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

by Scott D. Muller

  “The glamour was amazing!” Men’ak said, out of breath.

  Dra’kor growled and cuffed him in the head.

  Grit put his finger to his lips and shushed Men’ak. “Now is not a good time to be talking about that.”

  Men’ak nodded.

  They hurried to catch up with Dra’kor who had set a blistering pace, trying to put as much distance between himself and the Keep as was possible. He was glad to leave all that was the Keep behind him. He was anxious to see the world and prove himself.

  A cheerful Grit said, turning to face Men’ak, “Feels good to be on the way, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” replied Men’ak, as he squinted, “and it looks to be a beautiful day!”

  “Not too cold. Good walking weather I think,” Grit replied.

  “How about you?” said Men’ak as he caught Dra’kor’s eye. “I can’t wait to get to the next town. Maybe we can meet some local ladies.”

  “Look at you ….” Grit grinned, blushing a bit.

  “I’m just saying,” a flustered Men’ak retorted. “It’s been a long time, that’s all.”

  “Just the same, if I were you, I’d take care about messin’ with some farmer’s daughter. You might be seeing the business end of a pitch fork or a staff to the head,” Grit teased.

  Dra’kor got very serious and quashed the whole mood. “We got a job to do lads. Let’s stay focused. We can celebrate after we finish.”

  If we finish, he thought to himself.

  “All right,” Men’ak pouted, “I suppose we should …”

  They were making good time because it was downhill most of the way to the first village on their list. To Dra’kor, it seemed a little quiet. He had expected the road to be a little busier, even though it was spring. They kept walking.

  The snow had been gone for a few weeks and the new grass and leaf buds were beginning to show. Wildflowers dotted the roadside and moss clung to the dirt between the rocks and trees. They were losing altitude fast as they ventured down into the lower valleys of the realm.

  Grit stopped to study a couple plants alongside the road.

  Men’ak stopped behind his friend and peered over his shoulder. “What are you looking at?

  “Jackerwock root, I think.”

  “Never heard of it,” Men’ak shrugged.

  “You should have paid more attention in class,” said Dra’kor smugly.

  Men’ak frowned, “What’s it good for?”

  Grit stood up holding the plant, root and all. “It’s needed to change planes of existence.”

  Men’ak shrugged, “That’s it?”

  Dra’kor and Grit’s mouth dropped open. Neither of them could think of a response. Grit brushed the dirt and mud off the root and shoved it into his pack.

  “We gonna stand here all day?” Men’ak groaned.

  Dra’kor shook his head and threw up his arms. Grit mumbled something under his breath and they both watched Men’ak march off down the road.

  The road was soon muddy from rain and runoff. And it wasn’t long before their shoes were covered in mud and soaked through the patten. Dra’kor swore under his breath. His feet were wet and cold. He wiggled his toes and they were so numb, he could barely feel them. He looked around a saw that his friends were thinking exactly the same thing. At that moment, it dawned on him. He shook his head at his own stupidity; after all, he was a Mage.

  Dra’kor wove a very delicate weave to dry out his shoes and keep them dry. In no time, his feet were toasty and warm and the muddy water was staying outside his shoes. He thought about saying something to the others, but decided that he was rather enjoying their discomfort, which immensely improved his disposition for some strange reason.

  The further they traveled, the more wooded it became. The Keep was rather far up into the mountains and at that elevation, the trees were sparse and stunted, but in the immediate area of the Keep, the trees grew tall and thick, aided by the ancient magic of the Ten.

  Without the magic surrounding the Keep, the entire high mountain valley would be mostly barren. Now that they had traveled for several hours, the landscape returned to normal, but given their downhill direction there were soon thick aspen cluster and pine trees flanking the road, as well as the shrub oak and berry bushes that grew in the area.

  Grit stopped occasionally and picked a handful of ripe berries, popping them into his mouth and enjoying the tart sweetness. Soon, his fingers were stained with reddish purple blotches.

  The sun had already dropped behind the local mountains and dusk was quickly approaching. Dra’kor suggested that they find a place to stop for the night. They hadn’t traveled more than another half-league when they stumbled upon a nice grassy flat area alongside the trail and set out their bedrolls.

  “Dra’kor, I don’t think we should camp this close to the road,” Grit said, as he scratched his head, “Remember what Ja’tar said about the highwaymen. We should find someplace a little more secluded.”

  Dra’kor spat on the ground.

  “What highwaymen? We haven’t seen a darn soul all day long.”

  “I’m just saying …,” Grit replied as he tried to smooth out his blanket.

  Men’ak agreed, “Better safe than sorry.”

  Dra’kor scooped up his bedroll and tossed it over his shoulder, “Anything to keep you two from whining.”

  He took off without so much as another word, forcing Grit and Men’ak to hastily gather their things and walk awkwardly carrying the haphazard bundles across their chests.

  They continued their walk into the forest. The trees began to close them off from the last shards of available sunlight. Dra’kor spotted an outcropping of boulders and pointed. “Looks like a better place to me.”

  Grit sighed as he dropped his bundle in the tall grass. “— Good! My arms are getting sore from carrying this stuff.”

  The three carefully climbed over the rocks and explored the area. After a few minutes, they found a nice sheltered area, backed up on all sides by tress or rocks. Since the road was on the other side of the boulder field, it was unlikely that they would be found out.

  The very small clearing at the bottom of the north facing rock field had just enough space for a few bedrolls and a fire. The trees almost completely hid the clearing and they would also provide a measure of protection from the icy-wind and elements.

  “This will keep us out of view from the road, even with a fire,” an excited Grit added.

  The ground was covered with pine needles and the three scraped the needles into piles using their feet. Once they had space for a fire pit, Men’ak gathered a few small rocks and made a fire ring. Dra’kor and Men’ak opened their bedrolls and placed them on top of the needles.

  Men’ak laughed, “Probably be more comfortable than my bed back home …”

  “No disagreement here,” Dra’kor laughed back.

  Grit climbed to the top of the rock mound and checked for travelers, and then he disappeared down the front side. He quickly grabbed his bedroll and did a rapid circle of the camp picking up dead dried twigs here and there. Satisfied that they were alone, he returned to the camp with a cumbersome bundle of twigs and branches he had collected while exploring the area. After carefully arranging them in a small lean-to against a couple boulders in the fire ring, he used a spark of magic to start the fire and soon they had a warm campfire going.

  Dra’kor and Men’ak had finished laying out their bedrolls and joined him as they huddled tightly around the fire, trying to warm themselves. The air had turned chilly as soon as the sun had set.

  The three mages sat around the fire, chewing on the bread, cheese, and dried sausage from their packs. Grit had his blanket over his shoulders.

  “Gretta treats us well,” Grit mumbled with his mouth full. The others just nodded their agreement.

  The fire crackled and popped, filling the air with a great pine smell. As the flames licked the logs and the coals began to glow ruby red, the three adventurers rubbed their
hands and legs, warming themselves as the chill of the night air settled into the valley. Grit smiled as he watched the cool night mist rise from the ground and swirl in the light breeze. A light orange glow colored the low hanging braches of the pines.

  Grit grabbed a big handful of branches and tried to crack them over his knee. Men’ak noticed the wince on his face when the branches didn’t snap as expected. He stood up, placed the twigs against a big rock, and stomped down on them. He piled the smaller pieces on the fire and stacked the rest alongside the pit.

  Men’ak opened his pack and pulled out a tiny copper pot. He placed it on the coals, and added some water from his goatskin bag to make a tea.

  “I have to say. I’m a bit stiff from all the walking.”

  “Me too,” added Men’ak. “I’d have thought that with all the battle practice, I wouldn’t be this sore.”

  Dra’kor grunted and took another bite.

  Men’ak pulled out a small wood box from his pack and hit it twice on his legs to settle the herbs. He opened the box, took out a couple small pinches of the fragrant mix, and dropped them into the simmering water.

  The only sound they heard was that of the crickets, rubbing their legs, chirping, and in the distance, a lone horned owl called for its mate. Men’ak stirred the coals of the fire and added another load of larger branches, which popped and snapped sending showers of sparks toward the heavens. They sat for a long time staring into the flames, sipping their herb tea.

  “Our first day,” Grit commented, nodding his head.

  Men’ak nodded, “Yeah. Not exactly what I expected —”

  “Me neither. I don’t know about you, but I expected the road to be busier,” Dra’kor said, with disappointment showing in his voice.

  Grit gave the fire a poke. “Wonder where everyone is?”

  “— Dead?” Men’ak suggested dryly.

  “Halla! That’s not funny,” Dra’kor swore.

  Grit pulled a small tin from his pack and stuffed some of the feather leaf into his pipe. He grabbed a burning stick and pulled heavily on the pipe until the leaf lit. He puffed on it, letting the calming herb settle his nerves. He handed the pipe to Men’ak, who gladly accepted it and passed it to Dra’kor who waved it off. Men’ak passed it back to Grit who sat comfortably with a big grin on his face.

  Men’ak switched sides since his leg that had been facing the fire was getting uncomfortably warm.

  “We are still pretty high up in the mountains for this time of year. Maybe we’ll see more people tomorrow.”

  Men’ak pulled the hot tea off the fire using the sleeve of his robe as a potholder and passed it around. They each filled their small mugs with the piping-hot liquid and took small sips of the minty beverage. Grit pulled a small piece of the herb from his teeth and spit it into the dirt.

  Dra’kor sighed, “Well, if not, we’ll be in town soon, should be plenty of people there —”

  “What do you think the Guild is going to think of all this?” Grit interrupted, raising his stare from the fire.

  “All of what?” Dra’kor echoed, not moving.

  “All of this adventuring and walking the realms,” Grit replied. “You think they’ll care for it?”

  “I don’t’ really care what they think,” Dra’kor angrily replied. “None of their business, as I see it.”

  “— But when they do, I mean?” wondered Grit.

  Dra’kor scoffed, “I don’t think Ja’tar is going to tell them.”

  Grit’s jaw dropped, “Ever?”

  “— From what he said …”

  “I guess we’ll see,” Grit grumbled. “Hope we don’t get into trouble —”

  “Guess time will tell,” Dra’kor agreed.

  “Seems to me that they’re aloof and secretive,” Men’ak added, “and controlling.”

  “Very controlling,” Dra’kor echoed. “From what Ja’tar said, he doesn’t care for it either —”

  “You talked to him about the Guild?” Grit stammered.

  “A little …,” Dra’kor nodded.

  Men’ak wondered, “Any of you ever seen someone from the Guild?”

  Grit and Dra’kor looked at each other before shaking their heads.

  “They’re bossy,” said Grit quietly, shaking his head. “Nah, I never seen them. Have they ever visited us?”

  “Who knows! Well, that Guild business is between them. I want no part of it,” Men’ak added as he took another small sip. “I’d just as soon they leave us alone.”

  “Me too,” Dra’kor echoed. “Let’s drop the subject and not ruin a perfect day.”

  “I was just wondering —” said Grit weakly.

  “It’s getting cold. My feet are like ice. My shoes are soaked!” Men’ak vented. He shuffled closer toward the fire to thaw out. He blew his breath out into the air and saw it turn to a gray mist.

  Dra’kor smiled and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Mine aren’t.”

  Men’ak crinkled his face in disbelief as he looked down at Dra’kor’s perfectly dry shoes. “Really?”

  Dra’kor showed off his boots and shrugged, raising his brow.

  “Completely dry. Go figure.”

  “Well, mine are soaked too,” Grit complained. He pulled his shoes off, putting them and his socks by the fire, along with his pattens. He fiddled with the socks, carefully draping them over a couple small forked twigs, and grabbed his bare feet, rubbing vigorously to warm them up.

  Grit bellyached, while rubbing his tingling, cold feet. “How’d your feet stay dry with all that water and mud?”

  “I can’t really explain it,” Dra’kor chortled, “It’s almost like magic.”

  “Like magic?” Men’ak asked blankly, as he arranged his socks too.

  Grit finally caught what Dra’kor was saying, “You bastard! You let us walk in wet shoes all day when …”

  “When what?” Dra’kor asked, feigning innocence.

  “When you … you … you knew …,” Grit sputtered, his face turning red.

  Dra’kor’s eyes gleamed, “When you aren’t smart enough to dry your own shoes with magic?”

  “Well, yes,” Grit spat, as he threw a part of a leftover roll at Dra’kor who easily batted it away.

  “I can’t believe you let us …” Grit was almost speechless. “Aargh! I hate you …”

  Men’ak pulled his shoe off his sore soaked feet and stared at the blisters on his heel and big toe. He picked at them and winced when he accidently popped the big one on his heel, “My feet are a mess.”

  Grit nodded, “I have blisters too. I guess we aren’t cut out for this adventurer life.”

  Dra’kor grunted and rolled his eyes.

  “Well, I’m not used to wearing shoes, that’s for sure,” said Men’ak, with a big wide grin. He cast a mild healing spell and watched as the blisters faded away.

  “Maybe you should go barefoot tomorrow?” Grit added as he did the same.

  “I suppose I could,” Men’ak replied, “I guess then I really would look like a peasant!”

  Dra’kor roared and soon all three were laughing about the day. Grit pulled out a box; removed some dice, and he and Men’ak played Kings Keeper for a bit. While they were busy, Dra’kor decided it was a good time to leave Ja’tar a message.

  Dra’kor took out the small wood box, wrote a short note to Ja’tar, and tossed it into the fire. Finally, they all turned in. Dra’kor crawled into his bedroll, pulling the heavy wool tight to his head, faced the fire and watched as the coals flickered. He remembered to set a silent ward to wake him if anything bigger than a small dog crossed their perimeter.

  Meanwhile, Ja’tar had eaten his late lunch and headed back to his room. He pulled a small wood box out of his cabinet. He set it in the middle of his writing table and opened the lid. The telltale song of an orb immediately filled the room. Ja’tar sighed. It had been a long time since he had really used his orb, but use it he must. He had to find out the extent of the damage. He set to work setting his ward
s.

  He grabbed his orb with both hands. It was going to be a long night. He tried the first address. The orb remained blank. He tried another. It too was blank, nothing but the swirling gray fog.

  Ja’tar knew his technique was rusty but he had expected to be able to at least view a realm. He tried a realm next to the Keep and had some limited success; however, there wasn’t anything interesting to see.

  Buoyed by the success, he tried another address from the Book of Records. Blank. He slammed his fist on the table, causing the orb to wail. It seemed impossible because the log was marked a few short days ago, clearly showed the realm was open and accessible. After several frustrating hours, he gave up, put the orb away, and went to find Zedd’aki. They were in trouble.

  Ja’tar found him eating dinner and after filling his own plate with turkey and stuffing, he briefly kneeled next to Zedd’aki and whispered in his ear, “We need to talk. Follow me.”

  The two men moved to a more secluded spot near the enormous walk-in fireplace. After getting situated and eating a few bites, Ja’tar broke the silence.

  “I tried to view a few realms,” mumbled Ja’tar, his mouth still full of turkey from the leg he was gnawing on.

  “You said tried, so I presume you were less than successful?”

  “Uh-huh,” grunted Ja’tar, licking his fingers. “I only got to fully view one, Five Peaks. They’re getting hammered by a bad storm.”

  Zedd’aki continued eating, “How many did you try?”

  “Altogether seven …,” Ja’tar replied, shaking his turkey leg.

  Zedd’aki glanced up. “— and the others?”

  Ja’tar sat quietly, and softly drummed his fingers nervously, “Closed I presume —”

  Zedd’aki raised a brow, “So you saw nothing?”

  “I wouldn’t say nothing, but they seem to come in and out of the orb’s influence, blocked or something. Can’t think of any other reason, but I don’t know the orbs very well. By the Ten, sometimes I couldn’t even view, let alone watch.” Ja’tar took another bit off his turkey leg and shoved a big fork full of gravy-drenched stuffing into his mouth.

  Zedd’aki took another bite off his loaf of hot rye bread, and waved it in front of Ja’tar, “Don’t suppose you would care to speculate on what is going on?”