The Third Sign

by Scott D. Muller

  The cavernous room was damp and musty and sat vacant, lost for centuries in the labyrinth of hallways beneath the Keep. The steady sound of water dripping echoed endlessly from the many intertwined passages leading from the main room. For over a thousand years, the vault, deep in the Winseer Mountains at the heart of the Havenhold, had been sealed.

  Ja’tar looked down a long hallway. He unwound his big ball of twine while he walked. In these lower levels, every hallway looked the same, only the occasional break for a doorway broke the monotony, and even then, the doorways were nondescript.

  The trouble was, they were not looking for a door, they were looking for a metal seal, a brass placard smaller than an inch across. The placard held a single rune stamped into the old tarnished surface, it said, ‘wall.’ It would be one of many with that inscription, and only the Keeper would know which was correct based on the answer to an ancient riddle. A riddle known only to him.

  Ja’tar scanned the left wall while he walked, Zedd’aki scanned the right. He wished he remembered the solution to the riddle, ‘The total 36, a sum of all.’ He remembered his father making him memorize it, which he did. He just couldn’t remember it to save his soul.

  “Any luck?” Ja’tar asked.

  “None,” came a soft reply that echoed down the hall.

  “It has been two days already. We have found five plates with the word ‘wall’ written on them.”

  “I know.”

  The two turned around and retraced their footsteps, winding the twine as they returned. When they reached the end of the hall, they used magic to leave a glowing mark. They stepped to the next hall and continued. It was agonizingly slow, monotonous work.

  It took many days to locate the room amidst the myriad of catacomb hallways that riddled the mountain. Teams of wizards searched leaving trails of twine and then marking maps drawn to roughly identify where they had been.

  Ja’tar was at the end of another long hallway when Staven came running down the hall, out of wind.

  “We found it ... we think we found it.”

  Ja’tar set his ball of twine down and turned to Zedd’aki. “Keep searching. We have had five false successes.”

  Zedd’aki watched his friend disappear down the dark hall.

  The Keeper was summoned, and it was he who knew the hall, and the room that lay behind a wall of solid rock, recognized solely by the seal set in place many centuries ago. The vote of the thirteen demanded that the room be opened. That demand set the wheels in motion for several more rites and rituals that needed to be learned and practiced.

  Ja’tar rubbed his sleeve over the brass placard and knelt down on the stone floor to read the little, almost indiscernible print. His eyes went wide, they had found another room. He quickly recalled the riddle and asked for their location.

  Staven shouted back, “We’re on the seventh floor.”

  “Which hall?” Ja’tar shouted.

  “The seventy-sixth,” came the reply.

  Ja’tar quickly hustled to the end and began counting rooms, although to those watching, it appeared as if he were examining the halls and rooms for clues.

  “Are you sure that the hall is seventy six?” he asked.

  “Let me check ...” came back a grumble.

  Minutes passed, then an hour, while Ja’tar and Raven stood waiting.

  “Sorry,” came back a sheepish reply that echoed off the rock. “Seventy-seven.”

  “Set up the lights to mark the way,” Ja’tar commanded, satisfied that they had found the correct tag.

  Raven stood proud, “I found the room!”

  Ja’tar slapped her on the back. “Good job, Raven. You have done well.”

  The final path was marked and the spirit lights were set every thirty feet. They were not even sure that they had found the room, there were no doors, but the placard was correct, and according to Ja’tar, the location answered the riddle.

  Ja’tar smiled to himself, all the individual digits summed together made thirty six; seventh floor, plus fourteen for the seventy-seventh hall, add in fifteen for the tag being between rooms seven and eight.

  Ja’tar stood staring at the plaque. He had been a young apprentice when the room had last been used. He had only vague memories of the rite and his father, Bal’kan, the previous Keeper. He was unsure of himself and had spent several nights digging through the letters that his father had written him those many years ago right before he ascended.

  He thanked the gods that his father had been a meticulous man. Buried in the forth letter was a reference to the rites and the location of the books that contained them. Even though he easily found the text after that, learning the spells had not been easy. His fingers would not move the way they were required, having lost much of their dexterity over the years. He had spent many a frustrated hour, concentrating and repeating the spell, committing all the movements and words to memory.

  Ja’tar was the Keeper; he had to preside over the conjuring, for he was the only one who knew the spell. He started the spell and wove the intricate weave repeatedly, sweat beading on his brow and his eyes rolling back in his head. He watched as the threads of his spell raced for the wall and sank into the stone, leaving a momentary glow. They wouldn’t know for hours if they had the right location.

  The other three wizards pitched in, learning the spell in pieces until they had mastered the movements and chants. They added their strength to Ja’tar’s spell as they could. After several hours, they had become proficient enough with the weave to maintain it on their own.

  Zedd’aki forcibly pulled Ja’tar from the group to give him a short rest, grabbing his hands and preventing him from weaving. Slowly, Ja’tar came out of his trance and became aware of his surroundings.

  “How do you feel?”

  Ja’tar smiled. “I feel tired, but I am fine. Are the other wizards ready to give?”

  Zedd’aki dipped his head. “They wait in the dining room for us to summon them.”

  It turned out that it was not easy removing a ward that had been in place for as long as this one had been. Eleven-hundred years was a long time, and like a dead man’s bones, rigor-mortis happens and the wards resistant removal. Of course, the ward was intended to be difficult to remove; closing a realm or gate was not to be taken lightly.

  “Good. We will need them for the rite within the hour.”

  Zedd’aki handed his friend a tankard of broth. “From the White Sisters, drink.”

  Ja’tar took the strong draft and swallowed it down, feeling its potent punch.

  There were few White Sisters now, and those still there were old and well past the age of child bearing. However, once, it was considered a great honor to have a daughter accepted into the Keep. The family was well provided for and the child grew, married and served the wizards. Many had children who became wizards. A few Sisters even mastered magic themselves. It seemed a long time had passed since there was the sound of children in the Keep.

  Several hours later, Zedd’aki led the first volunteer down to where Ja’tar was chanting. The rock was just glowing and the edges of the door were just starting to become visible. Zedd’aki pulled Ja’tar to the side. “Staven is ready to give.”

  They had not let up from their task, had not had food nor drink other than the restorative broth once the ceremony had begun. Relentless in their pursuit of opening the Chamber of Light, the wizards paused only to perform the forbidden rite of Saki’char; the taking of life energy from another, for no single wizard had the amount of life energy necessary to break the ward. They sat, backs against the rocky walls of the hallway resting and taking a measured amount of broth brought by the Sisters of the Keep.

  Ja’tar placed his hand over the Staven’s heart. He wove the forbidden spell and watched Staven’s body shake. The sweet feeling of life flowing into his veins and the pure ecstasy of it made his legs tremble. Zedd’aki stood by and watched as Staven’s face went white and limp. He drooled on himself and his eyes rolled back in their
sockets.

  “Stop!” Zedd’aki yelled.

  Ja’tar grinned, his eyes wide with the lust for the magic. He had lost all self-control and was pulling as much from the man as he could.

  Zedd’aki yelled louder, “Stop! You are killing him.”

  Zedd’aki knocked Ja’tar’s hand free, forcibly yanking it to the side as Ja’tar tried to maintain his attachment to the flow of sweet energy that was giving him such pleasure.

  Ja’tar slowly returned to his senses, turning red when he realized he would have been unable to stop himself from draining all the life force from the mage if his friend had not stopped him. There was a reason that the rite was forbidden.

  Staven collapsed to the ground, assisted by Zedd’aki. Zedd’aki knelt down and listened to his heart, which was barely beating. The small man’s breath was raspy and his skin was pasty white. He fought for his life.

  “He’ll survive?” Ja’tar asked, embarrassed.

  Zedd’aki wasn’t positive, but agreed anyway. “I’ll bring someone down for the others as soon as I heal Staven and he can walk.”

  Ja’tar turned and began assisting the other mages, chanting and weaving his magic into the door.

  Zedd’aki placed his hands on the mage and fed in the healing magic. After several minutes, Staven’s eyes opened and he was able to push himself up against the wall to rest.

  “It is done then?”

  Zedd’aki sighed in relief. “It is! I thought I was going to lose you ...”

  Staven set his hand on Zedd’aki’s and patted it softly. “The need can be great.”

  Zedd’aki mumbled under his breath. “Like the strongest of addictions.”

  When at last the ward was removed and the stone doors appeared and creaked open on heavily rusted hinges, the three Grand Wizards fell to the ground, exhausted from having danced and chanted almost continuously for three days, and nights.

  The White Sisters rushed to their sides with tankards of broth and warm bread. The Grand wizards ate slowly, savoring the golden liquid and enjoying the warmth of it sliding down their raw throats. They each tore off chunks of stone-ground wheat bread and used it to wipe their wooden bowls clean. After a time, they slowly traced their steps back through the winding catacomb halls and stairs to the main Keep, leaning heavily on the Sisters, who helped them to their rooms.

  Bal’kor stood to the side and watched as his uncle was helped up the stairs. “Is he going to be all right?” he asked one of the sisters.

  She patted him on his back. “Yes, given time and rest. You’re uncle will be just fine.”

  Bal’kor turned to Zedd’aki. “May I help clean the room?”

  Zedd’aki couldn’t see any reason why not, so he nodded his approval to the lad and followed Ja’tar up the stairs.

  They left the remaining ten sorcerers to put the room in order, clearing out the dust and dirt. Rest was needed to rebuild the magic, to replenish the mind. Zedd’aki supervised, wondering if they had chosen the right path. They didn’t even have thirteen full wizards. They needed to use Bal’kor, and he was certainly no mage!

  It wasn’t long before the other wizards, frustrated with his inept behavior and bumbling, exiled Bal’kor from the room. They were not used to supervising a teenager and his constant questions were driving the older wizards crazy.

  Bal’kor was no longer aging from the magic his mother had infused him with. He a teenager in years and physical appearance. Mentally, he had not yet caught up with his physical body and was lacking in experiences to match his supposed years. The magic helped him, but his maturity level was still that of a young child, after all, he was only weeks old. His ability to reason and comprehend was severely hampered.

  It was general consensus that he was more trouble to keep track of than he was worth given the urgency of their assignment. He wasn’t even a wizard! Well, not really, even though he held the title and knew the spells. He was a sham, nothing more than a pretender riding on the shirttails of his deceased mother.

  Bal’kor left and walked the lonely stairs back to his room by himself. He knew that he would never quite fit in. He had been admitted to the Keep only because of his mother. He had natural talent; at least the testing had shown that he did. It just never developed. Bal’kor felt that his life was not taking the path it should. Try as he might, he just couldn’t for the life of him figure out where it was supposed to go.

  Bal’kor reached his room and let himself in, closing the heavy wooden door. He was bored. There was little to do now that all attention was focused on getting things prepared for the Closing. He didn’t feel like working in the library, and decided that he might as well practice his lessons. However, he couldn’t decide on which to practice!

  Truth be told, he found them all to be boring. He wanted to work Magic, not just make things move, change color or shape. He pulled out his lesson book and opened it. The instructions they gave him were very monotonous and seemed to him to accomplish nothing; besides, he already knew everything in the book.

  Bal’kor was not patient. What did he care about making a rock move or float? He grabbed the practice rock and threw it across the room. It bounced around harmlessly and came to rest next to his clothes chest. Bal’kor bent over to pick it up and palmed the stone, tossing it on the bed next to the book.

  He gave up on the lesson; he simply didn’t have the drive to do this anymore. He glanced at the chest. He could feel it calling him. He went to his clothes chest, the only possession he owned that had been his Mother’s, and opened it. Its hand-carved wooden lid rose while the well-worn hinges protested and creaked. He reached in and dug under all his possessions for the book he had scavenged away from the library.

  The book was very old with yellowed pages and a tattered cover of what must have been finely-tooled leather. He didn’t understand the meaning of the gold symbols on the cover; he had not been looking for the book, or any other for that matter. He could only read the letter “D” etched into the cover.

  He felt oddly compelled to open the book, to seek the knowledge that was buried in its cryptic pages. He carefully opened it to the page he had previously marked and began drawing the detailed designs on the floor in charcoal. He almost had them memorized, but he checked each to be sure they were perfect.

  When he completed the designs, he began the chants and soon, a diminutive demon appeared in the center of the design. Bal’kor was very pleased with himself and he studied his creation for a while before he sent it back to wherever demons came from. The book wasn’t exactly clear on that point. Bal’kor kept impeccable notes on what he was doing. He found this to be very interesting. It was real magic. It seemed to be the only magic he could do.

  Warvyn sat on his heavily jeweled throne, watching the human women dance in the amphitheater. He smiled, enjoying their suffering immensely. They were all that he still possessed from his unsuccessful attempt to overthrow the Wizards at Rynwaar. These were the women and children of the wizards—now his for eternity. He would be repaid for the pain they had inflicted. Yes! They would pay for eternity.

  Things were amiss in these abysmal bowels of halla. Demons were suddenly being summoned again. He was pondering the sudden interest in demons. Of course, there was the Master, but she didn’t call demons, she only summoned him! He bared his teeth and snarled, gripping the dais with his hands so tight the wood splintered.

  When the first demon had been summoned, he paid little attention, but five in two days was too many for him to ignore. As far as he remembered, no demons had been summoned in many centuries. He smiled evilly. It took a very powerful wizard to bind and control a demon, lest the master become the slave… or worse. It was a lovely thought, and for a moment, he indulged himself with thoughts of what he would do to the Master, if she were to ever make a mistake. He would enjoy taking her for himself. He smirked; then again, she may enjoy it as well! He roared to himself in amusement.

  Other than her, that vile creature who made demands of him, he knew
of only one who had the mastery to summon and rule a demon. Why was his archenemy, Ja’tar, taking such an interest in demons after all this time? To the extent that Warvyn knew, it was against his nature. What was he up to?

  The two misshapen hunchbacked guards opened the doors to the room, and a small insignificant imp crawled in on its claws and knees. They looked on with gaping maws, drooling, their large incisors protruding from their malformed jaws. Their leathery skin, coarse and cracked, oozed in places, and what could only be called fur, lay matted, twisted and wiry. They motioned the small imp into the room with their long curved blades, anchored to staffs.

  Knowing that Master had summoned him, the creature’s eyes darted back and forth and it shivered uncontrollably with fear. It was never good to be summoned to see the Master.

  Warvyn waved the twisted creature forward; it came groveling, crawling up the marble steps.

  “Yes Master?” it said, terrified that it had offended the Great One.

  Offending the Great One meant much pain and prolonged torture, but never death. There was no freedom from this halla, only a more agonizing existence.

  “Tell me of the wizard who summoned you. What did he bid you to do?” Warvyn asked, leaning forward on the throne, eyes gleaming yellow. His fowl acid breath hit the demon in the face, making its skin blister, and the small demon shook with fear.

  “Noth-Nothing. He asked nothing. He just stared. Stared and wrote in a book.”

  The Master’s lips began to quiver.

  “He was young, didn’t even have a decent beard, just stubble. Too young! He couldn’t have been a hundred. Maybe not even fifty. No staff. He didn’t even have a staff, or a wand!” the demon mumbled on, head held low, looking at the floor.