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

by Scott D. Muller

  “That doesn’t sound right.”

  “Damn! Of course it’s not right!” Men’ak yelled as his voice cracked.

  “Can’t you control it?”

  Men’ak burst into tears, “No, I can’t …”

  Dra’kor patted his back, “Maybe we can get you some potions or something to help you sleep.”

  Men’ak looked up, his bloodshot eyes staring at Dra’kor in the pale light, “Nothing helps, don’t you understand? I tried drinking myself to sleep, I’ve tried spelling myself to sleep, but I just wake up more exhausted from fighting the dreams all night. Each day it’s worse. More of them show up. First, it was just one or two, next time there were four or five. Each day there’s more of them and they yell louder.”

  “What does Hagra say?”

  “Hagra,” Men’ak spat. “She says I have to work through it, learn to turn them off. She says I have to figure out what they want.”

  “Hasn’t she helped you do that?”

  Men’ak started sobbing again, “She’s tried, but I guess I must be too slow. I just can’t seem to get it.”

  “Maybe I can help somehow?” Dra’kor offered.

  “I don’t see how … if she can’t do it, how could you?” Men’ak groaned.

  “We have to try. You have to beat this thing!”

  Men’ak’s voice trailed off, “I know … I know …”

  “Maybe you’re supposed to talk with them. Have you tried answering them or talking to them?”

  “Answering who?”

  “You know — the demons and things.”

  “No, not really. Mostly I try to ignore them and tell them to stop,” Men’ak sighed, “but they never stop …”

  “Maybe you need to talk to them; maybe what they are telling you is important, or a warning. Maybe that is the gift! Maybe they can’t have peace until they deliver their message to you … or get your answer or something.”

  Men’ak looked up at Dra’kor with a blank expression. Just like Dra’kor to offer up a simple solution. He supposed he could be right. He had never really tried to ask them questions or tell them he understood. He had been too busy trying to get away, make them go away!

  “You think that could work?” he said weakly.

  “I don’t know, but it’s worth a try. I’ll sit with you if you want to sleep a bit,” Dra’kor said, pulling over the pillow. “But I’d try talking to them.”

  “I’m so tired …,” Men’ak mumbled as he put his head down. “Maybe I’ll just rest for a … minute or two.”

  Dra’kor watched as his friend fell instantly asleep. He wasn’t asleep for more than a few minutes before he started thrashing and moaning. He clawed at the air and yanked at his pillow. His body seized and he foamed at the mouth.

  Dra’kor’s face went white with worry. No wonder his friend looked so bad. Dra’kor swallowed hard, leaned over him and patted his back, “I’m right here Men’ak. I’m right here!”

  Men’ak jerked spastically and finally seemed to calm down for a bit, but soon, he was sweating profusely as his mouth twisted and his face grimaced. Men’ak pulled the blanket to his face and cowered.

  “N..n..no … no!” he shouted.

  “Men’ak, you need to talk to them,” Dra’kor said, in a soothing voice. “Talk to them.”

  “Go … g-g-go away. Leave me …”

  “Talk to them Men’ak …”

  Men’ak mumbled, almost unintelligibly, “No. No. Whhahhh … whyyyyeeeii … No, no … yezzzz. Don’t.. Oh, tha … not now …”

  The conversation went on for several minutes. Dra’kor kept patting his friend’s back and shoulder, saying soothing words. He kept trying to calm him down. After thirty long minutes, Men’ak stopped thrashing and started snoring. Dra’kor broke into a grin. He felt that maybe, just maybe, Men’ak had made a breakthrough. He pulled the blanket up over him, crawled over to his own bunk, and blew out the candle.

  He looked over at his friend in the orange glow of the moonlight and saw him grumble to himself. Well, he thought, at least he is sleeping. Dra’kor rolled over, pulled the blanket up tight to his head, and closed his eyes.

  Men’ak felt himself nodding off as the room began to blur and the sound of Dra’kor’s voice trailed off into the distance and became a soft soothing murmur. As his mind relaxed he felt himself spinning as the ethereal mist of dreams took grip of his former reality. It wasn’t long before he found himself standing in the middle of a swirling mist on some barren patch of dry red dirt.

  He was alone. He felt the dusty soil under his bare feet and looking down, noticed that he was naked. Why naked, he wondered, as he looked around for something to wear. Unfortunately, he saw nothing in this place. He walked a few paces in each direction, but again, he seemed to be going nowhere.

  Men’ak wondered why he always ended up in the exact same location every time he fell asleep. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it just looked like the same spot. Maybe it wasn’t a spot at all, but just a nowhere because he didn’t know where he wanted to go, or how to get there.

  He heard them first, the groaning, the growling, the moaning and the shuffling sound of dragging body parts. They came out of the mist. One by one, the dead and the demons gathered. They staggered across the dirt, dragging feet, wearing the wounds and scars of battle. Some were badly decomposed. It wasn’t always obvious to Men’ak, which was which.

  They came in battle armor, street clothes, some shredded, some burned beyond recognition. They were carrying weapons, pots, baskets, their dead children. The walking dead children dragged dolls, toys. Their eyes were white and glazed, their skin pasty gray, and festered. They twitched and jerked as they walked, as if they were being pulled by some set of imaginary chains tied to their limbs.

  As soon as the first reached him, he started screaming at the top of his lungs. Soon, they were all screaming. Men’ak couldn’t make out what any of them were talking about and the loud wailing hurt his ears. He clamped his hands tight over his ears and tried to back away, but he was surrounded. They pushed in on him from all sides, forcing him to shove back, trying to get a little breathing room.

  In the back of his mind, he heard Dra’kor telling him something. He focused on his voice and slowly, he heard Dra’kor’s calming advice, “tell them to shut up and you will listen to each person’s story. Tell them if they do not stop yelling, you’ll leave again…”

  Men’ak held his hand over his ears and yelled at the top of his lungs at the crowd, “Leave me alone! Stop yelling, or I will leave and you will have to wait for me to return. Calm down and I will listen to your stories. I want order! I want a queue.”

  Initially, nothing happened, but slowly, one by one, the dead all stopped screaming at him. As it became clear that he was going to let them speak, they started fighting amongst themselves for position. They pushed and shoved, trampling the weak and pushing them out of the newly formed line. The line faded into the mist and Men’ak had no idea how far it stretched. It was going to be a long night, but at least they had stopped screaming and howling.

  Men’ak motioned for the first person in the line to come forward, “Let’s get started, come on up …”

  The battle-weary man stepped forward, dragging his spear behind on a half-detached arm that had been cleaved near the shoulder. He had large chunks of his leg and torso missing and his chest was clawed. As he stepped closer, Men’ak saw that the deep gashes were to the bone and his ribs were exposed through the gaping wounds. He looked like he might have been a farmer at one time. He wore a simple peasant’s wool shirt, his britches were worn thin on the knees and his boots were covered with mud.

  “I’m a little new to this,” Men’ak stammered, trying not to stare.

  The dead man just stared at him through hollow lifeless eyes.

  Men’ak swallowed hard, “What is your story.”

  “I was just kilt yesterday morn, my name’s Dane. I’m from up in the Five Peaks area. You must come, we are being eaten alive. There are
beasts on the prowl that defy killin’. Me and my kin tried, we really did, but we all just ended up dead.”

  “Are these beasts cat-like or wolf-like?”

  Dane nodded, “Both, but some of them don’t look like nothin’ I’ve ever seen. They be manlike, but beasts at the same time. They have skin tough as oak, can’t even cut through it with a good blade.”

  Men’ak didn’t have any idea what Dane was talking about, what he described didn’t sound like any beast he had ever run into, although admittedly, his experience was rather limited. Men’ak figured he’d just listen to what else Dane had to say and leave it at that, no sense stirring up mud from the bottom of a clear pool.

  Dane moaned and looked like he might fall over, but he managed to lift his head up with dignity and continue, “Folks are just barely hanging on, they can’t leave their homes, they’re starving. We tried to build a wall around some of the buildings, but the beasts kill us whenever we venture outdoors, some even broke in through the shutters. Now there’s a bad storm a brewing. They need some help and they need it quick, there’s kids and women folk there too. Thought you should know. That’s all. Someone should know….”

  The story just tore at Men’ak’s heart. He knew that he and Dra’kor should have been in Five Peaks by now, but what could they do? Hagra was right when she pointed out that they needed to wean themselves off of the magic of the beast. And rightly so, nothing would be gained if they were in Five Peaks and it got closed. Of course, if they hadn’t ended up in Three Rivers, they too could have been killed. And subsequently, they’d be trying to find a seer to listen to their story. That would have been ironic. Still, there was the possibility that they might have helped the local folk fend off the beasts and they all could have lived on for another day. Men’ak thought that a man could go daft trying to figure these things out.

  “How many people live there?”

  “Used to be over three score in town proper. Now? Maybe thirty left, could be more, could be less. Course, I don’t know about those livin’ outside the town. Reckon there could be a few score more there. We had lots of settlers movin’ in last couple years.”

  Men’ak watched a horsefly crawl across Dane’s injured eye. The fly twitched and rubbed its legs, as if eager for a tasty bite.

  “Anything else, Dane?”

  “Nope, said my piece. Think I’ll go lookin’ for my friends …”

  He staggered to the side, and saw a group of people walking toward him that he seemed to know. He walked over and was greeted with swollen arms thrown across his back, welcoming him into their midst. Once they joined him, they all turned into a whirl of gray mist and dissolved from sight.

  Men’ak watched as one by one, all the dead souls killed near Five Peaks faded away. Men’ak stared blankly wondering where they went when they disappeared like that. He motioned for the next person in line while thinking to himself that he wished he had asked Dra’kor what to do weeks ago!

  Of course that didn’t help him figure out what to do with the information he was collecting. He suspected that he needed to take some kind of action, but didn’t know what that action should be. He was hearing stories that were way beyond his ability to affect. Others seemed to be contradicting stories about things that may or may not happen. How he would ferret out which story had merit was beyond him at this point. He made mental notes to discuss all he heard and learned with Dra’kor when he had the chance.

  The next person in line was a soldier, still dragging his ancient sword and his dented and battered shield. He was in terrible shape and barely recognizable as human. Most of the flesh was gone, only the tendons remained. His clothes were shredded to the point that Men’ak could see the bones of his legs through the material. His joints popped and snapped as he stepped forward and set his weapon to the ground.

  “What’s your story?” Men’ak asked, wondering how the man was going to talk with no tongue or lips.

  “I were kilt in da hunt,” he said with a heavy accent, as he leaned on the hilt of his rusted sword.

  Men’ak watched the man’s jaw go up and down, but the sound was in his head, not coming from the man’s mouth. It seemed very odd at first, but after a minute or two, he hardly noticed it at all. The dead man’s jaw wobbled and fell to the ground.

  For a second, they both stood staring down. The man bent over, picked the jawbone up with his bony fingers, and tried to reattach it to his skull. He wiggled it from side-to-side before there was a sharp snap. His jaw was finally in place and clicked loudly as the man opened and closed his mouth, testing it out.

  “Like I was saying, I was kilt in da hunt …”

  Men’ak closed his eyes and tried to understand. “Which hunt?”

  “— Exactly!” the man nodded.

  “Exactly what?” Men’ak responded blankly.

  “Beg yer pardon?” he asked. “I thought ye understood —”

  “So which hunt are talking about?”

  “The Witch Hunt, is there any other? They kilt our whole coven, hunted us down like vermin. It was Skra, that weasel of the Ten with the ink black eyes it were,” the man cursed. “The bastard trapped us and slaughtered us, women, kids and all.”

  Men’ak finally caught on, “Wasn’t that right after Ror?”

  The man opened his mouth to speak as a worm crawled out and slithered across his chin, before dropping to the ground. Men’ak tried not to pay any attention to it, but it was difficult.

  “Right after we took the day, I was in da final battle you know. We were betrayed,” the man said, shaking his head.

  “Any idea why he attacked you —?”

  “Who knows with the Ten? They ain’t much for ‘xplaining their actions. We had no quarrel with them magi, none at all. None in our coven had even talked to them.”

  Men’ak shook his head in dismay, “Was he by himself or was it all of the Ten?”

  “Aye, he was alone he was. Should have seen it coming, but we didn’t. Can you be telling my kin … my family?”

  Men’ak scratched his head, “It might be a bit hard. It’s been almost sixteen hundred years. Who would I tell?”

  “Huh! That be a long time. Well, thought someone should know about the Ten. Please don’t trust them. We did and now we’re dead. None left of my coven to tell, but if you know any other witches, you might tell them. Couldn’t hurt, I suppose.”

  “I know a witch named Hagra,” Men’ak said, as his eyes lit up.

  “Hagra? I knew a Hagra back in the day, young, dark black hair, shapely. A fine witch ta boot! She went off with some fool mage if I recall. That must have been a huge disappointment to her father!”

  Men’ak smirked. “That’s the one. Anything you want me to tell her?”

  The man thought for a second, and replied, “Tell her that the Great Druid’s staff is at the bottom of the Covenburg well. I saw the old man his-self toss it in there as I was dying. He was being chased by Skra. A fine piece of work, that staff be, shouldn’t just be wasted when someone with the gift could be using it to help folks. Tell her that O’Roy told ye so!”

  And with that, the man stepped to the side, dropped his sword and shield, and turned to dust. It wasn’t until after he was gone that Men’ak had thought of a bunch of questions he wanted to ask.

  And so it went for better than a couple of hours. One by one, the dead and demons alike came forth to explain their plight, confess to some devious plan, apologize for some atrocity or just ask who he was and where he came from.

  It was a long time before another soldier from the time of Ror appeared with three quarrels in his chest, piercing right through his armor. He still had his helmet on, which seemed odd to Men’ak since there was little left but bones under the sheet-armor and chainmail. His left foot was turned almost full backwards, so he had to drag it as he walked. He used his sword as a cane, gripping the hilt tightly with his skeletal hand.

  Men’ak decided to dig right in with his questions, rather than putting them off until they w
ere finished.

  “Are there more of you soldiers that died when you did?”

  “I suppose so, sire. Soldiers are always dying,” the man said. “Always seems to be a never ending amount of fighting to be done.”

  “And your leg?”

  “Broke and twisted. The horse dragged me a far piece before my ankle broke and my leg was free. The bolts killed me, but I still remember that horse running wild.”

  “Are the others here too?”

  “Not that I know of — just me, sire.”

  “Why wouldn’t they be here with you waiting for me?”

  “I suppose they got nothin’ to say,” he shrugged. “Can I say my piece and get on with it. I’ve been waiting a long time ….”

  “Answer one more thing first. How did you know to come here?”

  “I don’t really know for certain. Kind of saw ye and heard ye at the same time, it was like ye was callin’ to me,” the man answered. “So I followed the sound.”

  “Why?”

  The man shrugged, “Your voice seemed to pull me in. You seem important, like I should be telling you my story.”

  “So if you wouldn’t have heard or seen me, you wouldn’t have come?”

  “Can’t say for certain, but I suppose not,” the man said. “I’ve been wandering a long time. I just happened to see you … er … hear you one day.”

  “Have you run into any others like me?”

  The man shook his head, “There used to be one, when I first died, but I couldn’t get close enough to say my piece. He always moved far away. He only talked to the ones he wanted to.”

  Men’ak grinned. If what the man said was true, every time he went to another area, he would have new souls to question, but if he stayed in one place, his nights might, just might be quiet until another dead being wandered across his path.

  “So you wander this mist?” Men’ak reasoned.