The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla

by Scott D. Muller

  “Shut the door?” he bellowed.

  The goblin swallowed, averted its eyes. “The door went away. We can’t find it anywhere. What shall we do?”

  Warvyn’s head snapped around, “What do you mean, it went away?”

  The goblin cowered in a voice that sounded more like running water than a fluent tongue. “It…turned into rock, mighty one. There is no door anymore. What shall we do?”

  The small goblin bowed low, awaiting his answer from the one he served. It was sure it would face retribution.

  The news was more than the demon could handle. Uncontrollable fury filled the Warvyn and he lost control, lashing out with his large muscular arms, armed with razor sharp claws. His claws raked the walls leaving deep gashes as he growled in discontent.

  He struck the tiny goblin with the force of ten men with an underhanded slap. The small creature screamed with terror as it was lifted off the ground and thrown backwards down the narrow hall, tumbling head over heels as it slammed head-first into the stone floor. Its tiny head making a dull thud as it hit, its body convulsed several times and it stopped moving. It was still, its eyes wandering, searching for reference, but its body would not respond to its commands.

  The Warvyn didn’t care about the fate of a single goblin, they were all disposable. He stomped down the hall pounding the walls with his fists, and cursing. The goblin saw the Warvyn coming, but was helpless to get out of the way. The last thing it saw was the enormous sole of the rampaging demon’s foot.

  The demons in the hall went silent and jumped out of the way, clearing a path. They sought refuge as Warvyn steamed past; he swatted his spiked tail from side to side, crushing all that were cowering on the sides. The demons, crumpled and crushed, fading away; their bodies turned to inky smoke that slithered the floor before being sucked back to the Underworld to be reborn.

  Warvyn stepped on the small goblin’s head in defiance and ground his foot down hard to the stone. The skull broke under his massive weight, and the hallway filled with the stench of the brains that spattered the wall as his foot reached the floor. He stepped to one side and kicked the lifeless body down the stairs, watching with satisfaction as it tumbled, its bones cracking, and its broken skull leaving a blood trail as it bounced on the cold basalt steps.

  He turned the corner and lumbered down the curved steps taking two at a time.

  “Out of my way,” he bellowed.

  A demon caught in the middle of the steps tried to get out of the way, but Warvyn blocked his exit.

  “I said, clear the path.”

  Warvyn howled and back-handed the demon, knocking him over the half-wall. The demon reached with a hand, trying to save itself, and caught hold of the polished rail, but its fingers wouldn’t hold its weight. It looked up at the Warvyn, staring into those deep black orbs and knew it would find no help. It let loose its grip and fell, bouncing off the walls to the floor below.

  As he trudged, Warvyn shouted orders with such force, that spittle and drool fell out of his maw. He grabbed large chunks of stone that had fallen from the roof and tossed them off the stairs, making way.

  The other paltry demons and underworld creatures jumped out of his way as he passed, shielding their faces and cowering to the sides, trying to avoid his wrath. He walked past the torn and shredded bodies of wizards and dying demons, heaped about the halls where the final conflict had taken place.

  “Heal them,” he snapped, not even slowing down. “I want them all healed!”

  The remaining demons looked at him, puzzled at his request. They stood there, jaws slack, quizzical expressions on their faces.

  “I order you to heal them. Now! Quickly, before they leave the dream world,” he screamed. “Bind them, make sure the collars are secure, and then heal them... If any of them dies, I will hold all of you personally accountable and you will spend eternity in the Pit of Ra being fed on by the Growling.”

  The demons understood the power of the threat, bowed their heads and set about their business. None wanted to hang from the chains and be fed on by the Growling. The beast of Ra had many rows of teeth and it fed slowly, using its saliva to cauterize the wounds, prolonging the agony.

  An old demon with stubby useless wings and a square jaw was brought up from a lower level. It had a single horn that was deformed and twisted awkwardly from the side of its head. The demon nodded to itself and mumbled as it opened its bag and pulled free several of the collars, setting them reverently in a straight row. The demons hurried; each grabbing a collar. They snapped the collars shut on every mage they found, dead or alive, and watched as the stones glowed, letting them know that the collar was secure.

  The first healer, a lanky female with white eyes and waist-long white hair, knelt and began healing the wizards after they were bound. She chanted and fed magic into the pathetic wizards as their bodies were wracked with spasms. Her sister with black hair and eyes joined her. Her hair was also long, but was knotted. Their fingers wove delicate spells…an art-form long lost.

  The sisters wore collars and heavy chain manacles that clanked loudly as they moved from wizard to wizard. They were not demons, they were elven healers captured at the battle of Ror. They worked with a fervor that only true terror could inspire.

  A demon lord shook the chains and sent pulsing threads of black magic into the anklets. “Faster!” he hissed. “Or you will taste the twisted pleasures of my liege.”

  The sisters looked up, briefly stopping their work as he spoke. The one of white shuddered. The last time his liege had his way with her, she screamed for a fortnight and her sister stood over her healing her wounds for double that. She had no desire to taste those horrors again. She grimaced and sent as much healing energy as her body could muster into the lifeless mage. She sighed in relief as his body quaked and his eyelids fluttered.

  Warvyn walked with a determination that prevented any distraction from his task. His clawed feet stepped on and across bodies, landing where they may, without regard for the wounded or dying. He left a trail of gore and mutilated destruction in his path. Demons were vanquished back to the Underworld and the dead and dying wizards were fading to the land of dreams.

  “Clear the way for the lord,” an armored demon screamed, motioning with its sword.

  “He comes…” another bewailed, its eyes searching for a place to hide.

  “Move or face his wrath,” a third wailed, just before he felt the back of Warvyn’s hand across its jaw…

  A wizard stepped out from behind a door, a ball of wizard’s fire ready to throw, perched in his hand. The Warvyn reached up, grabbing the wizard by the neck and twisted in such a fluid motion that the wizard never knew what happened. In less than a heartbeat, he fell into a heap on the floor, the wizard’s fire still burning in his hand. The fire caught the wizards robe on fire and the flames swept across his body, engulfing it. The Warvyn walked on. His pace had not changed.

  “Heal that one too...I need them all…alive!”

  He wanted that book. If need be, he would negotiate with the wizards for its return. The wizards he had captured here today would be his bargaining chip.

  All of his plans had gone sour. He had not intended on doing battle. He had planned on finding little resistance and had hoped to find the book and be gone before detection. He would punish Mica when he caught her for not making sure that all the wizards were asleep before she summoned them. She would pay! Although they had a torrid history, he had no reason to fight the wizards. He had fought with enough wizards to last eternity.

  He continued down, flight after flight of stairs until he reached the small alcove at the bottom of the seventh floor. He paused to look at Zedd’aki. “Heal this one first,” he bellowed. “He must not die!”

  He grabbed a demon from the floor and held his face close. “This mage must not die! If he dies, all in this Keep will perish with him.”

  The demon feverishly shook his head and was moving his legs as fast as he could before Warvyn threw him. He land
ed on the dead mage and the smell of Zedd’aki’s blood made his eyes glow as he felt the rush of the need.

  Warvyn cursed. “One bite and I will erase you from the pattern.”

  The demon looked at its master and licked his lips, trying to decide if the ecstasy of the feed would be worth the price. It hissed, and rushed off to find a healer as the master demanded. He saw one with her hands extended over another and grabbed her hair, yanking her to Zedd’aki’s side. The other mage’s eyes rolled back in their sockets as he passed out.

  “Lord Warvyn demands that this mage survive,” it said, tossing her over the wizards mangled and gut torn body.

  “I will do my best…”

  The demon got close and begged. “P..Please…,” it hissed. “If he dies, we all will die…He is of great import to the dark one.”

  “Are we not better off dead?” she grunted back, pushing herself to her knees.

  The demon looked around to see who was listening before it spoke.

  “There are many kinds of dead,” the demon whispered in her ear. “The kind of dead the master means is far worse by far.”

  She looked into its eyes and saw terror.

  “Please try,” it begged.

  Her eyes went wide and she went straight to work. The wizard did not move as she started her healing. His wounds were grave. She tried to push his guts back into place as best she could, pausing only to keep his heart beating. Whatever had fed on the mage had done so while trying to inflict as much damage as possible. There were whole sections of gut missing. She pulled out her knife and cut the ragged ends. Holding them together, she cast her spell and watched them mend. She moved methodically, reconstructing the mage and praying that it would be enough.

  She was sweating now and growing tired. She called to her sister, “Morgan! I need help.”

  The mages heart was barely beating.

  Morgan looked up and saw her sister. She was pale and weak and barely able to stay awake.

  “I have to finish this one first.”

  “This one is more important. If he dies, we all die!” she moaned.

  Morgan rose and got to her feet to find out what her sister was talking about. When she got to her side, she looked down at the wizard. Her eyes went wide as she gasped in surprise.

  She got to her knees and wiped the blood and gore from the wizard’s face. “By the gods, that is Zedd’aki!”

  “Are you sure?”

  She fell to her knees and lent her magic to that of her sister. “Almost positive. He is much older, but I’d recognize him anywhere. We must save him!”

  Warvyn pushed his demons out of his way as he stomped down the hall to the former location of the door. He slammed his fist against the rock, knocking a large chunk free. It was as he feared. Ja’tar had sealed the gate by removing the Roceye; it was the only plausible explanation.

  He stood, looking at the blank stone wall that was standing between him and the Chamber of Light. He turned toward the goblins cowering in the darkness of the unlit hall and approached them. He grabbed their leader by the collar of his red-leather armor. It was an ugly creature with nary a hair on its lumpy head. Holding him by the collar, he lifted him until they were nose to nose; the goblin didn’t dare look away. Warvyn’s foul breath was blistering the goblin’s skin, but the goblin made but a swallowed whimpering sound.

  “I want in that room. Dig me a passageway. I want everyone of your kind working, none may rest until it is done, or they will deal with me!”

  With that said, the Warvyn dropped the small creature, turned his back and left the hall. The goblin cried out orders and work began immediately as the small creatures began scraping at the rock with their small axes and knives.

  Duvall, the most powerful of the Ten, waited for the man in the next room to arrive for the night, but he did not. By now, she should have felt his whispers. She couldn’t remember the last time he had not returned for the evening. Whether another of the Ten, the Keeper or perhaps one unknown to her—she didn’t know—but he always returned. Tonight, the Keep felt empty to her.

  Earlier, she had thought that she had felt the stones shake beneath her, but it was probably just her imagination. There was very little in this world that could shake the rock foundation upon which the Keep was built. Admittedly, her view of the world from the confines of the bal’achar was limited. She didn’t even know if she would be able to ascertain if the Keep had crumbled to the ground, other than the view she had of her door was unwavering—the same as it had been for almost a thousand years.

  Bal’kor ground his teeth, widened his eyes, and leaned, trying to see down the curved tunnel. There was little to catch his eye: a few unrecognizable glyphs on the walls, the cold sconces, and the raised stone platform on which he sat. There were some nondescript shapes toward what appeared to be the entrance. Whatever it was couldn’t be determined from where he sat; the masses were just out of sight and a little around a bend.

  Bal’kor shivered and clutched his arms around his scrawny frame. He had arrived without clothes, weapons, or shoes in a very inhospitable place. Bal’kor snorted; at least he wasn’t excited anymore, Mica was gone and he would never see her again!

  Trouble didn’t even begin to describe the situation he found himself in, and he slapped his thigh in anger, raising a red welt. What a mess! He pushed himself up off the small table and felt the course rock scour his bare buttocks as he slid off and fell to the floor. He rolled to his knees and slowly pushed himself to his feet.

  Bal’kor’s head spun and his knees buckled. He reached unsteadily for the dais, grasping at the edge just before he toppled. His equilibrium was off from the transport and he stood like a drunk watching the room spin. The taste of bile burned the back of his throat and he felt the contents of his stomach rising. Growling, he used every ounce of self-control and forced it back down—unwilling to lose the contents of his stomach. Bal’kor knew full-well that his next meal may be hours, if not days away—he could ill afford to waste what little sustenance he had.

  Bal’kor’s hands were cramping from holding the dais in a death-grip. He shook the cramps out of his hands, tried to relax, and leaned against the stone altar as he steadied himself and waited patiently for the weakness to pass—and more importantly—for his head to clear.

  Soon, he felt better. He set a hesitant hand against the cavern wall to help his balance and proceeded slowly toward the entrance, one hesitant step followed by another. The rock was icy-cold on his bare feet and the wind circulating in the cave raised goose bumps on his unprotected skin. He turned sideways and let the frigid breeze pass. Still, his face contorted as the wind cut like a razor causing his flesh to burn. Wherever he was—it was beyond damned cold!

  Bal’kor’s feet kicked up small clouds of dust as he walked and he left footprints on the hewn floor. Although he couldn’t be certain, Bal’kor suspected that nobody has been in this place for a very long time.

  He rounded the shallow bend and approached the mouth of the cave. Bal’kor’s eyes widened when he got a clear view of a mummified head poking above a stack of rocks. As he neared the rocks, he saw that there were not one, but two frozen, dried out, skeletons ensnarled with some wolf-like creatures, leaning against the wall. The combatants had been trapped in some ancient battle in which all parties had lost.

  Their faces were gaunt and mummified from the dry mountain air and their horrified expressions were written with fear and pain. Bal’kor was filled with dread and wanted to look away—but he could not. He was drawn to stare as the images sunk deep into his memory making his imagination race. He was certain that he would meet a similar fate.

  He edged around the pile of rocks taking care not to disturb anything and stepped out onto the ledge at the entrance of the cave. The bitter wind blew, blasting his frame with crystals of snow and ice. He shivered and pulled his arms tighter around himself. He vigorously stomped his numb feet and rubbed his arms harshly, trying to heat himself.

  Peering
out, Bal’kor squinted into the blinding sunlight and waited for his eyes to adjust.

  As his eyes focused, he nearly cried out in anguish. In front of him was a vast snowy wasteland for as far as he could see. He wasn’t anywhere near the Keep, or the mountains he had come to know as home. To be sure, he was high in the mountains on a barren peak, standing on a ledge at the mouth of a shallow cave, but these were not his mountains. He frantically searched for a recognizable landmark, but saw none.

  The gravity of his predicament slapped him in his face. It appeared that he was leagues away from anything resembling civilization and that, even from this high vantage point, he couldn’t see any signs of man—no smoke, no castles, and no villages—nothing but ice, snow, and rock. He was doomed.

  The wind howled like a banshee as it spiraled up and swirled around the crag. He shielded his squinting eyes with his trembling hand and stared out. The sun was already high in the sky, and yet it provided no warmth. Wherever he was, it must have been about midday. When night would come, the temperature would drop and he would freeze to death.

  He retreated back from the mouth of the cave and used the rock wall to buffer some of the wind as he numbly peered out across the icy waste. His legs gave way and he collapsed to the ground. He knew he was going to die.

  Tunnels

  Ja’tar and Rua’tor were safe for the time being, many feet of solid rock separated them from the host of goblins and others low plane creatures that scraped at the rock with simple tools. Both men could hear the soft rhythmic sound of the tools echoing in the air.

  Ja’tar walked slowly around the room, making a mental note of what might prove useful. There wasn’t much there; an extra robe and a small empty shoulder pack. His friend, the Floormaster rested and snored loudly, tired after the short, but stressful battle.

  Ja’tar’s stomach rumbled and he knew that he would have to eat soon. He wondered how much time they had before the army working on the other side of the light colored rock broke through. More importantly, he had to formulate a plan of escape before that happened. He sat down, filled with frustration, not being able to see any clear way for them to elude their enemy.