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

by Scott D. Muller

  Grit looked to the sky, “Bad storm up north —”

  The others turned and briefly looked.

  “We might be in for a soaker late this afternoon if the clouds keep gathering,” nodded Men’ak, scratching his head.

  “Well, we’ll look for a place to stop early if need be, but I’m all for making it as far as we can,” Dra’kor offered his opinion.

  Grit swat at the irritating mosquitoes buzzing around his head. He pulled the hood of his light shirt up tight around his head, trying to keep from getting bit. “— Damn bugs!”

  “Why don’t you weave a spell to keep them off?” Men’ak suggested.

  Grit made a little motion with his fingers by his ear. “It’s the sound they make that drives me daft, more than their bite. I hate that irritating whine in my ear.”

  “Ah, springtime in the mountains …” Men’ak chuckled.

  “Hmmm —,” an annoyed Grit huffed.

  They reached a somewhat level spot in the road and could see the mayfly hatch coming off the slow pools alongside the river. The busy insects buzzed as thick as a swarm of bees around a hive. The fish were rising and having a hay-day feasting on the tasty treat. Grit looked longingly at the rising fish wishing he had time to rig a string. Nothing beat fresh fried fish for breakfast, especially when cold dried bread and cheese was all you had.

  He thought about Gretta and the breakfast they’d be eating in the Keep and sighed. Adventuring wasn’t for him he decided. He enjoyed the creature comforts too much.

  Men’ak laughed as he was forced to duck out of the way of a wayward swallow that narrowly missed his head after diving in and out of the cloud of insects. The bird zigzagged back and forth, chasing its morning meal.

  It looked like it was going to be a very nice warm day. The sun was out, the sky was clearing and there was next to no wind. They had already shed their heavy jackets and thrown them over their shoulders. Grit tied his over the top of his pack.

  Grit looked back over his shoulder. “Did you get any rest after the battle?”

  He directed the question to Dra’kor out of curiosity because so far this morning Dra’kor hadn’t said much to either of his two friends.

  “Rested my eyes a bit,” Dra’kor answered curtly. “I wouldn’t call it sleep.”

  “You think we’ll run into more of those things?” Men’ak moaned, shuddering at the thought.

  “Hope not,” Dra’kor answered tersely.

  “— But if we do?”

  “Then we do,” stated Dra’kor flatly. “Why?”

  “What’s up with you?” a red-faced Men’ak blurted out, unable to hide his irritation, “You haven’t said ten words to us since we left this morning.”

  Dra’kor spat as he stopped in the middle of the road. “Why in the name of Duvall does something have to be up every time I’m quiet?”

  “Uh, cause you’re never quiet!” Grit answered sarcastically, “and lately —”

  Dra’kor was a bit put off. “And lately what?”

  “And lately you’ve stopped talking to us, that’s all —”

  “Look. I have a lot on my mind,” said Dra’kor apologetically, “I just don’t feel like talking right now. This has all been a bit much. When I sort all this out, I’ll let you know. Aye?”

  “I guess we can leave you alone for a while, but we need to talk about this sooner or later,” Men’ak mumbled. “You’re our leader —”

  Dra’kor sighed, shaking his head and throwing up his hands out in frustration. He hung his head and let his shoulders droop as he muttered to himself. “Leader? Pfft!”

  By default, he was the leader, but Dra’kor wasn’t sure he actually deserved or wanted the job. He slowed down and let the others lead for a while. He followed behind about fifteen paces.

  He was content just to follow for a bit. He kept playing over the fight of the previous night in his head. He was sure that they had not responded properly. He really needed to concentrate on what happened if he expected to learn anything from their bumbling. As soon as he figured it out, he would talk to the guys. He owed them that. Grit was right. He had been in a foul mood since they left.

  Tinker

  The three friends had been walking the better part of the morning when they spotted a merchant rolling down the rutted road in a rickety tinker’s wagon pulled by a haggard old plow horse.

  As it crept closer, the three could see that the wagon was decorated with pots and pans, buckets and assorted farm tools, all hanging haphazardly around the outside. They heard the clanking and loud clattering as the clapboard-sided wagon pitched and bounced over the well-grooved road.

  The wagon’s roof was covered with odd shaped metal shingles and the painted shutters over the single small window were closed and rattled melodically as the buckboard creaked and groaned. The sides were painted garishly with red, blue and green dyes that were well weathered and chipping, although the fine filigree trim was still holding up well to the weather. Dra’kor shielded his eyes and squinted, trying to get a better view.

  An old heavyset man adorned with a full long beard, and dressed in a heavy wool coat, sat in the driver’s seat, his large-brimmed hat down shielding his eyes from the sun. He was puffing on a pipe as he shook the reins urging the horse forward. Dra’kor could smell the sweet smoky leaf in the air as he approached.

  The three magi stopped walking and stood at the edge of the road as the wagon approached. He pulled alongside the three men and gave a yank back on the reins bringing the wagon to a staggered halt. The three cautiously stepped to the side of the wagon, their guard up.

  The tinker looked over the three and decided that dark haired, square-jawed man was the leader, because his beard and hair were well trimmed and his oiled jacket was of as fine a quality as he had ever seen. The big one with the tattoo and shaved head was probably a scofflaw or hired protection. Barack noticed the knife strapped to his leg, the sword tucked at his waist, and the scar that traced down his cheek. The little man, well — he just wasn’t sure about him, maybe a merchant, or most likely, a farmer.

  “Well met,” the tinker called out in a friendly hoarse voice nodding his head at the one he figured was the leader while waving.

  “Well met,” the magi said in unison, returning the greeting enthusiastically as they approached the wagon.

  “I’m Barack. Where ye be headed?” the merchant asked, pushing his hat up so he could see more clearly. His long auburn hair, touched with gray, poured out from underneath forcing him to grab it and tuck it back out of the way. He squinted as his dark brown eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight.

  He looked well weathered to Dra’kor. His nose was wide and his cheeks were well tanned. The thick beard he sported was full and mostly gray, and almost completely obscuring his mouth. An unruly mustache practically covered his upper lip and hid most of the broad smile on his lips.

  “We’re headed to Three Rivers and eventually Five Peaks, we have business in both towns,” Dra’kor replied.

  “I’m Dra’kor, that’s Grit and he’s Men’ak,” he said as he introduced his travel companions.

  “Well gents, I’m afraid you can’t get to either right now,” the merchant said, shaking his head thoughtfully. He took another long draw on his long curved pipe and blew the herb-smelling smoke high into the air before he broke into a long hacking cough.

  Grit put his hands on his hips. “Why not?”

  “The ferry’s down, been down for a while too. No way to be crossin’ that river without the ferry!” Barack said, nodding in the direction from which he had just come after wiping the cough induced tears from his eyes. “Peaks is snowed in.”

  The merchant grunted as he bent forward and haphazardly wrapped the leather reins around the well-rusted iron rail, grabbed and set the brake, and lashed it tight to the buckboard. He turned around and stepped down from the wagon, his big belly getting in the way. He grunted from the effort and winced as he stretched his legs for the last step to the ground. He
removed his heavy jacket revealing the garish garb he wore and threw it up on the seat.

  Grit smirked as he looked at the tinker’s bright blue baggy pants, yellow puffy shirt and bright red silk vest. He had tall black boots and a garish brass-buckled leather belt. It was quite a sight. He grinned to himself because it reminded him of the jesters and magicians he had seen as a child that entertained the local nobles. They often arrived by ship and most often, they would do a trick or two for the lads that worked the docks.

  Barack pulled his hat off and wiped the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief he had pulled out of his vest pocket. He grabbed his long hair and wrapped it into a knot. “It’s getting warm.”

  “It is,” Men’ak said, smiling. “It’ll be another nice day I’m reckoning.”

  “Might, but it’s still early.”

  The tinker took a couple staggered, stiff-legged steps toward the magi and winced as his legs cramped up; he steadied himself with a white-knuckled grip on the wagon, and forced himself to stand straight.

  “AEgis is I’m stiff,” he grumbled, bending over and rubbing his legs. “I’m too old and I’ve been sitting on that buckboard for far too many hours.”

  “I hear ye,” said Grit, understanding how he felt. His own legs were burning from the previous night’s engagement with the catomen.

  “You say the ferry’s down?” Dra’kor said, trying to dig deeper.

  “Don’t rightly understand it myself, but they’ve been having big trouble with the beasts thatta way,” Barack motioned with his arm. “Started gettin’ real bad last fall and hasn’t let up. Maybe that has something to do with it, but I’m just speculating.”

  Dra’kor found that more than a little odd. “Isn’t that unusual for this time of year? It’s gettin’ to be planting season and all …”

  “Yup, unusual to say the least. Looks to be deserted on the far side of Haagen’s, but I didn’t stop to check ye know. Reckon I don’t rightly know why they ain’t fixed it yet. ‘Twas down two-three weeks ago too,” the merchant replied deep in thought, tapping the bowl of his long pipe on his hand to settle the leaf and stroking his beard as he thought back.

  “Three weeks ago? That’s a long time,” Men’ak observed. “You think they know it’s down?”

  “Tis,” the merchant agreed. “Damn long time I reckon. It’s possible, I suppose, that they don’t. Them Three Rivers folk don’t seem to wander much. Maybe they just doesn’t know, but I’d a thought that the ferryman lived nearby and would a reported it.”

  Barack pulled an ember can out of his pocket and opened the perforated lid. He removed one of the small coals out using a set of tweezers and used it to light his pipe. He put the coal back and poked it down before putting the lid back in place.

  “That’d make sense to me,” reasoned Grit.

  “Did you say beasts? What kind of beasts we talkin’ about here?” Dra’kor probed.

  “Aye, I did say beasts, and big beasts they are! Big wolf-like critters, really fierce,” he said eyes wide and he started shaking his head. “They stand almost as high as a man.”

  “You don’t say …,” Men’ak muttered.

  “They showed up right after the harvest last fall. Not safe to be traveling or be outside anymore, especially at night.”

  The tinker tapped the mouthpiece of his long-stemmed pipe on Dra’kor’s chest. “I’m surprised you’re out on a walk about.”

  “I suppose we shouldn’t be, but we didn’t know about the wolves. Beside, we’ve not seen any,” said Dra’kor, as he looked at Grit and Men’ak who nodded their agreement. “But we’ve only been gone a little over a day. We haven’t seen any back home though.”

  “Well, I guess not,” the grinning merchant said, chuckling as he removed his wide brimmed hat and wiped his brow again, “cause if ye did run into them, they’d be the last thing you’d been a seeing, and we’d not be talkin’.”

  Men’ak leaned forward, eyes round.“They’re that bad?”

  “Worse,” sighed Barack as he walked a couple steps to the side of his wagon and pointed. “Look at the side of my wagon, see them deep gouges? I hear them trying to get in every night. They ain’t like normal wolves …”

  Men’ak he ran his fingers over the deep jagged gouges. “What you mean? Wolves is wolves!”

  “Well, that’s not rightly so. First off there’s their head. It’s damn near twice as big as it should be and they’re twice as tall as they should be too,” he said using his hand to indicate the size. “Damn near four-foot tall at the shoulder, some bigger. Fast as hell too, they can even walk upright a little, sometimes, I swear it!”

  “That don’t sound like any wolf I know,” said Grit in disbelief, snickering as he waved the merchant off.

  “Well, I seen em,” Barack stated indignantly. He was mildly put-off by Grit’s arrogant attitude.

  “Yet you feel safe in there?” Grit raised his brow, motioning at the wagon and giving it a shove with his hand.

  “I do now, but not that first night. That first attack, they caught me a bit by surprise. I was cleaning up by a stream when they came out of nowhere; only Dora here saved me, letting me know that hell-spawn was coming. I was soaked head to toe and nary a stitch on!”

  Men’ak smiled at the thought and was mesmerized by the tale.

  “I didn’t have much choice, but to hide inside the wagon, they came out of nowhere. I barely made it through that first night. They nearly shredded the door and they were clawing through the window. Lucky for me they was way too big to fit through the window.”

  “Sounds like quite the ordeal,” nodded Dra’kor.

  ”’Twas! After they left, I spent the better part of two days reinforcing the place, made heavier shutters and latches,” he said pointing to the metal on the shutters and the door. “Doubled up the wood on the door, even added more planking to the roof — after I wedged it up and made it steeper.”

  “You’ve done a lot of work,” Grit said, eyeing the roof.

  “You bet! Thems metal shingles is brand spanking new! Added those my last trip to Five Peaks last fall, got them off an old smithy named Bart. He said he had no use for them. Wolves don’t like ‘em none. They stopped jumping on the roof after that —”

  Grit looked at how high the roof was and just couldn’t imagine a wolf jumping that high.

  Dra’kor took a couple steps to the rear and examined the door. Three thick metal straps were riveted in place. The work was passable. “Those straps have anything on the back side?”

  “Have five heavy brackets inside. I bar the door with a heavy oak plank when I goes to sleep, same with the shutters,” the merchant said, proudly.

  “Know it don’t look like much, but the wood is thick, and not rotted. I cut the trees myself,” he said bragging. “I’m a might poor excuse for a smitty, but I know enough to get by. To do real work I’d need bellows and a forge. You can only do so much with a fire and an anvil,” he sighed, wringing his hands nervously. “Mostly I just use my gear to repair stuff and lend a hand around farms and such that don’t have a blacksmith handy.”

  “Huh!” Dra’kor said. “Not bad —”

  “She’s real sturdy now, she’s held up many a night,” he said, smacking the side of the wagon with the palm of his hand.

  “You’ve been attacked more than once,” blurted Grit in disbelief. “Why don’t you head off away from this place?”

  “Aye, almost nightly now. But it’s safe enough inside if you can get past the howling and rocking of the wagon,” the merchant said, thumping on the side of his home. “Besides, where else would I go? Can’t exactly leave the folks around here in need. They expect me to bring the news and supplies around.”

  “Suppose not,” Grit replied. “Still —”

  “— Howling?” Men’ak echoed a bit under his breath.

  “Well, ain’t exactly howling, but that’s what I calls it anyhow,” Barack replied, hearing the comment.

  Dra’kor asked, furrowing his
brow, “What you mean, it’s not exactly howling?”

  “As I was saying, it don’t sound like no wolves I never heard. They kind of moan, almost sounds like they’s talkin’ to one ‘nother,” Barack said, as he scratched his chin.

  Grit and Dra’kor stared at each other.

  “I find that if I stabs them through the shutters,” he said, making a stabbing motion with a long small blade that appeared out of nowhere, “they lose interest quicker.”

  The merchant grinned.

  Grit mumbled to himself, “Sounds pretty unbelievable —”

  “It’s the plain truth, though, the gods as my witness.”

  Men’ak was suspiciously. He knew that horses and wolves didn’t get along. “How did your horse escape all the attacks?”

  “Damndest thing, I tell ya. They seem to leave them alone. Seems to me they only attack people. Never seen anything like it,” he said, shaking his head.

  Men’ak shot a look at Grit. They didn’t notice that Dra’kor was nodding and paying very close attention.

  “Them wolves, they’re finicky beasts all right,” he said. “Only seem to like eating folks, not critters.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Men’ak twisted his face.

  “Swear to the gods! I have to tie the horse up at night though … The horse, he don’t like ‘em one bit. Scares the wits out of the dumb critter. He’ll pull the whole cart over if you let him.”

  “So you just tie him off?” a dumbfounded Grit asked, patting the horse on his nose. The horse nuzzled his hand and let out a small whinny.

  “Aye! I just tie him up to a tree or run a line round a big boulder. He bucks and whinnies when he senses em,” said Barack seriously, before he broke into a big grin and laughed. “Almost took off down the road with me in the wagon that first night … that was some ride.”

  Dra’kor grinned at the thought. “You see ‘em only at night?”

  “Nah, they’re around in the day too, not as often though. Horse senses em, gives me time to climb in the back. Though I have to set the wheels good and I put in a second brake. Here, let me show you,” he said as he pointed to a metal contraption under the axle.