The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla

by Scott D. Muller

  Within the hour, word had spread throughout the keep to prepare for war. The town-crier stood atop the gallows and read the decree, shouting it out at the top of his lungs. Well over three hundred had gathered to hear the words. The rest already knew and were busy doing their assigned tasks. Women pulled their children close and hurried to get them to safety. None of them knew war. It had been quiet since the treaty…but they had heard stories.

  Casey, the seventeen year old guard of the gate from the small hamlet of Dimbleweed was going to war. He swallowed hard and tried to be brave. He worried about his kin. Their small enclave was only a couple leagues away. They only had fifteen people in the hamlet—three extended families. Most were young children and women. Heaven be helping them. Casey cursed as he muttered. Them folks didn’t know fightin’, they was farmers. What good would hoes and picks do against crossbows and swords? He prayed they would have enough common sense to run and hide, but he knew they wouldn’t. They was proud folk—they would die bein’ proud too!

  The commanders and lieutenants prepared the king’s army. With less than a day to get their work done, there would be no rest tonight. The blacksmith made sure he had enough supplies to do repairs and make weapons. The archers checked their bows and made new arrows and bolts, the carpenters made shields, pavice and covers for the alleys in the keep, and the many cooks moved the food stores deeper into the keep. Every soldier waited their turn to work the wheel to sharpen their blades. The women collected towels and rags to use to dress the wounds that were sure to come, while the children worked the buckets in the wells, filling barrels with water to be used to put out fires.

  It was approaching nightfall when Marcus finally walked the inner grounds of the keep. The people needed to see him! He checked the wood piles, covered with dirt to keep from catching fire. They would need enough to get them through winter. If need be, they would not heat the castle—only the sleeping quarters. They had a supply of the black rock, coal, which burned hotter than the blazes, but he needed it to form iron. He would use it for heat as a last resort.

  They would use the same fires to cook. There were several-hundred head of cattle on the grounds, but they consumed much in the way of grass and hay. They would have to slaughter them if the siege lasted long and cure the meat. They had plenty of salt with which to do so, and they could slow smoke the remainder.

  Until then, they would need to be protected from the arrows shot from the mountain that was behind the keep. He hoped that his brothers would be able to help him there. If they could slowly whittle down the number of archers, maybe they stood a chance. The stables where the horses were kept were vulnerable, so he had ordered some of the farmers to shovel dirt up to protect the wood roofs from fire that would most assuredly rain from above.

  They sweat as they hefted bucket after bucket of moist soil and threw it across the timbers until they were covered several inches deep. The stable boy looked up from inside at the sagging and groaning beams. He hoped they would hold. Carpenters rushed, cutting bracing from a dried stack of logs, which they wedged under the sagging beams and boards. They hastily split the logs with their axes and wedges and then roughly honed them with their adzs. The smithy was busy spinning his stone, keeping the tools sharp. He frowned. Time was short.

  Warder Rule sat atop a cliff several miles away and watched the encroaching army march without torches. He felt a little guilty for leaving his friend, but he knew he was needed elsewhere. He had heard that the town of Three Rivers was being attacked by demons and beasts. He pulled on the reins and headed into the mountains, winding his way along goat paths that only he knew.

  Solgar used the scroll that his master had prepared for him to call up the hundred mudlings. They oozed out of the ground as he finished the incantation and formed into large soldiers made of dirt. The dirt swirled as they formed beneath his feet. He stood still and proud looking over the army they had created. He hoped that this would convince the Hand of the king that the battle would fall in their favor.

  Hastings walked into the courtyard and turned pale when he saw the unearthly sight before him. He had suspected that Quinn knew magic, but after seeing the earth creatures, he knew that her magic was far stronger than he had initially surmised. This rivaled the unbelievable stories sung by the bards in the late of night, in inns where libation and revelry were frequent patrons. He had never believed the stories…until now. Now, they made him wonder because the stories—if taken literally—were horrifying beyond comprehension. He swallowed hard—trying to decide if it were truly better to be on the side of this queen, or not.

  The display did nothing to dissuade him from his initial analysis of the battle plan, it just served to make him wary of the end game.

  He asked himself the question why would someone with this kind of power at their command choose his lord to be their mate and why would they need his army to attack his neighbor. The answers he came up with did nothing to calm his already frazzled nerves.

  Solgar stepped up next to Hastings. “Well, what do you think?”

  “They are quite amazing,” Hastings agreed, hiding both his emotions and his nervousness. “Can they fight.”

  Solgar nodded. “They follow orders…”

  Hastings circled the nearest and held out his hand to touch the creature, but stopped before contact and faced Solgar. “Is it safe…I mean to touch?”

  “Yes, they will not harm you.” Solgar reassuringly said.

  Hastings touched the creature and quickly pulled his hand back. It felt wrong, evil, and cold to the touch. His hand had passed through the waist of the creature, if only by an inch or two, but it might as well been a foot or more.

  “Would you like to see them fight?”

  Hastings swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Take your blade and order one to spar with you.”

  Hastings hesitantly pulled his blade free of its sheath and walked in front of the first mudling in the line. “Spar with me,” he ordered.

  The mudling walked to the blade holder and chose a weapon. It returned and took up position. Hastings stared into the space where eyes should have been, except there were no eyes. No eyes, no mouth and no nose, only the rough appearance of a deformed face.

  Hastings attacked. The creature countered clumsily. He felt his sword pass through the creature’s stomach and the creature kept on the attack. The creature swung causing Hastings to tuck his shoulder and roll out of the way. He blocked the next parry and felt his blade shudder as it contacted steel. It sent shockwaves down his arms as the steel rang out. He lunged forward, finding opportunity and shoved his blade deep into the creatures gut. The creature didn’t even slow down. He was too close and his momentum carried him forward. He felt himself fall through the creature and roll to the ground on the other side. The experience almost made him retch as he felt the vile magic pass around him.

  The creature didn’t even turn around. It seemed to almost turn inside out and was instantly facing him again, its blade ready to attack. Hastings began to sweat. He knew he could not defeat this creature. It was magical in nature. He lowered his weapon just as the creature swung for his head. The blade sopped but inches from his throat before it fell clattering to the ground. The creature stood dead still for a second before it dropped its arms to its sides and took a step back.

  Hastings was sweating and his hands were shaking. He could have sworn that the mudling had grinned at him. Maybe it was his imagination playing tricks on him. But what if it wasn’t?

  “Well, what do you think?” Solgar asked, eager to hear his opinion of his creations.

  Hastings forced a smile. “What an amazing opponent. Surely we cannot loose with these on our side.”

  “My thoughts exactly!” Solgar slapped the man on his back. “These are yours to command. The king wants you to lead them to Jonovan’s castle and make sure the battle goes as planned. They will follow your every order to the letter, so speak carefully.”

  Hasting scanned the hundre
d magical warriors. They were impressive—this much was true—but these didn’t think. He didn’t know if they would prove to be an advantage or not. What he did know was that they could not be killed—at least not by mortal men.

  Lord Killoroy watched from his tower and smiled to himself. The display of the mudlings was impressive. “You are right,” he said, turning toward Quinn. “They are a fearsome opponent. I’m sure they will terrify our opponents.”

  Killoroy turned back to the window and watched intently as the mudlings marched toward the gate. They undulated and sunk into the ground and then rose up again. The soil at their feet boiled. He could see their shape shifting. It was like watching clay under an artist’s hand being formed and then reformed. He was mesmerized.

  Quinn stepped silently from the bed and let the sheet fall to the ground. She stepped up behind Killoroy and wrapped a lean leg around him, sliding her hand down inside his pants.

  He lost focus, filled with lust and turned to embrace her as she pulled his clothes down, dropping to her knees. He threw his head back and felt her warm lips. He shuddered with delight. His eyes were closed and he didn’t see her evil smile or see her fangs grow and then shrink back. She continued to tease him for a few minutes before she stood and led him to the bed. She bent over, exposing her firm round ass and pulled a knee up on the mattress. She arched her back and demanded that he enter her, a command he was more than happy to comply with.

  A Step at a Time

  Bal’kor woke with a start. His eyes were blurred, almost blind from staring at the snow in the bright sun during the day. Then he remembered that it had been dusk when he had needed to rest. He let his head fall back to the ground and sighed with relief.

  He had no idea what time it was, how long he had rested, or if it were still the same day. It was night and he was surprised to be alive. He tried to move, but was met with aches, numbness, and stiffness.

  Knowing he had to get his circulation back, he forced himself to move, as best he could, in the confined space under the tree. He couldn’t feel his numb hands or toes, his nose was frozen and his ears were like ice. He held his rag-wrapped hands to his face and blew warm raspy air on them—after several minutes, he felt them beginning to thaw. They burned, as if on fire, as the numbness retreated.

  Disoriented and confused on which way to go, or where he was, he pushed at the branches that were just inches above his face. Slowly, he recalled that he had crawled under the shrub to gain protection from the biting wind. The clothes on the side he was laying on were wet and quickly froze once exposed to the cold night air.

  He struggled, trying to gain his feet as he climbed out of the shallow depression. His body was stiff, and responded poorly to his commands. To top it off, he was laying at an awkward angle, which defied his attempts to right himself. He shook and shivered uncontrollably as his teeth chattered and his limbs flailed.

  He managed to sit, popping his head out from under the scraggly shrub. He took a look around, trying to see in the dark. If the sky cleared, he may be able to see by the moonlight, but the sky was a deep dull-gray and threatening clouds swirled and raced, blocking all attempts by the moon to light the landscape.

  Any heat from the day was long gone and the cold mountain air burned his lungs. His breath came in raspy gasps, as the vapor froze in the wind and attached itself to the stubble of his scraggly beard. His lips were cracked and bleeding. He needed water! A coughing spell grabbed hold and he bent over on hands and knees. Bal’kor coughed nonstop until he collapsed, feeling as if his lungs were on fire. He rolled to one side and wiped a hand across his mouth, fully expecting to find blood.

  Whether the coughing subsided due to exhaustion or from numbness of the cold, he didn’t know. Bal’kor pushed himself up and rested on his hands and knees until his breathing returned to normal. He reached down and grabbed his small pack and yanked it free from the grip of the branches, sending himself tumbling backwards. A growl escaped his lips and he steeled himself.

  He knew he had to get moving—or he was going to freeze to death. It took him what seemed an eternity to get to his feet; he kept toppling over, which just made him all the more determined. He remembered his water-skin and searched for it. Luckily, it wasn’t completely frozen and he took several big gulps of icy water. It caused him to shiver and spasm. He was lucky that the water was cold, it masked the horrible taste. Even though he had previously rinsed the wine-skin out several times, the rancor of its previous contents had permeated into the leather. He had no idea how long it had sat in the high mountain cave prior to discovery.

  He forced himself to swallow and fought the urge to purge the offending liquid. After tucking the skin away, he stood—such that it was... It was such a small victory, but it gave him hope. He guffawed at his predicament.

  His body swayed, as he fought to find his center, trying to keep from toppling over. Some adventurer he was! The first step he took broke through the icy-crust of the snow, sinking him to his knee and pitching him awkwardly forward.

  He leaned heavily on the spear with both hands and took another step up out of the depression, which surrounded the low, wide-growing shrub. The second step also broke through the snow and the sound of cracking ice echoed softly in the still mountain air. He had to use his arm to lift his leg high enough to pull it free of the snow and take another step. He cursed because his small pack kept sliding down off his shoulder and getting in the way.

  He raised his hand to his eyes, but couldn’t see through the swirling snow. Fortunately, he could feel that the direction he was headed was downslope. The wind gusted and howled in his ears. He pulled the hood of the cloak tight about his head. One step at a time, he thought to himself as he trudged, dragging his small pack across the snow. Weak from lack of nourishment and exhausted, he headed in the direction of least resistance.

  Time passed and the effort of walking eventually warmed him…a little. He still couldn’t feel his toes, even after stomping his feet and curling his toes. He would welcome the burning sensation, at least then he would know that he wouldn’t lose his toes when they thawed out—if they thawed out!

  The lay of the land changed abruptly on him and he found himself headed uphill. Bal’kor squinted in the dark, trying to make out the unfamiliar shapes that cast nothing but dark shadows. A break in the clouds allowed him a brief glance at the small rock-covered rise ahead—it might as well have been a mountain. Bal’kor collapsed and fell to his knees and wept dry tears. A voice in his head said, “Move!

  “But I can’t!”

  “You must…or you will die.”

  “I’m so..c..cold.”

  “I know, but you must keep moving, son.”

  Bal’kor nodded, ground his teeth and crawled; his rag-wrapped hands…were raw, and his nearly-frozen body…wracked with pain. He crawled inch by inch up the rise. First, he pushed his spear ahead. Next, he dragged his pack to his side. He moved one knee, and then the other. Methodically, he repeated those simple steps over and over. He didn’t know how long it took him to gain the rise, he had lost track of all time.

  He crested the top, pushed himself to his feet from all fours and looked out over the silver-gray vista that was just barely illuminated by the moon.

  A stiff wind gusted down the slope and caught him off-guard. He threw his hands out to his side just before he toppled and smacked the ground with a dull thud. The hill was unexpectedly steep and he began to roll. As his speed built, he felt himself being tossed into the air. He landed roughly on a hard object, and felt the air shoved from his lungs. He let out a pain-filled woof as the impact made his ribs ache. As he tried to take his next breath—he almost lost consciousness. Bal’kor rolled to the bottom of the hill and didn’t move; he just laid still, face down, feeling every ache and pain, taking shallow breaths. He resigned himself to the fact that he was going to die somewhere on this god-forsaken mountain.

  He rolled to his side and stared off into the distance, trying to get his bearings. All
he saw were dark, dancing shadows. Fear filled his face and he patted the snow, looking for his staff and pack. Relief caused him to sigh when he found them near his side. Lucky for him he kept a grip on them as he had tumbled—although he didn’t recall doing such.

  The Ocht’or moon broke through the clouds and for a brief instant lit the sky with its dull-orange color, he could just make out the shadows of the tree-line in the distance. Bal’kor considered himself fortunate that there wasn’t a storm, even though the sky was threatening…or worse yet—a crystal clear night. A clear night would have brought the frigid cold. A clear night in the mountains could drop the temperature so low, it couldn’t snow. He was sure that he would have frozen to death. The clouds kept in what little heat was left from the day.

  The forest was still out of sight, somewhere below the tree-line. He wondered if he could make it. For now, he aimed for the twisted shrubs in the distance.

  Leaning heavily on his staff, he put one foot in front of the other. He scolded himself when his mind wandered. Concentrate you fool, he swore. Concentrate on just making one more step. As he walked, the stiffness faded, and although he was in excruciating pain and cold beyond his understanding, he continued. Pain was his friend. If he felt pain, he knew he wasn’t dead.

  Tears fill his sullen eyes and froze as they roll down his cheeks. Bal’kor reflected on how stupid and weak he was. His anger grew. He was furious at himself for getting in this situation. It seems there was very little he ever did right. He was a fiasco, a debacle not worthy of his heritage.

  The journey took him longer than expected. In the high country, distances are deceiving. The wind picked up, causing him to clutch his cloak tightly and bare his chattering teeth. The smell of fresh snow was in the air and before too long, the clouds broke free, rolling over the tops of the peaks obscuring the moon—and the flakes begin to fall.