The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla

by Scott D. Muller

  He stared out the window at the crowd in the street. He knew Dra’kor was right, that they needed to move everyone to the castle. He just couldn’t bring himself to send troops into his own home to purge those he knew would be waiting.

  The men who remained there had been his own soldiers, although they had been transformed into beasts from Darkhalla, wolven, skidders, and worse. They had been twisted into vile creatures by the magic of the dark mage or his emissary; Toulereau was not sure if the hooded man who visited was the dark mage or not. He knew that he would eventually need to purge the castle of the creatures…yet, he wasn’t hitherto willing to put them to the sword.

  Toulereau considered his brother, D’rel’s, words when last they spoke—that men would always wage war. The words rang hollow in his head, but true. Perhaps his brother had been right in his assertion that they should avoid interference in the world of man. But if not them, then who—the wizards of the Keep? From what he knew from Dra’kor and Men’ak, they were no longer a force to be reckoned with—and depending on the outcome of the attack in the Keep by the demons, who knew if any survived. Men’ak had seen Zedd’aki and Qu’entza in the dream world; only the dead treaded there. If a dark mage was rising, only the elves cold stand against that kind of power. Even they would have to call upon the dwarfs for help. Ironfist would not be happy. They had fought side by side before, but the cost had been high, mayhap too high. Toulereau was sure that his father, the Tala’fein was unwilling to pay that price again.

  He focused his blurred eyes on the scroll and read it again, feeling the root beginning to exert its influence; his hands were already shaking, and he could feel his heart beginning to race.

  If Killoroy was marching on Jonovan, Toulereau assumed that his realm would be next. His realm held the key to most commerce traveling either north-south, or east-west. He considered calling upon his good friend, Wallace, to aid him. Most likely, he had received the same message from Jonovan, so he would already be preparing to defend his realm.

  Wallace was the lord of the realm just to the south of Five Peaks. It stood between the Lowlands of the coast and the ragged Grenach mountains and was bordered to the east by the Winseer Mountains. From where Killoroy’s realm sat, moving war machines through the bogs on the southwest side was his only viable route. And that route was only usable in the dead of winter, when the thick mud of the bogs had frozen. Killoroy would lose many siege engines and riders if he chose to invade now. The quicksand that stretched across the marshes could swallow whole armies. Any moving of the machines by lying a road of logs was not only backbreaking work, but slow going. Months would be spent trying to cross.

  On the opposite side of the realm, the narrow game trails and roads that wove their way through the steep, jagged, mountain peaks were better suited to riders on horseback, or foot. Moving supplies for an army would be impossible, without building better roads through the passes. Wallace’s realm was heavily treed and rugged by all accounts, filled with trees that climbed to the sky and reached across several men wide. Toulereau had not visited in a long time, but suspected that little had changed. Wallace would not be next on Killoroy’s conquest list. Wallace could send a small army through Five Peaks and be in Three Rivers within a week, two at the most.

  Toulereau pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and started writing a letter. The scroll sent by Jonovan mentioned the name of Rule, the warder of the Northlund. He had heard of him by reputation, but had never personally met the warder. Toulereau wondered if Rule had contacted Bitters, a warder he was more familiar with. If he had, Bitters would seek him out and give him the details. The man was like smoke. He would make himself known when it suited him, not before.

  Toulereau knew that Wallace wouldn’t hesitate and would immediately send for reinforcements from his brother Barnaby who ruled the realms across the northern sea on the Green Isle. Barnaby married into the Klan of the Wolf. The Klan of the Wolf was the most fierce of the entire isle. Warriors tall and wide of shoulder, seemingly immune to pain. Toulereau smiled, Barnaby’s wife was more proficient in battle than he was. In some ways, the Klan of the Wolf was much akin to the elves. Their women were ruthless, fierce warriors.

  Toulereau called for a courier. The small thin man arrived within minutes and poked his head inside.

  “You sent for me m’lord?”

  Toulereau bade him to wait by the door as he put the finishing touches on the note he had composed. Satisfied, he sealed the letter with red wax and set his seal. He handed the oily-haired man the scroll and told him to ride.

  Brag and Dra’kor rode out toward Glenn Haven around noon, hoping to make the town before nightfall. Sheila waved, watching them ride across the fields filled with grain. She walked back toward her home and saw Men’ak standing in the door of the inn. She waved.

  Men’ak’s face filled with a smile as he waved back.

  She stopped and talked to him for a few minutes, telling him where Dra’kor was headed. Men’ak and Dra’kor didn’t spend much time together anymore. Dra’kor practiced his form of magic, and Men’ak worked on figuring out the dream worlds.

  Marcus Jonovan saw the rider from the tall eastern tower. He rode with a red bandanna wrapped about his arm. Even at this distance, he could see it clearly. He didn’t relish having to give the command and stomped loudly as he circled the tower’s stairs; descending to the main hall. Hopes were dashed as men saw the expression on his face.

  “Seal the castle,” he yelled. “Sound the alarm!”

  Jonovan threw his arms up as the squires rushed to his side to buckle his armor and strap his sword to his belt. Jonovan pulled the blade free and saw it glimmer in the lamp light. He turned it over slowly, checking for nicks and gouges. The blade was flawless, had been forged for his father’s father by elves…or so the legend goes. He sheathed the blade and allowed the squires to finish dressing him out in coif and breastplate. Brighton was the last to leave.

  “I guess this is it,” he said.

  “Aye, my friend…it is. Just like old times.”

  “We’ve done the best we could on such short notice.”

  Marcus nodded. “You have done well,”

  “I hope it is enough.”

  “It is what it is,” Marcus muttered. “Keep the men safe…”

  “By your leave lord,” Brighton nodded. He turned and left to take care of preparations.

  His men ran out into the yard and started shouting orders, his Hand stood at the front, making sure that all was taken care of. Long rods were placed in cranks and the oxen teams were chained to thick ropes.

  Just as the scout entered through the portcullis, the guard lifted his huge hammer and swung it at the oak-wedge that was jammed into the gear mechanism. The wedge popped free and the chain spun over the brackets. The gate slammed to the ground, its spear-shaped points digging deep into the compacted dirt with a resounding thunk.

  Brighton grabbed the short lad’s horse as the scout dismounted.

  “Report, son!”

  The lad was out of breath from riding so hard. “They are right behind me, not more than half a league back. Th..there are thousands…”

  Brighton could see the worry on the lad’s face.

  “Don’t worry son, we’ll be safe in the keep. Now, go wipe down your horse and water him.”

  The lad nodded and led the animal way by the reins. The stable boy looked on in horror and the animal stumbled and staggered, falling to a knee.

  Brighton turned and waved at the guard, shouting as he walked. “Close the gate…”

  “Now, lift that bridge,” he ordered.

  The team leader of the oxen swung his whip. “Heeya,” he yelled as it cracked over the heads of the oxen.

  The animal’s eyes went wide and they strained against their yoke, pulling the thick, long, ropes tight. A man slathered grease on the wooden cogs and the wheel that the rope was wrapped about. The wooden pulley system groaned in complaint, but slowly, inch by inch, the giant woode
n drawbridge lifted, breaking free of the dirt, which fell to the road.

  Men rushed to lend strength, grabbing the thick ropes in well-callused hands and throwing their backs into their work.

  “Pull,” came a yell.

  “Pull,” it echoed again.

  Each command was followed by loud grunts of men straining. The bridge creaked and groaned with each attempt as it climbed free of the opposite bank. Soon, the gate was high enough that a man could not have reached it from horseback. Within the span of a hundred heartbeats, the door was pulled tight to the castle walls, slamming into place. Thick iron rods were dropped into place through the keyholes from up above. Rods were pushed through the geared cogs to which the massive lift-chains were attached. Now, even if the enemy could get grappling hooks over the edge of the bridge, they would not be able to pull it down.

  None would leave the castle until the siege was over, or the lord ordered it so. They were cut off from the world and safe…for now. At the tops of towers, spotters stood with their eyeglasses held up, searching the edge of the forest. Jonovan paced and knew that little would change until his brothers arrived. He smiled at the thought.

  Marcus could just make out the beat of the drums; drums used to keep the men moving in unison. He could hear the rumble of the mammoth siege engines he knew rolled down the road, somewhere in the distance. He stood protected, under thick wooden lids that reached from building to building. They would allow his men to move about freely and would render the flaming arrows and pitch-balls useless.

  They waited.

  Toulereau set the troublesome scroll to the side and exited his room. He navigated the narrow staircase of the Inn, slipped across the room and stepped into the bright sunlight. He walked toward the gate and watched the men work on the new wall for a while. They had over a hundred men working. It was hard for him to remember that they had a scant twenty in the entire town just a few short weeks ago.

  Everyone in camp knew who he was; he was rather well known in these parts. Men tipped hats, nodded and waved as he passed.

  At the pace the men worked, the wall would be finished by the day after tomorrow, giving them room for another seventy people or so. A smirk filled his face because they had over seventy people camping in the streets and under wagons. If everyone came from Glenn Haven and Rolling Rock, they would have to expand again. He had already broached the subject with Dra’kor. Of course he hadn’t said a word about it, but Toulereau knew how he felt.

  Toulereau was standing in the middle of the street near the gate when Rule and Bitters rode in. He recognized Bitters from his cloak and hat and his horse. The dappled mare was at least eighteen-hands tall at the withers and was wild in the eyes. There was a certain way that warders carried themselves, a quiet contained rage. They stopped in front of him.

  Bitters pushed his hat up. “Toulereau...”

  “Bitters…” Toulereau answered nodding to the man.

  “This is Rule.”

  Toulereau smiled. “I’ve heard your name in passing.”

  Rule lifted his hat and nodded, studying the elf. “Same.”

  Toulereau stared into Rule’s black hard eyes. The man’s face was expressionless, his chin scarred, his features chiseled. His eyes wandered down to the ornate elven bow draped across his lap. He had heard stories of it, and could hear its whispers.

  “We should talk about Killoroy.”

  Bitters and Rule both nodded. Bitters spoke. “We’ll be with you as soon as we water and brush down our horses.”

  “I’ll wait for you at the inn,” he said, nodding in the direction of the quaint inn across the street.

  The two kicked their horses in the sides and trotted them over to the stables. The men had words with the man attending the stables and Toulereau saw him throw up his arms. Toulereau was sure that they had told him in no uncertain terms that he was not allowed to touch their animals.

  Toulereau saw the men remove their saddles and place them across the rail. He didn’t wait to see the rest of their preparation, but instead, turned and headed to the inn. D’Arron was there, standing in the door.

  “There will be two men, warders, joining me in the common room.”

  D’Arron’s eyes went wide and she rushed off to the kitchen to fetch three mugs and a pitcher of cool mead.

  Rule and Bitters entered the inn, nodding to D’Arron.

  “Ma’am,” Rule said, stepping into the room, removing his cloak and setting his bow to the side. He draped his cloak over the back of one of the pegs that was in the wall next to the door.

  Bitters did the same.

  “This is D’Arron. She owns the inn,” Toulereau said.

  D’Arron lowered her eyes and curtsied. She pushed the hair from her eyes and smiled at the two men. She nervously played with her hair.

  Both men wore pants cut of leather, tanned and well worn. Their shirts were heavy cotton, clenched at the waist. D’Arron could see their muscles ripple as they moved. They seemed to float across the floor, moving like hungry cats hunting prey. She couldn’t hear their feet. Most men shuffled, but these placed their feet purposefully and carefully; even their shirts and pants were silent.

  These two men were very curious to her. She had heard stories of the warders. Solitary men, allegiance to none, committed for life to guard the realms. There were rumors that they themselves were in possession of magic, although she could neither confirm that nor deny it, but given the times.

  She could see the fine blades they both carried, and could see the scars on their arms. It was said that a warder moved like the wind and could battle ten men. Some of the stories made her skin crawl, and sent goose-bumps up her spine.

  She caught site of dragon tattoos just peeking out from under the rolled up sleeves of their shirts. Emblazoned on the top of both men’s forearms, they were both fierce and unlike any tattoos she had ever seen. To her, they looked as though they lived. They were identical on each man. Her head shot sideways as she could have sworn that the tattoo moved, that the tail of the dragon on Rule’s arm had wrapped itself twice about its body, when before, it had only been wrapped once. She blinked hard, not sure if she should trust her eyes.

  Rule knew he was being watch and studied. He cared not. His jaw was ironed and his face, expressionless.

  She showed them to the gathering room near the fireplace and had already arranged chairs. She set the pitcher of mead she was carrying down on the hand-planed table after filling their glasses.

  “I’ll bring you a small meal of cheese, bread and dried sausage. If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen. Just holler!”

  Rule adjust the chair turning it sideways so that he could keep an eye on the door and sat down straddling the back and loosened his foot-long knife, pulling back the leather strap that kept it secure. It was a habit, and he did it without thought.

  “I got word that Killoroy is invading Jonovan.” Toulereau opened, setting the scroll on the table. “Jonovan has called on help from his brothers.”

  Rule nodded. “I was there and gave warning. Killoroy masses troops and moves siege engines. I happened upon them quite by accident in the forests off the back cliffs that surround the castle. I overheard their plans and reported them to Brighton, the Jonovan’s Hand. It took a bit of convincing from both of us to get Marcus to give up his wenching and take the attack seriously. By now, I’m sure the battle has begun.”

  Toulereau grinned at the mention of Marcus. Rule had that right! “Any idea what could have precipitated the attack?”

  Rule shrugged. “There has been peace for centuries. All sides signed the treaties. They fight like small children amongst themselves, carving off pieces of each other’s realms, but a full on attack? Killoroy has a new queen, that is all that has changed. Her soldiers also march with his. I did not recognize their crest.”

  “Can you describe it?” Toulereau asked, leaning forward in his chair.

  “I can. It was a red dagger through a black sun.”


  Toulereau expression grew worried and his face darkened. “Are you certain?”

  Rule nodded, “I am. Does that mean something to you?”

  Toulereau’s squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them. The drug he had taken was beginning to wear off. “I’ll tell you what it means…it means we have dark mages in the realms, one or more.”

  “You don’t mean Killoroy do you?” Rule asked.

  Toulereau shook his head. “No, I think it is this new queen?”

  “The dark mage is female?” Bitters asked, a bit taken aback.

  “It is not unheard of,” Toulereau commented. “There were several back in the days of Ror. Either that, or another pulls her strings like a puppeteer.”

  Rule nodded, “My father told me stories of such.”

  Bitters shook his head. “I have no experience with such things.”

  The three men sat in silence for several minutes, nursing their drinks.

  “Why do you suppose she marches soldiers?” Rule asked. “From what I have heard, the dark ones don’t need armies; they can raise them from the depths of halla.”

  Toulereau narrowed his eyes as he reasoned. “I do not know. I confess that it is highly unusual. I would have expected her to attack with the gift. It is the way of the dark ones.”

  “Perhaps she only wishes to expand their realm,” Bitters offered. “His is the smallest of realms.”

  “Doubtful. The dark ones are not known for restraint!” Toulereau mumbled. “We do not know if she has carved out a realm for herself without the knowledge of its rightful owner. I suppose it is possible. Many of the realms hold vast swatches of land, some uninhabitable. A dark wizard could make such land…tolerable”