Hammergrip found Ja’tar sitting in the corner of the dining room, reading his journal. He closed the small book as the dwarf approached.
“Hail Ja’tar, Keeper of the Havenhold!”
Ja’tar sat up straight. This was a formal greeting meant to indicate a formal business request of him as the Keeper. It had been a long time since someone had addressed him as such.
“Greetings, Hammergrip! The Keeper is at your service.”
“Can we speak frankly?”
“We can. Do we need to weave a ward of silence?”
Hammergrip scanned the room, they were alone. “No, this won’t take long.” He pulled the blade out of its sheath and set it on the table.
Ja’tar looked at the blade quizzically. “So, what is it you require from the Keeper.”
“Sir, I come to report an incident ... of concern.”
“Incident? Involving whom?”
“Involving your nephew, Bal’kor, and this blade. ”
Ja’tar grinned. “You are a funny man, Hammergrip. You had me going there.”
Hammergrip’s face scowled. It took Ja’tar a few seconds before he realized that the Dwarf was not teasing him. “What is wrong then? I’m sure the boy meant no harm, whatever he did.”
“This be serious, it is. As serious as anything ever brought before you. It will require a delicate touch.”
Ja’tar’s eyes narrowed and his lip quivered. He braced himself for bad news. “Well, out with it then ...”
Hammergrip leaned over and put his lips to the Keeper’s ear. “The boy’s enchanted blade has ordered him to slay Collin.”
Ja’tar shot to his feet, knocking his journal and his cup of mead to the floor. “What?”
“I said ...”
“No, I heard you ...” Ja’tar said, spraying spittle. “And how do you come by this knowledge?”
Hammergrip motioned for Ja’tar to keep his voice down. “The lad came to see me not more than an hour ago. He said it told him to kill Collin here in the dining room just after breakfast.”
Ja’tar thought back to earlier when the boy turned pale. He also recalled the boy, gripping his hand over the hilt of his blade, as if to hold it down. He stared at the fine blade before him.
“It must be so. The boy took ill just before shaking Collin’s hand today at lunch. He seemed to recover almost immediately. We thought it was something he ate.”
“You should know that a magic blade has never been wrong. The boy’s blade is charmed as any blade I’ve ever witnessed an elf make.”
Ja’tar pushed himself away from the blade sitting on the table. “So you are saying that he possesses one of the Charmed Blades of Renault? And that the blade believes Collin is a threat to the boy?”
“I’m saying the blade is charmed. Everyone knows the blades of Renault appear every now and then when the need arises. But never to a ...” his voice trailed off as his eyes narrowed.
“Round-ear?”
Hammergrip lowered his head and grumbled. “The blade can be a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands. To you and I—it’s just a blade.”
“Do you think the blade is bound to the boy for a reason?”
“I don’t know. I can’t even explain how he made the blade. I’ve heard that the bond to its creator is strong and difficult to break.”
“So the blade seems to have targeted Collin? Do you think he’s a threat to the boy?”
“Hard to say. Maybe, or a threat to us all.”
Ja’tar sat there letting that tiny fact sink in.
Hammergrip sheathed the blade. “What do you wish me to do?”
Ja’tar set his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes. “I think you should keep the boy away from Collin. If he were to strike at the mage, Collin would kill him before he could get within ten feet.”
“And if it is the other way around? What if Collin is a threat?”
“Then we will need to take care of him, but for now, we observe. I have noticed nothing to make me question his loyalty to the Keep.”
“As you say, we wait and watch.”
“Wait and watch.” Ja’tar replied, watching as the dwarf pivoted on the ball of his foot and walked away.
Trapped
Dra’kor sat on the icy-cold stone floor and watched Sheila sleep. It wasn’t a restful sleep; she tossed, turned, and lashed out at some imaginary creatures before she grumbled, rolled over, and became silent once more.
Dra’kor stood up and threw another big log on the fire. The room was cool, but livable. It had been a late spring, and he was grateful that they had plenty of dry wood and a nice fire.
He stood and paced, reflecting on the day. He had witnessed more evil and unbelievable things in this one day than he had in most of his grown life. Living in the Keep had kept them safe, but it had also dulled their senses. He realized that his view of the world was warped. Warped to reflect what he had been told—stories, tales, lectures from those who had lived in the world back in the days of Ror—but the world had changed. He was sure that very little of what they had been taught was of value.
They were safe for now, trapped, but safe. They were lucky that they had been able to gain access into the inner Keep, but now they had nowhere to go. He was worried. Hagra would know something was wrong if they didn’t return in a few days, and that meant she would soon be in harm’s way too. On the other hand, Hagra had lived in the real world all her life. She would know what to do. She didn’t seem to be the careless sort to Dra’kor. She would be all right. Besides, Dra’kor was positive she knew far more than she led him to believe.
It was the middle of the night and he couldn’t sleep. His hands still shook, and he could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He knew that a crash was coming; he just prayed it didn’t come when he needed to step up his effort.
Dra’kor could hear the rhythmic tapping and scraping coming from up in the tower and he wondered what kind of abomination sat up above the hatch. It echoed in the still night air. Off in the distance he heard unearthly chanting and wailing. The dead were rising and singing to their Master. Chills ran up his spine. He tried to block it out by singing songs he knew. His voice cracked and was out of tune, but it easily drowned out the sounds from the other side of the thick oak door and solid stone walls. Eventually, the chanting and moaning stopped.
Other than the occasional sound of howls from the wolven, all seemed normal. He knew the truth of the matter. Nothing was normal. Ja’tar had been right. Dra’kor snorted. He had thought that the clever old mage had sent him and his friends on a grand adventure just to get them out of the Keep. He had been wrong about the old man, that was for sure.
Dra’kor noticed Sheila shivering. He searched the cavernous room, found a bearskin rug, and gently draped it over her quaking body, trying not to further disturb her uneasy rest. He sat down in front of the fire and stared. He wished he had his message box. He desperately needed to send a note to Ja’tar.
He had no plan, and for the third time this trip, he was terrified. He removed his medallion and practiced making the life spell. He was getting quicker at it and could funnel much more power than he could just a few short days ago. He practiced some of his basic spells, and tried a few others, trying to adapt the old magic to fit what he had been taught.
Dra’kor found himself grinding his teeth. He knew that he and Men’ak didn’t have much time to master the old ways. Sooner or later, the gates would come crashing down. They had better know how to control the old magic by then, or they would be dead.
Dra’kor woke with a start. His head jerked up and he whipped his head from side to side trying to orient himself. They were still alone, Sheila was still sleeping and the sun was just starting to rise. The multicolored tones of light filtered through the stained glass windows high above the floor, dancing on the far walls.
He stood. Rather, he tried to stand. His hip and leg were asleep from being pressed between him and the cold stone. He shook it off, feeling the fami
liar pins and needles as his circulation returned.
Sheila groaned and rolled over, cracking open a single eye.
“Morning,” he said.
Sheila grunted and pushed herself up to an elbow. “I’m exhausted.”
“You slept most of the night.”
Sheila rubbed her eyes. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
Dra’kor passed her a goatskin bag filled with wine. “I didn’t find any water. This will have to do.”
Sheila threw back her head and took a long swig. After wiping her mouth, she burped out loud.
Dra’kor looked at her. They both broke into laughter.
“We’re a sad sorry lot, aren’t we?”
Dra’kor smiled back warmly, “We are at that. Are you hungry?”
Sheila stretched, arching her back. “Believe it or not, I’m starved.”
Dra’kor pretended to not notice that her vest had pulled to one side. “I could check the larder and see what’s there. We may end up with cheese and dried sausages.”
“Sounds good.” Sheila wrinkled her nose. “It’s quiet outside. Have you been up long?”
Dra’kor shook his head, “A little while, maybe a half hour. It’s raining pretty good outside, it just started a little after dawn. It seems to have quieted down the beasts.”
Sheila stood up. “I’m heading upstairs to check outside. Maybe I can see something from up in the turret.”
“I’ll get some breakfast.” Dra’kor said, looking up. “Be careful.”
“I will.”
Sheila stood and stretched. She looked around the room before she headed up the stairs. She stopped at the second floor and looked out the narrow window. She saw nothing, nothing but rain and empty, muddy streets. She was still too low to be able to see over the tiled rooftops. The main stone-covered street was clear, all the way to the gatehouse.
She turned and took the steps two-by-two, making her way to the third floor. The bubbles in the glass let in light, but distorted the image, making it hard to see. She pressed her nose to the glass and tried to peer out. She spied a window that opened, and cracked it so she could see better.
She stared for a long while. The air was still and it was quiet. She could see nothing stirring out in the fields adjacent to the castle. The smokehouse was unlit, the plows were unattended and the gate was still open. Perhaps they stood a chance and could get away unscathed. There was no value in guarding only two people, she thought to herself. Maybe they had left in the night.
She listened carefully. All she heard was scratching. Something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. She turned toward the motion and looked down just in time to see a deformed body, mostly just arms and legs, much akin to a spider, crawling her way across the stone wall. Olc’Corryns! The hands and legs were twisted in the wrong directions and instead of hands, it had furry-segmented paws that clung to the rock. She grabbed the latch and tried to shut the window. The wind caught the window and threw it open, the wet latch slipped out of her hand.
By now, she could see the razor sharp teeth of the abomination as it moved quickly in her direction and another appeared just below. She stretched out the window and tried to grab the latch. She stood on tiptoes, and yet, it was just out of her reach.
The demon, known as an Olc’Corryn, was only feet away when she jumped, half flinging herself out the window, grabbed the latch and pulled the window shut. Her heart pounded wildly while she fumbled with the mechanism and cursed her stupidity.
The latch finally fell in place as the demon reached the windowsill and hissed through the glass at her, its feet, covered with setules. They raked at the glass and slid off the smooth surface. The Olc’Corryn’s scissor-shaped chelicerae and opposing fangs clattered at the glass. Sheila could see the deadly venom dripping from the fangs as they relentlessly snapped and bit at the glass.
Sheila stepped back, her back against the wall, as she stared into the face of the man turned demon. She recognized the man. He was one of the soldiers from Three Rivers, a man named Tom. However, Tom was no more. The black hollow eyes showed no emotion or recognition and the jaw was deformed to hold the new fangs. Only the neck and shoulders still seemed human.
Sheila was badly shaken, her hands began trembling and she broke into a cold sweat. She had not expected men turned to demons. She should have. She knew about the sieges by the demons of the Keeps at Worlue during Ror, her mom had taught her. She should have expected it. Her whole body shook from fear while she tried to inhale deeply and calm herself. She double-checked the latch to make sure it was secure, straightened her leather vest and walked downstairs as calmly as she could.
Dra’kor was already hunched by the fire with a big kettle. “I found some porridge. I had to use wine instead of water.”
Sheila forced herself to smile and decided not to tell Dra’kor about the Olc’Corryns until later, after they had eaten. She picked up her sword and hung it over her shoulder.
“Going somewhere?”
Sheila shook her head. “Just being safe.”
Dra’kor gave the porridge one last swirl around the pot before pulling off a big gob into a wooden bowl and handing it to Sheila. She smiled warmly and dug in, using her fingers to scoop out the warm cereal.
“Sorry about the lack of utensils. I couldn’t find any,” Dra’kor apologized.
Sheila licked her finger clean and nodded.
Dra’kor sat with his back against the wall, listening to the rainfall. The cereal had been filling. Sheila joined him and snuggled in close. He could feel her body heat. For a while, they were quiet.
“We have more problems outside,” Sheila said quietly, as she honed the edge of her sword.
Dra’kor turned to face her.
“There are Olc’Corryns outside.”
Dra’kor’s blank expression let her know that he had no idea what she was talking about.
“Olc’Corryns are people that have been turned into spider-like demons. They’re poisonous and can climb the walls. They were used in the days of Ror to siege castles, keep people inside. Their bite is poisonous and will paralyze a man in less than ten seconds.”
Dra’kor saw the fear in her eyes. “How do you know?”
Sheila stared into the fire. “I saw one out the window when I was upstairs. We’re safe. I checked the latches on all the windows. That’s what took me so long.”
“No, I mean how do you know that is what they are.”
“Oh, mom told me. She made me study all the demons and beasts when I was growing up.”
Dra’kor grunted and threw a twig into the hearth. It wasn’t like Sheila to be this worried about a few beasts. He wondered what had happened to the steadfast and secure elf warrior. He decided that it was because she was out of her element. She was fine in the woods, but here in the building, she felt closed in and trapped. He knew he would have to take a leadership role if they were to survive.
“We shouldn’t have come here,” he said, under his breath.
Sheila heard his comment and grabbed his arm. “We didn’t know.”
Dra’kor looked up. There were dark rings under his eyes and his face was drawn. “What do we do?”
Sheila stared at the floor. “We can’t get out on our own. Between the wolven, demons and Olc’Corryns, there are too many of them for us to overcome. I guess we wait for help?”
“Your mom?”
“She’ll know when we don’t show up tonight.”
Dra’kor understood. “We wait. I may need to figure out a way to use what magic I have to get us out. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.”
Sheila slid close to the mage and put her arm around him. Dra’kor smiled and pulled her close. He could smell her hair.
Sheila turned her face into his and laid her cheek on his chest.
“I’m scared ...”
Dra’kor stroked her hair and then her back. “We’re safe here.”
She turned to look into his eyes. “What if nobody comes?”
Dra’kor lowered his chin. “Then we will have to make a run for it. But as you said, your mom will know. We’ll figure something out.”
“She can’t do it on her own.”
“She’ll have Men’ak. He’ll help.”
“He’ll get in the way,” Sheila said sarcastically.
Dra’kor snorted. “Probably.”
Sheila’s breath was hot against his face, and he could feel her heart beating though her vest. She leaned forward, her soft lips brushed his lightly.
Dra’kor found himself kissing her back.
She put a hand behind his head and pulled it tight.
Dra’kor ran his hand up under her vest and rolled her over onto the bearskin rug.
She moaned softly and nibbled his ear as she pulled his shirt free.
Dra’kor raised himself up on an elbow and looked down at her face, which glowed softly in the yellow flickering light of the fire. He kissed her again and slowly kissed down her neck venturing lower and lower as she used her hands to guide him.
Her eyes fluttered as she gave in to the passion, each taking comfort in the other’s warmth and companionship.
Both Dra’kor and Sheila heard the groan of iron against iron at the same time. They reached for their weapons and ran down the hall toward the sound. Rounding the corner, they saw a short, thin, elf standing in the hall, his long, nearly white hair cascading down his shoulder. He wore a finely-woven cloak and a shirt of spun Elvenelle, which reflected the light of the torch Dra’kor had left burning near the larder. His eyes were wide as he held a long straight sword at the ready and a smaller curved one, resting, pointed at the floor. A magnificent ruby broche, that Dra’kor vaguely recognized, held his cloak shut. Sheila’s jaw dropped, and she fell to the floor, prostrating herself.
Dra’kor looked at the elf, and then down to Sheila.
“Rise!” the elf said, in a musical voice, extending his hand and waving his scimitar in her direction.
The Third Sign Page 38
