The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla

by Scott D. Muller

  The snow came down slowly at first and quickly picked up in intensity. Soon, he could barely make out the tree line as the snow swirled in the wind and bit into his exposed skin. The shortened shrubs he was walking through provided very little protection from its icy sting. He tried to console himself with platitudes—at least he made it to the tree line. The roots of the twisted trees grabbed at his ankles and the uneven rocky slope made him a stumbling drunk. More than once he went to a knee and had thrown his hands up to protect his face from smashing into the rocks and ice.

  Head down and determined, he steeled his jaw and trudged on. He found that he had to watch his feet as he walked to keep from falling. A smile crossed his face when he noticed the tops of some long dry grass poking up through the snow in patches and remembering stories told by his mother, he bent over grabbing handfuls of it, ripping it from the ground. Bal’kor stuffed it into his pants and jacket to provide some insulation from the cold. It was frozen and cold and rubbed his raw legs. It itched and pricked him on his chest and legs, but it is better to put up with the irritations than to die. He clamored from clump to clump, gathering as much as he could. All of the bending and pulling helped him to warm up. And, the dried grass helped keep his body heat in.

  “I didn’t think you were paying attention!” came a familiar voice.

  Bal’kor roared, shaking his head in disbelief! So, he laughed to himself, the stories of his youth actually had a purpose and held wisdom. He had never given them a second thought, and had thought they were just good entertainment while he was growing up. He reflected on some of the other stories he remembered.

  “Thanks, mother,” he whispered.

  “You are welcome, son!” came a quiet voice.

  His system was so drained of energy, that even the added insulation didn’t really help as much as he hoped, but it did get the wet, frozen material of his leggings off his chapped and raw skin. Still, he was shaking and trembling uncontrollably. His head ached, his mouth was dry, and his vision blurred. He pulled out his water-skin and took another drink. It was foul and he was forced to spit it out, not wanting to tempt getting sick. He reached down and scooped a handful of snow and stuffed it into his mouth. It provided little moisture and only chilled him further.

  Finally, the trees began to cluster and stretch toward the sky. He had reached the edge of the forest at the tree-line, the magical line drawn by the gods, above which trees and the like cannot grow. In a matter of yards, the trees had gone from tortured waist-high shrubs to reaching well over his head. They were still twisted from the harsh winds and stunted from the short growing season of the tundra, but they were getting taller. As he moved deeper into the woods, the trees continue to get larger, more densely packed and less disfigured. Bal’kor lurched along like one of the town lepers. He was frantic to escape the howling wind and the blinding snow, which had picked up in intensity as the storm descended from the peaks.

  The shelter of the trees afforded at least nominal protection from the elements. The boreal forest and rain forest mix was interesting, and if he been more lucid, he would have enjoyed the trip. Brink would have scolded him for not paying better attention to his surroundings. A smirk spread across his face. If he survived, he would have to remember to thank Brink for all his lessons—and tell him about the forest.

  The trees were getting larger, some of them were many times thick as the span of his hands. The lower in altitude he ventured, the more the forest resembled the ones back home. He felt safer here, not unlike he had when he and his mother walked the hardwood forests of Naan. His spirit was bolstered; he felt the possibility of survival. He headed straight down the steep mountain slope, weaving between the trees and shrubbery. Soon, the trees were an arms span around, with canopies that were sheltering the ground from the storm raging above.

  By now, the ground was blanketed with several inches of fresh snow. His feet left staggered footprints as he walked, a trail even a blind man could follow. The virgin white covered the moss and pine needles, which were soft under his feet. There were patches of colorful red-purple-leaved hardwoods in the small clearings he crossed that still hadn’t become bare for the winter. They clung to life, not wanting the autumn to pass.

  Wherever he was, he reasoned, the seasons were out of kilter with those at home—Naan—the Keep—both he guessed. He could smell the scent of pine and late season flowers fill the air. There were lots of plants, and flowering shrubs still filling the few clearings he passed. If he could get lower, it would be harvest time. Maybe he could gather enough to eat to survive. He felt a new-fold burst of energy and a sense of purpose.

  He stopped alongside a small creek and fell to his face, his parched throat burning of thirst. He was dehydrated and had a splitting headache. He found a calm place, between the rocks, placed his lips to the water and sucked in several mouthfuls, slowly letting the cool water slide down his throat and over his cracked lips. The metallic taste of blood on his tongue reminded him to wash the caked blood from his face and arms. He wiped them dry with his cloak. The gurgling of the water and the feeling of the cool clear water sliding down his throat rejuvenated him. He finished drinking and rolled over to his back, too tired to sit, as his head spun.

  I’ll just rest for a minute, Bal’kor thought to himself, but all too quickly, physical exhaustion won out and he fell soundly asleep. Pleasant dreams filled his head; he saw his mother’s face and remembered their time together in the small cottage in Naan. Smells of the teas she brewed and the herbs she set out to dry filled his senses. She smiled at him and offered encouraging words.

  He called out and reached for her.

  Several hours later he woke with a start, grasping at thin air. His eyes darted around. Luck had been with him, no predators had found him lying out in the open, unprotected. A light layer of snow covered his body and he just couldn’t fathom why he was still alive.

  Bal’kor tried to move, but couldn’t. He begged the god’s to take him now. This life was just too unbearable. Bal’kor heard murmurs and wondered if he had just heard the gods laugh. He cackled out-loud uncontrollably, knowing full-well that he was finally losing his mind.

  The snow softly filtered down through the trees, clinging to the high branches, covering everything like frosting, but here below, it mostly turned to mist and formed a light drizzle. The forest shadows danced as the wind blew and he could smell the musky earth. Birds chirp and a hoot-owl called in the distance. Bal’kor bared his teeth and rolled stiffly to his side, letting the pain wash over him.

  He stood up staggering, leaning on his staff. Pain shot up his legs and stabbed his side where he had hit the rocks. He tried to take a deep breath, and was denied. He took a small step, lunging awkwardly like a drunk and almost toppled over. Bal’kor grabbed his bundle and hobbled further into the forest, heading down the valley to a lower elevation. His zombie-like walk gave him temporary amusement.

  He only walked for an hour. The dappled moonlight filtered through the firs, trying desperately to reach the forest floor. It was getting too dark under the thick canopy to continue and he wisely chose to stay put rather than risk tumbling down the mountain—or suffer getting attacked by some large predator, like the wolves he heard howling in the distance. The distance was great and he faced no immediate threat—still... His body urgently needed a well-deserved rest. He stumbled forward, searching for a secure place to spend the remained of the night.

  He found a large pine tree that backed to a large boulder on one side, and a dead log on the other. He crawled into the depression beneath. He squatted to his knees and using his arms, scooped up dead needles and piled them to one side, creating a hollow for himself. After lying down, he slid into place, pushing with his heels as he slid backwards into the confined space. He did his best to cover himself with the needles, rested his spear across his chest and fell quickly to sleep.

  It had taken Brock longer to trek to the valley from the notch near the top of Humpback mountain than he had estim
ated. The footing was unsure, and he was older, out of shape, and less steady on his feet than he had been those many decades ago, when he had last made the journey.

  He reached the forest floor just before nightfall and easily found the ancient path partially hidden under overgrown shrubs, and jogged quickly down the well-rutted trail deep into the trees. The dirt path felt good on his feet, which were raw from walking over the rough stone he had been forced to climb earlier in the day. Given time, the cuts and bruises would heal. He was envious of his mountain elf brethren; their years of treading over the rocks and cliffs had given them soles as tough as seasoned leather and unparalleled balance that would make a goat green with envy!

  The trip was quick and uneventful. Brock stopped several times to listen to the wind, and send out his feelers, but found no indication that the wizards had beat him to the forest. He found it curious that he could not locate them on the mountain side either, but figured that they had perfected their wards and were stealthily on the move.

  It wasn’t long before a clearing opened before him, circled by five large sentinel pines. They towered out of sight in the mist above, and were the size of small houses at their base; together they formed a ring around the clearing—the Ring of the Ancients. He remembered their names; each tree being called as a spirit. Brock listened to their whispers as they greeted him. He realized that he missed their calming voices. To him, it had been a very long time and their musical whispers ignited a yearning in him he had not felt for decades. They, however, had a very different perception of time. To them, he had been gone but a few short seasons.

  The air was still here; even the forest sounds were muffled. A squirrel chittered high above, scolding him for intruding upon his space. A jay mocked him for intruding near its nest. Brock stepped reverently into the sacred opening, taking care to bow and perform the rites.

  “Welcome,” they whispered.

  Brock smiled and talked to the trees in the ancient language. Their voices were slow and lumbering and often sounded more like the rustling leaves than voices.

  “We are happy to see you again.”

  The eldest asked, “Do the wizards come?”

  Brock replied in ancient Torren, “Yes, the chimes have rung.”

  The needles of the eldest trembled. “That is good. It has been far too long, even for us.”

  Another tree whispered. “I thought that we had been forgotten.”

  Brock apologized for not returning sooner.

  “Your apology is accepted Guide. But, you need to spend more time here in the mountains. It is your duty!”

  “I had thought me services were not required,” he mumbled.

  “There is more to being a Guide than service…”

  He slowly approached the simple stone-pedestal that graced the center of the clearing and ran a hand across the smooth surface. The immense white marble slab was simple, elegant, and hid the powerful magic it contained. Brock could feel its power throb under his touch; it sent chill down his spine. There was nothing else in the space. Brock had reached the wizard’s lair. Now he would wait for the wizards to arrive and would busy himself in preparing for the feast and the ceremony.

  He had arrived none too soon, the weather had turned inclement and the rain was beginning to fall. Under the canopy, he was sheltered from the storm that raged beyond, but he knew that the mountain would be thrashed with violent winds and driving snow, the kind that could kill mere mortals.

  The branches were so thick down here in the shire that little in the way of wind or storm could penetrate. A light drizzle was filtering through the branches and a mist had begun to rise as the cold air above fought the heat held in the earth.

  “I shall return,” he spoke aloud.

  Brock ran off into the wood and gathered enough firewood for the night, moving quickly before the rain soaked the earth. He scooped up the branches in his arms and ran back to his makeshift camp, where he stacked the wood carefully, placing it under his large oilskin. The oilskin was new to him, purchased when he had made a trip to the village of the king, Shar’ran; he intended to use it to make a small lean-to.

  He shoved his pack under the skin and ran off to gather thick branches with which to fabricate his shelter. He found them scattered about on the forest floor. He checked several before he found two that were suitable, straight and without too many knots. His axe made quick work of the wood as he roughly shaped and notched them, preparing them for binding. He lashed the wrist-sized branches together using leather laces he had fashioned from a stag he had tracked last winter. He thanked the mother of the earth for guiding him and providing for him over the years as he pulled the well-crafted knots tight.

  He loop-lashed the oilskin to the top pole and stood the structure up, holding the guide ropes taunt. When he finished the last knot, he stepped back to admire his work. One side was closed to the wind, a simple fold had provided the additional protection. He had placed several large rocks on the skin to keep it anchored to the ground. The back of the lean-to was anchored with small stakes he had hammered into the ground using the hilt of his axe. The front was held in place with tight lines of jute cord lashed to stakes angled out and driven deep into the loam, keeping the structure rigid. It was only six feet high at the front, but was over eight feet deep.

  He had chosen the location carefully, making sure that water would drain away from the structure. He watched intently as small rivulets of water formed on the forest floor and ran off into the wood away from his structure.

  His last tasks were placing his pack in the back corner and forming a fire ring just under the front outside edge using large rocks that had been used for just such a purpose many decades before. The larger slabs he had placed on the back side of the ring would protect the fire from the wind and help to reflect the heat back into his shelter.

  He lit a small fire using the stack of dry branches he dug out from under leaves and needles before the rain started in earnest, and his trusty flint. The tinder caught on the fourth strike with his knife, saving him from having to use magic. He didn’t like having to rely on magic; he much preferred being self-sufficient. One never knew when magic might fail. It was bad enough that he needed the Spell of Life. He crawled under his shelter and wrapped his blanket tight around his frame and watched the smoke curl up into the sky.

  He pulled some nuts and berries from a pouch in his pack and set them aside for later. In the meanwhile, he chewed on a thick piece of dried venison. It was going to be cold tonight; he could feel it in his bones. He cast his protective wards and watched as the net of magic settled into place. As an afterthought, he wove a spell to keep the wind out of his shelter.

  Brock pulled his ax and his knife free and set them on either side of where he sat. Creatures wandered this land. He didn’t want to be caught off-guard.

  Brock sat staring into the flames. Maybe tomorrow the wizards would arrive. He was anxious. The trees sang an ancient song that filled his head as he fell asleep.

  The mother of the earth decreed, that hallowed ground be guarded.

  We the sentinels of this place do stand forever waiting.

  For when the Accepted comes to rest, rites and dances are offered

  We shall set them to their task, as one by one they’re challenged

  An if they’re worthy and survive, we’ll celebrate their victory

  As watch the transformation come, with gifts and powers given

  And we’ll celebrate, as newborn wizards rise.

  Denied

  Voltaire landed softly and dropped a wing, allowing the three to step to the ground. She had fulfilled her promise and delivered Ja’tar and company get back to the cave.

  “That didn’t go as well as I expected,” Ja’tar grumbled.

  “You expected different?” Rua’tor asked.

  “Yes. I thought they would answer to reason.”

  Voltaire had held her tongue up till now.

  “Dragons see the world differently. Their tim
eline is different; they are the strongest of the magical creatures. They fear nobody,” she said, as she curled up in a clear space near the cave, keeping her back to the wind.

  Ja’tar looked her straight in the eye. “They should!”

  “They still feel punished…” she said. “We have been sequestered to this Northland for more than a dozen centuries. You must consider how we feel. The destruction we caused was only partially our fault.”

  Ja’tar nodded, knowing it was true.

  “We thought that the Guild would eventually allow us to roam the skies again.”

  Ja’tar looked up. “There is no Guild.”

  Voltaire’s nostrils flared, she belched a small blast of fire and moved her huge head close to Ja’tar and examined him critically.

  “The Guild was a creation of the Ten. Apparently, it was dissolved by them centuries ago. I didn’t know…”

  “Didn’t know?” she roared.

  “No. I have been meeting with the Guild monthly, or so I thought. It now has become apparent that my meetings were nothing but a clever ruse…nothing more than a spell.”

  Voltaire pushed herself erect. “So we are free?”

  Ja’tar didn’t answer.

  “Well, are we?”

  “I do not know,” Ja’tar replied slowly. “I would assume so, but truthfully, I do not know.”

  “I should go…” she said, gazing in the direction of the caves. “I will continue to press your cause, but it will take time. Knowing that we are free may help.”

  Ja’tar nodded harshly. “I don’t have the time to wait. The great battle has already begun!”

  Voltaire saw the sadness in his eyes. “I will try to urge them to action. Perhaps feeling that they are now free—”

  Ja’tar looked up into her green eyes and forced a smile.

  Voltaire took to the air and hovered for a few seconds. “I hope to see you again my friend…soon.”

  Ja’tar stood and smiled because he knew she meant it. He could feel the swell of happiness through their bond.