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

by Scott D. Muller

  Before Grit had shown the skill, he worked the docks with his father, loading and unloading the merchant vessels as they visited. It was good honest work. He helped carry the bulky wooden crates and wheelbarrows, filled with goods from the Far West. They used two-wheeled carts and their strong backs to move the merchandise from tall, three-masted ships along the decrepit wooden docks to the warehouses, where they were loaded onto long wagons, hitched to teams of oxen and taken off to sell in the markets of the realms. Grit smiled. He fondly remembered how heavily callused his hands were and how muscular he had been from all the heavy work.

  He had watched as the sailors with their tattoos and gold rings talked gruffly, shoving each other in jest, their elaborately tattooed torsos telling personal stories. They would toss him a coin if his work was good, and once in awhile, when his Da wasn’t watching, they’d sneak him drinks of strong rum, and sometimes, a few puffs from their pipes. The strong leaf used to make his heart race and his head spin.

  He remembered the working girls, eager to help lonely sailors unload unneeded coin and the one they called R’chel that he had spent most of a summer’s wages on. He was a wharf rat, plain and simple.

  Late at night, after the work was done, they would sit around a fire and tell tall tales of the places they had visited, the adventures they had lived and their near death escapes. They sang songs and drank … too much, but again, that was a sailor’s life. He often imagined that he too would be one of the ocean adventurers when he grew up.

  Having the skill changed all that and at a ripe age of fifteen, his father took him to be tested when strange things started happening around the house, things that defied explanation. Zedd’aki had taken one look at him and within a few days, he was in a caravan, making his way into the deep mountains with five other boys. That was where he met Dra’kor.

  Grit was lost in thought and didn’t even realize that Dra’kor had been speaking to him. “What?”

  “Nothing … I’m talking to Men’ak,” Dra’kor said, giving up.

  Men’ak wasn’t paying attention either. “Huh?”

  “So, did you see any smoke?” Dra’kor repeated. “In the town, I mean …”

  “Oh, so that’s what you asked? I couldn’t hear. I think I saw some, but I can’t be sure. The mist is pretty thick,” Men’ak replied.

  Dra’kor frowned. He expected smoke. This time of year, the chimneys should be smoking in the morning. No smoke most likely meant no people, or no survivors. He placed his hands on his hips and stared in the direction of the town. This trip just kept getting better!

  Grit took off his jacket and set his pack down on the ground. He also removed his hat, setting it and his jacket on top of the pack before spitting on his hands, climbing up the support pole and hooking a leg over the rope.

  Grit felt his muscles cramp almost immediately. He grunted and let himself down. “I think I better stretch.”

  He picked up a nearby rock, stretched his shoulders and arms before he jumped up, and shimmied out on the rope. The rope began bouncing almost immediately as he got out over the water, about fifteen feet out. The cool breeze was swinging him back and forth, although the guide rope was quite taut. Compared to a mooring line, even one pulled tight around a bollard by a couple strong sailors.

  “Be careful,” Men’ak shouted, when one of Grit’s legs slipped off the rope.

  Grit crooked his elbow over the rope and rested for a little while, flexing his hand to rid it of cramps. He had only gone about six paces before his arms began to ache, and the rope was digging something fierce into his leg behind his knee as the thin material of the leggings provided little to no cushion. He hung upside down moving a foot at a time, working himself hand over hand, each handful of rope, harder to hold than the last. He kept at it until he was about halfway across and had a better view of the raft.

  “It looks like there was a big fight,” Grit yelled back, craning his neck to shout back to the shore.

  “What?” Men’ak shouted back, putting his hand to his ear.

  “There’s been a fight! It looks like the guy on the raft was attacked by …” his voice trailed off as the roar of the falls became too loud for the two on shore to hear.

  “What’d he say?” Men’ak yelled into Dra’kor’s ear..

  “I think he said that there was some sort of skirmish on the raft —,” Dra’kor said, straining to hear. Dra’kor grabbed the guide rope and leaned out over the water, trying to hear.

  Men’ak’s eyes widened. “Who with?”

  Dra’kor shrugged, “Couldn’t hear, but who knows?”

  Grit continued his trip across the gorge and was getting closer to the water as the rope stretched under his weight. The rope was cold and wet, making it hard to maintain a good grip. To top it off, he couldn’t see because the mist was condensing on his face and droplets were sliding down his cheeks, blurring his vision. He tried to wipe his eyes clear with his free hand. Suddenly his other hand cramped and slipped free of the rope and he found himself hanging upside down by his knees, his head almost in the water.

  “Bloody halla!” he screamed as the blood rushed to his head.

  He desperately reached for the rope above, which caused it to bounce and sway, digging painfully into the back of his knee. His legs were tired from all the walking and he had been mid-stride across the rope and only had a single leg over the rope. He tried to swing his other leg over, but missed. He grimaced at the pain when his full weight pulled down on that joint as he swung wildly.

  “Damn! He’s slipping,” a petrified Men’ak yelled, pointing at Grit.

  “Hold on Grit,” he shouted as he nervously paced in front of the guideline. “What’ll we do?”

  “Maybe we can help him using the craft,” Dra’kor suggested, trying to think of an appropriate spell.

  “How?” a panicked Men’ak screamed, looking back and forth between Dra’kor and Grit.

  Dra’kor tried to throw out a spell of air to help support him, but before he could complete the spell, Grit’s leg gave out.

  He flailed, trying to grip the rope, catching it with his right hand, but his feet were in the water and the drag of the current was pulling him sideways. He hung by one hand for a second, and in spite of a valiant effort, his grip failed, one finger at a time, until he flipped backwards, plunging into the icy water. The two friends saw him fall, but were helpless to do anything about it.

  Dra’kor threw his hands to either side of his head and gasped.

  “Grit!” They yelled in unison as they frantically waved, watching his head bob once before he was washed over the falls. The last thing they saw were his legs kicking out of the water as he went over the edge. He never even had a chance to scream.

  “By the Ten, he’s gone over the falls …,” cried Men’ak, eyes wide as he ran to look over the edge. He couldn’t keep his lips from quivering.

  Dra’kor and Men’ak ran down the trail, tripping over the boulders buried in the rutted road. Men’ak fell flat on his face and slid in the mud. He grunted and jumped to his feet ignoring the scrapes and bumps he just received. They reached a level spot and peered over the edge, looking for their friend. They looked up and down the falls, trying to see through the thick mist. They couldn’t see Grit anywhere. They yelled out for him and listened for a reply.

  Grit had felt his grip going so he took a deep breath as he fell. Nothing could have prepared him for the icy blast of cold water that hit him as he fell into the mountain-fed stream. His head popped up once and he saw that the rope was no longer above him. He gulped for air and was pulled back under and although he tried to swim upstream, the current was too fast and his heavy clothes were weighing him down. He knew he was going over the falls, no doubt about that. He felt himself falling and he wove a spell of breathing and a ward of protection around his body just before he hit the water below.

  “See him? Well, do you?”

  “No, you?”

  “I-I … think I see … no, is that h
im?” said Men’ak excitedly, as he pointed. “There —”

  Dra’kor looked where Men’ak was pointing, but saw nothing. “I don’t see anything.”

  “There!” Men’ak shouted, waving his arms.

  “I think we’re chasing shadows …,” Dra’kor said. “He’s got to be downstream by now!”

  Dra’kor and Men’ak rushed back to the support post, grabbed Grit’s pack and ran down the steep hill as fast as they could to find their friend, this time taking care to keep their footing. They cried out his name, praying for an answer, but no reply came.

  The bottom of the falls was rocky and the water rushed and frothed as it splashed and splattered over the huge boulders. They scrambled along the shore, beating back the tall willow and rush while looking in between the massive jutting rocks. The cold hollow reeds stung as they snapped and whipped in the wind. In a matter of minutes, they were soaked to the bone.

  Dra’kor wiped his face with his wet robe and peered through the mist through blurred vision. He was fraught with worry, and dumbfounded about what to do next. He cursed. He didn’t even know if Grit could swim. He started to shiver uncontrollably and his beard was icing up.

  “We need to get out of the water,” he yelled at Men’ak as he harshly rubbed his hands together trying to warm them. “We’ll freeze or get sick if we don’t. I can’t feel my fingers!”

  “But …” Men’ak whimpered, his eyes red from the tears.

  Dra’kor set his hand firmly on Men’ak’s shoulder, “Grit would want us to —”

  Men’ak nodded and moved cautiously over the cold icy rocks, making his way back to the trail. His footing slipped and he fell over sideways, slicing his head open on a rock as he plunged into the icy knee-deep water. He flailed trying to find his footing as the rushing water pushed his feet out from under him. He flipped over to his stomach and swallowed a big gulp of the icy liquid, causing him to cough violently. He tried to push himself up, grabbed an enormous boulder and stood up, his head shooting out of the water. Blood slid down his forehead where the rock had sliced into his skin. He stood unsteadily, swaying. His skin was pale blue; the color was washed from his face. Men’ak was shivering uncontrollably and his breath was short and raspy. He couldn’t feel anything and stumbled awkwardly through the cold water to the shore. Dra’kor had seen him go under and was rushing over to help.

  “You better cast a spell and dry yourself off,” Dra’kor shouted as he was already casting one for himself and grabbed a handful of Men’ak’s robe, hefting him up out of the water.

  Men’ak nodded and slowly worked the magic with his stiff, cold fingers. Soon, steam was rising off his clothes and the color started returning to his face. His teeth stopped chattering and his breathing was returning to normal.

  “I’m … s-s-so … cold!” Men’ak sobbed.

  Dra’kor reached for him, turning his head over. “You’re bleeding!”

  Men’ak’s eyes glazed over. He pushed Dra’kor back, wiped his head with his hand, and stared at his blood-covered hand.

  “Your forehead’s cut. You got a deep rock bite. I think I better heal you,” Dra’kor said, as he reached for his friend.

  Men’ak let Dra’kor lead him up onto the shore. He sat on a rock while Dra’kor examined his head, placed his hands on each side of his skull and began chanting. Men’ak winced as the healing took hold. His knees trembled and he began to pitch forward, his eyes fluttering up into his head. Dra’kor had to set him down on the ground before he toppled from the boulder.

  “You’re a little dizzy from the blow to your head. You need to rest a bit!” said Dra’kor softly.

  Men’ak shook his head and struggled to regain his feet, “I’ll be okay. We need to find Grit —” He staggered sideways and grabbed at the reeds to keep his balance.

  The stream was fast, as spring runoff was near its highest. The current was relentless. In spite of their willingness, they couldn’t risk venturing farther out into the churning waters, so they instead turned their attention to searching the shoreline. The two ran back and forth along the trail trying to spot their friend. They didn’t see any trace of him.

  Dra’kor yelled for him, “Grit! Grit!” However, he heard no response, saw no head, no clothes, and no signs.

  Men’ak searched the stream by the falls and Dra’kor ran downstream to the inlet of the lake and waited.

  After searching for almost an hour, the two exhausted friends collapsed on the rock-crusted riverbank.

  “I think we have to assume that he didn’t make it,” a remorseful Men’ak sobbed, as he dropped his hands into his lap.

  “Maybe we missed him,” Dra’kor said, trying to be optimistic as he rolled to his back. “He could have made it over the falls and just been washed downstream before we got down from the top. Either way, he’s on his own now. He knows where we are headed. If he’s okay, he’ll meet up with us somewhere along the way —”

  “Maybe, but what if he’s hurt or …” Men’ak weakly replied, placing his face in his lap and sobbing. “I just … just —”

  “Just what?” Dra’kor asked, sitting up.

  “I just didn’t expect this, us, you know. I didn’t think it was going to be this — hard.”

  Dra’kor sighed, “Ja’tar tried to tell us. I guess we weren’t ready to listen. We’re a bit pig-headed, you know!”

  Men’ak nodded as he sobbed.

  “We need to get back up top and try to get across; it’s starting to get dark.” Dra’kor said, ignoring Men’ak’s sobs.

  “— and get ourselves killed?” Men’ak blurted bitterly, looking up with puffy red eyes.

  “What choice do we have?” Dra’kor said, trying to be objective. “If night falls and those wolves catch us out here …”

  “We could go back.”

  “We still need a place to spend the night,” Dra’kor reasoned.

  “Can’t we head back tomorrow? I want to go home.”

  “Grit would want us to continue —” said Dra’kor solemnly. “Otherwise his loss is for naught. I think he would want us to venture on.”

  Dra’kor got up and started the long walk up the steep trail to the top of the waterfall, struggling up the road. He dragged Grit’s pack, unable to lift it in addition to his own. Men’ak sat cross-legged on the rock while Dra’kor labored up the road. He wasn’t sure he wanted to continue. What was the point?

  Dra’kor stopped about halfway to the top and turned around looking at Men’ak still sitting on the rock. “You coming?” He called out as he gasped for breath.

  Men’ak didn’t answer. He stood up, looked down both directions of the road, turned and silently followed Dra’kor. Dra’kor waited for his friend to reach him, wrapped an arm around him and gave him a warm embrace, “We need to stick together.”

  Men’ak nodded weakly and slowly started the struggle up the hill.

  When they reached the top, Dra’kor removed his coat and pack. “I’ll go across. Give me your belt.”

  “What do you need the belt for?”

  “I have an idea,” Dra’kor replied.

  “Isn’t there some other way?” Men’ak sulked. “Let’s go to the Five Peaks. If something happened to you —”

  “I think we should stick with Three Rivers,” said Dra’kor forcefully.

  “Why?” sulked Men’ak, keeping his eyes cast down.

  “Well, for one, the tinker said the roads aren’t clear yet from the last spring storm. Secondly … well, I have a feeling,” Dra’kor said. “It looks like a storm is brewing up in the Five Peaks Area, remember? We saw it this morning when we were higher up.”

  “I suppose,” Men’ak grumbled. “Are you sure we can’t use magic to get across?”

  “Well, I suppose we could fly, right? Oh, wait … I don’t know that spell,” spat back Dra’kor frustrated. “Don’t know how to walk on fast moving water either. Do you?”

  Men’ak gave him a blank look and handed him his leather belt. Dra’kor climbed up on
the pole and stretched out across the rope. He lashed himself to the rope using his belt, making himself a cradle around his chest. He looped Men’ak’s belt over and slid one his legs through. He flipped upside down and worked his other leg into the loop.

  He hung there for a second, and slowly and methodically pulled himself across the gorge. The two belts dug deeply into the soft flesh of his back and thighs, but at least he didn’t have to worry about plunging into the icy water, although he kept his legs wrapped tightly around the rope just in case.

  It took him a long time before his progress became apparent because he had to adjust the belt after every couple of feet, but better slow than not. He reached the raft, kicked out of the belt around his feet, and lowered himself to the raft, his weight pitching around as the raft tossed and turned.

  After he had a fair footing, he stepped over the railing, removed the first belt from the guide rope, moved it to the other side of the guide support, and reattached it to the rope. He did the same with the second belt after he slid back into the first. He kept sliding the belts along until he reached the middle of the raft. He removed the belt, fastened it around his waist and tied himself to the raft with one of the spare ropes lying on the deck. The other belt he lashed around one of the posts located on each corner so he wouldn’t lose it.

  It took him a couple minutes to get his balance as the raft snaked to and fro, and he almost fell in, landing hard on the wet wood deck, scraping his knees and palms as he fell just shy of the edge, one leg slipping into the icy water. The small raft pitched and rolled, and was undulating as the water surged and waned with the flow over the rocks.

  Dra’kor grabbed the railing and steadied himself. The first thing he noticed once he was secure was the two dead wolven, confirming his belief that the beasts were indeed what the tinker had been talking about. He had never seen one up close and as far as he was concerned, even though the beast was dead, he figured this was close enough and he prayed to never meet one out on the open road. He shuddered as he noticed the long fangs and razor-sharp claws.

  One of the wolven had been run through with a long spear; the other was in a death clutch with a man. He assumed it was Haagen. Dra’kor removed the spear and it made a sucking sound as he twisted it hard and yanked it free. Next, he examined Haagen, who had run the beast through with a small sword, piercing the beast’s chest and driving the sword up into its lungs. The sword was still gripped in the dead man’s white knuckled hand. It appeared that the beast had managed to rip Haagen up and that he had bled out, but not before he killed the creature.