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

by Scott D. Muller

  Thankfully, the full moon was obscured behind thick, low-hanging clouds. Of course, that was a mixed blessing. Although he didn’t know exactly where he was, neither did the spawn that chased.

  He knew his luck was bound to run out; a man could only throw the cross-bone dice so many times and come up with three maids. He had to hurry. The weather was clearing and that cursed radiant orb, known as the White Moon, was already racing in and out of the low clouds unpredictably … and that meant discovery, death, or possibly worse.

  He threw himself flat to the dirt as he saw the shadowed form of the wraith cross the horizon just above the trees, its skeletal outline and tattered cloak temporarily illuminated by a thin ray of moonlight that had found passage through the thick murk. It quickly rose up into the clouds and disappeared from sight. Tar’ac could feel its filth.

  Of course dead doesn’t always mean dead, at least to a wizard. Some kinds of dead were worse than others, and he supposed these demons wanted him dead in the classical sense, no afterlife, with no chance for spiritual ascension. Demons seemed to be inclined that way.

  He saw a fireball approaching out of the corner of his eye, but too late to block. He leapt to his feet and attempted to cut hard to his right and duck, trying to shield himself behind an enormous boulder jutting out of the ground. He cursed his timing and although the main impact narrowly missed him, he was still launched high into the air.

  Tar’ac realized mid-flight that he was damn lucky to still be alive, but he had not been quick enough to avoid the unfortunate circumstance of finding himself tumbling over ten arm spans up in the air.

  Although he threw his hands out, twisted and fought hard to find the ground, he landed bone-jarringly hard, face first when his hastily-cast spell of air failed. He felt the sharp rocks scrape his palms, which he had instinctively thrown up to protect his head as he clumsily tumbled to the narrow game trail, his long legs tangling in his full length prayer robe.

  He presumed that he had landed safely, but while half sliding, and half falling, he heard himself scream out in agony. His voice sounded distant and strangely muffled, more like a child’s cry from down the hall through a thick oak door than the cry of a grown man.

  He pushed his head up and tried to focus his eyes, but the images wouldn’t coalesce. All he saw were bright spots and streaks of color. He squinted hard and shook his head, trying to clear his vision. Seconds later the pain returned, making him grind his teeth. His right leg was spasming and felt rubbery, but fright gave him strength and somehow he managed to regain his feet by shifting his weight.

  Dazed, he stared around squinting into the dark, looking for — what? He wasn’t sure. Where in the halla were those fireballs coming from? For that bloody matter, who was casting them?

  He subconsciously chanted and as he held his hands out to his sides, scanning for threats, they crackled with magical energy. He released the magic and let it quickly dissipate once he regained his composure. It was best to minimize the risk of detection. He might die tonight, but he swore he wouldn’t make it easy. If need be, he would take a small army of the cursed spawn with him. He knew the demons were out there, searching him out, taunting him.

  He took a side step to the trail and his right leg collapsed under his weight, forcing him to a knee. He shook his head in agonizing disbelief, quite confident he hadn’t twisted his leg as he had landed. He reached down to steady his leg and felt something sticky wet on his fingertips.

  A jagged lightning bolt cast a web as it danced across the mottled sky providing enough light for him to glance down past his burnt smoking robe to see his scorched and shattered leg. He saw the bone protruding from under the skin, just breaking the surface. It oozed as its jagged end, which had snapped like a dry tree limb, dug deep into the surrounding pasty white flesh.

  He cursed, coarsely wiped his trembling blood-spattered hand on his robe and risked chanting a strong healing spell as he limped, dragging his injured leg awkwardly behind. The magic quickly took effect and his leg glowed light blue for a brief second before straightening, the bone snapped back into place and the skin healed over.

  The pain of the healing was excruciating and it took away his breath. He felt like screaming out as the bone shards found each other and reoriented themselves straight by knitting together. Tar’ac bit down hard on his lip instead, keeping the glorious agony to himself. He’d be damned if he would further give away his position because of a flesh wound. He felt his teeth puncture his lip. The salty taste of his own blood mixed with his sweat reminding him that he still lived, so he refocused, concentrating on his survival. He needed a plan.

  Tar’ac’s eyes went wide as he heard a rustle in the bush ahead. He panicked. His eyes darted from side-to-side as he searched for cover.

  The trail was open and he made the only choice he had available; he quickly dove up against a squat, wind-twisted fir and froze, crouching low on all fours. He tried to disappear into the deep, thick undergrowth that sprouted from the base of the tree by using his hands to silently pull the branches between him and the sound. His newly mended muscles and tendons screamed at being strained so soon after a healing. He prayed that the White moon would stay hidden by the clouds for a while … just a while.

  He watched as a pack of goolog loudly passed not twenty feet from where he crouched. The small warriors, dressed in leathers wore helmets made out of wood and carried small shields made from the armored back shells of schnell beetles, the oversized carnivorous beetles that claimed the deep, dank caves south of the Winseer peaks as their home. They chattered between themselves and waved their small knife-sized swords. Goologs! The halla! The damn waist-high, green and pink-skinned abominations were worthless as far as he was concerned.

  He had considered them a nuisance, and harmless … mostly. At least that is what he had always thought until tonight. He waited for them to move along before he gained his feet and continued his race toward home.

  An ink-black demon ran through the night, attacking, and killing. It paused, and arched its razor-sharp spine as it examined the trail. Stretching tall, it sniffed at the night air, rolling its eyes back in their sockets. Concentrating, it sorted through the many wonderful scents, wondering which one it would make its prey. Its wide nostrils flared as it inhaled deeply again, sorting out the plethora of odors from the battle. It found fear, blood, anger, and death. There was so many delicious smells from which to choose. The demon took another deep breath and ran its long split tongue over its sharp jagged teeth, tasting the fear. Its eyes widened. Found you me! It thought.

  The gore-covered demon cackled. Caught in the thrall of blood lust, it threw back its hideous maw and screeched loudly. Tar’ac’s head whipped around, and for a split second, he stared down the narrow trail into the darkness. Although he saw nothing move, he knew the demon was somewhere just out of sight. Its unholy howl gave away its location.

  He judged the distance, took advantage of its premature victory celebration, and hurried off up a side trail, weaving from edge to edge as best he could. He still limped, but his leg was starting to feel a smidgen better.

  He used one hand to gather his long robe and the other hand for balance as he traversed the uneven, rock-strewn ground. He ran, his wide eyes searching for cover, any cover, but there just wasn’t any. That small, seemingly insignificant detail registered deep in his subconscious letting him know exactly where he stood; he was crossing the bloody meadows, much farther from the Keep than he imagined.

  Tar’ac, still partially blinded by the flash, barely saw the gnarled log lying athwart his path in time to leap. Not graceful, but he cleared the rotting timber. Unfortunate? Perhaps, because he landed roughly on a massive hidden rock outcrop just the other side. His face was forcefully thrown forward as his leg bent awkwardly out, jamming his knee into the jagged stone. It was too late to throw up his hands; he swore under his breath, knowing full well that he would hit hard.

  His chin hit, splitting open and his jaw racked t
o the side, causing him to take a good bite down on his tongue. Bloody hell, he thought to himself. Could things get any worse? He rolled to his side gasping, as he finally managed to draw a big gulp of air. The landing had rattled him. Nonetheless, he was grateful that he hadn’t blacked out.

  Still seeing stars, with his vision blurred, he stood. Stood? Well, while not a picture of balance and prowess, he at least didn’t topple. Staggering sideways like a town drunk, he took a few hesitant steps up the trail. Still struggling to get his balance, he woozily clung to a small tree.

  His head spun with vertigo as he summoned all his willpower and took a tentative step forward. Just one, he thought, now another. He tried to spit out the dirt and blood that covered his split lip, but all he managed was to drool, letting it ooze down the side of his mouth leaving a muddy track from his chin into his tangled beard.

  He took another small step.

  The air around him smelled of burnt rotting flesh making it hard to breathe and he used his sleeve to cover his nose as bile rose in the back of his throat. He forced it down and fought the impulse to purge the contents of his stomach.

  He took two more steps before searing pain tore into his brain forcing tears to his eyes.

  He struggled on, every step jarring him to the bone. He felt every sharp rock, pebble and branch through the soles of his worn leather boots. Not just any boots, damn ceremonial boots … he thought. Not his normal boots, these had paper-thin soles for praying and dancing, not fighting.

  His luck just kept getting better. He shook his head and looked up the hill in desperation. He could just recognize the Keep’s silhouette backlit by the moonlight; the four tall multistory turrets stood tall, almost reaching the bottom of the clouds. The flickering yellow light of the candles through the delicate stained glass windows in the upper rooms cut through the gloom of the night—at least for a few feet. Below, the trail faded away, obscured by the swirling unearthly mist that had gathered. It looked so far away. How was he going to get there, he wondered. It seemed unlikely —

  He cursed out loud at their predicament. Magi of the Havenhold Keep ambushed! They had been foolish, and complacent. They hadn’t expected trouble as they leisurely walked the winding trail a quarter-league down to the open-air stone cathedral carrying frankincense, jasmine, and other incense in preparation for the spring rites.

  Full of roast duck and mead, and in a celebratory mood, they had walked right into the trap. Battle wizards, magi of the highest order, seasoned from centuries of war, ambushed in their own back yard by goolog! They had lost their edge. He was as much disgusted as he was angry.

  They surely hadn’t expected goolog to attack. By the Ten, the pint-sized, half-blind goolog were afraid of their own bloody shadows and rarely caused what he would consider trouble, except for their uncanny ability to create chaos because of their curiosity. The demon offspring of goblins were afraid of people. Damn, bloody goolog!

  A few goolog weren’t much of a problem, but a throng of goolog … Well, even a swarm of sugar bees is dangerous if enough of them get an inkling to do you harm. Same with goolog, and as if the hoards of goolog waving poison-tipped swords weren’t enough, fireballs and lightning bolts hammered them from out of nowhere.

  Then, the beasts came. He shuddered. They had tried to form a fighting circle … tried.

  The leathery demon got down on all fours, its tattered ragtag wings folded flat against its sides. It leaned over and pressed its wide nose to the dirt, using its long spiked tail as counterbalance. It sniffed at the ground and surrounding boulders before it scanned the horizon searching. Its veined yellow eyes glowed in the near dark. The brilliant white light explosions had temporarily blinded the beast, but not for long. Soon its eyes would adapt, yes they would.

  The delicious bouquets of fear still lead up the trail toward the stone man-building. The demon raised its serpentine, horn-covered head and intently gazed up the trail, and it charged, head down, following the strong scent. It ran on all fours, which was far quicker than the inefficient two-legged walk. The demon didn’t need his sight to find its prey; it could smell the mage’s fear. Strong was the smell.

  Tar’ac heard the heinous growl of another pursuer coming in quickly from somewhere to his left. A fiend, wolf, maybe a bloodbeast, he thought to himself. He wasn’t sure, but he knew one thing for certain, demons didn’t growl. He focused on his path and hurried ahead, unable to afford even a single glance in the creature’s direction, not if he wished to survive.

  Nearly on Tar’ac’s heels, the demon shrieked loudly, sensing the impending kill. It heard the loud beating heart of the mage, smelled his fear. Tar’ac shuddered and stumbled awkwardly, his tattered robe catching on the thorny shrubs.

  He was frantic now, trying to drag his injured leg as best he could, using one hand to tug at his partially healed knee. The flesh, seared to the fractured bone made an awful squishing sound with every step and smelled putrid. If not for the powerful magic, he would be on the ground writhing in pain, unable to continue. He wondered why he couldn’t seem to focus. His brain felt cloudy.

  Sweat poured down his dirty anguished face, burning as it seeped into open scrapes and cuts. Tar’ac madly lunged between the large outcropped rocks, trying to maintain his footing and all the while — keeping his profile low to any fireballs. He scrambled straight up the steep rocks to the higher trail, turned toward the Keep and ran.

  Given his situation, maybe if he was fortunate, he would not be forced to choose between abject servitude and death, maybe he could orchestrate an honorable outcome to his pitiful existence. He swore he would not become a minion of the lower planes. It was that simple! No Drakone Royal would ever become a slave. Ever —!

  On the other hand, the spells he needed to temporarily switch planes of existence were complicated and took time. Additionally, he needed Jackerwock Root and blood. Well, he had plenty of blood, but where the bloody hell was he going to find Jackerwock Root in the middle of the night while being chased by demons?

  He hurriedly prepared another spell and deftly cast it with a backwards under-armed toss as he ran. It caught the black sinewy demon by surprise as it exited the rocky climb, exploding into its chest as it stepped from between two boulders. The red and purple plasma crackled over its black hide, splattering its acidic gore over the rocks as the demon collapsed in a pile of skin and bone.

  The demon had been far too close and the flying carnage sizzled as it ate into Tar’ac’s robe and scarred his exposed flesh. He tried to brush off the acidic smoldering bits best he could without losing his stride.

  Tar’ac’s breath was now coming in great hoarse gasps and his head pounded as he ground his teeth and cursed. Damn this thin air! He blasphemed the Ten for placing the Havenhold Keep in the highest peaks of the Winseer Mountains. His chest was pounding and he knew he couldn’t keep up this pace for long — and still the path led uphill —

  The agony showed on his face as he struggled with each step, pushing himself even harder. He couldn’t clearly recall exactly how long he had been running and briefly wondered how many of his fellow mages still fought.

  What was that? He flinched. A shadow moved to his left! Quick, cast a spell. Tar’ac scooped up a few small rocks as he ran and chanted over them before he threw. They appeared inconsequential, but upon hitting the hound, exploded into hundreds of razor-sharp shards. The vile abomination collapsed to the ground, clawing and convulsing just shy of its prey. Its front legs ripped to shreds, it was pushing itself across the ground using its rear-quarter, refusing to give up.

  Tar’ac caught a good glimpse of the beast as he reversed his direction and ran past, backtracking. He shook his head in disbelief. From the shape and size of its head, he knew that it wasn’t a bloodbeast. He was being pursued by wolven.

  His skin crawled and the hair on the back of his neck stood straight as he thought back on the stories he had been told as a small child about the beasts. Wolven dragged their prey back to the underworl
d where they became wolven themselves, returning to prey on their families. He quickly found a more direct route up the hill and hurried off in that direction as fast as his damaged body would allow.

  Off in the distance, Tar’ac heard several loud thunderclaps, saw a flash in his vision’s periphery, and heard another scream that ended in a smothered gurgling sound. Damn! He thought. Will any of us survive the night? He made a quick prayer to the Ten followed by the sign of AEgis.

  He thought he heard something. He froze in his tracks and listened. Hearing nothing, he walked quickly across an exposed meadow, his head nervously switched from side-to-side, leery of an ambush.

  There it is again, he thought. What can that be —? Alert, he listened, scanned the horizon and saw nothing.

  There it is. A faint flapping sound caught his attention and he hastily threw up both arms, covering his head as he ducked for cover under the canopy of a small tree. Fortunately, he had good hearing, for he barely escaped a flying drog, which raked at his back as it veered awkwardly to avoid the low-hanging tree branches.

  Screaming, he arched his back as the dirty razor-sharp talons dug into the soft fleshy part of his shoulder piercing his meager robe. He felt the puncture tear his skin, and finally felt his back go wet with blood. The bat-like drog, smelling the fresh blood, went feral with lust, tossing its sharp-beaked head from side-to-side in delight as it veered off to the left to make another pass.

  Tar’ac could already feel the venomous effects of the claws penetrating his spine, burning, making his head spin and knees wobble. His face hung loose as the numbing effect spread. He felt slaver slide past his lips and knew he would not be able to withstand much more. He grasped at his glowing medallion for comfort with his white-knuckled hand and held it tightly to his chest, chanting as he stumbled, barely able to control his body. He had to find cover.