The Third Sign

by Scott D. Muller

  Rua’tor agreed as he knelt down next to his wooden chest. The lid came up easily and he reached inside, removing a long thin wood box. He set it on the bed and removed the lid. Rua’tor carefully removed the cloth wrapping and pulled the enchanted sword of the Floormasters free from its sheath.

  “I never thought I would have to use this again.”

  “None of us did! “ Ja’tar said, “None of us did.”

  Rua’tor donned his ceremonial battle garb and strapped the sheath to his waist. He tucked two thin-bladed knives into his belt and strapped on his medicine bag. He was the Floormaster, protector of the Keeper. Ja’tar looked at him standing there with his long white beard flowing to his waist. Whom was he trying to fool? They were past the days of slaying demons and dragons. Today, they would surely die.

  “Where to?” Rua’tor asked, taking one of his knives to his beard and trimming off a good two fists in length. The knife slid through the thick hair like a hot poker gliding into lard.

  “The Chamber. If they come, they will travel through the Gate.”

  “We should pick up Zedd’aki on our way. He could be useful.”

  The Floormaster quenched the light before cracking the door. He looked down the narrow deserted hallway as far as the limited light would let him. It appeared clear, but he could not see beyond the bend where the hall changed directions and headed north.

  They stepped from the room, closed the door and listened. They could just make out screams coming from the far end of the labyrinth of halls. Ja’tar began to head toward the sounds, but his friend grabbed his arm. He held on with great strength, pulling the Keeper around face-to-face.

  “No! We go this way. Let them fight the demons, there is little more that you or I could do. We have to shut the Gate,” Rua’tor spoke forcefully.

  Ja’tar blindly followed his friend. He didn’t know these halls like Rua’tor did. It was the Floormaster’s job to lead and protect the Keeper and he knew the Keep, as his father, and his father before him.

  They moved quickly down the dimly lit passages, always heading down, weaving north then west, south and back west. They changed directions so many times, that Ja’tar was completely lost.

  He held on to the back of the Floormaster’s robe ... and followed. They stopped at the end of a short dead-end hall. Rua’tor reached up high on the stone and searched, feeling with his fingers.

  He found what he searched for and pressed an irregular rock. The end of the hall rumbled, revealing a hidden door that slid open. They stepped into the pitch-black emptiness before them. What little they could see, faded when the wall moved back into place. Rua’tor made a weak light and held it high in his left hand, showing the way.

  “This was built long ago for the Floormaster’s to use to get quickly between levels. The locations are secret and have been passed down to Floormasters from generation to generation. Feel lucky Ja’tar, you are the first to see and maybe, you might live to tell about it someday.” The Floormaster flashed a sarcastic smile.

  The humor was not lost on Ja’tar and he returned the grin. Ja’tar eyes began to adjust and he looked around the small room they had entered. In the center was a spiral stairway that led up and down. The place smelled damp and musty, cobwebs clung to the stone.

  Ja’tar put his hand on the Floormaster’s back and told him to lead the way. He followed closely as they wound down the flights of stairs that led between levels. Ja’tar wondered how his friend could tell where they were. All the levels looked the same to him. His friend stopped, running his hands over the stone newel post, reading the designs, evaluating the situation before stepping out of the hidden chamber.

  “Best to stop here. We’ll have to make the rest of the journey through the main halls. The next level down would afford us no surprise. We could be ambushed.”

  Rua’tor extinguished the light and Ja’tar could hear his friend’s hands scraping their way along the rock.

  The silence was interrupted by the sound of the heavy door opening. They stepped quickly from the room, the Floormaster leading in the dark by feel and memory alone. This hall bisected another hall, which led to a third hall, all appearing the same, but the Floormaster knew the way and quickly led them down to the next lower level.

  The Floormaster peered around the corner, checking to guarantee it was vacant and forced his friend’s head down to the rock as a pair of wraiths came floating up from the bowels below. Ja’tar twisted his head to see and raised his staff, but his friend pushed it to the side before he could use it.

  “This is not the time,” was all that Rua’tor said. “We have more important things to deal with than a couple wraiths!

  The first sounds of battle came from above, filled with screams and wails. Ja’tar heard orders being shouted by familiar voices and explosions from either demon fire or wizard’s fire. He couldn’t tell which, but imagined both being used to great effect. He desperately wanted to be there, next to his fellow wizards, locked in combat, but he knew the truth was that unless he closed the Gate, the rest did not matter.

  Warvyn’s Return

  Menzzaren stirred from his slumber, an unexpected sound seeping into his subconscious, disturbing his extremely pleasant dream of elves and faeries. He rolled over and tried to focus his eyes. He motioned for the fire in the hearth to light and momentarily wondered what had disturbed his sleep. He waited to see if the sound would happen again.

  Then he heard it again. What? He thought he heard the sounds of demons grunting in the halls through the thick door and stone walls. It can’t be! That sound ... could it be? Had he imagined the recognizable sounds of clicking and chattering from long ago? Could he be sure? Demons! How the halla? he thought to himself.

  He threw back his heavy wool blanket and stood up, ignoring the stiffness in his body and the piercing cold of the room. Menzzaren bent over and suppressed a coughing spell by burying his face in his arm. His robe was quickly donned, and he slipped his sandals on before grabbing his well-worn staff. He walked quietly to the door, placed his ear up against the wood, and strained to listen. First, he heard the clicking and then the grunting, finally sounds of many footsteps and the sound of heated battle.

  Menzzaren’s eyes narrowed and he wove a series of battle wards and prepared himself. He sighed. So, it has come to this. He waited patiently for the sounds to die down before he dismissed his door’s ward, silently lifted the latch, threw the door open and pointed his staff down the dark hall.

  Having prepared his first spell of wizard’s fire in advance, he sent it careening down the hall where it caught two of the bone-back demons at the back of the pack by surprise. They howled in agony, the liquid blue flames devouring their grotesque bodies. A thunderous explosion rocked the hall when the next spell fell over the demons and splattered them in flaming chunks across the walls.

  Menzzaren prayed that other mages had heard the sound, and he wasn’t disappointed. One by one, doors creaked open and faces peeked out. Faces white with fear and filled with horror. The battle was already raging further down the hall as the young wizards, eager to show off their skills, jumped from their rooms and attacked the demon horde.

  Menzzaren shouted at the top of his lungs, raising his staff. “We’re under attack by demons. Prepare yourselves to defend the Keep.”

  Menzzaren had his twisted oak staff in his white knuckled hands and twirled it in a well-memorized pattern. The red bloodstone glowed brightly just before he let loose a blast of icy air to ride down the halls. It knocked everything that stood off its feet and then froze whatever it touched. His long white hair billowed as he filled himself with the ancient magic. His follow-up spell turned the next five demons into smoke. He wiped away their vile existence from the pattern, for Menzzaren was a War Wizard and knew of spells not just to send demons back to Darkhalla, but to purge them from ever returning.

  He snarled, weaving another spell with his free hand called Spiders Caught, and let it sail over the heads of the horde. As it
settled, the sticky fibers grabbed hold of the demons. They struggled and shrieked, trying to get free of the sticky mess as it expanded. Menzzaren twirled his staff and sent crackling lightning at the demons, one by one. Their eyes lit up as the power hit their bodies, causing them to shake and smolder before they burst, spraying guts and brains around the halls.

  The demons cowering behind those being blasted recovered quickly. They snarled, stood up and turned toward the old mage, exposing large razor sharp teeth as they split their defenses. Half of the demons, the Olc'Corryn, climbed the walls while others crawled across the floor. They attacked the wizard in unison from all sides, sending balls of fire and spells of their own at the mage, who deftly swung his staff deflecting the spells with the blood stone.

  Menzzaren wove his own spells and let them loose. His spell hit the spider-like creature in the thorax, rupturing its exoskeleton. The creature died, but as it passed, a dark spirit known as a shade, left the twisted frame and sank into the stone. Now that the vile magic had left the twisted creature, it slowly morphed back into a man, who smiled kindly at Menzzaren mouthing the words thank you. He closed his eyes and shuddered once before he gave up his own spirit.

  Menzzaren hastily prepared additional wards, while ducking into a short hallway. He poked his face around the corner just in time to see a demon let a spell of stone loose, catching one of the younger wizards in the face. The wizard screamed, took two steps and looked down in horror as his body turned to stone, freezing his expression for all eternity.

  “Young wizards beware,” Menzzaren growled. “Your spells and wards will not work against the demons. The magic you use is tainted and useless. Use your weapons, or better yet—run if you wish to live!”

  The two mages just down from Menzzaren turned and ran full speed down the hallway in the opposite direction of the battle, ducking as demon fire and lightning crackled over their heads. A pack of demons followed, running on all fours.

  Menzzaren flung a blast of wizard’s fire at the demons and managed to destroy two of them. He prepared another set of spells as quickly as he could, but was unable to complete them in time to cast them at the remaining two. Menzzaren lost sight of them when they turned around a corner at the end of the hall. He feared the worst and it wasn’t long before he heard blood-curdling screams echoing from down the same hall. He hung his head and a tear slid down his aged and wrinkled cheek.

  Menzzaren waved his arm and a spell of ink filled the hallway with pitch-blackness that even mage light couldn’t penetrate. He next cast a spell of dissolution at the demon attacking from the opposite direction. The demon’s howl was cut short. Menzzaren took satisfaction in seeing the demon dissolve into a pile of dust.

  Several floors below, the remaining wizards of the Keep struggled against other foes. Piledriver, Brink and Hammergrip fought hand to hand with the endless supply of demons coming up from the Chamber. Their axes were bloody and covered with demon gore. They heard the ruckus above and knew that the others fought for their lives. The wizards cringed in horror when they saw bodies plunge past the landing, falling from the floors above. They knew not how their battle fared, but they were holding their own ... barely.

  Hammergrip motioned with his battle hammer and shouted, “Hold that line.”

  Piledriver swung his huge battle-axe and cleaved a demon, which had ventured too near, in two. “That’ll be teachin’ you, ye filthy beast!”

  The demon clutched the gaping wound with both hands and watched in horror as its guts spilled to the floor, causing nearby demons—their eyes to glowing with hunger—to momentarily stop their attack to feast! The demon’s weak muffled cry was smothered by the sounds of ravaging demons feeding and fighting amongst themselves for the remaining scraps.

  Raven danced, her twin blades singing in the air while she perfectly executed form after form, Twin Dragon, Viper Strikes, Deer Drops. The forms flowed easily from one to another and she pushed the demons back. She deflected another spell with the flick of her wrist, catching it on the tip of her magical blade and sending it back at the demon who had cast it.

  Her eyes glowed with the elf rage of battle. Her heart beat steadily, in rhythm with her movements. Her hair swirled as the magic filled her, but not magic like the wizards’. Her magic was of the earth, an ancient magic, older than wizards, as old as the demons themselves.

  Some of the demons were former soldiers of the realms—twisted by the dark arts. They fought with steel, not magic. Their desiccated and defiled bodies raised blades and did the bidding of their masters. They were undisciplined and didn’t work as a team, each more concerned with their own rewards and survival.

  Hammergrip swung his heavy war hammer over his head. It whistled, splitting the air. He let it loose and watched it fly true, crushing a demon’s head, leaving nothing but gore and a neck bone attached to the twisted body. The hammer continued its journey and hit another demon in the chest, cracking its back. It clunked to the ground. Hammergrip pulled his dirk free of his belt and took several steps forward, trying to recover his hammer. A demon reached greedily for the hammer, but was unable to heft it off the ground. It grabbed the handle and tried to drag it out of the dwarve’s reach.

  “I could use a little help here, lassie,” he shouted to Raven.

  She grunted and led him down the hall spinning her blades in an intricate figure-eight form, forcing the demons to retreat.

  The demon, faced with the elf’s enchanted blades, let go of the hammer and turned, running back to the safety of the pack.

  Hammergrip picked up his hammer and flashed a wide gap-toothed grin back at Piledriver. “Just like them old days. I’m remembering them like they was yesterday!”

  “Aye!” Piledriver said, as he swung his battle-axe, slicing through the rib cage of another demon. “My axe is thirsty for demon blood!”

  Hammergrip grinned. “No denying it. It’s been a far might too quiet in the realms fer me liking. I be needin’ the practice to keep my skills.”

  “And the Guild?”

  Hammergrip winked. “They ain’t here!”

  Brink wove a spell in his left hand while using his right to block a beast’s spell. He let loose another fireball that flew off down the hall, catching a demon in the face, sending it back to the pits of Darkhalla.

  “Where are they all coming from?” He grunted, “Anyone know how they got into the Keep?”

  Raven retreated back two steps, “No idea! But I hope this is all there is ...”

  Hammergrip laughed. “You getting’ tired already, lassie?”

  Raven scowled and shot him a look, causing him to laugh at her response.

  She sneered. “No, but I was thinking I might be irate if I miss my midnight snack.”

  Distracted, she almost caught a blade in her shoulder, only managing to turn it aside at the last instant because of her keen elf reflexes. She plunged her dirk into the demon’s chest and twisted the blade in satisfaction, allowing the demon to slide to the floor.

  Almost immediately, another demon took its place and roughly slammed her to the wall. Her shoulder went numb and she lost strength in her arm. Her blade dangled loosely like a flaccid appendage. She used her other hand to wave off the demon and land several solid, but less than life threatening blows. She worked her arm and shoulder, hoping that the feeling and strength would return.

  “It sounds like they’re having a harder time of it upstairs,” she said, slightly out of wind, taking the time to momentarily glance up the stairwell.

  “Then we best be makin’ short work of this group and git to helpin’ them, aye?” Hammergrip grunted.

  Qu’entza was one of the first into his hallway, and he let lose volley after volley of wizard’s fire. His hands spun as fast as he could cast and he snarled loudly, letting loose the deadly spells. Unfortunately, his control was poor and he failed to hit anything. It didn’t help that he had closed his eyes, shielding them from the bright blasts.

  One of his blasts hit a lamp, melt
ing it. It dripped to the floor, forming a puddle of metal that glowed dull-red. The others ricocheted off the rock, harmlessly bouncing down the hallway until they fizzled out.

  He opened his eyes and stared down the old hall.

  The explosions temporarily lit the dim hall. Qu’entza’s face went white with fear upon seeing the horde of demons. They were stacked ten deep behind two Ghasts, ghost-like phantoms with enormous teeth and fangs over three inches long. Qu’entza panicked, knowing that the creatures drained the blood of their victims while they were still alive, and began indiscriminately shooting lightning spells down the hall, forcing several mages that were standing between him and the horde to duck into doorways and lay flat on the floor.

  A giant yellow demon from the third plane, with long hooked horns, jumped down from the ceiling, landing squarely on top one of the younger wizards and wrapped him in his arms. The two dissolved into smoke and sunk into the stones of the floor. The mage didn’t even have time to scream.

  Staven lunged from his room with his two-handed sword glowing bright blue. He swung into Dancing Leopard, and fell straight into Heron’s Perch as he sliced a demon clean in half. He moved silently, perfectly balanced. The demon looked up in surprise, not even feeling the blade as the top half of its torso slid to one side before toppling to the floor in a splash of gore. Staven looked down the hall into the inky blackness, took several daggers from his belt, and let them fly into the mirke, targeting by sound. He was rewarded with groans and gurgles, the blades finding their mark.

  “H-Has anyone seen Stargazer?” Qu’entza stuttered.

  Staven shook his head. “He was staying on a different level, three floors down I think!”

  Staven turned and held his sword at the ready. “Watch out for their touch.” He slowly bent at the waist and filled his other hand with a blade he pulled from his boot. One of the younger wizards looked at him with a baffled expression.