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

by Scott D. Muller

  “Try again … Zedd’aki said they didn’t have any magic and could be killed. Maybe he meant they had to be killed with weapons …,” Dra’kor shouted as he rolled over to give Men’ak a hand.

  The huge wolven charged into the opening again, but this time, he was met by the sharp iron blade of Dra’kor’s spear, which he plunged deep into the beast’s eye. Dra’kor growled and pushed the business end deeper into the eye socket, straining every muscle in his arms and back.

  The beast shuddered and howled, trying to shake the blade free, but its head was wedged in the opening and Dra’kor held strong, pushing the blade deeper as the beast struggled. The wolven snapped at the air as blood leaked out of its mouth. Finally, it convulsed and died, completely blocking the door.

  “Zedd’aki must have not been clear in his lesson, you can kill them with a blade,” growled Dra’kor as he yanked the spear free. “Forget about the magic, use your iron!”

  “Doesn’t seem as if they have any magic … that must have been what he meant,” panted Men’ak, tired from the struggle. He jabbed the small blade ineffectively through the holes in the rocks.

  Dra’kor grunted as he used both hands to drive his long blade up through the rocks, impaling another of the beasts, trying to dig its way in. Gore and blood ran down the sword, covering his hands and arms, dripping into his face. He shoved with all his might as the beast pitched from side-to-side trying to free the blade. Dra’kor struggled to maintain his grip as the sword was ripped from his hands and he was forced to lunge for it, lest the beast pulled it up and out of the stone keep.

  Suddenly, as quickly as it started, the battle stopped. The two winded magi sat in the small stone ring, facing outward at the ready. Their hands, arms and clothes were sticky and covered with sweat and gore. They panted and listened to the low guttural growls coming from outside the stone camp.

  “You’re a mess …,” Men’ak commented, looking at Dra’kor.

  Dra’kor looked up from the fire with a grimace on his face, “You smell …”

  Men’ak took a few seconds to toss some more wood onto the fire, which had burnt down to a pile of coals and ash. The branches quickly lit and illuminated the camp allowing them to assess the damage. One dead wolven was above them on the roof and the larger was wedged in the door.

  “You think they’ll attack again?”

  Dra’kor shrugged, “I’m not sure why they attacked in the first place —”

  “— Huh?”

  “It doesn’t make any sense to me — They couldn’t get in.”

  “They’re just stupid beasts,” Men’ak grumbled.

  “I don’t think so, according to legend, these beasts are smart; smart and cunning.”

  “Then why?”

  “Like I said … I just don’t u-understand it, but I think we’ll be all right for the rest of the night.”

  Dra’kor took the boulder they used to seal the door and smashed it down on the demon wedged in the entrance, crushing its head to a pulp and sealing the door. It took him three tries to completely mash the wolven into the ground. With each drive of the boulder, the sound of cracking bone and the squishing sound of flesh filled the air as the skull split and the beast’s brains oozed out over the dirt.

  The small hut filled with a foul odor that caused Men’ak’s mouth to salivate.

  “Damned by the gods, that reeks worse than a rotted dung rat …”

  Dra’kor looked up from what he was doing and nodded his agreement.

  Men’ak thought that he would lose the contents of his stomach, as the wolven’s brains continued to ooze out the crack in its skull, but only managed a few dry heaves. They had not eaten since before dawn and fortunately, his stomach was empty.

  The two magi sat, spent from the struggle, “That was close …” Men’ak said.

  “Too close,” nodded Dra’kor. “But again we survived.”

  “I’m still shaking,” said Men’ak, raising a quivering hand. His head ached and his vision was blurred from all the excitement and stress.

  “We managed,” a relieved Dra’kor, sighed. “That’s all that matters.’

  Men’ak was skittishly, and eyes were wide.

  “Do you think they’ll be back?”

  “I don’t know,” Dra’kor said, shaking his head. “But now we know they can be killed and that magic can’t help us much.”

  Dra’kor paused before he continued, “Then again, I think that magic can help us hold them at bay until we can land a killing blow with our weapons. That may be important if we are ever caught in the open when they attack.”

  Men’ak nodded, agreeing with his friend.

  Dra’kor reached over and grabbed his pack, pulling out the package that Gretta had prepared for them. He wiped his hand clean on his soiled jacket before he removed a couple pieces of cheese, some dried sausage and two half loaves of bread.

  “How can you eat?” Men’ak grumbled as his stomach turned.

  Dra’kor shrugged and handed some to Men’ak who waved him off.

  “I don’t think I could eat without retching,” Men’ak said, turning a little pale at the sight of the food.

  Dra’kor nodded and put the items back into the cloth and returned them to the pack. Dra’kor’s stomach was grumbling and his mouth watered as he took a bite of the dried sausage and bread. He was famished, but chewed slowly savoring each bite. He washed it all down with some water from his goatskin. He felt the warmth of the food in his stomach and his strength began to return.

  “Maybe I will have some after all,” said Men’ak weakly, reaching for the pack after the smell of the spiced sausage reached his nose.

  The magi sat in silence, eating their cold meal as the wolven circled around the stone fortress, growling every once in a while, but keeping their distance. They paced and howled in frustration, knowing that they couldn’t get at the men inside. They could smell them and that drove them insane with blood lust.

  They pawed at the ground and bared their teeth at each other, howling at the moon. They rushed the little stone fort, but after a few accurately placed trusts of Dra’kor’s spear, they seemed to have lost interest and given up for the night.

  Dra’kor tried to console Men’ak. “Do you think you could sleep?”

  “Uh, that howling gives me the willies. I don’t think so! You?” Men’ak replied shaking his head.

  “Probably, or least I can rest,” Dra’kor nodded. “Can you watch over things while I take a break, rest my eyes for a bit?”

  “Sure —” Men’ak breathed. “I’ll take the first watch.”

  Dra’kor curled up in front of the small fire, put his head on his pack, covered himself with his blanket and closed his eyes. He tossed a little before getting comfortable, but soon he was sound asleep and snoring loudly. Men’ak sat, bathed in the dim firelight, nervously twitching at every sound. He stared, watching the firelight flicker on the rough stones. His eyes slowly closed as he stared into —

  The air was brisk and a full White moon shone high in the sky, but provided little comfort or light inside the rock fortress. A cool breeze blew through the holes in the stone making Men’ak shiver. The erratic gusts made the fire spark and glow brightly as it surged and waned.

  Men’ak woke Dra’kor after several hours and Dra’kor groggily took over the watch. He yawned, “Anything happen while I was asleep?”

  “No. It’s been quiet these last couple hours, I think they either left or are asleep outside. Earlier I heard something walking around, and a few growls, but nothing else for hours,” said Men’ak, yawning, his eyes half closed.

  “Try to get some sleep,” a dreary eyed Dra’kor said, wiping the sleep from his eyes. Dra’kor watched as Men’ak fell asleep. He threw a few small twigs on the fire and pulled out the message box. He stared at it for a long time, not quite sure of what he should write.

  He looked up through the rocks and branches at the Ocht’or moon, its dull orange glow cast an uneasy edge to the night. He glanc
ed over at Men’ak who was tossing and turning as the dreams grabbed hold. Even though he was awake, he could feel the moon’s pull, he didn’t dread the dreams the Ocht’or moon brought … not like Men’ak.

  Dra’kor dug in Grit’s pack and pulled out the small kettle. He filled it with water and some of the ground tealeaves from the tin and placed it over the coals. He closed the water skin and returned it to his pack. He found his cup and set it on a rock alongside his pack. He opened the linen-wrapped box and rested it on his lap.

  He opened the ornate hazel-colored box, pulled out a thin velum sheet, and held it between his dirty fingers. He could see the flames of the fire through its translucent fibers and could see an intricate pattern of ancient glyphs laid into the parchment.

  Dra’kor held the note closer to the flame and examined the intricate glyphs and runes in the parchment. He was amazed at the complexity. Even after tracing the patterns for several minutes, he wasn’t sure that he understood how they would work. It was a curious blending of the basic elements, combined in ways he would have never imagined. He had to give the ancients credit. They were incredibly clever and versed in glyphs.

  Dra’kor had thought that he knew a lot; after all, he had been sorting and categorizing spells for centuries. Many of the spells he came across were from times right after Ror. He found them to be the most interesting. He wished he had his tome of glyphs with him. He kept meticulous notes on anything he found that was unusual. Some day he hoped to be able to dissect them and find ways of putting the knowledge to good use.

  He turned the box over, placed the sheet in the center of the box, and thought for a few seconds. He opened the ink, dipped the quill and began to write a note to Ja’tar.

  We lost Grit at Haagen’s Cross on account that he went over the falls. We searched for hours but found no sign of him. At least we didn’t find him splattered on the rocks at the bottom of the falls. Men’ak and I made it across safely.

  We ran into catomen and wolven, but survived both battles. The wolven killed Haagen and the ferry is down. We had to build a small fort out of stone and logs last night. The beasts came out of nowhere and attacked. We used weapons we took from Haagen to defend ourselves. They seem intelligent, but it appears that blood lust can drive them to attack even when there is no way for them to win.

  A tinker said that the beasts showed up three months ago. People are terrified. Also of note, crops are failing throughout the realms. It seems that nothing planted in the fields grows.

  Another thing, the tinker says the wolven aren’t interested in the horses or cattle, only in killing people. I find that curious!

  We should be in Three Rivers tomorrow if our luck holds out. We worry that in the morn, the beasts will be waiting outside our door. We have but a single spear and a short sword. We should have been better prepared. If you send others out after us, make sure they have good weapons!

  Tell Zedd’aki he was wrong, magic cannot hurt the wolven or catomen; they can only be killed with iron blades, or so it would seem - Dra’kor

  He held the note up and read it from start to finish. Satisfied, he blew on it, helping the ink to dry. He tossed the note into the fire and watched it burst into flame with a sparkling of blue and red sparks. When it was totally gone, he stirred the coals with a branch and put a couple larger pieces of wood onto the fire.

  He looked down at the small stack of branches that were left and figured he would be sitting in the dark the last hour or so before dawn. He sighed as he thought about Grit and wondered what had become of him. He rubbed the rest of the sleep out of his eyes and stared into the dancing flames. It was going to be another long, long night. Two days out, he thought, and already we have lost one of our party.

  Ja’tar was in his study examining old tomes when the translucent note appeared in the matching box. There was a soft chime and a bright flash before the note coalesced in the box. He set down the book he was reading, walked over to his desk, and stared at the parchment.

  He picked up the dirty note, noticing the stains and blood. He slid his glasses to the end of his nose and quickly read the message. He set it in the middle of his desk and stared at it for quite a while, before reading it a second time.

  He pondered what Dra’kor had meant by his message, catomen and wolven can’t be harmed by magic. That phrase stuck in his craw because it made no sense, no sense at all. Of all the creature of the lower planes, these were the easiest to destroy. He would have to talk to Zedd’aki about this in the morning.

  He was certain that he had taught the boys the correct spell. Could they have forgotten so soon? Possibly, he supposed, but he deemed it rather unlikely. They had practiced that spell for days; surely one of them would have remembered it. So, there had to be an entirely different problem. He wondered what it could be.

  He set his head into his hands and wept. He wiped his nose. All this weeping was uncharacteristic of him and he didn’t understand where all of this uncontrolled emotion was coming from. As soon as he had thought about it, he quickly erased it from his mind.

  He was out of ideas. Now, Grit was gone. He walked to the fireplace, let the note slide from his fingers into the flames, and watched as it slumped over a log. It charred at the edges before it burst into multicolored flame, the final glowing ashes flickering dull orange before disintegrating and being carried up the flue. He blew out the candles and went to bed.

  Dra’kor didn’t notice that the parchment had returned. He had already closed the finely carved box and set it into his pack after carefully wrapping it with a linen cloth. He sat, sipping on some hot tea, lost in thought.

  It had been a frantic couple of days. He didn’t have any other adventures to compare it to, but he assumed that most adventures ended up with this much confrontation, although he could be wrong. If things kept up at this pace, he and Men’ak would be exhausted before the week was ended.

  Soon, the fire had burnt down, and only the coals remained. He wrapped his blanket tightly around his frame and rubbed his hands together. The sword was cold to his touch now and he no longer gripped it as it sat balanced across his lap. He sat. He thought. He worried.

  Three Rivers

  It was still dark when Men’ak woke with a start, jarred awake by a disturbing dream. He stared up through the patch quilt roof of their temporary camp and watched the bright Ocht’or moon as it was getting ready to set for the night. The fire had gone out sometime during the night and he was shivering, seeing silver frost on his blanket. He glanced over at Dra’kor who had nodded off and had his head slumped to his chest, eyes closed, the long iron sword draped across his blanket-covered legs, and his large floppy leather hat was pulled down hiding his face. Men’ak listened, and all was quiet. He rolled over and sat up groaning from the stiffness in his bones.

  He saw that there was still a short stack of wood, piled up against the outer wall, so he reached over and placed a few twigs in the center of the fire ring. Being too impatient to blow on the few tiny coals that barely glowed red buried in the heap of grey white ash, he let a small magical spark jump off his finger. The tinder he had placed underneath lit quickly; the new flames dancing across the dried wood.

  He crawled up close to the newly lit fire and rubbed his hands and legs as the flames grew. Soon the fire began to warm the surrounding air enough that his breath no longer fogged as he exhaled. He was surprised at how comforting the dancing flames could be, it was such a simple thing.

  His hands had warmed up enough to stop tingling and throbbing, but his feet were still numb. He would have stood up and stomped his feet to get the circulation moving, but the roof of their lean-to was just too low, so he backed away from the fire a little and set his feet flat on the warm rock they had built the fire on. He wove a little spell and sent a rush of heat into his toes, which throbbed and stung like pins and needles as they thawed. He glanced over at Dra’kor, snoring loudly, and decided to let his friend rest a bit longer, there certainly wasn’t any pressing need for hi
m to be awake this early. The night was still, and for the time being, they were safe.

  He glanced over at the dead wolven; its head crushed in by the large rock boulder and shook his head in amazement. He reminisced about the Keep, thought over what he had been through the past three days, and chuckled to himself. It sure had not been what he had expected. He grunted, realizing that he hadn’t really had any idea what to expect, but that being said, he was sure that this, was not it.

  Had they talked themselves into this? Well, he didn’t know for sure, but he gave Ja’tar cachet for seizing on the opportunity whether he orchestrated the game or not. They had been outplayed, plain and simple. Had he romanticized the journey? He was embarrassed to admit it, but supposed it was so. He swore to himself in guttural Torren.

  He had fallen in love with the idea of walking around the realms on a magnificent adventure being greeted with open arms by the peasants of the surrounding villages. He blamed Dra’kor as much as himself, since he was always preaching about how they should get out and interact with the people more. He had been sold a bill of goods, and he had bought in with gold coin!

  He threw a few more branches on the fire and sighed. He wondered what had become of Grit. He couldn’t believe they had lost him and hoped that he wasn’t lying on some riverbank slowly dying. Damn! He could still see his dread-filled face as he plunged over the edge. He wondered how long it would take to rid himself of that image. Between the image of Grit falling, the catomen and the wolven, he was amazed he could sleep at all!

  With all their magic, they still failed to save him. Failed! He found it amazing that people actually survived at all in this inhospitable place, given that they had no magic to help themselves. He just couldn’t grasp how self-reliant they were forced to be or how careful they would have to live life. A broken bone, a septic wound, all could be fatal. He couldn’t count the number of times he had been healed for one reason or another.