He shuddered and hissed, clenching his fists in anger. He had felt his Master’s wrath, once, only once. His eyes narrowed. Some day he would escape and take his Master to the underworld. There, he would show him pain and fear; he would pay for what he had done. He licked his boney lips and planned the moment. He would take his power, his jiin.
The Dark Lord Lich laughed maniacally, his patchwork dark tattered robe furling in the light wind, his deformed and twisted body relishing the feeling of power, for he was lich, dead and yet not, but teeming with power and able to live forever. He had been given a choice once long ago and he had chosen without hesitation. Better to live and serve as one of the most powerful beings in the universe, than to die and serve anyway. Sometimes, the only choices in life were undesirable, but in the end, his lust for power had overridden his sound judgment.
He had been a lich for so long, he no longer remembered how he once had been, what he looked like or even his name. He knew not from whence he had come, how or where he had lived. Now, all he lived for was power. Power and the feeling of ecstasy that he felt when there was great pain and suffering. It was all he felt.
He wore the long robe to cover his twisted and deformed frame. His shredded, rotting and tattered clothes hung to a skeletal form that was only held together with magic and served no useful purpose. He would rid himself of it if he could. He only lowered his hood when he felt the need to instill even more fear into those he commanded, for to meet a lich in its raw form was to meet absolute terror and he wielded that terror like a fine blade.
He watched from high up above, almost in the clouds, as the homes, and buildings burst into flame when the random white-hot lightning bolts found their targets. He raised his arms and laughed as the blasts found their marks. From this distance, he could barely see the flames. He was too far away to enjoy the looks of horror and dread on the fine people’s faces who called Five Peaks home, but he knew that they were there. He could sense them — and their anguish.
He lifted his nose to the air and breathed deeply. He could smell their fear, even at this distance and he ran his rotted tongue across his decayed bony teeth. There was much fear.
He had no conscience; he did as his Master bade him. He never asked why, he didn’t really care. Not that his Master would ever confide in him what the plans were, it was just that he never asked questions, no one questioned the Master and lives to talk about it. The Master was the only thing he feared. He feared and loathed his servitude and he lusted after the Master’s power.
It wasn’t personal that his Master had chosen Five Peaks to be destroyed next; the Master was making a point. It could have been any of the towns in any of the realms. They were just—convenient. His Master was in charge and controlled their destiny. That was the lesson. They would bow to the Master’s rule and they would do as commanded. They would call the master by the ancient name, AEsir, a true god. Eventually, everyone did his Master’s bidding. The Master liked it that way. No one ever crossed the Master and lives to talk about it.
He grinned to himself. The pain, all the beautiful agony, he could feel the townspeople’s fear and he could feel their delicious pain. He purposefully yanked the magical chain repeatedly sending yet another painful burst of magic along its length and watched as the captive magi quivered and convulsed. He drooled in delight, feeling the exquisite agony.
He wondered how long the magi would last and what his Master would do with them when he was through. He hoped that he would be rewarded, maybe even be given some of the magi to play with. He wringed his bony hands in anticipation. What he couldn’t do with a couple wizards? He could rise in power, and maybe even rule the realms. He wouldn’t pamper them the way the Master did. He would drain them; drain each and every one of every ounce of magic they possessed.
The storm was wearing heavy on the town. He would have much to report to his Master later tonight when he bowed at the throne. He was sure his Master would be pleased. Yes, maybe his Master would give him one of the magi to play with.
Mourning
It took Ja’tar a while to snap out of it and regain his composure. He thought about To’paz and his eyes welled up as he pulled in a deep sniffle. Although he was still numb, he finally sighed and slowly stood up, although he had to grab the table to keep his knees from buckling. He spotted Tar’ac’s journal on the table and because it was open, turned it to read. He read the last entry from the morning. He flipped back a few more pages and read the entries from the past three days. He wrinkled his brow and closed the small book, slipping it into his pocket.
For a long time, he just stood there thinking. He turned the Book of Records around and read the entry again, running his finger along the blurred script as he read the High Elven language of Torren. This time he focused on the very last word. It read—Closed. He knew what it meant, that single word, ominously written at the end of the entry. He knew all it implied.
He stood at the end of the table, staring blankly at the pile of swirling ash that used to be Tar’ac and the smoldering heap that was previously the Dragonbone chair. The chair, a gift from one of the last dragon slayers of the middle wars, Paxton the Great, was made from the bones of a giant Blue, known as ‘Torch,’ that had been ravaging the realms.
The bones of the last Blue to perish had been hand polished and formed together into the great chair using ancient dwarven steel called formel, a tempered metal of incredible strength. It had been imbued with the spirit of the beast to allow it to serve by allowing its wisdom to fill the user. It served as a daily reminder of why the pact had been drawn and how misunderstandings can lead to travesties. Ja’tar had thought the chair to be practically indestructible.
It had been ceremoniously presented when the Great Rotterdam Pact had been drawn between all the magical races, dragons included, stopping the purge and hunting of the great beasts once and for all; in agreement that if they held to the Northland, to the other side of the Ice Spires, they were free to live and roam as they pleased. Since that time, it was rare indeed for anyone to see a dragon. Ja’tar couldn’t even venture to guess how many still existed. Someday he wished to make the long journey to the Northland and see the dragons for himself, maybe even talk to one. It was an inhospitable place, a barren, rocky, frozen wasteland. A hostile place for any man to venture, mage included.
Small thin threads of smoke curled toward the ceiling from the jawbone armrests as the back leg collapsed. The fire finally weakened the bone sufficiently that it couldn’t hold the weight of the chair. The fasteners of formel were deformed and melted, lying under the surviving structure that no longer resembled the great chair.
He hesitantly reached down to the table with a shaking hand and grabbed the still-wailing orb, burning his fingers on the silky glass that was still near molten. The smell of burnt flesh instantly filled the air as Ja’tar swore.
Agony spread across his face causing him to almost drop the globe. He just managed to juggle it from hand to hand until he could wrap it in the hem of his roughly woven robe, causing the wool to scorch and smoke, adding a strong-burnt hair tang to the already foul mix. He quickly cast a spell of ice over his hand to stop the burn, but the damage had already been done. He didn’t realize he had been holding his breath but as the icy-cold eased his pain, he found himself pulling in a deep breath as the pain receded.
He leaned over the table and carefully rolled the pearlescent orb, El’batar, back into its white marble holder, easing it out of its wooly hammock. He cursed at himself for being so careless.
He gripped the hem of his soiled robe and tore loose a small square patch of cloth. He tossed it over the orb to stop the wailing as he searched for the magical covering used to silence the constant searching of the orb for a mind to absorb. He spotted the shimmering metal cloth at the far end of the table and summoned it to cover the orb. He watched as it floated over the orb and folded itself neatly around the globe.
With great resignation and the wave of his blistered hand, he conj
ured up a pail of warm soapy water, a brush and a small straw broom. For a brief moment he stared, memorizing every detail, then knelt and began the unpleasant task of cleaning the spattered floor.
Although he could have cleaned the entire area in the blink of an eye using magic, Ja’tar felt that it would have been irreverent to do so. His friend deserved so much better, and the task of cleaning the old way seemed to be a simple manner in which to pay his deepest respects. He cursed himself for riding the mage too hard. He had been short with the man, criticizing him for being so far behind. He was quite sure his last words were not those of a dear friend, but of a Keeper. He deeply desired that he could take them back somehow.
The ash was quickly swept into a tidy pile with the small broom, the gore was harder to clean, and required repeated scrubbings and rinses with clean water. The remains of the chair he left in place. He was nearly finished cleaning when other members of the Keep, after breaking their morning fast, had slowly started trickling down into the library.
The incident couldn’t have happened in a more visible spot. The small stone alcove was just inside of the library’s main door and was the first thing you noticed when you walked in. Normally a good quiet spot for reading, Tar’ac had commandeered the location, making it his own and working there daily. He had even set up shelves to hold the abandoned orbs of watchers past. Everyone in the Keep knew that when passing, it was necessary to walk quietly to avoid interrupting his concentration.
The first three wizards paused turning briefly to their left as they made their way down the main hall and stared at the frozen outlined image of the watcher on the rough rock wall. The black-as-coal image was burned into the stone wall directly behind the grand table and showed his hands thrown up in the air.
Other than that, only the heavy iron pins that had previously held the big roth-skin map of the first seven realms to the wall remained. The map, hand drawn during the Age of Reason, was the beginning of collaboration between the races. A couple charred remnants of the map, embers still glowing red at the edges, hung loosely from the smoldering pins and fluttered limply in the eddies.
The ceremonial spears and swords that had been crossed above the map on the wall were now puddles of metal on the floor, with small rivulets of the shiny stuff weaving down the course rock wall like silver veining in a deep rock mine. Each race had contributed a ceremonial weapon surrendered at the signing those many centuries ago. Now, except for the memories of a few, the significance was all but forgotten.
The old grand table fashioned from a single slab of a giant oak tree known as the Captain, which had been felled just outside the barbican of the Keep during the last battle had not suffered much damage. It was slightly charred around the rear edge, but it had avoided most of the damage because the orb was close to the edge and most of the blast had been reflected out and up, not down.
The three scanned the alcove, eyes wide, bending over to peer beneath the table, they noticed the twisted glowing charcoal heap that used to be the Dragonbone Chair, only the heavy jawbones remained identifiable. They saw Tar’ac’s leather sandals, charred leg bones, blistered feet and all. Qu’entza turned to the side and covered his mouth.
Finally, the smells of burnt hair and flesh that hung in the heavy air soured their noses. The tang of Ja’tar’s bile added to the soup of fetid odors and caused the onlookers to hold their breath, plug their noses and hurry away down the hall into the main section, although a single mage ran off back into the Keep to spread the word; the last watcher was no more.
It didn’t take long for word to spread, and slowly, one by one, the remaining mages made the trek down to the library to see if the stories were true. Seeing the proof for themselves, they knelt to pay their respects.
The sight was just too much for many, who covered their faces with their robes and scurried away. None spoke. Their faces expressed far more than words ever could. Besides, to ask about the tragedy was considered a bad omen, particularly when mortality isn’t a formality. Any event that reminds one that life is not forever is summarily ignored.
They had seen it all before. A watcher gone, another wizard obliterated when a grand experiment went awry. Magic was dangerous business, more dangerous for some. Being a watcher was especially hazardous. Now, with their numbers dwindling, each loss was more keenly felt. Each member was better known; each death meant another vacancy in their knowledge base and power.
Wizards continued to pass, a few more nodded solemnly, most just lowered their gaze, knelt, and hurried past as if nothing had happened and went on to their daily research in a Keep where their numbers kept shrinking.
Ja’tar sighed and reflected. Sadly, many watchers had been lost over time, but none like this. Some ended up simply being babbling idiots, most just went vacant, having lost their minds during the long hours of scrying. All it took was one short break in concentration, and the orb broke through the wards, taking over all that you were. They were found eyes open, drooling. Some died straight away, forgetting to breathe.
The watchers spent centuries learning the art, how to ward their inner thoughts from this invasion. Only after mastery were they allowed to touch an orb for the first time. The last watcher that had been lost they affectionately nicknamed Babel. He was still cared for in the upstairs sanitarium. Now that Tar’ac was gone, Ja’tar was the last with the gift.
A tear filled Ja’tar’s eye. He knew he wasn’t much better than mediocre with the orb. He was no watcher, not like Tar’ac. He prayed that he could find another to teach, but he knew it was unlikely. Outsiders no longer came to the Keep for training. They had been all but forgotten.
He knew he could teach another. He just didn’t have the ingrained aptitude to be a watcher. What would they do if he couldn’t find someone to teach? He shook his head in resignation; maybe wizards had outlived their usefulness in the world.
He looked at the storage rack on the wall where all the orbs of previous watchers sat in white marble holders, covered with fine metallic silk. They had no real need for the orbs, but held on to them just in case. The orbs were old magic. Nobody in the Keep knew whether the watchers were trapped inside the orbs, or whether the orbs just scrambled their brains, so they held on to them.
Just in case —
Ja’tar just didn’t understand how Tar’ac could have possibly lost his ward. The ceremony for becoming a watcher was arduous and very few had the mental capacity to constantly fight off the barrage of magic. Ja’tar smiled to himself reminiscing. In theory, the test was simple; keep eight balls in the air in the shape of a perfect cube.
The brothers tested the new watcher by flinging thoughts at them, suggestions to make them do things, distractions like bug bites, nightmares. They kept it up for hours, while the Keeper watched and observed whether any behaviors from the suggestions came to pass. If the balls moved … they would have to train longer. The test was aptly named, ‘The Watcher’s Tease.’
Only if absolutely nothing was observed, was the new watcher allowed to use the orb, and only under strict supervision for decades. Any single nay vote from the observers would mean years more training and retesting.
Ja’tar remembered when Tar’ac was tested. He was so young, so magnificent so … well, — arrogant. He was one of the few truly blessed individuals who could utterly erect an impenetrable wall between his conscious mind and his subconscious. He not only kept the balls in the air, but also carried on conversations with the brothers and joked while he was being tested. He never even broke a sweat! It just wasn’t possible in his mind that the fault was with Tar’ac. Something else must have happened, given the evidence.
Ja’tar looked up as each mage passed oblivious to anything that was being said. Nobody uttered a word to him, nor did they stop to help. He continued his work of scrubbing the stone wall methodically with his brush and soapy water, oblivious to the cuts and scrapes on his worn frail hands.
Occasionally he would dip the brush into the pail of soapy water and s
wirl it around. Next, he wiped down the cleaned stone with a big rag, leaving small red blotches as his wounds wept. He finished one stone at a time.
In retrospect, he supposed he should have done the cleanup magically, but it just didn’t feel right. He needed the physical connection to the stone. He needed the manual mind-numbing work. He needed time to think.
Tax had hurried down the steps toward the library after hearing all the commotion. His knees creaked and he had to grip the railing tightly with both hands to keep his legs from giving out as he raced down the tall steps. He tilted his large ears forward, trying to overhear the conversations. Hushed voices mumbled about another watcher losing his ward. That was impossible, not with the old man! He pushed himself past several of the magi standing inside the doorway talking in hushed voices.
He carefully crouched low and peeked around the corner. His ears twitched nervously and his eyes went wide upon seeing the image of the watcher burnt into the granite rock. The first sign! Tax wrinkled his nose at the smell and hastily made his retreat, trying to get back out the door before he was noticed. He reached up, trying to part the heavy robes of the two wizards blocking the door.
“You! You’re not supposed to be in here,” one of the wizards shouted out, pulling his robe back to get a better view of the halfling. “Out with you!”
“Someone said there was a mess that needed cleaning. My mistake,” said Tax humbly, excusing himself while casting his eyes down.
“See to it then,” the mage snapped smugly.
He pushed past the rotund mage, careful to keep his oversized feet from being stepped on by the clumsy wizards. He slowly walked back up the stairs, all the while grinning to himself. He threw his nose up in the air, just as he had predicted, the time was nigh. Now the wizards would find out that life is not what they expect! That was the trouble with prophecy, the signs were often vague, the timing was always bad, and no one could agree on what the prophecy actually meant. Well, we would see … Tax thought to himself, too bad about the watcher. He had actually liked the old man. That being said —
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 01 - Eyes of the Keep Page 7
