The wraiths chased him, swooping down with skeletal hands and bony fingers extended; he could feel them drain his energy as they brush past him. He ducked and wove his way through the forest, at times summersaulting to avoid their touch. He struggled to get back to his shelter, tripping over rocks and branches. They cut into his legs and caused him to fall to the ground, scraping his arms and hands. Lucky for him, the forest was so dense, because it made it difficult for the wraiths to navigate. He crawled away as another wraith swooped down.
Bal’kor jumped to his feet and dove for his shelter, arriving just in time to quickly throw some small tinder on the coals and blow them to life. The tinder broke into bright flame and he heard the wraiths scream as the light burst into the night. He threw more twigs and branches into the flame and blew steadily. The wraiths reeled and cowered from the bright light of the fire. They circled high overhead, just in the shadows, screeching. Bal’kor threw another armful of branches onto the fire, causing it to flare. They swooped down to attack, but turned off into the shadows. He thought he could hear them talking—if you could call it that—always just quiet enough that he couldn’t understand.
He pulled a few branches out from under the big leaves where he had stashed them earlier in the morning, and readied them. He had to make sure that the fire stayed burning. They backed into the shadows, giving the appearance that they had left, but he could hear them screeching all night. Bal’kor knew that they would come back every night; they knew he was there and wished to feed. They could afford to be patient.
He carefully unloaded the food he foraged from his pockets and stacked the berries on a large leaf in the corner of his shelter and nibbled on a few. He sat all night with his back against the log, fearing falling asleep.
The next morning, he went out to gather more. When he came back, his shelter was destroyed and there were large animal prints all around. Bal’kor sat down in the moss and cried, completely defeated. The prints were bear tracks and there were piles of bear sign on the ground around his lean-to. All of his food had been eaten or scattered around the camp.
He was livid, but couldn’t really blame the bears. With winter on the doorstep, they prepared to hibernate, gorging themselves on berries. Bal’kor tried to get his shelter repaired and tried to salvage what little he could. Most of the day was wasted trying to recover from this experience. That night he was ready. He had prepared a large stack of wood to keep the wraiths away and had located the spear he had carried down out of the mountains. He had dropped it up the trail in his delirium.
The wraiths stayed away; not so for the bears. Getting his food stolen by the hungry ‘bears’ a second time would have been infuriating. When they showed up, he screamed at them and waived his spear and a torch, chasing them away. He had spent the entire night awake, defending his shelter. By the end of the evening, he knew that he needed a new name for these bears; they were bigger than standard bears and more dangerous. They had larger heads and larger teeth more suited to gnawing on a deer than eating berries. He settled on the name of Werebear when creativity fled him.
Since the sun was already up, he went down to the small pond, not more than a couple hundred yards away along the trail. He could hear frogs croaking as he approached. He took off his shoes and rolled up his pant legs, and waded out into the pond, feeling the muck squeeze up between his toes. The water was cold, but not painfully so. He dug up cattail roots and then had an idea that maybe he could catch and eat the frogs.
He waded back to shore and searched the ground for a piece of wood from which he could fashion a small spear. His was too large and hard to accurately use to spear a small frog. A long branch caught his eye and he settled down on the bank of the pond with his knife and carved a point and fashioned a few small barbs.
After fashioning a rough spear, he waded out into the pond and stood motionless amongst the lily-pads; quietly waiting for the frogs to make their location known. By trial and error, he eventually managed to spear a big frog, oblivious to the threat, croaking on a large pad.
Finally, after several hours, he had accumulated four frogs for dinner. He hurried back to his shelter and cleaned the frogs before pushing them onto sticks. Bracing the sticks with large rocks, he set them before his small fire, and soon the smell of roasting meat filled the air. Bal’kor tossed the camass bulbs, mushrooms and cattail roots on the rocks surrounding the fire and soon they were hissing and spitting as they slowly roasted.
He could hardly wait for them to cook. His mouth was watering and his stomach growled loudly. It’s had been three-full days since he had eaten a proper meal and he could feel himself getting weaker. He grabbed the spit and squeezed the cooked frog, checking that the juices ran clear. They did and he took a big bite, burning the roof of his mouth. Spitting the steaming hot flesh into the palm of his hand, he tossed it from hand-to-hand letting it cool a little before shoving it back into his mouth.
The juice ran down his throat as he slowly chewed, savoring each bite. Between the frogs, cattail roots, roasted camass bulbs and a pile of greens of columbine, mushrooms and dandelion leaves, his belly filled to the point of discomfort. As his energy level recovered, so did his attitude. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and for the first time since he arrived, he felt as though survival was a distinct possibility.
Taila, the head mistress of the Sisters of the Light walked down the narrow path that led from their dormitories to the Keep. It had been several days since she had paid a visit, having given Bal’kor time to settle in. She had the distinct feeling that Ja’tar didn’t want her involvement in raising the boy. She hoped that he had reconsidered now that he had spent a few days alone with the lad. The boy, Bal’kor, needed a mother. Of course she was not the child’s mother, and never could be…but she could serve as a surrogate. All that put aside, she needed to talk to Ja’tar about a disturbing vision she had the previous night.
It was barely daylight and the sun had just crested over the mountains. She couldn’t help but notice the big gaping hole in the side of the rear turret. There was rubble spread across the ground. She stepped into the opening and called out.
“Ja’tar? Zedd’aki? Rua’tor? Is anybody there?”
Her calls were met with deafening silence. She stepped into the room and saw the decaying bodies of demons, orcs and goblins. Her mouth hung open and her knees went weak. She carefully stepped over the bodies and held her hand to her nose, trying to avoid getting gore on her thigh length leather boots.
A goblin she had thought dead grabbed her leg and looked up at her. She yanked it free, stepped back and covered it with wizard’s fire. The surprised goblin burst into flame and squealed as it was consumed. Taila squished up her face as the stench filled the hall. She filled her hand with magic and held it at the ready as she slowly stepped further into the Keep.
She walked the halls, seeing the telltale marks of wizard’s fire, balefire and lightning. A battle had been fought, but there were no signs of the wizards. The Keep was deserted. She checked the kitchen. There was no sign of Gretta or the other women. The dining room was untouched, but the living quarters were a shambles. Doors were blown off hinges and walks were cracked and brought to rubble.
Taila retraced her steps and walked briskly back to her chambers, grabbing Margret, a member of the inner circle and a second level magic user. She pulled her by the arm into her room and spun a ward over listening.
Margret saw the look on her face.
“What?”
Taila poured herself a drink and chugged the entire glass. “The Keep has been attacked by demons.”
Margret’s face paled. “Are you sure?”
Taila nodded. “There are demon, orc and goblin bodies scattered about the back turret and down several of the hallways.”
“You went inside? By yourself?”
Taila nodded. “There are no wizards in the Keep. I could not find a one.”
“Killed?”
Tail paused for several seconds as she con
sidered the question. “I do not know…”
Margret’s eyes narrowed. “What do we do?”
Taila paced. “We need to leave, we can no longer stay here. It is no longer safe.”
“Leave?” Margret asked. “And go where exactly?”
Taila gazed blankly. “Home…I guess…”
“Back to the mist?”
Taila grimaced.
Margret set her hands on her hips. “Can we do that? Is it allowed?”
Taila shrugged. “We must try. It isn’t safe for us to be here any longer.”
“But what of the wizards”?” Margret asked with a stammer. They had been sent with purpose; a purpose yet unfulfilled.
“They are on their own now.”
Margret felt a lump build in her throat. “Is this your final decision?”
Taila nodded, “It is.”
Margret lowered her head, her shoulders sagged. “Then I guess I will prepare the sisters. How much time do we have?”
Taila had expected more objections and was relieved that she didn’t have to further explain herself. “I want to leave within the hour.”
“But—”
“Within the hour…” she barked.
“Yes, Mother.” Margret bowed, opened the door and exited.
Taila stared out her window at the back of the Keep. She poured herself another full glass of mead and poured it down her throat. She fell to the floor and cried, giving up the pretense of strength.
“I have failed…” she wailed. “I have…failed.
The Staff
Sheila stood leaning on the doorway of the small apothecary shop that she ran with her mother and stared down the main street of Three Rivers toward the gated entrance of the town. There seemed to be a never-ending stream of wagons of people arriving from the surrounding realms. She shook her head in wonder and called back over her shoulder to her mother.
“I can’t believe all the people arriving! Where are we going to put them all?”
“Aye,” Hagra mumbled. “It’s not going to ever be the same around here. Tis damn crowded ifin ye be askin’ me!”
Sheila nodded without turning around. “It’s getting crowded, that’s for sure. They already moved the wall out once. You think they will move it again.”
Hagra shrugged. “All depends I’m guessing. Seems like Toulereau and yer boyfriend have been arguing about the very same thing.”
Sheila bristled a bit when Hagra called Dra’kor her boyfriend. She didn’t know why, because he was…mostly.
“Dra’kor wants to take everyone to Toulereau…”
“Seems like that would be a good idea,” Hagra reasoned.
“Does to me too, but Toulereau is worried about the attacks on folks if we make the journey.”
“Well, this place doesn’t have the food stores and safety of the castle.”
Sheila snorted. “Didn’t help them much when they were attacked.”
“Aye, but then they didn’t know what we know now!”
“I suppose you’re right!”
Hagra had grabbed her duffle bag and started filling it with food and medicine. She stood next to the shelves and read the labels on the bottles, selecting, sniffing and pouring contents into small patches of cloth she had cut for just this purpose. She gathered the corners of the cloth and twisted them before she used string to secure them. She reached over and grabbed one of Sheila’s shirts and a pair of her pants and stuffed them into her pack. She knew her daughter would eventually be missing them, but hopefully, she would have returned by that point.
Sheila had not been paying attention to what her mother was doing and it showed on her face when she turned around.
“I gotta go,” said her mother, seeing her expression.
“Go? Where?”
“I need to be seeing my sisters,” she replied, barely slowing down her packing.
“The witches? Why?” Sheila asked, as she watched her mother pack.
“Well, seeing as all this is going on, I need to find out for sure what we are facing. The other witches can sees things. I can’t—so I need to be talking to them.”
“From what you’ve said, the witches ain’t too keen on talking.
“They surely ain’t!”
“Is it far…you know—where they live?”
Hagra stood erect. “I guess ye could say that it’s a bit of a trek, but I’ll be using the gates ifin I can.”
“How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
Hagra rubbed her chin and stepped back from the table. “Hard to say. Maybe a week or two…kinda depends on how agreeable they be.”
“Agreeable? Are you expecting them to cause problems?”
Hagra cracked a smile and cackled. “Witches is always causing trouble. I’m concerned because we had a little something called a falling out a few years back. I’m hoping they can forgive and forget.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then they will need some convincing…I guess,” she said, sporting a wry smile.
“Do you want me to go along?” Sheila asked. “I could be useful. Keep the beasts off your trail.”
Hagra shook her head. “No, I think it’s best ifin I be there by myself. It’ll make things easier. Besides, those puppies and kitties don’t cause me no heartburn.”
Sheila furrowed her brow. “What are you not telling me?”
“Nothing,” Hagra grunted. “I also be needing to stop in a small town and check to see if a staff of a certain druid can be borrowed for a time.”
“Druid? I didn’t think there were any left alive.”
“Who said he was alive?” she snickered.
Sheila rolled her eyes and was going to say something, but just closed her mouth and watched her mother pack.
“I want ye to keep an eye on the boys while I’m gone. Ye need to be working with Dra’kor to get him to learn more magic. We’re gonna be needing his skills sooner, rather than later.”
Sheila agreed, pulled out a chair and sat down by the table.
“Well, I guess I should be going…”
Sheila stood up and gave her mother a warm bear-hug and walked her to the door. “Stay safe mother!’
“I will, honey. You try not to fret about me. Yer mother has strong magic in her bones. Pity the poor fools who mess with me!”
Sheila smiled and waved as she walked out the door and headed down the street.
The place was bustling. Nobody noticed when she slipped out the gate and turned east. She hadn’t gotten past the edge of the field when she had to sit down to rest. A small squirrel spastically twitched on a nearby log.
“This is going to be harder than I thought!” she said, talking to the small animal. “The body ain’t up to this kind of stress.”
The squirrel ran to the opposite end of the log and puffed up its tail.
“I guess I’m going to need to take care of that sooner, rather than later…”
Hagra waddled down a narrow path, making her way to the river. She followed the meandering course until she found a hollow and crawled inside. It wasn’t deep, but it would suit her purpose. She stripped off her clothes and folded them neatly to one side. She backed up to the wall and tried to get comfortable while she chanted, calling the large white spiders. Soon, webbing covered her entire body.
Hagra pulled herself free of the webbing and looked down admiringly at her body; she looked to be a young maiden in her twenties. Her hair held a luster and she had a fine muscle tone. She smiled to herself. It had been centuries since she had last gone through the change. She knew she would have to tell Sheila at some point, and wondered how she would take to the fact that her mother now appeared to be the same age as she did. She supposed that the discussion was due, since her daughter also possessed the ability to change—all seers did. She just didn’t know it yet!
Hagra opened her pack and pulled out her daughter’s clothes. She slipped them on. They were loose and too long, but otherwise fit. Hagra waved her arm and watch
ed as the pants shrunk to length and the waist narrowed. The top, well, that was a different issue. She had always been busty and this resurrected version was no different. The top wouldn’t even close and there was a good two inch gap between the sides of her shirt and her breasts.
She cast another spell and the shirt gave way, growing until she could pull it closed across her bosom. It was still tight. There was just so much material to work with. The shirt had thinned out as the material moved to make the shirt bigger. Her nipples poked through. She guessed there just wasn’t any way of hiding them. The pants had been the same, but she had too much material there, so the leather actually got thicker. It wasn’t ideal, but it would suffice. She would be showing more than she should until she could make a new shirt.
Hagra stepped out into the light the following morning and made her way down the stream toward the small town of Covenburg. She stopped to admire a reflection of herself in a still pool. Damn, she looked fine. A smile spread across her face as she broke into a run and headed downstream.
Covenburg wasn’t the small town she remembered. There were more than two dozen homes now, and they even had a main street. She walked toward the center of town, expecting to find it filled with people, but it wasn’t. Not a single person was in the street. The town was deserted.
She walked past buildings and peaked inside. They had been left empty. Most of the belongings were still there. The tavern had bottles of whiskey and pewter mugs still out on tables. The town had evacuated in a hurry, or been taken. The lack of signs of struggle gave her hope. Maybe they all left and went to Three Rivers or one of the other communities.
On the far end of town, she found the communal well. She supposed it was the same well; the one they had used those many years ago. Most towns didn’t dig new wells very often. They were hard to dig and hard to line with stone. She peaked over the edge and stared down the dark hole. She lowered the bucket and pulled up enough to fill her water-skin, and then some. She wiped down her face.
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla Page 40