The Third Sign

by Scott D. Muller

  They reached a place where the tunnel was almost impassable, causing them to have to crawl and wedge themselves between the roof and the rubble of the fallen stones. Often they needed to squeeze themselves through awkward openings. Dra’kor used his magic to push some of the huge stones out of their path, but the going was still slow. Dra’kor felt the rocks gouge his stomach and knew they would need healing. If the wounds got infected ....

  Slowly the sewage level dropped and soon they were only standing knee deep as they pushed through the last of the thickened sludge.

  “By the Gods, I didn’t think it could smell worse.” Sheila groaned, swinging her sword across the top of the sludge, chasing the rats back out of the light. The rats were getting larger and were now the size of small dogs. They hissed and became more aggressive, baring their giant teeth. Dra’kor let loose blasts of mage fire from his finger tips, catching several rats at a time, roasting them and filling the already foul air with the smell of burnt hair and flesh.

  Another rat got too close and caught the tip of Sheila’s sword. The rat squeaked loudly in protest as she mercilessly tossed it at the wall as hard as she could. As soon as the rat hit the crud, it was attacked and devoured by several others, who tore it apart before it even died.

  “I hate rats!” she said, baring her teeth.

  Dra’kor simpered. “When we get out of here, we need to find a stream. I don’t think I can stand myself. I have cuts that’ll need healing.

  Sheila moaned, “This is so vile. It’s squishing between my toes.”

  They turned the corner and saw light at the far end. “This way,” shouted Toulereau and he waved his torch back and forth.

  They reached the end of the tunnel. It was covered by a thick iron grate. Toulereau tried to squeeze through, but didn’t have any success.

  “Does anyone have a larger sword?” he asked.

  Dra’kor dug in his waist and pulled his free. “Wait a second, I’m a mage! Step back.”

  Dra’kor wove a spell with his hand and tossed it at the gate. The others watched the iron dissolve and fall like dust. They stepped into the sunlight. Toulereau knew where they were; they were just down from the Gatehouse. Toulereau stepped out into the road and checked to see if they had been discovered. The road was clear. He leaned back into the tunnel and waved at the others.

  “Hurry,” he whispered. “Quickly, before they sense us.”

  As soon as they exited, Sheila tore her vest off, modesty be damned and shook it out. Dra’kor and Toulereau looked on admiringly. “Not a word!” she hissed.

  Toulereau asked, “Shouldn’t you seal the grate? Just in case we need to return.”

  Dra’kor nodded and quickly wove a spell recreating the grate.

  The group turned and ran down the road, their boots squishing. Sheila’s hair was matted to her back and filled with the vile filth. She groaned as they broke across the flat field that led to the forest. She hated the fact that they were out in the open, but it was the only way out.

  The field was still muddy from the spring rains and their feet slid out from under them. They fought to both restore their balance and keep going. The mud sucked at their feet and Dra’kor lost a boot, having to turn back and retrieve it. He hopped on one leg trying to slip it back on as he ran.

  Sheila looked up and saw a couple drog flying hard ahead. Their luck was about to change. The winged creature opened its mouth and screeched loudly.

  A loud howl broke the relative silence, and was quickly answered by several more that sounded far off in the distance.

  Sheila shouted and tossed her sword over her shoulder. “They know we are here. Run!”

  Dra’kor was disorientated and looked left and right, unable to get his bearings. “Which way?”

  Sheila pointed across the way, “There! By those giant trees across the way. That’s the field we traversed when we entered the city.”

  The group ran across the field, looking back over their shoulders. They could see the walking dead and their hounds just entering the open space by the wagon they had seen on their way in. They didn’t have much of a lead, maybe a couple of minutes at best. The hounds would catch up quickly.

  Dra’kor’s face turned white when he spotted the corpses without legs, dragging themselves across the dirt, clawing at the ground with their bare hands.

  Dra’kor stopped and motioned at a log pile, “Moventum!”

  The logs broke loose and began rolling haphazardly across the field, crushing everything in their paths.

  He turned again and saw a rock pile, which had been collected from the field before plowing and motioned once more. The rocks flew, again catching the deformed creatures. He watched their torn, mutilated bodies begin reassembling themselves. He had only bought them another minute, but in this race, every minute counted.

  “This way,” Sheila yelled, taking off down a narrow path. She wove from side to side and brushed the low hanging branches out of her way. They snapped back and caught Dra’kor in the face, slicing open his lip, which began to bleed freely. The hounds were closer now. Dra’kor could hear them panting as they chased. His heart was racing with fear and a cold sweat broke out on his brow.

  By now, the drogs had returned and were swooping out of the sky, claws extended trying to rake the running group. Toulereau rolled to the ground in a somersault and as he came erect, he threw his hand out to the side and caught one with his scimitar, cleanly slicing it in half. Meanwhile Sheila caught one with the flat of her blade, causing it to hit the ground hard. It flapped wildly trying to flip itself upright. Dra’kor lifted his boot and putting his full weight behind it, drove it into the drog’s skull causing it to crack loudly and ooze brain onto the dried grass.

  “We can’t keep this up!” Sheila yelled.

  Dra’kor remembered his fight with the catomen and picked up a handful of rocks. After casting his spell, he let them fly. The peach pit sized rocks hit their marks and five more drogs fell to the ground dead. Dra’kor bent over and grabbed another handful of rocks before he took off after the group who had already disappeared down the trail. Dra’kor kept his head covered and ran hard, trying to catch up.

  They dashed into the opening in the trees and skidded to a stop, barely avoiding tumbling over a tall cliff. Sheila grabbed Dra’kor just in time as his feet skidded to the very edge. Dra’kor twirled his arms, and then sat down into the dirt.

  “Thanks,” he panted, feeling the fatigue catching up with him. Even the adrenaline couldn’t keep him going much longer.

  Sheila grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet.

  Dra’kor looked around quickly, unable to fully focus, “Which way now? We’re trapped.”

  Toulereau pulled his sword free of its sheath. “We’ll make a stand here. They can only attack us down the narrow trail. This is as good a place as any to hold our ground.”

  Sheila grabbed the two by their shirtsleeves. “Trust me!”

  And with that, she shoved the two off the edge of the cliff. As soon as they cleared the edge, she jumped after them.

  Dra’kor screamed while he fell, his hands and feet flailing, but Toulereau quickly found his center and twisted mid air so that he faced downward in a dive. He still gripped his sword in his right hand, but held it tight to his side, pointing toward his toes.

  They all hit the water at the same time, sinking to the bottom of the stream before kicking off and breaking the surface.

  Dra’kor wiped his face off, “Did you have to do that?”

  Sheila grinned, “We didn’t have time to discuss it. Now swim. They’ll be after us quickly. There is a trail that will lead them here. We have only gained a few minutes at best.”

  “At least we’re clean,” he said, while grinning. He ducked his head back under and scrubbed at his hair, rinsing out as much filth as he could.

  The three swam downstream, letting the swift current carry them. Soon they heard the roar of the rapids. Dra’kor started swimming for shore, but Sheila gra
bbed him. “No!”

  “Are you nuts?” he screamed. “We’ll be crushed and killed.”

  Sheila shouted back. “No we won’t. I used to ride these rapids when I was a small girl. We’ll be all right! Just make sure your sword is secure.”

  Dra’kor looked at Sheila with the most terrified of looks.

  “I don’t swim well,” he screamed, feeling the current pull at his legs.

  Toulereau was the first to enter the rapids, followed by Sheila and then Dra’kor. Dra’kor was fighting to keep his head above water and was choking and sputtering when Sheila grabbed his arm and held his head up. They tumbled over the rapids, which exited the narrow canyon and spilled into a shallow lake.

  Sheila stood up and helped Dra’kor to his feet. Toulereau was already wading toward shore. He turned and shouted over his shoulder. “Quickly now, I know where we are. We need to make it back to Three Rivers.”

  Dra’kor was panting and shivering. “We’ll never make it.”

  Sheila batted him in the head. “Focus! Our lives depend on it.”

  Toulereau was far in front; he ran effortlessly and seemed never to get tired. He looked back over his shoulder at Dra’kor and knew he had to go ahead and prepare the way.

  Dra’kor lost sight of Trey when they entered the long field that led to Three Rivers. He could hear the hounds howling in the distance, but knew that once they hit the field, they would make up the ground fast. His vision was blurred and he clutched at his chest, which felt ready to explode. He was exhausted and didn’t know if he could keep running.

  Sheila pulled him along. “Keep running,” she yelled in his ear.

  They broke out of the high grass and saw the town’s wall looming ahead, less than a quarter league away. Dra’kor stumbled and fell to a knee, gouging it deep on a buried rock. Only his reaction had kept him from burying his face in the dirt. He pushed himself up and stood unmoving and disorientated.

  “Move your ass, Mage!” Sheila yelled into his face, jerking him forward.

  “Leave me,” he moaned. “Save yourself. I can’t run anymore.”

  “Move now, you lazy, spoiled, excuse for a mage!”

  Sheila could see Toulereau far ahead, yelling at the townsfolk in the towers. She looked back and saw the first three wolven and a pack of death hounds break out into the grass. They didn’t have much time.

  Dra’kor’s face blanched as the death-hounds stood erect and morphed into demons as they prepared for their attack. The gray-skinned demons’ uneven gait did little to slow them down. Dra’kor could hear their jaws clicking as their razor sharp teeth clacked and ground together. He saw their giant claws extend at the end of overly long arms and he feared the fight ahead. Even at this distance, he could smell them; see the yellow puss dripping from their eyes and the black death drooling from their jaws.

  Dra’kor couldn’t help himself and kept looking back. With each glance, he slowed further. They stumbled across the field, Dra’kor limping and dragging his injured leg behind. Sheila’s hand was cramping from the grip she had on Dra’kor’s belt.

  “Hurry! Please, hurry,” she begged.

  They were close enough that they could hear the shouts of the men standing in the towers. They waved their crossbows and shouted encouragement. Toulereau stood at the base of the wall, holding the door open, his sword drawn. Next to him stood John and Brag.

  The last thing he remembered was seeing Toulereau running toward them, and then everything went black.

  Dra’kor wasn’t aware when the first volley of cross bolts flew. Nor was he aware that the famed elf ran out to meet them and stood between them and the wolven. He missed Brag’s heroic effort, attacking and killing two wolven himself. He never saw the magnificence of the elf dance when Toulereau called on his ancestors and did the dance of the gods with his sword, nor did he witness the entire town’s men folk pouring out of the gate with pitchforks and hoes to beat the beasts back, sending demons back to the plains.

  By the time his vision cleared, he was lying on the ground inside the gates with a crowd of townsfolk poking and prodding him. He struggled to stand and almost lost his balance before Toulereau grabbed him by the forearm and steadied him.

  Hagra pushed her way through the crowd.

  “Seems I’m always patchin’ you up!’ she said, with a toothy grin getting right up in his face.

  “Sheila?” he yelled, twisting around trying to find her in the crowd.

  Hagra placed a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down son, yer girlfriend is just fine. It’s you that needs fixing! How is it that you seems to be the only one that ever gets hurt? Ye got yerself some death wish?”

  Dra’kor stood up, favoring his leg and saw a crowd of women standing around Toulereau. They were weeping and holding each other. He looked Hagra in the eyes.

  “The elf had to give them the bad news about their husbands,” Hagra muttered softly. “There’ll be no happy days for many of them women for a long time. Sheila told me about the Olc’Corryns. Damn pity! Filthy creatures they is.”

  Dra’kor looked up into her eyes and saw tears. He threw an arm over her shoulder and they hobbled down toward her cottage, leaving the commotion behind. Dra’kor called on the magic to heal himself, but he was too exhausted to accomplish much.

  “Don’t you worry none. I’ll clean those cuts up and make sure they don’t go septic. Sheila told me about the sewer and the rats. I’m surprised ye got her out of there. She pretty much hates rats you know!”

  Dra’kor grunted at Hagra’s understatement.

  Men’ak came running out of the inn before they were even halfway down the street. He wrapped his friend in a big bear hug, causing Dra’kor to almost black out.

  “By the Ten, Dra’kor. Where have you been?”

  Hagra pushed Men’ak gently to the side, “Give your friend some room. He’s hurting pretty bad.”

  Dra’kor gripped his friend by his forearm and smiled warmly. “I’ll talk to you later. We have plenty to discuss. I need to get patched up first.”

  “Hagra?” Men’ak said, surprised to see the witch. “I didn’t expect you back so soon, you had said you’d be gone for the better part of a week. D-d-did you get it?”

  “It’s a long story. Let’s save it fer later. For now, ye only needs ta know I didn’t reach me destination and returned here after sensing to myself that something was wrong.”

  Hagra was glad she had given up her quest to retrieve the staff of the druid. She had almost been to the first gate when her stomach began itching. Her keen intuition had told her that something was amiss, and she had learned that she would be better served if she always paid attention to the nasty itch she got when things seemed wrong. She had arrived just prior to Dra’kor and Sheila breaking into the field. She was more than surprised to see that they had the elf king, Toulereau in tow. She managed to sneak back into the town whilst everyone else was clamoring at the gate trying to get a look at the beasts they had slaughtered.

  She shook her head. That was just the way small-town folks was ... clamoring to get a gander and then complaining about the nightmares they’ll bring in their sleep. She shook her head and hoped she had enough chamomile and catnip. She didn’t understand common folks’ need to be seeing death and destruction up close and personal. Maybe it reminded them of what they were thankful fer. She didn’t know, she was just supposing it to be true. No good would ever come of it, that much she knew for sure.

  Dra’kor shifted his weight and took another step down the street, leaning heavily on Hagra while dragging his injured leg behind. The toe of his boot scraped a rut in the mud, the road was still damp from the rain they had gotten the day before. He looked back over his shoulder and saw Men’ak waving goodbye.

  Men’ak stood in the center of the street and waved after his friend before he turned and walked down the street to see what the commotion was all about.

  They slowly plodded by the inn and Dra’kor saw D’Arron standing in the open doorway. He wea
kly waved. He could see it in her eyes that she was filled with worry.

  “I’ll be fine once I get patched up,” he shouted.

  He continued limping down the street watching her as she stared in his direction. Hagra’s cottage seemed so far away. Every step made him ache more. His eyes filled with tears as he fought back the pain that was shooting up his leg.

  Skin

  The Master set down the sacred brass pitcher and knelt before the intricate containment ring drawn with the blood of a slave. The ring was larger and far more complicated than normal, but then again, it had to be to hold the horror of what was coming. The slave, whose blood had been used, sat cross-legged on the floor chanting. Pale and barely lucid he let the remainder of his life’s blood drain to the floor from his severed wrist. The sticky red trail led at least ten feet from the containment ring and was filled with streaks and splatters from when his heart had forced the blood squirting from the severed artery in his arm. The darkening pools, from where the man had rested, had already started to coagulate on the cold surface. The man uttered an ancient phrase as he slumped face first to the floor and died. The Master hated wasting servants to call the beast, but it was the only way.

  The Master used a single finger to draw in blood the required runes of protection and calling. Each exact, each was flawless. The blood smoked and turned to flame before becoming black ash as each symbol was finished and then consumed. Eyes rolled back in sockets and body quivering, the Master chanted an ancient song sung in off-key discordant notes, barely noticing the sacrifice the man had made, nor truly caring. The remaining slaves and concubines sat prostrated along the walls, trembling in fear while the room shook with the foul magic.

  The images of long-dead demons and fades rose from the floor and walls and circled the room, adding to the song with their eerie demonic voices. The tones resonated and caused the opulent chandeliers, hanging far above the floor, to quake and tremble. The fine-cut crystal pieces tinkled and clanked, adding to the cacophony. Empty ghost-like faces with eyes sunken and jowls contorted in agony swooped about passing through walls, and then reappearing up from the floor.