The Third Sign

by Scott D. Muller

  “There is, but it will have to wait. We need to get back in before people start wandering the grounds.”

  Ja’tar pulled the medallion over what was left of the beast’s head and stuffed it into the pocket of his robe.

  Zedd’aki helped Ja’tar toss the two spawn into the pit and fill it with dirt. They stopped and tamped the dirt flat and then cast a spell causing some flowers and weeds to grow over the mound. Satisfied that it would pass as undisturbed, they went to the front gate and let themselves back in, taking care to reset the wards and making sure that the gate was secure. They quietly worked their way past the atrium and watched as two magi walked down the long glass hall. Once they were out of sight, they entered the side door and headed up to Ja’tar’s quarters.

  Safely back in his room, Ja’tar stared at his shredded and scuffed boots, then up at the empty note receiver where the messages from Dra’kor always appeared. He took his journal out of the pack and set it on the writing table, along with the heavily tarnished Querd medallion.

  “I guess I’ll never be able to wear these around the Keep again,” he said sadly, wiggling his toes out the holes in the front of his boots.

  Zedd’aki had collapsed in one of the big chairs and crinkled his nose, “I smell like yak dung. We should get down to the baths before they get crowded.”

  Ja’tar lifted his head weakly. “Maybe after a bath, we can eat our morning meal, I’m famished. Last night took a lot out of me. I’m bone weary.”

  “Me too,” Zedd’aki agreed as his stomach growled loudly.

  “After that,” he shrugged, “We’ll need to rest up for tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Zedd’aki questioned, with a frown. “Are we doing something tonight?”

  “I’ll explain later. I’m just too tired now,” Ja’tar assured his friend. “Right now, I need to get you a new robe.”

  Ja’tar dug through his wardrobe and found an extra robe. “This is the only extra robe I have,” he said, sheepishly handing it to Zedd’aki. “I never imagined needing more than two before this last week.”

  They both put on clean robes, Ja’tar put on his other pair of boots, and they left the tower to go to the baths.

  “You’re hobbling old man,” Zedd’aki mumbled, with a grin on his face.

  “Imagine that,” Ja’tar threw up his hands. It was purely badinage. He looking down at his blistered feet, shook his head and sighed heavily.

  He knew he was going to curse the gods as soon as the numbing spell on his feet wore off. He wiggled his toes; they were still a little tingly and numb. He decided it was better if he left them that way until after they finished their bath and meal. He was sure someone would notice his limp and bring it up in conversation. He could fabricate a story for the limping, but just didn’t feel like having to explain why his feet looked like he had hiked ten leagues.

  Ja’tar and Zedd’aki sat in the hot bath, soaking off the woes of the night before. Ja’tar set his head back on the stone rim and groaned.

  “I’m getting too old for this kind punishment,” he mumbled to his friend. “But it was a good night.”

  Zedd’aki was using an old rag to scrub off some of the dirt and smell from the night before. The simple soap they used in the Keep had no odor and was coarse, but it did the job. He ducked under the water and rinsed off.

  “I’m feeling worn-out myself, I don’t think I have been this sore since .. well, a long time ago,” Zedd’aki replied, while using his hands to squeegee off the water from his face. “The bath feels great doesn’t it?”

  “It does. You know, it really does,” Ja’tar said, keeping his eyes closed and enjoying the piping hot water as it relaxed his muscles. “I’m a bit surprised that it’s not more crowded.”

  There wasn’t anyone else in the baths, but it was getting late in the morning and Zedd’aki figured that everyone else had already been here and left. “Maybe they all went earlier?”

  Ja’tar groaned a weak acknowledgment.

  “So what is it about tonight?” he asked.

  Ja’tar rolled to his side, “We have a lot of work to do. We might be at it all night, so we better get a move on it and have our meals so we can rest up.”

  “That’s it?” Zedd’aki mumbled unsatisfied.

  “For now,” Ja’tar commented nonchalantly. “I’ll explain the rest later. Believe me when I tell you that you’ll sleep better not knowing.”

  Zedd’aki wasn’t so sure about that, but let it go. “By the way, did you ever find out whose medallion that was?”

  Ja’tar frowned while he nodded. “According to my journal, it belonged to a traveler named Willow.”

  “I don’t remember him,” Zedd’aki replied.

  “Her, but neither do I,” Ja’tar replied. “It was a long time ago, when I first took over for my father. I was self-absorbed and didn’t care about others. Halla, I barely knew your name, my friend! Be that as it may, we can check the cups in the dining room later when we have free time. I don’t suppose it matters much at this time. Gone is gone.”

  “Unless it ain’t.”

  “Unless it ain’t,” Ja’tar somberly echoed.

  Toulereau

  Dra’kor hustled after Sheila, as she glided effortlessly and silently through the thick brush. The half elf was gai’deshan, hunter, and she was searching for signs of the beasts. Her leather padded feet, carefully placed, made no sound, left no print. Her breathing was controlled, her elven senses focused on the task. She felt the lust build, the anticipation of the fight, the kill. They had been making these trips daily for several weeks and they found themselves wandering farther and farther from the town to find beasts to slaughter.

  Sheila pulled up short. Frustrated, she swatted a nearby bush with her sword. “Nothing. I see no new tracks.”

  “Are you sure?” Dra’kor said, with a wheeze, finally catching up.

  Even though they had been hunting for days, Dra’kor was still not used to the exertion. His body was strengthening and his muscles were building, but he just didn’t have the stamina of the young elf. He ran his hand through his thick brown hair, pushing it back out of his eyes.

  Sheila knelt down and took a closer look, running her hand over the stiff soil, examining the signs. “These must be at least a week old, maybe older.”

  She stood and sprinted off again through the dense underbrush of the ancient forest, paying no attention to Dra’kor, struggling behind. Dra’kor bared his teeth and stumbled after her, trying to keep up.

  Their hunting trips had been very ‘effective’, slaughtering dozens of the evil creatures, which in turn cut down on the cries of the warning bells around the town. Dra’kor was sure that no one knew about their trips other than Hagra. They didn’t advertise them. Sheila had felt it was best to let the townsfolk think that the brigade was slowly but surely making progress. People needed a rallying point, something to give them hope in these dark times. Eventually, this lead to the farmers finally returning to their now growing fields, albeit with trepidation, even though they were under the watchful eye of Brag and his ragtag entourage of scofflaws.

  Dra’kor’s legs burned and his side ached. He stopped running, grabbed the nearest tree for support and called after Sheila. “Wait up! I need ... to catch ... my breath,” he panted, swiping the sweat from his dusty brow with his tunic after removing his wide-brimmed hat.

  His hair was thoroughly drenched, but at least it wasn’t in his face all the time. Sheila had insisted that he tie it back warrior-style when she began training him in the elf ways. For weeks, he refused to cooperate, but after a blistering beating during training, he bitterly surrendered to her will, agreeing that it was more practical, as it did allow him to see his opponents more clearly. Sheila took great satisfaction in being right and was glad that he had eventually seen the error of his ways.

  He wasn’t exactly accustomed to change. After all, he had worn the same hairstyle for the better part of his short eight-hundred-year life and it had nev
er hampered him in the past. He reluctantly gave in because ... well, because there just wasn’t much point in trying to argue with Sheila once she made up her mind and he hadn’t the where-with-all to fight with her, too, given all the other battles he currently faced.

  The sweat rivulets found his eyes and he cursed. It stung and forced him to blink rapidly and wipe his face yet again. His mouth was dry and he was beginning to feel a headache coming on, probably due to a lack of fluids. He knew it wasn’t sunstroke because he was still sweating. If the sweat stopped and he got clammy, well, that would be a different story.

  Sheila slowed to a walk and glanced over her shoulder at the exhausted, panting mage. She was in a hurry. She was ready to hunt, and Dra’kor was slowing her down. She fought to control her temper. It was hard when she was a captive of the gai’deshan. It consumed her, heightened her senses and drove her. She scowled and fought back her frustrations giving Dra’kor the time he needed. At times, she forgot that just a few short weeks ago, Dra’kor had never run freely outdoors and his body was still strengthening. She managed to smile to herself. She was actually quite proud of how well he was doing.

  “We can rest a while,” she said. “I’m a little winded myself.”

  Dra’kor’s lip quivered. He knew she was lying, he was as sure as the day was long that she had never been winded, ever! Elves don’t get tired or winded.

  She turned and ambled back to where he was hunched over, hands on both knees with sweat dripping from his brow. Even with his shirt open and pulled from his trousers, he felt overly warm. His damp shirt covered with stains and watermarks around the neck, chest and underarms, hung heavily from his slick frame, clinging to his clammy skin. He gripped it with his fingers and waved it in the gentle breeze, trying to dry out, or at least, cool down.

  Sheila scanned the dark forest and set a gentle hand on his back. Her other hand held her sword, short, double-edged, polished. He had seen that short sword slice clean through the neck of a wolven. His blade was nothing special, not compared to hers. Even though she had personally worked his blade and put on a new edge, he knew that the best it would ever do was manage to kill a beast with a blow, or two.

  Her blade, a gift from her father, had been handcrafted using elven magic, forged by dwarves skilled in the art of weaponry using a mix of ores from the dwarves, of which dwarvelle was the largest component. By now he had been taught all about the wondrous metals of the dwarf kingdom and knew well that dwarvelle was actually a composite of several metals—iron, nickel, and a steel gray powder found in ilmenite. Sheila explained how the dwarves used powdered coal and burnt wood to mix the metals together in porcelain crucibles. They used immense bellows to blow air into the metal before pouring it into ingots.

  The ingots were forged into bars and then hammered into blades by folding many times, treating and quenching until the edges were tempered. Sheila had hinted that hers was made of metal that had fallen from the stars, but he believed she was pulling his leg, although you can’t be too sure with elves.

  Dra’kor grunted, pulling air deep into his spasming lungs. The air hung still and was thick with moisture from the previous night’s rain. Here, deep in the wood, the sun took a long while to burn off the moisture. He wished for the clear air of the mountains of the Keep. Dra’kor stood hunched over for a long while staring blankly at the ground. Then he abruptly stood, swatting away some irritating sweat flies that had found him to be irresistible. The motion made his head swirl and he reached blindly for the tree before he lost his balance, briefly staggering and slammed his shoulder into the tree as his hand missed the trunk. Insects were everywhere and he knew that the mosquitoes were next if they didn’t get moving.

  He took a long appreciative look at the ancient hardwood trees that loomed overhead, shading the ground where large ferns, tall as a man, grew in abandon in thick blankets of mulch accumulated over years of leaves shaken loose in the cool fall. They covered the ground and were soft on the foot. Bushes, laden with berries were everywhere. It was summer. He reached over, picked a handful of blackberries, and pushed them into his mouth. The tart juice made his mouth pucker and he greedily reached for another handful.

  Birds sung and squirrels chittered high in the canopy as they built nests and stored food away for the next season. He wished he had more time to just enjoy it, but it seemed to him that the only time they were in the forest was when they were hunting, and when you were hunting, you didn’t have time for gawking at the scenery!

  Sheila soon grew impatient and motioned him to follow.

  Dra’kor rolled his eyes and waved her off, but after a couple deep breaths, he placed his hands on his hips and stretched his back before leaning back over. His sha’za hung loosely from his neck, a constant reminder of his vulnerability. He had gotten better at holding the life spell, but he was not yet able to weave one that would last the day. Even though he tied the spell off, he found that it unraveled when he was hunting, or running. He hadn’t yet figured out why. He could, however, sit and concentrate, holding the spell that would free him from the Zylliac almost indefinitely.

  “I’ve been thinking ...”

  Sheila glanced over, waiting for him to continue as she slowly stepped further down the path.

  “I’m thinking I would like to see Toulereau ...” he said, looking sideways from his hunched over position.

  Sheila’s back was to him as he spoke, so he didn’t see her eyes shoot open wide. She felt her heart quicken, “Did I hear you right? Toulereau?”

  “I think we should go and investigate what has happened to the brigade,” he reasoned, “nobody else will, and since we’re half way there, we might as well continue. I figure —”

  He paused, “we could at least bring word back to the wives that their men are still in the campaign.”

  “I’m sure the women folk would appreciate that,” Sheila smiled to herself. “Are you sure you want to go?”

  Dra’kor shrugged, stood straight and made up a plausible excuse, “Hunting has been, how shall I say this—poor these past few days ...” His voice trailed off.

  Truth be told, he really wanted to see the castle, and the town, but he’d never admit that to Sheila. He would never hear the end of it.

  From what he could gather, it was far more grand than the Keep by a significant measure, D’Arron went on and on about it, given the chance. Even Hagra had once mentioned that nearly three thousand people lived nearby and that really interested him. He had never seen that many people, although he had heard that the Keep was once almost filled with half as many wizards.

  He pulled out his water bag and took a long draw, feeling the still cool liquid slide down his raw parched throat, washing down the berries. He stopped after a couple sloppy gulps to avoid getting cramps from drinking too fast. He was beginning to feel better, the sugars from the berries and the cool water, as well as the well-deserved rest, was allowing him to recover. He would soon be ready to run again.

  “What was that?” Dra’kor whispered, after hearing a branch snap. He whirled to face the sound, holding his sword at the ready.

  “Game, probably a deer,” Sheila replied. “That’s a good sign you know!”

  Dra’kor visibly relaxed, “It means the beasts are gone.

  “Not gone,” Sheila answered sharply, correcting him. “Just less of them. There are still Bloodbeasts around.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Tell what?”

  “Tell it’s a deer, not a beast.”

  Sheila looked at him incredulously. She was always surprised at how little he knew of the land. She answered seriously, “Beasts don’t hide. They stick to the main trails. Besides, their paws are much larger and cushioned. They don’t make branches crack as sharply. Deer have bone hoofs, like horses.”

  Dra’kor arched a brow, “So we wouldn’t hear them coming?”

  “You wouldn’t. I would!” Sheila answered smugly.

  Dra’kor frowned. She was constantly letting h
im know how inept he was in the woods. Although she was quite right, he hated being reminded of it all the time. He was quite sure that she didn’t mean it as an insult. To an elf, what was, was! She was merely telling him the truth. Knowing didn’t help. It still stung deeply, although he was coming to realize that he was bitter about the teachings at the Keep, more than at her. He resolved to bring up the topic with Ja’tar as soon as all this business with the beasts and such was concluded.

  Dra’kor sighed, setting his knapsack on the ground and foraging for the food that Hagra had set out for them in the early morn. He found it neatly wrapped in clean linen. He sniffed the two packages and put the one with little odor away. He unwrapped the other and pulled out a thick piece of jerky before refolding the linen and returning it carefully to his pack. He gnawed off a chunk and held it out for Sheila, but she declined. He shrugged and pulled out a piece of flat bread.

  “We could probably make it by mid day if we hurried,” Sheila said, emphasizing the word but trying to contain her eagerness. “We want to be back before nightfall, or stay over.”

  “I agree, it’s not safe to be out of doors for the night ...” he said, taking another couple small sips before continuing his early lunch.

  Sheila suggested, “We might want to stay over and enjoy the town.”

  “Might!” Dra’kor said, with a big grin. “I have enough coin ... and if not, I could always make more.”

  “Doesn’t that go against some ancient set of oaths you mages take?” Sheila winked.

  “Guidelines. They’re mostly guidelines.”

  Sheila guffawed.

  Dra’kor felt slightly insulted, “Seriously!”

  “You seem eager to see the Castle,” Sheila commented.

  “Never seen a large city before,” Dra’kor said. “Might be nice for a change.”

  “Plenty to see and do, that’s for sure. There are a couple of pubs to see if you like listening to bards and all. Listening to the minstrels is my favorite part of going to the castle. Oh, and the food too.”