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

by Scott D. Muller

  Dra’kor feigned a smile and nodded in Grit’s direction. He appreciated having both of them as friends. Over this past two weeks, they had grown even closer and now they relied on each other like brothers.

  “We’ll pull through this,” said Men’ak. He pushed his stool back and stood up, rubbing his bulging stomach.

  “Well, I’m going to have more of that ham and bread. If I’m venturing out into the wild to quarrel with the Custodian of the Underworld, I’m filling myself until I can’t move. Maybe I’ll even pack my robe with some leftovers.”

  “Well said,” a smiling Grit chipped in as he raised his mug high.

  “Hear! Hear!” Dra’kor echoed albeit much less enthusiastic than the others.

  Men’ak returned shortly with his plate heaped with glazed ham and small loaves of fresh bread, slathered with butter. The others looked at the plate and burst into laughter. Men’ak shrugged, setting down the plate and pulling up his stool.

  You’re gonna need a bigger robe,” said Grit, reaching over and stealing a slice of ham.

  He nearly got stabbed by an angry fork, wielded expertly like a rapier by Men’ak. “— Get yer own!” he shouted in mock anger.

  “You have enough for half the magi in the room!” Grit laughed. “Did you leave any for the others?”

  Dra’kor covered his eyes with his hand and just shook his head.

  Men’ak belched loudly, “What? Just making some room.”

  “We aren’t slowing down because you need to waddle,” added Dra’kor, joining in to tease his friend.

  While the three were bantering, Gretta came over to the table with an arms load of breads, cheeses and sausage.

  “Here you go lads! Gretta can’t have you going hungry while you’re out maging in the realms, can she? You lads take care of yourselves; we can’t afford to lose more of ya.” She set the bundle down and turned to hurry away.

  Dra’kor looked at Men’ak with a horrified look on his face, “I thought our mission was secret. Does everyone bloody know.”

  “Now boys, don’t you worry none,” Gretta said, with a big smile. “I’m the only one that knows what’s going on. Ja’tar and I are good friends. He asked me to prepare some eats for ye for yer journey. He didn’t want ye going hungry.”

  She turned quickly and took a couple steps back toward the kitchen. “Yer secret is safe,” she whispered back.

  “Hold up Gretta?” Grit hollered after her. He pushed back his stool and ran after her. He reached her and bundled her up in a warm embrace, lifting her feet off the ground. “Thanks for thinking of us.”

  Gretta giggled and burst into a big smile. She quickly wiped a tear that was forming in the corner of her eye.

  “Tis nothing, really. Have a safe journey.”

  She gently set a hand on Grit’s face and planted a kiss on his cheek before hustling off to the kitchen.

  Grit swaggered back to the bench. “I think she has a thing for me.”

  “Not likely,” Dra’kor stated wryly. “I think maybe she and Ja’tar are more than just friends …”

  Grit’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding right?”

  “Did you see the way her eyes lit up when she talked about him?”

  “— No!”

  Men’ak smirked and nodded his agreement, shaking his head in sarcasm.

  “No, really?” a sheepish Grit replied.

  The three mages spent the rest of the meal in relative silence. Each deep in thought about what the days to come might bring. Over the years, they had imagined this day, however, now that it was here, it was not as any of them had expected.

  Grit had imagined a fine adventure, for Men’ak, it was a chance to explore the world he used to know. Dra’kor had hoped it would be a way that he and his mage brothers might reclaim some of the glory of the past. It was now beginning to dawn on them that all of their expectations had been wrong.

  Men’ak groaned, puffing his cheeks and pushing his plate back to the center of the bench as he let a loud belch out. He wiped his mouth with the napkin and washed everything down with a long draw of mead. “I’m stuffed.”

  “Me too! I can’t eat another bite. I’m heading back to my room to get my things,” Grit somberly added. “I guess this is it then.”

  “Meet everyone in a few minutes?” inquired Dra’kor.

  Both Grit and Men’ak nodded. Dra’kor watched as they walked out of the dining room. He wrapped his hand around his mug of honey mead and slowly sipped, tasting the summer in each mouthful. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice that Ja’tar had walked up behind him and pulled up a stool.

  “I hope I’m not bothering you —”

  Dra’kor looked up startled. “No, no, please join me. I was just mulling over the days to come”

  “Ah! I’m jealous you know,” said Ja’tar in all sincerity. “I would go myself if the Guild would allow it; or more importantly if I could sleuth away without being missed. Back in the day, I loved the adventure of it all. Now I spend my time writing letters …”

  “I believe you would,” Dra’kor laughed, “perhaps next time.”

  Ja’tar smiled warmly. “Perhaps.”

  “I wish we had more time. I feel rushed,” Dra’kor confessed.

  “You are prepared as well as I can prepare you. Hopefully, you will need none of the spells we have practiced. You’ll do fine.” Ja’tar slapped Dra’kor on the back. “I’m glad we finally have a chance to work together.”

  “Same.”

  Dra’kor took another quaff from his pewter mug.

  “Have you decided where we should go first?”

  “Originally I was leaning toward the Five Peaks, but lately, I’ve heard of strange goings-on in the Three Rivers. I think we should start there, but the choice is really yours to make.”

  “Mine?”

  “Sure, why not? You have five realms to visit, how you choose and when …,” Ja’tar shrugged. “Some paths are … shall we say …more efficient for travel, but it probably doesn’t matter that much. We shall find what we find.”

  Dra’kor leaned forward. “So, what kind of things do you refer to when you speak of strange happenings?”

  “Nothing specifically wrong per se,” a reflective Ja’tar replied. “But we hear rumors. Mostly of random crop failings, strange diseases, animal attacks, and people being out of sorts.”

  “And where is this community you speak of?” Dra’kor asked curiously.

  “The community is three days to our east, level walking. I wouldn’t read too much into it, mostly it’s just complaining from the visiting merchants down in the village. I’d take some of it with a grain of salt. Tinkers are always complaining.”

  Dra’kor raised a brow. “Could it be the plague?

  Ja’tar shook his head and pursed his lips. “Doesn’t seem so. There are usually accompanying signs. You know, sores, that sort of thing.”

  Ja’tar pushed back his stool and stood up. “Well, whatever it is, you and your team will find out soon enough.”

  Dra’kor snorted his reply.

  Ja’tar lifted a hand and slapped him on the shoulder. “You take care. It doesn’t do anyone any good if you three get sick —”

  “Or dead?” Dra’kor winced.

  Ja’tar somberly nodded.

  He started to say something else, but stopped. Enough had been said. He turned and walked out of the hall. Dra’kor watched him go, sighed and drained his mug dry. He rolled it over in his hands, admiring the fine workmanship. He prayed that his mug didn’t end up on the shelf with those of all the other deceased mages.

  He wondered how he would be remembered, what kind of thoughts the others would send into the mug to be replayed for eternity. He decided they wouldn’t be complementary. He had ruffled too many feathers as of late. Maybe he could redeem himself in this quest. He rolled the mug over one more time, set it down, stood up, took one last look around and walked out of the room.

  Ja’tar was far more nervous than he outward
ly appeared. The quest had become more than it was originally conceived to be. If some demon lord or, heaven forbid, a resurrected dark mage was ready to wage war, he and the Keep were ill prepared.

  His worst fears were that all of the realms had been closed and therefore, all the mages that were travelers had shriveled and died when they were cut off from the source of magic. Since only a few dozen mages remained in the Keep, they wouldn’t stand a chance, especially if these three failed to return. Of course, if they couldn’t actually get out of the realm, how much trouble could they get into? He wondered.

  Ja’tar met them right before the sun crossed the crest between Grenache and the Batstille Mountains, causing their edges to grow with bands of gold. They stood waiting at the main drawbridge right after the parapet. The twin stone ramparts towered high over their heads.

  The three mages were dressed in worn, baggy peasant pants with loose-knit shirts tied at the waist, topped with heavy wool jackets. Each held a small burlap pack filled with the meats and cheeses that Gretta had given them, an oilcloth raincoat and a tied bedroll. They had hunting knives sheathed at their waist, tied at the thigh and well-worn leather boots.

  Grit carried a small sword, Dra’kor had his oilskin slicker, Men’ak had his flute. They all had a few coins in their pockets and walking staffs to fill out their look.

  “Well, don’t you make beautiful peasants?” teased Ja’tar.

  Grit scratched at his collar. “Does this material ever stop itching?”

  Men’ak reached up and cuffed him on the back of his head, “Spoiled ye are!”

  Grit gruffly scowled back.

  “I have something you will need for your journey,” a somber Ja’tar stated. “It is very important that you clearly understand what I am saying, so ask any questions you want.”

  Ja’tar opened a small wooden box that he had been carrying and showed the three mages the contents. “These are your medallions. They are called the Sha’za, or Querd medallions. They keep you young when you are not in the Keep or on the grounds surrounding the Keep. The Ten cast the original spell over the grounds that keep us from aging, however the spell stops working a half-league or so past the gates.”

  Ja’tar handed each a medallion.

  “Put them on your neck and never lose or forget them. If you do, you will age, wither and die. The magic they contain is strong and none of you know the craft well enough to be able to maintain the spell, it takes years to master.”

  Grit placed his over his neck, as did Dra’kor and Men’ak. Grit took a closer look at the tarnished metal pendant. “Doesn’t seem all that special … I can’t even sense any magic in the thing.”

  “You probably wouldn’t,” explained Ja’tar. “You would have to know exactly what to look for and be very sensitive to the particular form of magic used. This form is very, very old.”

  Dra’kor turned the medallion over in his hands, feeling like he had just found out some secret the Guild had been hiding from him for years. “Why didn’t we know about these before?”

  “We only give them to travelers, there was no need,” Ja’tar answered with no further explanation, for it was the truth of the matter.

  “Well, I guess we need to wear them then …,” Men’ak exclaimed. “I never imagined that I’d be a traveler.”

  “Yes, and I cannot stress enough that you must not lose or take them off. The aging is not reversible as far as I know. You don’t want to end up old men like me,” Ja’tar joked, although it was not a joking matter.

  “Well, I guess this is it,” Ja’tar announced to the group as he stuffed the box under his arm and clapped his hands. “Does everyone have their medallions? You cannot leave the Keep without them, you wouldn’t last a day.”

  All three grabbed their medallions and held them out.

  Ja’tar gave the three hearty handshakes grasping wrist to wrist punctuated with a, “Good luck, safe journey!”

  Ja’tar added a few words of caution before they left in case they were headed straight away to Three Rivers. “If you travel by way of Big Drop Falls, which is now called Haagen’s Cross, take care, the water is still high and the river is treacherous.”

  “— We will,” Grit promised.

  Lastly, he handed Dra’kor a small thin ornate wooden box holding message parchments and a pen, “Write on these when you have something to report and burn them. I’ll get the message. When I burn them, they will reappear in the box. That way you’ll know that I received them.”

  Dra’kor smiled as he took the package from Ja’tar. He was glad they were leaving. The stress of all the work, training and worry was gone, and all that was left was excitement. He was getting more impatient by the minute and was itching to hit the open trail.

  Dra’kor stuffed the small box into his knapsack, checked the chain holding the medallion that was over his head and waved over his shoulder as he started down the rough road, “Let’s go, daylight is wasting and we have a lot of ground to cover before dark.”

  Grit mumbled, “It’s barely even first light. What do you mean daylight is wasting?”

  Dra’kor ignored the grumble, nodded at Ja’tar and gave Men’ak a big wide toothed grin. They also checked their medallions, adjusted their packs and took the first steps of their adventure, passing through the gate that Ja’tar and Zedd’aki had opened just wide enough for them to pass. They were even forced to duck under the portcullis, which Ja’tar had raised sufficiently for them to get on their knees and crawl under.

  High above, in Tork’s Tower, a diminutive halfling in worn threadbare pants stood on his tiptoes staring out one of the turret windows. His oversized ears twitched nervously and he watched as the three magi walked down the path. So it was true, he thought to himself. The second sign, just as foretold.

  He needed another sign, the last sign. It was said that there would be three signs that foretold the prophecy. When the third sign appeared, they would hide. All of them would hide. He turned and stared at the flights of tall stone stairs he had to climb down as they turned and disappeared from sight. He grunted as he took the first step. His knees crackled and his balance was unsure, causing him to cling tightly to the wall. Just keep walking down, he thought to himself. Tax hurried off to tell the others that the second sign had been confirmed.

  Tax smiled. Soon he wouldn’t have to clean the stairs. His contract would be fulfilled and he would be free. Free! His family would be free. He chuckled to himself, for he was the last Guardian. There were no more. If he had wed and sired a son, his son would have been a Guardian too. His father was a Guardian, as was his father. For three generations they had watched and waited for the prophecy.

  He wondered what would happen if the prophecy didn’t come to pass in his lifetime. Well, they couldn’t very well force him from the depths of the afterlife to keep working! He snickered, and let go of the windowsill, letting himself down another step. He paused and took a deep breath before he continued his trek.

  Dra’kor, Grit and Men’ak slowly headed down the winding path toward the valley. They turned periodically and waved at Ja’tar and Zedd’aki who had gathered to see them off. After they were safely down the hill and out of direct site, Ja’tar and Zedd’aki ducked back under the portcullis and reentered the grounds of the Keep.

  Zedd’aki elbowed Ja’tar. “You think they’ll be all right?”

  Ja’tar paused, “I guess we’ll see —”

  “I guess we will … You’re worried for them …?”

  “I’m worried for us all, Zedd’aki. The boys will just be closer to harm than we will —”

  “You really think it will come to that?”

  Ja’tar’s eyes dropped to the ground. “I do,” he whispered.

  “May the gods protect them,” Zedd’aki said, making the sign of AEgis.

  They lowered the portcullis, pushed the iron reinforced gate closed, lifted the hefty drawbar back into place in the iron brackets and reset the wards.

  Their plan had begun an
d the boys got out without notice.

  After walking down the road for fifteen minutes, in silence, they crossed the small bridge over the converging creeks. They turned one last time to admire the Keep, just as the sun caused the sky to glow with the oranges and reds of morning.

  High on the hill, in place of the majestic Keep, was a quaint rundown inn nestled up against a small cliff. Most of the glazing had been shattered and birds swooped in and out of the holes in the shingles. It looked dilapidated and deserted, the clapboard hung loosely and in some cases totally missing, exposing the old inn’s framing. The road was rutted, washed out and inaccessible because the planks on the bridge were rotted and missing. Even one of the support beams was cracked and dipped down precariously close to the water. Nobody would ever venture to cross for fear of his or her life.

  If they hadn’t known better, they would never have believed that the huge, beautifully architected castle was behind the glamour and stood alone on the top of a rocky rise.

  “Well, look at that,” said Grit, as his jaw dropped.

  They presumed that the Guild had cast the glamour on the Keep, thereby, keeping the presence of the wizards forever a secret. They had no idea that it had been in place all these centuries. To Dra’kor, it was just one more thing that stuck in his craw. He was proud of what he was and the Guild’s attempt at minimizing it rubbed him entirely the wrong way.

  Disgusted, Dra’kor rolled his eyes, threw his hands up and muttered, “Perfect! That just shows you.”

  “I always wondered why we didn’t have more visitors. Now I know. Who would want to stay in such a rundown inn?” Grit said, as he shook his head in disbelief. “It looks uninhabitable!”

  “Let’s get out of here —” Dra’kor spat as he turned and headed down the road not looking back.

  Men’ak looked at the glamour on the bridge. It looked as though it would tumble into the river at any time. He quickly ran back to the other side of the bridge and up the hill a bit. He watched as the inn shimmered and turned back into the castle. He turned and ran to catch up with his friends, “Wait up!”