think you can make it, perhaps you should.”
Ja’tar nodded curtly and released his spell that covered the entire group. “I will return as soon as possible.”
Rua’tor felt the wall hit him. He wasn’t going anywhere, so he settled down on the ground with Mica and began to patiently wait. He watched as Ja’tar took step after step, and soon disappeared from sight around a bend in the tunnel.
A wave of smells filled his nose, dragon musk, wet rock, and the smell of decayed carcasses. Ja’tar eyes watered and he tried not to breathe in through his nose, and instead, use only his mouth. The smell was overpowering.
Ja’tar pursed his lips and struggled to take another step down the warren. He wove his own set of spells and pushed them in the direction he wished to go, watching as the two forces faced off. He was grasping his staff with both hands and held it in front of him, letting it take the brunt of the onslaught. Another step was taken, f
ollowed by another.
The path divided. One tunnel went up, the other descended. Ja’tar could not remember which he should choose. He stood pondering, hoping he would be able to recall. He cast a globe of light and sent it traveling each of the paths. For as far as his eyes could see, there was nothing remarkable about either side.
It was of no avail. He could not remember the way. For lack of a clear choice, he chose down, and made his way along that path. After several steps, it felt to him as though the going was just a tad too easy. Trap! He stopped and turned around. His path was suddenly difficult; much more difficult than it had been when he descended. He grinned to himself.
When he finally gained position back to where the trail divided, he turned up the other path and continued his journey, once again having to fight the bellicose mental and physical assault. He fought off the feeling that his skin was melting from his body, that the rock was dissolving under his feet, and that he was being attacked by demons. With each step he took, a new and stronger magic was faced. His brow was damp with perspiration and his clothes stuck to him as he alternated between absolute fear and exertion.
Finally, he had mentally had enough. Mad as halla, and unwilling to suffer any longer, he spun his arms and yelled out at the top of his lungs as he discharged the magic down the tunnel from the end of his staff. Ja’tar’s mouth contorted with rage as he swirled his staff in intricate patterns spun instinctively. The staff’s eye glowed menacingly and tracks of pure magic energy crackled up the trail. The smoke cleared and the room was silent. Everything was silent.
Ja’tar wiped his brow with his sleeve and stood panting in the grotto. He held his hands out, letting thin magic feelers explore the path in front of him. They crawled like webs of a spider in all directions, constantly sending him sensations that could be interpreted—if one knew how. He found nothing and took several steps before he tried once again. Little by little he inched up the tunnel toward the cavern he knew.
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla Page 20