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

by Scott D. Muller

  “Do you remember anything else?”

  “I had an encounter with a diminutive demon,” Men’ak said, as his eyes lit up. “Well, more than one, actually. But this one, was really quite unusual. He kept talking, but he kept saying he shouldn’t be talking, mumbling something about a ‘Master’s Plan’ to kill all the magi that were still alive.

  Dra’kor raised a brow, “Specifics?”

  “Not really. The one thing I remember was that he knew that the magi in the Keep didn’t have magic, at least what he called old magic. He said that his master needed the wizards for something. After that, he spent the next ten minutes or so trying to convince me to forget everything he said.”

  “Needed them for what?”

  “Don’t know. That’s when I found out that demons could be called back to the planes. When that happens, they can stop answering questions.”

  “He just stopped mid-sentence?”

  “Seriously, it was as if he was duty-bound to advise me about everything he knew, but he seemed torn, as if he knew what he was telling was upsetting the grand plan and he tried to discredit himself and everything he said.”

  “So what is this grand plan?” Dra’kor wondered aloud.

  “Something about killing all the wizards —”

  “Huh! Go figure? Demons are always looking to kill wizards.”

  “Not exactly. This seemed different, like some big secret plan that involves all the demons.”

  “Well, next time you meet a demon, ask more questions,” Dra’kor said, with a wry smile.

  “Sure, when and if! And the bothersome thing was they disagree about a lot of events and what they mean.”

  “So what, they argue?”

  “More like fighting, jockeying to be the one to reveal some great truth or something. It seems that some want to tell more and some refuse to talk at all.”

  “Refuse? They don’t answer at all? If they refuse, why do they bother to be in your dreams?”

  “I don’t rightly know, but it seems to me that they are bound. A little like flies being drawn to honey. They beat around the bush and don’t directly answer the questions. They seem to be very adept at telling half-truths.”

  “Well, I’ll be. I suppose they would be.”

  “Funny thing, one of them said I can learn to control the dreams.”

  Dra’kor’s eyes narrowed, “Control them how?”

  “Well, you know—choose who I talk to, where I visit. This one demon, said the other deathwalker was mean, actually — cruel was the word he used. He also said he was brilliant in the ways of demons. And this one soldier said that he only talked to who he chose and teleported away whenever he desired. I need to learn that trick. It could be handy.”

  Dra’kor nodded, “It sounds like you had a productive night! I’m sure you’ll figure all this out as you get more practice. Look at you being a deathwalker and all.”

  Men’ak rolled his eyes and grunted.

  D’Arron came back into the room carrying a big tray of food. She set the tray down in front of Men’ak who dug right in and began shoveling it into his mouth by the fork load. D’Arron just shook her head in amazement. She had never seen anyone eat like Men’ak. He didn’t even need to breathe!

  Men’ak seemed to be in a hurry. He finished his food and excused himself, leaving D’Arron and Dra’kor to talk.

  “Wonder what’s gotten in to him?” D’Arron asked. “He didn’t even ask for seconds?”

  “Or thirds,” Dra’kor grinned.

  “Well, he seems in a better mood than the past few days.”

  Dra’kor shrugged his shoulders and watched as his friend rushed out of the inn and headed down the street.

  Men’ak hurried toward Hagra’s cottage. He wanted to have time to talk to Hagra before his lessons later that day. He spotted her in her garden and waved, calling out her name.

  Hagra leaned on her staff and stood straight. She saw Men’ak rushing toward her, waving frantically. She frowned. When magi ran like that, they wanted something. They always seemed to want something.

  “Hagra! We need to talk,” he panted.

  “So talk,” she said sourly. “I got hoeing to do if we’re gonna eat.”

  “I have a message for you, from the mist,” he stammered.

  Hagra’s eyes widened, “Well, spit it out lad. Don’t keep me a waiting!”

  Men’ak paused to catch his breath while Hagra eyed him impatiently. Men’ak took a couple of deep breaths and delivered his message as promised.

  “I met a guy named O’Roy who said he knew you. He said that there’s some old famous druid’s staff at the bottom of a well in Covenburg,” he finished, “He said he was sure you’d want to retrieve it.”

  Hagra stood up and set her hoe to the ground. She scratched herself most unlady-like and pulled the large hat up out of her face.

  “O’Roy the sorcerer? Wondered what happened to him. How’d he die?” she asked, as she wiped her forehead with her apron.

  Men’ak wiped the sweat from his brow, “He said his coven was wiped out by Skra, that they were double-crossed.”

  Hagra’s eyes narrowed, “Skra? You talkin’ about the pasty looking paranoid mage of the Ten?”

  “That’s the one. He, O’Roy, said that the Ten ain’t to be trusted. Skra hunted them down and trapped them right after the last battle. Killed everyone of their coven while they were celebrating.”

  “Remember I told ye about the Hunt! Now ye believing me?” Hagra sighed.

  Men’ak nodded, “What’re you gonna do?”

  “I gotta go to Covenburg,” Hagra said.

  “Should I go too?”

  Hagra shook her head no, “This is something I better handle myself. Can you give Dra’kor and Sheila a message for me?”

  Men’ak nodded.

  “Tell ‘em I’m a heading out to Covenburg on witch business. Don’t you be telling them about no staff. I’d rather be saving that for a big surprise, if I can find it.”

  “Is the staff important?”

  “Important enough! That staff held strong druid magic, ifin it belongs to who I think it did. We’re gonna be needin’ it ifin we have to face the demons, or another bloody-halla dark mage!”

  “I’ll keep your secret, but you have to be careful. Where is Covenburg?”

  “It be back in the direction ye came from,”— Hagra frowned and scratched her chin— ‘bout four or five leagues past yer Keep, so I’m figurin’ it to be a — oh, I don’t know, maybe a three or four day trip.”

  Three days?” Men’ak was confused. “But it took us over two days to get here, and that was downhill — and we were well rested.”

  Hagra grinned, “Yes, but I know how to use them gates — and ye don’t —!”

  Men’ak’s jaw dropped and he just stared.

  Hagra chuckled on the inside. Men’ak was so cute when was all confused and all!

  “Close yer mouth boy! You’ll catch yerself some flies — ifin ye don’t.”

  “But the beasts are —” Men’ak moaned.

  “Them kitties and doggies don’t bother me none, I got real magic ye see!” she said with a wink. “They’ll be hurtin’ mightily if they be messin’ with Hagra!”

  Men’ak frowned, but had to admit to himself that she was far better suited to this whole adventuring thing than he, Dra’kor and Grit. She would probably be just fine. Probably —

  “I’ll keep your secret, but you have to promise me you’ll stop in and visit Ja’tar on your way back. Maybe you can make some sense of what’s going on … talk some sense into him.”

  Hagra guffawed. “As if —”

  “I mean it!” he said earnestly, shaking a finger at the old witch. “You have to promise me that you’ll do it or —”

  Hagra frowned, but she nodded her concession.

  “Good!” said Men’ak, changing the subject. “Can we get in another practice before you go?”

  Hagra shook her head. She was right. Mages always be
wanting something. Always.

  Confusion

  Ja’tar sat in his big oversized chair staring at the note he had recently received from Dra’kor. He took another sip of his drink and puffed on his pipe. He watched the thin curls of smoke rise and spread out across the ceiling.

  His head hurt. The throbbing was almost unbearable. He set the notes aside and rubbed his temples, slowly. He blankly stared at the stack of three parchments he had been puzzling over these past four days.

  Initially he had sent the notes back right after he read them, but these recent notes had far more information in them and they seemed to contain puzzles as well, so he made duplicates. Now they sat on his desk and bothered him, causing him much consternation.

  It wasn’t so much what they said that bothered him; it was the fact that inside he felt they had told him the truth, but to his chagrin, he couldn’t remember or recall any of the things Dra’kor had written. They all went completely counter to what his gut told him. And yet, he just couldn’t bring himself to toss them away. It seemed as if they said more.

  The first few notes he had received seemed normal, at least as far as they were exactly what he had expected. The third note bothered him. There were two lines that dug deep in his craw. The first was that they were going to stay in Three Rivers for a while and study real magic. The second was that a witch named Hagra sends him fond greetings, would like him to meet her daughter, Sheila.

  Ja’tar shook his head and sighed heavily. He couldn’t fathom what Dra’kor had meant when he said he was going to study ‘real’ magic. As opposed to what, he wondered. Did Dra’kor mean to imply that the magic he knew was not real? Worrisome, but unlikely. Or was he being taught some forbidden form of magic? Maybe the witch was teaching him some magic that the Guild didn’t allow, some form of dark magic. This worried Ja’tar.

  The second issue was even more bothersome. According to Dra’kor, Hagra was a very dear old friend with whom he had spent many years. Try as he may, he could not remember her. He couldn’t even recall the time or location of where they supposedly met. Yet, she knew far too much about him to be making it all up.

  He took another puff on his leaf and blew the smoke to the ceiling. If he couldn’t remember this woman, what else couldn’t he remember? Another short phrase scared him; Dra’kor had said that he was less than thrilled about being a spellcaster, and that Men’ak hated being a deathwalker.

  Ja’tar picked up the notes and read them again, for perhaps the hundredth time. It was clear as day, spellcaster and deathwalker. Ja’tar was unfamiliar with both terms, and yet the tone of Dra’kor’s letter implied that these would mean something to him, should mean something.

  Ja’tar paused to reflect. He intended to seek council of his friend Zedd’aki, but had hesitated, hoping that he could ferret out what the basic meanings of the notes ordained, good news or bad. He tossed the notes back to his lap. He had no idea.

  As far as he could tell, the phrases were not of the Keep. He had searched a few of his favorite places and found no reference to those words or even to words similar enough to imply that the phase or name might have changed over the years.

  The final straw was the last letter. He had only read it once. The news it held was so disturbing that he couldn’t force himself to pick up the parchment and read it a second time.

  It was the shortest. It had simply said, ‘trust no-one. The Guild doesn’t exist. Hagra and the elves agree, none have contacted you or heard from you in almost a millennium. Whomever you regard as the Guild cannot be.’

  Ja’tar turned the carefully folded note over in his hand. He knew he had to figure out this puzzle. It didn’t sit well with him that all three of these messages together painted a very bleak and disturbing picture of the Keep and the Guild. It bothered him more that Dra’kor would say such things without proof, but what proof could he have? Ja’tar knew full well that he had made his monthly contacts just as he always had for hundreds of years.

  There was one other part of the last note that gave him pause. Dra’kor had said that he would finally be free of the medallion in a day or two. Ja’tar knew that Dra’kor didn’t know the spell of eternity and he was modestly certain that Dra’kor couldn’t maintain that spell on his own. The question that came to mind was why would you want to carry that burden and why would Dra’kor be so happy about being free of the medallion in the first place.

  He had no answers, just questions. He sat in the dark room, listening to the fire crackle, wracking his brain to piece together the puzzle that sat in his lap. He took another sip of his wine. He rolled the glass and let the slightly cool liquid slide over his tongue. He swallowed and put the glass down. He had to go see Zedd’aki. He couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

  Ja’tar found Zedd’aki where he expected him to be, in the common room having a midnight snack. He sat with his back to the mammoth stone fireplace, the fire had already burned down and only a deep bed of red glowing coals remained. Ja’tar pulled out the bench across the table and sat down across from his friend.

  “Up late again?”

  Zedd’aki nodded and shoved another forkful of apple pie into his mouth and chewed slowly. He picked up a wedge of the strong-flavored odiferous cheese and added it to the medley in his mouth.

  “We need to talk,” Ja’tar said, with a serious tone to his voice.

  Zedd’aki looked up from his plate and raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s about the letters from Dra’kor…”

  “What about them?”

  Zedd’aki wiped his mouth with a clean napkin, folding it when he was finished and setting it next to his clean plate. He eyed the crumbs around the rim of the plate and after licking his index finger, ran it around the edge and licked it clean.

  Ja’tar looked around the room and saw a few other magi enjoying the same pie.

  “Some place a bit more — private,” he said in a hushed voice.

  Zedd’aki nodded and stood up, brushing the crumbs from the front of his robe, “Got a place in mind or —?”

  “How about my room?” Ja’tar quickly proposed.

  “Now, or can it wait until morning?”

  Ja’tar feigned a smile, “Now would be best. This may take us a while. We have plenty to discuss ….”

  Zedd’aki shrugged, as the two walked off together.

  “You seem quiet,” Zedd’aki commented.

  “I’m frustrated.” Ja’tar said. The tension could be heard in his voice.

  Zedd’aki raised a brow. “Are the boys okay?”

  “I’m not sure. I think so, but —” Ja’tar cringed, staring off into the distance. “Honestly, I’m not really sure…”

  The two barely talked as they made their way down the deserted halls toward Ja’tar’s quarters. They climbed the circular stairs in silence and Zedd’aki stood idle while Ja’tar unlocked his room and released his wards. The door opened on its own accord with a squeak, and Ja’tar motioned for his friend to enter.

  “Drink?” Ja’tar walked to his table, opened the decanter, and poured himself a glass of the ruby beverage.

  “Sure, why not!”

  Ja’tar poured another glass and handed it to his friend. He walked over to the sitting area and plopped himself down in his favorite chair, “Pull up a seat!”

  Zedd’aki grabbed a big padded chair from the desk and pulled it over next to the fire. Ja’tar threw another two logs on the fire, which exploded in sparks as the pitch and bark caught flame from the stirred embers. It had been a cold spring day filled with light snow flurries as was common here in the mountains. The glass panes of the windows were heavily frosted at the edges, nearly white with the intricate patterns of the frost with a small area in the center being the only remaining part that was clear.

  Zedd’aki watched as Ja’tar grabbed his small wooden note box off of his desk and opened it. He pulled out three thin sheets of parchment and handed them to Zedd’aki. Zedd’aki swirled the wine and took a oversized-sized sip, r
olling it around in his mouth before swallowing. He set his drink down, took the notes from his friend’s shaking hand, and leafed through them.

  “You need to read these,” Ja’tar mumbled quietly.

  Ja’tar sat back down and watched Zedd’aki’s face as he read the notes. He watched for expressions and he wasn’t disappointed. He read everything from quizzical and confused, to downright angry.

  When Zedd’aki set the notes down on the small marble-topped table that sat between them, Ja’tar knew he was finished.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” Ja’tar confessed. “Let’s start with the witch.”

  “Hagra?” Zedd’aki nodded. “That’s a name I haven’t heard from your lips in a thousand years —”

  Ja’tar scowled. “My lips?”

  “Yes, why?”

  Ja’tar’s jaw dropped open, “I knew her?”

  Zedd’aki got a confused look on his face, “You don’t remember her?”

  Ja’tar got a blank look on his face.

  Zedd’aki laughed and rolled his eyes, “You should remember her! You and she were all the talk of the Keep for several decades. She was a stunning woman — as I recall, smart as a whip, jet black hair, and her figure was … well, let’s just say it was voluptuous.”

  “I have absolutely no recollection of her,” Ja’tar confessed, rubbing his temples.

  Zedd’aki shook his head, “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” Ja’tar nodded.

  Zedd’aki stared in disbelief.

  “I cannot recall a single thought of the woman, even now after you described her.”

  Zedd’aki slapped his knee and burst out laughing, “Oh, Ja’tar. You got me there … you really had me going —!”

  Ja’tar glared at his friend as he wiped his eyes.

  Zedd’aki’s jaw dropped, “What? You were serious? Come on, you two practically mated on the floor of the library. Surely you didn’t forget … couldn’t forget her —”

  Ja’tar looked up with weary, vacant eyes.