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

by Scott D. Muller

  He could look no longer. His knees buckled, his vision blurred and he lost the contents of his stomach over the table. What manner of demon was this? He had never witnessed the use of Wizard’s Fire like this, even during the Cleansing of the Magi Wars.

  Even when Ja’tar thought he was too weak and all was purged from his system he still retched, doubling over yet again. His stomach was sore, cramped and still churning when his vision finally cleared enough to see the open Book of Records off to the side, splattered with his stomachs purged contents.

  He held the end of his sleeve in clenched trembling fingers and slid his sleeve across the book, smearing away the acidic disgorged spew. The putrid liquid soaked into his robe and fell onto the floor, splattering as the partially digested chunks slipped from the table. He fought the smell and tried to read the now blurred entry from the last watcher, magically written into the Book of Records.

  He put on his thin reading glasses, held out a trembling hand and cast a gentle spell to clean the page, just enough so that the last few entries could be made out. He leaned very close as the text cleared to read and slid his index finger across the last line few lines. The entry clearly pointed to the barbarian land called Naan. Naan? — To’paz! He whispered hoarsely. His heart sank as his eyes widened. By the Ten, I’ve lost To’paz!

  He threw his head back in anguish and wailed, falling to the floor and pounding it with his fists. He wept, for a sister and a friend lost, for surely she could not have survived a demon attack such as this. The Gates would have closed. He knew in his heart of hearts that she was gone. He let out another blood-curdling howl that was filled with such pain that the orb itself echoed the sound as if it was its own.

  Ja’tar felt his knees quiver as he tried to pull himself together. They failed to hold his weight and he gave up, collapsing numbly to the floor. He curled up into a ball and rocked.

  How long he had spent curled up in the thralls of shock, he didn’t know. As he again became aware of his surroundings, his eyes darted nervously back and forth.

  He didn’t move out of fear.

  He was still curled up in a ball, gently rocking back and forth on the stone floor in the corner of the small alcove, eyeing menacing shadows that danced in the dark room. He began processing what he had seen.

  He sat, fidgeting. He cast small spells unconsciously with his right hand causing small pops and flames to leap randomly from his fingers. He wasn’t even aware of what he was doing. His mind was in another place entirely.

  The more he contemplated what had happened, the more fearful he became, almost to the point of being psychotic.

  He was positive that he had been told of this kind of spell when he was young. So long ago — if only he could remember the context and who had told him. However, his mind was blank. The harder he thought about those days, the less he could recall. He strained, retracing his childhood and just couldn’t remember.

  It was infuriating not being able to recall something he knew. It was as if his mind just went blank. Maybe it was the shock, maybe the stress of the past few years. Whatever it was, Ja’tar would just have to give things time. He knew that he would remember, eventually. He was mad because he needed the information now.

  He closed his eyes and sighed heavily, resting for a few moments. His entire body was trembling. After a while, he ran his hand through his hair as he struggled, trying once again to pull the lost and scattered fragments from his memory, suddenly, for only a brief second—clarity.

  His eyes widened as he remembered a small fragment of the lesson, or was it a long forgotten memory from the past? He wasn’t certain; it could have been either, because his mind was a jumble of unorganized thoughts. Horror filled his face as his resolve rose. He knew what he had to do. He had to call a Gathering.

  Five Peaks

  The dark ultramarine blue and black-as-ink clouds circled the tall cragged peaks, hiding their majestic glaciers and snow-filled cirques. They boiled and rolled, blacker than they should have been. The thunder clapped again, closer this time, rattling the windows in the small town. Next, the lightning started. This lightning was yellow, green, and spread like a spider’s web across the sky. It most certainly wasn’t natural lightning.

  Thom ‘Topside’ Brokenhammer blinked hard, temporarily blinded by the flash of white light as he stared out the window of his small log home. He saw tentacles of the blast hit his neighbor’s house and soon, flames were licking at the thatched roof. Yep, this weren’t natural, he’d bet his life on it.

  He had been living topside for so long; the locals started calling him by that name. It weren’t natural for a dwarf to be outta his hole that long. Although he’d never admit it, he kind of liked being topside; he liked the fresh air, the warmth of the sun, the trees and critters. Just don’t tell any of his kin that it were so. He’d never live it down if they found out, no he wouldn’t. They’d have a different nickname for him, that’s for sure. A name he would never care to be called in public!

  He saw his neighbors throw open the door and run down the street dodging the dancing streaks of lightning, holding their children wrapped tight in their arms, blankets over their heads. He heard the children crying and screaming and he should have gone and helped, but he didn’t. His feet were glued to the floor and try as he might, he couldn’t make them move. He just wasn’t going out there in this storm. No, he wouldn’t. He would stay inside and wait for it to pass, if it would pass.

  He looked up into the mountains, wondered about his kin, and smiled knowing they were safe deep inside the mountain. The storm could never reach them that deep in the ground. There weren’t no such lightning in the caves of the mountain, no there wasn’t. Any smart dwarf would have been underground too, but he weren’t no smart dwarf.

  He frowned. It was too early in the spring for thunder and lightning, they still had another full moon worth of winter. Bloody Orcs, he cussed. The snow was still mid-calf deep in town, calf deep! Besides, there just wasn’t any rain, weren’t no snow neither! These mountain storms always had rain or snow with ‘em. What kind of storm was this? No wind and no rain!

  Topside scratched his head and ducked for cover when a loud thunderclap near scared the life out of him. He threw his hands over his ears, pulling his short, stubby legs tight to his chest. He winced as his ears rang from that clap and his eyes wouldn’t focus. He didn’t like being above ground, no he didn’t. Weren’t no place for a sane dwarf to live, he thought to himself as he yanked his long red beard and rolled to his stomach before pushing himself to his feet.

  He should have listened to his dream. The bearded man in his dreams had warned him to leave and told him to tell the others too. Said he was a mage. Bah! Tweren’t no mage alive no more, everybody knew that! But the man was right. Did he listen? No, stupid dwarf. He didn’t listen, he didn’t tell, he didn’t do nothing. He knew he should have. Stupid, stupid dwarf.

  How was he to know it wasn’t just the liquor talking, after all he had been drinking ale steadily the better part of that night, or was it two? He vowed to start listening to his dreams, if he ever slept again and maybe not drink so much, although that was going a bit far.

  He rubbed his fatigued eyes. He was exhausted but he couldn’t sleep in a storm like this, too much noise, not quite like the dark deep mines. He ran his hand nervously through his long, thick, tangled hair and prayed the storm would pass. He looked nervously around the room to make sure no one was watching. He’d never hear the end of it if he was caught cowering in the corner from a little storm. Just the same, this weren’t a normal storm. He swore it weren’t.

  He saw another blast hit the ground and race along the street, melting a circuitous path in the snow, before it found one of the townsfolk running across the street. The green-yellow bolt raced up the man’s body and Topside saw him twitch and convulse just before his eyes exploded and his body burst in a shower of gore. Topside Brokenhammer shook his head, that weren’t natural at all. Lightning just doesn’t do th
at. He knew that much. He didn’t like the way it crackled and walked along the ground, like it were alive and searchin’ for something. He scowled and shook his fist at the sky, cursing.

  He prayed to the god of steel for the storm to be over, but figured he just wasn’t listening, probably just fed up with ‘em. They was being punished, that much he knew for sure. He weren’t sure of what-the-for, but he knew the gods were upset, mighty upset from the looks of things. Topside thought about hiding somewhere, but where would he go? His eyes darted about the dark room.

  He thought about crawling under the building. Subsequently, he thought of a cave he knew. Topside liked caves, they were quiet, and they were safe. The windows rattled as another thunderclap shook the small home, knocking the shutters loose as he dove for the floor, covering his head. As if the storm weren’t enough, now the shutters were banging away. Topside swore again. Gods be damned, enough was enough!

  The thunder stopped for a second and he peered out with one eye from under his thick muscular hands. It was quiet. He should make a run for the mines. He thought about it, but his feet wouldn’t move, ‘twas like they were made o’ iron. He was just too terrified of being ensnared by the storm. ‘Twas his luck to be struck down dead and he knew it! Therefore, he sat in the corner of the room wrapped in his blanket, shaking. He knew the house was gonna be coming down around him. He was sure as dead, he was!

  High in the mountains above Five Peaks on a small sheltered ledge at cloud level, five magi bound with enchanted neck manacles fed their energy into the roiling clouds. The emaciated, sunken-eyed, mages shuddered and twitched as the lich bid them to do his vile work. The yellow and green clouds billowed and boiled as the energy shot from cloud to cloud, building in strength until the jagged bolt broke loose and raced for the valley floor.

  Each spell cast from each mage filled the clouds with more energy. They never paused, except to prepare another spell. They grimaced, growled and frowned as they worked for hours without rest. Bone tired, their eyes rolled back in sockets between spells. Still, they continued with arms lifted high. They would continue until they dropped, unable to cast any longer, their magic and life force spent.

  The lightning pummeled the small town below as the five kept up their assault. One of the five moaned quietly and fell over dead. He was the eldest, and the rest of the chain of five paused to glance over at their dead companion.

  The lich gave the chain a yank as he cast a painful energy pulse through the enchanted links that caused the others to howl in pain, as their eyes glowed red and rolled back in their sockets. They shook and spasms raked their frames so severely they were unable to breathe. He wouldn’t allow them a moment’s pity for their friend. They had work to do; his Master had decreed it. Finally, he let up and a big gasp filled the air as all four took their first deep breath in almost a minute.

  The shadow people, demons bound to the lich, unlocked the deceased mage and dragged him roughly by his feet out of the way, his head thumping over the rocks as they carelessly tossed him to the side, like a piss-pot thrown out a castle window.

  They brushed their hands off to remove the stench of the dead mage as they hobbled over and grabbed another held in the enclosed iron pen. They unlocked his neck piece from the chain strung between the upright crisscrossed iron sides and pushed him violently to the casting line causing him to trip and fall on all fours.

  They beat him with a cane across his back when he wasn’t in the right spot to allow him to be shackled into place, causing him to cower and shield his face. His back was lined with the bruises and cuts of the cane and bled freely, soaking into his shredded robe. They jerked his head by the collar and roughly attached his neck bracelet to the chain with a spelled lock. He prayed for the brass medallion on his chest to break, releasing him from his captors, for even the powerful lich couldn’t keep them from aging once the link was broken.

  On the other hand, he wasn’t sure why they hadn’t been cut off from the magic anyway. The totems hadn’t fired and they had been casting powerful magic, and a lot of it. The totems should have fired. They should all have been dead by now. He cried. Why couldn’t they all just die? That was what the totems were for, to protect against this kind of thing.

  The storm spell called for five magi and they couldn’t continue until he was in place. They shoved a pointed steel rod with a gold tip that the shadow people called the tickler into his spine as they laughed. He immediately felt the vile magic paralyze his nerves. He heaved, his body spilling its contents as his legs shook and went numb.

  “Cast!” The shadow demanded in a guttural, gravelly voice. And he did with all his might, forgetting about his plan to destroy the medallion.

  The lich smiled, ambled over to the dead mage, raised his bony hands and cast his spell. The sleeves of his tattered robe slid down to his elbows, revealing his gaunt, emaciated flesh. He raised his hands high and chanted to the powers of the lowest planes. He glowered as he felt the thin wispy strands of purple and sickly yellow-green circle his deformed and gnarled hands before they left his fingers flowing toward the dead mage.

  The repugnant magic entered the mage’s dead, staring eyes, mouth and coursed through his body. The mage stiffened and convulsed, his back arched as he took his first breath. His eyes lost their glaze and focused, while he searched for a reference. Realizing that he was still of this earth, he clamped his eyes shut, raised his hands to his face and wept, a low guttural wail escaping his bloody chapped lips. The lich threw back his head and howled in laughter.

  The mage crawled on his belly, clawing at the dirt and rock with bloody hands, fingers cut and filled with infection. He strained toward the pen moving ever closer and begged to be let in. The shadow people taunted him and kicked at his ribs and thighs. He spit up blood and gurgled, hoping to die again, rolling to his back. Mayhap this time!

  The lich watched the entertainment from his perch on a tall rock above the magi and finally waved a hand and the beatings stopped. They held open the cage door and he crawled in of his own accord and latched himself to the chain before he collapsed in the corner, passing out as the mild healing did what little could be done.

  The other magi struggled to keep casting, down on raw, rock scraped knees, arms extended, hands pulsing with raw energy as they cast the magic the Dark One requested. Those that still had presence of mind cried with each spell for those below, and wet salty tears flowed down their cheeks mixing with the dust and dirt making trails of mud. However, they couldn’t resist the demands of the chain and they growled as they cast their strongest spells up into the ever-expanding storm just to feel the pleasurable relief from the magical chain, recovered from a long forgotten battlefield.

  The lich grinned to himself; he didn’t know where or how the Master had located the chain, or even knew that it existed. It was a magnificent piece of work. The most twisted use of magic he had ever seen. The foul iron was old, very old and had obviously been used some time in the past, but the lich didn’t know when or by whom. He wished he had the cleverness and the power to devise such creations himself. Maybe someday, he might!

  The magi wept for their souls and for those of their kind. They knew the end was coming, they prayed for it, lusted for it, for anything was better than this, death would be a blessing.

  The others, the irreparably broken and nearly dead cared not for their minds were spent and empty. They were hollow shells for the magic and nothing more. They would be used until their bodies could no longer sustain life. For even with the seemingly endless powers of the lich being used to revive them, he could only do so much.

  When they were first captured, many had tried to resist and break free, but now they would not even try. Captured and broken, the enchanted chains controlled them, compelled them to commit horrific acts of violence. Glowing white and ruby, the chains held them together, prevented their escape, bid them to obey. Rewarding them when they did, punishing them when they didn’t. They had desperately tried to die; to the point of
casting death spells on one another and had been severely punished after being revived.

  Seth had been among the last to be captured. He had hid under a dead tree when the lich and his spawn had invaded his town. He had taken his own life to avoid capture. He had died proudly defending his realm as a traveler. The Master had revived his spirit and made him serve in the Dark Lord’s pit for days to teach him a lesson.

  He shivered at the thought of the demons and other things unmentionable that had toyed with him, tortured him, ate at his guts, burnt and pealed his skin until he thought he couldn’t stand it any longer, only to have the dark one resurrect him so that he could die all over again. He threw his hands up and cast another spell. He sighed at the rush. What else was he to do?

  The lich tended his magi. He wasn’t about to allow anyone to die. Dying was not an option. Magi were a limited resource and he needed them, more than he wished to admit. Every time they passed on, their hearts giving up the life that had been coursing through their veins, he yanked their spirit back from the nether into their broken, beaten and dying bodies. He healed them—mostly.

  He left them sores, broken bones and bruises that the spawn would jab, prod and hit causing excruciating pain whenever they didn’t perform as demanded. The guardian of the lowest planes of the underworld didn’t like it when he reclaimed what was rightly his, but even he was afraid of the Master and turned a blind eye to his wishes.

  Just because his Master wished for them to survive to serve, didn’t mean he had to treat them well. He looked at them with disdain. He used just enough magic to sustain their existence, no more. Inside, he wanted them to suffer, that was the problem. He wanted them dead more than he wanted them to exist, but his Master didn’t and had made it plainly clear that he would pay a far greater price than the mages if he failed to follow his Master’s desire.