The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla

by Scott D. Muller

  Brill felt her chest tighten and her vision clouded, fading to black.

  On the verge of passing out, Brill screeched in horror and felt her knee fall to the rock. A tear formed in her eye. The battle was lost.

  “Good,” Quinn said. “Now we understand each other.”

  While she had been dealing with Brill, the rest of her group had harnessed the other dragons. They still struggled, but she would put an end to that soon.

  One by one she gathered up the chains of the remaining five red dragons, and after calling them by name, made them kneel. The dragons prostrated themselves before her and hung their heads low, knowing that they would be used against man, just as they had those many years ago at Ror. Quinn began the process of filling their minds with hate and loathing, feeding off their already festering anger over being sequestered to the Spires.

  A small child dragon, too young to capture watched in horror from a shallow alcove. Quinn turned and stared briefly into her deep green eyes, feeding on the fear she saw hidden there.

  Boraguard, the head of the dragon council, was startled awake from her slumber. At first she was disoriented, but within a heartbeat she sensed the attacks on the reds and heard their struggle. She uses her dragon sight to see the fight from their eyes and was shocked at what she saw.

  “There is a dark mage attacking the council, just as Ja’tar warned,” she shouted out using her dragon sight. “She has the collars of Torn!”

  An elder bellowed. “But they were destroyed! We were there…”

  Boraguard threw her head back and belched fire. “Yet, they exist. She attacks the reds. Quickly—to their aid.”

  She leapt into the air from the ledge on Sawtooth Mountain and after circling twice to gain altitude, she broke out toward the caves across the valley. With wings beating feverishly, she headed to the north. She felt the panic of those in the chambers and felt their fear. Then, in less than a heartbeat, everything went blank. She searched for Brill, but couldn’t find her; nothing but blackness and emptiness met her probes. Boraguard’s mind filled with fear. Could she be dead? She beat her wings ever faster, tucked them to her sides and dove for the caves. One by one, her thoughts were cut off from the Reds.

  Voltaire heard the panicked summons of Boraguard and growled out loud, waking up Ja’tar and Rua’tor.

  “What?” a groggy Ja’tar asked, as he motioned his hand and the fire splayed.

  Fire flared out of Voltaire’s nostrils as she bellowed, “A dark mage attacks the Reds!”

  Ja’tar’s face turned ashen.

  Rua’tor sputtered, “What do we do? We must aid them…”

  “Are you sure,” Ja’tar asked.

  “Boraguard called her by name, Quinn. Does that name have meaning to you? She called her forsaken.”

  Mica shrugged in amusement, basking in the fear spreading across the mighty dragon’s face.

  At first Ja’tar didn’t recognize the name, but Rua’tor jogged his memory. “Forsaken? Isn’t that the name of that young mage who was the outcast? You know, the spindly one with the pretty face.”

  An expressionless Ja’tar looked at Rua’tor, slack jawed.

  “Don’t you remember? Gads, man! Ye must recall her.”

  Ja’tar shook his head.

  “I seem to recall that she was infatuated with one of the dark mages. What was his name…Aaron? Aarot…?”

  “Aareon. There was an Aareon,” Ja’tar piped in, recalling the tall handsome mage.

  Rua’tor scratched his beard. “She went off with them just before the Cleaving, but I heard that they rejected her. I always wondered what happened to her…she never came back to the Keep.”

  Ja’tar’s mind was filled with random visions as his memory returned in spurts. Her secretive return, the ensuing battle, their arguments. “I thought she was dead…and counted.”

  Rua’tor’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you think that?”

  Ja’tar’s face filled with anger as the memories stormed into his mind. “Because I killed her myself—”

  Mica’s face lit up. So, this mage has a temper and loses control.

  Rua’tor’s head shot up. “You killed her? Dead?”

  Ja’tar’s eyes glazed, but he didn’t answer.

  Rua’tor kept prodding. “So, was she one of the counted or not?”

  “She is one of the counted,” Ja’tar said, as he furrowed his brow. “Killing her was but one in a long list of mistakes I made as a young Keeper.”

  “Was… and almost killed her, I’d say!” Voltaire added, snidely, causing Ja’tar to grimace.

  “This is the first I’ve heard of this. How’d it happen,” Rua’tor asked.

  Ja’tar’s face filled with sorrow as he recalled the moment and fessed up. The three listened as Ja’tar told the story. He recognized that he had overreacted. Worse, he had denied her, even though she had begged.

  Ja’tar cleared his throat. “She had been the lover of one of the dark, Aareon by name. When they separated from the Guild, he scorned her because she never truly accepted their teachings. It’s just as well you know; the others would have been far from kind to her—given her feelings about dark magic and all. Basically, she had nowhere to go and was crushed by his rejection. She secretly came back to me and begged...um, petitioned to return to the Keep. I felt I couldn’t trust her and asked her to leave the Keep. We argued, she lashed out and attacked. One thing led to another and we ended up fighting.”

  “Then you have much to fear if she finds out that it is you who still guides the Keep,” Voltaire sadly said.

  Mica asked, “Now you think differently? That she should have been allowed to return?”

  Ja’tar shrugged and babbled, “I don’t know what to think. Decisions made in the heat of battle…during times of war...and given the circumstances. It appears that she has not forgotten…and isn’t nearly as dead as I thought.”

  Rua’tor nodded, knowing well those times and the horrors they faced…

  “I need to go,” said Voltaire, stretching her wings.

  “The battle will be over in minutes, there is little you can do,” Ja’tar countered. “If they are collared…you would just end up the same.”

  “I am afraid you are right,” Voltaire said, casting a vision of her human form being very concerned. “Where would Quinn get collars? Weren’t they all destroyed? Boraguard was there…”

  “Yes, destroyed. I did them myself,” Ja’tar echoed. “It was the least I could do, seeing as I helped create them.”

  Rua’tor’s face paled. “You…”

  Ja’tar scowled. “The need was great, and I had help.”

  “From who?” Rua’tor asked.

  Ja’tar got very quiet. “My brother…”

  Rua’tor lowered his head and stared into the fire. “This is not good.”

  Ja’tar turned to Voltaire. “Can you talk to Boraguard and find out what is happening?”

  Her voice quivered. “I can try,”

  The Wilds

  In the wee hours of the morning, Ja’tar rustled the others. “Time to get up. We have a long way to go today.”

  Rua’tor’s eyes cracked open. “Bloody-halla! It’s still dark.” He pulled his beadroll tight, trying to ward off the cold air of the morning.

  “I know,” Ja’tar said. “We need to travel before the heat of the day. Come on! It will be miserable later, we can rest then.”

  Mica sat watching the two argue. She didn’t care one way or the other. Heat didn’t bother her.

  After several minutes Rua’tor threw back his blanket and sat up. His stomach grumbled loudly. He foraged around in his pack, but found little more than some dried cheese and a crusty roll. He eyed it critically before he gave in, dusted it off, and shoved it into his mouth.

  Ja’tar packed what little belongings they carried with them and walked over to where Voltaire was resting.

  “Did you talk to Boraguard?”

  Voltaire grunted. “Quinn took the Reds. The C
ouncil worries that they may be faced with battling our own. The Reds are…fierce. If Quinn controls them…she will force them to fight to the death.”

  Ja’tar face was tired. “I hope it won’t come to that, but it is a distinct possibility.”

  “More than a possibility. What other use could she have for dragons?”

  Ja’tar shrugged.

  “Exactly,” Voltaire groaned.

  Ja’tar patted her neck. “We’ll figure this out.”

  “You had better leave,” she said, forcing a thin smile. “The heat of the day approaches.”

  “You are right, of course. I know you can’t follow via the gates, but you know where we are headed. We would be honored if you joined us.”

  Voltaire nodded. “I will see you there late tonight, if possible. It is a long flight.”

  Ja’tar smiled. “Remember that things in the Wilds are unstable. Do not take any risks. We may be better served if you go back to the Spires and care for your family.”

  Voltaire eyed him. He knew that she had the same memories as he did. She knew it was his odd way of letting her know that he worried about her. Voltaire flared her nostrils and pushed herself up, stretching her wings.

  “I wonder if I can find a nice tasty deer along the way…”

  Rua’tor overheard the comment and scowled at her.

  Voltaire chuckled. “Not to worry little man. If I find a deer, I will bring you some, you like yours well-done, correct?”

  Rua’tor swore and forcefully shoved his bedroll into his pack.

  Ja’tar grinned, waved goodbye and started walking down the deep ravine. Rua’tor and Mica followed.

  “Best prepare your wards,” he shouted out over his shoulder.

  “I sure hope you know where you are going,” Rua’tor grumbled under his breath.

  Mica snorted and ran ahead to walk with Ja’tar. She might as well make the best of things. She looked down at the tattoos that Ja’tar had etched into her demon skin. They weren’t so bad…a little too tribal for her taste, but not that unpleasant to the eye.

  She pulled at the one on her stomach to get a better look. It was rather unremarkable—considering the compulsion it held. She tested it and was stung smartly. Ja’tar hid his grin.

  Mica fell back a bit and studied the mage. He was a piece of work. She could feel the magic radiate from him and she felt his wards. They were very strong and unusual. Compared to the wards of other wizards she had met, these were…artful. That was the word she was searching for. There just wasn’t another word to describe them. She was quite taken with him, but she wouldn’t let him know. Best to keep those thoughts to herself.

  Mica stumbled down the path. As she walked, her outfit betrayed her thoughts, going from solid to translucent, to really not there at all. Rua’tor’s eyes got wide. She was providing him with quite a show.

  She puzzled out what course of action she should take, not that she had many options. She figured that as long as she went along, she wouldn’t be compelled to do much of anything other than observe. Nothing wrong with that! After all, that was what the Warvyn wanted her to do.

  They walked for almost an hour before the sun began to heat the ravine as it moved higher in the sky. Rua’tor wiped the sweat from his brow and pulled out his water-skin. He drank deeply and looked up the ravine walls. He could see them shimmer from the heat.

  “Are we there yet?”

  Ja’tar looked back over his shoulder and snorted at the silly man. He moved toward the shady side of the ravine and they stuck to the shadows as much as possible. Still, there was no place to really hide from the life-threatening heat that radiated off the tall cliff walls. The variegated walls, of twisted orange, red and yellow looked like sandcastle drippings and melted candles. There were places that had been turned to glass—the result of wizard’s fire and spells cast in a time long forgotten.

  The ravine began to widen, allowing more sunlight to hit the valley floor. Soon, a small, steep-walled valley opened up before them. Large trees, long dead, towered above them. They were petrified and desiccated—rooted in the hard-packed dust that offered little moisture. Tumbleweed rolled along the valley floor as dust-devils swirled and raced from eddies caused by the wind above. Rua’tor saw a pair of scorpions skidder across the dirt.

  Ja’tar spotted the ruins of Yor peaking from around a steep bend and smiled. He knew exactly where they were. Up until this very moment, he hadn’t been sure of their exact location. He had not walked these valleys in hundreds of years and the memories of his last visit would haunt him his whole life.

  He spotted what he was looking for and turned, heading toward the buildings that backed up to the canyon wall. Even in the condition they were in, they couldn’t hide their delicate lines and grandeur. They were dilapidated now, hardly more than rubble. Only the stone structures remained, the wood beams, gardens and trestle arbors were nothing but charred kindling beneath their bones.

  The tallest building was but two stories and held a bell-tower that reached up to the sky; but the bell had long been taken by bandits—or destroyed, Ja’tar didn’t know which. The tile roof had been blown outward by an explosion, most likely from some battle-spell cast years ago in the war.

  The buildings were in rather remarkable condition given their relative age and brought back memories. Yes, the dry desert-air, and the wind had rounded and destroyed most things man-made, but given what little had been left after the fierce battles, the place was still recognizable. Then again, it had been one of the latest casualties of the war.

  It wasn’t that this place was ever a booming city, it had been one of the last attacked because of who had chosen to live there. Luckily, they had escaped, although the attack had forever changed their perception of the wizards and the Keep. Ja’tar had not taken part in the action, but had heard from whisperings in the Keep that the Ten had planned and executed the battle. He never knew why they attacked. Who knew why the Ten did anything that they did.

  “Where are we?” Mica asked as she looked around.

  “Yor” Ja’tar answered as he continued walking.

  “You’re what?” she asked, confused by his reply.

  “Just Yor!”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” Rua’tor said, as he looked at the ruins. “So this is where the witches used to live. I heard tales of this place as a young man. It must have been really something in those days.”

  “It was,” Ja’tar nodded as he recalled his visits. “It was a very different place back then. The land was fertile and green. The witches lived in harmony with the land. Artisans lived here, musicians too. The valley was filled with tall trees and a stream ran through the center. I remember the faeries and dryads that filled the valley. They sang at night you know! They were curious little things and made a berry jam that I still fondly miss. The mead…was stellar too, it tasted of the stars themselves.”

  Rua’tor kicked at the dirt and the dust swirled around his feet. “Then it was indeed a sad day when this valley was destroyed. I wish I could have seen it in its heyday.”

  “Who destroyed it?” Mica asked.

  Ja’tar ignored her question, forcing her to ask again. “Are you not going to answer my question?” she said, irritated.

  “Nope!”

  She huffed in frustration, but she assumed that Ja’tar had given her the answer. It had either been the Keep or the Ten. Back then they were considered to be one and the same.

  “Come,” Ja’tar said. “Let us hope the gate is still in one piece.”

  “Gate?” Rua’tor asked.

  Ja’tar motioned his head toward a shallow depression behind the buildings. He saw what he was seeking and conjured some wind to blow the debris from the platform.

  Mica starred at the plain-looking rock outcropping. She was disappointed. It looked more like an altar to Mica. She would never have guessed that it was a gate.

  Ja’tar’s spell worked—sort of. It blew some of the dirt away, but it also made a giant dus
t-devil that was steadily climbing to the sky. He whirled his hands, trying to control the spell, but the rogue magic that tainted the land was not about to be tamed.

  “By the gods,” he swore as he fought for control.

  “What have you done?” Rua’tor shouted.

  “A little cleaning spell. I should have known better than to use magic in the Wilds!”

  “You should have!” Rua’tor growled and he pulled his cloak tight and fought the suffocating dust.

  “Quickly,” he said, as he stepped to the platform and pushed on one of the carvings.

  The platform filled with mist. The dust-devil roared in their direction. Ja’tar held his hand over his face, trying to breathe through the dirt. “Follow me!”

  They stepped into the mist, feeling the fine web of magic caress their skin like cobwebs. Everything froze. The dust-devil had stopped swirling, the clouds stopped moving and the dust and dirt was suspended in mid-air.

  Mica’s jaw dropped open, “What just happened?”

  Ja’tar looked back in the direction from where they came. “We just entered a gate.”

  “But the dust-devil…stopped.”

  Ja’tar chuckled. “No, it didn’t, but we are in a different time.”

  “Where does this one lead?” Rua’tor asked.

  “To the heart of the Wilds,” Ja’tar said. “Magic will not be usable after we exit the gate. I caution you against its use.”

  Rua’tor swallowed hard. Mica pushed her hand through the mirror like surface and felt the wind. It was the most curious thing.

  Rua’tor pulled her hand back, “Can you stop playing?”

  She frowned like a little school child.

  “When we step off the platform, it will be like sliding on ice. It may make you queasy.”

  Rua’tor’s face turned a bit pale. He did not like traveling by the gates.

  Ja’tar continued. “When we stop, do not move, or you will exit the gate.”