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

by Scott D. Muller

  He thought a bit and continued writing; knowing that in all likely hood, he would forget all that transpired this night after his return;

  ‘I had communication with Voltaire. I seemed to have forgotten him. This is unforgivable.

  I needed to get about a league and a half away before my mind cleared, at least partially and I was able to think straight. I believe the figurine that Shar’ran gave me helped. I made a fire between some rocks and some large trees, across from a monument I erected to To’paz. I laid a fire ring with a single huge boulder on the north. The glamour seems abnormally strong. I intend to take Zedd’aki with me the next outing.’

  Satisfied that he had recorded enough information to jog his memory, he signed the journal as proof and placed his seal upon the notes. He stared at it, hoping it would be enough before placing it in his bag. He remembered something else, and added to the entry.

  ‘..the Guild either has been crippled, or does not care, although my tests earlier in the day seem to suggest that at least some structure of the organization still controls the realms. I intend to pursue this over the next few days.‘

  He felt that he needed to do that in case by morning he forgot everything. Depending on the glamour, he knew he might wake up not knowing anything about today’s events.

  He gathered the small figurine and replaced the cloth before sliding it into his pocket. Someday, he would have to thank his friend for the gift. It just might end up saving the magi from extinction. Ja’tar cast a water spell on the fire, snuffing it out. He waited for it to sizzle itself out before he picked up his medallion, turned down the road and began his trek back to the Keep. As he walked, he could feel his memory fading.

  His feet hurt. His back hurt. He realized he had not had any activity in a long time, and his body was protesting. He knew he would be paying the price tomorrow.

  About halfway back, he felt his head throbbing and realized he wasn’t wearing the medallion. He looked down at it dangling at the end of the chain gripped in his hand, swinging as he walked. He felt a bit foolish for having removed it and couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he would do such a bone-headed thing. He lifted it over his head and instantly felt relief. By the time he reached the gate, he remembered only his purpose.

  Ja’tar remembered to reset the wards, and replaced the heavy beam that locked the doors. Peering east with tired, bloodshot eyes, he saw that the sky was beginning to lighten and the morn was near. Time was of the essence, he didn’t want to get caught outside, so he hurried back to the courtyard, his cloak billowing as he ran. He kept his back tight against the wall as he slid sideways to the side door. After letting himself in and silently latching the door, he ran up the stairs two by two until he reached his room.

  He fumbled with the wards, felt the latch give and stepped inside. After he closed his door, he leaned heavily against the wall, out of breath and wheezing from his sprint up the stairs. The room spun, causing him to lean over and place his hands on his knees, pulling in jaggedly drawn deep breaths.

  He heard the rooster crow and knew he had just gotten back in time to avoid being found out. The kitchen staff would already be up and preparing breakfast, and soon, the servants who cleaned would be up and about.

  He kicked off his dirty boots, flung his heavy cloak to the floor, and set his journal on the desk. He was too tired to even look at it. His overstuffed chair beckoned him and he slumped down letting the chair swallow him. Soon he was massaging his aching feet, and hoping he wouldn’t find blisters in the morning.

  He spotted a message from Dra’kor waiting on the silver tray, so he leaned over, and grabbed it. A shiver racked him, so before he read, he stood and moved adjacent the fireplace. The room was cold and he urgently added a few more logs to the hearth weaving a simple glyph. He watched them float into place as he rubbed his hands together to generate some warmth. After several seconds, he grew impatient and sent a stream of fire into the logs and instantly, they burst into flame. He poured himself a glass of strong wine from the decanter on his reading table, sat down into his stuffed chair and after placing his spectacles over his still-cold nose, began reading.

  -Ja’tar,

  Men’ak told me of your visit to him in the mist. I hope we can figure out another way to communicate so that you don’t have to die again.

  He remembered most of what you asked, however I can’t be sure that I will cover everything. We are staying in Three Rivers with Hagra and Sheila, her half-elf daughter. Actually, we are staying in an inn.

  They have been working with us on the old magic. I finally made a ‘life spell, but can only feed it for about three hours. Men’ak is having trouble with the magic. It doesn’t seem to come to him naturally. We hope we can get him to make a life spell, but it may take a lot longer than we have.

  Hagra has some strange ideas about the totems. She thinks they are used to control the movement of mages, not to prevent demons from getting out. Apparently, the magic of the Zylliac doesn’t do much to demons, so what’s the point. Hagra also says the totems don’t affect her, so whether the realm is closed or not, makes no never mind to her.

  Men’ak had some visitors in his mist world from Five Peaks. I think we need to head there soon. They are under attack by something called skree. Sheila and I killed one the other day. They are also having very bad storms that don’t seem natural.

  Hagra said I should contact some of the old Guild members and let them know what has happened. We are trying to figure out a good way to do this. I’ll let you know what we come up with. Maybe Sheila can help.

  The people here are worried, but we finally killed enough of the catomen and wolven to allow them to get out and plant their fields. I don’t know how long this will hold. Sounds like Five Peaks didn’t have an outer wall or gate and are almost unable to move between buildings. Almost fifty people have died, most of the town.

  I’ll write more tomorrow. Sorry I doubted you. I think I haven’t given you the credit you deserve.

  -Dra’kor

  Ja’tar read the last line a second time before he put the note away, rubbing his weary eyes. He tilted his head back and gulped down the last half glass of wine before he dragged his weary body to bed. Imagine that, an apology from Dra’kor! Now he knew the world was ending. His head had barely hit the pillow and he was sound asleep, exhausted from the night.

  Alive

  Grit felt his grip on the cold icy rope give way as his fingers cramped. He fell back, being held only by the crook of his knee. He cart-wheeled his arms trying to regain his handhold but knew that he was in for an icy bath and one hell of a ride over the falls as his leg slipped off the icy rope.

  He glanced over his shoulder as he fell and the last thing he saw was the faces of his two friends, looking on in horror as his grip loosened. He saw Dra’kor feverishly trying to weave a spell, but he knew it was too late when he felt the spell overshoot his head and fall useless across the other side of the river.

  His body slammed into the icy cold water, taking away his breath as his head plunged under. He flailed his arms and kicked his feet until his head broke the surface. He struggled against the weight of his heavy water-laden robe, a battle he couldn’t possibly win, and was quickly pulled back under.

  He searched for the raft from under the clear water as he swam hard reaching for the logs far above. He had hoped he could swim to the raft, but he was already in the grips of the current and was being quickly propelled toward the dangerous precipice of the falls. He kicked hard and broke the surface again sputtering and pulling a deep breath into his aching lungs. Exhausted, it was all he could do just to keep his head above the surface.

  He swam as hard as he could, but despite his valiant effort, he was losing the battle against the raging water. Grit could hear the roar of the cascade and could now clearly see the edge of the falls. He gave up and altered his strategy and concentrated on formulating a plan to survive what he knew would be a rough ride. He knew he only had seconds as
his teeth chattered. To make matters worse, he was losing feeling in his hands and legs.

  The first thing he thought of was a protective sphere, Ballard’s Ball, something to break his fall should there be rocks below, and he was almost certain there would be rocks. When he and Men’ak had looked over the edge, they had seen jagged boulders poking up through the frothy water. He quickly wove his spell and tied it off just in case he went unconscious.

  The first spell led to his recognition of a second truth. He realized that if he lost consciousness, he would die. He would lie face down in the water and drown. He tried to remember the spell to breath under water or in a space with no air. It just wouldn’t come to him. He only had seconds …

  The best he could do was to remember a spell that allowed him to hold his breath for a long time, Bard’s Folly, so named for its common use by Bards and Tinkers who wagered with local folk that they could hold their breath longer than their challengers could. He started his spell as he crossed the threshold over the edge of the falls.

  He was falling, he remembered that much, the feeling of being weightless and the view of the blue sky above as he tumbled backwards. He continued to weave his spell with numb shaking hands. At the last instant, he remembered the other spell, Lazarus’s Gill, and tried as best he could to cast it before he hit. It was the last thing he remembered.

  He hit the water flat on his back, the impact knocking him unconscious as well as knocking the wind out of him. The icy-cold mountain fed water pushed him deep into the pool below as his limp listless body folded in half causing him to sink ass first. The current grabbed him and tossed him like a rag doll. The eddies pushed him around to their whim like a puppeteer wiggling the wooden limbs of their marionette.

  It turned out that he had narrowly missed the rocks, landing precisely between two tall, razor-sharp spires jutting out of the roiling water. He was lucky, if you could call it that, lucky to have not been impaled. But again, he was caught in a giant whirlpool that was sucking him down to the bottom. His flaccid form swirled deeper and deeper into the inky darkness until he was sucked down to the bottom and pushed through a narrow opening to an underwater cave.

  His submerged body was pulled through the pitch-black cave and jostled against the sharp boulders as his body was carried along by the current. Although the passage narrowed at points, the pressure of the water always managed to push him through. Had his robe caught on a rough, jutting crag, or had his foot become wedged between boulders, all would have been lost, but lady luck was watching over him. His circuitous path through the labyrinth of caverns eventually ended with a downhill rush into a rocky tube. Within minutes, he was ejected out the other side into a deep fjord of a spring-fed mountain cirque. He floated to the surface and lay there face down, unconscious.

  He drifted along the shore, his face-down body being pulled and pushed by the currents of the lake. He passed towering cliffs and eventually, he stopped moving in the shallows adjacent to a beach.

  A young boy dressed in doeskin spotted something floating in the pool where he was fishing with his short barbed spear. His eyes opened wide as the man bobbed on the surface. He waded out into the water and after poking him several times with the butt end of his spear, lifted his head out of the water. Shock filled his face and he charged out of the water running to get his father.

  The lad dashed along the shore, gracefully bounding over logs and boulders. He bobbed, ducked under low-hanging branches and weaved through fields of rocks without ever losing stride or slowing. He broke into a clearing and ran into the simple stone hut adjacent the larger home.

  “Poppa! Poppa! Come quick. A man is dead in the lake,” the lad said slightly winded.

  “What is this about a man?” The elder said, looking up from sharpening his hunting knife. A long-stemmed pipe dangled from his mouth and the herbed aroma floated cloudily in the near-barren room.

  “A man,” the boy yelled excitedly. “A man like those in the mountains and stories, tall with round ears and no hair.”

  The old man looked suspiciously at his son, not believing it was possible. Their village was protected from invaders by very strong magic and glamour spells. The entire valley was protected. All trails led away, the villages couldn’t be seen from the rim, and no sound could escape. Not only that, but highly skilled fighters patrolled the only two, well-hidden, entrances into the valley. It wasn’t possible that someone could get in.

  The old man sighed heavily; his son had such an active imagination. “I have work to do,” he said. “We can tell stories later.”

  The boy grabbed his hand and began tugging him toward the door. “Hurry! He may still be alive.”

  “Tou’far, this had better not be a joke,” he warned.

  “Hurry, father. Hurry!”

  The man rolled his eyes, slipped the long curved blade into its well-oiled sheath, and reluctantly followed his son to the lake, breaking into a gentle, loping run as he tried to keep up with the sprinting lad. When they reached the shore, there, just as Tou’far had said, was a body floating face down in the shallows. The elf looked at the man and knew he must be dead, for no human he had ever met could breathe water.

  “Hurry Poppa!” The boy stammered, “H-h-help him. Help him!”

  The older elf waded out into the water and yanked the man’s head out of the water. The man’s face was pale white and the eyes were rolled back in their sockets. The old elf forlornly shook his head at the site.

  He grabbed the man by his robe and dragged him to the shore, hefting him over the small sandy ledge that surrounded the lake. Although the man was larger than the elf, the wiry elf easily lifted the man on shore and rolled him to his back.

  The elf’s jaw fell open and his eyes narrowed. To say he was surprised would be an understatement. There, in the center of the man’s chest was a ghoul-stone filled, filigreed medallion. He would have recognized it anywhere, a sha’za, but he had never thought to see one again in his lifetime.

  He reached down and gently touched it, feeling its twisted magic. He jerked his hand back. He stood, placed his hands on his hips and stared. If the Wizards of the Great Keep had finally come to the valley, perhaps the time foretold in prophecy was at hand. He paced, not certain what to do next.

  “Father, what should we do?”

  Grit convulsed, coughed and spit up water. He hacked and coughed as the liquid cleared from his lungs.

  The man startled and quickly turned to his son, “Run quick. Go and get Shar’ran. Tell him we have a visitor from the Keep.”

  Epilogue

  It was morning. Ja’tar sat in the giant overstuffed chair by the fireplace in his room and watched the sunrise over the mountains. The golden rays flooded the room with light and warmth. He had been up early, unable to sleep any longer as his mind raced with the events of the previous night. He stared back into the flames and listened to them snap as pitch in the pine logs bubbled and sparked. He felt restless.

  In his lap were the letters his father had written to him a long time ago. He had forgotten they existed, but the events of the recent days had brought it bubbling back to the edge of his consciousness. It had taken him the better part of a day to locate them. He had forgotten that he had stored them away in a charmed lockbox. Once he found the box, he had spent hours trying to recall the secret to opening the container.

  Ja’tar ran his fingers across the broken red-wax seal. They matched the ring on his middle finger. He remembered the day when he found it, and the letters. He remembered knowing what it meant. And even though he had been expecting it, he wasn’t prepared for the wave of emotions that wracked his body when the reality sunk in. That was the first time he spirit-searched the room, hoping that remnants of his father would still be there. He wept when he knew that the man he worshipped was gone.

  He opened the frail, yellowed, pages carefully and read again. By now, he had memorized every word in the text. He had read the letters daily for years before he finally let go of his sadness
and hid it away. It had given him some semblance of comfort in those early days of his rule. In those days, he was arrogant, too young, and too anxious to make a name for himself and he had missed the restrained meanings of his father’s prose, expertly written by one who knew the dangers of the Guild and the games of intrigue and politics.

  Now all was evident. He could plainly see the subtle messages his father had meant for his eyes, warnings, and insights. He wondered what his father would think of what he had become. Would he be proud, or disappointed? Would he approve of his current course of action? Probably not. His father was a very conservative man, not prone to action. He would have most likely chastised him for his rash and hasty decisions. Ja’tar smirked. In many ways, his father was just like Zedd’aki.

  Ja’tar shook his head and wiped at the corner of his eye as he remembered that his sister was also gone. What would his father have thought about that? He imagined that he would say that it was a risk she was well aware of and was more than willing to take. Maybe so, but there were so many things he wished he had said; so many visits he should have made.

  In the end, he regretted not taking the time to visit her more often, but when you live hundreds of years nothing has that sense of urgency. At least that was the rationalization he used to keep from being consumed with guilt. Truth be told, he had always put the work of the Keep in front of family, just like his father. Would the Guild have approved the visit? Well, who knows, but if you don’t ask, they certainly will never grant.

  He shifted his position and turned his head, gazing out the window, as he pondered the most recent note from Dra’kor. As Ja’tar saw things, now that Tar’ac was gone, Dra’kor and his friends were the eyes of the keep. Without them, they were blind. Even with them they were severely crippled. Ja’tar flicked his fingers nervously, causing small pops and clicks as short flames leapt from his nails as the spells took hold.