“Kayla! My god, you haven’t changed a bit since I last saw you,” he held her tight and kissed her on a we cheek.
Kayla sobbed deeply and held her uncle. “I have changed, uncle. I am not a little naive girl any longer. The demons have used me. I’m so ashamed.”
Zedd’aki patted her back, “That is of little consequence, dear one. You survived. That is all that matters.”
She pulled back and smiled into his wrinkled face. “Jayle is here too. She is in another cage.”
Zedd’aki’s eyes got wide. “How many others?”
“There are nine of us girls, although Cinnamon and Naomi have suffered damage.”
Zedd’aki’s eyes narrowed. Kayla broke into a deep cry.
“They were so young when we got here, barely of age. The demons, they…they…”
Zedd’aki hushed her. “I understand. You don’t have to say any more.”
“They raped us. Passed us around…it was horrible. They rotate through us—every time they come for us they get a different girl. You can’t prepare…”
Zedd’aki’s face paled as he pictured the horrors they must have faced. “I don’t think they will be coming anymore.”
Kayla nodded weakly. “You should see them…Cinnamon and Naomi—they are hollow, like empty seashells. I doubt they even know that they are still here. The demons… they still come for them.”
Zedd’aki nodded. “I think I have a plan to get us out of here.”
Menzzaren and Qu’entza moved closer. “How? We cannot do magic.”
Menzzaren shook the chain attached to his collar. “Cursed things.”
Zedd’aki’s face went serious. “I know this is going to be hard to believe, but Warvyn wants us to join forces to defeat the dark mage.”
Qu’entza’s face turned red and he swore, “Halla, Zedd’aki! You can’t trust the demons.”
Zedd’aki’s lips drew tight,” I’m afraid we don’t have much choice.”
Zedd’aki sat quietly and explained everything. Word quickly spread between the cages. And questions came from faces unseen.
Menzzaren paced the small cell. “Do you really think he is telling you the truth?”
Zedd’aki nodded, “I can’t see any reason he would lie. We are already here…and still alive.”
“We are…” Menzzaren nodded, “But many did not make it. I think most did not. I have not seen Hammergrip, Staven, Raven…Stargazer.”
Menzzaren choked up. “…P.p.piledriver…Zen…they’re all dead and gone.” He buried his head in his hands and wept, his breath coming in staggered gasps.
Zedd’aki’s eyes glazed over… “I see…” he whispered, setting his hand on the old mage’s back.
Menzzaren expression was forlorn, the pain written clearly across his face. “How can we trust him? Perhaps he is setting a trap for Ja’tar?”
“He doesn’t seem to carry as much animosity toward his brother as Ja’tar does toward him, besides, Warvyn knows he is no match for a god, and Ja’tar’s magic has returned.”
“So you believe him?”
“Much of what he says makes sense. I think that most of the demons would just as soon stay here and continue with their studies. And, he seems serious about not wanting the dark mage around. I get the feeling that she calls him and makes him do things he would rather not.”
Well,” Qu’entza replied. “I guess we would not be any worse off if we went along with the plan…for now!”
In a lower chamber Warvyn gathered his underlings and several demon lords he knew from previous encounters. They listened as he presented his plan.
Warvyn wasn’t sure if all the demons felt the way he did, but he knew that enough of them did that he could gather a substantial force. He looked to those he trusted, although trust was an unusual word to use here in the lower planes. Best he remembered that demons did not trust, they agreed to follow, or leave, not really caring which…until an opportunity presented itself. He knew he needed their cooperation. If his brother sensed betrayal on any level, he would torment them, and most likely wipe the better part of half of them from the pattern. The other demons may not recognize his position, but he knew better. He had witnessed his brother in action during Ror, destroying wave upon wave of demons and dark wizards. The Ten held no powers greater than his, and perhaps, he even held more. He had no personnel desire to fight a god!
“Am I hearing you?” the large black demon known as Darth asked. “You expect us to fight side-by-side with the wizards of the Keep against the dark one.”
Warvyn nodded. “I do, for one simple reason. I grow weary of being summoned. I am tired of fighting their battles. You should be too!”
Nods swept the room.
A demon in the back screeched, “How do we know they will keep their word.”
“My brother will keep his word. He is an honorable man.”
“Men can’t be trusted,” came a shout from the back.
“He is less man, and more a god,” Warvyn replied, silencing the room. “If he promises to deliver the book and not to summon demons...he will honor his commitment. Besides the dark one, he is the only one who knows the spells. Once we have the book, we are free.”
The room burst into murmurs as the demons talked amongst themselves.
“And what of our desires and pleasures?” a mottled demon shouted, rising from his seat.
Warvyn smiled. “The Master has always supplied us an endless supply of new toys. I do not think that will ever change. In the world of men, there are always those looking for shortcuts to power. That is one truth we can count on.”
The demon nodded and sat down, leaning to the demon next to him and chuckling. “He is right, that is how most of us got here!”
A shout came from the rear. “Can the dark one be defeated?”
Warvyn turned in the direction of the demon. “She must be, or we will be tormented by her for eternity. Need I remind you that she trains others? We will be serving them too, and they have no contract with the Master.”
“You didn’t answer the question…” the demon replied.
“She is not yet so strong. We have a window of opportunity. I count on her being overconfident and on the Master’s pull on her. She will begin making poor choices. We will capitalize on those choices.”
“And if we can’t win?”
Warvyn sighed, “Then we will serve her until the Master calls her to fulfill her contract.”
“How long will that be?”
“It could be years, or it could be centuries…” Warvyn said. “I cannot predict the Master’s will.”
“With the wizards gone, what plans would she make?”
“With the wizards gone, she will rule the world however she sees fit.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?”
Warvyn pondered the question. “Who do you think will do her dirty work?”
The demons around the room looked at each other and nodded. They knew truth when they heard it.
They had served the dark ones before.
Merl found himself on an altar, surrounded by two large pillars. The air was hot and dry and the land was barren. The ruins of a vast castle were off in the horizon. Within minutes of his arrival, he was surrounded by the ghosts of past battles—at least he assumed they were such.
He heard voices in his head, threatening him and telling him to leave.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“We are the Myths!” came the reply from the one with the shimmering robe and large crown. It held a sword that crackled with magical energy and it pointed it in his direction.
“Why must I leave?” he asked, but received no replies.
He took a short step off the altar and was met with blasts of magic from the sword. If not for his wards, he would have been seriously injured. He put his arms up and stepped backwards up to the dais. He had no reason to fight these creatures, whatever they were. This was not the place he was seeking.
He pressed the ring onc
e again into the dais and walked into the silver mist.
A Father’s Son
Three sharp raps rung out in the still air from the large oak door at the corner of his room. The king ignored them, turning his attention to the young maid he was riding with determination. He groaned and thrust deep, enjoying the touch of her velvety smooth skin. The other maid slept quietly in the same bed, worn out from their night of love making.
Three more raps came, louder this time.
The king ignored these too. He was close to climax and felt his body starting to quiver uncontrollably. “By the gods,” he moaned.
He wrapped his hands around her hair and pulled her head back as he bit her neck. She wrapped her legs tight about his waist and trust up to meet his growing urgency.
Three more raps echoed in the room.
He closed his eyes tightly, groaned, feeling his release and collapsed on the bed, rolling to his back. She rolled with him and straddled him, grinding her hips into his. He felt the young woman’s breath on his neck and sensed her desperate moves. He shuddered a second time, arching his back and rolled her off.
She sat up abruptly.
The door shook and there were three more sharp raps. “Just a fucking second,” he screamed as he stood up.
The blond eyed him, noticing the scars on his leg and across his back. He grabbed a robe and loosely wrapped it around himself as he walked angrily to the door and threw it open. “This had better be a matter of life and deat—”
“—It is,” Rule said, cutting him off as he pushed into the room.
Brighton followed in quick succession and went to a knee as soon as they entered. Rule stood tall, causing Marcus to growl.
“May I present warder Rule,” Brighton quietly said, while trying not to smile.
Rule studied the man. He looked like his father, strong of jaw, tall, brown hair to his shoulders. His eyes dark and hard, betrayed his age. The lines on his brow showed him to be in his thirties. Rule did not remember him as a child, although he had known his father Bryn well. Rule extended his hand, the dragon tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve.
Marcus’s eyes narrowed. He had never met a warder, but they were of legend. He had heard stories of Rule and his father. He knew of their work, although he doubted the stories of their prowess and purpose.
“Warder,” he nodded curtly, grasping his arm and finding a grip of iron.
“Sire,” Rule replied, lowering his eyes. “We need to talk.”
“And it couldn’t wait?” the king grumbled, reaching for the tie on his robe. He pulled it shut and hastily tied a knot.
“Not if you wish to stay king…” Rule replied cryptically.
Marcus didn’t like the tone of Rule’s voice and his head snapped up as he felt himself fill with rage. “Those are treasonous words ranger. What kind of dangerous game doth you play?”
“I play no game.” Rule stated flatly. “I bring news of eminent attack from your neighbor, clan Killoroy. His army marches to lay siege on your castle as we speak.”
“Killoroy? I doubt it.” Marcus scoffed. “The man has ambition, but he’s not stupid enough to throw the realms into war.”
“And yet he marches just south of here with over five-hundred men and war machines,” Rule added emphatically.
Marcus looked into the man’s eyes. He had never seen eyes that were so hard, like iron. The man’s unblinking eyes pierced him and let him know the seriousness of the conversation. He felt the truth of it to his core. Question was whether the warder knew the truth or was just another wanderer with an agenda.
“He marches where?”
Rule pointed out the window. “The archers follow the ridge to the north and the rest travel the mining road to your west. They were approaching the curves when I last saw them.”
“Do you have proof of this?” Marcus asked, narrowing his eyes.
Rule replied quickly, “I do. The clothes off a scout I killed, locations of the forces, and the time of the attack.”
Marcus stepped to the window and watched as the sun crested the horizon. The heat of summer was approaching, the days were still growing longer and the nights warmer. There was a light fog in the air. He knew that summer would be short this year. Fall approached, but it was still months off. Now was a good time to start a war…no matter which side of the wall one sat.
“If what you say rings true, then you will surely not mind if I send out scouts to verify the validity of what you are saying?”
“I do not. It is your kingdom. You have a right to ferret out the truth. Just don’t wait long. Time is of the essence”
The king didn’t move. “Brighton, go and get my scouts. You know the ones. Now! Bring them here while I speak to Rule about these accusations.”
Brighton bowed deeply and quickly left the room to hunt down the men as requested. At this time of day, they could be anywhere. Halla! He didn’t even know if they had spent the night in the castle. If they were in the castle, they’d need to eat. He decided to check the kitchen first.
Marcus turned and stared longingly at the bed where both girls were lounging, asleep…more or less covered. He took a deep breath. “So tell me warder, how is it that you know of this attack. We have seen no signs and I have scouts out every day.”
“I know. They are on the road and on either side of the glades.”
Marcus was taken back a bit.
“With regard to your question, my discovery was really by accident. I was in the area, heading north, and stumbled upon the force. I found it curious and I investigated.”
Marcus rubbed his chin. “You are positive they march with purpose here, to my castle?”
“I heard their general say so with his own lips. He was a tall thin man with a deep scar across his face from his cheek to his chin.”
Marcus raised a brow. “That would be Robert of Tressel.”
“I killed one of their scouts and took his place. Once in camp I overheard the commander giving orders. The commander, this Robert, spoke a bit louder than necessary. A shortcoming in my estimation—probably a deep seated need to feel of import.”
“Sit,” the king motioned as Brighton returned to the room.
Rule pulled out the chair and sat down. The king sat in the larger, ornate chair opposite him, his robe falling open. The man held no shame.
He turned to Brighton. “Do you know this man?”
Brighton nodded. “All of my life.”
The answer seemed a bit curious to Marcus. “All?”
Brighton’s lips tightened. He looked to Rule. Rule nodded. “It is okay, you can speak freely.”
Rule’s command confused the king.
Brighton spoke up, “Yes, since your father’s rule. I played with him as a child.”
“Yet I have not met this man prior?”
Brighton thought long on how to answer. “You met him as a lad at the summer games. I believe it was his white mare that caught your attention.”
Marcus recalled the day, but couldn’t reconcile to himself the possibility. “That was over thirty summers ago…”
Brighton agreed.
“But this man appears to be but thirty. Are you sure this is the same man?”
“He is older than I, sire. A warder does not age as a man, but as an elf.”
“Elf?” Marcus knew the lore of the elves, but denied their existence. He snorted and rolled his eyes. He turned his attention to the warder. “My Hand speaks of stories from long ago and of lore long forgot. I am hesitant to believe in the stuff of bard tales.”
“Even the bard drew their inspiration from real events…” Rule commented.
Marcus’s face went serious and he bluntly asked, “Is what my Hand says true?”
“Tis true,” Rule nodded. “I can prove it so.”
Brighton got a worried look on his face.
Rule pulled his long-knife free. Marcus took two steps back and reached for his sword, grasping at the air at his waist. Rule slid the blade across
his palm, cutting it wide open. He braced for the pain and ground his teeth together as his blood dripped to the floor when he showed the king the deep slash. His knees trembled and his forehead became wet with perspiration as the ancient magic activated.
The king’s jaw fell open as he watched. Rule make a fist and concentrated. The pain which had washed over him began to subside in a matter of heartbeats. He slowly opened his blood-covered hand and showed it palm up to the king. New scar tissue had already begun to form over the wound and the king could see the skin knitting together while he watched.
“I’ll be damned!” the King uttered in amazement, taking the hand in his and examining it closely. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
Rule wiped the bead of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve as his breathing returned to normal. “As you can see, being a warder has its advantages.”
Brighton had wet a rag with water from a jug that was on the king’s table and tossed it to his friend to use to clean his wound. Rule wiped his hand clean and flexed the wound, which was practically healed. The cost was not so high for this wound; he would need to eat more frequently and sleep a few more hours over the next few days. A severe wound could put a man in the bed for a week and give him the appetite of five men! He recalled many such times when he had cursed the elves for their blessing.
Marcus sighed heavily. “I have heard that a warder’s word is honorable, so as much as I am hesitant to trust you, I must accept your word as true. If what you say is indeed transpiring—how much time do I have to prepare?”
“In my estimation, one day, maybe a few hours more. They plan the attack for the morrow’s eve, daybreak the following day at the latest. The commander is riding his men hard, but I do not think they can sustain the pace all day. The steep hills will cause them grief. Much will depend on whether they wait for the arrival of all troops, the ram, and the trebuchet prior to starting their assault. I would not.”
“That doesn’t give me much time.”
Rule shook his head. “Maybe time just enough to lock down your keep. I assume they will siege the castle if they cannot gain entry. That is how I would prepare. Fall is approaching. It is colder in tents in the open than it is in a warm keep. A long siege can be demoralizing.”
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla Page 29