The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla

by Scott D. Muller

  A maiden arrived with a platter of meats and roasted vegetables. She set it down on the table and left the room.

  “Let’s eat,” Marcus said. “I can’t have you leaving hungry.”

  O’Brian looked at the platter and his stomach growled. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

  It was nearly light by the time O’Brian got back to the camp. The guards had called him out well before he reached the camp and they were hidden well enough that he didn’t see them as he approached the camp. Barnaby had done well training them. He knew that the only reason he was still king was because of the loyalty the men held to the man. Barnaby knew each by name, knew their families too.

  He found Barnaby waiting for him at the front of his tent.

  “Did you sleep?”

  Barnaby shook his head. “Did you meet with your brother?”

  “I did. There may be more to this invasion than meets the eye. Call the advisors.”

  The next morning, Digger and Doodle returned with tales of slitting the throats of over twenty men.

  “Good job boys, now you go and get some rest. It’s well deserved!”

  The two left, heading off to the cook’s tent to grub. They found fresh biscuits, gravy and some fruit.

  O’Brian’s troops moved into position on either side of the valley. They stuck to the trees and made their way within two-hundred yards of Killoroy’s camp. The men were getting antsy, waiting for the word to come down the line. They rubbed their hands together trying to stay warm and the frost had settled on the grass. A thin fog had risen.

  At the crack of dawn, Barnaby blew the great sheep’s horn and all five-hundred men charged down the hill to fight for the King. Hastings heard the screaming and exited his tent. He ran in his night clothes to call upon Solgar as instructed. Solgar raised his arms and called forth the mudlings. They rose out of the ground, took form and charged up the hill, straight at the foot soldiers.

  They met in the middle of the field, flesh ripped, steel met steel and the air filled with the cries of battle.

  O’Brian road right alongside his men. It was right and just. He would ask no man to fight where he feared to go. It was not the way of the men of the Isle. He slashed at the first man he saw, and his sword passed straight through. His eyes went wide with horror as he saw in the dim light that what he had hit was neither man nor beast. Lifeless holes sat where eyes should have been and the creations skin flowed like sand. He stabbed it repeatedly to no effect.

  He saw one of the mudlings grab a soldier and turn to dirt, smothering him by filling his mouth. The man choked as he stabbed at the demon until he died from asphyxiation...

  “Retreat,” he yelled, turning his horse in the opposite direction. He passed Barnaby along the way and yelled for him to blow his horn in retreat. He had already turned and his horse taken several leaps when he heard the haunting sound of the horn blowing three short bursts. O’Brian cursed. He had never retreated in his life.

  The men heard the horn. Many froze in place, unaccustomed to hearing it. They stopped charging. Most turned and ran, but the mudlings followed. They ran as if possessed, dropping weapons and tearing off their heavy armor along the way. Those that fell behind were smothered and killed by the mudlings. The mudlings knew no pain, they never tired, and they just attacked relentlessly.

  “Keep moving,” the King shouted at the top of his lungs.

  They ran, scattering in different directions, tripping down forest paths and rolling down steep hills. O’Brian road his horse back to camp and across the shallow stream. He paused on the other side, urging his men across. The mudlings stopped at the edge of the stream. Although the stream was only two men across and knee deep, they didn’t cross. They stood on the far bank and swung their swords.

  O’Brian rode his horse up and down the line of soldiers, bent over and panting. He watched as the abominations on the far side swirled and melted into the earth, only to appear several feet away.

  “We are safe here,” he shouted.

  Barnaby had not followed the King when he rode back to camp. He had waited and gathered as many men as he could. They rode back together, blasting their horses through the men made of sand. The men on foot followed closely behind, passing the mudlings before they could reform themselves.

  Barnaby wondered what they had gotten themselves into. These were not soldiers to be battled with iron and steel. These beasts were of legend. He swung his sword from the shallows at one of the beasts. It stepped to the edge of the stream and swung a rusty sword that found an opening and sliced his chest. Barnaby had not seen that its foot dissolved and was washed downstream.

  He grabbed the sword with is gloved hand and yanked. The muddling was pulled off-balance and took a step forward. When the water hit its leg, it turned dark brown and dissolved into mud, toppling over and being washed downstream. Barnaby was left holding the rust blade in his hand. He took two steps across the stream and fell face first into the icy water.

  O’Brian saw Barnaby fall. He didn’t get up. The sight of him lying in the shallows of the river made O’Brian’s heart miss a beat. He jumped off his horse and ran to his friend.

  Grabbing him by the shoulder, he rolled him over and saw the blood flow in the water, staining it red. He opened his friend’s chainmail and saw the deep gash across his chest.

  He grabbed him by the shoulders and strained to drag him out of the water, stumbling as his feet slid on the mud. He wasn’t as strong as he used to be and he was exhausted. He could only manage to get him up on the river bank.

  Barnaby’s face was pale, but his eyes opened and he seemed alert. “What manner of soldiers are these?” he asked as he winced from his injuries.

  His blood flowed, seeping into his clothes. O’Brian pulled the cloth apart and examined the extent wounds. His friend would live, although it would take a long time for his muscles to mend.

  “I do not know...” O’Brian mumbled, holding his hand over the wound and applying pressure.

  He watched the men made of mud rise and fall on the far side of the stream. He saw a string of bodies strewn across the field. More than forty of his men had perished in the first attack. He cursed and his face turned red. What manner of beasts were these that would not die. How were they supposed to defend themselves against something that neither bled nor breathed?

  Barnaby reached up with a hand and grabbed the king’s collar. He pulled him close and placed his lips by his ear.

  “These beast are not…of this world. I have read about such…”

  O’Brian pulled away, turned his face and looked at his friend.

  Barnaby pulled him close again. “The tapestries…these abominations were in…” His breath came in gurgles, “…the tapestries…”

  O’Brian let the man down to the ground and watched as his breath went shallow.

  “I need a medicine man here,” the king yelled. “Now!”

  One of the medicine men stopped working on a foot soldier. “The Hand is injured. Your wound is not serious, you will live! Hold your hand tight to your wound and I will return to mend it as soon as I finish.”

  The man nodded and grabbed the rag that was stuffed into the gash on his arm. He bared his teeth at the pain, refusing to cry out.

  “Thanks, Clint. I can handle it. Make sure the Hand is treated…I owe my life to him.”

  Clint folded his kit and crawled on his knees to where the Hand lay in the mud.

  Clint rushed over to the king and cut Barnaby’s shirt free with his knife. He tossed an old rag onto the dirt and opened his kit. He threaded his needle with the cat-gut and poured a little scotch over the needle before taking a swig. He didn’t have much gut left. They would need to find an animal quick. Maybe one of the cows would do, although he had never used cow-gut before.

  He pulled the wound open with his fingers and after opening his flask with his teeth, by pulling out the cork, he poured the golden liquid over the wound. Barnaby grabbed his arm tightly and screamed out loud
before passing out. Clint saw that the wound was deep and the hand’s blood bubbled up and steamed in the cold morning air.

  The healer began coarsely stitching the wound closed. When he was finished, he poured scotch over the wound and Barnaby’s eyes shot open and he screamed. The man held the flask to his lips and allowed him to drink until he was numb. He pulled out a clean rag and packed the wound as best he could. It would leave a thick ragged scar; just one of many the Hand already wore.

  O’Brian watched Clint work. He gazed down at his friend, wondering what he meant by his odd comment about the tapestries. Worry spread across his face. No wonder the soldiers were not concerned and played cards, he thought to himself. He speculated about what he should do next and questioned whether he should send word to Igneous. Would it matter?

  Soulless

  Deep in the bowels of her castle, in the Room of Greetings, Quinn prepared the slaves she was going to sacrifice to the dark lord. They stood numb, controlled by spells and strong herbs. She circled them, feeling the life flow through their veins. One by one, she systematically slit their throats and gathered their life in gold bowls. She had been preparing the room for months, carefully drawing all the symbols and runes. She knelt to the ground and finished the last rune. Her ‘trainees’ stood quietly, watching her as she finished her preparation. It was time.

  The dark mage, known as Quinn, stood naked on the dais, blood running down her arms and decorating her knees from where she had knelt. She still held the razor sharp blade she had used on the slaves. The design of blood hissed and sizzled on the marble floor in her greeting chamber, even though she had yet to begin her final incantations.

  She wiped the last of the blood from the bowl and drew the design on her lower abdomen…her ultimate sacrifice to the ruler of the underworld. She felt the design burn as it smoked and sank into her cream-colored flesh. She tossed the bowl to the side and it clanked loudly as it tumbled across the marble floor.

  She began dancing with wild abandon as she called upon her Master to initiate the five other dark magi she had trained. Soon, they would all be dark magi, and she would command them all. They would all taste the power of the Dark Lord and know what it meant to walk as a god. Shortly, she would exact her revenge on those who had wronged her all those years before.

  Memories swept over her, overpowering her. Ja’tar’s magic had been strong. She had felt it rob her of life. She remembered watching her body crumple under his spells. His expression was odd, neither of happiness nor of sadness. She wondered if he had felt anything at all when he took her life. She should have known better than to raise her hand against the Keeper; but she held him accountable for not being more charitable and understanding. When he had pitched her body into the pit, she remembered how cold she was as she stared up into those blank eyes from below. She wasn’t alive, but yet not dead. She was little more than a few thoughts hanging on to life, unwilling to pass from the world.

  Her options were limited. Her body was beyond repair and even with her magic, she could do little other than knit together her conscious mind. Each day she grew weaker. Eventually, she succumbed to desperation and sent her being into the only thing that was available, a rat. It was the only spell she could recall being taught by the dark.

  She had lived as a rat for years, devouring the other rats and gaining strength. She moved from rat to rat as her needs grew. She was still too weak for a transformation and had prayed to the Dark Lord himself to aid her. He did. When the cat attacked, she had been ready and she had willed her life into the animal. It had taken her a long time to become the cat. She had lost track of time.

  When she was adopted by a young child, her hopes grew. The girl took good care of her, brushing her fur and loving on her. She almost felt bad for what she eventually did. She worked her magic and slowly, and over the course of many years, she fed herself into the girl. By the time the woman was old and gray, she was ready to commit herself into the decrepit body. The woman accepted her when her time to pass from this world was upon her. The magic allowed her to keep the body alive until she located another shell into which she could will herself.

  Each transfer cost her. She negotiated her contract with the Dark Lord. He provided her the strength and magic to rise. Each took her a step further away from being human. Each step made her more of a slave.

  From there, she moved to one who was younger, but pitifully inept and lacking in even the most rudimentary of magic skills. She really had no choice. There was just so much magic could do to keep a body that had expired alive. It took her several moves to find one she could mold into what she eventually became. Her skills kept her alive, but without access to one who was skilled in magic, she languished.

  The young mage had been unexpected. When she had taken over her spirit and pushed her down into the dark place where she would wither and die, she celebrated. It took her another two transfers to become complete. She changed the way she appeared, changed her hair, her lips, her nose and her figure. She longed to be Quinn again.

  And all this while, she planned her revenge. Unfortunately, there were no more dark wizards for her to destroy. The Keep had done her a favor in that regards. But Quinn was filled with hate. She hated all things magic. They had all denied her; the elves, the dragons and the wizards. She would see them all suffer as she had.

  The walls of the chamber began to rattle and the air filled with the foul stench of the Underworld. The room went dark and thick yellow and sickly red vapors swept across the floor.

  From the center of the design, a form took shape; grotesque, and abnormal in size, it gathered itself.

  The five trainees stood their ground and watched, half-filled with anticipation, and half-filled with fear. Their knees shook and their stomachs churned, but they were determined to complete the path they had chosen. In reality, they had little choice in the matter.

  He, the one with no name, the Master, coalesced. His form towered over the dais. He roared and flexed his muscles. The Master looked at his surroundings and took great pleasure in her sacrificed slaves. He lifted his hand and the five watched as he gathered their souls and breathed them in deep. Their bodies shriveled and turned to dust as he exhaled, their tortured souls in the form of wraiths were breathed into the room and circled it slowly while moaning their angst in shrill voices.

  “Why have you called upon me?” he bellowed.

  Quinn bowed deep. “I wish to consummate our deal”

  The Master grinned. “And what do you ask in return?”

  She stayed prostrated, but lifted her head. “I wish to know the secrets of the dark magi of the past.”

  The Master grinned, licking his lips with his forked tongue. “What you ask can be granted, but the cost is high. What do you offer?”

  Quinn stood. “I offer myself.”

  “I already own you!” the demon chuckled.

  She frowned to herself, “... and I bring you five willing to become your apprentices in exchange for their souls.”

  The demon raised a brow and regarded her.

  “You, and they do this of your free will?”

  “We do,” she answered without hesitation.

  The Master raised a brow. “You understand the cost?”

  A small tear filled her eye, but she hid it from him. “I do.”

  He turned to the five, standing off to the side and pointed. “Do they?”

  Their nods were less than enthusiastic.

  “Hmmm,” he uttered to himself as he stepped to where they stood and took measure of the four men and the one woman.

  “Bring me the first,” he bellowed.

  Quinn motioned to Brill and he stepped forward.

  “What is your name?”

  “I…I am Brill,” he answered, casting his eyes down.

  The Master lifted his hands and chanted. They filled with foul flames of purple and green. He grabbed Brill by his shoulders and inhaled deeply.

  Brill’s scream turned into a gurgle as he f
elt his soul being sucked from his body. His body deformed and twisted, becoming demon in character. Wings sprung from his back, his feet grew and poked through his shoes as his toes became talons. The Master shoved his hand into Brill’s chest. Brill’s eyes went wide and he coughed up blood, looking down at the arm protruding from his chest. The demon lord pulled out his heart, and waved it in the air. The other wizards looked on, faces filled with horror.

  Brill shuddered and fell to his knees as his life’s blood drained to the floor, spreading in a ruby puddle about his knees. The Master took the still beating heart in his fist and plunged it into his own chest. He threw back his head and howled in ecstasy, shuddering from head to foot.

  He walked in a circle around the collapsed mage and chanted. He dipped his hand into the mage’s blood and drew runes on Brill’s face. They burned and smoked as they scarred the flesh. With each new rune, Brill’s body changed. His skin color faded to gray-green, his hair got stringy, his arms and legs lengthened. His body convulsed and even though he was dead, his eyes twitched and stared blankly.

  The Master made another fist, shoved it into his chest and pulled out a piece of his own beating heart. He snarled away the pain and shoved it into the mage’s convulsing body.

  Brill’s eyes shot open and jerked wildly as he sought something recognizable in the dark room, but instead, they settled on the Master. A vile grin spread across his face as his body contorted, and he was filled with evil, becoming a demon himself. As the yearning subsided, he stood, testing his newly-shaped limbs. He spread his wings wide and flapped them and wagged his tail, wrapping it about his own leg.

  He lifted his hands high and grunted an ancient dialect and watched as his fists glowed. The magic fell over him and he morphed to resemble his old-self. Holding a hand high, he filling it with foul magic, fell to his knees and laughed manically.

  “Rise!”

  Brill bowed deep, “Yes, my Master.” He stood.