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

by Scott D. Muller

  Ja’tar was lost in his toil and didn’t notice that his friend Zedd’aki had silently arrived and, after pushing through the crowd, had stopped in front of the wall. Zedd’aki’s eyes were writ with sorrow, as he noticed the burnt remains. He choked back his emotion both for his friend, and the watcher although you could barely notice a change in his expression hiding behind the long thick beard that covered the better portion of his face and almost reached the floor. He stood there, watching his friend work, unsure of what to do next.

  Qu’entza saw Zedd’aki through the crowd because he was a full head taller than everyone at the Keep was, and he still had a full head of dark brown wavy hair.

  He pushed his way past the cluster of mages talking in front of the table and grabbed him by the elbow before he could pass, “See if you can console Ja’tar. You are closest to the old man, maybe he will listen to you.”

  Zedd’aki blankly turned to see who was speaking.

  Qu’entza sighed heavily, leaned over and said quietly, “He is consumed with guilt. He won’t talk to any of us. He doesn’t even acknowledge that we are here.”

  Zedd’aki looked down and, seeing the concerned look in Qu’entza’s hazel eyes, nodded. Next to Zedd’aki, Qu’entza and Rua’tor were Ja’tar’s best friends; they were the last of the magi from the time of Ror, although Ja’tar was the only one that had been a full Master at the time.

  Zedd’aki took a couple steps forward and stopped at Ja’tar’s feet. He stared down at his friend for a short while before stooping over, placing a hand on the old man’s shoulder and asking, “What happened here, Ja’tar?”

  Ja’tar looked up, his red, puffy, water-filled eyes were glazed over. He shook his head as tears began to roll down his soiled cheeks. He didn’t know what to say or even where to begin explaining. His well-trimmed beard was covered with gore, which had dribbled down his chin and pooled in his robe.

  “G-g-gone …,” was all he could manage to choke out.

  “Gone?” asked Zedd’aki softly. “What is gone my friend?”

  Ja’tar babbled incoherently while wiping the tears from his face with the long sleeves of his dark brown prayer robe. “…it’s all destroyed. To’paz … her realm … is cut off. She’s dead. My dearest sister is dead!”

  Zedd’aki reached out and grabbed Ja’tar’s arm, helping him off his knees. Ja’tar’s old frame creaked for his joints had seized up from the hours spent bent over cleaning the floor. The agony spread to his face as he worked out the knots and stiffness. Zedd’aki steadied the old man, who was clinging to his robe with a steel grip. Ja’tar’s sobs made his body shake and twitch.

  Zedd’aki wasn’t sure if he had heard Ja’tar correctly, and he supposed that it really didn’t matter. There would be time enough for talking later.

  Ja’tar looked into Zedd’aki’s green eyes and broke into mourning. His hands were shaking and raw from the hours of scrubbing and blistered by burns inflicted by the orb. Zedd’aki turned Ja’tar’s hands over to examine them, wrapped his arms around the old man, and let Ja’tar’s sobs flow. They stood that way for many a minute before the sobs began to fade. All this time Zedd’aki said nothing.

  Rua’tor, a stern portly mage with little hair, came stumbling down the aisle with a determined look written across his face. Qu’entza grabbed him by the sleeve and stopped him, shaking his head, “Zedd’aki has him. We should leave him alone.”

  “Will he be able to conduct the ritual of the Vernal Equinox tomorrow? We have to conduct the rites,” demanded Rua’tor, completely oblivious to the pain Ja’tar was experiencing.

  Qu’entza, who towered over the diminutive portly mage, looked down through his thin-framed glasses and answered curtly, “I’m sure he will be alright, but for now, we should leave him alone and let him mourn.”

  Rua’tor growled and tried to push his way through.

  “It will wait,” said Qu’entza forcefully.

  Rua’tor tried to rip his arm away from the wiry mage, but thought better of it and patted Qu’entza on the forearm, “You are right. It was selfish of me.”

  “What was it Ja’tar was saying about his sister? Did you catch it?”

  Qu’entza shook his head. “I’m sure we’ll get the story from Zedd’aki.

  “You are probably right,” Rua’tor said. “We should give it time.”

  The Floormaster and Master of Ceremonies watched for a bit and retreated down the aisle. Rua’tor shook his head and talked to himself. He would prepare for the ceremony tomorrow. Qu’entza was probably right and Ja’tar would be just fine. There was so much to do. The timing couldn’t have been worse.

  Zedd’aki saw the two wizards having a spirited conversation and Qu’entza mouthed that they were leaving. He nodded an acknowledgement and turned his attention to his friend.

  “You should see the healer,” said Zedd’aki tenderly, as he reached over and turned his friend’s trembling hands over. He shuddered at the sight; blisters, cuts and scrapes covered both of his friend’s palms. “Let’s go see Malloc.”

  A wizard’s hands were paramount to his ability to form the runes and patterns needed to make the magic happen. If Ja’tar didn’t get healed, he may not be able to perform the rites, and he may even lose some dexterity, preventing him from casting some of the more intricate spells.

  Ja’tar just nodded, his head lowered to hide his face. He knelt back down, dipped his brush in the now-cold water and carefully placed it on the floor over a new gore-splattered stone before slowly scrubbing in a circular motion at the stain. Zedd’aki watched silently.

  At first, only a single word was choked out, then two. There were long pauses between, and at times he broke into Torren. Zedd’aki waited patiently, knowing that Ja’tar would tell his story in his own time. The story was slowly told, coming out in short blurts, followed by more sobs. Zedd’aki listened, letting his dear friend mourn and tell his tale.

  They had lost watchers before, Zedd’aki had known many of them, but as the chronicle progressed, Zedd’aki discovered why this time was different. Ja’tar not only mourned for Tar’ac the watcher, he mourned for his younger sister, To’paz. Apparently, To’paz was the traveler assigned to the realm that Tar’ac was visiting when the incident happened.

  He knew Ja’tar’s younger sister very well. She was well-liked around the Keep, and she was one of the last sorceresses in the Guild. She had volunteered to be a traveler many centuries ago, opting for an assignment on the fringe, where firm rule had yet to be established. She had claimed, at the time, that she rather preferred the more simple ways and less-structured existence to both that of the Keep, and the more mature realms. However, Zedd’aki always believed it was more to get away from her overbearing brother.

  Zedd’aki expressed as much sympathy as he could muster. “So, you are sure that it was To’paz’s realm, my friend?”

  “Yes,” Ja’tar stared blankly. “I’m certain. I recognized it the moment I gazed into the orb.”

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  “It has jagged glacier-filled mountains. The largest has three peaks. To’paz lives … lived … in the valley below the grandest of the three. There are deep green forests. It was such a beautiful, untamed place. I’ve been there before you know… many times,” stammered Ja’tar, his voice still quivering as he thought back to happier times.

  Zedd’aki just nodded, taking it all in.

  “It was all in the book — written — in the Book of Records. It was scorched, but the last entry is clearly marked. Tar’ac was definitely reviewing Naan.”

  “Perhaps he had moved on?”

  “No. The orb doesn’t lie … it records everything exactly as it experiences the observation. It never errs, never!” Ja’tar whispered as he shook his head.

  He wiped another tear from his already bloodshot eyes and cleared his nose pulling in a deep sniffle. He stared at the floor, but his eyes wouldn’t focus.

  “I am so sorry Ja’tar; your sister was both re
spected and admired. I wouldn’t give up hope. Maybe she is still alive; after all, she is a resourceful one. Maybe she wasn’t even in the town at the time of the blast. Most travelers move about the realms quite often you know!” reasoned Zedd’aki with a feigned smile. “They do!”

  Ja’tar shook his head in disagreement, “It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

  “Why wouldn’t it matter,” asked Zedd’aki in disbelief at his friend’s noticeably defeatist attitude.

  Ja’tar sobbed and yelled at Zedd’aki, “Damn it! The last word in the book was ‘Closed’. The realm is closed.”

  Zedd’aki couldn’t contain the look of shock on his face as he narrowed his brows, “You mean closed, as in —?”

  Ja’tar interrupted, “As in the Querd totems have fired and have shut off the flow of magic to the realm. With no magic, the protective Querd medallion, the Sha’za, will grow cold and she will age. She will wither and die in a matter of days. It will be painful at the end.”

  He choked out those last words before breaking into sobs again and burying his head in his hands. Zedd’aki rested his hands on his friend’s shoulders.

  “Maybe she has some stored magic. Many of the travelers do you know. She knew something like this could happen someday. I’m willing to bet she had magic stored away,” Zedd’aki suggested.

  “Maybe,” said Ja’tar weakly. “I suppose it is possible. She may be capable of hanging on for a small number of years. There is no way to know … for sure.”

  “Didn’t she have that bracelet your Da’ gave her? I thought she always wore it because she thought it was attractive. It retained some magic.”

  Ja’tar nodded weakly, remembering back.

  “Well then, maybe there’s hope!” Zedd’aki said.

  “Some.”

  “We can talk some more as we walk, but we need to get your injuries healed and cleaned up. Come, my friend,” suggested Zedd’aki rather forcefully after wincing from the sight of his friend’s blistered and shredded hands.

  Ja’tar stood and numbly brushed at his soiled robe with his ragged hands. His glazed eyes wandered aimlessly down and across the mess on his robe. It didn’t quite register. He looked down the aisle and saw several mages watching intently.

  “I cannot go now — too much to do,” Ja’tar feigned defiance on impulse, pushing Zedd’aki back weakly.

  Zedd’aki tried to prod his friend, “Come now, Ja’tar, changing into a clean robe won’t take long and we must get your wounds cleaned before they go septic.”

  “It can wait,” Ja’tar mumbled vacantly. “I need —”

  “You need your hands. You’re useless to your sister and anybody else without them,” said Zedd’aki sternly.

  Ja’tar looked up and moaned, “I’ve failed them already. It matters not.”

  “It matters to all those still alive. After we get you healed, we can return and finish. I’ll help you with whatever you need, but please — I’m begging you, you need to get your wounds dressed.”

  Zedd’aki grabbed his friend by his arm and pulled him in the direction of the hefty oak door. At first, Ja’tar resisted, but eventually he followed. Zedd’aki helped him walk out the impressive library door, closing it as they left. The elemental closed behind them as they passed, leaving what appeared to be a blank stone wall. Ja’tar, lost in thought, hobbled behind his friend, following him impassively down the lengthy shadowy stone hall, back to the great stairs.

  Tax stood peering down between the balusters, watching as Zedd’aki escorted his friend up the stairs toward his room, one step at a time. Each was a struggle. Tax watched and scurried off before they reached his hiding place. He would let the others know of what had transpired this day.

  Deep in the bowels of the Keep, in a long forgotten corridor filled with dust, three small halflings gathered. The small dank passage was barely tall enough for the three to pass and was a remnant from times when the halflings and the dwarves filled the Keep and fought side by side with the magi. Mud-filled puddles covered the floor and the rhythmic dripping from roots that had invaded due to neglect echoed softly in the distance. A musty odor hung in the stale air.

  “Why did ye calls us here?” the oldest asked, his hood pulled tight over his face.

  “I have words for ye, that’s why,” Tax grumbled, “and I don’t have a lot of time for discussing. I needs to git back to workin’ on the staircase before them mages notice I’m missin’.”

  “Well, speak yer peace already,” he beckoned.

  Tax turned to the stocky halfling and spoke, “The watcher is dead.”

  “How ye be meaning that,” the hooded one replied, stroking his long white beard with thick muscular hands. The beard was so long that it wrapped about the diminutive man’s feet and curled on the floor in a small pile.

  “Dead! Just like the prophecy says — ‘and none will be watched,’” Tax said, turning to face the other. “Tar’ac was the lastest. They ain’t got no other watchers.”

  “Don’t mean nothin’,” the short halfling with the heavy canvas pants uttered as he puffed up defiantly. “Prophecy could mean anything—”

  Tax’s jaw steeled, “Does to me. This is the first sign, I knowed it! Yer just too dense.”

  The stocky man’s head shot up and his eyes narrowed as he raised his blackened-iron spiked war club.

  “Let it be,” the oldest said, setting a withered hand across the already raised fist. “So, yer thinkin’ that the end times are finally coming?”

  “I think they’re already here!” said Tax. “We best be preparing to go to the caves.”

  “Ye been saying that for centuries …,” the stocky halfling groaned, throwing his fist into the rock wall.

  “Have you seen the signs?” the eldest asked as he pushed his hood back revealing milk-white eyes and a scarred and pockmarked face. A berry-sized red ruby set in silver dangled from his left ear and he tugged on it gently as he asked his questions. The gem glowed softly in the dim light.

  “I have. The first, was today, clear sign, just like the prophecy says. The last watcher was killed this morn. Saw what was left of him with my own eyes.”

  “Hmmm!” the stocky halfling scowled. “And the rest?”

  “Ye knows the rest. The Seer already spoke her piece about that. She’s the one says we was needing to be lookin’ out. End times are a comin’ they is!”

  The oldest narrowed his eyes. “Have ye checked with the Seer?”

  Tax shook his head. He hadn’t visited the old lady yet, he had been procrastinating. He didn’t like the way she stared at him, it was as if she was seeing everything he had ever done wrong. He knew he would have to see her soon. He wrung his hands unconsciously and swore under his breath.

  Haagen

  Haagen gazed steadily off into the distance at the storm raging in the mountains up toward Five Peaks. He was used to fierce spring storms, but from what he could see, he knew that this storm was worse than any he had ever witnessed. Another deafening thunderclap made the ground shake and he cringed. He said a short prayer for the folks up that way and hoped that they were safe in their homes.

  Spring was almost here and it was time for him to get the ferry ready for another season. The ferry was the lifeblood of the town, shuttling travelers and peddlers alike to the small community. Without it, the good folks would need to travel three days out of their way, and still face a treacherous crossing of the stream the other side of Finger Lake. Before he made the ferry, many wagons had been swept away in the churning rapids; many had died.

  Haagen removed his vest and shirt, revealing a well-chiseled frame. He wouldn’t risk ruining the fine wares on his next task. Although he was well into his thirties, the day-to-day work of pulling the ferry across the river kept him in shape, though his face was scarred and worn, showing his age. His back rippled as he tied a thick cord to his waist. He was stocky for his frame; he was less than six feet tall, but his waist was thin and lean, giving him an attractive ‘v’ shape.<
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  Over the years, his hair had grayed, but at least he hadn’t lost it like many men his age. When he worked the fields with his wife, he still turned heads, causing his wife to tease him; accusing him of taunting all the young women with his devilishly good looks. He had been tempted a few times over the years to stray, but his wife was too good to him. Besides, he loved her deeply. She had believed in him, even when his own father had thrown him out of the house for being a scofflaw and getting into trouble.

  Haagen checked the cord twice. It was his life line should he lose his grip on the much thicker rope that draped across the river, strung between two huge posts buried deep in the soil and anchored back with tie lines. If he went over the falls, he would swing to the side and climb back up the rope to the top and try again. For sure, he would be a little beat up, having been pounded by the roaring water and flailed against the rocks, but he would live.

  He didn’t fear it any longer. He had found himself at the end of that rope several times before. Although the falls always made his heart rush, he no longer feared dying from a fall. It was more inconvenient than dangerous.

  He grabbed the other end, looped it around the support post and tied a double knot, finishing it with a couple half-hitches. Satisfied that the knots would hold, he reached over his head, grabbed the larger rope and started across the river, moving steadily hand over hand, swinging his body side-to-side keeping his rhythm. He had to hold his feet up so that they wouldn’t drag in the water.

  His biceps flexed as his hands gripped the thick rope. Years of working the ferry had gifted him with a grip of steel. His hands were so callused that he could pound nails through wood with his bare hands, as well as crush walnuts between his thumb and forefinger.

  He crossed; hand over hand, slowly making his way across the gorge. His left hand slipped, and he found himself hanging by his right. There was no panic, and no fear. He calmly looked down at the icy-cold rushing water and easily hoisted himself back up, regaining his grip. The last few yards were quickly made and Haagen soon felt his feet on solid ground.