The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla

by Scott D. Muller

  “It has. Remember that bargirl we met in Staunch a few years back?”

  “The one with the pretty face and large…ahem…”

  The man grinned. “The same.”

  “She was all over ye. Did ye ever tussle with ’er?” The dwarf laughed and gave the wizard a knowing blink.

  The wizards eyes twinkled. “I did, for more than four years. She still brings a smile to my face. She was…a lusty young thing!”

  “Four years? I never knew.”

  “Had to keep it on the fox. If the Keeper ever found out…”

  “Aye, I’m feeling ya. Ja’tar can be a bit of a stickler for the rules. Whatever happened to ’er?”

  “I gave her some money and she left for the city…A girl shouldn’t have to grow old watching a mage never age.”

  The dwarf smiled weakly. “Did she go to Edu’bar?”

  The man nodded. “Never heard from her again! What about you?”

  “Ever since me wife died—gods bless her soul—I’ve been living alone.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Close to three-hundred years now…”

  “Long time…”

  “Tis,” the dwarf answered. His face got serious… “Prepare! Here they come!”

  The vision blurred and next he saw, the beasts were attacking, and clawing into his guts. He felt the razor sharp claws tearing at his flesh. He knew the horror that they had faced, and...he knew what it was like to die. Bal’kor jumped back across the room in fear as the memories flooded over him. Once he had let go, the visions dispersed and he was once again alone in the cave.

  He tentatively bent down and brushed the back of his hand across the man’s and braced himself—waiting for the horrific memories to fill him. But nothing happened. He tried again, letting his hand linger a bit longer. Nothing happened. He grabbed the man’s hand firmly. Still, he was by himself.

  Bal’kor frowned. Whatever had possessed him was gone.

  Bal’kor looked at the tall man, pried the staff from his crooked hand and took his ring, snapping his finger in the process. The point of the spear had the same markings as the knife. Bal’kor supposed that it belonged to the dwarf.

  Bal’kor was shocked. “You were not a warrior! Your hands are smooth. You’re a magic user from the Keep just like me!”

  Fumbling nervously Bal’kor pried the knife out of the dwarf’s hand and felt the magic of the blade. The knife was of excellent quality and was ornate—too ornate for a commoner, or servant. Bal’kor looked back at the large man, wondering why this unlikely group of two had been traveling together. It was very unusual for a man, or wizard, to be traveling with a dwarf, or so he had read.

  Bal’kor turned the knife over and tilted it to rid it of the reflection. The writing on the blade was faint and to Bal’kor’s surprise—Elven. Though he had learned much from Hammergrip, he could make out but a few words; guardian…protector…guide. He wondered about the knife’s magic. From the many spells his mother had taught him, this one fit none of the patterns.

  He wondered what they meant. Without context, he could only guess. He tested the blade on a scrap of leather and found it to be razor sharp and keen of edge. A smile formed on his lips as he slid the knife into the sheath he had removed from the belt of the dwarf.

  Topaz saw the blade and the exquisite Torren calligraphy. She knew what magic the blade possessed. She decided to keep that information to herself. This was no ordinary dwarf. It explained much, including why the beasts had not sunk back into the depths of Darkhalla.

  Swallowing hard, Bal’kor tried to push the thoughts of what he was doing out of his head and began to undress the larger man. Try as he might, he couldn’t get the clothes free from the stiff corpse. Bal’kor knew he was going to have to break bones to remove the well-worn and decomposing leggings and robe. The shirt was worthless, shredded beyond repair, but he sliced it into strips for his hands using the dwarf’s sharp knife. He wrapped the strips around his numb fingers and used his teeth to tie the strips tight.

  “I’m sorry about this,” he said ruefully, before saying a short prayer of thanks to the gods.

  He bent over and picked up one of the large rocks and after lifting it above his head, lowered it to his lap.

  “I’m sorry! I mean no disrespect,” he mumbled as he raised the large boulder.

  Bal’kor grimaced and brought it down with all his might on the man’s leg. He heard the thigh-bones snap under the stone and felt a wave of nausea wash over him. With trembling arms, he raised the boulder repeatedly. Eventually, the cracking stopped and his motions only create a muffled sound like a bag of nuts being minced. He grabbed the leggings and shook them. Satisfied that the bones were sufficiently broken, he pulled the pants free of the man’s hips and shook out the bone shards. A thin smile spread across his face, he was grateful that the bodies were desiccated; he wasn’t sure he could have done the same otherwise.

  “Your clothes may keep me alive. I hope you understand.”

  He quickly donned the ill-fitting clothes. The pants were baggy and torn in places. He tried his best to mend the rips using strips of rag and gut from the dead wolves which he pulled into thin strands. He pulled the coif off the dwarfs head, grunting as it came loose. The dwarf’s head cocked oddly to one side and his hollow eye-sockets stared up vacantly at the ceiling. The dwarf’s hair, red and tied back in a tail, tumbled out as he pulled the coif free.

  Bal’kor turned the headpiece over in his hands, impressed at how well the metal had stood the test of time. He pulled the coif over his head and felt the frigid metal against his already numb body. It was too big and draped him. He considered tossing it away, but then reconsidered. Some protection was better than none. He wrapped his head with scraps of cloth and pushed the coif into place.

  Nothing fit except for the soft-leather shoes of the tall man. Bal’kor murmured; at least something fit his gangly body. He stomped his feet and smiled as he felt the tingling that signaled blood flow and warmth returning to his numb feet and toes.

  He repositioned his pants and coif, trying to adjust them as best he could. A smirk escaped his lips, he wasn’t going to impress anyone with his stylish look, but he was satisfied that they would provide at least a measure of protection against the elements.

  Using the dwarf’s own blade, Bal’kor cut the straps off the vest. He hated ruining the fine leather, but it was far too small to be of use. Even using the keen blade, the leather was difficult to cut—it was thick and stiff, and heavy enough to be used to fashion a shield or a sheath for a sword. That thought made him think of his blade back in the Keep. He wondered if he would ever see it again.

  Refocusing his attention on the task at hand, he traced a rough outline of his foot on the vest, and began to cut. He fashioned the leather into inserts for the soles of his thin boots. Grabbing the extra pieces, he stuffed them into the soft shoes and flexed his feet, wiggling his toes. They weren’t fine boots, but at least they would cushion his feet more from the sharp, cold, rocks and ice.

  Lastly, he wrapped the heavy oiled-leather cloak over his shoulders, thankful that it was mostly intact, and slid his arms through the openings. A shiver ran up his spine as the cloak pulled the icy-cold coif tight to his skin. Bal’kor clenched the cloak tightly about his waist with a twisted shred of fabric from the shirt and pulled the hood up over his head checking its fit. He tossed the hood back and using the leggings of the dwarf, fashioned a cover for his coif, tying the legs under his chin. He pulled the hook tight, grinning to himself.

  He molded the remaining scraps of leather around his hands and flexed them—checking their fit before using the last of his cloth strips to secure them tight in the shape of mittens. He took the dwarf’s shield, even though it was too small to provide much protection. Bal’kor figured it was better to have it than not. He lifted it and was surprised at its heft.

  Bal’kor stepped out onto the overhanging ledge and looked out across the vast desolate mountain
range. The mountains were jagged and toothed, some reached up above the clouds. The sky was crystal clear and the sun was shining down on the virgin first snow. It was bright, but the sun provided no warmth. The stark reflection off the snow hurt his eyes; he couldn’t look directly at it. He shielded his eyes and still they watered, causing him to squint.

  The mountains extended far beyond what he could see. Off in the distance, he spied trees in a deep valley and knew he had to get there if he wished a chance to survive.

  Brock looked critically at the pile of his supplies. He had been caught by surprise, that much he would admit. After more than several hundred years, who could blame him for purging the task of Guide out of his mind. He tried to itemize all he needed for the journey. On top of those, he recalled all the items his father had told him to bring.

  The chalice, the herbs, and the Book of Rites were easy because they were in a place of honor in his home. They sat on a small ledge over the bed.

  The medicinal herbs were dry and most likely worthless—they had lost their potency over the years and he would have to gather new along the way. The rest he found where he had put them centuries ago. His stash, previously prepared, was in the leather pack that was lying on the floor behind the door. For these past centuries they sat idle and unattended. The food—mostly jerky, nuts, and dried fruit—were desiccated—probably rotten and had to be replaced. Even the tea had lost its scent.

  Despite trying to calm himself and telling himself that there was no need to panic, he rushed around his small hut trying to find suitable replacements and cursing himself for being so lax.

  He was a failure. His father should have let his sister be the Guide. She was better suited to the task than he was, being meticulous, fastidious, graceful, well-educated and highly respected in the elf community. She stuck to a task like mountain honey to the comb. She was whom his father should have chosen—not him. She had been his favorite—that was for sure—but he was the son. The honor had passed to him because of tradition. He snorted loudly.

  His eyes went wide as he frantically leapt to his bed and after digging under the thick feather mattress, sighed with relief. Pulling the object free, he unwrapped the fine linen cloth—exposing the staff. If he had misplaced it, he would have heard his father chewing him out from the other side—halla—if you wish to give it a name. The elves called it halla, same as the dwarfs, although most used the expression to curse the dark place, Darkhalla.

  He wiped the fine beads of sweat from his wrinkled brow. Without the staff, he might as well not go to the mountain; it would be better to just fling himself off of the Cliffs of Failure, where warriors cast themselves when they brought shame upon their houses! Brock stroked the staff lovingly, running his hands down its length. He could feel the runes, each carved by the Guides who had wielded the instrument at the ceremonies over the centuries. It held strong magic, and it sang to him a sad memory from happier days. He had yet to carve a rune.

  It took every smidge of willpower for him to set aside the thoughts and focus on his task at hand. Brock stood, and took one last look around the room before he walked to the door. He pushed it to one side and took a deep breath—wrapped his free arm around the jute rope dangling in front of the bearskin door. He worked hand over hand—controlling his descent and gracefully lowered himself to the forest floor from his home nestled high in the tall tree. Before he left, he tied the rope back out of the way to a peg that had been driven into the trunk.

  It was a mindless act, but for some reason—today of all days—he realized he did it because his father had always scolded him about it when he was young.

  After throwing his pack to his shoulder, he grabbed the staff at its midpoint and started a slow jog up the path toward the mountain. It would take him at least a full day to reach the ring of ancients, probably two.

  Brock smiled as he effortlessly lobbed down the trail. His body was accustomed to hours of running through the forest, hunting for game. He felt the soft dirt and the pine needles beneath his moccasins. Glancing back over a shoulder caused him to grin; his feet left no mark that he had passed. Brock felt at home.

  This would change as he climbed out of the valley. The trail would get rocky, the rocks sharp, the footing unsure. The air would get thin, and his breathing would be strained.

  He was not of the mountain clans. They were short, some might even say stocky—although that word didn’t fit well with the lithe frames of his species. It would be more correct to call them muscular. They looked unnatural for elves. Yes, that would be a better description. Brock had often wondered why the duty of Guide had fallen to his clan, the tree elves. The wise choice would have been to give the task to the mountain elves. Mayhap he failed to understand wizards. They most surely had a sound reason for their choices. He laughed…it could have been a tradition!

  His pace was slow to start, but he would break into a near run as soon as his body warmed up. There was a time when he was young that he didn’t need to warm up. He was approaching his four-hundredth birthday; he was no longer young—and the things he used to do, well...they took more effort. There were aches and pains...and he took longer to heal.

  The trail was easy now. Later? His feet would hurt—this much he knew for certain. He would need to slow down to a fast walk. His thin moccasins—made for running in the forest—would hinder his progress once he reached the upper slopes. They would provide little in the way of padding between the sharp rocks and his heavily callused feet.

  Dra’kor sat in his room at the inn and rubbed his tired eyes. It had been well past midnight when he finally got back from the tavern, where he and Toulereau had spent the better part of the evening strategizing over tankards of ale. New settlers had arrived at the gate the day before and told them that they came because they heard that Three Rivers was making a stand against the beasts. Along the way, they had spread the word to family and friends—and that meant that in all likelihood other caravans were headed their way.

  A heavy sigh passed his lips. His name had been called out by the first settlers as the man who had single-handedly defeated four of the wolf-creatures, known by now as wolven. They even sought him out to shake his hand! Of course it wasn’t exactly true—the town-folks were as much responsible for their defeat as he was. Halla, he passed out in the middle of the battle, and had little recollection of the fight at all. It was dumb-luck that saved his life; that—and Toulereau, Sheila and Brag. They were the heroes and deserved the credit, not him!

  Truth be told, he understood that people needed a rallying point, especially when things went topsy-turvy. He had inadvertently become the center of attention by making a stand. Being labeled a hero wasn’t something he had actively pursued nor expected. He hoped it didn’t give people false confidence. My, how his dreams of fame and glory had changed these past few weeks. Ja’tar must be laughing. The old man knew this would happen. He was sure of it!

  Be that as it may, if the townsfolk expected him to run out—sword in hand—and use some super-powers to defeat the beasts, they were sorely wrong. That kind of delusional behavior could get someone killed…and that someone was him! Sure, he knew a little about swordplay and defense, but that was all—and the rest had been plain dumb-luck!

  Dra’kor cursed to himself. He had no idea where they were going to put everyone. Their little town was just too small. They already filled the empty barracks and most of the town-folks were already sleeping doubled up. The main street was filled with shoddy tents and there were already groups of people sleeping both in and under wagons. Tempers were starting to flare. They needed to expand the size of the town, that was for sure, and that took lumber and manpower. He broached the subject to Toulereau that they might want to consider moving everyone to the castle, but Toulereau had shut-down his suggestion, not even allowing for discussion. He just couldn’t understand why the man was being so pigheaded!

  Regardless, he needed to update Ja’tar on the current developments and the magic letterbox that
Ja’tar had given him was his only viable option. The open letterbox sat in the center of his bed with the hand-written note he had prepared almost an hour ago. He considered not sending it; it was his last parchment. Once it was gone, he would have no way to communicate with Ja’tar. He scanned the message for a third time.

  Across the small room Men’ak snored loudly, sound asleep. Since he learned to let go, his entry into the dreamland was easier and less fraught with anxiety and fear. Dra’kor wondered if Men’ak had heard any news of Ja’tar in the dreams and he considered waking him to discuss the issue. Men’ak hadn’t said anything about Ja’tar, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know something. Men’ak was a bit tight-lipped about what went on in the dream world. It could be that he just didn’t deem what he knew was important—or maybe—he didn’t want to admit to himself that Ja’tar was dead.

  Dra’kor grabbed his note, hesitating. This was his last note. Ja’tar had failed to answer the notes he had sent the last two days. He considered not sending it, holding onto it for an emergency. He sighed, made his decision, held it over the lit candle, and watched as it went up in a flash of light. A small pile of ash fell to the table. Dra’kor closed the ink bottle and carefully placed it into the wooden box and closed the lid. What was done was done.

  He would check the box in the morning to see if Ja’tar had sent him an answer. He tried not to get his hopes up, knowing full well that Ja’tar was probably in the fight of his life—if he were even alive. If he had died in the attack on the Keep, well, there was very little Dra’kor could do about it. They would have to carry on the fight without him.

  He leaned over, held his hand to the candle and blew it out. He leaned back on the bed, put his hands behind his head and waited for sleep to come. He was still waiting when the first light of the day lit the room.

  The band had walked all night, stopping only for a quick meal of dried meat and fruit. The sun was up, but its warmth failed to touch the floor of the deep ravine. The orange morning light barely lit the rim, chasing away the inky blackness that had been the night. Brawn snuffed out his torch, as did Tax and the one known as the Warrior.