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

by Scott D. Muller

  Ja’tar’s face turned red and the vein in his neck pulsed. He slammed his fists to the table. “I will have a Closing, with or without you ….”

  The room went silent.

  Ja’tar yelled, his temper flaring, “I don’t need your permission.”

  Dra’kor lowered his head hiding his smirk and softly said, “So you dismiss us, just like that. If you think you can get nine to help you … we will not stand in your way … oh, mighty one.”

  Dra’kor stood up, bowed deeply, and started to backup towards the door while holding his bow.

  Zedd’aki jumped up and shouted, “Shut up Dra’kor. The realm that was shut down was where To’paz was the traveler. Show some respect. This isn’t easy for Ja’tar. Now is no time for your venomous bluster.”

  Dra’kor, deep in his acrimonious bow stopped dead in his tracks and looked up. He winced and his face showed his astonishment. He had not deduced that Ja’tar’s sister had been silenced, probably killed. He knew what it meant to have the totems shut down a realm. He briefly swallowed his pride, ran his hands over his tightly trimmed beard, turned to Ja’tar, and expressed his condolences.

  “I’m truly sorry Ja’tar. I … didn’t know. Your sister was … well liked around the Keep. She was an amazing woman.”

  In spite of their differences, Dra’kor still respected the man. He actually liked and respected Ja’tar’s sister. He just didn’t agree with where the Keep had been headed over the years. The horror stories of the old days rang hollow in his ears. He had no memories of those times. Studying the battles of Ror and events of days past was far different than experiencing them.

  By the time he had come to the Keep for training, everything had pretty much returned to normal. All that was ever spoken of the old times were bard tales. Songs of the days of Ror were still sung around fires to scare small children.

  Ja’tar’s eyes welled up. He could see the shock in faces around the room. He saw tears and heard gasps. He had thought that everyone had already known about his sister. It was apparent that no one else had known that it had been his sister’s realm that was attacked.

  The mage that Ja’tar had sent out reentered the room, carrying a small box, which he sat on the table in front of Ja’tar. Ja’tar thanked him and opened the box, lifting out the silk covered orb. “I want you all to see,” was all he said, as he set the orb onto the table in front of his chair.

  Ja’tar carefully pushed the orb to the center of the table and removed the silk covering. The orb began singing, but at that distance, couldn’t really reach the minds of those in the room, so was quite safe. Ja’tar closed his eyes and chanted before intricately weaving a spell over the orb with his hands as the other magi looked on.

  There was a loud thunderclap and a bright flash of light. Ja’tar was picked up and thrown across the room, landing painfully half on and half off the table, knocking chairs caddywompus.

  Many of the wizards watching the demonstration jumped to their feet and wove powerful spells; their extended hands glowed with strong magic. Some stood back-to-back, preparing for battle. They scanned the room with temporarily blinded eyes, trying to determine where the attack came from. Dra’kor instinctively ducked under the table.

  Rua’tor had jumped to his feet and screamed out, “Ja’tar!”

  Rua’tor stared down as Ja’tar’s lifeless body lay awkwardly on the cold marble floor. Rua’tor was pushing his way to the front from the far side of the room. He reached Ja’tar before Zedd’aki and gently tried to stir him by shaking his shoulder.

  Dra’kor looked around and took the distraction as an opportunity to crawl out from under the table. He looked around, making sure that no one was looking in his direction as he slid up into his seat and extended a hand that held a repulse spell. He smirked to himself. Nobody had seen him cower, and none was the wiser.

  The blast had knocked the wind out of Ja’tar and for a few seconds he laid on the floor, face down, dead still. After determining that he still lived, the mage got to his knees and gave his head a bit of time to clear, waiting for the double vision to go away and his head to stop pounding.

  “He’s alive!” shouted Rua’tor. “I knew he’d be okay.”

  Ja’tar slowly stood with a grunt and staggered to the side. His head was reeling, but he steadied himself, brushed off and muttered to himself, “What a fool. I certainly didn’t expect that. I forgot to set my bloody wards ….”

  Zedd’aki rushed to his aid. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, I think,” Ja’tar said, as he looked into his friend’s concerned face. “I just didn’t expect the orb to fight back when I tried to send the viewing, and I forgot my wards.”

  “Forgot your wards?”

  “I know … stupid, huh?”

  “Very.”

  “I’ve been distracted ….”

  “I know, but still — forgetting your wards?”

  Ja’tar grunted. Zedd’aki’s eyes went wide.

  “Ja’tar, your head is bleeding.”

  “Where?”

  Zedd’aki motioned to the left side.

  Ja’tar reached up and brought down a hand that had a streak of crimson on it.

  “I’ll heal you,” Zedd’aki said, reaching for the wound.

  He pushed Zedd’aki’s hand away. “I can take care of it.”

  Ja’tar cast his own spell, using his hands to form the necessary runes.

  Zedd’aki watched as the deep gash in Ja’tar’s forehead closed, scabbed and healed over.

  “So, what the Ten was that?” someone to the side yelled out.

  Ja’tar shook his head, a little unsure. “Orrrr …” He cleared his throat, “Orb … I think.”

  “The orb did that? Why?” Dra’kor asked. “I thought you said this was going to be safe?”

  Zedd’aki harrumphed.

  Ja’tar shrugged, “Viewings are safe. Maybe it was trying to protect me. My wards must not have been properly formed. Could have been some residual energy trapped. That’s what it probably was, just a discharge.”

  Zedd’aki raised a brow and mumbled, “I didn’t know an orb could do that.”

  “Neither did I,” groaned Ja’tar, as he was still feeling the effects of the rejection.

  “What do we do?”

  Ja’tar stood straight, “I think I’ll try again —”

  Zedd’aki nodded.

  Ja’tar faced the rest of the crowd. “I’m going to try again. The orb apparently didn’t want me to do a viewing. No harm, it was a simple discharge. I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

  He rolled up his sleeves and began chanting, this time from a distance, taking his time and setting his wards first. A few of the other magi in the room still held their spells at the ready, not trusting the reassuring message that Ja’tar had delivered.

  A silver blue mist slowly rose above the orb until it was several feet high. It lifted high above the tables. The mist slowly began to swirl and as it sped, it became increasingly transparent, showing the images collected earlier that day. All eyes were glued to the scene that was playing out before them. As the image concluded, gasps of horror came from the room. At the end, the mist collapsed and spread out along the floor before dissipating, sinking into cracks and sliding out of the room.

  The room was dead quiet; there wasn’t a single dry eye in the place. Nobody asked any questions and few would meet Ja’tar’s gaze.

  “I want a Closing,” said Ja’tar softly, as he covered the orb with the silk towel and placed it back into the small-carved box.

  “I fear that the demons have gotten stronger while the Guild has had us hiding. I’m afraid that Dra’kor is right … although I don’t agree with everything he thinks we should do. I do believe we need to take this seriously.”

  Dra’kor nodded his agreement, feeling as though he had been vindicated, but knowing he had been wrong about Ja’tar, very wrong. He thought about what Ja’tar’s sister had gone through and a lump formed in h
is throat. Nobody should have to go through that. Nobody!

  Ja’tar gazed over the small group. He realized he had nothing left to say. There was an awkward silence between him and the rest, neither knowing what to do next.

  “I guess we can all go back to our daily responsibilities. I’ll let everyone know when we have a better plan. It will be soon, I promise,” Ja’tar feigned a smile. “We can all discuss it before we act.”

  Several mages nodded and there were small groups that split off and mumbled between themselves, although what was being discussed was not loud enough for Ja’tar to hear.

  The group started to break up, heading in different directions. As Dra’kor walked toward the door, Ja’tar grabbed him by the arm.

  “Dra’kor, can you stay a bit? I’d like to talk to you and a few of your friends about a Keep matter that is of the utmost urgency.”

  Dra’kor nodded to his closest friends, and they gathered around the Keeper as the room cleared. The only two that stayed were Grit and Men’ak. Men’ak pushed his blond curly hair back from his face, as he tried to peer around Grit, but Grit stood tall and placed himself just behind Dra’kor to show support, completely blocking Men’ak’s view.

  Grit was the eldest son of a proud sailor, and was muscular with thick strong hands and above average height. He had very wide shoulders and a strong back from years of work on the docks hoisting barrels of molasses, rum and salt pork. He had worked the docks with his father for almost a decade before his gift started materializing, causing all kinds of havoc.

  His well-traveled father had heard of the yearly testing and journeyed with Grit to the very next event. Grit was almost immediately asked to load himself into the Accepted’s wagon and told to prepare to make his way to the Keep. His father was paid a handsome amount for one as skilled as his son, which assured him a comfortable living.

  Grit made a better wall than most. Men’ak thought about pushing his way in, but decided against it. Grit would have just ignored him, being oblivious to the small man, shooing him off like an irritating fly.

  Ja’tar caught Grit staring and glared back. Grit’s eyes were very intense and he often used that to his own benefit. Ja’tar was well aware of the games Grit played. Grit softened his gaze and ran his hand over his shaved head. Even though he was fiercely loyal to Dra’kor, he didn’t want any part in irritating the old man. Ja’tar had a reputation —

  “I guess we can spare a few minutes.” Dra’kor said, looking to his friends.

  Grit nodded. Men’ak didn’t say anything and just looked on.

  “Good. This shouldn’t take long,” Ja’tar said, with a nod as he waited for the rest of the magi to get out of eavesdropping distance.

  Dra’kor impatiently asked, with more than a little condemnation in his voice, “Can we get through this quickly? I need to get back to my work and studies.”

  “Me too, added Grit.

  “Ah, Dra’kor, I think that sorting and categorizing spells and their derivatives can wait, as can Grit’s assembling of the notes from the realms,” Ja’tar said.

  “You are the one always complaining that we are behind,” Grit said. “I have rooms of notes to get to. I can’t even tell which are new and which are old.”

  Dra’kor added, “I’m still working on the spells from eight-hundred years ago. Stacks and stacks of these are spread across five rooms. I can barely wrap my head around the mountain of work.”

  “True, but I will make an exception for this,” Ja’tar replied with a smile, “Since we are several centuries behind already, I’m not sure another hour or two will make that much difference. Besides, I think you may actually be interested in what I have to say.”

  “I seriously doubt that,” Dra’kor shot back, failing to make eye contact. “Nothing personal, but we will never see eye-to-eye when it comes to matters of the Keep. The best we can do is to agree to disagree.”

  “Dra’kor, there is no reason for us to not be civil about —” Ja’tar said, a bit more harshly than he intended.

  “We’ll see —” Dra’kor uttered under his breath. “You seem to ignore all of our requests for any change.”

  “You forget that I am under orders from the Guild. I uphold their wishes, not mine! I do not have much leeway, even as the Keeper. As a royal, you should understand that choices are not always available.”

  Dra’kor grunted.

  Men’ak took a couple steps backwards as the two magi started to banter. They stood face to face and angrily ‘discussed’ the whole matter as if he and Grit weren’t around. Men’ak could see their hands glowing as they both fought to control their anger.

  He unconsciously rubbed his shoulders, feeling the scars. Men’ak’s knees quaked, as he vividly recalled his nose being broken several times from when he had argued with his Pa, and he still bore the lash marks of whippings he had received as a result. There was no talking back in his father’s house. It wasn’t stood for, period!

  Grit looked over at his friend, noticing his jaw quivering and slapped him hard on the shoulder, snapping him out of whatever anxiousness he may have felt.

  “It’ll be all right. Just let them have their words —”

  “B-b-but?”

  “— Just let it go,” Grit said.

  “I-I-I can’t stand the yelling …” he moaned.

  “I know, Men’ak,” Grit squeezed his shoulder. “They’re just saying stuff that needs saying, that’s all it is. Let them get it off their chests. That’s just what men need to do sometimes.”

  Men’ak swallowed hard and turned his face away, trying to block out the harsh words.

  Men’ak had been indentured to the magi during the decade-long drought that nearly starved out the entire population of the Lowlands. The Withering took place as the earth tried to heal itself in the centuries after Ror. Only the largest of trees, with the deepest of roots, survived. Grit even recalled the smaller streams had gone dry and even a few lakes turned into cracked mud.

  Their small farm had been ailing more than most, and with eight mouths to feed, his father had run out of options. He had seen a sign in town that the Keep was looking for servants and was willing to pay well. His father had negotiated a ten-year contract. He supposed he should have been relieved that his father hadn’t sold him outright.

  Being indentured was just all right with him. He could still picture his Ma’s face as she struggled against his Pa when he handed him over to Zedd’aki. The pain in her face still haunted him. He had tried to visit once, when his first decade of service had passed, but she had already passed away.

  Regardless of how he had gotten here, anything was better than where he came from, at least in the Keep he had enough to eat, and they always had heat. Most of the people there had treated him fairly, and he never had to feel the keen edge of the whip across his back again. For that, he would always be grateful. He had ended up growing out of the ailments and eventually showed an aptitude for magic, so the wizards trained him and welcomed him into their ranks after several decades of service.

  “So get on with it already. We need to go!” Dra’kor said.

  Ja’tar closed his eyes and fought hard to push down his anger. He patiently waited for the entire room to clear before he spoke, “I have a proposal for you and your friends … Walk with me.”

  Ja’tar swept his arm in the direction he wished the group to go.

  “I will try to be brief.”

  Perhaps a Quest

  The group hurriedly exited the banquet room and headed into the main hall. Ja’tar led, followed by Dra’kor, Zedd’aki and Dra’kor’s two best friends Men’ak and Grit. As they quickly walked down the hall, Ja’tar began to plead his case.

  “I know we’ve had our differences in the past, Dra’kor. Agreed?” Ja’tar stated, nodding in Dra’kor’s direction.

  “Let’s say that we disagree on Keep business,” said Dra’kor, returning the nod, and making it clear that it was nothing personal.

  “Guild busines
s,” Ja’tar corrected.

  “They’re one and the same as far as I’m concerned,” Dra’kor venomously replied.

  Ja’tar caught his eye as he spoke, “Look. I’m not sure we will ever completely see eye to eye, but we both have common concerns. Right now, we both realize that the Keep is in danger and we both believe we need to act.”

  Dra’kor was nodding as he looked back over his shoulder at his two friends. He was sure that his conversation with Ja’tar was not loud enough for them to hear. Perhaps it was better …

  “You know how I feel about the role of the magi in the realms …,” Dra’kor said, letting his voice trail off.

  Ja’tar had to bite his tongue to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Yes, I do. You have been profoundly clear in that matter. Nevertheless, you must understand that even I have to bow to those who are the Guild. I cannot say in all honesty that I agree with all of their decisions or judgments, but as Keeper, I am to uphold those writs as the law, besides—the consequences of defying the Guild are either assassination by the Zola’far, exile or stilling. None of those options seem worth invoking without the cause being great.”

  Dra’kor was amazed at the restraint that Ja’tar was exhibiting. That solitary fact let him read how serious this issue was to the old man. He decided that he should let him speak and not try to antagonize him any further. There would be time for the barbs later.

  “Dra’kor, I’m asking you to set aside our differences and work with me on this. There is much at risk.”

  “Go on …” Dra’kor put forward rather unenthusiastically.

  “I want you to …,” Ja’tar bit back his response, stopped and cleared his throat before continuing. “— I really could use your help and the help of your friends with a delicate matter.”

  His curiosity perked, Dra’kor raised his brow and responded, “Our help? With what?”

  “I’m getting to that,” Ja’tar said, motioning with his hand for Dra’kor to calm down. “Listen. We, the Keep, have a problem, a serious problem. I don’t think I can emphasize enough how dire this situation is. We — I fear that something horrible is going on in the realms and unfortunately we are blind.”