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

by Scott D. Muller

  With another beast on his heels, he desperately plunged head first through a small copse of trees and threw his shoulder to the side, tucking into a ball. He grunted as he rolled down a small knoll into a shallow ravine, ignoring the jagged thorns from the underbrush that pierced and tore at his skin. He felt every rock as he tumbled down the slope and moaned as his leg took the full force of slamming into a boulder as he came to rest at the bottom.

  He ignored the pain and rolled to his stomach, blindly extended his trembling hand into the dark and let loose a crackle of lightning, catching the less fortunate beast in the chest as it crested the ravine. He watched as the bolt sliced cleanly through the fiend, spilling its guts. A rotten stench immediately filled the air. The creature fell to the ground at his feet, twitched twice and was still. Filthy bloodbeasts!

  Praying that the other demons didn’t see his escape route, he hastily prepared the strongest spell he could remember. He flipped over, and using his good leg for leverage, pushed himself backwards with his heel until his back was against the steep side of the dirt ravine. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he came to recognize the dry streambed that ran adjacent to the Keep. It ran deep in the early spring, but this time of year, barely a trickle meandered down the river rock bottom.

  The cool damp dirt felt good on his torn back. He laid there panting, waiting, hoping the dew and evening fog would obscure his position. He tried to get a better look without moving, but his long stringy hair kept getting in the way. He hastily stuffed it into his tunic behind his neck. Sweat burned his eyes and ran down his cheek. He wiped frantically with his robe to keep his eyes from further blurring.

  Suddenly, his nose burned and his stomach churned. Tar’ac knew that smell, knew it well, demons! Tar’ac could just hear the clicking of their teeth and smacking of their lips and it made him shudder in horror. They were so close. His head whipped from side-to-side, trying to pinpoint their locations, but the echoing sounds in the ravine were playing tricks on him and they seemed to be everywhere. He was surrounded, like a caged mouse just waiting for his tormentors to end his inconsequential life.

  He heard them talking. The unearthly low clicks, raspy growls and crescendo shrieks made his skin crawl. He didn’t understand their language, but the intonation of their voices let him know that they were angry and frustrated at his escape. Tar’ac held his breath and forced his heart to slow. The loudest demon, the leader perhaps, bellowed and by the sounds of it, was furious.

  Tar’ac grimaced as he heard the sound of crunching bones and a gurgle and his heart jumped into his throat as the limp demon made a muffled thud, hitting the ground not more than a half-dozen paces from his hiding place. Tar’ac stared into the vacant pure-black eyes of the dead demon, its neck twisted at an awkward angle, back broken. He watched as the carcass decomposed and dissolved before it finally turned to an oily smoke that sunk into the ground.

  One by one, the other demons charged off through the woods, their screams fading off into the distance and for a second, Tar’ac thought he might catch a break. He took a deep, well-deserved breath. He removed a small handkerchief from his pocket and used it to soak up water from the shallow puddles between the rocks.

  His throat was parched and he felt dehydrated as he used both hands to wring out a small trickle of water from the damp rag. The water felt cool on his cracked lips and he quickly mopped up more, giving his body the moisture it craved. He wiped the sweat from his face, rinsed out the cloth and tucked it back into his pocket.

  A loud crashing and ripping sound came from directly behind him and froze him like a statue against the small cliff. He felt his heart racing as the thrashing got closer … and closer, just over his shoulder. Patient — be patient, he mouthed to himself as he raised his hands.

  An immense troll running full bore down the trail was ripping small trees and shrubs out of its way as it blindly ran, searching for more mages to eat. At the last second, the troll noticed the small ravine and because of its momentum, leapt. It glanced down as it cleared the leading edge of the small gully, legs stretching for the other side … and saw Tar’ac cowering there.

  Tar’ac watched the troll as it sailed through the air above him. There was just enough pale moonlight for him to see the excitement in the troll’s wide, yellow eyes as they met his. He let loose the balefire and the troll, still in mid-air, was catapulted by the explosion far over the other side. Tar’ac heard it land roughly and watched it roll backwards head over heels, as it burst into flames.

  It let out a loud woof as it stopped, forcefully wedged between a couple of large pointed boulders. It pried itself loose and rolled to its side flailing wildly trying to extinguish the mystical flames that were blistering its thick hide. Unable to extinguish the flames, it struggled to stand and ran howling down the path toward the river, a flaming-red fireball.

  Tar’ac had a smirk on his face, because the dull-witted troll hadn’t had the time to give away his position. He lay there, very still, for several minutes, and ever so slowly pulled some loose downed branches over his form to disguise it. Rest at last!

  He felt the wraith’s steely-cold magic long before he spotted it circling slowly above, eyeing the ground for its prey. Tar’ac froze. The tattered, smoky-black robe flapped softly in the wind, hiding the skeletal form beneath. The eyes glowed dimly against the dark evening sky. Tar’ac waited patiently for it to float off out of sight toward the Keep before he cast his first healing spell.

  He worked as quickly as he could, clutching the medallion in his right hand and using his left to weave out the magic to repair the damage inflicted by the horde of evil he had faced.

  He winced as the thin threads of magic took effect, mending his bones, and his torn ravaged skin. Because he healed himself so slowly, the agony was far worse than normal and he fought to keep from screaming out. His back arched as his muscles were wracked with agonizing spasms. He had to rest after each spell.

  Although he wasn’t a healer, he knew enough. Most of what he knew, he had learned in the time of Ror. Great battles had a way of forcing knowledge on the young and uninitiated. In those days, he was both.

  He was christened on the battlefield, trial by fire, making as many mistakes as he had successes. His mistakes died. He shuddered at the memory. He only used what magic he absolutely needed, trying not to use so much as to draw the attention of his foes, for he knew they could sense magic just as readily as he could.

  Tar’ac only had a few brief seconds’ reprieve from his pain to consider his next move before he heard the telltale screech of the wraith. His position had been discovered! The nearly silent wraith had been circling overhead hidden by the fog and had seen his magic working. After calling out its location, it turned gracefully, and swooped down toward the ravine, skeletal hands extended, already glowing with magic.

  Tar’ac threw off the branches and raced up the small embankment. He ran in abject terror as the wraith swooped down out of the sky. Tar’ac knew he wasn’t strong enough to face a wraith in his condition; he needed to make the dense cover of the ancient pine forest where the wraith couldn’t fly. There, the spirits of the ancient druids would help him.

  The low branches and thorns scrapped his legs, grabbing at his feet as he lunged through the lowlands. Thankfully, the Keep was just the other side of the thicket of trees that towered in front of him. It loomed majestically, silver-gray in the strong moonlight. He was surprised that no warning had yet been sounded. Surely, they must hear the telltale sounds of their battle. He yelled out for help, but no replies echoed back. Only his hoarse voice hung in the still air.

  He glanced twice over his shoulder, gauging the distance and the wraith’s speed. He smiled to himself knowing he would make the trees just in time. Ten paces. Five paces. He was —

  A giant burst of white light and a clap of thunder exploded from the trail in front of him. A gigantic demon stepped out of the rift, appearing out of nowhere in a puff of white, sulfur-laden smoke and flame. It
was larger than any demon he had ever seen, two men high and its horns almost three-arms across, it shoulders even wider. It was dressed in fine battle armor and had a gold chest-plate that had an embossed glyph he didn’t recognize.

  He nearly fell head over heels trying to abruptly stop and change his direction. He scraped at the ground with his hands as he tried desperately to regain his balance and get to his feet.

  Slaver fell from the demon’s open maw as it roared, arms spread wide above its head. It grinned maniacally, baring its jagged and disfigured teeth. Between its grotesquely disfigured hands, a purple cloud of liquid-lightning formed as it bellowed its incantation. The crackling mass undulated and flowed, lighting the ground before him.

  The demon held the huge quivering mass in its colossal hands as it arched its back and, using both hands, threw the liquid-fire with all its might.

  By now, Tar’ac regained his feet but he didn’t even have time to react. All Tar’ac managed to do was blink twice and take a staggered step backwards. Time seemed to stand still. He stood staring as the fireball slowly rolled at him, hitting him squarely in the chest, splattering across his body. It hit with such force that it lifted him off the ground and knocked him backwards several feet.

  Before he could even take a breath, or think of a counter spell, his skin ignited and he felt the searing white heat melting the flesh from his bones. He held a hand before his face and watched the flesh melt away, dripping into his lap where it burned with a purple and green flame.

  Screaming in silent agony, he sat up, clawed at his chest, trying to remove the liquid-fire that melted his skin. He grabbed at his chest and flung a sweat-soaked blanket to the floor. Tar’ac’s eyes shot open and darted about the dark room as he regained orientation, his trembling hands crackled with magic, held ready to cast deadly spells.

  Slowly, he relaxed as his breathing returned to normal. Feeling totally spent, he fell back onto his bed, covering his eyes with his hands and tried to regain his composure.

  This was the fifth night in a row that the dark dreams had invaded his sleep, and try as he may, he couldn’t warrant any reason for them. Yet, the wretched dreams returned and left him bewildered, wondering what manner of omen it was, if anything at all. He shook his head in resignation, he was exhausted, more exhausted than when he first retired. Dreams need to be taken heed of, his Pa always said. Those words had served him well over the centuries.

  Watcher

  Tar’ac slid to the edge of his lumpy goose-feather bed. He was still visibly shaken and not quite awake as he sat with his head hung low, waiting for consciousness to return. Impatient, he stood up weakly and staggered across the small dark room, blindly reaching for the small terra-cotta basin he knew was nearby. Finding it, he rinsed the sleep from his weary face and splashed the ice-cold water over his thin stringy hair. Awkwardly searching along the wall for the towel that hung adjacent to the basin, he snagged it and wiped the water from his face and eyes.

  He wrapped his arms tightly around his chest and shivered. He squinted at the fireplace and casually flicked a finger in its direction. A small yellow-flame elemental leapt to the neat stack of logs prepared the night before. The magic being quickly started the dry oak logs burning as it devoured the tasty fuel and soon the room was alit in a soft yellow glow. Tar’ac rubbed his hands together and stomped his bare feet, waiting impatiently for the room to warm. He turned and stared at the fire and sighed before he cast a small spell of air and fire to take the chill out of the air.

  The elemental turned and scowled at him. He shrugged, making no apologies. He was impatient this morning. He had a lot to do. He snapped his fingers and the tiny being flashed out of existence, back to whence it came.

  He used a small washrag to wipe down his sweat soaked body. No time for a bath now, it would have to wait. He swore that he would take the time later in the day, once he caught up on his work. He tried to convince himself that he would, even though he knew in his heart of hearts that he would never catch up, and would probably go to bed stinking like a long-tailed sewer rat — again.

  He ran the rough towel over his head, drying his hair and carefully folded the towel before hanging it over the ornate brass drying rack next to the basin. Still yawning, he ran his fingers through his beard and thought about preparing himself as he had every day for as long as he could remember.

  He picked up his thin silver spectacles from the simple wood vanity, lifted his gaze to the polished metal mirror and stared into his near ageless face.

  His skin was pasty white, even with the orange flickering glow from the fire. There were shadows under his eyes, he looked unkempt, and tired. Still, he appeared younger than he should. There was very little gray in his hair or his long ragged beard.

  A chortle escaped his lips because he felt his age, every year of it. A knowing smirk filled his face. His bones hurt, but … not too bad for eleven-hundred years. He pulled a shell comb through his hair and he began his morning ritual.

  His eyes rolled back in their sockets and twitched as he chanted. A low wail escaped his lips and his body convulsed as it swayed gently to and fro to the tempo of his chant. An untrained eye would have believed he was having a mild seizure. He concentrated on partitioning off his mind to that which was of himself, and only of himself, and that which he would use for his task — sacrifice to his task.

  He built walls and he wove wards. His brow was soon covered with a thin layer of sweat from his effort. He could taste the saltiness in his mouth as it ran down his forehead, along his nose and finally settled in the corner of his lips. He involuntarily licked them to little effect. His eyes burned, but he hardly noticed and yet he instinctively threw up a robe-covered arm to wipe them dry. It was pure reflex, not deliberate for he was barely conscious. Only after he completed the task did he allow a small amount of himself to flow into the partition he had created. Just enough, not too much, he would risk little.

  He was an extremely cautious man. He had to be. The Guild had found the last watcher mindless, staring into a vacant orb. As far as he knew, they still fed and cared for the man, now an empty shell with barely the presence of mind to breathe or swallow. He seemed to recall that they affectionately called him Babel.

  He wondered where the minds went when the orb took them, a question that begged to be answered and that he had repeatedly asked himself since he passed the test, ‘The Watcher’s Tease’, some one-thousand plus years ago. He pondered. Were they still conscious or were they just absorbed into some altered form of being? For that matter, he wondered whether the One Orb was alive in some sense, or just a conglomeration of spells and enchantments. Well, the Masters took that secret with them when they passed on to the next Higher Plane many millennia ago, thank you very much. They took many secrets, dark secrets.

  When he finished, he sat down on the bed to rest for a moment. The room spun a little. He could hear his other self off murmuring in the distance, muffled, like talking in another room down the hall. It always took a little while for him to get used to having two minds occupying a single brain. If all went well, he would reclaim that small part of himself tonight when he was finished.

  He sighed. The dreams bothered him. He reached across the small end table and opened his journal. He talked out loud as the journal jotted down the details of his dream, the words appearing in his handwriting on the fine handcrafted paper. He flipped back and read his previous entries, too many similarities for his liking. He would examine them later, if there were time. He closed the leather-bound book and tossed it onto the disheveled bed.

  With the flick of his wrist, the sheets tightened, the blanket evened and the pillows fluffed, the journal jumped to the table. It was a small thing, but it was always nice to come home to a neat room.

  He stood up, walked across the room, and warmed himself by the small fire before he opened the small wooden wardrobe cabinet and removed one of the two simple white wool robes he possessed. They were a heavy weave and kept out the cold.
All members of the Keep wore them for day-to-day activities.

  He looked at the worn elbows and knew he should stop in to the weavers and retrieve a new one, but that was at the far end of the Keep. He supposed he could make this one do for a bit longer. Besides, he didn’t like the old Yarcock who worked there. He gave him the willies — four arms just wasn’t natural. And his third eye — well, that third eye just stared. He looked at his robe again. No, he decided. It could wait.

  Before he closed the wardrobe, he spotted his other robe hanging off to the side. This one was quite ornate, and made of fine linen. It was for special occasions such as weddings, graduations, and births. It had been a long time since he had last worn the special robe. He ran his fingers over the fine weave and intricately embroidered trim. He let go reluctantly and closed the wardrobe door.

  He threaded his boney arms into the well-worn robe and clenched the frayed, braided cord at his waist. The effort caused him to grimace in pain as the joints in his hands reminded him that he was old, even if he did appear in his early thirties. He fed a wafer-thin wisp of magic into the joint and quickly felt its soothing touch. He opened and closed his hands, making fists, checking them for hints of pain. Finding none, he allowed a thin smile to escape his overly serious face.

  He looked around to make sure that his room was in order. The bed had been made as it had for the last eleven centuries, heavy wool blankets neatly folded at its foot. Next to the bed was a heavily used reading chair, a simple table and a lamp. In the center of the table sat his enchanted journal, and a mug. A dusty lute leaned in the corner and sat beside a song singer. The washbasin stood in the corner atop a short wooden vanity.