Dra’kor had sent hunters out into the woods to gather meat. They met up with the warder called Rule who had snuck up on them without notice. They were grateful that he joined their party; the reputation of the warders was well deserved. They were highly respected amongst all in the realms.
Before long, Rule grew frustrated and wandered off by himself. The group of unsavvy townsfolk were hunting in a pack, and would scare off any game in the vicinity long before they were within bow range. He shook his head as he turned to the side and led his horse away into the deep wood.
He studied the valley and the woods before he selected his place near a stream where the wind swept up into his face. After he tied his horse at the edge of the meadow, he ventured silently about halfway to the stream and selected his blind near a thick grouping of thick waist-high shrubs. He crouched and waited patiently, his arrow already nocked.
It wasn’t long before a stag wandered down for a drink. It paused and sniffing at the air, its ears twitching as it listened for telltale signs of predators. Rule pulled back on his bowstring and waited for the words to come. “Fire.”
It was a clean kill and the deer fell to the ground. Rule pulled his knife free and gutted the animal before he lifted it over the back of his horse and headed back toward the camp. When he entered the well-lit clearing with the large white-tailed deer across his horse, the townsfolk celebrated, knowing that they would be able to eat well this night.
Dra’kor recognized Rule as he entered the camp and gripped him strongly by the arm. “Thanks for joining us!”
The man’s expression didn’t change, but Dra’kor thought that he saw his eyes soften.
He joined them by the fire and listened to their stories. Each had a story of loss. Each had a story of desperation. They were good folks, just trying to get by; trying to eke out a little slice of happiness in a world gone awry.
A lone beast attacked that night. By the time Dra’kor had figured out what was happening, the creature was already dead by the hand of a woodsman with a keen edge on his axe. Dra’kor lit the beast on fire using magic and they were done with it.
They headed out early in the morning and by noon they had the castle in sight. It buoyed their spirits.
Toulereau looked out across the lake from the window in his keep. He saw the line of wagons, although it was shorter than he had hoped. He knew that many had ignored his advice and stayed behind. Well, he had done the best he could. Sometimes you just couldn’t convince people of anything.
He signaled his men to begin lifting the gate as the wagons rode up the narrow trail leading to the castle. Four men to a side, they pushed on long oak rods as thick as one’s wrist, cranking the large wheels that were wrapped in the heavy iron-chain that lifted the gate. It groaned in protest. The first wagon crossed into the keep. For most, this would be their first time inside a castle and they stared in marvel at the stonework, the size of the battlement walls and city sheltered within.
Toulereau stood just inside the gate and welcomed each and every person. The cattle and chickens were let loose to wander the grounds and the wagons were rolled to the edge of the wall and lined up in a neat row.
By mid-afternoon, people had already begun tilling gardens and transplanting the pots of vegetables they had brought. Sheila and Brag had taken a group and a wagon down to the fields where they had filled the entire wagon with plants of squash, potatoes and peppers. They had even found some onions and carrots.
That evening, the wedge was knocked out of the gate and it slammed to the ground, reverberating across the fields.
That night, the people in the town of Three Rivers looked out across the mountains to the south and saw bright lights as the soldiers of Killoroy lit their fires along the cliffs near Big Drop Falls. At first there was but a handful, but as the night darkened they saw hundreds.
D’Arron knew she had been pigheaded. She stuffed her pack with what she could, grabbed her husband’s sword and threw a dark cloak over her shoulders. She slipped out the back of her inn, grabbed her horse, and led him to the gate.
The town was quiet. Most were asleep.
“I want to leave,” she told the man standing guard, startling him.
“You can wait until morning,” he grunted.
“Cedric Arthur Bryn,” she said, looking him in the eyes. “By morning the soldiers will be here. I want to leave…now!”
“I’m under orders to keep the gate closed ’til morning,” he grumbled.
“Don’t make me get your mother…” she threatened.
He stared back for a minute until he knew that she would give him no peace. He nodded, climbed down the ladder from his perch and cracked open the gate enough for her to walk her horse out.
‘Thank you,” she called back.
She threw a leg over and kicked the horse hard in the sides. She heard the gate close behind her and realized the peril she was faced with. She felt the wind in her face as she pointed the horse down the road that she knew led to Toulereau. She prayed for the gods to watch over her.
Topside sat in the dark, his face sunken, his arms weak. It had been far too long since he last ate. Back a week or so ago he had caught a big juicy rat, but he had eaten little since then. He wished he could catch another rat. Rats were tasty!
When the lightning stopped he ventured out of his cellar beneath the General Store, clutching his ax, and stared out the frosted window. He rubbed a small clear circle in one corner and placed his eye close. The street was empty, he saw no bodies this time. He wondered how many of them were left alive. Movement in a widow across the street caught his attention. A man, thin, dirty, disheveled, waved him down—he kind of looked like the barber, but he couldn’t tell for sure because his eyes wouldn’t focus anymore. Topside waved back, but doubted the man could see much behind the thick ice that coated the glass.
It was cold. Damned cold—he could see his breath, and felt it robbing the strength from his bones. He grumbled under his breath. He was at his limit and paced while he argued with himself. It was the same argument he had every day since the storm and lightning showed up, only this time he was desperate. There were thirty-five scratches on the floor, one for each day he had been trapped. It was time for him to go.
There were shoes on the shelves. He seized a pair, and held them up to his feet. They were too narrow, but it was the biggest pair on the shelf. He squeezed his feet into them and laced them tight. They didn’t hurt none, but it could-a been due to the fact that his feet were numb. He didn’t particularly like shoes, but if he was going to be traipsing in the snow… He swore at the gods.
Next, he grabbed his small pack and filled it with a new flint, a knife, a tarp and a wool blanket. He walked the store, checking the shelves for anything else that might help him survive. He found a small pot, a cup and some rope. He shove all of it into the pack. He felt bad about it, but the store owner was dead. Soon, he would be too, they’d all be dead or serving the beasts.
He considered heading toward the tunnels, home, but the beasts always came from that direction. His only other choice was to try to make it down the valley to Three Rivers. He may die trying, but he was dying anyway. Movement caught his eye as a rat scurried by. His went wide and he made chase, diving after it. It squeaked as it slipped through his fingers and squeezed under a loose floorboard. Topside rolled to his back and sobbed uncontrollably.
When Topside sat up, he wiped his nose on his sleeve, grabbed his pack, and crawled to the back of the store. After he brushed the window free of frost, he watched. He didn’t know how long he stared out the window watching for the hooded-man, the evil one. That one was already dead and was nothin’ but bones. After a long time, he opened the door and peered out. He saw nothing moving. Lowering himself toward the ground in a crouch, he dashed for the trees.
In a matter of seconds, his heart was pounding and his knees were quaking. He dropped behind a large boulder and rested, listening. He scampered a few paces at a time, running deeper into
the woods until he could barely see the store. He crawled on his belly in the snow to the east. If he could make the edge of town, he’d be free.
The ice and snow soaked his clothes, and soon he was shivering. He wiggled under the snow and pushed himself up. The snow covered his coat and head—he hoped nobody would notice him. Nothing moved. He pushed forward. The snow was deep; far too deep for this time of year, and the air had an unnatural chill about it.
It took him almost an hour to reach the edge of town—the trip should have taken less than five minutes. He stuck to the woods, keeping the road just in sight to his right. He heard the beasts howl in the distance and knew he had little time. He crouched and scrambled as fast as he could, trying to put as much distance between him and the town as he could. If the beasts caught him out here in the open, he would be dead.
Bah’ran
“You are not worthy,” said a gruff voice in the trees, startling Bal’kor from his morning duties.
An elf walked out into the clearing. He surveyed the mess and shook his head. “Careless! Who are you? I’m Brock.”
Bal’kor stared, his mouth hanging open. “I’m Bal’kor!”
“Well Bal’kor, you are not what I expected. I’ve waited for centuries and you are what they send!” Brock sat down on a flat boulder.
“In the past, only highly skilled trainees from the academy were sent for testing. Each time they seem to send someone less prepared than the previous candidate.”
The elf pulled out a small biscuit from his pack. “Did you know that they used to prepare for decades? They knew what they were going to be facing and had completed all the lessons the academy could teach. Only the very best were tested.”
He snorted. “They must be desperate. I sense no magic from you and you seem too young.”
Bal’kor’s face turned red. “I wasn’t sent!”
Brock raised an eyebrow. “Then how do you come to be here. You have to be sent. You know, none may come or go, only those who face the challenge can enter through the gate.”
“The story is kind of embarrassing,” Bal’kor said.
Bal’kor explain how he came to be trapped. He told Brock about his mother, Topaz and his uncle, Ja’tar. He also told him about the demon and the book.
“I was just using the spells in the book. I should have known better…” he sighed.
“You are not likely to succeed.” Brock stated, shaking his head. “I’ll be surprised if you survive the week.”
“Can you explain a bit more about this challenge?”
“The challenge was designed by the ancients to test those who choose to make wizardry their profession. The challenges are magic in that they are random with a purpose; no one knows what all of the challenges are, or which are to be completed. Many of the challenges are fatal if not completed. They need to be completed in order. Those around you cannot directly assist, but can be used as resources. I have heard that there are five challenges”
“Resources,” Bal’kor echoed. “You mean I can ask questions and the like?”
Brock nodded. “Within reason.”
“Where am I?” Bal’kor asked.
“I’ll get to that, now to continue…uninterrupted this time…this is the first challenge, this challenge is about knowledge and self-reliance. I am a guardian. The guardians have been charged with of the job of oversight...you know, seeing the inductees through the process. We are in the job for life and magically bound. The responsibility passes down through the family line for all generations.”
“So your father—”
“—my family accepted the responsibility of guardianship eight generations ago. We have aided the Keep in testing Wizards for service since then. My forefathers were honored members of the Tribal Council of Races. Although, we have not had a meeting in recent history, not since my youth.”
“Where am I?” he asked again, pushing a mushroom on a long stick and holding it over the fire to cook.
Brock sighed heavily. “You are in the area of the realms knows as Bar’haan. It is the most southern region of the realms. This place has served for generations as the first test for the Keep. Only those resourceful enough get to continue. Most die!”
The elf was gruff in nature and unarguably the most disagreeable person Bal’kor had ever met. With his matter-of-fact manner of speech and negative nature, Bal’kor hoped he didn’t have to spend much time with him. He was sure that the feeling was mutual.
“So, what is this challenge? You mentioned a process of testing. Is this test of will, reliance and self-sufficiency? Is it about me surviving, or is there more magic involved—like slaying beasts and such?”
“You will need to survive on your own and defend yourself against… whatever comes…”
“Beasts?”
“Not usually, but given the times, who can say.”
“Where did you get that shield?” Brock asked.
“I found it high up in a cave on the mountain.” Bal’kor said, pointing off in the direction he had come from. “I took it off of a dead man who wouldn’t need it any longer. He died fighting some kind of large pack of dogs! They must have been great warriors; they killed many of the beasts before they died.”
Brock didn’t say anything in response. “It has been a long time since the Magistrate of the Guild sent a wizard through for testing and proofing. Not since my grandfather’s father, over 800 years ago.”
“Why did they stop?”
Brock shrugged. “No one knows…they just did.”
“What happened to him…I mean the last mage?” Bal’kor asked.
“He died. He lasted but four days. My kin died with him...and none have come since then. You are the first in almost 800 years.”
“Where did they die?”
Brock changed the subject. “You look just like your mother”
Bal’kor’s eyes sparkled. “You knew my mother?”
Brock nodded. “I remember when she came through for her testing.”
“Did she do well?”
Brock smiled for the first time since arriving. “She was spectacular.”
Bal’kor nodded. He heard a voice in the back of his head tell him, “Tell Brock that Star Stone says hello.”
“Mother says to tell you that Star Stone says hello!”
Brock nearly choked on the biscuit he was chewing. “I thought your mother died giving birth to you? How could you know that?”
“She did…kind of. She told me she was going to will her essence into this bracelet. She talks to me sometimes!” Bal’kor said, showing Brock the stone around his wrist.
Brock squinted. “I’ll be damned, that’s a Bal’achar!”
“Bal’achar?” Bal’kor asked with a perplexed expression on his face.
Brocks face showed his surprise at Bal’kor’s lack of knowledge. “It is an ancient soul-stone. It holds the person until they can be resurrected.”
“Is that possible,” Bal’kor hesitantly asked, his voice quivering.
Brock nodded. “I hear it was quite common back in the days of Ror.”
“Who can do that?” Bal’kor asked, wide eyed and full of fervor.
Brock snorted. “Well, your uncle definitely can! Didn’t he tell you?”
Bal’kor shook his head while a vexed expression crossed his face. “He must have had his reasons…”
Bal’kor thought back on when he first arrived. His uncle had been angry with his mother. He still didn’t understand the reasons. Maybe he forgot to tell him because he was so angry. He couldn’t think of a reason that his uncle would hide such a thing from him. Surely he would want his sister to be alive again.
Brock stood up. “Well, you need a better shelter than this. You best get busy. I will check in on you in a few days. Think about the one wish you want me to grant.”
Bal’kor watched as Brock turned and left the small clearing. He walked off toward the mountain. He called out, “Good bye!” He heard nothing in reply, although he didn’t really e
xpect the gruff dwarf to say anything at all.
Brock grumbled as he walked. This child couldn’t possibly be the wizard. He had best go to the Ring of the Ancients and wait. He hoped he wouldn’t be waiting long.
Craig closed his eyes and clung to the railing of the small boat. His stomach pitched and he hurled its contents into the ocean. The boat wobbled as it crested the next wave and plunged down the backsides, sliding sideways.
The older seafarers grinned and mocked him. He was a landlubber, not meant for ocean travel. But ocean travel he must…his lord had decreed it.
A foam-filled wave splashed over the side of the boat drenching him in cold saltwater. He didn’t care. He felt his stomach roll again. There was nothing there to heave, but the dry heaves came just the same. He went to his knee as his gut churned and his head ached.
Craig wondered if he was going to survive the trip to the realm of Overlund. He was not sure that the hundred gold pieces his lord had offered were enough for him to make the return trip.
He knew that he was to meet with O’Brian, Marcus’s brother and leader of the Klan of the Wolf. They were an offshoot from the Clan Ljótr, which meant ugly in Gaelic. Apparently there had been a long running feud over their claim to use the Ljótr name. After many scores had died, they reluctantly surrendered and as part of the truce that ended the eighteen-year war, were forced to change their crest to the Klan of the Wolf.
They were also outcast to a remote lump of rock in the middle of the ocean. He shook his head. He couldn’t understand why anyone would choose to live here. It rained constantly, the salt air bit at ones bones and the air was damp and cold. He grabbed the railing and threw his head over and vomited again.
Captain D’Mark had stepped to his side and rested an uneasy hand on his back. “It’ll pass lad!”
Craig turned his pale head sideways and stared back, snarling.
Robert kicked his horse in the sides and urged it up the steep trail. War was coming and his lord was under attack. He road south to tell Marcus’s oldest brother, Igneous, of the attack. Igneous would rally his army and they would march to his brother’s aid. The southerners were fierce. But he wondered if they would arrive in enough time to turn the tide of the battle.
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla Page 47