The Third Sign

by Scott D. Muller

  Staven sighed. “Their touch will suck your life energy as sure as a sword in the guts!”

  Staven kicked the demon he had just killed out of the way, pushing it off to the side of the hall. He looked down just in time to see the demon turn black, dissolve into ash and slide into the stone. He ducked under the claw of another demon that was aimed at his head. Staven rolled to the side and drove the tip of his blade deep into the demons core.

  Zen jumped into the hall and drew her twin scimitars. She wore little more than a small loincloth. She turned to Staven and grinned.

  Staven smiled appreciatively.

  She set her blades into motion, swinging them methodically in an intricate pattern as she charged down the hall. “For Aegis!”

  Staven looked on in horror and screamed, “No, Zen. Don’t ...”

  She charged down the hall slicing into anything that stood in her way. Her blade slid deep into the innards of the demons as she lunged and sliced her way down the hall. The demons clawed at her, trying to grab her so that they could drag her back to Darkhalla. By the fifth step, she was covered in blood and gore, with deep claw marks across her back and down her legs.

  “Feel my blades, filth,” she said, swearing.

  She managed to duck under the first spell that flew in her direction, by falling into a somersault. She laughed and hastily retreated to rejoin the others.

  “Did you think I have a death wish?” she asked Staven, wiping the blood from her face with the back of her hand. She cast a quick spell and healed the poisonous wounds that were already starting to numb her senses. She shivered in delight as the pain made her feel alive.

  Staven grunted and leapt into Arrow Forward and Woodsman Chop as another pack of demons approached. Zen twirled her blades and focused on those that slipped past Staven’s attack.

  For a while, they fought against the odds, but soon, fatigue set in and they were becoming sloppy. Their blades were held a little less firmly, their spells deflected just enough to the side, their swords that scored flesh, had not enough force to kill. They were wasting motion and now needed two blows to accomplish what one had earlier in the fight. Their expressions grimaced and sweat ran down their faces.

  Zen stood tall, trying to see over the ever increasing stack of dead enemies. She failed to see a plasma ball that came rushing in over the tops of the heads of her foes in time to duck. It caught her dead center, lifting her off the floor and tossing her several feet backwards. She landed hard, sliding across the floor from the impact and screamed, trying to rub the liquid fire from her frame. Her voice turned into a gurgle as she turned into a charred corpse. “He-e-lpp ... me ...”

  “Zen!” Qu’entza screamed. He stood his ground as several demons approached. A wraith, hiding far above in the shadows of the ceiling swooped down and grabbed the mage from behind. The wraith screeched in ecstasy as it sucked on the mage’s life force. Qu’entza’s face turned gray as his eyes and cheeks sunk deep into his skull, the wraith draining the last of his jiin. His body contorted and withered, his hand still holding the ball of plasma fire when he slid through the rough stone floor, being taken by the wraith.

  Collin opened his door, barely cracking it wide enough to peer down the dark hallway. His face paled as he saw the demons preparing spells and casting them at the wizards he called friends. He tried to be brave, tried to leave his room and help, but he couldn’t. Shutting the door, he pressed it closed with his back, slid to the floor and wept into his hands. This was all his fault, he just knew it.

  The Warvyn came up the stairs taking them two by two, his cape billowing behind. He made his way down the dark narrow hall to the small dormitory of Bal’kor, where a green wrinkle-back demon stood guard. Demons scattered to get out of his way.

  He completely ignored the fierce battle being fought just to his south; the smell of burnt flesh and the sounds of screams didn’t break his concentration. His demons had their orders. They would obey. He had his mind focused on a more important task—reclaiming the Book.

  Menzzaren saw the enormous demon behind the cluster he was fighting. One of the demons in front of him conjured a hex of desiccation and threw it forcefully at Menzzaren. It caught him in his arm and he watched as it withered to the bone. He grimaced, clenched his teeth and chanted as he fought the vile magic, which continued to move up his arm and was now at his shoulder. Snarling, he chanted the dismissal spell. Slowly, his arm returned to normal. He looked down the hall and saw the advancing horde.

  “Fall back!” he shouted. “We’ll regroup on the next level down.”

  He turned and headed for the stairs while the rest of the hall cleared. They tried to make their escape. Menzzaren wondered where Zedd’aki, Ja’tar and Rua’tor were and how they fared in the battle.

  As he ran, he cast a summoning and an elemental made of the rock of the Keep moved in behind him to block the hall. The demons howled and turned to vapor and smoke as they fought to find holes in the elemental’s defense. Menzzaren waited patiently on the opposite side of the wall, dismissing the demons when they ebbed through the cracks in the rock. Demons in ethereal form were easier to battle because they had to be solid to cast spells. When the hall was completely sealed, he turned to make his escape.

  A Lich strode down the hall, raised its bony hands, and called upon the forces of halla. It cast a series of vile spells that pummeled the elemental. The elemental tried to hold its position, but the Lich’s magic was too strong and the elemental shattered, along with a good portion of the wall to which it was attached. A chunk of the elemental fell to the floor and moaned in horror, its face contorted in angst, trying to pull its body together. The Lich blasted the head with another spell and the resulting exploding rock caught Menzzaren by surprise. He was lucky to avoid injury as the sharp shards, and jagged rocks flew in his direction, hitting his wards.

  Warvyn pushed the grotesque demon standing guard in front of the door out of the way and reached for the latch. His sharp-toothed maw drooled with the anticipation of finding the lost Book and the ultimate control it would give him over the underworld.

  He ignored the pain and the flames shooting up his arm as he triggered the wards. His hand smoldered and the glow of white light filled his palm and his ragged wings were racked with spasms. The latch released, but the door would not budge. Even after shaking the handle fiercely and throwing his weight against the door, it wouldn’t allow him access. His temper was rising, and he threw his head back and roared. Warvyn cursed. He stepped back and charged the door with his shoulder. The door resounded with a mighty thud, but it held firm. Hitting the door that hard knocked the wind from his lungs, and he stood bent over, dazed.

  Zedd’aki saw the demon bend over in pain and took it to be the best opportunity he would have to gain an advantage. He charged, running down the hall with his hands filled with wizard’s fire, which he let loose as he approached. The red pulsating globe rushed at the demon, who straightened upon hearing the wizard’s final invocation of the spell. Warvyn lifted his hands and caught Zedd’aki’s first volley, snuffing it out. Zedd’aki eyes went wide at the ease with which his spells were countered. He hastily prepared another spell and flung it in desperation at the demon. It coated the demon in liquid fire.

  Warvyn threw his head back and roared in laughter, brushing the fire from his thick leathery hide. “It that all you have, mage?”

  Zedd’aki stood in shock, not knowing what to do next. He paused and turned to run.

  Warvyn grabbed the goblin standing at his side and threw it at the mage, knocking Zedd’aki into the rock wall before he could take two steps.

  “You have grown weak and careless, mage,” he roared, taking a giant step forward. “You used to be a worthy foe ...”

  Zedd’aki scrambled to regain his feet, backpedaling and hastily casting a ward, knowing in advance that it would not be nearly enough to save him. He braced himself and threw his hands in front of his face...

  Warvyn took two more strides and
struck the mage with the back of his enormous hand, hard enough to make the bones snap. Zedd’aki’s vision blurred, and his jaw cracked as he spun in a near complete circle from the impact. He felt his knees buckle and his hands flew out to the side. His face burned and felt his mouth fill with the taste of blood.

  Warvyn roared, picked the mage up off the ground by his robe, and tossed him like a ball. Zedd’aki spun as he flew backwards. A gurgling scream escaped Zedd’aki’s bloody lips as his body flew over the low stone railing that adjoined the staircase. His voice trailed off as he fell to the floor, several stories below. There was little he could do, but stare up into the staircase and wait for the impact.

  Warvyn grunted and walked calmly back to the door, not even waiting to hear the thud as Zedd’aki landed forcefully on the stairs several stories below, his limbs broken and pointing in all the wrong directions. A demon ran to the railing and peered over at the broken body of the mage.

  Zedd’aki rolled his eyes, unable to move, his back and neck broken. He felt his temple throb, and knew he had cracked his skull. Trembles and spasms wracked his body as it realized the damage done by the impact. He tried to weave a healing spell with his hands, but they were shaking too hard for him to complete the entire spell. He did what little he could and felt a trickle of relief from the excruciating pain.

  He still couldn’t move and stared at the ceiling Seeing the demon perched, ready to jump, he felt fear fill his entire being. He tasted it, reeked of it. Zedd’aki was afraid; for the first time since Ror, he feared for his life. He was only alive because his wards had protected him. Perhaps it would have been better if he had died.

  The demon licked his lips and launched itself over the edge, flapping its tattered and torn wings. He would dine well today!

  Warvyn stared at the door, puzzling out why he could not enter. The Warvyn knew that no door could hold against his strength and weight. He also knew from the way the door repulsed his attempt to gain entry that strong magic was at work. He summoned his strength, calling on the powers of the Dark Lord, and let a ball of demon fire loose at the door. It hit with a loud hiss, the flames spread over the wood. It barely charring the surface. The wood didn’t burn, and the flames hissed in agonizing defeat as they were smothered.

  His yellow bloodshot eyes rolled back in their sockets as he called on the powers of the lower planes. He chanted and wove his hands, causing the ground to tremble and a foul sulfurous smell filled the air. The wood of the door twisted, and a face began to appear, its mouth twisting in agony, as the evil summoning wrenched it from its peaceful slumber. The vacant eyes opened and stared into the space that was the Warvyn.

  “Why have you awakened me, what is it you wish of me?” it asked, void of all emotion. Its face was contorted with pain.

  “What ... if anything ... prevents me entry into this room?” Warvyn asked, pointing toward the room behind the door.

  “The ward set in place by the Grand Wizard himself, preventing entry by all, save himself,” the wood spirit droned. “Please, leave me in peace!”

  “We shall see,” Warvyn said, deep in thought. A smile came to his face as his own cleverness amused him.

  “May a spirit enter?” he asked, raising his arms and beginning to chant anew. He summoned a Death Mist Elemental. It whirled at his feet, spiraling up, coalescing into a vaguely human shape with overtly long arms and bony fingers that had black infected claws.

  “Yes,” the wood replied, “an elemental spirit could gain access, but none would have any powers in the room, and none may touch or disturb that which has been found.”

  “Go!” The Warvyn commanded to the wood spirit, brandishing his hand in front of the door. The face dissolved back into the planking. The Warvyn continued his chants, and the Death Mist continued building, gathering itself into a more semisolid form.

  “What isss thy bidding my Massster?” the faceless mist hissed from its black empty maw, bowing low. The mist swirled about the Warvyn’s feet, caressing them with the touch of evil. It whispered behind his shoulder, wrapping itself around his torso. It slunk to the ground and swirled at his feet before slithering up his leg.

  “I command you to enter this room and tell me all you that you see. I am most interested in a leather bound book, very old with a carved cover. I must find it! I need that book,” the Warvyn growled, trying to keep his temper under control. His deformed fists were clutched tightly at his side.

  “Yesss! I sshall look,” the oily mist replied, losing its shape and flattening out. It swirled and slowly slid under the door and through the cracks in the stone itself.

  Warvyn stood impatiently waiting for the return of the mist. He slammed his fist on the door.

  “I command you to return,” he growled.

  It returned shortly, oozing out the latch and reforming into its man-like shape.

  “Well?” he bellowed.

  “My Massster. There isss much magic at work in the room, the floor isss covered with the ancient designsss, sstrong dessignss. None may enter, none may disssturb. The room isss empty except for thessse. The book for which you sssearch isss not in the room, but I could sssense that it wasss there ... at a previoussss time. Look into my sssoul, ssee the writing,” said the mist in a hissing tone before dissolving into the air, forming a mirror.

  The Warvyn gazed into the mirror-like soul that was the mist and read the symbols and designs. One after another they came. For a long time they came. They came, he analyzed, and they came again.

  He threw back his head and howled. “I’ve been tricked!”

  His bellowing cry could be heard throughout the Keep as he screamed out in fury, knowing now that he and his demons were confined to the Keep. Held hostage by the mystical drawings sketched on the floor in the room that sat just the other side of the door. He also knew for certain that his nemesis, Ja’tar was responsible, for no other knew the arts as he did. Ja’tar’s signature was on all the spells, as clear as a signature on a letter.

  “Ja’tar!” he screamed, shaking his fists in the air, feeling the rage in his veins. He threw his head back and howled like a feral wolf, the tendons in his neck bulging. The demon standing next to him was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Warvyn grabbed him and ripped him in two, tossing the still animated pieces to the side.

  Ja’tar had beaten him again. His hate for the old man festered anew. He had hated him when he walked the realms under his ... tutelage, and he had hated him when he made the decision to take up the dark arts and had sided with the Dark Mages. Ja’tar had hunted him, pursued him relentlessly like a Bloodhound.

  He hated him even more when he fought him at Ror where Ja’tar had forced him down into the abyss, where he eventually became the Warvyn, losing all traces of humanity. He had fought him face-to-face many times during the battles of Ror and had a deep respect for the wizard. He relished the opportunity to fight him again.

  Still, he recognized that the original spell on the floor was not of the book and he wondered where it came from. He knew that it was not of Ja’tar’s creation. Ja’tar knew the ways, but he loathed the feeling of the dark magic. That left only one person he could think of who was capable. He wrung his hands.

  Between

  Men’ak was soundly asleep, having slept better these past few days than he had in weeks. He snored loudly with the covers pulled up tight, keeping off the chill of the night air, his feet peeking out from under the heavy wool blanket, which had been partially thrown clear from all of his tossing and turning.

  He was used to going to the dream world now. The place was not nearly as terrifying as it had been in the early days. He had figured out how to deal with the souls of the dead. He let them tell their stories, and eventually, they moved on. He had also learned how to move around a bit, although he was never quite sure where he was at any time.

  Occasionally the young girl named Lana visited him. She was a conundrum. She visited, talked, and then went about her business, whatever that was. She was no
t like everything else here. She didn’t belong. Nobody ever visited twice, nobody but her. It seemed to Men’ak as though she were stuck. She said, she had never left, and couldn’t find her way home. She visited nearly every day, at least for a little while. She said she was very busy. Doing exactly what, Men’ak didn’t know, and she never said—even when he had asked her directly. She seemed nice, but strange.

  Men’ak was glad that Dra’kor had gotten home safely from Toulereau. Well, as safe as could have been expected considering the ordeal through which they had gone. It must have been horrific, because Dra’kor seemed like a changed man. He supposed that they should consider themselves lucky just to have survived. The beasts still roamed outside the gates, but the townsfolk had gotten gutsier and went out hunting the beasts, often slaughtering them by the handfuls. The farmers were anxious to get back to their fields now that the crops were growing. Even Brag skipped his customary liquid breakfast at the tavern—now and then.

  The town of Two Rivers had not been the same since Toulereau arrived with Sheila and Dra’kor. The wives of the men who were killed in the battle at the castle were in mourning, although Men’ak didn’t believe that Toulereau was telling the entire story. Whenever Dra’kor heard him talk, his face went pale and he looked as though he was going to be sick. There were meetings to address what to do, and times of prayer for those that had been lost. Men’ak meant to ask Dra’kor about it in the morning.

  He had a chance to show Dra’kor that he had finally managed to learn the life spell and could now maintain the spell for several hours. He was slow, but he was getting a handle on this new magic. Dra’kor was happier than Men’ak had thought he would be at the news, and he had clapped him hard across the shoulders and wrapped him up in a big hug. That had been awkward, but it seemed to Men’ak that Dra’kor’s heart was in a good place. He was truly happy to see his friends and had dropped all pretense of being superior.