The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla

by Scott D. Muller

  “Be careful. The dark one will come,” he whispered.

  Voltaire threw her head back and roared, took flight, banked to the side and headed back to the cave. Ja’tar squinted as she quickly faded in the bright cerulean sky.

  Rua’tor placed his hands on his hips. “Now what? Do you know another place we can go?”

  “I have a plan.”

  Rua’tor raised a brow as he watched Ja’tar turn around.

  “We should go now,” Ja’tar said, as he entered the cave.

  “Where?” Rua’tor asked.

  A quiet echo met him. “The Wilds.”

  Rua’tor hung his head. “We’re gonna die...”

  Mica’s face went pale.

  Rua’tor gave a gentle yank on the chain, pulling her toward the cave. “Come on, demon. It is time for us to go.”

  By the time Rua’tor and Mica had entered the cave, the portal was already like a mirror. Ja’tar stood to one side, his glowing hands pressed to runes carved in the stone.

  He removed his hands and stepped to the platform. “Follow me!”

  They watched as he slid into the silvery fog and Rua’tor grabbed Mica by the waist, shoving her in front of him. “Let’s go!”

  She did as asked, and felt the magic tingle as she stepped through the mist. They slid through the gate and step into the Wilds.

  Rua’tor felt the oppressive heat as he stepped off the platform and saw the red-glow of the desert rock through the mouth of the cave. He quickly stripped off his cloak and pants.

  He grumbled under his breath as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “I hate this place.”

  Ja’tar turned and saw his friend in obvious discomfort. He smiled to himself.

  “Where are we,” Mica asked.

  Rua’tor swore. “The most inhospitable patch of dirt in the realms.”

  Mica pulled on her chain, trying to get a better look out the mouth of the cave. To her, the heat was of no consequence.

  “Why do they call it the Wilds?”

  Ja’tar smiled, “Because it is lawless…”

  Rua’tor interrupted, “…and magic doesn’t always work right!”

  Mica’s head shot around. “What do you mean magic doesn’t work right.”

  Ja’tar shot a scowl in Rua’tor’s direction. “Drop it!’

  Rua’tor held himself in check.

  Ja’tar looked to Mica. “You won’t need to worry about it, since you will not be casting magic…”

  “But…”

  Ja’tar raised his hands and started casting his wards. Rua’tor watched him until he finished.

  “What’s next?”

  “We’ll spend the night here. You should try to track down some game for dinner; I’ll scrounge up some wood for a fire. The desert gets cold at night.”

  Rua’tor nodded, grabbed his staff and headed to the door, yanking on the chain. “Come on…we have work to do.”

  Rua’tor and Mica stepped out into the blistering sun and squinted, waiting for their eyes to grow accustomed to the brightness. The ground was dry red dirt and they were surrounded by multicolored sandstone formations, some of which towered hundreds of feet above. Rua’tor steeped into the shadows and felt some relief from the heat.

  Mica followed as they moved along the shadows. She had never seen a place like this and wondered why anything would chose to live in such a desolate local. Actually, it reminded her of Darkhalla.

  Ja’tar stepped from the cave and watched as his friend walked down the canyon. He turned and walked in the opposite direction toward a spring he recalled from his youth. He didn’t know if it were still active, but they needed water, and this was his best chance. Besides, it was the only place that he knew of in this area where trees grew. They needed wood to cook, or they would be eating conjured food.

  Ja’tar hurried down the path. It had been centuries since he had been here. As he walked, he scanned the walls of the canyon, keeping an eye out for danger. Not that he expected to find much here, but one never knew. Most of the dangers were on the fringe, not here. In the Wilds anything could happen. This land was lawless, filled with tribes looking for a place to live unchallenged by law, free of rule by the kings.

  The Wilds were not always a wasteland. They were once green, teeming with life. That was before Ror and the battles. The vile magic of the dark mages had poisoned the land. The great battles had laid waste to vast cities, little remained.

  Ja’tar looked around at the scarred landscape. This was what magic could do. This is the price they had paid to rid themselves of the dark magic. This is what dark magic wrought when yielded by those who cared not for anything but power. His mind was filled with thoughts of the past; the battles, the wars, the deaths. He felt the weight of his position then, of being Keeper. He fell to his knees and pounded the dusty dirt as anger filled his eyes.

  After a short time, he felt better. Ja’tar stood, brushed himself off and wandered down the shadowed side of the canyon. The canyon forked. Ja’tar stood, confused, not knowing which path to take. Think, he said to himself. He tried to reason, but could not remember which way to go. A pack of field mice scurrying down the canyon wall caught his attention. They reached the floor and turned down the left fork. Ja’tar smiled. They needed water. Animals didn’t spend much time out in the day. They came out at night…unless they were thirsty.

  He turned down the left path and quickened his walk. He had not walked far when the shrubbery and grass began to thicken and turn a hint of green. Scrub trees started to sprout from the ground and soon, the canyon floor was green. He slowed.

  He saw a family of rabbits, hiding in the deep grass, eating the tender green shafts of the new growth. He pointed his staff and uttered his spell. A thin shaft of lightning shot from the end, veered to the left and toasted a small bush almost ten yards from the rabbit. The rabbit froze. He corrected his aim and tried again. This time, his bolt hit a boulder on the canyon wall. Ja’tar cursed. The magic was going rogue.

  He tried to sneak up on the rabbit and club it with his staff, but the rabbit was too quick and jumped off into the bushes, zigzagging as it leapt.

  Ja’tar sighed. No rabbit for dinner.

  He found the spring and filled his water skin. He considered moving their camp to this better location, but then thought better of it. If there was prey around, there would be wolves and mountain lions, maybe even coyotes.

  He turned to go. He heard the telltale sound of the snake before he spotted it. The rattling-hissing sound made him freeze in his steps. He searched the grass and saw the coiled snake not more than six feet to his side. It was a large snake with diamonds on its back. It’s head was up and he could see the forked tongue flicking at the air. It rattles its tail, warning him to come no closer.

  Ja’tar held his staff by the handle and pointed it at the snake. Even he could not miss at this distance. He cast his spell and watched as the fingers of lightning jumped from the bloodstone to the ground. Once again his aim was off and the snake unwound and slithered off into the shrub. Ja’tar lunged, catching it by the tail with his shaft. The snake turned and struck its assailant, sinking its fangs into the staff. Ja’tar picked up a big rock and threw it down on the snakes head with all this might.

  When Mica and Rua’tor got back to the cave, they found Ja’tar sitting in front of a small fire with a big snake, almost an arms width, on a skewer.

  Rua’tor approached the fire. “It looks like you had better luck than I.”

  Ja’tar looked up and smiled. “I found water too.”

  “I am thirsty. We spotted a few rabbits and a wild dog, but my spells wouldn’t work right. I should have known better than to use magic.”

  Ja’tar reached down into his pack and tossed the water-skin to his friend. “My spells didn’t work right either. I beat the snake to death with a rock!”

  Rua’tor snorted, took a big swig and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “When is dinner?”

  Ja’tar rotated the spit again “S
oon.”

  The sun had fallen behind the rocks and the desert had begun to cool. Rua’tor moved closer to the fire and held his hands out to the flames.

  “It’s going to be cold tonight.”

  “It is,” said Ja’tar as he pulled the snake from the flames and used his knife to cut off a big chunk. He stabbed it and passed it to his friend at the end of his knife.

  Rua’tor grabbed it and took a bite. “…surprisingly good!”

  Ja’tar sliced off a chunk for himself.

  They sat in silence and ate.

  After they finished eating, Ja’tar pulled out the Book of Rah’tok.

  “Where did that come from?” Mica sputtered, recognizing the tome.

  Ja’tar chuckled. “You didn’t really think I would leave it in the Keep did you?”

  Mica’s eyes widened and she furled her brow. “What are you going to do with that?”

  “I’m going to use this to find out a bit more about you.”

  Mica grew fearful. “Is that such a good idea here, w..w..where magic goes bad.”

  Ja’tar shrugged and turned a page.

  “I’ll tell you anything you want to know…” she blurted.

  “I’m sure you will,” Ja’tar answered. “But I need to know it is the truth.”

  “I won’t lie…”

  “Ja’tar, give the girl a chance to—”

  Ja’tar’s eyes filled with fire. “You stay out of this. This is between me and her.”

  Rua’tor started to speak up, but Ja’tar stared him down. “I need answers.”

  “Ask me anything,” she begged, “anything at all.”

  Ja’tar found what he was looking for. He picked up a stick out of the fire and let it cool. “This will do nicely. Now give me your arm.”

  She pulled back on the chain until her back was against the wall of the cave. “Please!” she pleaded.

  Ja’tar signed. “This isn’t going to hurt…”

  “But…”

  Ja’tar pulled on the chain. Her eyes glowed red and she hissed. “You’ll pay for this mage.”

  Ja’tar mumbled and waved his hand.

  “You’l…” Her voice was cut off.

  “There. That’s better. It’s difficult enough to cast here in the Wilds without all the distractions.”

  He pulled her arm close and pressed the stick to her forearm and drew a single rune.

  She tried to scream out, but the words were stuck in here throat. She felt the magic sink in. It didn’t hurt, but she knew it was there and was frightened.

  Ja’tar closed the book and shoved it back into his pack. He waved his hand and Mica found out that her voice had returned.

  “W.w.what did you do to me?”

  “A little truth spell, that is all. From now on, everything you say to me will be the truth. If you try to tell a lie… well, I suggest that you don’t. Let’s leave it at that!”

  Rua’tor watched, stone-faced. Ja’tar was different, he was acting more…calculating, cold. He wasn’t sure he liked this new Ja’tar. He wondered what was causing the change and was concerned.

  “Now, what is your real name?” Ja’tar asked.

  “Mica was my nick-name growing up…”

  “Continue,” he bade her.

  “My name was …” Her lips moved, but nothing was heard. She clutched at her stomach and she was doubled over with agony.

  “You want to try again?” Ja’tar asked.

  “Caroline Houser,” she blurted, glancing to the side from her crouched position.

  Ja’tar crossed his arms and leaned into her. “So, Caroline, how did you become a demon?”

  Mica burst into tears and told her tale.

  “I was poor. The kind of poor where eating weeds and garbage meant not starving to death. I wanted out, and I lusted for power. I wanted to punish those who had mistreated my family. Unfortunately, I didn’t have an aptitude for magic, even though I tried. A friend of a friend of mine gave me the name of someone who could help.”

  She hung her head. “I chose the easy way, not expecting my note to come due so soon. Once I acquired power, I destroyed the lives of the lord and staff who had tortured my father, raped my mother and older sisters. They paid dearly.”

  She smiled, recalling their suffering.

  “As a result, I garnished a reputation and became a target. It wasn’t long before I found myself dead in the halls of Halla.”

  She looked up with pleading eyes. “I never fully gave in to the dark side, I only negotiated for half of my soul.”

  Her face blazed and she got angry. “For half a soul, I only got half the power.”

  “I lived on the fringe of the demons, not really a part, but tolerated. My overlord found—creative ways for me to be of use.”

  Ja’tar rubbed his chin. “Who is this overlord?”

  “Warvyn,” she whispered.

  Ja’tar’s eyes widened just before he snorted.

  Rua’tor sat quietly, listening to her torrid tale. He had to wipe the tears from her eyes several times as he fought back his own. He felt compassion for the girl, even though she had made decisions knowing full-well they had repercussions.

  They sat near the entrance of the shallow cave, watching their small fire. It lit the wall behind them and put off more light than its small size would have suggested. The cool night air stirred as the winds of the desert picked up. Ja’tar pulled his cloak tight and shivered.

  Rua’tor turned to his friend, “Are you willing to tell me your plan?”

  Ja’tar startled, he had been deep in thought. “What? Ah, yes…my plan. Well, I can share what I’ve thought through.”

  Rua’tor raised a brow.

  Ja’tar leaned in. “I’m afraid things are going to get worse…much worse. I had originally hoped that the dragons would help, but that seems highly unlikely at this point. My backup plan was to visit some old acquaintances. I think they can help.”

  Rua’tor turned his neck and stared at his friend, “How old are these acquaintances you talk about?”

  “Older than you and I, my friend. Older than you and I.”

  Rua’tor listened to Ja’tar’s cryptic words and they made him feel uneasy. He masked his emotions by putting his hands out over the flames and rubbing them together.

  Ja’tar cleared his throat. “I hope they are still alive.”

  Defenses

  Dra’kor and Men’ak joined Brag in the bustling Tavern at a table near the back. Brag had already secured the table and was nursing his second ale with a slight smile on his face. The rustic tavern was the most popular place in the town, and was nearly always filled now that the town had nearly doubled in size. Grump, the owner, smiled as he polished the new glasses he bought off a merchant from the small coastal city of Dal’far, just south of Edu’bar. The merchant had been desperate for coin and had sold them at a substantial discount. Grump thought that they added class to his humble establishment. In the back of his mind, he considered expanding, but for now he was content to have a long line of people waiting outside.

  Brag wiped his brow as the two approached the table. “Gentlemen…”

  “Brag,” they said together.

  “Taking a break?” Dra’kor asked, already knowing the answer.

  Brag mumbled, “Hard work makes a man thirsty…”

  Men’ak laughed. “You’re always thirsty!”

  “I always work hard,” mumbled Brag in his defense. “Besides, the wall is pretty-much done.”

  “I saw that! When do you think the rest of old wall will be removed?” Dra’kor asked, throwing a leg over a stool he had pulled out from under the table.

  Grump saw the men walk in and quickly poured and dropped off ales for the men. Dra’kor pulled out his money and Grump waved him off. “On the house! You gents have been working hard to keep this town alive and safe. The least I can do is give y’all an ale now and then.”

  Dra’kor flashed a huge smile and dipped his head. Grump wiped
his hands on his apron and nodded back before returning to behind the bar, where customers were already stacking up, waiting for another frothy libation.

  “I’m guessing a couple of days...,” said Brag with a shrug, “…maybe longer. They’ve already removed a good thirty feet, but that section ain’t been standing for so long. The original wall…well, it’s going to be more work. The ground around the posts has been trampled for years, it’s like rock.”

  Men’ak nodded. “I think they are making great progress.”

  Brag grunted. “Halla of a lot easier with thirty men than it was for us to build the original. We only had five of us working—the rest had to stand guard.”

  “Do we have enough lumber for the new lodges?” Dra’kor asked. “I saw men heading to the forest.”

  “They’re getting logs for the floors.” Brag said, as he scratched his head. “Might need to cut some boards….I’m not sure yet. We’ve torn apart a few of the extra wagons, I’m hoping that might give us just enough. They ain’t going to be fancy though...not like the earlier ones we built.”

  Dra’kor took a sip of his ale. It was too warm for his liking, so he cast a small whiff of magic to cool it off. This caused Men’ak to look at him with horror in his eyes. Dra’kor grinned sheepishly and shrugged. Brag thought it was all about his last comment so he responded defensively. “We don’t have time to make ‘em fancy.”

  Dra’kor sniggered, “I’m sure people will make do. My concern is, at the rate folks are showing up, we will be out of room by the time we get them built.”

  Brag played with his glass, rolling it on edge between his roughly callused hands. “There should be room for near-about 40 families, that’s a lot of folks. We may just need to turn them new buildings into bunkhouses. Maybe…if we did, we could fit double at least!”

  “So you think we’ll manage?” Dra’kor asked, raising a brow.

  “I didn’t say that,” said Brag, perhaps harsher then he intended. His eyes grew cold.

  “I see…”

  Men’ak wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Well, at least the gardens are growing well. We’ll need that food. Even the big gardens outside are doing great. Thank the gods we’ve gotten good rain.”