The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla

by Scott D. Muller

  “Why?” Mica asked.

  “We need to make sure it is safe to step from the platform,” Ja’tar said, tired of the constant questions. “Gates are seldom left unguarded.”

  She understood.

  “Now, let’s hold hands…” he said, as he grabbed Mica and Rua’tor. “Now step—”

  “But that’s a wall—,” is all she got out before she was pulled into the vortex that was the Gate.

  The scenery blurred and their stomachs churned as they slid along the designated path. Their view of the world both distorted and whirled by. Within minutes they had covered the distance of many days’ worth of walking.

  They stopped abruptly.

  “I’m going to be sick,” Rua’tor mumbled as he grabbed Ja’tar by the shoulder.

  Ja’tar looked out from the end of the gate into a most inhospitable place. The ruins of the city went on for miles.

  Mica stared, “What is this place?”

  “This,” Ja’tar said, while shaking his head, “was the once great city of Hern.”

  Rua’tor looked out. “Hern? You’re kidding me?”

  Ja’tar gave him a look.

  “Didn’t Hern have thousands of people?”

  “Tens of thousands,” Ja’tar corrected. It used to sit on the edge of a vast sea.”

  “What do you mean, used to? Did it move?”

  Ja’tar frowned and his mood darkened. “The sea is no more.”

  Mica set her hands on her hips, “A sea just doesn’t disappear.”

  “This sea did,” Ja’tar mumbled, “And so did all the people.”

  “Where did they go?” she naively asked.

  Ja’tar answered bluntly. “They were scrubbed from the pattern.”

  Her jaw dropped. “All of them?”

  Ja’tar choked out a single word, “Yes!”

  “But why?”

  “Because they were…” Ja’tar choked out.

  “Were what?”

  Rua’tor placed his hand on Mica and pulled her back from Ja’tar, who was struggling with his emotions. “They just…were, Mica,” Rua’tor quietly said. “They were destroyed by the dark ones because they ‘were.”

  Mica’s face betrayed her emotions. She couldn’t fathom that many people dying at once. She looked out in horror. This had been the kind of power she had sought. Now that she had come face-to-face with what it could do, the very thought made her numb with…pain. She felt…pain.

  She looked down at the ground and felt honest-to-deity tears streaming down her face. Her stomach ached and her heart, well—at least she thought it was her heart—was breaking.

  “How could they,” she sobbed, as her jaw quivered.

  Ja’tar looked in her direction and saw her reaction. This was unexpected, he thought to himself. He remembered that she had told him that she had only negotiated a price of half her soul and wondered if it were possible that half a soul was enough to make one human. Yet, she was a demon. That was her nature. He pushed such thoughts from his mind and focused on what was about to come.

  Ja’tar just stared, remembering the battles as the decimation brought up disturbing memories. The land was barren, laid to waste. There were no trees. The building looked as though they had been destroyed by Soth Giants, rubble was everywhere. The sky was an off-red and ribbons of yellow, green and violet swirled above, causing lightning to shoot from cloud to cloud. Small black vortexes formed in space and sucked at the dirt before flicking out of existence. The ground shook, opened and then resealed. Nothing of this place was right. Boulders lifted from the ground, floating and then dropped.

  “Why are the clouds like that?” Mica asked.

  “That,” Ja’tar answered, “is the result of dark magic. The land still reeks of it. There is so much vile magic here that the rules of the universe no longer apply. You will see things that may or may not be—it will be hard to tell. And, you will see things that make no sense, but they will be as real as we are. Make no mistake about it, this place is the most dangerous place in the realms. None ever enter.”

  Rua’tor felt tears well up and a lump formed in his throat. “But we need to…?”

  “—We do.” Ja’tar said, matter-of-fact…cutting him off. “We do. Even I fear treading this ground.”

  Rua’tor looked him in the eye and saw a steely determination that defied reason. He wondered if his friend was going mad from the stress. As of late, Ja’tar seemed to be changing. He was becoming more…brutish, arrogant. Maybe it was his imagination, but Rua’tor did not like what he was seeing. His friend was changing, and he didn’t understand why.

  ”I cannot tell you how much care we need to take when walking this land,” Ja’tar said. “we need to stick together.”

  “Are you sure we need to go this way?” Rua’tor asked.

  Ja’tar’s eyes narrowed. “I do not know another way. The witches destroyed all of the Gates in their swamp. It is in the very center of the Wilds.”

  “How can a swamp exist in the center of such a horrible place?”

  “I don’t know,” Ja’tar said. “But the Witches have strong magic and it is different from the magic of the Keep.”

  Rua’tor looked out at the city. “They live in an actual swamp?”

  “Literally, a muck and quagmire pit. I have not heard tell if the swamp can be crossed.”

  “Why would anyone choose to live in a swamp,” he muttered under his breath.

  Ja’tar couldn’t answer, for he didn’t know the true answer. He assumed that they had their reasons. What he did know, was that at the center of the swamp was a lush plot of land much like Yor. He had never seen it, but he had been told about it many times, although for the life of him, he couldn’t recall by whom.”

  “Well, let’s get this over with…” Rua’tor said, as he started to take a step forward.

  Ja’tar grabbed him by his cloak and yanked him back.

  “What the...”

  “Before we go, I need to tell you something important,” he said, casting his eyes to the ground. “When we exit, we will be marked.”

  “Marked?” Mica echoed, raising a brow. She wasn’t too thrilled with the thought of more marks. As she saw it, she had been marked more than enough these past days to last a lifetime, which in her case was eternity.

  “Yes, marked. After Ror, many from the Keep chose to leave and live in the Wilds. None were allowed to cross from the Wilds back. That is why they were marked, so all would know that they were rogue. We will not be trusted again.”

  Rua’tor stared. “And how many actually know about this mark?”

  Ja’tar frowned. “I do not know, but back in the days or Ror, all the races knew of the marking.”

  Ja’tar found Rua’tor’s remark telling. It was quite possible that none remembered the mark. With the Ten gone, who would be there to enforce the rules. The Keep was empty, the wizards all dead. The elves didn’t care for anything the Ten ever did, and the dwarfs hid in the ground. The stigma was self-imposed, yet—it was.

  Rua’tor swallowed hard. “What kind of mark?”

  “The painful kind, one of magic,” Ja’tar said, as he began to sweat on his brow.

  Rua’tor saw the sweat and began to worry. He had never seen the Keeper sweat before…not like this!

  “Would you care to explain?”

  Ja’tar nodded, “I guess you deserve to know. I’ll try my best to explain.”

  “Damn right I need to know,” Rua’tor cursed.

  “Back in the days of Ror, wizards were tired of the fighting and the Guild. Some chose to leave…actually, a lot of them decided to leave. They came here, where magic does not work right because they felt it was safe. This area, the Wilds, was tainted by so much battle magic, that the threads of the pattern are forever weakened and tangled. Even the Ten were not strong enough to bend the magic to their wills, although that didn’t stop them from trying! The Ten feared that those who left would eventually regroup and return and, more importantly, try
to grab power from the Keep. They cast a strong spell over the Wilds that will mark anyone who has magic when they enter. It marks them, and their magic as rogue.”

  “Shit!” Rua’tor swore. “Now you tell us…”

  Ja’tar sighed. “I need to go in there. I need to talk to the Seven Sisters of Arrnach.”

  “The Witches are…”

  “—Not just witches, prophetic witches—and they are the only remaining powers I can call upon to help us destroy the Dark Mage.”

  “Their magic is tainted too?” Rua’tor wondered out-loud.

  “No,” Ja’tar grumbled. “They were here before the spell was conjured. They came here after Yor and have never left. They have refused all attempts by the Keep to make amends. They do not interfere with the realms. They have rejected all the races.”

  “Being here before the spell was created kept them safe?”

  “Not exactly, the oldest witch—known as Mother—was very strong in magic, perhaps as strong as Duvall. She even fought side-by-side with the Ten for most of the battles. Anyway, after the Ten betrayed them at Yor, she learned of their plan to mark everyone and they took certain steps…”

  “Well, then,” Rua’tor sighed with relief. “All we need to do is copy what they did. Can’t we take these steps too?”

  Ja’tar shook his head and spat at the ground. “Even if I knew what those steps and incantations were, they would do us no good. They only worked when the spell was being cast…or so I have been told.”

  “Told by who?”

  Ja’tar got a puzzled look on his face. “I don’t recall, but I know that I have been told.”

  The fact he could not remember greatly bothered the mage. It was not like him to forget things. Of course, he had spent a near eternity under the simplest of glamours. He snorted. Maybe his memory would return over time. Maybe the stories he remembered were part of the glamour.

  “So, these witches are not marked?” Rua’tor asked.

  “Not in the same way as we will be…”

  “This mark…,” Rua’tor asked, “what does it do? Exactly?”

  Ja’tar drew a black “x” on the ground with his finger. He tried hard to replicate the swirls and filigree that the mark held, but he failed miserably. “It looks a bit like this. It will appear in six places on our bodies; forehead, hands, feet and back. It is not too big, but it is very obvious.”

  “Outside of looking like halla, does it do anything?”

  “I’m afraid it does,” Ja’tar confessed. “I will prevent us from ever using the Gates, and from ever entering the Keep again. I do not know if the spell over the Wilds will let us leave. We may be stuck here.

  “Forever?”

  Ja’tar sighed and scratched his beard. “In all my years as the Keeper, there have been no reports of anyone ever coming back. Although given the glamour and the false Guild, who can say…for sure.”

  “Bung me crazy!” Rua’tor’s face went white and his knees gave way. “I think I need to sit down.”

  Ja’tar held on to the man’s robe and he buckled to the ground and covered his face with his hand.

  “You can’t do it,” he said forcefully to Ja’tar. “I will go—you just tell me what I need to do. Without the Keeper, the Keep is nothing. You are the glue that holds it together. You are the only one who has access or knowledge of the secrets it holds.”

  Ja’tar patted his friend on the shoulder. “I appreciate the sentiment, I really do. And, I wish this whole ordeal was avoidable, but this is something I must do. The witches will only deal with the Keeper…if they deal at all. It is worth the risk.”

  “But Ja’tar…you are the Keeper. Without the ring, none can use the artifacts in the Keep. It would be paramount to destroying us!”

  “I can give up the ring and the position…”

  “By death!” Rua’tor spat.

  “There are some kinds of death that are worse than others,” Ja’tar mumbled.

  Ja’tar didn’t wait for Rua’tor. He raised his strongest wards, stepped out of the Gate and felt the wave of ancient magic pierce his bones. He fell to his knees and screamed as he felt the burning on his face and hands. He opened his mouth and a foul yellow plume of smoke existed as he breathed. He curled into a ball and then wretched, clutching at his side as he emptied the contents of his stomach.

  The second wave of magic hit. His back arched and he thrashed as he foamed at the mouth. His hands deformed in crooked fists as his body contorted into unnatural shapes.

  Rua’tor had pushed to the edge of the Gate in the between space. He wasn’t in the Gate, and was yet not out. He looked on in horror as Ja’tar’s body took in the magic. After several minutes, he stopped thrashing and was motionless, his eyes rolled back in their sockets and his body recovered from its ashen color. Ja’tar took in a deep breath while he twitched and was filled with spasms on the ground.

  Ja’tar opened his eyes and was acutely aware of the marks. They burned, causing his eyes to tear. He rolled over to his back and moaned. After several minutes he pushed himself to a sitting position and looked down at his hands. He saw the black “x” marks, still smoking and felt the vile magic in his bones. He would miss the Keep.

  Ja’tar saw Rua’tor standing in the gate, motionless. Rua’tor’s expression told him all he needed to know. It was blatantly obvious that Rua’tor struggled with his decision.

  What he hadn’t confided in him was that the Gate was a one-way trip. All Gates leading into the Wilds were one-way. He felt guilty about not telling his lifelong friend, but his need was great. He couldn’t risk indecision. Some might call it betrayal. He would pay the price for his actions. The Keeper always paid the price.

  He was relieved when Rua’tor stepped through the gate dragging Mica along and they both collapsed to the ground. Ja’tar had not expected the magic to affect the demon. He found it curious that the Ten would have though it important enough to add to the spell.

  Battle of the Kings

  The Klan of the Wolf under Barnaby, and O’Brian, marched up the road toward castle Jonovan, their banners held high. The men marched four across. The scouts had already returned and were deep in discussions with the leaders over what they had witnessed.

  O’Brian saw the scout and waved, calling his name, “Over here, Chad.”

  Chad rode over and slipped from his saddle. He shook off the dust, pulled out his note book and followed O’Brian to a makeshift table. “I returned as quickly as I could!”

  O’Brian’s face showed the stress of the times. “I want you to take your time and show us what you found on this map.”

  “There are siege engines here, and here,” the man pointed out on a rough map that had been hastily drawn using charcoal on a piece of canvas.

  O’Brian looked down where the lad had pointed. This scout was young. When did they become so young, he wondered. Maybe he had just grown old. O’Brian didn’t remember when Chad had joined him. The lad couldn’t have been past his fifteenth year.

  “I saw dragons,” the lad said, his voice breaking. “Sir, I’ve never seen one before. I thought they was all dead ‘n gone.”

  “Dragons?” Barnaby asked as his eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure as my mother is a Bittenmeyer!” he answered.

  Barnaby grinned and studied the lad. The Bittenmeyers were well known for producing outstanding scouts by the score. It was rumored that their bloodline sired kids from when they came of age until they died, often having eighteen or more children with a single wife. Kings paid handsomely for good trained scouts. Raising scouts made the Bittenmeyer clan quite wealthy. Quite wealthy indeed!

  “I saw a cloaked figure on the back of a big red one, sir. It was riding that dragon like we rides horses. That creature belched fire and brimstone across the castle. It was fast, damned fast. It came straight out of the clouds, diving like this...” the lad used his hand to demonstrate.

  “The people in the keep ran for cover and by the time the dra
gon passed and the fire died down, why…them archers in the castle didn’t even have no time to point their bows to the sky before it was gone.”

  “Well, that complicated things a bit,” O’Brian grumbled.

  Barnaby rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Where the halla do you suppose Killoroy got a dragon?”

  O’Brian shrugged. “Does it bloody matter?”

  “Not really, I suppose. What about foot soldiers?” Barnaby asked turning to face the scout.

  “They are camped back behind the engines. I spied on the camp and got real close. They weren’t really paying attention. I didn’t see any guards. ‘Course that don’t mean there weren’t none…just sayin’ so.”

  O’Brian’s mouth dropped open. “No guards?”

  “No, sir…not that I could see. They was just playing cards and sitting around like the fools had all the time in a day.”

  Chad thought back on what he saw. He saw the men play cards, that was for sure, and he sure didn’t see any guards. Halla, they weren’t even dressed in their armor and their weapons were sitting in holders by the fire.

  “Aren’t many rocks in these parts,” Barnaby stated for the record. “Those siege engines won’t do them much good.

  “Sure aren’t, sir,” said the lad. “They got them big rocks stacked up on wagons behind the camp. Not a lot of wagons, but I saw two more roll in as I was watching. They must be bringing them up the narrow road from out east.”

  Barnaby smiled for the first time. “Well, maybe we can do something about that…”

  O’Brian snorted.

  Barnaby leaned out of the tent and called one of his men over. “I want you to ride out east and find where those wagons are coming from. If I know the area, you should be able to get above them and roll the whole damned mountain down on their heads. I want that road to be impassable by tomorrow’s morn!”

  He poked his head back inside. “That should slow them down a bit.”

  O’Brian turned to Barnaby. “Chad here says the foot soldiers are just sitting on their arses and doing nothing? What do you make of that?”

  Barnaby shook his head and paced the room.