The Legacy of the Ten: Book 01 - Eyes of the Keep

by Scott D. Muller

  This was all he possessed in the world. He surveyed his meager domain. He had given up the fineries of the Drakone family long ago, although at times — times like today, he longed for them deeply. His father, the King, had been proud of him the day he renounced the throne and decided to follow the Way. His father hadn’t the aptitude, but his grandfather had, and had been a well-known mage of the highest order. The talent was known to skip generations in some families. No one knew why, it just did.

  Tar’ac briefly thought about his family. He had watched his brothers grow old and have kids. Those kids had kids of their own. He had tried to keep touch for a while, but it was hard watching everyone you knew grow old, wither and die. They eventually stopped visiting and he never ventured out. It was best that way. Tar’ac was sure it was even more painful for them as they watched him barely age a year while they aged a lifetime. Tar’ac felt himself sliding into a melancholy mood. He fought it, but eventually gave in. It was going to be a very long day!

  He thought about picking up the lute, but instead, just lovingly wiped it free of dust. There was never enough time to practice anymore. He missed the music. How long had it been since he played, he wondered. How long since they played and danced? Honestly, he couldn’t remember. Sadly, his work consumed him these days.

  He walked to the window and pulled back the heavy tapestry. A blast of cold air filtered into the room, making him shudder. The shutters leaked something fierce, but at least they kept out the bulk of the storms. In the winter, he routinely cast spells to keep the cold air out, but this was spring.

  He unlatched and cracked the shutters a little bit to let in some fresh air, the Keep was musty and the clean air kept him from sneezing and sniffling all the time. He gazed out, noticing that the sun had not yet started to rise and only a hint of glow outlined the snow-covered peaks to the east. Tar’ac’s nose detected a hint of scots pine from the heavily wooded forest that grew in the valley where the Keep was located.

  Both moons were out tonight, the White and Ocht’or, although the White dwarfed the small orange by an order of magnitude. The White was almost behind the mountains now and in short time, would drop out of sight. The orange globe was almost straight overhead. For some reason, the Ocht’or moon was his favorite, if one was able to say they had a favorite. He wasn’t sure why he felt the way he did — it just seemed that the moon talked to him.

  Tar’ac could just make out the tall pines along the valley floor, ancient trees over forty rods tall, a rod and a half in diameter, some more. Six full-grown men couldn’t reach around most of them; some would take ten or more. Of course, trees didn’t normally grow that tall here in the high peaks, but the magic surrounding the Keep made many things that shouldn’t or couldn’t happen — plausible. It was just that some of the changes were more obvious than others were.

  He watched for a while as the morning mist gracefully frolicked over the rocks and caressed the trunks of the mighty pines. It was quiet, except for the sound of crickets and the small stream that ran adjacent to the Keep. Even the birds were still asleep. A lone bullfrog let out a deep echoing croak that broke the stillness, and just as suddenly, everything was quiet again. Even the whippoorwills were asleep. Tar’ac knew that he should be resting too, but he was impossibly far behind.

  He slid his feet into the well-worn sandals waiting by the door, picked up his journal and stuffed it into his pocket. The floor was far too cold for him to go barefoot, as was the custom. He shivered as he opened the door and stepped into the dank dark stone hall, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust. He could just see his breath before him as he fumbled with the door’s latch. It clanked loudly just before closing, making a resounding thud that reverberated down the hall.

  He absent-mindedly cast a ward over the door and watched as the blue glow around the seal faded. It was habit.

  With a wave of his hand, several small dragon-shaped copper lamps hanging down from the tall arched ceiling on thick chains lit. They flickered dimly, barely providing enough light to walk safely. He began his long amble down the maze of halls and into the bowels of the Keep to the Room of Records, a trek he had made nearly every day since his graduation.

  Tar’ac had decided to get some work done before he broke his fast; he would try to catch up on some of his supplementary duties until the others woke up. It was exceedingly early and the halls were deserted and quiet, a very good time to work. Only the sound made by his sandals shuffling over the stone broke the silence.

  The shadows in the hallway danced as the dimly lit lamps that burned without fire flickered. The high ceilings were so dark that they could barely be seen. It was like looking up from a deep chasm. He thought about making the lamps brighter, but shrugged it off. This better fit his mood!

  Suddenly his shadow moved out of sync with his body, causing him to start. He stopped and stared, watching the shadow dance down the hall while a toothy grin broke onto his face. Ancient spells still echoed these halls from days long gone when magi played tricks on each other. He was sure he had just been party to one of the pranks.

  He was the only member of the Guild still living in this section of the Keep. He liked it that way, but he did miss the heat. The others who used to roam these halls were gone now, dead mostly, although from time to time he would see a ghost or two. Spirits of grand wizards from the past, wandering, refusing to let go of the mortal world and move on. Actually, he usually heard them more oft than saw them. They were quite reclusive, preferring not to interact with the living, but occasionally…

  He supposed he should move in with the others, but the effort just seemed too great. It was folly of course. He owned very little and he could carry all of that in his small pack.

  He passed several rooms that used to be employed for teaching the art. Now cobwebs clung in the alcove corners, along with the undisturbed dust and rust that had accumulated on the doors and their latches. Through the dirty bubbled glass, he could see the distorted images of tables and desks in the classrooms that stood as a reminder of what they had once been. Inside were empty desks, workbenches, and tools of the trade, all gone to waste from a happier time. Now, there were few new wizards to teach, less each century. They had been forgotten, and had become irrelevant in the world, no one wanted to learn.

  “Cheese, food?” the thoughts came to him.

  Tar’ac looked down at the small mouse at his feet. The mouse stood up on its hind legs, looked him right in the eye and chirped away, nervously wringing its small feet.

  “Well, good morning to you too, ‘Mrs. Mother of Eight from the Blue Room.’ Why, no! I haven’t seen any cheese. Maybe the kitchen or the dining room would be a better place to look.”

  “Bread —?”

  “I’m sorry, I have no bread either.”

  “You promised —”

  “Yes, I did. But I forgot,” the mage said, shaking his head sadly.

  “You always forget!” the mouse said, looking down the hall.

  The mouse looked down and lowered herself before skittering off. The mouse stopped after a few feet and squeaked back at the wizard.

  “Yes, I know it’s a long journey,” the wizard replied. “Yes, I’ll try to remember to bring back a few small pieces tonight when I finish my day. Don’t forget to be wary of Hunter Always Hungry.”

  A few words came back, “Cat! We hate the cat.”

  He waited until the mouse had scurried off and noticed that the hall was getting rather dusty. He raised his hand and with a flick of his wrist, his hands formed an ancient rune, and burnt away the cobwebs in the entire hall, which burst into small poufs of red and yellow fire before flaring out to leave only a bit of smoke.

  He stood tall, pulled back his sleeves and waved his hands out from the floor to the ceiling with the flair of a Master, all while uttering a very clear incantation in perfect diction, caenom absisto et aggrero. A stiff wind rose and blew the dust and dirt to the end of the hall into a neat pile. He felt better. The cleaning staff would
get it someday. He continued trudging along, winding his way down the hall toward the polished granite staircase.

  Tax looked up from his early morning chores as sparks followed by a big puff of dirt and dust broke out of a hallway a couple stories below before swirling in a small cyclone and neatly arranging itself into a neat pile.

  Tax struggled to get off his knees, wiped his wet hands on his apron, creaked over to the railing, and peered over. A shadowy form exited the hall and started down the stairs. Tax knew it was Tar’ac. No one else lived in that part of the Keep any longer. Tax’s long pointy ears twitched. He didn’t exactly hate wizards, but they were such a thoughtless, unkempt, filthy bunch, although Tar’ac wasn’t as bad as most.

  “I see ye down there wizard, stirring up the dirt,” said the old halfling, shaking his fist over the railing for the wizard to see.

  “Always makin’ a mess fer someone else to clean. You’d walk around in filth up to yer arse if we didn’t keep cleanin’ up after ye.”

  Tar’ac looked up and saw the animated halfling standing on his toes, his hands barely reaching over the railing. A smirk filled his face. The halfling was right, wizards weren’t known for being tidy. Tar’ac kept walking down the stairs as the ranting of the halfling faded into the distance.

  Tar’ac supposed he really shouldn’t address Tax as a halfling. That term was technically reserved for the elf-human mix. For some reason unbeknownst to him, those around the Keep always called the mixed races — halflings. It was wrong to do so, he knew it well, and yet he still misused the phrase. He didn’t know why, it just was. Tax was half goblin and half-elf. He didn’t look like a halfling at all. Halflings were rather stunning; the strong elf lineage brought the fine, angular features, deep blue eyes and long full hair to the table. They were considered one of the beautiful races. He smirked. Tax would never be confused for one of the beautiful people.

  Tax’s frail deerskin-wrapped frame creaked and popped as he made his way back to his bucket of sudsy water and rags. He looked down at the marble staircase and shook his head. He had been cleaning the staircase since before Tar’ac was born, since before Tar’ac’s father was born. He cleaned it from top to bottom. It took him an entire week, and then without pausing to rest, he would start over again. Somebody had to take care of the wizards till the time came. Eventually, they would repay the debt, but until then… they sacrificed, all of them sacrificed.

  Tax slowly knelt as pain shot through his face. He wondered how much longer he would be able to keep this up. The time of reckoning had better come soon.

  He had no son to whom to pass the family promise. Hmm, he supposed the stairs would just get filthy and turn gray. Bah! Bet the damn wizards won’t even notice, he thought to himself. And yet, the wind and stars had been stirring as of late. Maybe the time was nigh.

  He bent over, wiped the floor with his small rag, and squeezed out the water into the bucket. His raw and wrinkled hands throbbed from being in the lye-tainted water. He sighed as he saw a very familiar old face reflected in the shine and it smiled an evil smile. Maybe, just maybe, it was their turn to suffer … and pay! They owed a great debt — yes, indeed, a very great debt.

  The staircase began at the center of the main level and circled to the very depths of the Keep, scores of floors were still below him. The staircase was hewn from a single piece of white crystalline granite, pure, unblemished, and almost transparent. If he didn’t know better, Tar’ac would have thought it was made of agate. It was magnificently fabricated, not by quarry tools, hammers and picks, nor by strong arms or backs, but by the elegant touch of sophisticated magic controlled by a master craftsman from ages ago, the Olath. A fine crystal ceiling glistened high above, spun of the finest glass it vibrated in song, sung into existence by elves as a gift to the Guild. Elegantly carved wood panels and columns decorated the side of the staircase as it wound down, story after story.

  Tar’ac slowly stepped down, holding tightly to the railing, afraid that his knees would give way. After several stories, he finally turned into a side hall, lined with magnificent paintings of past wizards and battles. The paintings replayed battles from yesteryear in an ever-changing display of history. Gilded moldings decorated the high ceilings, mythical creatures and beings of wonder. He left the stair and walked down the hall, listening to the echo of his footsteps.

  “Quiet. Hunting!” an angry voice whispered.

  Tar’ac spun around. “Oh, it’s only you ‘Hunter Always Hungry.’ I’m sorry. Did I disturb you?”

  The cat shook its head, purred and ran its arched form across Tar’ac’s leg before prancing off back to the stairs. Tar’ac watched him go and hoped he didn’t find little Mother of Eight. Catching himself daydreaming, he shook himself back to reality and continued his short journey.

  He briefly paused to admire a particular painting of a Sorceress known as Duvall. She was one of the Ten, the original wizards who formed the Guild and the Keep. Powerful they were, learned in the old magic, the dark and mysterious ways, and the magic before the Cleansing. They say she was the most powerful of the Ten and that she was ruthless and cunning. Rumors still persisted that she actually argued with the gods … and won! She appeared ordinary in the painting.

  There was little written about those times. This particular painting always stirred deep emotions in him. He wasn’t sure why. It was as if the eyes were still alive and watched him as he walked past. He wouldn’t have been surprised if they did. Her reputation was… quite disturbing. A chill ran up his spine. He realized that he both loathed her and worshipped her, even though he knew the long list of unconfirmed vile acts that were attributed to her over the ages.

  He had a hard time tearing his eyes away, she was beguilingly beautiful and he missed the smiles of young women. Years ago … centuries ago, Tar’ac would have enjoyed meeting her. Well, maybe. There were no sorceresses who lived here now, only old men, old elves, and old halflings. A few housekeepers came from time to time, wives of the elders from the nearby village. Some visited daily.

  Tar’ac chuckled to himself. For all the time he had lived at the Keep, he really knew very little about it. He had never explored its bounds, never wandered its halls. Never been up in the Ten’s Tower, where the Ten had studied and lived. Oh, he had strolled the great garden once, but it had been centuries ago. He had never left the Keep.

  Of course never is a big word, especially to a mage. He shook his head and laughed out loud, his voice reverberating down the hall. His entire existence had been spent within a couple hundred strides of the library, dining hall and his room. He really should get out more often.

  He had heard that the Keep had over five hundred rooms. He suspected more, rooms unaccounted for, forgotten. Hidden rooms, places known only to a select few. Ha! Probably a lot more - long forgotten and destined to remain hidden forever. The heavens help someone who accidently stumbled into one of those! He smiled to himself and vowed to explore more as soon as he caught up with his work.

  He completed his lonesome pilgrimage, a dead-end corridor. Tar’ac beckoned and wove his spell. Slowly, an aged face formed out of the stones in the cave. It rumbled and spoke a deep guttural language of the elementals. The intense sound shook the whole hall and Tar’ac’s robe vibrated and swirled from the ribbons of energy. The walls shimmered and shook as the stone moved and undulated. Tar’ac stood his ground and growled back. A face of stone appeared and hands began to form, reaching for the wizard. Tar’ac threw his arms up and grunted out a primeval chant. The elemental, satisfied with the response, responded before dissolving into the surrounding walls to reveal a few more yards of hall punctuated by a hefty secluded door.

  The heavy, roughly carved door was slightly ajar and gave easily when he pushed it. The iron-reinforced bands squeaked as he pushed and the rusty hinges let loose a small puff of rust. He could feel the wards that prevented those who were not Accepted from entering. He could see the shimmer; feel the threads of the spell give way as he passed. He
likened it to passing through cobwebs. He always felt compelled to clear his face and wipe the threads away.

  The room held great knowledge, dangerous knowledge in the hands of the wrong people, and was carefully warded. Those spells of protection would inflict severe bodily damage to the unsuspecting or unwanted. Luckily, those who were not allowed entry would feel their effects far before any lasting damage was done, if they somehow managed to get past the elemental. As if!

  Tar’ac entered the immense library and although he couldn’t see the ends of the rows, which stretched for well over five-hundred rods off into the darkness, he could see the clutter adjacent to the well-lit entrance. The room, carved out of a vast cave, as were all the lower rooms, was as disorganized as was possible without someone making a concerted effort to make it more so.

  There were books. Actually, there were mountains of books, piles on the floor, on the desks, and on the shelves. The shelves reached to the ceiling, towering ten arm spans above. Everywhere he looked, there were thick leather-bound books, stacks of tomes and scrolls. He sighed deeply as he looked at the disgusting mess. He bent over and picked up a small stack of books that had slid off the adjacent table into the walkway.

  It was his job to keep order in the library, however, there seemed to be little enough time for him to do his work, let alone categorize and file. The halfling was correct, wizards were slobs. They were single-minded and scurried about dropping whatever they had in their hands, wherever they were, when a new and different thought crossed their minds.

  He cursed under his breath. This revelation didn’t keep him from feeling guilty; after all, it was his responsibility to restore order. It was hard enough to get anything done when you knew where to look for information, let alone try to find a book in this sty! He cast a spell on a stack of books perched on the table, wiggling his fingers and chanting while balancing a stack of the ancient manuscripts in his other hand. He watched as they flew to their shelves and slid gently into place. How hard was that? Why couldn’t the mage who used them do the same? He cursed and spat. Not likely, he thought to himself.