The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla

by Scott D. Muller

  “Whaa?”

  D’rel grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him forcefully. “You are wasting the most important part of the day. You should be out hunting while the animals have not yet bedded down for the day.”

  Bal’kor pulled himself out of bed and wiped the sleep from his eyes.

  “Go! Hunt!”

  “Now?”

  D’rel kicked him in the ass, “Yes, now! I will observe.”

  D’rel watched as the young mage stomped through the forest, making enough noise to raise the dead. He shook his head. This one wasn’t trainable. He would die an old elf trying to instruct one such as this. He questioned his judgment. Miraculously, Bal’kor had trapped two rabbits. D’rel stooped and examined the traps. He smiled, running his fingers along the trigger. They were masterfully done. So, the boy is not a complete bumble, he thought to himself. Someone has taught him well how to set a trap. If he can learn to trap, maybe—just maybe—he could learn to fight.

  After the rabbits were cooked and the two had finished eating them for breakfast, D’rel set his conditions to train the lad. He explained the ground rules, ‘I will instruct you on three conditions; first—you must practice diligently, second—you must do exactly as you are told, and third—you must refrain from always asking why. The answer will always be the same; because I told you so! Do you agree on these?”

  “It is a lot to take in,” Bal’kor muttered.

  D’rel placed his hands on his hips and leaned forward. “Do you concur to abide with these rules?”

  Bal’kor didn’t really agree, but he nodded anyway.

  For the rest of the day, D’rel instructed, and Bal’kor followed without question—although he found that he could ask for ‘clarification’ in his understanding. For his part, D’rel always answered the why questions the same—as promised. D’rel began with the most simple of all exercises. He taught Bal’kor how to walk and balance.

  “Your center is where all your energy is stored. You must keep that center over your feet at all times. You must plan ahead. Don’t run flat footed, run from your toes and the balls of your feet,” D’rel explained as he dashed across the small meadow. “You must move each foot deliberately to a location. Come, let us walk. I have set up a practice course for you.”

  “A practice course?” Bal’kor asked.

  “Yes! A place where you can practice your lessons when I am not around.” D’rel winked. “I can’t be by your side all the time. I do have other things to which I need to attend.”

  After silently walking a short distance Bal’kor stepped into a small clearing. He looked down and saw a series of logs and rocks arranged in a crisscrossing pattern. The logs were lashed together with vine and suspended above the ground by several feet. There was even a rope strung tightly between two trees

  “Try to move smoothly; don’t worry about speed for now. Accuracy and balance is most important. Now, follow me,” D’rel said as he jumped to the first rock and stood on his left foot.

  Bal’kor watched as D’rel jumped from rock to rock, over logs and ducking under branches balanced on poles. D’rel’s feet looked like they were glued to the stumps and rock. It looked easy enough…

  The first thing Bal’kor noticed was that his whole foot wouldn’t fit on the top of the logs. He tried to run across logs and hop from rock to rock. He knew it looked comical. He was wildly waving his arms, constantly throwing his balance off. He missed the rocks and land with a thud, jarring his leg. Thrice, he fell to the ground, scraping up his face and hands.

  To his credit, D’rel did not ridicule him, but Bal’kor could see the amusement in his eyes. He shouted out corrections as Bal’kor practiced.

  “Slow down…”

  “Use the balls of your feet.”

  “Stand up straight…stop leaning over.”

  “Try not to wave your arms so hard, small movements…”

  “Feel your balance and center; worry less about your feet.”

  “Stop looking down.”

  Bal’kor tried to incorporate all of the suggestions, but they just became overwhelming. Before long, he grew tired and he was falling more often than when he had first started. His legs were beginning to feel wobbly, and sweat dripped from his chin as he clutched his knees and panted.

  “Slow down. This is not a race,” said the elf softly. “You expend a great amount of energy fighting your body. You are tense. Being tense does not allow you to feel your center and flow with the energy of your surroundings.”

  Bal’kor looked at him with a blank expression. Energy of his surroundings? What the halla was he talking about?

  “Here, watch,” he said as he nimbly traversed the log and jumped from rock to rock without issuing a sound, pausing at each obstacle!

  Bal’kor was frustrated. He began to pout like a small child.

  D’rel picked up a stout stick and swatted him smartly on the ass.

  “Hey!” Bal’kor shouted. “What was that for?”

  D’rel was red-faced. “You expect to master in hours what I have taken my entire life to learn. You act like a petulant child, arrogant and foolish. It could take you fifty years just to learn to walk! You have many bad habits we must break before you will walk the warrior’s walk.”

  “Is all of this really necessary? I don’t have fifty years,” Bal’kor groaned.

  “Necessary? D’rel snorted. “Of course not. You can continue to stomp around like a bear and become easy prey for the beasts your mother warned you about.”

  “But I don’t have time to—”

  “You are a mage. You have all the time in the world.”

  “You keep saying that…what do you mean?”

  D’rel looked puzzled. He had no idea how to answer. Could it be that this lad did not yet know even the basics?

  “With your life spell you should be able to live many hundreds of years. Plenty of time for learning and doing whatever you desire.”

  Bal’kor nodded, but didn’t fully understand.

  “What is this life spell? I do not think I know of this spell.”

  D’rel’s head jerked. “It is the spell that keeps you from aging…did they not teach you anything in the Keep?”

  Bal’kor frowned. “I have only been in the Keep for a couple weeks. And as you saw, I couldn’t do magic. I suppose they just didn’t bother.”

  “Then I will need to teach you that right away. But first…we practice.”

  D’rel tried to hide the worry from his face. This wizard was green, untrained, and didn’t even know the rudimentary spell needed to keep himself alive. He and Brock would have their hands full. Bal’kor should not have been there. The testing area was set up for the Accepted, whom had spent many decades—some even trained for centuries—in preparation for the trials. Sometimes, even they fell to the spells.

  By the end of the day Bal’kor was so sore he could barely move. His legs and arms were scraped and bruised, as well as was his ego. He plopped to the ground and rubbed his aching legs. D’rel tossed a water-skin to him and he drank deeply.

  “Tomorrow we will continue this and I will begin teaching you to fight! But for now, I want you to listen as I explain the life spell.”

  “I can see the magic,” Bal’kor mentioned. “I just couldn’t get it to come out. If you show me, I will be able to learn it and replicate it. My mother taught me…”

  D’rel was skeptical, but showed him the spell anyway. To his surprise, Bal’kor was able to create a near perfect copy on his first attempt. Perhaps, D’rel thought, this lad may stand a chance after all!

  “You will need to work at putting more power into the spell and tying it off. Each time you cast it, try to add more energy into the spell. Soon, you will only need to cast it once a day. Some only cast the spell once a week. Your uncle only needs to cast his once a month. Bal’kor’s eyes widened. He had no idea how strong his uncle was, or for that matter, how weak he was in comparison. He had never measured his skills against any other.
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br />   The next day was a repeat of the prior, as was the next.

  For his part, D’rel taught him the basics of walking, fighting with his staff, and the lore of the forest. Bal’kor did as he promised and practiced hard, repeating the lessons until the sun set and it was too dark to see.

  D’rel was befuddled at how quickly he mastered his lessons; it was very unnatural. It seemed to him as though he were teaching a different student each day. Bal’kor would retire in the evening with only a rudimentary understanding of the day’s lessons, and yet, wake the next morn and be able to repeat them nearly without fault. D’rel was grateful at the progress, but pondered what this might mean. He had never met someone who was so quick to learn and master either magic or the elf way. He watched as Bal’kor practiced his magic. Even he had to pay attention now to point out the finer points of the lessons. In the beginning, there were so many things wrong, it was easy for him to correct and criticize. Now, he was pointing out the finer points often reserved for those studying for many decades. He smirked. It was testing his skills—they had not been challenged in a long time!

  Bal’kor sat in his shelter and watched the coals of his fire burn down. He had no idea where the elf went once it got dark, but he always returned in the morning.

  Every day before he retired, Bal’kor would roll a small fire ball between his fingers, and practice the ten basic spells—just as his mother had taught him. His mother had not talked to him since he cast his first spell, but he could feel her watching sometimes. He was sure that she was mad at him, but didn’t fully understand why. He had done nothing wrong…well, nothing wrong since he got himself into this situation in the first place!

  To Bal’kor’s credit, he learned to deflect blows, and was beginning to learn how to move. D’rel showed him how to anticipate moves by watching, explaining that it took far less energy to deflect, than to block. D’rel held his sword with both hands and angled it across his back.

  “In this way, an attacker’s blade will slide. If he has committed to the blow, he will be off balance.”

  He was beginning to understand that by staying on the balls of his feet, it allowed him to shift his weight and move quicker.

  D’rel grabbed his foot. “Here, Look! When only the ball of your foot is on the ground, you can twist quickly. Your foot doesn’t drag.”

  Bal’kor twisted his foot, trying to feel the difference.

  D’rel nodded. “With both feet as such, you can move quickly. But remember…you need to plant your feet when you want to put force behind your weapon.”

  After each day’s lessons, the elf spent time instructing him about the forest. He learned tracking, listening to the forest sounds, and being aware. Bal’kor found it amazing that he was now able to sees things that he could barely observe when they were pointed out to him just a few days prior. A bent over leaf, a depression in the dirt, they all told a story.

  Later in the evening after a dinner of roasted rabbit and roots, they sat by the fire. Bal’kor listened to the stories the elf told of how the realms were long ago. It was his favorite part of the day.

  “I must leave tomorrow on the morn,” D’rel said

  “Will you be back?” Bal’kor asked.

  The elf nodded, “I will, but not for several days. You must continue to practice. Be wary of the sounds of the forest. It has been quiet as of late, but the beasts will return.”

  Bal’kor looked at his shelter. He rolled up his sleeves and readied himself to cast. He was anxious to try a spell to seal his leaky roof. He spun his hands and watched as the bark and pitch fused together, forming a continuous sheet. He smiled to himself. He had been so busy learning the elf way, he hadn’t time to practice all of the spells his mother and Zedd’aki had taught him. He knew that sooner or later he would be challenged. He didn’t want to be caught by surprise.

  Klan of the Wolf

  Craig looked longingly at the shore. It was so close, and yet, for the big boat, it might as well have been across the ocean. The lights of the small village twinkled in the distance and shimmered off the still water. Craig could see smoke rising from the tents of the small town and longed to be inside, out of the cold weather. He huddled under his elk-skin wrap and pulled his oil-skin over the top to keep it dry.

  At least the ocean was calm here in the bay, sheltered by the tall mountains to the north. Craig had not spent the last day hugging the railing and losing the contents of his stomach—for which he was grateful. D’Mark turned the ship toward the south as Craig watched the longboats of O’Brian sail toward shore. They would need to sail south for another eight hours to reach a port capable of docking the Mary-Anne.

  The seafaring village of Shanty was unaccustomed to outsiders. Their small enclave of nine-hands were simple folk. In this part of the remote north, a village was often called by the number of able bodied men that either fished or worked the land. They were of the sea; fishermen by any other name, but nomads at heart. They lived in huts made of seal hides wrapped about sturdy oak poles and they dried fish on racks over smoky fires. The town had a single large hut, large enough for all thirty-five townsfolk to occupy. It was a gathering place for the long, cold, winter nights. Each family had their own sleeping hut. They ringed the large hut, being but several paces away. Ropes were strung between the huts to lead the way when the named storms blew snow deep as one’s waist and blinded even the best of sled dogs.

  The village elder was a crusty old man named O’Rork. His kin had led this group for over fifty years. He hailed from further south than he cared to admit, but had been transplanted to the area by his folks when the land was free and the War of the Clover had decimated any town worthy of having a name. His parents had fled, as many did, with little more than their skills and the clothes on their back. The war had never reached this far north. Inhospitable, and of little value, their town wasn’t worth spilling blood over.

  When the lead longboat arrived, his son had come running to hail the news. The town gathered and gawked at the size of the boat and at the men who rowed it to their shore from across the ocean. They knew from whence they came—even if they did not know the particular clan or tribe. The curved dragon’s heads fitted from the keel and the rived oak planking were sights not oft seen in these parts...and when they did appear—it meant war, pillage and plundering. The longboats dwarfed their small fishing vessels made of simple pine and meant to carry two or three. Even the sails were awe inspiring, finely woven canvas with large blood-red dragons-head designs.

  O’Brian stood at the front of the boat, calling out orders as he tested the depth with his rope and searched for a clear path toward shore. His voice could be heard echoing across the water.

  “Three knots left.”

  “Four knots right.”

  “Hard right….two knots plus.”

  They had already passed Witch’s Teet, a landmark which had sunk many vessels. But tonight the ocean was mostly still and the rocks could be seen poking out of the dark murk. O’Rork had counted their town lucky on many occasions when the Norse had come to plunder and met their deaths under those rocks.

  O’Rork stood near the shore, bracing himself against the gusty wind that was beginning to blow from the north. He had hoped it would stay calm; angry Islesmen were worse than happy—or drunk! His beard was frosted and filled with ice even though he had tucked it into the heavy leather jacket that reached his knees. It was fur lined and kept him warm…his hands—well, they were another matter and he rubbed them together trying to warm them. The cold bit straight through the seal skinned gloves. His gloves were old, made many years ago, back when the seals ventured this far south. Now, they came no more, and those that did, were highly prized and sought by both the hunters and fisherman alike.

  He eyed the strangers warily through squinted eyes, but realized there was little he could have done if they came to conquer. He and several of the oldest stood their ground, spears upright. It was evident that these visitors were warriors, from the helms
on their heads, the swords on their belts and the shields on their arms. O’Rork had made it clear that they were not to provoke these men. There would be no shows of bravado under his watch!

  The small children, dressed in parkas, clutched at their mother’s legs, and hid their faces from the brutish men with the deep-red beards. They wore helms made of ornate metal that were strapped under their chins; their long braided hair whipped about wildly in the icy gusts. Their faces were decorated with tribal tattoos. Simply put, they were intimidating with their shields and armor. And their helms, well, they had large horns to each side, and sharp metal spikes meant to inflict damage while head-butting. Their arms were the size of small trees in thickness and their chests were wide and well-muscled. They towered over the small townsfolk, often by more than a head in height.

  These men paid little attention to the small crowd that had gathered by the pebble strewn shore. They had come to seek vengeance for their kin, summoned by a brother. They had no quarrel with those who watched silently waiting for the inevitable slaughter to begin.

  For the most part, the men of the Green Isle ignored the townsfolk, although a wanting glance by some of the younger men caused the fishermen to scold and hide their older daughters, who stared wide-eyed at the younger men that had arrived from the mist. These men, rugged men, galvanized by battle were rumored to take many wives and sire large families. The stories of their prowess in lovemaking was legend; every girls dream. O’Rork could see the sparkle in his own daughter’s eyes as she looked back longingly over her shoulder as she headed to their hut. It would not be the first time that the village had lost daughters to the men of the sea...nor the last.

  The main group arrived in the town of Shanty on the eastern seaboard in their longboats well past the witching hour during the full Ocht’or moon; its gold-orange glow cast eerie shadows across faces. The ten longboats that held fifty men apiece, twenty-five to a side plowed gracefully through the waves as the men dug deep with their long oars, twisting them in unison and pulling hard with strong backs.