“Well, yesterday she told me not to worry about the magic and the spells I can’t make. She said that everything will be fine and that one day all the magic will just work.”
“And what did you tell her?” Zedd’aki asked as he handed the lad a kerchief.
“I told her that I think that Uncle Ja’tar is mad at her,” he said, with a sniffle as he blew his nose.
“And did she answer you?”
“She said that she broke the Guild’s rules and that he had a right to be mad,” Bal’kor answered, “But she also said that he would take care of me and love me. She said she could tell.”
“Well, I suppose then that she is right,” Zedd’aki reasoned. “I’m sure he cares about you, and you are right, he is mad at your mother, but that too will pass.”
“I think the other wizards are mad at her too ...” Bal’kor concluded, hanging his head low as he started to sob.
Zedd’aki scowled, “Probably ... but they aren’t mad at you!”
Bal’kor looked up and smiled weakly, “It feels like they are ...”
“You will just have to give them time. The rules your mother broke were very important. They won’t forget overnight, remember wizards have extremely good memories.”
“I hope they forget soon,” Bal’kor sighed.
“Me too, but until they do, you’ll have to make the best of it. I would keep smiling.”
“I guess ...”
“That’s the spirit. Now then, would you like to see the rest of the Keep?” Zedd’aki asked, changing the subject.
Bal’kor grinned, “Only if I can get a new robe, this one is too drafty if you know what I mean.”
“Done,” Zedd’aki smiled in return. “Let’s go get you a long robe, break our fast and then explore the Keep.”
After their meal, Zedd’aki took Bal’kor through the kitchen back to the ovens, and showed him where the meat was butchered. He met Seth, the Butcher and the Bakers who were surprised to see a lad about even though they had heard the rumors.
Next, he met the smithy, a gruff old dwarf named Hammergrip, and watched him attentively while he made shoes for one of the horses and repaired a large bracket for the barn. Bal’kor’s eyes were wide as the smithy shoved the iron ingot into the flame and pumped the bellows. Hammergrip even let Bal’kor pump the bellows and showed him how to keep the metal white by evenly and steadily moving the wood contraption.
As his tour continued, Bal’kor met the medicine lady Prandtl and then the old mage, Brink, who was the master of potions and herbs.
“Well, who have we here?” Brink growled, in his horse gravelly voice.
“This is Bal’kor,” Zedd’aki said in introduction. “To’paz’s son.”
“Please to meet you,” Brink said, putting down his polished stone pestle and extending his hand.
Bal’kor reached up and hesitantly shook the old man’s hand.
Brink smiled back kindly, “I remember your mother well. She was a kind lady.” Brink picked up the pestle laying on the table, placed it and some herbs into the mortar, and began grinding.
Bal’kor pulled on Zedd’aki’s robe, “Can I stay here for a bit and watch Brink?”
Zedd’aki looked to Brink, who motioned his agreement.
Bal’kor turned to Brink, “Is that jettle? It’s supposed to be good for stomach aches and poison.”
Brink broke into a big grin and chuckled, “The boy knows his herbs!”
Zedd’aki smiled, “He is wise beyond his years and continues to surprise us.”
“Can I grind?” Bal’kor asked excitedly. “It would be great if you could show me how to make a pumice, or tonics and potions.”
Brink laughed as he looked to Zedd’aki who shrugged and raised an eyebrow, “It’s fine by me.”
“Well then lad, let’s study some herbs!” Brink said, pulling Bal’kor over to the back wall where all the dried herbs were hanging.
Zedd’aki watched as Bal’kor and Brink examined the herbs and berries that were hanging from the ceiling, relieved that the boy was entertained and had found something in which he was interested.
He walked through the garden down the cobblestone path back to the Keep. He stopped at the door and turned around, staring at the stone structure at the top of the hill behind the Keep, the home of the Sisters of the Light. The tall gray structure was nothing much to look at, a square obelisk with no windows for the first several floors. He could see one of the sisters staring out from one of the patios that decorated the upper floors. She was staring intently at something.
Zedd’aki followed her line of sight and discovered that she was staring at Bal’kor. He wondered why he held her interest. After several minutes had passed, he got tired of watching her and entered the Keep to go about his business. He would have to tell Ja’tar when the opportunity presented itself. Catching the interest of a Sister wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it seldom turned out to be good either.
The next few days were very busy, Bal’kor kept growing and was almost six foot tall. He was beginning to get some stubble in a patchwork where his beard would eventually be. He spent most of his time with the smithy, Hammergrip, and with Brink, learning their trades. Even though he was busy, he always managed to find time to talk and learn from Zedd’aki and was never late for his lessons. He hadn’t spent much time with his uncle, but then again, it seemed that his uncle was consumed with urgent business of the Keep.
He joined Zedd’aki and his Uncle for dinner and breakfast on occasion and had even gotten his Uncle to tell some stories about his mother. He still missed her, but he no longer woke up with nightmares every night. He enjoyed it when she visited him in his dreams, but as time passed, she visited him less and less.
He was sad and didn’t understand why she no longer joined him in his dreams. He thought about asking his uncle, or maybe Zedd’aki, but decided against it. They were still extremely mad at her for breaking the rules. He decide to tell them later, when they had calmed down, if they calmed down.
Seer
Tax sat in his humble room, staring at the far wall. It was the same room where he had grown up with his mother, father and younger brother. The room wasn’t much really, just an area carved out of the rock that made up the foundation of the Keep. From the outside, it looked like a dead-end hallway that led nowhere, barred by a makeshift door fabricated from leftover slats from some crates he had stolen from the kitchen. It was small enough that he doubted it could even be classified as a cavern.
There were only two rooms; one for eating and one for sleeping and the sleeping room was barely six feet long and four feet wide. It was enough. After all, he didn’t have much free time to spend there. It held a makeshift hodgepodge bed he made out of crates and a mattress stuffed with rags he had taken from the wizards when they tossed out their old robes. He had woven a blanket from the same robes, torn into strips; it kind of looked like a quilt to him. When he was younger, they had stacked four beds, one above another. He remembered how lively it was back when he had a family. They were all dead and gone now, had been for the better part of eight hundred years.
He didn’t remember much about his father, who hadn’t spent much time with Tax and his brother, Yen. A stern man, gruff and direct; that is how Tax would describe him if asked. He was always working, polishing the great staircase and waiting for the signs. Tax supposed that it was much the same way with his grandfather. His father rarely mentioned him, and when he did, they were not memories that were fond or reminiscent of happy times.
Tax did recall the lessons his father had given him when it was time for him to assume the promise. His recollection of those times was hazy, but he vividly recalled his father sitting with him late at night after he came home from work and schooling him on prophecy. They read from the scrolls, studied the stars and talked about what was sure to be coming. Much of what was shared scared Tax, but then again, he was just a small lad, barely fifteen. When his father died unexpectedly, Tax took over his dutie
s and at the time was proud to do so.
His father’s father had been the first to be sworn in by the Seer to watch the wizards. It must have seemed a great honor at the time, being selected out of all the halflings. Now, Tax wasn’t so sure. Job needed to be done, and that was that. He had many regrets and was bitter. But then again, if he could save his kind and provide the warning, he supposed his wretched life would have value. It just wasn’t what he had wished it to be.
When he was young, he often thought about traveling the realms, maybe living with the elves. The farthest he ever got was the Seer’s cave, and even that trip he made blindfolded. He had wanted a family, but couldn’t bring himself to burden a child, his own flesh and blood with the same fate as he. He was glad he had made that choice. If these were the end times ... well, weren’t no time for a young ‘un to be growing up. No it weren’t!
Tax stirred the contents of his tiny pot that was heating his dinner. It rested unsteadily over the glowing embers made from the two chunks of coal he stole daily from the kitchen. He was certain the kitchen staff knew he took them, but he didn’t care. The wizards had plenty. The coals smoked and put off a distinctive odor that used to burn his eyes. They put off a little extra heat that warmed the room. Down in the depths of the catacombs, the temperature didn’t change much, winter or summer didn’t matter much. Down here, it was always cool, musty and dark.
The stew was almost ready. His palms itched. They always itched when something was a brewin’. After adjusting the lid on the copper pot, he went out to check his secret hiding place, to see if the message he sent had been retrieved. It weren’t far off down the confounded maze of tunnels, but just the same, he took his axe with him. It felt reassuring in his tiny fist.
When he got to the narrow place in the serpentine tunnel, he counted stones from the corner. He had to count twice because he lost track. The eighth stone was the one he wanted; he grabbed it and wiggled it. It popped free and Tax stared into the dark hole and saw what he had been waiting for—a small note. He hurried to unroll it and quickly read the scrawling. He grinned to himself. The meeting had been arranged. He put the stone back and used his axe to set the stone securely before he turned and went back to his room.
He reached down to check the stew and burned his fingers on the piping hot lid. He shoved them in his mouth and howled softly. “Stupid Tax!” he shouted, then he looked around to make sure nobody heard. He wrapped his sleeve around his now blistered fingers and lifted the lid free, setting it to one side. He grabbed his wooden spoon and gave the stew a good stir, scooping out a little and tasting it after letting it cool. It was ready! He felt his mouth water and heard his stomach grumble. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. Where did the day go?
Tax scooped out the stew with a ladle into his carved wooden bowl. He took a big chunk of flatbread he had stolen from the kitchen out of the warming pan sitting on the hot rocks around the enclosed fire and dipped it into the thick liquid. He blew on it before popping it into his mouth. He savored the flavor. It was so much better than the food them wizards ate. It wasn’t fancy, just some potatoes, leek, a turnip, a few carrots and fresh rat! Nothing beat fresh rat!
He had cornered the big sewer rat earlier this morning on his way up. It was a good three pounds and had battled fiercely. He was lucky he had a sharp knife; otherwise, the rat might have won the day. He rubbed his arm where he bore the marks of the rat’s two front teeth. That was when he had driven his blade up through the rat’s throat into its brain. The wound was red, but not infected. It would heal eventually he supposed. He could always ask to be healed, although he hated dealing with the mages. Tax grinned to himself. Stupid sewer rat! Tasty stupid rat!
It didn’t take long for Tax to finish his meal and head out to the meeting place. He didn’t want to be too late, just late enough to irritate the hooded one. They would see; yes, they would. Tax knew the time was here, he had told them, but they laughed. They always laughed. Tax hated being laughed at.
Tax nervously hurried down the musty corridor. He stopped more than once and listened, checking for the telltale sound of footprints or talking. Even though he was deep under the Keep and didn’t expect to run into one of the few magi left, he still proceeded with caution. He surely didn’t want to get caught wandering the halls. That would elicit too many questions, and Tax knew he wasn’t a good liar, never was.
Tax found the passageway he was searching for, the one with the loose grate and after checking both directions of the hall, pulled it aside. It clanged and rang out louder than he had hoped and he grimaced at the reverberating clank. He ducked under the stone arch and entered the deserted cavern, pulling the awkward-sized grate back into place. The floor was slick with algae and mud, causing Tax to slip occasionally as he felt his way along the wall. He had to be careful with his footing because huge roots from the old trees filled the ancient tunnel. He was far enough away from the Keep, and he was close enough to the surface now that they had breached the walls in their search for water. It was dark, but he didn’t want to risk using a torch. The light carried a long way down these long forgotten halls. Besides, the hooded one always brought an orb of seeing.
Tax saw the sickly yellow-green light flickering off in the distance and hurried his pace. He saw the hooded one, the one with the long white beard impatiently waiting. Tax didn’t recognize the others. They were not the two who usually met him. Tax’s palm’s itched and he scratched them trying to get some relief.
It bothered him that the hooded one never showed his face. It weren’t natural. Tax wondered what he was hiding. Centuries of visitations and he still knew nothing about the stocky man, or what he looked like. His beard, pure white and reaching to the floor was the only recognizable feature Tax could ever recall. Of course, that didn’t mean anything. Lots of halflings had long beards. Oh, and his hands, he had huge gnarled hands. Tax presumed they were disfigured from the wars, but never asked, because that just wouldn’t be polite.
“’Bout time ye be gettin’ here,” the hooded one said gruffly in his gravelly voice. “What was a keepin’ ye from getting about your business?”
Tax shrugged and grinned, “Can’t always just up and git! Wizards would notice ifin I went off just like that. Where’s the eldest?”
The hooded one grunted. “He was busy and couldn’t make it. We have others to keep track of too, you know. Ye ain’t the only one.”
The stockiest of the three stepped back into the shadows. Tax was sure he was a warrior. His shield held the crest of the clan, was highly ornate and polished.
Tax tried not to let disappointment show in his voice, “It’s just that today is ... important. I seen another sign.”
“So, ye have another report,” the hooded one said, rolling his eyes behind the mask.
Tax scowled, “Not just another report, the report ...”
The squat stocky halfling off to the side chuckled while he banged his shield with his short-sword and yelled, “The prophecy ... the prophecy!”
Tax spat. “Prophecy ain’t no laughing matter. You’ll see! I’ve seen the third sign. The child that ain’t a child has been born. Ye should be thankin’ me, that’s what you should be doing!”
“Your Da was always squawking about the prophecy too. How pathetic!” the stunted rogue muttered under his breath.
“Ye should be grateful ye ain’t the one kissing the feet of the wizards!” Tax shouted back vehemently.
“Kiss more than their feet I recon ...” the stocky one taunted.
“Alright then, calm down,” the hooded one said, motioning with his hands.
“Bah!” The stocky one said, wandering down the tunnel. He shouted over his shoulder, “He’s wasting our time again.”
The hooded one motion him off, turned to Tax and asked, “Are ye being absolutely sure about this?”
“Sure as I can be. Seen the boy myself,” Tax said proudly. “I was within three strides of the lad. He called the old man his uncle. That can’t be!
I heard rumors ‘bout a babe found in the Keep the night before. This morning, the child was near five ... a child that ain’t a true child, that’s what the word of the scrolls say.”
“Let’s git outta here,” the small stunted halfling behind the hooded one said sarcastically. “This one’s been sayin’ this for ages.”
“I know the signs ...” Tax grumbled back. “Dedicated my life to them words.”
“He’s probably been hitting the Tor root again. Just like his father,” he taunted, shaking his head in mock sadness.
Tax bared his teeth and waved his axe menacingly, “My father was a good man! Not like ye, bein’ a waste o’ skin! And I’m tellin’ ye the truth, dagnabbit!”
The smallest of the three threw back his hood and snarled. He pulled out a pair of curved short-swords and put them at the ready. His finely spun chainmail sparkled even in the soft dim light of the orb. Tax took a step back, noticing the tattoo that went the length of the man’s face, a mark of an assassin.
The hooded one stepped between the two and held out his hands, forcibly keeping the two apart.
“Enough! We’re not here to fight ... especially among ourselves. We’ll report back and let ye know what the Seer says. But so help me—we grow tired of your false alarms.
“False alarms ... I ...” Tax sputtered.
The hooded one frowned and cut him off, “We’ll leave ye word in the usual place. But if this is just one of yer false alarms, the Seer will be having a talk with ye about that, and I wouldn’t want to be a wearin’ yer shoes. That’s for sure!”
Tax stared into the eyes behind the mask and saw the fire there. He then realized that he had worn out his welcome over the years. The hooded one leered at him for several heartbeats before he turned.
“Let’s go!” he motioned and the other two fell into place, each on a side. Not another word was spoken.
The three halflings turned and walked away. Tax stood there with his hands on his hips watching them go. The orb’s soft glow fading as they distanced themselves down the serpentine hall. Tax waited until he could no longer see the glow nor hear their footsteps. He turned and headed back to his room. Stupid halflings! he thought. They would see. He was right about the signs. His father had taught him well. It was about the only thing his father had taught him.
The Third Sign Page 32