The Third Sign

by Scott D. Muller

  Dra’kor tried hard to follow in her footsteps but he felt and looked more like an ox then a stealthy cat. His feet kept sliding out from under him as he tried to stand on the steep embankment of the road. Several times, he slid down and had to climb back up.

  “You lean back too far,” Sheila instructed.

  “What?”

  “You’re leaning back to far. Your weight isn’t over the balls of your feet. That is why you slide and lose your balance.”

  Dra’kor grunted a curt thank you.

  It took them longer than they had hoped to reach the main gate, but they felt that to err on the side of caution was prudent. The bell was louder now, but remained erratic and muffled. Still, there was no sign of anyone.

  The gatehouse appeared unguarded, the portcullis fully up and locked in place. The Lord’s achievements were hung on either side in full display beneath the King’s Standards. The road leading to the castle was well rutted, but empty. Carts, wagons were strewn about, pulled to the edge of the road and still filled with goods. Many were still tethered to their horses, which were head down and calmly eating grass along the way.

  “No guards,” Dra’kor said fretfully.

  Sheila’s eyes were riveted to the high walls and she acknowledged his comment with a curt nod ....

  Dra’kor reached up to pet one of the roans along its nose. The hose shook its head, causing its long mane to flutter. Its tail rhythmically swished, momentarily chasing away the irritating flies that circled. The jet-black roan whinnied, forcing Dra’kor to shush the animal, calming it. He stepped away and left the horse to finish its meal.

  They slowed as they approached the gatehouse located in the middle of the outer curtain, wary of being surprised. Other than the dull clang of the tower bell, it was quiet.

  They each took opposite sides of the road and stepped slowly over the drawbridge while peering over the side of the moat. The scarp was steep, deeper than three men were tall and thrice as wide, but the moat was dry, unusual for this early in the year. Cattails and reed covered the bottom growing strong from the nutrients provided by the piss pots, cesspits and garterobes. The caltrops lining the far bank were clearly visible, normally hiding under murky water.

  They reached the heavy woven cast iron portcullis, nearly thrice the size of the Wizards Keep’s, drawn full open with heavy chains on a spinning log high above and levered with pulleys and coarse hemp ropes that were secured with oak staffs jammed in between the giant wooden cogs. The bottom of the portcullis was shaped like huge sharpened cleavers, and would impale and slice through any trying to roll under as the gate closed.

  “I think I hear singing! Maybe today is some kind of festival?” Dra’kor asked, looking to Sheila who shrugged.

  He listened again, but failed to recognize either the tune or the language, “Definitely sounds like merriment of some kind.”

  Sheila shrugged hesitantly and then shook her head, “No festival this time of year that I know of, maybe a marriage or visit by a noble.”

  Dra’kor didn’t know quite what to think.

  She stepped under the portcullis, through the gate, sword drawn, and at the ready. They entered the deserted bailey. The two stood still, staring across the grassy field at the shop-filled street leading into the courtyard, toward the inner curtain. Carts, wares, shops, all deserted, windows open, doors ajar. Sheila scanned the ground, looking for indications of a struggle, blood, anything, but found little to confirm her suspicions.

  “Nothing seems out of place here,” Sheila whispered, leaning into Dra’kor’s shoulder. “We need to be wary. No castle is ever this quiet.”

  Sheila bent to check the coals of a nearby fire pit, where a bronze cook pot swung gently in a soft breeze, “Cold!”

  Dra’kor followed suite and checked one next to where he stood. He placed his hand on the cast iron pot hanging over the dead coals. “This one too.”

  Their eyes briefly met. Dra’kor saw her furrowed brow and the intense look in her eyes.

  They slowly made their way forward. Sheila scanned the wall walk at the top of the battlement. Outside of the few voices in the distance, nothing else moved except for a thin old yellow dog that shot across the yard. It was eerily quiet. No sounds were heard except the occasional clatter of a wood shutter in the wind or a door caught by the breeze.

  They continued up the street toward merchant row, past the outer buildings of the blacksmith and soldiers quarters. Sheila sniffed the air, “Smith’s pit is cold.”

  Dra’kor knew that a smithy never let his pit go cold; the Lord would have his skin. He walked over to the brick pit and saw a shoe, half finished, still gripped in the tongs. The hammer was set nonchalantly over the anvil. Nothing seemed amiss, and yet. Dra’kor shook his head and scratched his beard. The apron was gone! What a strange thing to be missing. The hook next to the bellows was empty. Surely, the blacksmith wouldn’t wear his apron to such an event.

  He slowly walked back to the main road, taking in all that he saw. A few more paces down the road they entered the merchants row. He looked at the rotting, fly infested meat hanging from poles over what appeared to be a butcher’s kiosk, whole chickens, slabs of mutton and pork dry, spoiled. Dra’kor plugged his nose and gave plenty of space as they passed. Flies buzzed incessantly and spotted maggots could be seen crawling on the sun slimed surface of the roasts.

  The entire town appeared as if it had been deserted in the blink of an eye. A mercer’s display of fine fabrics and colorful silks fluttered in the breeze, left as if they would be right back. Stacks of linen and bolts of plain wool died brown and tan sat on the side of the cart arranged in neat rows on a table made of planks and saw horses. Dra’kor could feel his hands beginning to shake.

  They rounded the corner into the main courtyard and stopped cold, unable to move their feet.

  Dra’kor’s stared wide-eyed and was briefly unable to turn away. His face turned white, the blood draining from his head. He felt a wave of nausea hit him as he dropped his sword, pitched forward, and lost the contents of his stomach. Sheila covered her eyes and turned away, leaning heavily on Dra’kor.

  “Oh, the gods ...” Dra’kor moaned, spitting, wiping the bile from his mouth. Still unable to look at the site in front of him, another round of convulsions took him by surprise and he wretched as they wrung his stomach into knots. But nothing came up, his stomach was already empty and only the dry heaves rattled his already weakened frame. He went to one knee, trying not to topple over.

  It took several minutes for the two to compose themselves. All the while, the singing got louder. Dra’kor’s knees were shaking and his hand trembled as he pushed himself to his feet.

  He had unconsciously woven wards over Sheila and himself without even realizing it. Ja’tar would have been proud. Sheila buried her face in his back as she stepped bleary-eyed behind him, for she had never witnesses such a horrific scene before.

  Dra’kor finally steeled himself and found the courage to look up. He stared into the joyous faces of soldiers, gruesomely beaten, stripped nude, and chained to the walls of the castle turrets. They hung by wrist chains dangling a good ten feet above the ground with their dismembered bowels dangling to the ground. Their lower torsos were gone, lying in a heap at the base of the turret. He bit his fist, covered his clenched tear-filled eyes and turned away as anger filled him.

  A rabid dog growled as they approached, unwilling to give up his meal of stewing guts. Dra’kor waved his sword menacingly at the dog, which finally grabbed a mouthful of bloody guts and ran, pulling the strand from one of the men on the wall who cried out in pain before laughing and giving praise. The dog disappeared down the street, its prize in tow.

  The soldiers were singing, eyes pecked out by birds and buzzards, guts hanging free to the ground. Dra’kor knew magic when he saw it, when he felt it, and the taint of foul dark magic filled the air. Its effluvium smell burnt the hairs of his nose and stung his eyes. He knew in his heart of hearts that dark magic wa
s the only thing keeping the men alive, and yet he knew for certainty that they were not alive, at least not in the way a normal person would construe the word.

  He also fully understood in no uncertain terms that they, or someone, was meant to find them. These men were a message, a strong message to any who visited the castle to beware. He was terrified. Who? What would do such a thing, he wondered to himself. His head shot up and he scanned the sky and castle warily for an attack he expected at any second.

  “What has happened here?” Sheila whispered to Dra’kor, trying hard not to look at the dead men. Her voice quivered, “I recognize some of these men. They were from our town.”

  Dra’kor was still scanning the sky.

  “Dra’kor?” an angst-filled Sheila cried.

  “H-Huh?” he stammered, realizing she was talking to him.

  Her face paled and her voice cracked, “I know their wives!” She said, breaking into deep sobs. Tears flowing like rivers down her cheeks as her strong elf demeanor broke down.

  One of the soldiers on the wall moved, and his head and his neck fell at an odd angle as he opened his mouth and talked in a raspy voice while maggots crawled out his cracked lips.

  “What’s the matter pretty? My looks not to your liking?” he said, licking his lips sickly with a black swollen tongue.

  Sheila’s face was a little green as she fought to keep the contents of her stomach down. She felt her forehead bead with sweat. She had witnessed a lot of death over the centuries, but never something like this. Never like this ....

  “Who did this to you? Where are the others?” Dra’kor blurted.

  The man closest to them who had spoken looked irritated. Then he answered proudly, “Nobody did this to us ...”

  “I don’t understand?” Dra’kor spoke softly, his voice wavering. “You were an army here to help the Lord.”

  “We don’t serve the Lord any longer ...” the man spat. “We have a new Master.”

  “Then who ... who is this master?” Dra’kor began to ask, but was cut off.

  “The Master has come ...” he drooled. “The Master has come!”

  Dra’kor fought to control his revulsion and even though his hand shook like a quaking aspen leaf, he held his sword in front of himself pointed squarely at the man on the wall.

  “Who is this Master?” he demanded.

  “The Master is ... and rules all ...” the man croaked. He broke into and insane cackle causing the flies that were dancing over his skin to momentarily loft into the air. They circled his head lazily before setting down to continue their meal.

  “Who is he?” Dra’kor demanded again, this time even more forcefully as he cast a spell of power on his voice. “Call him by name!”

  “The Master had been and will always be ...” the man continued being cryptic, ignoring Dra’kor’s demands.

  “So, you don’t even know the name of the one you call the Master,” Dra’kor scowled, heckling the possessed man.

  The man shrugged, “The Master simply is. The Master needs no other name.”

  “If you serve this Master, why did he do this to you?” Dra’kor asked.

  “Master didn’t do anything to us. Master simply asked us for our legs. The Master said our legs were needed, so that the Ones could march on the realms, so we gave them ...”

  “Gave them?”

  “We were the first to volunteer,” he said proudly, with a bloody toothless grin. “The other soldiers removed our legs for the Master, but they won’t reap the rewards ... no they won’t. Only us, only us!”

  Dra’kor looked at the pile of rotten flesh at the base of the turret.

  “The Master has returned and will rule all,” the insane man crowed to the sky, blood running down the side of his mouth.

  He flopped his sun burned body causing the manacles to cut deep into his wrists. Thin rivulets of blood from where the stone walls marred his back ran down the side of the turret, staining the nearly white stone.

  Dra’kor could see bare white bone peeking out from under the edge of the manacles and shuddered. Sheila took a step forward and looked the man over.

  “I think I know this man,” she said, glancing at Dra’kor. “He was one of the soldiers at Three Rivers ... I think his name was Geoff.”

  “I know ye too witch!” the man spat back. “Soon, your kind will be no more, stinking elf half-breed!”

  Sheila reflexively stepped back quickly, raising her sword menacingly. She looked white faced to Dra’kor, “How does he know I’m a wit ...”

  Dra’kor turned his back to the man and put his finger to his lips, hushing her before she could finish. He turned back and after weaving a spell with his hand, sent his magical feelers out toward the soldier. The response didn’t reveal much he didn’t already know. The man was already dead and soulless.

  “You are hubristic, Mage,” the man groaned, flipping his head in Dra’kor’s direction, his long greasy blood-crusted hair flopping across his face. “You’re no mage! My Master can feel how weak you are. You and that beast you control are no match for the Master. You too will bow. You and all of your friends.”

  “Is that your message?” Dra’kor asked sardonically, for he figured that the only reason the soldiers were still alive was to deliver a message.

  “My Master has no message for the likes of you, but know this, the Master comes! All will bow. Your time is over, you and your kind,” the man laughed before breaking out into song.

  Torren! The man was uttering Torren, and High Torren at that. Dra’kor strained to remember his lessons from long, long ago. Try as he might, he just couldn’t make out all of the High Torren mostly because the man’s tongue was swollen and his jaw broken. The words were slurred.

  Another on the wall wailed, “The world will be purged of all magi. Magic will be no more and only the Master will remain.”

  Sheila shuddered, “I know some of those words. Those are high Torren. They haven’t been spoken in millennia.”

  Dra’kor frowned sullenly, for he too recognized many of the words. The others, he knew were of the dark arts and should remain forgotten.

  “I need to help them,” Dra’kor said, with a tear in his eyes as he began his spell casting. “I’ll try to send them on, let them die.

  He pulled in as much energy as he could and wove his spell. His fingers traced the ancient forms. He released the spell and watched as its eerie blue glow spread over the already dead men, but the magic just faded with no effect.

  The soldiers laughed maniacally, foaming at the mouth. Their eyes went black, deeper than night, their heads snapped around in unison, and they stared into Dra’kor’s eyes.

  “I see you mage!” deep unearthly voices said, while the men’s bodies floated out from the wall several feet, still tethered by the thick chains. “I know you and your kind. I know you all too well ...”

  Then, without warning, the bodies turned to oily smoke that slithered down to the ground and wisped away into the soil and rock.

  Dra’kor’s jumped out of the way, his skin crawling with disgust.

  “Your magic has no power here,” one of the other soldiers said in a harsh voice, startling both Dra’kor and Sheila who turned to see where the voice was coming from. They crept forward around the base of the round foundation and found rows of men chained on the other side of the turret as well.

  “Where are the others,” Sheila screamed, losing her temper. She jumped high up, bounding from boulder to barrel to wall. She swung her sword, slicing off the head of the nearest soldier, her sword sending a shower of sparks as it scraped the granite wall. She gracefully landed, her sword swung out to the side, rage filled her face, and her eyes glowed dark yellow with the power.

  The head landed on the ground and rolled to her feet. She kicked it hard and heard a deep thunk as her foot cracked the skull and sent it rolling down the street. It finally rolled to a stop and looked up at her smiling, its eyes blinking, twitching and its lips moving, but no sound was made. />
  Sheila looked away, regaining her composure.

  “Gone off with the Master to serve ...” another man said. “Pity those who stand against them.”

  “Where?” Dra’kor demanded, beating his sword into the dirt at his feet.

  “Why? Do you wish to join them,” the man cackled. “Or do you just wish to die?”

  “Tell me!” Dra’kor said, waving his sword menacingly.

  “Bah! You don’t scare us mage. You will find out soon enough. They are coming, you should leave and prepare.” The soldier said, before throwing his head back hard into the wall and howling. His head made a horrible thunk as his skull cracked and Dra’kor saw veins of blood fill his face as his brain hemorrhaged.

  The entire group of soldiers began to sing and chant. Dra’kor felt the ground shake and heard the howls of beasts in the forest. The sky began to darken and Dra’kor knew that a storm was coming. Natural or unnatural he didn’t know, but he was willing to lay odds that the chanting had something to do with it even though he didn’t recognize the magic.

  He turned to Sheila, gabbing her by the arm forcefully, “We need to go. Now!”

  She nodded weakly, completely defeated. “I don’t think we can make home by nightfall she said, her lips trembling. Her face was drained of emotion and the first crack of lightning made her shudder and appear even paler as the blood drained from her face.

  “We should stay in the castle then,” Dra’kor suggested. “I’m afraid we have little time ...”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the open doors.

  She pulled back. “Do you think it is safe in there?”

  “Better than out on the road ...” Dra’kor replied, turning up the stairs, heading toward the solid ironclad doors of the inner Keep. Sheila took one last look at the men hanging on the walls and turned slowly to follow. She could hear the howling of the beasts and she knew they were getting closer.