He passed out from the pain; fell to his knees, his hands still on the rock. The strands held and became solid once again. The Guardian of the Gate threw its head back and howled at the missed opportunity.
The symbol of the closed doors began to glow brighter, forcing the attention of the beast. The Guardian of the Gate resisted, looking away. The strands shined brighter and the beast screamed in agony and looked over at this glowing object. The Guardian turned toward Ja’tar and bowed again, then nodded, waiting for acknowledgment. It wanted to be done with this, to go back to the between worlds. It wanted nothing more to do with wizards.
Ja’tar’s convulsions slowed, and then stopped. He looked up like he was awakening from a long nap. A nap filled with nightmares! His face was gray and waxy, his eyes bloodshot. He slowly looked around, taking in the sight in front of him.
He had not been aware of what had been happening. He hadn’t known how close they had come to being slaves instead of the masters. As he scanned the room, he saw Qu’entza kneeling in a pool of blood beneath the controlling symbols, and saw the Guardian smiling. Carelessness has its price and the price had been paid.
He said the last of his chants, a single word, “Eeto-Finos,” and released his hands from the orb. The word meant let it be final. Qu’entza and Zedd’aki were released from their trances and their hands slid from the rock. They collapsed into unconsciousness, falling to the dais like limp rags.
The Guardian of the Gate became semi solid and once more dipped its head before dissolving into the murky pool. They watched the symbol for Naan glow, first orange, then red. Finally, white light flared from the symbol and when it died away, the symbol was no more. The Gate was shut and the portal to the plane of the beast was closed.
The web collapsed and the vines withered back into rock. The two keys were removed by two of the remaining mages. The mist cleared and only the deep black void remained where the Guardian of the Gate had been.
The other mages hurried up to the platform to help their fallen colleagues. The magic of the Guardian of the Gate released the seal, the rock wall became doors, and the doors slowly opened, fresh air rushing in, stirring what little dust remained in the room.
They hurried out carrying their friends, wrapping bandages and murmuring as they went. The room was again empty and silent. Only the old wizard and the Floormaster remained. Ja’tar tried to rise, but failed. The Floormaster rushed to his side, dropping the staff, and lifted the Wizard to his feet. Their eyes met and the Floormaster knew the burden of his friend.
”Let us go home,” Ja’tar said weakly, trying to stand.
His hands shook. He grabbed for the Floormaster’s sleeve. The Floormaster took hold of his elbow and steadied his friend.
“Today has been…very trying. I think I would like a tankard of ale,” he took three steps before turning to face the Floormaster, a small smile on his lips.
“Yes!” he agreed, “maybe two tankards…. and a warm bath.”
Ja’tar turned back and took another shuffled step. He bent over slowly, grabbed his staff that had half-fallen and was leaning against the chair.
He winced. The pain shooting through his hip when he tried to stand up. He used both hands on the staff and pushed himself erect, working hand over hand. He inhaled deeply and headed for the door, his heavily callused feet shuffling along the cool stone.
Ja’tar turned to see Bal’kor standing there, with a blank expression on his face, staring at the void.
“You coming?” he called.
Bal’kor turned to face Ja’tar, but didn’t move.
“We need to get you taken care of,” Qu’entza said. “Bal’kor can take care of himself.”
Ja’tar wearily agreed, “I still want that ale!”
The Floormaster nodded saying only, “as you wish,” and helped the Grand Master hobble out of the room. They began the long climb back up the steps and through the maze of hallways. Something gnawed at Ja’tar. Why had the Guardian of the Gate attacked? It had never liked being used, but it had never showed aggression toward its captors before today.
Premonition
Ja’tar could not sleep, he tossed, turned and wrapped himself in his wool blanket. He kept startling awake with the same nightmare poisoning his brain, but when he woke, he couldn’t remember any of the details. His forehead was clammy and he was sweating profusely. Surely, something was amiss.
Something kept nagging at him. He sat up in bed and with a flick of his wrist, the lamp lit. He reached for the bed stand, poured himself a mug of water, and gulped it down trying to rid his throat of the cotton-like lump that came from being a mouth breather.
Something about the ceremony of the Closing just didn’t sit right with him. He knew that the Gate closing happened and that it was successful, but it didn’t feel complete. Ja’tar played the ceremony over and over in his head, trying to identify what was bothering him. He even wove a Show-Me spell, and watched the mirage form in front of his face. Ja’tar watched intently as the day’s events played out. He slowly circled the images and analyzed them critically.
He had been quite surprised that Bal’kor was neither afraid nor worried and had actually been paying attention ... and acute attention at that. Qu’entza and his faltering he expected, although not to the extent it happened. He was altogether shocked at the retaliation of the Guardian and its behavior. Never before had it struggled so violently when summoned. While he knew that it didn’t relish dealing with humans and that its only purpose for existence was to maintain the Gates, it had never attacked a wizard, not in the recorded history of the Keep. It had always reluctantly complied.
Ja’tar was especially astounded by Bal’kor’s behavior. The sniveling little wretch sure was cocky and self-assured. He noticed that he wasn’t sweating like everyone else, but then again, he wasn’t contributing magic to the event, only a warm body. There was something about his stare that bothered Ja’tar, that cold black stare. It was as though nothing was behind those eyes. Ja’tar grunted and sat back down.
Ja’tar’s brows arched and his eyes narrowed. The eyes, it had to be the eyes!
Ja’tar thought hard, trying to recall every minute detail. He conjured a reenactment of his memory a second time, and watched intently as the events unfolded. He watched, rotated the image, remembering that he had thought the boy to be missing and recalled looking up just as Bal’kor stepped from behind the column and their eyes met. In that instant, he knew. No pupils! Bal’kor had no pupils.
Ja’tar was concerned now, very concerned, because the only creatures he knew of with no pupils were demons. And if Bal’kor was a demon, then there were only twelve present at the ceremony, not enough to bind the Guardian of the Gate, which would further explain why Qu’entza was injured. It explained many things, but what had become of Bal’kor?
Ja’tar swung his stiff legs over the side of the bed. He had to find out what was going on, and he needed to know right now. This couldn’t wait till morning. If he was right, the Keep was in grave danger. He stood up and flung his robe over his wiry frame. He grabbed his staff and opened the door to the hall. He listened carefully. It was quiet; nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Mica wasted no time, she maintained the illusion of Bal’kor and hurried down the hall as soon as she could after faking a late dinner, assuming everyone would be exhausted and sound asleep. The worst part was having to eat the overcooked meats and act as though she were actually hungry. Her stomach churned and she considered purging the contents.
The Keep was full of nooks and crannies and it was easy for her to turn herself into smoke, and hide in the shadows. The Keep was old and poorly lit; there were many places to hide. She easily avoided detection, working her way toward the chamber. She even spent a few minutes talking to Raven, who was none the wiser.
She found the passage down to the chamber easy enough and the trip didn’t take her long at all. The chamber was dark, the doors still open waiting for the remainder of the ceremon
y of purging to be conducted in the morning. She entered and bid the torches to light. The flames sprang to life immediately. Mica walked down to the sacrificial stone, remembering her instructions. She paused at the bottom, considering her next move.
She took the Roceye branch and set it in place. Almost immediately, the branch grew and came to life. Her eyes relaxed when the opening of the cave began to mist over. Warvyn was right, without thirteen present, the magic was still there. The Guardian was still at work and the Gate to the plane of the beast was still open.
She recalled the pattern that the Warvyn had burned into her memory with pain. She would never forget the pattern of stones. She touched each in consecutive order and a pattern of four began to glow. Her recollection, from earlier in the day, was that Zedd’aki had only pressed two and then the remaining glyphs appeared in the design at the base. This time, none appeared at the base, but the glyphs were not scarlet as before, but a sickening green. She bent over, looked closely, and saw a violet hue around the outside edges.
The mist began to solidify and a passage was forming. She took several steps backwards and watched as the mirror into the depths of Darkhalla formed. Darkhalla was the center city of the lower planes, where Warvyn lived. A vile place, filled with the odor of death and the constant howl of screams from the damned. This was purgatory, plain and simple. But ... it was home, what else could she say?
Once the haze cleared, she found herself looking into the throne room where the Warvyn sat on his ornate dais laughing. She heard his hideous laugh and knew that she had done well.
Ja’tar reached Bal’kor’s room and knocked vigorously. He tried several times, each with the same result. Silence answered his rap. He grew frustrated, scried the room and found nothing. He grabbed the latch and slowly opened the door. He hoped he was wrong and that all he would owe was an apology for invading the boy’s private space, but he feared the worst. He pushed the door into the room and stepped over the threshold.
The room was dark, but came to light when the Keeper entered. Ja’tar looked in horror at the drawings all over the floor, and then he saw the open book. Ja’tar knew this book, he knew the damage this book could do to the untrained. Oh, Bal’kor! What have you done? He thought to himself. He knew…because he helped recreate the book from the charred pages of the original that the Warvyn had almost destroyed in the invasion. How it had gotten into the hands of the boy was a mystery. His copy of the book, the only copy of which he knew, was in his study under deadly wards and spells. He was absolutely confident of it.
He studied the pattern on the floor, making mental notes of the designs and order. Whoever had written this had known much more than just the material in the book. The designs on the floor were all minor variations of the standard designs, but the subtle changes would allow a demon far too much freedom. He couldn’t remember how he knew.
Ja’tar began to piece together what might have transpired in the room that eventually led to Bal’kor’s possession; although he wasn’t sure if Bal’kor was possessed or simply gone and the demon was assuming his shape. Ja’tar grabbed the book and shut it, tucked it under his robe. The book was going with him.
He stopped halfway to the door, turned around and sat down on the bed. He rethought his impulse to rush looking for Bal’kor and decided to ponder the motives of his adversary. Why Bal’kor? Could it have been purely circumstantial? Maybe. Maybe not! Ja’tar pulled out the book, flipped several pages toward the middle, and began to read.
He found what he was looking for, but was not happy to see it staring at him in black and white. If Bal’kor had been summoning demons, then the Warvyn would know. If the Warvyn knew, then…he came to the inescapable conclusion that it wouldn’t be long before the demons were here, in the Keep. He hastily dug through the pile of Bal’kor’s things lying by the bed until he found what he was searching for, charcoal!
Ja’tar got down on his knees, using the staff for leverage and began to draw on the floor, elaborate designs, both new and modifications of the old. Ja’tar would never admit that he knew the craft of the Dark Magi, nor could he tell you where he had learned, but he knew enough, thank you very much! Way more than enough to keep this one under control.
First, he bound the demon that occupied Bal’kor’s body. He grinned, now he was the master. Next, he set a ward around the Keep. No demons would escape or ever leave this castle once they entered. None would get free to terrorize the countryside. Let them have the Keep, it was just a building. He knew that the lower levels were well protected.
He drew rapidly, knowing that time was not his ally. He finished and struggled to get to his feet. His knees were bleeding from crawling around on the rough stone floor. He brushed his hands off on his white robe leaving dark stains and pulled opened the heavy wooden door.
As soon as he left the room, he took his staff and traced a pattern around the edge of the door, sealing the room from all but him. He held his hand out and watched as the bright orange and yellow flames sealed the edges. He chanted and pulled in more of the source. He watched the brilliant-blue glow of his ward took effect, spreading from the center of the door outward. None would ever get into that room to destroy the patterns, not demons, not slaves, not the undead. It would take a god!
Duvall knew the Keep was under attack. Her wards set around the perimeter of the great castle went off, ringing loudly in her head. She paced, although that wasn’t possible. She was a spirit now, trapped in the bal’achar. She shouted, screaming at the top of her lungs for the wizards to wake. She sensed them, but they couldn’t sense her. Her wards prevented anyone from looking into her chamber, opening her door or hearing her words and thoughts. She was worried. If the demons found her room and entered, they could destroy the necklace in which she was trapped. She would be unable to prevent it. She would die. It would be ironic to have spent a millennium in the stone only to be extinguished by a different demon from the one who trapped her.
Ja’tar turned down the hall, heading away from the steps that lead to the Chamber. He had to find his confidant, the Floormaster. Once again, he needed his help. Ja’tar walked purposefully down the maze of halls until he found the room he was looking for. He rapped the staff on the door loudly and called out his friend’s name, Rua’tor. He didn’t worry about the noise; they were in a remote part of the castle, and people rarely ventured into this unknown area. Rua’tor preferred the solitude at night.
The door glowed briefly before it cracked open and an old man peered out, sluggish at being rousted from bed at such an ungodly hour. Ja’tar didn’t have time for pleasantries and pushed the door in, hitting his friend in the nose. Rua’tor’s hands went straight to his face, his knees buckled and he saw stars.
“Bloody Dragons!” What’d you do that for?” Rua’tor complained loudly, holding his sleeve to his nose. A fresh red stain was spreading on the woven wool.
“Shhhh!” The Keeper hushed, frowning at his friend. He quickly stepped into the room and closed the door behind himself.
One look at his friend’s expression told Rua’tor that this was not a social call. He latched the door behind Ja’tar and motioned him in, while casting a light globe.
“I’m afraid we’re in serious trouble, or will be soon!” Ja’tar said, pacing back and forth in the dormitory room.
“Something was bothering me about the ceremony, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it. But it nagged at the back of my brain, needing constant attention, depriving me of slumber.”
Ja’tar kept talking, gesticulating with his hands, pointing a finger in the air and shaking it violently as he spoke.
“Well, I figured out what it was. Bal’kor’s a demon or rather, he might be demon possessed.” Ja’tar shrugged his shoulders, while looking at his friend. Worry spread over his face. He paced across the room again. He opened his mouth to speak, but he had nothing more to say, so he closed it and stood.
Rua’tor just stood there listening, but Ja’tar could tell by the expr
ession on his face that he knew what was coming next. He knew, because he could see the rage and fear in his eyes.
“You think he’s ... its here, in the Keep?” Rua’tor stated, assuming there was no doubt while looking up from his white knuckled, tightly clasped hands.
“If he’s not, he will be soon. I went to Bal’kor’s room and he was missing. I found this.” Ja’tar pulled the book out from under his robe and handed it over to his friend. Rua’tor didn’t need to open it, he knew it by its cover, the Book of Rah’tok, notes from the famed Demon Slayer of the First Age.
“How do you suppose he got a hold of this?” Rua’tor questioned, handing the heavy skin bound book back to his friend. He was glad to be rid of it, it made his skin crawl.
Ja’tar saw the question in his friend’s eyes, “No, it’s not my copy. Mine is sealed in my room ... and has been for centuries.”
“So how?”
Ja’tar took the book, “I don’t know that it matters!”
Rua’tor rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “No, I suppose right now, it does not!”
“I managed to ward the Keep. At least the demons won’t get past these walls. I don’t know if it will keep them from going elsewhere, other realms. I didn’t have time.”
Rua’tor sighed in relief, understanding the risks all too well.
“We must seal the Gate Room, and the Gate. If only twelve were present ...” his voice trailed off. “We can’t let them gain access to the other realms.”
“We will do what we must.” Rua’tor said sternly, although anxiety filled his expression. He recalled having been in this position before. Last time, they had been lucky. Maybe this time they would too.
Ja’tar was giving orders now, the discussion was over. This was the Keeper asserting his authority. “Take what you need, but hurry. I don’t know if we will be back this way for a long time. We may never make it back. The safety of the realms comes first. We’re expendable.”
The Third Sign Page 49
